Sandra Heath by The Haunting of Henrietta Page A

she hoped this would prove a distraction from Marcus Fitzpaine, she was disappointed, for her uncle knew who was responsible for the fireworks. “Another damned Fitzpaine, eh?” he declared as he and his niece came together in the dance.
    “It—it would seem so, Uncle Courtenay.”
    “Damned scoundrels, all of them.”
    “Yes, Uncle Courtenay.”
    “Are you acquainted with him?”
    She hesitated, and then fibbed. “No, Uncle.”
    “See it remains so.”
    “I can hardly embarrass Charlotte and Russell by refusing to be introduced,” she pointed out.
    “Hmph,” he grunted disparagingly.
    It was as the polonaise came to an end that Russell and Marcus entered the ballroom. Marcus was recognized immediately, and there was rapturous applause, for fireworks were a rare and costly diversion, and everyone appreciated the magnificent display given from the decks of the Avalon. The orchestra began to play the minuet from Handel’s “Music for the Royal Fireworks,” and sets began to quickly form, so that soon the floor was a crush of dancers.
    Charlotte hastened to greet her new guest. “Marcus! Oh, Marcus, how good it is to see you again!” she cried, hugging him as best she could now that her shape was so vastly changed.
    He smiled and kissed her warmly on the cheek. “Charlotte, my dearest, you are positively aglow! Approaching motherhood suits you!”
    “Why, thank you, sir.” Charlotte glanced surreptitiously around, hoping to spot Henrietta so that a meeting could be engineered without further ado, but there was no sign of her.
    Marcus spoke again. “I’ve presumed somewhat upon your hospitality, but trust you will endure me for a week or so?”
    “You have no need to ask, for Mulborough’s doors are always open to you.”
    He looked at the crowded floor. “Charlotte, will you favor me with this dance?” he asked.
    She gave a rueful smile. “I trust you will not be offended if I decline, but I’ve danced sufficiently tonight to put my ankles in imminent danger of swelling. Such disagreeable things, swollen ankles. Very unfeminine.”
    Marcus laughed. “Your ankles would remain delightful no matter how swollen they became.”
    “Your charm never ceases to amaze me, sir. How is it that you have yet to race home in the marriage stakes?”
    “My heart has to be engaged, Charlotte, and what other woman is there now you have been claimed?”
    “More charm? La, sir, my head and ankles are likely to swell simultaneously!”
    Marcus spent the next few minutes in conversation with her, and after that with various relatives, but then Amabel caught his eye as she quickly threaded through the crush at the edge of the ballroom. He excused himself from his relatives and followed her. Jane and Kit, who had only just returned from Mulborough, followed as well, being careful all the while to look out for Henrietta.
    Marcus caught up with Amabel by the archway into the cloisters. “Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Renchester. Now what brings you to Mulborough?”
    She met his eyes, and then walked out into the cold of the cloisters, where she turned and waited to face him. He followed, and closed the door behind him, but Jane and Kit managed to slip through in time with Rowley. The noise of the ball immediately became muffled, and the quiet of the cloisters seemed to press close. The glow from the lanterns in the quadrangle showed Amabel quite clearly. As the ghosts came into close proximity with her, Jane was again conscious of the unpleasant atmosphere surrounding her. Charlotte’s whiff of sulfur.
    Amabel’s voice echoed around the stonework. “Well, Lord Rothwell, what an agreeable surprise.”
    “Is it? I confess I’m astonished you should feel that way. I’m equally surprised you should leave London and all its, er, attractions.”
    “No matter what you may think, I’m here to make my peace with Charlotte.”
    “There’s more than just snow flying through the air at the moment. In fact I distinctly hear