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  Holding up a hand that sufficiently stopped Permilia from scooting toward the door, Ida turned a stern eye on her. “I don’t mean to come across as a nag, dear, but do try to be friendly to the gentlemen tonight, especially Mr. Rutherford, if you happen to cross his path. Although, from the sound of it, you may have burned that particular bridge.”

  “I have no interest in Mr. Rutherford, and besides, it sounded to me as if Lucy holds him in great esteem. It would hardly improve our sisterly relationship—or stepsisterly relationship, to be more exact—if I pursued a gentleman she desires.”

  “A lady never pursues a gentleman,” Ida countered, her words at complete odds with the advice she’d just given Permilia. “As for Lucy and Mr. Rutherford . . . well, he has chosen to dirty his hands in trade, probably horrifying his dear mother in the process. Because of that—and because of the promise I made to my first husband before he died his tragic death concerning Lucy and her future prospects—she will only marry a gentleman who has no scandal tarnishing his name, one who truly upholds the Knickerbocker beliefs Lucy’s father held in such high regard.”

  “Does Lucy know about that promise you made to your first husband?”

  Ida looked a bit disconcerted before she lifted her chin. “As I was saying before we got distracted from the subject at hand, your father is very anxious to see you well settled, and this is the last society event of the season. You won’t have another opportunity to mingle with gentlemen until we travel to our cottage in Newport for the summer, and that’s ages away.”

  She waved a hand Permilia’s way. “As I mentioned, you’re looking very well turned out tonight, so do try to take advantage of that, if only for your father’s sake. And remember, a smile can be a powerful weapon when it comes to attracting the attention of a gentleman. I suggest you put that advice to good use tonight, and hopefully, we’ll have good news to tell your father when he returns home at the end of the week.” With that, Ida scooted forward on the seat and stepped from the carriage.

  Lingering behind, Permilia absently checked her fur muff, making certain the stash of dance cards she’d obtained—covertly, of course—from a Vanderbilt servant a few days before were still firmly tucked inside, along with numerous small pencils. Withdrawing her hand after she’d established that her supplies were in fine order, she began inching ever so slowly toward the door, not exactly certain she was anxious to face the crème of society who’d been invited to Alva Vanderbilt’s first society ball.

  Her inching came to a stop, though, when Ida’s voice drifted through the open door. “Permilia, you’re trying my patience. Don’t make me come back in there and prod you along.”

  Shoving aside the thought that her life had been far less complicated before she’d acquired a stepmother, Permilia headed for the door, knowing there was no help for it but to stumble through the evening as best she could.

  Chapter

  Two

  Pausing midway through the carriage door with her hand extended, Permilia realized there were no Griswold grooms waiting to help her to the sidewalk. Glancing around, she found the grooms in question assisting the coachman as he tried to get Lucy’s Little Bo Peep hook unstuck from the top of the carriage. Unwilling to wait for assistance because there was still a long line of carriages waiting to deposit their riders, Permilia jumped lightly to the red carpet covering the sidewalk, straightening her tiara when she felt it wobble on her head.

  Pretending not to hear Ida’s clucks of disapproval over what was apparently another blatant disregard for the social graces, Permilia lifted her chin. She then made the grave mistake of casting a quick look around.

  What she saw had her freezing on the spot, unable to move so much as a single muscle.

  People—and what could only be described as a throng of them—were assembled at least ten deep along the sidewalk, some even standing in the very midst of Fifth Avenue, each and every one of them craning their necks as they seemed to gawk Permilia’s way.

  Being a lady unaccustomed to people gawking at her, especially since she spent most of her time unnoticed at society events, she found herself at a complete loss as to what was expected of her next. Fortunately, she was spared further scrutiny when Ida sidled up next to her, whispered a sharp reminder to smile, took a painful grip of Permilia’s arm, and towed Permilia along the red carpet. Lucy soon joined them, gliding along at Permilia’s side, waving to the crowds as if it were an everyday occurrence for her to walk along on a red carpet.

