Ballrooms and Blackmail by Regina Scott

wealthy prince with a kingdom in a warm climate and suitable
antecedents had come calling. More likely, it was another dun,
demanding money for bills they could not pay.
    Instead, Emily returned with Priscilla’s
mother. “My meeting ended sooner than expected. Are you ready to
call on Acantha?”
    “There, you see?” Priscilla’s mother said.
“Lady Emily knows what’s important.” Her mother peeled off the
tasseled shawl she’d been wearing and held it out to Priscilla.
“Take mine, and leave that one here. I can see that you are
progressing in your embroidery, but your maid can finish the
work.”
    Priscilla accepted the shawl, but she could
not meet Emily’s gaze. Her friend knew her mother was posturing.
They had let the maid go years ago.
    Out in Emily’s carriage, Priscilla settled
the shawl about her arms so that it drew attention to her figure,
then adjusted the white chip bonnet so that some of her curls
slipped free to gleam in the sunlight. One never knew who one might
see, riding in an open carriage.
    “Thank you for coming so quickly,” she told
Emily as the vehicle set off from the pavement. “I don’t think I
could have born another minute.”
    “Neither could I,” Emily muttered.
    Priscilla frowned at her. Emily had never
been one to show strong emotions, but she had expected her friend
to betray a bit more animation following her first meeting of the
impressive society. Instead, Emily’s mouth was set in a thin line,
and her dark eyes were stormy.
    “I’m not sure why you’re so concerned,”
Priscilla tried. “You aren’t the one being scolded hourly for
failing to bring the right gentleman up to scratch.”
    Emily sighed, fingers rubbing against each
other in the lap of her plum-colored gown. “You’re right. Forgive
me, Pris. Let’s focus on our task, and put the rest of this behind
us.”
    Priscilla could only agree. They talked of
upcoming events as Emily’s driver navigated the streets of Mayfair.
In a short time, they reached the Dalrymple house and were ushered
into Acantha’s presence by a stern-faced butler.
    Priscilla could not help her smile at the
sight of the girl. Acantha’s hair had been brushed back from her
face, and she wore a blue muslin gown with long sleeves trimmed in
bands of ecru lace. Emily frowned at her as if she’d never seen
Acantha before.
    “Well done,” Priscilla murmured as she took
a chair close by. “A great improvement.”
    Acantha tipped up her chin. “I would not go
so far as to say great, but I will own it puts me in my best
looks.” She glanced to where her mother was seeing some other lady
callers to the door, then leaned forward. “So, you’ve come to
help?”
    “Indeed.” Emily held out her hand. “May I
see the note?”
    Acantha drew a slip of parchment from her
sleeve. Emily and Priscilla bent over it.
    “A torn edge,” Emily murmured with a glance
to Priscilla. “Rough, misspelled handwriting.”
    She was right. The note bore an uncanny
resemblance to the one Priscilla had received.
    “And you found this where?” Emily asked
Acantha, straightening. “When?”
    “In my reticule, two days ago.”
    The very day Priscilla had found the note in
her pocket. The same person had to have sent them.
    Just then, the younger Dalrymple sisters
scampered into the room. Unlike their mousy-haired sister, their
hair was tawny and bounced with curls, and their blue eyes sparkled
with mischief. At seven years of age, the twins were too young for
the Barnsley School, but Priscilla had a feeling their parents were
counting the days. They slid to a stop in front of Priscilla and
Emily and spread their pinafores as they curtsied.
    “Miss Liddle has a headache,” one
proclaimed.
    “Again,” her twin added.
    “So we came to see you!” the first finished
triumphantly.
    “Mother!” Acantha bellowed.
    Her mother hurried up, bright as the sun in
her yellow muslin gown. “That’s quite enough, girls,” she scolded,
seizing up a hand