Rogue’s Holiday

by Walker, Regan

  Robbie smiled. “Splendid. As for me, I’ve another thought, too. The musketeers in France guarded the king. How fitting it would be for me to dress the part I have most recently played. I would wear the old uniform of the Ancien Régime with lace collar, a sword hanging from a belt across my chest, tall bucket boots and a cavalier’s plumed hat. It will require a wig of longer hair. Too, I must find a blue cloak.”

  “Alors, where is all that to be obtained?”

  Robbie shook his head at his uncle. “I can see you have yet to realize all of Tiller’s many talents. He is a magician who can conjure up most any disguise. He has done so for me many times. I’ll ask him to scour Brighton for us and, failing that, he can dig into my chests.”

  Aaron Ings leaned back in his chair in the smoke-filled Albany Tavern on West Street, drinking ale with his men and listening to Augie’s report of the government spy and his lady friend.

  His time in London had been well spent, his plans now set in motion. Soon, he would have his revenge for his brother’s lamentable death. He had secured a set of rooms in a shabby, not quite squalid, part of London where he could hold the woman before delivering her up to the brothel. He would need a few hours’ sleep before seeing to that errand. The rented quarters had been his headquarters while he was in London, allowing him time to identify the brothel his brother had frequented and to obtain access to a carriage that would attract no attention.

  “You saw them together again?” he asked Augie who had risen to a place of leadership among the men in Aaron’s absence.

  “Aye, I did. Cozy as two church mice sittin’ on a pew in the Chapel Royal.”

  That such a man could sit in church and not feel regret at his actions that had led to good men’s deaths angered Aaron beyond all reason.

  “We’ve been watchin’ for a chance to nab her,” said Duffy. “Looks like the king hisself has handed us what ye swells call ‘an opportunity’.”

  Aaron fixed his eyes on Duffy, waiting to hear more. His brother had wanted the death of the king and his ministers. While Aaron had no such goal, he had no qualms about using the king to get to the man whose death he wanted. If the king provided an opportunity, he would take it.

  Duffy smiled. “There’s to be a masked ball at the Pavilion.”

  Aaron raised a brow. “A masked ball, you say? That can work to our advantage.” Aaron thought back to the times he had visited Brighton. “Whenever the prince gave a ball, the crowd that rushed forward included many who were not invited. Bounders, scoundrels and ladies of easy virtue always attend along with the costumed aristocrats.”

  “By scoundrels, ye mean us, Guvnor?” asked Pete.

  Aaron nodded. “If you prefer to think of yourself that way. As for me, I will attend in disguise, not a scoundrel but as a man of the earth, a poor man full of righteous indignation.”

  Pete responded with a malicious grin. “This is soundin’ better all the time. I always yearned to go partyin’ with the swells.”

  Chapter 12

  The fading rays of the sun drifted in through the window, casting a warm light around Chastity’s bedchamber. The rain had stopped some time ago, but she was glad they would have a carriage to convey them to the Pavilion, as the Steyne would be muddy.

  She paused before the long mirror, certain she was looking at a stranger. The white silk gown draped from one shoulder to a high waist that was banded by golden cords. From there, it flowed in soft folds to the floor.

  The face that looked back at her could have belonged to Helen of Troy.

  Her large blue eyes, adorned for the first time with a tasteful application of cosmetics, were framed by blonde curls piled on top of her head, some left to dangle by her cheeks. Golden cords circled the curls like a crown. Her only jewelry was a pair of small gold earrings. Golden slippers, her own design she had been saving for just such an occasion, graced her feet. The final touch had been the diaphanous golden shawl with Greek fret trim draped loosely across her bodice.

  In the mirror, she saw Crispin lounging on the bed behind her. “I don’t believe it’s me,” she said to him.

  “Of course, it’s you, Silly. It’s always been you, only now you are more strikingly beautiful than ever.”

  Chastity peeked around the mirror to see Rose standing in the doorway, adorned in a gown of luminescent pale green brocade silk, the sleeves billowing to her elbows and falling beyond in long, lace-trimmed folds. The tight-fitting bodice above the skirt featured five rows of claret silk frogs descending to the narrow waist. “Oh, Rose, you look like you stepped out of Versailles a century ago.”

  “Lady Sanborn said the same thing.” Rose entered Chastity’s chamber, her skirts swishing about her ankles as she did. “Do you like my hair this way?”

  Rose’s raven curls had been swept off her face and woven with strands of pearls, one long curl left free to fall to her back. “I think it’s lovely, truly.”

  “I’m so glad you like my costume. Your great-aunt has found us both masks we can hold before our eyes. She said they wouldn’t be as hot as the ones that are tied against the face. Isn’t that sweet of her?”

  Just then, Aunt Agatha appeared with three masks mounted on sticks. “My, but you two are stunning! The suitors will be hovering around you like bees.”

  “And what about you?” Chastity asked her great-aunt, a picture of elegance in a shimmering royal blue caftan embroidered with silver flowers. Tiny silver-covered buttons descended in a long line from the bodice to the floor. “I have never seen such a costume as yours. It’s magnificent!”

