Chapter Eight
The night was cold, excessively so for the time of year. Word had reached Birney House that there’d been snow in London, which, for the end of May, was ridiculous. James hoped none of his guests for tonight’s masquerade ball would have been foolish enough to choose Grecian or Roman costumes—in which case they’d need to do a good deal of dancing if they didn’t want to catch a chill, even with all the fires blazing about the house.
Striding through the ballroom to check all was running smoothly, he caught sight of himself in one of the pier glasses and paused to make sure he passed muster.
At Mama’s insistence, he’d dressed as the notorious highwayman, Dick Turpin. Still determined to have him married and cheerful before the year was out, she’d told him it was the most dashing costume he could assume, and the ladies would be falling over themselves to dance with him.
His hair was covered by a long dark wig, tied in a queue at the back of his neck and topped with a tricorne. He’d chosen a black mask that gave him an air of mystery—so Mama said—and his coat was also black, cut very long and swirling about his calves. Beneath this, he sported a dark waistcoat with huge pocket flaps and myriad buttons that had taken an age to fasten. His stock was loose, his white shirt frothy with lace, and he wore shoes with huge silver buckles and a noticeable heel, which made him tower over everyone.
He gave his reflection a wry grin. Dick Turpin was meant to be a rake, a charmer, a man who made ladies swoon. Despite Mama’s reassurances, he’d never been vain, and was much afraid his current dark, menacing look, combined with his exaggerated height, would repel young females, not attract them.
Speaking of young females, wasn’t that Philippa Keane who’d just entered? She was going to be cold in that Greek chiton. And that must be Charles with her, dressed as a Venetian Harlequin—no one had quite such cherubic blond hair as Charles. Mr. and Mrs. Keane had to be away, as they’d not accompanied their offspring—and probably wouldn’t approve of them attending a masked ball, anyway, not even for a good, charitable cause like his veterans’ home.
James’s mouth twisted. A few short weeks ago, he’d expected to be announcing his engagement to Belinda at this very ball. The familiar pain clawed at his gut, and he blinked his eyes against it. Her rejection was still too recent, and his fear of being a laughing stock among the ton all too real. Tonight, he would have to put on the act of his life and pretend he cared not one whit.
To make things even harder to bear, Mama had invited Belinda and Cornwallis. She’d said—quite rightly—it would be a pointed snub if they were excluded. Hopefully, James wouldn’t recognize either of them, particularly Cornwallis. The temptation to floor the upstart would be too great.
With any luck, they wouldn’t have the gall to come.
Good God, who was that entering behind the Keanes? Another female, attired in a paned, slash-sleeved dress in Elizabethan style. The stiff boning of the bodice pushed her breasts upward in a most provocative fashion, but the woman’s head was modestly covered and her face, of course, hidden behind a full-faced mask.
She wore a large ruff about her neck, and a rope of pearls caressed her breasts and disappeared tantalizingly beneath the low neckline.
James ran a hand around the inside of his collar. The room was definitely warming up now that more people were arriving. He should go to the door to greet them personally, even though it would give away his identity. Or he could leave that up to Mama and Papa and perhaps even enjoy his anonymity.
The first thing he’d do would be solicit the intriguing Elizabethan lady for a dance. There was something familiar about her he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Not until he came closer.
Of course! Her costume mirrored the one worn by one of the Keanes’ ancestral portraits—a Lady Jane Keane, wasn’t it?—that hung in the stairway at Figheldene.
Who could she be? He could tell from the milky bloom of her flesh that the lady was young, but she carried herself like a duchess, and those pearls looked expensive. He wasn’t aware of the Keanes having such distinguished friends or relations. Perhaps he should inquire first before dancing with the lady, to make sure he behaved appropriately to her station. If she were rich, she’d make a perfect patron for his veterans’ charity.
“James!”
“Mama?” How had she managed to creep up on him like that? He was too much engaged in delicious imaginings about the Elizabethan temptress. Time to remember his manners!
“Stop wandering about looking like a loon,” she scolded sotto voce. “You must either come and greet your guests or start hunting down subscribers. And I expect you to dance with every single young woman in attendance to see if anyone takes your fancy. You need something to lift the melancholy you’ve been stuck in, and marriage would be the perfect panacea.”
“Mother, really.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so,” she went on as though he hadn’t just admonished her, “Belinda Carslake wouldn’t have suited you, anyway. You need someone more level-headed and learned. You would have tired of Belinda the minute her looks began to fade. Find a girl who’ll still fascinate you when she’s fifty.”
Behind his mask, James rolled his eyes. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea, after all, holding this event at Birney House. He should have done it at Langley, where he was his own master…and where Mama was less likely to treat him like a boy of twelve.
He forced a smile and obediently followed her toward the door. At that moment, the Elizabethan beauty glided past on the arm of the Harlequin. Charles gave him a cheeky little wave as they passed, then vanished toward the far end of the room.
Catching up with Mama, he asked, “Did you recognize Charles and Philippa Keane amongst the recent arrivals?”
“Of course. I heard their names read out when they deposited their cloaks.”
“And the woman who came with them?”
“Some countess or other, I believe. Not anyone I’d heard of. She must be far from home—Scottish perhaps? I thought it rude to pry.”
Taking up position outside the ballroom door, James scanned the room to see if he could catch another glimpse of the unknown countess.
Yes, there she was, dancing already—and very elegantly, too.
As he watched her movements—how she held her head, the way her lips moved as she spoke to her partner—he made a startling discovery.
And stared at her, scowling darkly. He recognized more about the mystery woman than her costume.
And she was definitely no countess!