“Well, have a lovely time.” I exchanged a glance with Gage. “I don’t suspect either of us will need you or Anderley until the morning.”
I could feel Gage’s warm gaze on my face, but he waited to pull me near until my maid had departed.
“So you’re trusting me to remove these chaste garments from your unsullied form?”
“Not so chaste,” I scoffed, glancing down at my hem before allowing myself to be distracted by the muscular calves revealed by Gage’s royal blue and black kilt. A Rutherford tartan. “But where did you get this? Did my brother pack more than one kilt?” Though why he would’ve packed even one, I couldn’t fathom.
“No. I brought it myself.”
“You did?”
He lifted his head proudly. “I anticipated there would be some sort of edict like this. We are in Scotland after all. And I decided it wouldn’t do to wear any colors other than those of your mother’s family.”
His words made my chest tighten, and the backs of my eyes unexpectedly began to burn. Whether he understood how much it meant to a Scot, even a half-blooded one, for their loved one to adopt their colors, I didn’t know, but I knew he would never have made such a decision without some forethought.
I was suddenly close to tears and I knew I could blame the child inside me for that. My emotions swung in greater arcs these days than I was accustomed to, and there was nothing for it but to ride them out.
That, or head them off.
Before the tears could fall, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pressed my lips to his.
His mouth smiled against mine. “I knew you liked me in a kilt, but not this much. Perhaps I should start wearing them more often.”
“Sebastian,” I chided.
The look in my eyes or the breathless tone of my voice must have communicated something of my desire, for he pulled me close and proceeded to kiss me senseless.
That is, until I lifted my hand to bury it in his golden curls and encountered his wig instead. My hand came away covered in powder.
“Gage, how much powder is on this thing?” I asked, pulling back from him with a cough as the cloying scent assailed my nose.
He blinked through the cloud of fine particles. “Whatever was left of it in its box. I certainly wasn’t going to allow Anderley to dust me with more of it, be damned if it was coated unevenly.”
I stared down in horror at the black silk and wool of my costume. At least, what I could see of it beyond the draping of my wimple. It was speckled with white powder.
Neither Gage nor I said anything for a moment, and then I began to brush at the offending residue, which stubbornly refused to be dislodged. “Everyone will know what we’ve been doing.”
I glanced up to find his eyes twinkling with repressed humor. “Well, it is a Twelfth Night Party.”
I opened my mouth to demand to know how he could find any of this funny, and then halted, suddenly struck by the absurdity of the entire situation. A giggle escaped from my lips and then a chuckle, and then I dissolved into outright guffawing. Gage joined in.
It was some time before I had myself in hand, and by then, my stomach hurt from laughing so hard. The baby had also begun to protest this rough treatment, and I perched on the edge of the bed to catch my breath, laying my hand over the spot where he or she kicked. Gage joined me, wrapping one arm around my lower back and resting the other next to mine on my belly. We sat that way companionably for a minute, while my black veil collected more powder from his wig, before Gage glanced at the clock on the mantel.
“We’d best hurry before the buglers begin,” he jested.
I smiled. “Lead the way.”
* * *
* * *
The duchess was the first person to see me as we entered the grand foyer to the ballroom through the picture gallery. If her reaction was any indication of how the evening would progress, I was about to bring a lot of people a great deal of glee, and suffer no small amount of good-natured teasing in return.
She gasped in delight, clapping her hands together before she dissolved into giggles. “Oh, this is why we don’t assign roles in our mock court in advance, as has become the trend. For who could have ever come up with such a fiendishly humorous casting?”
I decided not to share my continued suspicions that her third son had somehow managed to contrive the matter, for I had no hope of proving he’d done so.
Her sharp eyes flicked between Gage and me. “And I see you’ve added your own touch to her costume, Mr. Gage. How clever.”
“Why, whatever do you mean, Your Grace? I see nothing untoward here,” Gage replied with a practiced smirk.
