“How delightful! You shall turn a fine leg.”
“I had feared that we were to be Romeo and Juliet. Women seem to fawn over that play. When really it was not so romantic. They were right fools to the very end.”
“Juliet was a smart girl in getting Romeo to marry her,” pointed out Nathaniel. “It must inspire their plans for husband-hunting. Perhaps another pair of tragic lovers?”
“Indeed. Hamlet and Ophelia. She has advised me to brood a lot and has sent over a skull for me to carry around.”
“I cannot wait to witness this beauty.” Nathaniel’s thrilled laugh bounced off the walls. He gulped down a final glass and slammed it down on the table. “I shall compromise Miss Mallory tomorrow! Capital idea, do you not think? Then she will have to marry me!” He seemed quite pleased with his grand idea, considering it to be highly romantic.
“That is a horrid idea. Do not even attempt it.” But his warnings fell of the deaf ears as Nathaniel heaved himself to his feet. He went on the hunt for some paper to write out his plan to capture his love.
Chapter Seven
Across the houses of Mayfair and other suitably fashionable abodes, the ton was aflutter in preparing themselves for a grand night at the Bal Masque. With only a couple weeks to prepare, many sent off to dressmakers for elaborate costumes or searched through their grandmother’s trunks for a gown reminiscent of the ancien regime. Most of the guests arrived garbed in the brightly coloured silks and mountain-high hairstyles that seemed more at home in the mirrored halls of Versailles and not the streets of London. Intermixed were the togas and plumed helmets of Roman centurions and the wide velvet skirts and French Hoods of Henry VIII’s England.
Miss Helena Mallory, swathed in sheets of snowy white muslin draped artfully around her lithe body, climbed the steps leading into the Carradine’s sprawling home. Her fiery hair was left loose around her shoulders like a lion’s mane. A bow was looped through her left arm, thoroughly hoping to use it against some rake later this night. A silver half-mask ornamented with tall feathers was designed to hide her face. To many, she was recognizable by the freckles that dotted her arms and the bright hair of her Irish ancestry.
Her mother, Lady Mallory, had donned the clothing of her youth, similar to many of the mothers with a powdery white face and a well-placed mouche near her lips painted lips. She ushered her newly engaged daughter into the throng of masked guests.
“La, I feel like a young girl again!” She exclaimed, voice tinkling like a silver bell. Helena's eyes darted here and there at the guests attempting to make out a kindred soul. Escape, Helena thought. Leave her mother to languish beneath the adoringly hungry gazes riveted to her. She did it quite well. With an errant elder husband, she did what she pleased and with whom she pleased. Her salon was notorious for the many well-placed men who came to visit.
“Mama, I think I spy Lettice over there!” That was a lie. But how could her mother know otherwise? Her eyes were already roaming around the crowd, searching for her fun. Lettice was also the last person Helena wished to see. After the debacle at her home last week, Helena decided to call upon her alone. It did not go well. Lettice, back erect, eyes blazing, spew out a litany of insults in regards to her former bosom buddy. Helena quickly made excuses to leave.
“You know someone for fifteen years and they turn out maniacal. It is no wonder some girls are afraid of marriage,” she said to herself, weaving between people. Helena had listened attentively while Emma explained a story that sounded right out of the scandal sheets.
“So, dear Helena, I am a woman of colour but still the same Emma.”
Her mouth had been agape for most of Emma’s tale. It seemed unbelievable and yet everything about Emma made more sense. This also explained the rudeness of Lettice. It was still inexcusable.
“This is right shocking,” muttered Helena. “But, as you said, you are still yourself so it changes little.”
“Thank you,” Emma replied. She reached over to place her hand upon Helena’s. “That means so much to me.”
“Sadly, most are not so enlightened. It will be difficult for you once the ton catches wind of it. But you are strong and rich and Nathaniel and Lord Hartwell will dispose of anyone who speaks against you.”
Emma let out a short laugh. It was not genuine. Her heart felt heavy. She was tired already and it had barely begun.
