by Deborah Hale
“How do you expect me to do that?” Grace tried to resist, though the prospect of dressing up and attending a masquerade tempted her far more than she dared admit. “And how will I even recognize them?”
“It won’t be difficult to pick out Papa,” Charlotte assured her. “He always wears the same costume. I can draw you a sketch of it. And we can ask Mrs. Cadmore what she means to wear, just for good measure. As for how to stop Papa proposing, I’m sure you will think of something when the time comes.”
“Cause a distraction,” Phoebe suggested.
“Spill something on her gown.” Sophie’s sweet young face twisted in a devious grin.
Grace hated to admit how much the girls’ outrageous plan appealed to her. For weeks she had felt helpless to prevent Lord Steadwell from making a grave mistake. The temptation to take some action, no matter how futile, threatened to overcome her scruples.
She made one last attempt to dissuade the girls... and herself. “Even if I do what you ask, it would only delay the inevitable. Your father could still propose to Mrs. Cadmore the next day or the next.”
“Perhaps.” Charlotte shrugged. “But any delay will give Papa a chance to reconsider. Please say you’ll do it, Miss Ella!”
The younger girls joined in a beseeching chorus that Grace could not have withstood even if she’d been far more determined. She did put up a token resistance by reminding them she had no costume fit to attend such a elegant event.
“That old gown from the painting fits you very well,” Sophie reminded her.
“But surely you father would recognize it,” Grace protested.
“Men never pay that much attention to clothes.” Charlotte replied airily.
When Rebecca added her persuasive voice to those of the children, Grace soon found herself talked into doing what she secretly wanted.
The evening of the ball found her gowned and masked, her hair freed from the confines of that ugly old cap and dressed in a becoming style that matched the era of her costume. For the first little while she stuck close to Rebecca and Lord Benedict, but gradually she grew braver. Among the crowd of masked guests, she felt anonymous and free to be herself for the first time since coming to Nethercross.
She had not accepted the invitation for her own amusement, Grace reminded herself. The girls were counting on her to keep watch over their father and prevent him from doing something they all might bitterly regret.
At that moment she spied a lady in a Columbine costume, which was what Mrs. Cadmore had told the girls she would be wearing. Casting a backward glance at her friends on the dance floor, Grace slipped away through the crowd in pursuit. She followed the lady out of the ballroom, down a long gallery and into a large drawing room. When she finally managed to get close enough for a good look at Columbine’s escort her spirits sank, for the gentleman was dressed as Punch and stood a full head shorter than Lord Steadwell.
Grace headed back to the ballroom, all the while scanning the crowd for the couple she sought. Suddenly, a man stepped into her path. A little taller than she and rather stout, he wore the flowing robes of an eastern sultan in the most garish mix of colors. His head was swathed in an enormous purple turban.
“Looking for someone, are you, fair lady?” Predatory eyes glittered through the slits of his black mask. “Has your escort been so negligent as to lose you in the crowd?”
“I have no escort, sir. I came with friends. I thought I saw someone I recognized and followed to speak with them, but I was mistaken. Pray excuse me.” Grace darted past him, out of the drawing room and back down the gallery.
Then another Columbine caught her eye. Though her brush with the sultan had unnerved her, Grace knew she must concentrate on her mission. Changing course, she made her way back through the gallery to the music room, where a string consort was playing for a dozen couples to dance.
After a moment, Grace picked out Columbine and her partner. This one was a gangly stork of a gentleman dressed as Robin Hood.
“Such a lovely lady, attending a ball with no escort?” A suggestive murmur in her ear made Grace recoil from the odious sultan once again. “That is an unpardonable shame. Pray do me the honor of a dance, fair one, so we may become better acquainted.”
“I do not wish to dance, sir.” Grace’s throat tightened. “I only want to find my friends. Good evening to you.”