  “It’s in the Moroccan style,” said Aunt Agatha. “Exotic yet large enough to give my aging body ample room.”

  The cuffs of the long loose sleeves were adorned with the same silver embroidery. Around her shoulders rested a hooded silk burnouse, the same blue as her gown. Diamond pendants hung from her ears, glistening in the candlelight like tiny chandeliers.

  “I do love dressing in costume,” said Aunt Agatha. “I feel like a girl again! And, seeing you, it’s a good thing Sir Robert intends to come for us in a carriage. I cannot imagine walking the streets of Brighton like this.” Chastity’s great-aunt handed them each a mask. “Take these and I will see you both below. Do hurry.”

  Sir Robert and his uncle were standing in the entry hall with Aunt Agatha as Chastity and Rose descended the stairs. The jaws of the two men dropped in a most satisfactory manner, telling Chastity her instincts for the Greek goddess costume had not been amiss, nor Rose’s for her choice of the French gown that only enhanced her beauty.

  “It seems we are to have at our side a pirate and a musketeer,” she said to Rose in an amused tone.

  Her eyes had been drawn at once to Sir Robert’s beguiling costume. His dark hair was now long to his shoulders, a wig but very convincing, and he sported a thin mustache and chin whiskers in the French fashion. His piercing hazel eyes shone from beneath his black cocked hat that sported a panache of feathers. His white shirt, left open at the collar, was garnished with lace and across his chest was a wide leather belt to which was secured a very convincing sword. Over his left shoulder, he wore a dark blue cloak lined in red. Black breeches were tucked into bucket boots with leather cuffs folded down. She had to wonder where he had found them.

  M’sieur Donet was more simply dressed, all in black as a pirate. He wore a dueling shirt with full sleeves, a fringed red silk sash knotted low around his hips and a tricorne hat that shadowed his features. He removed his hat and swept it to the side as he bowed before them in grand gesture. “Mesdemoiselles, I stand in awe of your beauty. You will cast all other women into the shade.” He glanced at his companion and added, “Observe my nephew, unable to speak.”

  The vicomte pulled back one side of his coat to reveal a pistol stuffed into his waist. On his other side, Chastity glimpsed a sword with a gilded hilt. “You see I am well armed to defend you.”

  “Are we going to war?” asked Chastity, impressed with the weapons she could see and
thinking there were likely more she could not see.

  “Not at all, Miss Reynolds,” said Sir Robert, finding his tongue. “But with such beauty to protect, we dare not take our job as escorts lightly. Surely Lady Sanborn,” he said, glancing at her great-aunt, “expects no less.”

  “Indeed, you are correct,” said Aunt Agatha.

  “And may I add, Lady Sanborn,” said Sir Robert, “you are clothed most elegantly this evening, a lovely chaperone. We’ll be pressed into guarding you, too, before the evening is done.”

  “You’ll be doing nothing of the sort,” Aunt Agatha fired back with a grin. “Now, let’s be off.”

  Chastity, Rose and Aunt Agatha were handed into the carriage to sit on one side. The two men climbed in behind them and sat with their backs to the horses. “We’ve retained a driver for the evening who will take care of the carriage,” Sir Robert informed them. “Our only task is to enjoy ourselves.”

  Her eyes were luminous as their gazes met across the carriage. Robbie could not have looked away even if he’d wanted to. He recalled her slow descent from the top of the stairs, a goddess leaving Mount Olympus. Deprived of speech, he had stared up at her in shocked admiration.

  Sitting across from him, she appeared a serene goddess in a gossamer white gown that left one ivory shoulder bare. He longed to reach out and touch her glowing skin, to kiss again her lips he knew to be soft. To explore her honeyed mouth. He had wanted her when she was the hoyden spitting fire. Even more so now that he saw her as a picture of divine femininity.

  Once they arrived at the Pavilion, he and Jack handed the ladies out of the carriage and the five of them strolled into the Music Room where they drew many curious gazes. Already, the large room was filled with hundreds of people, their conversations blending with the lively music.

  Fancy Balls to Robbie were timeless events as the costumes could be from nearly any era. While most of those attending had chosen to wear a costume, there were always those who wore their usual attire or, as in the case of military men, their dress uniforms.

  A short way into the room, Robbie caught sight of the Duke of Wellington who had chosen to wear a nobleman’s clothing and a black cape lined in gold silk. Now that he was Governor of Plymouth, he would not be wearing his red field marshal’s uniform that had been made so famous with Waterloo. The duke was said to be a frequent guest of the Prince Regent and so Robbie was not surprised to see him here tonight at the invitation of the king.

  A parade of scantily clad wood nymphs, satyrs and assorted fauns and fairies frolicked about the room, joined by a Sultan’s genie in a turban and loose flowing silk pajamas, a Russian serf with a full beard and a Highlander in a kilt and sporran. An odd mixture to be sure.

  “Is that Mr. Cairo dressed as a Spanish matador?” asked Miss Reynolds, who had taken Robbie’s arm. She was remarkably docile this evening. Perhaps it was his disguise as a musketeer. Did she envision him as a valiant hero whose only goal in life was to defend the king? All things considered, she would not have been far from the truth if she did.

