In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster Read Free Page A

with smiling and pretending she had any interest whatever in the very proper young gentlemen who, through the night, had vied for her attention.
    As a well-dowered, well-bred, well brought-up Cynster young lady she’d never been short of would-be Romeos. Sadly, she’d never felt the slightest inclination to play Juliet to any of them. Like Angelica, Eliza was convinced she would recognize her hero, if not in the instant she laid eyes on him — Angelica’s theory — then at least once she’d spent a few hours in his company.
    Heather, in contrast, had always been uncertain over recognizing her hero — but then she’d known Breckenridge, not well but more than by sight, for many years, and until their adventure she hadn’t realized he was the one for her. Heather had mentioned that their cousin by marriage, Catriona, who, being an earthly representative of the deity known in parts of Scotland as “The Lady,” tended to “know” things, had suggested that Heather needed to “see” her hero clearly, which had proved very much to be the case.
    Catriona had given Heather a necklace and pendant designed to assist a young lady in finding her true love — her hero; Catriona had said the necklace was supposed to be passed from Heather, to Eliza, to Angelica, then to Henrietta and Mary, before ultimately returning to Scotland, to Catriona’s daughter, Lucilla.
    Raising one hand, Eliza touched the fine chain interspersed with small amethyst beads that circled her neck; the rose quartz pendant depending from it was hidden in the valley between her breasts. The chain lay concealed beneath the delicate lace of the fashionable fichu and collar that filled the scooped neckline of her gold silk gown.
    The chain was now hers, so where was the hero it was supposed to help her recognize?
    Obviously not here. No gentleman with hero-potential had miraculously appeared. Not that she had expected one to, not here in the very heart of the upper echelons of tonnish society. Nevertheless, disappointment and dragging dejection bloomed.
    Through finding her hero, Heather had — entirely unintentionally, but nevertheless effectively — stymied Eliza. Her hero did not exist within tonnish circles, but she could no longer step outside to hunt him down.
    “What the devil am I to do?”
    A footman drifting around the outskirts of the ballroom with a silver salver balanced on one hand heard her and turned to peer into the shadows. Eliza barely glanced at him, but seeing her, his features relaxed and he stepped forward.
    “Miss Eliza.” Relief in his voice, the footman bowed and offered the salver. “A gentleman asked that this be delivered to you, miss. A good half hour ago, it must be now. We couldn’t find you in the crowd.”
    Wondering which tedious gentleman was now sending her notes, Eliza reached for the folded parchment resting on the salver. “Thank you, Cameron.”
    The footman was from her parents’ household, seconded to the St. Ives’ household to assist with the massive ball. “Who was it, do you know?”
    “No, miss. It wasn’t handed to me but to one of the others. They passed it on.”
    “Thank you.” Eliza nodded a dismissal.
    With a brief bow, Cameron withdrew.
    With no great expectations, Eliza unfolded the note. The writing was bold, a series of brash, black strokes on the white paper.
    Very masculine in style.
    Tipping the sheet to catch the light, Eliza read:
    Meet me in the back parlor, if you dare. No, we’re not acquainted. I haven’t signed this note because my name will mean nothing to you. We haven’t been introduced, and there is no grande dame present who would be likely to oblige me. However, the fact I am here, attending this ball, speaks well enough to my antecedents and my social standing. And I know where the back parlor is.
I believe it is time we met face-to-face, if nothing else to discover if there is any further degree of association we might feel inclined to broach.
As I started this