A moment later they were reunited. Charlotte looked at him over their raised hands. “You understand that I have only read the accounts in the Gazette.”
“They have been fairly accurate, which is unusual.”
“I thought that perhaps you might emphasize the question of treason in your next speech,” she said. “As I understand it, you are trying to drum up support against Fox. But if I were you, I would swing this particular discussion to support for the King, rather than antagonism against the Secretary of State. Fox is so very popular.”
His eyes narrowed. “I suppose I could. But Fox is the problem and he absolutely must be removed.”
“Tell the House of Lords that anyone who votes for the bill would be regarded as the King’s enemy. Don’t even mention Fox.”
For a moment he lost his step in the measure and then recovered. “Miss Charlotte, I’m grateful indeed that I asked for this dance.”
Charlotte’s heart sped up again. He drew her to the side of the room. “Did you have a chance to read the debate published in the Gazette between Lord Temple and Fox?”
Roberta knew that she should be in the ballroom. She knew that all she had to do was walk down that last flight of stairs and she would enter the buzz and hum that was drifting through the house. She had been dressed for at least forty minutes.
The problem was that her dress was all wrong. She stared at herself in the mirror again. “You will be a perfect jeune fille,” Jemma had told her that morning. “We’ll dress you very simply, some rosebuds here and there, a strand of pearls.”
“I don’t want to be a jeune fille,” Roberta had protested.
But Jemma had been firm. “I realize that you are a Reeve at heart. But your first appearance in the ton must be as an exquisite bud of young innocence. Later you can show your true colors. After you’re married.”
Roberta sighed. She had dreamed of going to a ball. But it was difficult to pretend to be docile and modest. She tried casting down her eyes again. No one could be innocent who had lived with her father for long. She felt like a fool. A wolf in lamb’s clothing.
Just then the door burst open. “There you are,” Jemma cried. “You look adorable!”
Roberta looked back in the mirror. Her hair had been carefully curled and powdered by the lady’s maid assigned to her. She was wearing pearls, and there were sprigs of apple blossom in her hair. Her panniers were large enough to be elegant, but not large enough that she would have trouble dancing in them. And she had just a faint shading of pink to her lips and her cheeks. She simpered at herself.
The only thing she really liked were her slippers: they were exquisite, and pink.
That and the little patch high on her cheekbone.
“You don’t like the way you’re dressed, do you?” Jemma asked, appearing at her shoulder.
“Oh I do!” Roberta said hastily. “It would be most ungracious of me to dislike it, and I promise that I love it. I’ve never looked so wonderful in my life! In fact,” she said in a burst of honesty, “this is the first time I’ve ever worn powder.”
“Itchy, isn’t it? I avoid it whenever I can,” Jemma said sympathetically, “but one’s hair simply must be powdered on occasion.”
“Truly, I am so grateful, Jemma.”
Jemma narrowed her eyes as she stared at the mirror. “What do you wish you were wearing?”
Roberta knew the proper answer to that. “Exactly what I am wearing! Shall we go downstairs now?”
But Jemma was smiling. “Fancy yourself a séductrice, do you?”