Rebecca thought, “I do?” and decided that he was attempting, not very skilfully, to be pleasant. “Thank you,” she said. “Actually, I am held to be more like to my elder brother, Jonathan. He is in Europe at present. Have you made his acquaintance, Captain?”
“Unfortunately, no. But I hear Mr. Snowden Boothe has been off in search of horses. I envy him. Do you know if he found any likely ones?”
“Hail, my Fair!” De Villars neatly inserted himself between them. “And farewell, mon capitaine.”
Diverted, Rebecca exclaimed, “Oh! Do you know who said that, sir?”
“I did. With my own ardent lips. Just now.”
His ardent lips were smiling the smile she had seen only in their few private moments; the smile of such sweetness that it obliterated all memory of his cynicism and rudeness. With an effort she recalled that he was only playing a part for the benefit of the other guests, and said chidingly, “No, no. ’Tis a quotation, am I not correct, Captain?”
The captain said a terse, “I have no idea, ma’am.”
Glancing at him, Rebecca surprised a set look to his jaw and a flash in his hard dark eyes, and wondered if he was annoyed because Treve—Mr. de Villars—had come up with them. The captain did not seem the flirtatious type, but one could never tell.
De Villars said, “You are quite correct, my erudite lady. The quotation is from—I had best say it softly!—Catullus.”
She clapped her hands delightedly. “I was right! My brother would have it was Shakespeare!”
“Pray do not tell him ’twas I betrayed his want of knowledge. I go in dread lest he call me out once more.”
Lord Glendenning scoffed, “Aye, but I can hear your knees knocking, Treve.”
“Those are not de Villars’ knees,” the captain said “I fancy you hear drums, sir.”
All heads turned to him. The happy voices were stilled as they halted and stood listening. Sure enough, faint with distance a throbbing rose on the air.
Miss Street asked uneasily, “A military exercize, Captain?”
Holt shook his head. “My men are rousing the countryside, ma’am. There are escaped Jacobites hereabout. We’ve orders to take or kill them, before they reach the sea.”
“Poor creatures!” said Rebecca, her eyes stormy. “Even as we are so carefree, others of our countrymen are being hounded to a cruel and shameful death.”
“For which they have only themselves to blame.” De Villars took the captain’s arm in friendly fashion. “Come, sir, and tell me of these fugitives. Do you know how many there are?”
Frowning after them as they walked on ahead, Rebecca found Sir Peter at her side. “You must really be more careful, dear lady,” he warned softly. “In the name of Christian charity, your sentiments do you honour, but the captain might easily have interpreted your remarks as treason.”
“In which case,” purred Mrs. Monahan, slipping her arm about Rebecca’s small waist, “you would probably lose that pretty head. And even a jealous female such as myself should not wish to see that, my dear, so—pay heed to what Sir Peter tells you.”
Rebecca laughed, but she was frightened. Such things did not really happen, surely? Not to people one knew. Yet she had the oddest feeling that The Monahan was sincere. She thought of the desperate fugitives, perhaps wounded and exhausted, fleeing before the relentless pursuit, and a shiver chased down her spine.
CHAPTER
13
Fearing that they would be easily identified were they seen leaving the cottage in costume, Sir Peter urged Mrs. Boothe and Rebecca to stay at the main house on the night of the ball. There was no formal dinner party that evening. Trays were carried to the bedchambers, and later, the butler was to call for the guests, one at a time, and escort them to the ballroom by way of a rear corridor so that they could enter unobtrusively and mingle with the guests who had already arrived. A most tempting meal was sent up, but Rebecca was too excited to do more than pick at the food. Mrs. Boothe had already donned her costume and was all enthusiasm as she watched Millie dress her niece. Rebecca fought against overconfidence, but when she was powdered, attired in the glorious gown, a paste necklace of rubies and diamonds flashing convincingly about her throat, and long earrings sparkling, she could not but be hopeful of success.
Overawed, but ever practical, Millie asked anxiously, “Can you balance them hoops, Mrs. Rebecca? Turn about—give us a twirl.”
Rebecca did so, staggered, and caught her balance with a breathless laugh. “I shall have to take care,” she admitted, “lest I make a quiz of myself.”