She spun away and fled to the ballroom only to find no sign of Lord and Lady Benedict. Suddenly the gaze of every gentleman in the room seemed to be following her. Striving to subdue her mounting alarm, she approached a lady in a ruff and farthingale.
“Pardon me. Have you seen a couple who were dancing here a short time ago?” She described the costumes her friends were wearing.
To her relief the woman nodded. “They left after the last dance. In that direction, I believe. Likely in search of refreshment.”
Grace thanked the lady and headed off the way she’d been pointed. She almost bumped into another Columbine, but this one was far too tiny to be Mrs. Cadmore. Even if she had answered the lady’s description in every particular, Grace was not certain it would have made any difference. Her aim now was to regain the safety of her friends’ company.
But they proved every bit as elusive as Lord Steadwell and Mrs. Cadmore. Grace checked a number of rooms to no avail, her unease growing. Where could Rebecca and Lord Benedict have gone?
She circled around a clutch of chattering, laughing guests only to find her way blocked by the sultan again. How could it be so difficult to find either of the two couples she sought, while the man she was determined to avoid appeared around every corner?
“We meet again, my dear.” His lips spread in a leering grin. “It seems the Fates are conspiring to bring us together. Will you reconsider my invitation to dance? I assure you, it will be a far pleasanter way to pass the time than hurrying about, getting yourself all flushed and bothered. Though the former is quite becoming.”
Why must this repulsive man besiege her with his attentions? Did he think she was playing coy to rouse his interest?
“The Fates may conspire all they like, sir. I have no intention of dancing with you, so pray do not ask me again.” She fled from the sultan in a blind panic, not caring which way she went as long as it was away from him.
What had made her think she could attend an event crammed with wealthy, powerful men who felt entitled to take whatever they wanted from a woman? Worse yet she had been foolish enough to flaunt her looks and figure in such a flattering gown, with only the flimsy disguise of a mask to conceal her identity.
Had the fact that Lord Steadwell behaved with honor toward dowdy Miss Ellerby made her forget the liberties other men were eager to take with an attractive woman? Or had she been willing to run that risk in the hope that her master would see her true appearance and be drawn to her? How could her fancy for him have grown to such perilous heights when she had done everything in her power to suppress it? Could those efforts have only intensified her feelings—like putting a stopper in the spout of a boiling kettle?
Those thoughts flitted through Grace’s mind like a flock of frightened starlings as she strove to escape the lecher who pursued her. But they only added to her growing alarm, which the predator seemed to scent. The long curled toes of his slippers did not slow him down. At last he cornered her in a distant sitting room where refreshments were being dispensed.
“Let me help you to a cup of punch, dear lady,” he insisted. “Then perhaps you will feel more like dancing.”
Though Grace told herself her virtue was safe with so many people around, no one seemed to notice or care that she was being harassed by this horrible man. His relentless pursuit revived terrifying memories of the night she’d returned to her quarters and discovered her master’s uncle waiting for her.
He had flattered her and offered to make her his mistress. When she’d declined and tried to flee, he had blocked her way and attempted to take by force what she refused to surrender willingly. Somehow s
he had fought her way free, escaped from him and hid below the stairs. The next morning she’d crept out, packed and given immediate notice. Grace had not even bothered to tell her mistress what happened—she’d learned the folly of doing that in her previous position. She sensed Mrs. Hesketh suspected something amiss, though the lady did not bother to seek the truth. Perhaps guilt for that had led her to give the departing governess a good reference.
“Please, sir, let me be!” Grace implored her pursuer. Though only a few inches taller than she, the sultan looked easily capable of overpowering her. “I have told you I do not wish to dance. I am trying to find my friends.”
She peered about for any sign of Rebecca and Lord Benedict. Why had she been so daft to stray from the protection of their company?
“They are poor friends if they let you wander off, my beauty.” He seized her hand and subjected it to the assault of his demanding lips. The sensation made Grace’s gorge rise. The heavy musk of sandalwood that wafted off him sickened her further. “Make me your new friend and I assure you I will be more constant.”