“Cheer up! Next week is that odious Lady Carradine’s ball. We shall drink to excess and dance holes in our slippers!”
Helena’s rosebud lips curved into a smile at the memory. Tonight should be a grand time. Judging by the sheer number guests, Lady Carradine hoped to ruin a handful of ladies.
“Dear me, what a crush!” The singsong voice belonged to Emma. She tripped over her trailing silk sleeve on her way to greet Helena. Her abundance of curly hair was left wild, much like Helena’s own and was barely constrained by a wreath of colourful flowers. Her olive skin shone brightly against the white gown, appearing like burnished gold. A tall man in a midnight blue doublet and dark hose followed her closely. With his unnatural height and the pair of grey eyes peering from behind his mask, it had to be Lord Hartwell. They were both carrying props: a basket full of herbs for her and a human skull for him.
“Emma! At last!” Helena shouted, crossing the short distance to her friend. “Oh, I mean, Ophelia! And Prince Hamlet! I must say I am certainly glad I am not the only person who is not the beheaded Bourbon Queen.”
Emma huffed in agreement. She could barely see over the towering powdered wigs. Some were made even higher with birds of paradise and hulking ships. It was a wonder no one's neck snapped. She thought darkly to herself the guillotine must have been mighty sharp to slice so easily through the strong, yet elegant necks of the aristocracy.
“Have you seen our esteemed hostess yet?” She asked. The music came to a sudden stop. In place of the lively whine of the stringed instruments, the bold heralding of trumpets filled the ballroom.
“Hark, it is an angel!” Someone's voice rose above the noise, directing everyone's attention to a figure poised at the top of the stairs. Otherworldly in a draping gown of the thinnest Chinese silk, she glistened with a liberal amount of diamonds embroidered onto the fabric. A beautifully crafted pair of silvery wings sprouted from her back, matching the silver bangles at her wrists. Her black hair, too, was sparkling from some unknown powder. Many women in the ton were already patting their own tresses, making notes to speak to their own maids on achieving the same effect. As a last thought, Lady Carradine completed her attire with a silver lace half-mask.
“Oh bother,” muttered Emma. “She is quite the character, but Lady Carradine looks gorgeous tonight.”
“Despite her faults, she is a lovely woman,” Helena agreed. “For this being a masquerade, I can identify nearly everyone here.”
“High society is a tightly-knit group and we know the same people from birth until death, so that is not surprising.” Lord Hartwell said. “These are much better on the Continent. We are quite isolated in London.”
“We ladies are more so isolated. We do not have the luxury of a Grand Tour or the freedom to leave England as often as our allowances will allow,” Emma noted. Her tone was tinged with annoyance.
“Instead,” continued Helena. “We have to rely on our husbands, fathers, brothers, or whatever male relative to take us abroad. At least, my brother has finally agreed to take me to on a pre-wedding trip. My mother is overjoyed to be rid of me.”
“Lord Mallory agreed? How unlike him!” Helena's brother, now the Viscount Mallory upon their father's death a few years ago, was renowned for his conservative views. Many blamed his flighty mother and rambunctious sister for his descent into somberness.
“Yes, Emma, I nearly fainted when he told me! For him to consider going to the Continent at such a time. Yes, the war is ending, but the future is uncertain.”
“I am sure we should not descent into warfare this year. I do believe it is quite over,” Thomas informed the
m. “As, Miss Mallory said, the future is uncertain. But the Sixth Coalition will do all it can to ensure the peace.”
“Surely Napoleon will abdicate soon. He cannot survive this,” Emma pointed out. With all the guns and men of the Six Coalition on him, even Napoleon could not escape. “I heard Talleyrand has turned on his master and is set to aid the Bourbon king.”
“My God, listen to the pair of you. You sound like men,” Thomas teased. He hand came to rest on the small of Emma's back. She leaned infinitesimally towards him, tossing up a smile to him.
“How distressing! Like men!” Helena cried. “We are unfashionably discussing politics at a ball! Whatever shall we do?”
“I think I might as well go home and cry into my wedding trousseau,” Emma said without rancor.
