Chapter Thirteen
Everybody wants to be a cat…
The tail was coming along nicely but the whiskers were proving rather difficult. Thank heavens for Cordelia and her sewing prowess.
“I wish I was to attend such a glittering occasion,” her friend said wistfully, and Aideen patted the slumped lacy-white shoulder, getting her fingers caught in a ribbon of seed pearls.
Blithely taking no notice of Rakecombe’s contrary edict concerning the Milton masquerade, she had requested that Lord Winterbourne escort her.
A dash of blackmail had not gone amiss concerning his IOUs with Lady Gibbon, although he’d merely looked amused and muttered about having already settled them in kind.
Without doubt, she would not have gone if Rakecombe had said yes, or given his reasoning, but the imperious “No” had stiffened her resolve in a trice.
So here they were, sewing a tail for her skirts, a pair of gloves with claws and a mask complete with whiskers.
Cordelia sighed again, and Aideen considered fulfilling her role as duchess and having words with her friend’s betrothed. Weren’t all duchesses supposed to be matronly gobermouches?
“You haven’t written any more shepherd and sheep poems, have you?”
“Goodness, no. It’s just…” The tail was put to one side. “Lord Oakdean is attending the Miltons’ ball as well.”
Aideen’s eyebrow shot up. All the ton was aware of the Miltons’ masquerades. They managed to stay the right side of respectable only because of their hosts huge influence, but everyone knew they were a smidgeon risqué – not suitable for newly engaged viscounts or young ladies – which was why Aideen wanted to go.
The duke may not be attending, but for once in her life she’d be most intrigued to view the high society goings-on, masks only serving to reveal their true selves.
And besides, she’d heard the Miltons served superb lobster patties.
“How do you know he’ll be there?”
Fiddling with the velvet tail, Cordy’s entire demeanour spoke of guilt. “I was awaiting Oakdean in his drawing room and started sifting through the post – purely as something to do.”
“Of course,” agreed Aideen, jostling up on the settee and not believing her for a moment.
“Well, the Miltons’ invite always has elaborate gold lettering. My brother used to go so I recognise its style.”
“To be sure, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s attending.”
“I spoke to my maid who is sweet with the footman at Oakdean’s, who in turn is cousin to his valet and therefore had it confirmed.”
“Oh.”
“Hmm.”
“You could always…” The idea was scandalous, and a duchess should shy from scandal, but… “come along?”
Blue eyes widened like Wedgwood cake plates. “No! I couldn’t… Could I? No… Well. No. Although…”
“Lord Winterbourne will chaperone us. And you would be in disguise.” She tapped a finger to her lip. “But no, you are right, it’s a bad idea. I’m a bad influence and a terrible frie–”
“It’s a fabulous idea,” Cordelia gushed.
“It is?” Oh lawks.
“Yes,” her friend assured, a fevered light entering her eye. “I have been coddled and sheltered and hidden for nearly twenty years and sometimes I feel as though I will marry Oakdean and nothing will change.” Aideen gawped as Cordelia stood and paced the rug, ribbons struggling to keep up. “Sometimes I feel he is only marrying me because I am the diamond of the Season, and when we marry, he’ll place me on the mantelpiece, admire me for an hour and then put me away in a cupboard again.”
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“No, because it is selfish and wicked. How can I complain when at the orphanage I see such poverty? But I feel so…stifled.” She flopped back on the settee in a very un-Cordelia-like manner.
“But how will attending the ball help?”
“I want to be free for one night. Not an ornament or a proper miss but a person. My own person. Do you know my mother makes me practise laughing to sound young and girlish?”
Aideen shook her head.
“Well she does – closes her eyes, listens, and tells me if it’s too loud or deep. Then I have to do it again and again until it has the correct balance. I’m not allowed supper otherwise.”
Unsure what to say, and glad she was half-Irish, Aideen gave her friend a hug: the English were a peculiar lot.
“But, Cordy,” argued Aideen, aiming for some propriety, “what if you are seen? You’ll be ruined. You spoke of Oakdean’s grandmother–”
“I’ve been reconsidering, and I never should have succumbed to that blackmail. If Oakdean loved me, he wouldn’t care about lamb poems sent by a foolish child.” Cordelia twisted, face defiant. “I am taking a leaf from your book, my dearest friend.”
Oh, Beelzebub, thought Aideen, please no. “Erm, that might not be wise.”
But Cordelia shook her head, ringlets bouncing with enthusiasm. “I saw how your husband gazed at you on your wedding day. As though you were cake, but Oakdean is always so…polite. He kissed my forehead when we became engaged – my forehead! – as though I was but twelve years,” she ranted.
Never having seen this side of Cordelia, Aideen was both impressed and worried. “But what happens if you are recognised? Your pristine reputation will be in tatters.”
“No one shall recognise me as my costume will be superb, and I shall tell Mother I am staying the evening with you. But if I am identified and Oakdean is disgusted, then I shall voyage to Egypt as companion to your mother-in-law.”
“Oh. Has she asked you as well?”
“Actually, she said we could all go together. I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids.”
Cordelia picked up the tail and continued to stitch, humming.
And that was that, it seemed.