“Please, sir, keep your distance! The last thing I want from you is constancy!” She longed to cry out for help, but her fear of drawing attention to herself was even greater than her terror of him. Since she’d left school and the protection of her friends, harsh experience had taught her that no one would come to her rescue.
Had he been there long enough? Rupert peered around one of the less crowded refreshment rooms at the Countess of Maidenhead’s Victory Masquerade and wondered if anyone would notice if he went home early.
The evening had not turned out at all the way he’d planned. He had been so certain a masked ball would provide the perfect setting to tender his marriage proposal. In the convivial atmosphere, with their faces partially hidden, he could pretend that he and Mrs. Cadmore were different people entirely. That might provide the spur he needed to overcome his irrational reluctance.
He had been all dressed and ready to set out when he received a message from Dungrove that Mrs. Cadmore would not be able to attend the masquerade after all. Young Henry had fallen ill and she could not bring herself to leave his side. Rupert did not blame her for putting the welfare of her son above other considerations. After all, it was her motherly devotion he most valued in his prospective bride. Yet he regretted this missed opportunity to propose. When would he find another quite so good?
Part of him wanted to shed this costume and spend the evening at home since his chief purpose in attending had evaporated. Then he caught sight of his reflection in the looking glass and realized that might not be wise. His costume was called a bauta. The sweeping cloak and cowl topped with a large black tricorne hat was the traditional disguise worn in Venice during Carnivale. Its featureless white mask covered the entire face except the mouth and chin. His uncle had brought one back from his Grand Tour. Rupert had worn it a number of times over the years, dismissing Annabelle’s claim that it defeated the purpose of a masquerade to always wear the same costume.
If only he were not so well known by his Venetian bauta, he might have stayed away from tonight’s masquerade and no one would have been the wiser. But he did not want his absence to be noted and commented upon. It would appear unpatriotic and nothing could be further from the truth. He loved this land and its people. He rejoiced that it was safe from conquest at last. He honored the sacrifice of those who had fought to keep it free. Attending an evening’s entertainment was little enough he could do to show his gratitude.
Yet he knew better than to suppose he would enjoy the evening for its own sake. He’d never been comfortable in large crowds. The only thing that had made such events bearable in the past was Annabelle’s enjoyment of them. He had been content to bask in her pleasure. Left to his own devices he preferred to stay at home, savoring a quiet stroll under the linden trees or watching the sun set and the first stars appear in the evening sky.
The masquerade was well under way when Rupert arrived. It seemed at least half the ton had made the trek into Berkshire for the countess’s ball. Every room was packed with garishly costumed guests drinking and talking loudly. The warm, still air hung heavy with the conflicting scents of expensive perfume. It made Rupert’s stomach seethe.
Picking his way through the celebrating throng, he acknowledged the hearty greetings of several people he did not recognize but who clearly knew him. At last he found a less crowded room, drawn there by the whisper of a breeze wafting through a pair of glass doors that opened onto the countess’s magnificent gardens. Rupert collected a cup of punch from the refreshment table and retired to a spot near the open doors.
An hour later, as he was debating whether it was too early to head home, he became aware of a disturbance nearby. A man in the garb of an Oriental sultan was making a nuisance of himself with a fair-haired beauty. Something about the lady seemed familiar to Rupert, though he could not guess who she might be. She wore a Stuart-era gown of coral pink with a full skirt and enormous puffed sleeves trimmed with lace. Her golden curls were pulled into two bunches of ringlets, framing her delicate features. She looked soft, feminine and vulnerable to the unwanted attentions of the scoundrel who pursued her so relentlessly.
“Please, sir, let me be.” Rupert overheard her beg the sultan, “I have told you I do not wish to dance. I am trying to find my friends.”
“They are poor friends if they let you wander off, my beauty. Make me your new friend and I assure you I will be more constant.” With that the scoundrel seized her hand and pressed it to his lips again and again as if he meant to devour it.
