“Wherein two ladies cause a stir.”

 

Violette came down the stairs and flopped onto the settee with a weary sigh. She met Celeste’s eyes as she turned from her position at the window, staring out at grey streets, grey clouds and sheets of cold, grey rain.

“Merde!” Celeste cried, shocking Violette, who still hadn’t become accustomed to her rather expansive vocabulary of gros mots. “I declare, if I ‘ave to spend one more day in this ‘ouse with nothing to do, I shall run mad!”

“I’m so sorry,” Violette replied, feeling dreadfully guilty. The Falmouths had not entertained at all this season, as the doctor, concerned by her brother’s mental health, had decreed that he must be kept in the quietest surroundings.

“Oh, non!” Celeste replied, covering her mouth with her hand and looking horrified. “I did not mean that, Violette. I am very ‘appy to ‘ave you with me, and your brother is a war ‘ero. I ‘ave no regrets at ‘aving you both ‘ere. It is just this rain ... days and days of rain. It makes me cross, you see?”

Violette nodded and gave Celeste a smile, knowing she meant it. “It is very dull weather,” she said with a sigh. “Enough to give anyone a fit of the dismals.”

Celeste went and rang the bell, ordering tea and cakes to be sent when the butler appeared, and then settled herself beside Violette.

“And ‘ow is Lord Winterbourne?” she asked, her lovely face full of concern.

Violette shrugged. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He’s ... changed. So much.”

In truth, her brother frightened her now, more than a little, and she feared all those stories about the Greyston family suffering from madness were not just stories. Gabriel was proof enough of that, she supposed, but she was terrified that she would soon see Eddie go the same way. Not that she thought he would harm her, never that, only ... he had such fits of temper – rages, really - that he seemed quite unable to control. The rest of the time, he was distracted, lost in some far-off place where she couldn’t quite reach him. Though he would answer any questions put to him, it was as if he wasn’t really there at all.

And then there were the nightmares.

“‘E does not remember the years after the war?”

Violette shook her head. “He says he remembers the battle of Waterloo as though he just walked off the field, and then ... nothing. Until he woke here.”

They fell silent as a footman came in with the tea tray. Violette watched, lost in thought as Celeste busied herself pouring tea. She passed Violette a pretty porcelain plate with one of their cook’s famous Queen cakes on it, before taking two for herself, and gave her a warm smile.

“Cake makes everything better,” she said, with such utter conviction that Violette could only laugh.

Violette bit into the tender sponge and sighed with pleasure as the delicate flavour of almonds and rose water filled her mouth. “You know, I do believe you’re right.”

“Mais, bien sûr!” Celeste replied with a sniff, sounding a little indignant. “I always am,” she added, her merry blue eyes twinkling with amusement. She reached over and patted Violette’s hand. “Don’t worry, mon amie,” she said, her blue eyes full of sympathy. “‘E needs time and rest, and I think perhaps you need cheering up.”

Violette looked away, knowing that she had been listless and a poor companion for Celeste, despite the huge debt she owed both her and her husband. But alongside concerns about her brother was the knowledge that Aubrey had been avoiding her.

It was for the best, of course. She knew it and she tried to be grateful for his consideration. Only she missed him.

He had been the perfect gentleman in all of their interactions, but she had seen the admiration in his eyes and had known that he’d hoped to court her. That he’d even considered the idea, believing as he must have done that she was likely another man’s mistress, was a cause of wonder to her. That he now likely believed she would not look upon him because she was a great heiress was something that caused her a great deal of misery.

What must he think of her! She wouldn’t be surprised, or indeed condemn him, if he hated her. The poor man must believe she had led him on, given him false hope that his suit might be encouraged, and all to secure his and his cousin’s help to rescue her brother. It was very far from the truth. Only ... she had encouraged him. And though she ought never to have done so, she could not regret those moments spent in his company, moments that she now felt were the happiest she could remember for many years. She gave a heavy sigh and then started, driven from her dreary thoughts as Celeste gave a squeal of excitement.

“I know just the thing to brighten you up!” she exclaimed, turning to Violette and looking positively gleeful.

“Oh?” Violette replied, feeling a little cautious as the Countess Falmouth had given her reason to believe she could be a just a little impulsive at times, not to mention occasionally down right scandalous. Which was all well and good for the wife of a man like Falmouth. For the unmarried sister of a marquess who wasn’t even out yet, it might be quite another.

“A masked ball!” Celeste squealed with delight. “Tomorrow night, there is a masked ball at Lady Ashton’s. She’s a terrible woman, of course, such a busybody, but she does give the most wonderful balls.”

Violette stared at Celeste with apprehension. “But Celeste, I’m not out yet?”

