What? Her in Almack’s? The haven of the most proper, most elite ladies of theton?Amber waited until they were just beyond earshot before she spoke, her voice squeaking slightly in alarm.
“I can’t go to Almack’s!”
Lord Byrn exchanged a nod with another gentleman, but his words were for her. “Whyever not? It’s just her way of getting me to the marriage mart. There’s nothing sacred about that place. Quite the opposite.”
Of course, there was nothing special about it.To him. But she’d been hearing tales of the place since she first started helping the dance master at the Lyon’s Den. The girls who came there spoke of an Almack’s voucher as if they were describing a royal decree. And Amber had daydreamed the missives into an elaborate gold envelope with a blood-red seal. The paper was the whitest linen ever made, and every stroke of the pen was beautiful in curve as it was in content.
She was to receive one of those missives! Sweet heaven, she was giddy with delight. Until Lord Byrn realized what they were discussing and why she’d said she couldn’t go.
“Oh, right. That’s in two days, and our business will be done by then.” He pursed his lips. “I suppose I can fashion some excuse for you. I’ll have to go, but you needn’t be bothered.”
Bothered?Bothered!The man didn’t understand anything at all. She’d give her right hand to attend. But before she could speak, they came to the portrait. The one of Lady Morthan in her youth as she wore the brooch Amber was supposed to copy.
And that, it turned out, was an utter disaster.