Glancing at her, Amelia caught the glare Portia directed at Luc. She swung to him, but he merely raised a brow, drew her to him, and swept her into the dance.
"What was that about?"
"That was Portia being her usual opinionated self." He added, "You'll get used to it."
The resignation in his voice made her laugh. He raised his brows, whirled her through the steps; she'd danced such country measures often, but never before with him.
When the fiddlers finally consented to release them from their spell, she was breathless. And not all of her affliction was due to the dance. Luc steadied her, held her — far too close but then who was watching? — while she supposedly regained her breath and whirling wits. She read the truth of his motives in his eyes, pretended a haughty frown. "It's not considered wise to render your hostess witless and incapable."
His long lips quirked as he released her; his expression suggested he didn't agree. He glanced at the crowd, at the sky. "Not long now."
She drew in a breath, refocused her mind on their plan. They strolled the crowd; the instant the sky was a deep enough blue, they climbed to the terrace. Luc gave Cottsloe the order to proceed with the fireworks; Cottsloe signaled the gardeners, who hurried to set up the displays.
The crowd didn't need any orders; everyone recognized the preparations, glanced around, then moved toward the terrace and the steps. She and Luc shared a glance, then parted. Amelia went to find Helena. Five minutes later, when she guided her aunt to the balustrade to one side of the steps from where she would get the best view — and the crowd would have the best view of her — they were nearly ready to start.
She and Helena took up their position; an instant later, with a hum of anticipation rising from the crowd, Luc strolled nonchalantly out from the ballroom to join them. He nodded to Helena, his gaze coming to rest on her necklace.
He frowned, hesitated, then said, "I'd be much obliged, ma'am, if you would give your necklace to me at the end of the night. I'll sleep better knowing it's under lock and key."
Helena waved dismissively, haughtily patronizing. "You need not concern yourself, Calverton. I have had this piece for an age — no harm has ever befallen it."
Luc's lips thinned. "Nevertheless—
Helena spoke over his clipped protest, raising her voice to declare, "Indeed, / will not sleep well if it is not with me, in my room." With another dismissive wave, she turned to the gardens. "Do not concern yourself."
Luc had to accept her refusal; that he didn't do so happily was transparent. Amelia saw, from all around, glances thrown at Helena — at the necklace; countless heads came together in whispered confabulation. The rumors of the thief already circulating would ensure Luc's attempt to protect the fabulous necklace gained due notice.
A flash of fire at the bottom of the lawn drew all eyes, then the first rocket streaked upward. Amelia watched it, then glanced sideways at Helena's face, briefly lit. Nothing other than haughty disdain showed on her aunt's features, but then Amelia felt Helena's hand reach for hers, felt her squeeze briefly, triumphantly.
Smiling, Amelia returned her gaze to the fireworks, and, just for those moments, let herself relax.
None among the crowd on the terrace, all eyes trained on the fireworks, saw the gentleman Amelia and Portia had encountered close his fingers about a young lady's elbow. No one saw her turn, or the shock that filled her face. The man nodded silently at the other young lady who stood beside the first, oblivious, entranced by the spectacular display.
The man tugged; the young lady turned back to her companion, gently unwound their arms — caught by the beauty of a streaking rocket, the other barely noticed. The lady stood for a moment, then, with obvious reluctance, obeyed the man's unvoiced command and edged back. The crowd adjusted without truly looking; the man drew her to the rear, to where the wall of the house cast deep shadows.
The young lady glanced furtively left and right. "We can't talk here!" Her voice was a breathy squeak, tight with panic.
Kirby glanced at her face, his own hard, devoid of feeling, then he bent so she could hear his reply. "Perhaps not." His eyes caught hers as they flicked to his face, trapped by the menace in his tone. He let her hang for a moment on the sharp hook of fear, then murmured, "The instant the fireworks finish, we're going to walk, quickly and quietly, to the rose garden. To preserve your reputation, I'll let you lead; I'll be directly behind you. Don't think to attract any attention. Pray no one stops you."
He paused, searching her face, her eyes; what he saw satisfied. "No one will disturb us in the rose garden. There, we can talk."
He straightened; the lady shivered convulsively, but she remained, still as the grave, beside him.
Until the last rocket burst and the crowd softly sighed.
She slipped away through the crowd, quickly but unobtrusively using the moment of milling, of everyone deciding what to do next, to slide from the terrace, through the crowds gathered below it, and into the shadows shrouding the walk leading along the east wing to the walled rose garden.
Her face was chalk white when she reached the archway in the stone wall. One brief glance confirmed her tormentor was a man of his word; he was all but at her shoulder. Gulping in a breath, she hurried under the arch, keen to get away from all eyes.
All who might see and guess her terrible secret.
She stopped as Kirby joined her, swung to face him. "I told you — I can't steal anything more. I just can'tl" Her voice rose hysterically.
"Quiet, you little fool!" Kirby took her elbow in a merciless grip and propelled her down the central path, away from the entrance.
He stopped at the end of the garden. The roses were in full spate; they were surrounded by huge bushes, arching canes supporting fist-sized blooms bobbing in the light breeze.
They were alone; no one would see or happen upon them.