“Bah!” she exclaimed, as though this was a minor difficulty. “Who will know? You will wear a lovely disguise, and I will say you are a cousin, come to visit from France, oui?”

“But my French is terrible!” Violette objected, almost quivering with a mixture of terror and longing at the idea. During her imprisonment (since there was really no other word for it) at the hands of Lord Gabriel Greyston, she had longed to attend parties and see something of the glittering world she had been denied. If Lord Gabriel Greyston hadn’t interfered, she would have come out some time ago. Perhaps even have been married by now. Of course, she was hardly on the shelf, and a woman with a fortune such as hers would never be short of offers. The thought depressed her. Then she sat a little straighter in her seat, and felt a little braver as she wondered if perhaps Aubrey might attend such an event.

“What do you think?” Celeste demanded, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as though there were spies listening in.

“I think ... it’s a wonderful idea,” Violette replied, beaming at her and forcing away any possible niggles of doubt. After all. No one would ever know.

***

“How I ever let you talk me into this,” Lord Falmouth grumbled, tugging with irritation at the lacy cuffs beneath a rather splendid red velvet jacket.

“Oh, I think you look perfectly dashing, and very ‘andsome, mon contrabandier,” his wife replied with perfect sincerity, Violette thought, going on the approving look in her eyes.

“Hmph,” Falmouth replied, though he looked a little mollified, more so when his wife leaned over to whisper something in his ear. Falmouth’s lips twitched a little and he coughed. “Yes,” he murmured, smirking just a bit. “Now I remember.”

Violette turned her head away and squashed a rush of unwelcome jealousy. It was hard, though, watching the two of them together, and so obviously happy. Would she ever have that? Or would she make a brilliant match with some powerful nobleman who would care no more for her than he might for the value and beauty of a diamond necklace or an emerald ring? That was the usual way of things with their kind, of course, and just what her parents had intended for her.

She turned back, though, quite unable to resent the couple’s happiness for long as they were so generous as to include her into their intimate circle.

Celeste looked positively bewitching tonight, and certainly the most glamorous shepherdess that Violette had ever seen. She had gotten the idea from a Staffordshire figurine, by all accounts, and had the outfit reproduced to remarkable effect. Alex’s costume was no less impressive, and he did indeed make a dashing pirate, if a slightly unsettling one. Celeste had made him a mask out of a length of narrow black satin, by cutting and sewing eye holes in it. The results, set against Alex’s rather severe, if handsome features, were just a little too authentic.

Violette tugged at her own costume in anxiety, before resuming her nervous occupation of threading and rethreading the ribbons of her mask through her fingers in agitation. Perhaps this had been a bad idea, she thought, as her stomach tied itself into a knot.

“You look very beautiful tonight, Violette,” Celeste said, smiling at her across the moonlit carriage. “Doesn’t she, Alex?”

“Perfectly charming,” her husband agreed, though he looked a little less sanguine. “But you will remember your story, and on no account remove your mask,” he added.

“I promise,” Violette replied with a nod.

***

Lady Ashton’s ballroom was so astonishing that Violette quite forgot to be nervous, so overwhelmed was she by the sights and sounds, and the sheer scale of the event.

Celeste had explained that the woman was shockingly vulgar as well as being the most appalling gossip. Apparently, her grandfather had made a fortune in trade, but she had married well and the ton had decided they were willing to overlook her questionable heritage. This was partly for the sake of Lord Ashton, whose family were noble, if impoverished, and partly the benefit of her much-talked-about lavish and extraordinary parties. She may not be good ton, but everyone came to her parties, even if it was just on the excuse of sneering at her ostentatious and rather fantastical taste.

The entire ballroom was decked in gold. Huge gold ribbons adorned the marble columns that flanked the vast space, and gold and silver decorations covered every conceivable surface and dazzled the eye under the glare of what must have been thousands of candles. 

Violette turned to grin at Celeste, who laughed and clapped her hands with glee. “I told you!” she said, and then gasped as a rather debonair seventeenth century Musketeer came and made a leg before them, sweeping off a plumed hat and bowing low.

“Ladies,” he said, his voice solemn.

They stared at him in surprise for a moment before Celeste let out a delighted trill of laughter. “Aubrey!”

Violette drew in a sharp breath as she realised that Celeste was right, and the dashing and heroic looking figure before them was indeed Mr Russell.

“Miss Mystique,” he said, his voice gentle. “I wonder if perhaps you might reserve me the honour of a dance this evening?”

Violette nodded, hardly able to find her voice, but at least keeping her wits about her enough to write his name upon her card. He didn’t pause to speak with her any longer, but moved away, and she watched with disappointment as he vanished into the mass of people crowding the edges of the ballroom.