Mrs. Boothe, her eyes misting, thought that never had she seen so beautiful a sight. If Sir Peter did not offer tonight, he must be all about in his head!
* * *
By ten o’clock the grand ballroom was athrong with an incredible company. Shepherdesses and Grecian nymphs were ogled by several Julius Caesars and a rather embarrassingly authentic-looking Pan, who Rebecca later decided must be Trevelyan de Villars, partly because of his height and easy grace, and partly because of that naughty costume. There were Elizabethan ladies with high ruffs and standing collars and farthingales, gentlemen in doublet and hose with short cloaks and dress swords. The steeple headdresses and flowing veils of the sixteenth century vied with gold turbans from the mysterious East. A centurion danced with a gentle Juliet. Cleopatra arrived, escorted by a full-bodied Henry the Eighth, and an equally stout pirate. Brigands rubbed elbows with Chinese mandarins, ladies of the harem, and Puritanical gentlemen in wide white collars and vandyke beards. And everywhere laughter and jollity and the freedom of masked countenances.
Yet even this brilliant gathering was moved to stare and exclaim when the next competitor appeared on the raised dais across which each new arrival had to pass so as to be seen by the judges and admired by the throng. Tall she was, a statuesque beauty clad in a flowing cream silk gown that left one dimpled shoulder bare, and was tied criss-cross about the breasts with ribands of green satin. Shining black locks were pulled back so as to descend loosely behind her shoulders—a wig, possibly. And her mask, edged with jewels, covered sufficient of her classic features as to leave most in doubt, but several wondering.
“Delilah!” announced the major-domo, ringingly.
To one side of the applauding crowd, a dashing buccaneer turned his scarfed head and nudged the lord justice at his side. “Choice, eh, Fitz?”
The gentleman of the cloth exclaimed, “Shocking! Why, I can see her ankles! And—Horatio, her toenails are gilded! Who is she, I wonder?”
“She is The Monahan, you great gudgeon,” imparted Glendenning, disrespectfully. He turned back to the dais, watched the arrival of a milkmaid, and was contemplating the provocative smile of a thirteenth-century princess when his friend breathed an admiring, “Now … by Jove!” and his attention returned to the dais.
The major-domo proclaimed resonantly, “The Scarlet Signorina!”
With leisured grace came this Spanish lady from the perilous days that had closed the sixteenth century. The brilliant red velvet of her vast farthingale fell richly over an underdress of white brocade embroidered in silver. Bands of ermine edged the deep outer sleeves, front openings, and hem of her gown. The neckline was square and high, rising at the back to a very high-standing collar of white brocade trimmed in silver. Jet curls, piled on her head and threaded with strings of pearls, enhanced a skin almost transparent in its purity. A jewelled fan was clasped in one hand, and the other was gracefully extended as she swept into her curtsey. The roar of applause brought every head turning, and the applause swelled, luring a shy smile to the full-lipped mouth.
Sir Peter, his receiving done for the evening, had just wandered into the ballroom. He was the only person not masked, since his duties as host clearly established his identity, and he looked breathtakingly handsome in the flowing periwig, dashing green justaucorps jacket, and culottes of seventy years earlier. Catching sight of the dazzling vision on the dais, he gasped, “Now … by God!”
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br /> “Enchanting, is she not?” chuckled a buccaneer, and began to edge his way through the throng of gentlemen waiting to besiege The Scarlet Signorina.
Recovering his scattered wits, Sir Peter followed.
* * *
The little abigail put down her tray of wine glasses and, sitting beside The Scarlet Signorina in a secluded corner of the refreshment room, said in a voice that quivered with emotion, “Oh, my love! Such a triumph for you! I vow you are the most sought after lady at the ball! Everyone is clamouring for your identity, and your company! You must be fairly exhausted.”
“Aunt Alby,” said Rebecca. “Whyever are you carrying that tray?”
“One of the guests asked that I remove it from his table,” Mrs. Boothe giggled. “Is it not hilarious? I am truly incognito! What a relief to escape myself for an evening!”
Rebecca was rather indignant, however, and said that since only footmen and lackeys were at work in the big room, she would have thought the guest might have been more perceptive.
“Well, I expect he would, my dearest, only he was a little foxed. And I truly was flattered. How comes it about that you sit here alone? ’Tis the first time you’ve not been surrounded.”
