Priscilla stood alone in the center of the vast ballroom floor. The space around her felt like an island, cut off from the rest of the world by a sea of disapproving faces. She could feel the sweat trickling down her back, soaking into the silk of her violet dress. Her heart was beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Her eyes darted wildly to the main entrance of the opera house. She looked past the masked guests, past the footmen, searching the darkness of the hallway.
Where is Mr. Finch? she thought, panic rising in her throat like bile. He is supposed to be here. He is supposed to be here with that woman by now.
She had paid him double. She had given him explicit instructions. Bring Gladys. Drag her in if necessary. Force her to point a finger at Ines and confess that the manuscripts belonged to the future Duchess. That Arthur Pendleton is Ines Hamilton.
But the doorway remained empty. There was no giant man. There was no frightened woman in a gray cloak.