  What seemed hours later—but had in actuality been only minutes—Permilia stepped into a well-appointed entranceway, keeping her smile firmly in place as Ida handed their formally engraved invitations to the butler. Once he bowed them forward, Permilia found herself steered down a long hallway by a Vanderbilt footman dressed in maroon livery.

  To her relief, when they reached an ornate fireplace with a fire crackling merrily away in the very midst of the hallway, Ida dropped her hold on Permilia’s arm.

  “I’ve just seen a few of my friends, so I’ll leave you here, Permilia. Do try to remember what I’ve asked of you this evening, and do try to remember that smiling while keeping one’s mouth firmly closed is a great asset when trying to draw the notice of gentlemen.” She actually shuddered. “Gentlemen are not keen on ladies who are too intelligent, and I’m afraid that’s exactly how you come across when you speak on even the most mundane of topics.”

  Turning to Lucy before Permilia could bring up the fact that she never seemed able to talk to most society gentlemen, her tongue becoming tied whenever she was in their company, Ida gave her daughter a lovely word of encouragement regarding the quadrille she was to perform later that evening. Patting Lucy’s cheek, Ida then hurried away, joining a group of society matrons gathered at the foot of a grand staircase.

  “I’m off to the third-floor gymnasium to meet up with the other Mother Goose participants,” Lucy said. “Please refrain from participating in anything that may cause me embarrassment, but do feel free to bring my name up in conversation if you happen upon that lovely Mr. Rutherford again.” She tapped her Little Bo Peep hook against the marble floor. “He’s a very handsome sort, rumored to be beyond wealthy, and . . . just think of the access to all the latest fashions and accessories a lady would have if she happened to gain his affections.” With that, Lucy sent Permilia a nod, turned on her dainty heel, and with her skirts swishing in a very becoming manner—a move Lucy had perfected while watching herself in a mirrored wall—she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Permilia all alone.

  Delighted to be left to her own devices, and anxious to view every nook and cranny that was permissible to view in Alva Vanderbilt’s extravagant home, Permilia fell into step behind a group of exquisitely dressed guests who were climbing up the grand staircase. To her amusement, she found herself in the midst of kings, queens, milkmaids, pirates, and even a few brightly colored insects here and there. Trying to put names to all the costumed guests surrounding her, she reached the second floor and edged as discreetly as possible behind a lush fern, peering through the fronds as guests streamed past her. Sticking her hand into the fur muff, she pulled out one of her many dance cards along with a small pencil. Jotting down the names of some of the guests she recognized, along with the costumes they were wearing, she found her dance card filled with scribbles in a remarkably short time. Feeling as if she’d gotten a great start on her mission for the evening, she stepped away from the fern, stuck her dance card back into the muff, looked up, and found—to her very great surprise—an attractive gentleman smiling her way.

  Not being a woman who ever attracted the attention of the gentlemanly type—what with the whole stigma of being a wallflower and all—Permilia wasn’t exactly certain what one was supposed to do when a gentleman sent a smile in her direction.

  Inclining her head ever so slightly in return, she was dumbfounded when the gentleman apparently took that inclination as an invitation to approach her, but before he had the opportunity to join her
, she turned on a sparkly heel and bolted after a crowd of guests being led down the hallway by a man who seemed to be the underbutler.

  Ignoring the curious looks sent her way when she slipped into the midst of the crowd, she turned her full attention to the underbutler, hoping that he’d be generous with information about the grand house, especially the second floor they were now viewing, which Permilia soon learned was the living quarters of Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt.

  Fanning a face that was still a little heated over her almost-encounter with a smiling gentleman, Permilia soon found herself distracted from her flustered state of mind by the underbutler’s knowledge of the new Vanderbilt house. To her absolute delight, when she followed the man through a door framed with elaborate moldings, she found herself smack-dab in the middle of Alva Vanderbilt’s boudoir.