She straightened as if recalling herself to the part she was supposed to be playing. “Oh, yes, quite right. I should be saying something appropriately waspish. Mind your hands, you hobbled malthorse, or I’ll beat you with a three-legged stool.”
From her Elizabethan garments and the biting lash of her tongue, I derived she was supposed to be a shrew. Perhaps one designed after Shakespeare’s own Katherine. Although the glitter of delight in her eyes belied the sting of the insult.
“Mother, I do believe you are enjoying this role,” her daughter declared as she came up behind her, threading her arm through hers. The younger beauty arched her eyebrows in gentle humor, before casting her glance over her shoulder toward the couple standing near the entrance to the ballroom. “Perhaps because it allows you to say the things you’ve been thinking, but haven’t dared to say aloud.”
Observing the duke, in what appeared to be a minstrel costume, leaning close to Mrs. Blanchard, a woman nearly half his age whom he claimed as his current mistress, I rather suspected she’d hit the nail on the head. Given the mistress’s costume, which included a rather excessively padded bustle and indicated her role as some sort of Nancy Pratt—a woman with a large bottom—I could only imagine what sort of slicing quip the duchess had allowed herself to make to them.
But the duchess tossed her head back playfully and demurred. “I haven’t the slightest notion what you mean. As usual, you’re running your gob again, Miss Prittle-Prattle.”
Her daughter smiled knowingly, and then turned to survey me and Gage from head to toe, her lips twitching. “When I suggested we add the role of nun to our mock court, I never suspected it would prove to be such a comical twist.”
Lady Eleanor, the Countess of Helmswick, was the duchess’s fifth child, and only daughter, and she had inherited her mother’s fine looks and lively manner. In truth, the only part of her appearance I could attribute to the man who was her father was her lustrous dark hair, for the duchess had once possessed the auburn hair she’d passed on to two of her sons. I gathered she was supposed to be some sort of chatterbox or gossip, and so she had elected to pile a tower of ringlets onto her head, which bounced and swayed as she moved, and draped strings of small, shiny sleigh bells around her waist and neck, which jingled merrily.
“Truth be told, I almost struck the idea from the list because I did not want to hear one of the other ladies complain about having to wear a habit all evening,” she confided. “But now I’m very glad I didn’t.”
I smiled. “Well, if you should hear me complain, it will be because I am overwarm and not because my vanity is crushed.”
“Dear me,” she gasped. “I hadn’t thought of that. I felt as if I would burn up toward the end when I carried each of my children.”
“Please, don’t concern yourself,” I urged her. “If I grow heated, I’m sure a walk along the terrace will revive me.”
“Oh yes. Please make use of whatever space you need.”
“What of Helmswick?” Gage asked, glancing over her shoulder toward the rooms where the majority of the guests had assembled. “I don’t believe I’ve seen him yet.” He cast a dimpled grin down at her. “Does his costume complement yours, or is he playing some humdrum fellow?”
I might have imagined it, but I thought I detected a brief tightening in Lady Helmswick’s features. “I’m afraid he isn’t celebrating with us this evening. He was called away to Paris on business a few weeks ago. I’m sure he’ll be disappointed he didn’t return in time.” She glanced at her mother, who smiled in commiseration.
A few weeks. Then he’d missed Christmas, Boxing Day, and Hogmanay as well. And Lady Helmswick was here with their two young children rather than at her husband’s estate, somewhere in Haddington, if I recalled correctly.
Observing the mother and daughter’s united front, I couldn’t help but wonder if Lady Helmswick’s marriage was following the same pattern as her parents’. Was Helmswick truly away on business, or was he in the arms of his mistress?
Moving aside so that the duchess could greet another pair of guests, we followed Lady Helmswick across the foyer, pausing near the center to survey the scene surrounding us. We had approached from the opposite side of the castle, but a grand staircase dominated one half of the antechamber connecting three of the staterooms. Portraits of past dukes and duchesses draped in ermine spanned the wall leading downward over the shallow stone steps, with nothing else for decoration but a wrought-iron balustrade topped by a mahogany rail.