***

It had been a foolish thing to do. Aubrey knew it had. He’d told himself over and over that he’d be best off not attending, and leaving her well alone. But he’d known from the moment Celeste had let slip her extraordinary plan, that he would not miss the chance of dancing with her. Not for anything.

It would be their swan song, he had told himself. After this, he would do all he could to put Lady Violette Greyston far from his mind, and his heart.

He didn’t believe it any more now than he had then.

She looked breath-taking, too. Dressed as Artemis, goddess of the wilderness and the hunt, there was something just a little reckless about her tonight, a glitter in her eyes that was only too tempting. Her dress was white, the fabric sheer, falling in soft drapes against her curves. There was ivy twisted in her golden hair, and he forced away an image of her that came unbidden to his mind. His own Artemis, lying wanton on the forest floor, inviting him to step away from polite society, into the wild.

He moved away from her, away from temptation, away from the desire to ruin them both and damn the rest of the world.

But as he moved through the crowd, he began to realise he was already halfway there, on his own account at least.

He had always been a welcomed addition to any ball, always sure of being invited to all the best affairs. He was not wealthy, nor titled, but he was handsome and witty, he danced well and his address was polished and refined. He was unfailingly polite and would always spare a dance or two for the wallflowers. Yet tonight, those that recognised him widened their eyes. Husbands steered their wives from his path, and mothers drew their daughters closer, whilst the daughters’ eyes lingered on him, full of invitation. He paused to take a glass of champagne, and overheard his name being spoken.

“Fathered a brat, too, by all accounts. They say he’s the Dasher’s lover, now, stole her right from under Viscount Debdon’s nose, and he’s got pockets to let, by all accounts, so he must be keeping her amused somehow ...”

This last was punctuated by ribald laughter and Aubrey clenched his fists, moving away before the temptation to break the speaker’s nose grew too acute. He downed his drink and snatched another from a passing tray as a familiar voice spoke behind him.

“Evening, Aubrey.”

He turned to find Lord Tindall, flanked by Ben and Owen, all three of them looking terribly awkward.

“Tommy,” he replied with a stiff nod, which he extended to his other friends, if that was what they were.

“We’ve told anyone and everyone we can that it’s all a load of rubbish,” Owen replied, his eyes full of apology. “But I doubt they’ll listen.”

Aubrey snorted at the idea; of course no one would listen. Why would they, when the story was so much more interesting?

“And Ben broke Lord Bexley’s nose for suggesting you’d fathered a bastard and left it in the Dials,” he added.

Aubrey’s eyebrows shot up and he looked at Ben, who was staring at his boots with a frown.

“Ben?” he queried, surprised that the man should react so. His own reputation was so dark, he wondered that Ben would even care what they said about his friend. He must be used to it on his own account, after all.

Ben shrugged. “The blackguard had it coming. Shouldn’t say such things about you.” He looked up, then, his handsome face full of regret. “I should never have thought it either, I’m sorry, Aubrey, truly.”

“We all are,” Tommy said, holding his hand out.

Aubrey let out a breath and laughed, feeling a little lighter with his friends around him once more. He took Tommy’s hand, grinning at him as he took in his costume. He was dressed as a Roman General, the rather dashing outfit slightly set awry by the cherubic gold curls that had escaped his helmet.

“You look rather ... er, fearsome, tonight, Tommy,” Aubrey said, looking him over and raising one eyebrow.

Tommy snorted. “Yes, thank you so much,” he replied with sarcastic tone. “At least I made an effort, unlike some.”

He gave Ben a speaking look as he was only dressed in a plain domino with a simple black mask. “What can I say,” Ben replied. “I clearly don’t have your confidence, Tommy. Not everyone can carry off an angelic Caesar.”

Aubrey felt a hand brush his sleeve and turned away from their bickering to see a glamorous woman, whom he recognised as a rather scandalous widow, giving him a very direct look. He stared back in surprise, as they’d never been introduced and he’d never been given such blatant, if silent, invitation in his life before. Her full mouth curved into a smile and she leaned forward a little.

“It’s dreadfully hot in here, isn’t it ...” she said, and then sauntered away in the direction of the terrace.

Aubrey blinked in astonishment and turned back to his friends. Tommy and Owen were staring after the woman with longing, and Ben was watching Aubrey with a mixture of amusement and chagrin.

“There are compensations,” he murmured, giving Aubrey a slight smile.

“So I see,” Aubrey replied, laughing despite the fact it didn’t feel very funny. He wanted to see Violette, he realised, and thought perhaps it must be almost time for their dance.

Excusing himself from his friends he made his way back through the crowd, doing his best to ignore the whispers and gossip and stares, both of repulsion and overt invitation. He didn’t care about any of them now. All he wanted was Violette, his vision of Artemis.