“Well met. I will not tease any further.” Thomas surveyed the ballroom with a sharp, discerning eye. His vision riveted upon something across the ballroom. Emma was far too short to see what grabbed his attention. Times like these, she wished to be a head or two taller.
He cleared his throat, eyes darting back down to Emma and Helena. The latter had noticed nothing amiss with the Marquess, whispering to Emma about a nearby masked dancer.
“Will you excuse me for a few moments, ladies? Miss Mallory.” Hartwell bowed. “Emma.” He placed a feather-light kiss upon her furrowed brow. “I will not be long.” He disappeared momentarily, a surprising feat since he was garbed entirely in dark colours.
“I wonder where he's going,” Emma questioned.
“Perhaps he has an assignation?” Helena suggested without a thought. “We are at a masquerade after all.”
Emma's brow was a knot of consternation, a combination of her own insecurities and Helena's off-handed remarks. Helena blanched upon realizing her slip.
“Oh, I am quite kidding, my dear. Lord Hartwell is quite smitten with you. I am sure he is to greet an old acquaintance.”
“I am sure that is a logical assumption and yet...he can be ever so mysterious at times.” She sighed, reaching a hand up to push some errant curls out of her eyes. “It is quite hot in here, is it not?” She extracted a fan from her basket and began to fan herself. “Goodness, I do believe there are some refreshment tables over in that area.”
“Over there, you say?” Helena craned her neck. “In the direction Lord Hartwell went? How lucky for us!”
With a shared meaningful look, the women set off purposefully through the throng. Emma regretted her choice of a basket as a prop. It hindered her easy movement. She pulled up her long skirts after nearly tripping on them a number of times. She quite hated her decision for a short train as well. She did look quite the part of Ophelia.
“He just ducked out into that hallway,” hissed Helena, tugging on Emma's arm. She yanked her out of their original path. They bumped into a few people and Emma muttered out half-hearted apologies.
The pair encroached upon Lord Hartwell's path. He was some distance ahead of them when he, at once, stopped. Or rather, someone stopped him and pulled him into a room. Emma never considered herself to have good vision. She noticed at once the arms were thin, pale and obviously feminine. The unknown paramour's wrists were covered in silver bangles. There was a glimpse of the woman's raven-black hair. Emma already knew those arms belonged to Lady Carradine. Why was her fiancé meeting with this woman he claimed to have rebuked so well in Vienna?
Helena had no time for such musings. She saw the defeat on her friend's face. The cogs in her head were desperately trying to make sense of this tryst. There was really no other word to describe this odd meeting. The venue did little to shed some propriety on the meeting.
“No time for that, Emma. Come along!” She scurried down the hall. The redhead crouched by the door. She placed her head against the door, hoping to hear their conversation. Well, if there was to be any conversation. One never knew how quickly people started the whole point to these trysts.
“...She is distracting you, Thomas.” The countess' voice lost the haughty, scornful tone for which she was known. Instead, it was littered with concern and another emotion. Emma was almost tempted to call it smug. But she sounded like an elder sister admonishing a wayward sibling.
“She is no concern of yours.” Thomas sounded tired. As if he had this conversation far too many times. “I trust this is not why you summoned me.”
“Oh not at all. I have learned some news.” Lady Carradine's voice dropped so low, Helena and Emma could only catch pieces.
“...is safe...she...Paris...we have her letters...everything is good...they suspect nothing...they believe they are in the clear...”
“Excellent work as always...we are close...I can feel it, Genevieve.” Their voices dropped to inaudible levels. Helena pulled away from the door and stood up straight. She inclined her head towards an alcove nearby. It would serve as a quiet place to converse. Emma listlessly followed. There was a small brown bench upon which they sat. It was uncomfortable, but it would do. She drew the heavy velvet curtains around them, lending even more privacy.
“They are very familiar,” Helena began. Emma nodded. She reached up behind her head to untie her mask. The ribbons were knotted. It took a few moments of trying before Emma simply tore the ribbons to shreds. The mask dropped into her lap. She grabbed it, squeezing it tightly in her hands.