The ballroom at the top of these wide steps similarly trended toward the austere. The long, hand-polished oak floors gleamed beneath a set of chandeliers hanging from a vaulted roof supported by stone piers topped with flowered capitals. While in contrast, the room opening off the antechamber to the south was beyond sumptuous. I’d heard the duchess call it the Amaranth Saloon, and for good reason. The walls were paneled in silk damask the shade of violet-pink, as was the upholstery of at least half the furniture. The ceiling was painted to depict the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, while the carpet had been woven with large medallions of the family’s crest displaying a winged lion at its center. The same crest that graced the fireback in the hearth.
The third room, accessed from the antechamber to the east, was the state dining room. Gilded fretwork covered the walls and ceiling and touched every item of furniture. The southern wall was spanned by four large windows, each fit with custom panes of stained glass which portrayed the legend of St. George and the Dragon. However, the long table at its center was clearly the focal point of the room, its length covered in a feast of the choicest dishes, each so prettily arranged as to make them veritable works of art. Beyond this grand display lay a smaller dining room where people could retire to eat their fill of the culinary delights provided.
Presented with all these options, I hardly knew where to start. A dance in the long ballroom where a small orchestra played, a glass of champagne, and a bit of amusing conversation in the saloon, or a sumptuous meal chosen from the tantalizing scents wafting from the selections in the dining room. Gage appeared to be waiting for my cue, and he chuckled at the sight of my head swiveling left and right, trying to decide between the three doors.
He began to tease me about my indecision, but my gaze had arrested on Lady Helmswick where she stood speaking to a man in the entryway to the ballroom. He was dressed all in black, including his shirt and stockings, and sported a dark queued wig much like Gage’s powdered one, but there was something about him that seemed familiar. And the manner in which the countess leaned closer to speak in his ear and the way his hand grazed her lower back before she moved on, made it clear he was familiar to her as well.
He watched her walk away for a moment before turning his head to cast his pensive gaze over the vestibule. It was then that I recognized him, and the fact that the scoundrel so rarely wore such a serious expression intrigued me. Of course, it didn’t remain that way for long when he caught sight of us.
His face lit with irreverent glee as he strode across the chamber to intercept us. “Now, this must be the most devilish casting I’ve seen all night.” His gaze dipped to my feet. “Especially with this saucy bit of ankle you’re displaying.”
Leave it to the Marquess of Marsdale to be the first to remark on such a detail.
His roguish grin widened. “I approve.”
“Quit ogling my wife, Marsdale,” Gage replied with only the faintest trace of bite. We were both rather accustomed to his impertinent manner, and the more my husband let it ruffle his feathers, the more outrageous Marsdale would become.
“Yes, that’s your job,” I reminded him, hoping to divert the marquess from voicing whatever thought had made his eyes flash.
“True,” Gage replied, taking the opportunity to do just that by sweeping his eyes over my form.
“Ah, I see. Lord Ogle or something, are you?” Marsdale guessed.
“And who are you?” I asked, gesturing to his black clothing. He’d even managed to conjure up a black kilt.
“Can’t you tell?” He reached back, grasping the edge of the capelet I’d just realized was draped around his shoulder, pulling it in front of him so that he could leer over the top of it. “I’m the villain,” he declared with theatrical relish.
“Clearly, a role you were born to play,” Gage quipped.
But far from being insulted, Marsdale seemed delighted.
I shook my head. “And what exactly does the villain do?”
“Why, villainous deeds, of course. I’m the only one allowed to disobey or circumvent the Lord of Misrule’s orders. That is, until his noble knight catches me.” He flicked his gaze over Gage’s long blue velvet coat and waistcoat. “That should have been your role. After all, you are so often catching the black-hearted villains of our realm.” He nodded to me. “Along with your faithful lady’s assistance.”