  Knowing this was a place very few people would ever get to see, she tried to drink everything in, especially the bathing chamber that came complete with a large marble tub and risqué paintings hanging from the walls. Additional paintings of the risqué sort were prevalent in the bedchamber as well as in Alva’s private sitting room. Ducking into a shadowed corner to make a few notes on another dance card, she tucked that card back in the muff, but lifting her head, she found that while she’d been distracted, the underbutler had led everyone else out of the room. Not wanting to be found all alone in a place she shouldn’t be alone in, she hurried out of Alva Vanderbilt’s private quarters, quickly catching up with the crowd.

  Falling into step with society members who were all attempting to maintain an air of nonchalance, even though it was likely the majority of them were practically bursting with the extravagance of the evening, Permilia followed them up another flight of stairs.

  When she reached the top of those stairs, she discovered herself in the midst of a gymnasium that had been turned into a delightful tropical forest. It was filled to the brim with ferns and flowers that the underbutler explained had been fashioned under the watchful eye of renowned florist Mr. Charles Klunder. As Permilia moved away from the tour, she heard whispers speculating that the display must have cost more than most men earned in a year . . . or ten.

  Pushing aside the discomfort that idea evoked, Permilia began strolling as casually as she could, slowing to a stop when her attention was drawn to a gentleman dressed as a dashing Richard Coeur de Lion. To her utmost confusion, that gentleman sent her a very warm smile right before he sent her a rather roguish wink.

  Unable to recall a single time when she’d received a wink, Permilia felt heat begin to travel up her neck.

  Knowing full well she’d be inattentive to her mission at hand if she continued to draw such unexpected attention, Permilia pulled her gaze from the winking gentleman and, as discreetly as possible, looked over the front of her gown, surprised to discover that everything seemed to be in proper order. Not one button was undone, nor was her neckline askew, which made it even more confusing to understand the attention that kept being directed her way.

  Lifting her head, her gaze returned to the winking gentleman and found him now heading her way, carrying two glasses of what appeared to be champagne.

  That sight had any thought of proper decorum vanishing straightaway. Abandoning all the many rules her stepmother had drummed into her about walking in a slow and dignified manner, Permilia spun around and dashed away into the crowd, earning more than a few raised eyebrows but thankfully losing the smiling-and-beverage-carrying gentleman in the process.

  Needing to find a place to collect her scattered thoughts, Permilia breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted some large ferns. Hurrying their way, she disappeared into the fronds.

  What she found on the other side of those fronds had her skidding to a stop, unable to help but smile at the sight that greeted her.

  Sitting on what appeared to be an overturned log and looking more forlorn than usual were two fellow wallflowers—Miss Gertrude Cadwalader and Miss Temperance Flowerdew.

  That they did not appear to be pleased to be in the midst of Alva Vanderbilt’s ball was certainly an understatement. Taking a step closer to them, Permilia suddenly found herself at a complete loss for words when she got her first good look at Gertrude.

  She didn’t know Gertrude well, even though she’d frequently sat beside her at one society event or another over the years. The reason behind that lack of familiarity was a direct result of the unspoken rules wallflowers were expected to adhere to at all times.

  One of the most important rules was that wallflowers did not converse with each other . . . ever.

  Thankfully, that particular rule had finally been broken when a fellow wallflower, Miss Wilhelmina Radcliff, had required assistance in trying to evade the attention of Mr. Edgar Wanamaker. The evading tactics had not exactly gone off as planned—especially since, instead of avoiding Mr. Wanamaker, Wilhelmina was now engaged to the man. But the antics of Wilhelmina and her Mr. Wanamaker had made it possible for Permilia and Gertrude to become friends. Permilia found the unexpected friendship to be very lovely indeed, seeing as she’d not made any friends since she and her father had moved to New York after living a somewhat nomadic existence for years.

  Nevertheless, even though she had formed a friendship with Gertrude, she had yet to understand Gertrude’s unusual sense of fashion. Though she always dressed in a rather peculiar manner, tonight, well, Gertrude had simply outdone herself.