“I believe Lord Hartwell has lied to me in regards to their relationship. I am a right fool,” she said nastily. “How could I have expected him to have spurned her advances when so many men have failed?”
“Even if they were lovers in the past. That does not mean they are still sharing such a relationship. It has been a matter of years since Lord Hartwell was on his Grand Tour.” Helena tucked her legs beneath her, spreading her skirts neatly over her lap. “Nathaniel would surely have told me otherwise and he seemed to consider her a nuisance and not a threat.”
“If that is to be the truth, why is he meeting her clandestinely in the middle of a masquerade?”
“It is easier for them to meet here then for Hartwell to call upon her at her home?”
“Yes, but why? Why does he need to meet her secretly if they are not lovers?” Emma’s voice rang shrilly. It was certain to draw the attention of any stray guests.
“I see your point.” Helena tapped a finger against her chin, searching for a plausible reason. There seemed to be none. Lord Hartwell and Lady Carradine were beautifully made humans, all alabaster skin and midnight hair. It made complete sense if they were having an affair. It made much better sense than Hartwell’s betrothal to Emma, she thought duplicitously. Helena instantly regretted the awful thought. Emma was beautiful in her dark, exotic way. At times she seemed more at home amongst the towering pyramids of Egypt or against silken pillows in a sultan’s harem. She seemed a creature of the night, content to bask in the moonlight beneath a canopy of stars. But Lady Carradine and Lord Hartwell were the moon and the stars. Almost too unearthly for mere mortals to love.
She was lost in the quest to soothe her friend. All the words she could say seemed hollow, devoid of any true reassurance. She was saved from any further remonstration by the sound of footsteps: a click of heels and the swish of boots. It had to be them.
Emma held a finger to her mouth, prompting Helena to do the same. They sat huddled in the alcove, listening to her dulcet tones and his soothing ones.
“We shall have to tell her soon, you know,” informed Thomas. Lady Carradine sighed prettily.
“I am well aware. She does not seem the type to faint at such news, so I am not concerned.”
“No, Emma is practical, she will understand,” Thomas assured her. Though she waved off his words with a silvery laugh. The rest of their conversation was drowned out by the chaos of the ballroom.
Emma grew more sullen. Her mouth drew into a frown so long, Helena feared it would slip right off her face.
“I am quite sure they cannot mean—I mean, surely...he would not dare...” She was floundering in her efforts.
“But he would,” echoed Emma. “There is little I can do. Such diversions are permissible. I had just thought...” she trailed off, looking down at her mask. “I simply thought that maybe he was falling in love with me.” The words were faint whisper, studded with sadness.
“Oh Emma. There must be a better explanation for this,” Helena insisted, grabbing her friend’s hands. “There simply must.”
Emma shook her off, rising to her feet. “Excuse me.” She whispered, slipping out of the alcove. Helena listened to the soft pad of her feet growing fainter. She summoned her own high spirits and too left the alcove. She would leave Emma to her own thoughts. Her business took her on the hunt for a fair-headed god.
There he was, clad in a tangle of white linen. A gold circlet of leaves posed above his fair brow. He stood a head taller than the gaggle of shepherdesses and nymphs that flocked to him. If she were a touch sillier, Helena too would have leaped into the throngs. As it was, she was on a mission.
She shoved a couple of fluffy-haired shepherdesses out of her way. Path cleared, she stood before Nathaniel. His tense face relaxed into a smile.
“Might I have a word with you, Lord Hedgeton?” Face taut and mouth stern, she looked like a fierce avenging goddess.
“If you will excuse me,” he said to the crowd. They sighed in discontent. Helena turned with a roll of her eyes. She felt his presence behind her. He often loomed over her shoulder. A feeling of comfort rose in her breast. “Whatever is the matter, Helena? You look quite fierce. Has your fiancé upset you?” He tried too hard to sound light and unaffected. Gads! He sounded like a whiny child. When had he become seven again?
Colors of a Lady Page 10