The words were spoken casually, but there was something ambiguous about the tone of his voice. It wasn’t bitter, but it wasn’t precisely jovial either. Before I could puzzle it out, he spied something, or rather someone, beyond my shoulder, and began to back away.
“There our errant knight is now, so that is my cue to say adieu. But save me a dance,” he instructed me as he retreated, bowing slightly at the hips. “We shall make a dashing pair in black.” Then he whirled away, disappearing into the cluster of people now gathering to enter the saloon.
I turned to see who this knight could be and smirked at the sight of Lord John Kerr, the duchess’s fourth son, sporting a breastplate and shoulder plates over his kilt. It seemed the duchess’s sons had snatched up many of the best roles, though Lord John was perhaps the most unlikely knight. From the little I knew of him, he seemed to display more of a bent toward books and philosophy. He was also the sparest of the five sons, though all of them were taller than average.
“And what role is Lord Traquair playing?” I jested after we’d exchanged greetings. “Lord Chamberlain?”
“No. He’s but an old fogram.” He flashed a toothy grin. “And behaving quite like a fusty old fellow, as you can imagine.”
I joined in his amusement. Although I wasn’t well acquainted with the duke’s oldest son and heir, Lord Traquair, I was cognizant of his great sense of self-consequence. Being next in line to inherit a dukedom, he must have found it impossible not to exhibit some imperiousness, and it didn’t help matters that he looked just as one imagines a duke should—tall, broad shouldered, aquiline in profile, and handsome. There were many who might have called Traquair the most attractive of the brood, but I thought that merely the influence of the heir’s said consequence. To my artist’s eye, Lord Henry, the youngest, seemed the most pleasing to look at. However, Lord Edward and Lord John were nothing to squint at, and although I’d not met the second son, Lord Richard, I suspected he wasn’t either.
Lord John ruffled a hand through his pale blond locks, nodding in the direction Marsdale had fled. “Now, that was a neat bit of casting. Though he needn’t have run. As if I would attempt to capture him so early in the evening. What would the fun of that be?”
“Yes, he appears to be relishing the part.” Gage smirked. “B
ut that is not surprising.”
“Well, Marsdale has always enjoyed subverting people’s expectations.”
Struck by this astute piece of observation, I studied his dark eyes. “You seem to know him well.”
“I did at one time. We all did.” I took this to mean his brothers and perhaps his sister. He sighed. “But it’s been some years since I’ve exchanged more than a brief conversation with him.” His eyes narrowed as he spoke, almost as if he were seeing into the past, and then he gave a shrug. “Well, if you’ll excuse me. His lordship,” he stated with an ironic glint in his eye, “sent me on an errand, and I’ve not yet accomplished it.”
That seemed to be as good a cue as any for me and Gage to make our own approach to the mock thrones set up in the Amaranth Saloon. After all, the longer we waited to pay our homage to the Lord of Misrule and his Lady, the less pleasant any task we were assigned might become. And after seeing me in my abbess garb, I did not trust Lord Edward’s mischievousness to not breach the bounds of courtesy.
CHAPTER THREE
After making a quick stop at the lady’s retiring room and nearly colliding with Lord Traquair and his father’s mistress, Mrs. Blanchard, bickering outside the door, their slurring words making it clear that at least some of the guests were already deep in their cups, I was even more reticent to appear before our Lord of Misrule. But whether Lord Edward took pity on me in my delicate condition and decided I’d been roasted enough by donning such a costume, or he’d simply run out of wicked ideas, the decrees he gave to us seemed to be rather mundane. From his Sheraton tulipwood mock throne, a paper crown tipped rakishly on his head, he’d directed me to dance with three gentlemen who were not my husband. This was no hardship, especially when others had been ordered to eat and drink the entire evening without the use of their hands or to howl like wolves whenever someone said the word night. Gage had been obliged to kiss three maids who were not his wife, a tame commission when compared with the gentleman before him who’d been tasked with pinching three bottoms.
A Stroke of Malice Page 3