∞∞∞
The mantel clock chimed eight as Aideen nervously pulled her satin black gloves tight. She and Cordelia had torn apart an old fan, using the bone sticks to create wicked claws sewn onto the fingers, and Aideen had to admit they did look grand.
Not only that, but any gentleman that dared to take liberties would find a claw in their neck…or indeed any appendage that presumed to stray too close. Perhaps she ought to draw a picture for Uncle Seamus and he could incorporate them in his fiendish designs.
She meandered to the long mirror and perused her form.
A midnight-black silk dress sheathed her, colourless except for her pale skin. She twisted and smiled at the long tail emerging from the rear in a sensuous curl.
The ebony mask was also a wonder. Cordelia had proved a dab hand at painting silver scrolls around the eyes and a glittering nose. Long whiskers, crafted from the shafts of feathers, had been affixed and they danced and bobbed with any slight movement.
Lastly a small pair of pointed velvet ears sat atop her head. They were a little skewwhiff as Aideen had sewn them as an afterthought when Cordelia had departed to organise her own costume.
She laughed at the sight in the mirror, but her tone was forced, and she knew that if she dwelled upon her thoughts, the black attire suited her mood.
When she’d married, she had presumptuously assumed that Rakecombe did essentially like her. That they would spend time together. At the very least breakfast. But for the past two days, he’d continued to avoid her as though she’d the plague.
Barely one week married and already they lived separate existences.
And absence did not make the heart grow fonder. She could feel hers freezing over like Father Thames last February.
She tried to remember the day he’d proposed, the words he’d used. Rakecombe had proclaimed want, may even have starved after her like cake as Cordelia had suggested, but it appeared he’d now eaten it whole and didn’t want seconds.
So, damn them all.
Dancing. Champagne. Lobster patties. The important things in life.
“Aideen?”
The voice quivered from the doorway and she spun.
Saints in their stockings. A sheep.
In stark contrast to Aideen’s black, Cordelia was clad entirely in pure white. She had hoped they’d be able to enter the masquerade unseen, but she now suspected they’d be…noticed.
A white wig complete with huge floppy ears – better formed than her own – covered her friend’s usual honey-blond curls. The mask was also white except for black smudges around the eyes and a button nose. Woolly stuff had been attached to the décolletage, the waist and hem. An exceedingly long tail was draped across her arm.
Surely sheep had shorter tails?
Spying the anxious eyes behind the mask, Aideen dashed over. “You look delightful, Cordy. Like a…lamb let out in a spring meadow for the first time.”
“Oh, good. That is the effect I was after. I didn’t want to appear like mutton.”
“Gracious no, you look beautiful. Now Lord Winterbourne is–”
“Here I am, loveys. I understand I’ve two beauties to escort.”
They both whirled and stared open-mouthed at the stunning gentleman before them.
Of course, she had always known Lord Winterbourne was a handsome man, and tonight, she had to acknowledge they would be the envy of every female as they entered the ballroom together.
Byronesque black curls fell perfectly to broad shoulders, and nestled in his artful hair was a pair of red horns – still better made than her own. A black-and-red mask obscured his features with leering demons painted upon it. Flashing white teeth as usual – heaven knows the powder he used – above an immaculate cravat and black jacket. But the waistcoat was a poppy red, devilish and bright. In his hand he held a rather dangerous pitchfork.
“That is a beautiful coquelicot waistcoat, Jack,” she sighed, wishing she could wear such a colour. Alas, it caused her complexion to resemble an old rag.
“Ah,” he said, rushing forth to kiss her hand. “Why didn’t we marry? You appreciate the prevailing fashion like no one else. Instead you married His Colourlessness.”
Cordelia giggled, and Jack sketched a bow. “And who do we have here? But an innocent lamb with flesh so very…succulent.” Her friend tittered yet more and Aideen wacked his arm with a claw.
“Tonight, we are Lady Hellcat and…” She turned to Cordelia.
“Erm, Lady C. Lamb?”
“Oh no, lovey,” said Jack, “that’s already taken by the scandalous Caroline and one is more than enough, I assure…ewe.” He perused her from foot to ear. “You shall be Miss Peep.”
All agreed, Cordelia sprang for the door, but Jack grabbed hold of Aideen’s arm, dragging her to one side.
“Why the bloody hell is Miss Cordelia Greenwood, the ton’s darling and absolute innocent, going to the Miltons’? I’ll be hung, drawn and fleeced of my favourite waistcoat if anyone finds out, especially Oakdean.”
“She wants a night of freedom. Before the tedium of marriage.”
Jack peered carefully into her mask. “Rakecombe’s hurting you, isn’t he?”
“Nonsense, I just–”
“As I thought, you’re in need of my assistance.” He patted her arm in an avuncular manner, so at odds with his physical aspect. “My rules are normally for the gentlemen, but I don’t suppose women are much different, especially you, Aideen.”
She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or affronted. “What rules?” she nevertheless asked, intrigued.
A wide grin split his face, a devilish twinkle to the fallen angel’s eye. She peered down for the cloven hoof.
“Why, the rules of the rogue, my dear Aideen. And we will start at number one. A little jealousy never goes amiss.”