  Gertrude’s golden curls were gathered together in two unevenly matched bunches on either side of her head. Brightly colored feathers were stuck into the bunches, and then more feathers—ones that appeared to be from a chicken—were attached to wings that had been sewn onto the back of her blue-and-green-striped dress. Additional feathers had been glued, and not glued very well, all over the fabric of Gertrude’s skirt.

  “I’m a peacock,” Gertrude said before Permilia had a chance to recover her speech.

  “Of course you are.”

  Gertrude grinned. “I know I don’t look anything like a peacock, Permilia, but Mrs. Davenport, the lady I’m paid to be companion to, fancies herself a somewhat artistic sort. One of the conditions of her hiring me on as her companion was that I needed to agree to allow her to pursue her artistic nature by styling me in whatever manner she saw fit—or . . . ‘as the muse strikes,’ as she so quaintly put it.”

  Resisting the impulse to grab a dance card from her muff and write down that intriguing piece of nonsense concerning one of society’s established matrons, Permilia summoned up a smile instead. “Perhaps the muse will stop striking.”

  Miss Temperance Flowerdew—another wallflower, but one who rarely spoke—let out what almost sounded like a laugh, until her eyes widened. She gulped in a breath of air and immediately settled into silence again.

  Releasing a laugh of her own, Gertrude caught Permilia’s eye. “While I can always hope that Mrs. Davenport will decide she’s not an artistic sort, for now, since she pays very well for my company, I’ve learned to avoid mirrors at all costs.” Gertrude patted a spot beside her on the log. “You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

  Feeling a rush of affection for her new friend, Permilia moved to the log and took a seat. “May I assume the two of you plan to spend the entire ball hidden behind here?”

  “I should think not,” Gertrude said even as Temperance began nodding. Reaching over to Temperance, Gertrude patted her hand. “We can’t stay here all night—especially since I’ve come to the conclusion that this cozy nook may have been created to offer couples seeking out a bit of privacy a place to . . . well . . . do whatever it is couples do when they go off searching for a secluded spot.”

  Temperance stopped nodding, turned a bright shade of pink, and got to her feet, shaking out the folds of what appeared to be some sort of servant costume. “I’ll get in all sorts of trouble if anyone comes to the conclusion I’m hiding away back here in order to have a clandestine meeting with . . . a gentleman.”

  For the briefest of moments, Permilia s
imply stared at the woman who’d just strung an entire sentence together. “Get in trouble from whom, pray tell?”

  Temperance shuddered. “It would be for the best if I didn’t answer that, but I do appreciate you asking.” With that, she spun around and rushed away.

  “You don’t suppose her cousin, Mr. Wayne Flowerdew, is abusive toward her, do you?” Gertrude asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about Mr. Flowerdew, nor about Temperance, for that matter,” Permilia began. “I’ve heard the rumors that she’s a poor relation, taken in by her cousin after her parents died a few years back. I’ve also heard that the Flowerdew family was fortunate in that they were vouched for by a very respected New York Knickerbocker matron who saw them accepted into New York society two years ago without much fuss.”

  She pursed her lips. “It’s been clear to me for some time now that the Flowerdews place little value on Temperance. Her sole purpose in attending society events seems to revolve around her being at the ready if Wayne Flowerdew’s daughter—the very fashionable, yet quite nasty, Miss Clementine Flowerdew—needs assistance with anything. Why, I’ve seen her called away from the wallflower section numerous times over the past two years in order to sew a button back on Clementine’s gown, search out glue to reattach a heel that had come off Clementine’s dainty shoe, and once . . . I watched Temperance hold a parasol over Clementine’s head in order to keep the sun away from her cousin’s pale complexion as they strolled around Central Park.”

  Gertrude gave a shake of her head. “And here I thought I had a difficult time of it being a paid companion to Mrs. Davenport, who isn’t always pleasant, but at least there’s only one of her, and—”

  Whatever else Gertrude had been about to say got lost when there was a loud shriek and then a thud. A second later, one of the pillars that had been brought in to lend the gymnasium an ancient-Roman feel, and one that could be seen from their hiding place since it reached almost to the ceiling, began to teeter.