“A most persistent buccaneer brought me down to supper and has gone off to fetch me a plate.” Beneath the table, Rebecca slid tired feet out of her high heeled slippers. “When other gentlemen came over, he flourished a great sword at them, so I have been granted a few moments of rest. I suspect he is Horatio Glendenning, and I think he has a suspicion of who I am, though I’ve adopted the most delicious Spanish accent so as to deceive him. Are you enjoying yourself, dear?”
“Immensely, but I have identified only a few people. Delilah is The Monahan, of course. Have you spotted Lady Ward yet?”
“No. Have you? There is a Joan of Arc here, but she is too plump.”
“I thought the same. I’m not very clever at guessing people. I only identified Mrs. Monahan because she wears that beautiful antique ring. Have you noticed it, love? A most cunningly wrought golden dragon with red eyes.”
“Yes, I admired it at the boat party. It is so unusual she might have known it would betray her identity.”
“With the gown she almost wears, I doubt any of the gentlemen would notice her ring,” said Mrs. Boothe with a giggle. “In fact—” She broke off, her chin sagging.
A female Viking had come into the room, escorted by Sir Peter. The lady was not of great stature, but her enormous helm boasted two very large, upcurving horns, which presented a distinct hazard to those in her vicinity. Thick flaxen braids hung on both sides of her thin face. A beautifully embroidered blouse and full dark skirt completed her costume. She carried herself with a prideful arrogance, and there could be no mistaking her. Rebecca whispered an awed, “So she was not Joan d’Arc … after all!”
Catching sight of The Scarlet Signorina, the Viking lady glanced idly away, but as if comprehension was slow in dawning, her head fairly shot back, her eyes all but goggling. The effect was, to say the least, alarming. The helm did not respond with the proper degree of alacrity and settled midway on her head, one large horn sticking out above her nose like some demented unicorn.
Lord Glendenning, bearing two laden plates, strove vainly to stifle an involuntary whoop. The golden Delilah, seated at a nearby table, chuckled audibly. Highly diverted, Rebecca’s eyes swept the amused crowd, seeking de Villars, well knowing how his appreciation of the ridiculous would be titillated by this apparition.
Lady Ward uttered a squawk, clutched at the arm of her grandson, and became so white that Rebecca sprang to her feet in alarm. “Ma’am? Are you ill?”
“That … that … gown!” gasped my lady.
Coming anxiously to join them, Delilah asked, “Is aught amiss, my lady Viking?”
“Do not dare to reveal my identity,” snapped Lady Ward, recovering.
Behind her begemmed mask, the green eyes of The Monahan widened. “Lud! I’d not been aware of it—till now.”
Sir Peter said uneasily, “Are you all right—”
At this point the lord justice, stooping to hear the remarks of a pretty milkmaid, passed by. He inadvertently collided with the horn of my lady’s helm that, being now opposed to its fellow, swooped out behind her head. He gave a yelp as his wig was neatly speared and sailed away with my lady, who had stepped aside to allow him to pass. Another laugh went up. The reverend gentleman, good-naturedly accepting his premature unmasking, grinned, and reclaimed his property.
Lady Ward was less magnanimous. Whirling on him, she shrilled, “Pray what are you about, sir?”
“Allow me, ma’am,” said Sir Peter and, with a deft tug, straightened helm and horns. Lady Ward was more irked than grateful and proceeded to deliver a withering indictment of dim-witted and unmannerly young men that petrified the unfortunate Boudreaux.
Lord Horatio handed one of his plates to Rebecca, seized her by the elbow, and guided her quickly away. “I knew I had seen that gown somewhere before,” he murmured, as they left the debacle behind. “How ever did you acquire it? The old lady regards that collection as sacrosanct.”
“Oh, dear! Does she? Mrs. Kellstrand was so kind as to allow me to borrow it,” said Rebecca, abandoning the attempt to conceal her identity. “Will she be very angry, do you suppose?”
They found an unoccupied table and sat down, and the viscount said cheerily, “Never worry. Peter is the apple of her eye, he’ll soon have her out of the boughs. And heaven knows, she shouldn’t have flown into ’em—you look delicious. The colour is perfect for—Ma’am? You are not greatly distressed, I trust?”