The lady shrank from his attentions. “Please, sir, keep your distance! The last thing I want from you is constancy!”
Rupert’s pulse thundered with outrage that he was hard-pressed to contain. Slamming his punch cup down on the refreshment table, he strode toward the pair and slid between the sultan and his victim. “The lady asked you to leave her alone, sir. I suggest you behave like a gentleman and withdraw.”
The sultan’s thick lips bowed in a sinister scowl. “And what if I ignore your suggestion?”
“Then I shall phrase it as a demand.” Rupert lowered his voice to a menacing rumble. “One you would ignore at your peril.”
His adversary’s gaze wavered. “Want her for yourself, do you? See how far you get with the icy little prude!”
With that he stormed off, deliberately bumping into a footman and sending a tray of refreshments crashing to the floor.
Rupert spun around, expecting to glimpse nothing more than the lady’s pink skirts as she disappeared into the crowd. To his considerable surprise he found her still standing there.
“Thank you for your assistance, sir.” She dropped a rather wobbly curtsy. “It was most gallant of you to intervene on my behalf.”
Her voice was breathless and high-pitched, yet Rupert fancied he had heard it somewhere before. Could this be one of the debutantes he had met at Almacks? Surely he would not have been so quick to dismiss her. “Pay no heed to that scoundrel’s malicious claim that I only chased him away to acquire your company for myself. Nothing could be further from the truth. However, if you would care to linger in my vicinity, it might discourage any other such rogues who would try to force their attentions upon you.”
“That is kind of you to offer, sir.” She regarded him with a wary air, as if trying to decide whether he was any better than the predator he had frightened off. “But would it not interfere with your enjoyment of the evening to have a strange woman following you about?”
The fierce emotions that had possessed him a few moments earlier now melted away under the influence of the lady’s quiet charm. His lips relaxed into a smile. “Quite the contrary. In the first place my enjoyment of such proceedings is not that great. And in the second, being shadowed by a mysterious beauty strikes me as a rather pleasant novelty.”
The visible portion of her face took on a cast only a few shades lighter than her gown. “Pardon my curiosity, but what are you doin
g here if you do not enjoy such events?”
Without mentioning Mrs. Cadmore’s name or his intentions, Rupert explained that the person he had planned to accompany had been prevented from attending at the last moment.
“I still believe our victory is an event worth celebrating,” he concluded. Suddenly he was glad he had decided to attend the masquerade after all.
Yet something about his explanation seemed to alarm the lady. She drew a sharp breath and her slender frame grew tense. Or perhaps it was something else altogether.
“Forgive me,” he made an apologetic bow. “I should have asked if you are quite recovered from the fright that wretched bounder gave you. Would a cup of punch revive you? Or perhaps you would prefer to find a seat in the garden and let the fresh air calm you. I would be happy to stand guard at a distance and make certain you are not disturbed.”
She cast a longing glance toward the open doors. “That does sound pleasant. But I really must locate my friends.”
So that had not been an excuse to fend off the sultan’s advances. Rupert tried to quell an unaccountable sting of disappointment. “If you would like me to accompany you on your search, I am at your service. At least it would provide me with a useful occupation.”
After taking a moment to consider his offer, the lady nodded, making her golden curls bounce in the most winsome manner. “I would be most grateful for your assistance, though I fear it may be difficult to locate my friends in this crowd.”
Rupert found himself curiously untroubled by the prospect of a long, fruitless search in the lady’s company. In fact, their quest proved even more enjoyable than he’d hoped. From room to room he followed, always hovering close enough to discourage any other men from approaching her. At the same time, he tried to keep a respectful distance between them so she would not feel threatened by his presence. Each time they exchanged a few words, he wracked his memory to recall where he had heard her voice before.
After they had peered into a number of rooms to no avail, Rupert asked, “Can you describe how your friends are dressed? Two pair of eyes may work better to spot them.”