Rebecca, who had been scanning the crowd as he spoke, apologized. “Forgive me. I was paying attention, only—if I appear upset, it is partly because of my brother. He went into the village this morning to attempt to find a suitable costume, and I’ve not seen him since. I cannot but be apprehensive.”
“Oh, do not give it another thought, dear lady. In this crush it is impossible to find anyone. For instance, I have been attempting to spot de Villars, and quite without—”
“Is that you, Viscount?”
A Cossack, with huge moustachios, removed his mask to reveal the stern features of Captain Holt. “Cannot seem to get through the crush to Sir Peter,” he said crisply. “I’ve to leave. Be so good as to convey my regrets?”
“Of course. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“Only that we have cornered some of these blasted rebels. Broadbent already left, and I must not tarry. Your pardon, sir, ma’am.” And he was gone, swallowed up in the chattering crowd.
A blaring fanfare from the orchestra very soon summoned everyone back to the ballroom. Six chairs had been placed at the rear of the dais, and five of these were occupied by the judges, consisting of the lord justice, a gypsy fortune teller, a very fat Chinese mandarin, a Dutch farmwife, and a tattered chimney sweep.
When everyone was assembled, Sir Peter held up his hand for quiet. Gradually, the noise died down, and he announced, “’Tis almost—the Witching Hour!” He clapped his hands sharply. Unearthly music struck up, haunting at first, then rising to a wild, tempestuous melody. From both sides of the great ballroom came witches, fairies, and warlocks, skipping and leaping to the dais, there to dance with skill and precision for the pleasure of the brilliant company. A lighter refrain brought elves and pixies who bounded and cartwheeled their way to join the dancers, mingling with them in a clever ballet that drew repeated bursts of applause. Then, with a clash of cymbals, the music stopped. The dancers all froze into attitudes of tense expectancy, everyone pointing to a black drapery that curtained off a corner of the room. The draperies were slowly drawn aside. Beyond, two silver-cloaked and hooded figures held flaming torches to illumine the face of a great clock. The small hand pointed to the hour, its fellow creeping toward it. The crowd watched breathlessly. The two hands met. A brief hush, then the first chime pealed, the guests joining in the count until “Twelve!” became a roar of triumph.
Sir Peter stood once more. “It is time,” he announced loudly, “for the judging. We have six finalists, and must choose one to reign as Ruler of the Midsummer’s Eve Ball!” Again, he was interrupted by the excited crowd, and the trumpeters had to be employed to restore quiet. Sir Peter took up a sheet of parchment. “Will these ladies and gentlemen please come to the dais? The Great God Pan … Don Quixote … Queen Elizabeth…” Applause had greeted each name, but some confusion now ensued, since it seemed there were three Queen Elizabeths. It was settled at last, and a truly spectacular royal lady made her way to the dais. Sir Peter resumed his list. “Delilah!” More applause. “A Viking Princess.” The shouts were laced with a few chuckles, but Lady Ward marched serenely to her triumph. “And—lastly,” said Sir Peter, tantalizingly, “The—Scarlet Signorina!”
Rebecca’s horrified gasp was lost in the roar of acclaim. Glendenning made his way through the enthusiastic crowd, leading her to the dais.
“I cannot!” she cried, trying to free her hand.
He grinned. “’Course you can. No call to be nervous,” and, willy-nilly, she was drawn along.
She had no chance to protest further, and took her place among the other contestants, praying she would be rejected. Outrage gleamed in the eyes of the Viking Princess, but by not so much as a quiver did the smile change on Delilah’s lovely face.
The judges were making notes and conferring gravely together; the onlookers watched eagerly; and Rebecca waited, probably the only person in that festive hall who was in utter misery. Why, oh why, had it never occurred to her that this might happen? She could take no credit for either the devising or creation of the magnificent gown she wore. If it became known that she had borrowed her finery, and from whom, it must look as though she stood on extremely close terms with the Wards. Even more deplorable, she now realized belatedly, in having loaned her a possession he was known to prize highly, Sir Peter might very well be judged as having publicly declared his interest. Tears of humiliation started to Rebecca’s eyes. Her only hope was that The Monahan or the Viking Princess would win, although there was always the chance that de Villars would reign over the ball.
The Wagered Widow Page 24