  “Indeed, it is. I only recognized him because he is standing next to Sir John who is in his usual riding clothes. And Letty, who, even garbed as an Amazon—which is her nickname, by the way—with leather jerkin, gauntlets and wicked looking long knife, is still discernable as herself. Few women are that tall.”

  “Shall we greet them?” she asked.

  Robbie nodded and let Lady Sanborn and Jack know of their destination.

  It took some effort but Robbie and Miss Reynolds finally made their way through the crowd that ebbed and flowed like the sea, to arrive in front of the threesome.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  Letty looked him over, amused. “Don’t you look dashing, Sir Robert. I like the long hair on you and the trim mustache. Very gallant.”

  “You are lovely as always, Miss Reynolds,” said Sir John, “that costume becomes you.”

  Henry Cairo had eyes only for Chastity Reynolds, causing Robbie to curl his fingers possessively over her hand. He had begun to think of her as his and didn’t much like other men acting as if she were available to be courted.

  The matador bowed ceremoniously before her, sweeping his hat from his head. “Miss Reynolds, you come dressed as I have always pictured you, a goddess.” Straightening, he said, “Might you be Aphrodite, the goddess of love?”

  “Hardly that, Mr. Cairo,” she replied, “but I do thank you. You must see my friend, Miss Crockett. She is dazzling in her costume from the French court.”

  “I will certainly make a point of finding her before the evening ends.”

  Robbie turned to Sir John’s wife. “Letty, I see you make up for your husband’s lack of costume. How fierce you look!”

  “If they are to call me ‘Amazon’ for my height, by Jove, why not dress the part?”

  Sir John blithely shook his head. “Long ago, I gave up trying to restrain her. Letty must be Letty.”

  “Which is exactly as you like it,” said Letty, planting a kiss on her husband’s cheek.

  Robbie felt a presence behind him and turned to see Dorothea, Countess Lieven, smiling at him. She was garbed as one of the nymphs in a pink and green sheer fabric that left little doubt as to her charms. A wreath of leaves circled her dark red hair left free to flow to her shoulders. “Good evening, Countess.” He would be polite but would give her no encouragement.

  “What a romantic figure you make as a musketeer, Sir Robert.”

  Miss Reynolds tightened her hand on his arm, which told him much. He thanked Countess Lieven for the compliment and wished her a good eve before turning back to his friends.

  “She still seeks your company,” observed Miss Reynolds in a soft whisper.

  “’Twill do her no good,” he replied.

  A short distance away, two Celestials greeted the king, inclining their heads in grave courtesy. The king exclaimed his delight at their costumes that blended well with the Pavilion’s Chinese décor.

  Both the king and his mistress wore costumes. Robbie was suddenly thankful that he had decided against a pasha costume, for that is what the king had chosen. The elaborate flowing green robe and inner tunic, both embroidered in gold thread, circled the king’s girth. Affixed to his side was a long bejeweled sword sheathed in gold. On his head was a white turban with a large emerald shining from the front with a plume rising above. The king had donned facial hair, which, like Robbie’s, was not his own. Robbie suspected the full beard, though fitting for a pasha, would be dreadfully hot.

  Not surprisingly, the marchioness was dressed as one of the pasha’s harem, in filmy silk scarves of many colors, her neck adorned with diamonds and rubies. She wore no mask but a thin veil over the tip of her nose that covered the bottom half of her face.

  “Come,” Robbie said to Miss Reynolds, “we must greet our host.” Anxious to take her from the watchmaker’s bold stares, he bid the Lades and Cairo a good eve and crossed the short distance to the king.

  “How very appropriate, Sir Robert!” said the king in open admiration. “My very own musketeer. And you, Miss Reynolds, are a vision.”

  Robbie greeted the marchioness, reminding her she had met Miss Reynolds on the king’s yacht. The older woman appeared to be enjoying herself, unthreatened by the beautiful younger woman before her. She knew well the king’s tastes did not run in that direction.

  Bidding the king a good eve, they went on to exchange pleasantries with Sir Bellingham and his wife, Lady Graham. Sir Bellingham, an imposing figure in any clothes, was even more so in the black domino and half-mask, his tall figure an apparition come to haunt the ball. His wife, a pleasant woman, wore a subdued costume that reminded Robbie of a shepherdess.

  They chatted briefly with the Grahams and then Robbie turned to Miss Reynolds. “We must dance at least one waltz.”

  She smiled up at him. “I do love to dance.”

  Taking their leave, Robbie swept her into his arms and twirled her about the room, joining in th
e others who were dancing. Never before had he enjoyed a waltz so much. She was weightless in his arms and followed his steps without missing a beat of the music. “You dance expertly, Miss Reynolds.”

  “I should,” she said, “considering the time I spent with my French dancing instructor.”

  “Should I be jealous?” he inquired.

  “That would only be so if you had some claim on me, which we both know you do not.”

  “As I said, I am a patient man. All in good time, my lady.”

  She laughed at that, no doubt thinking he was jesting. He was not.

  When the music stopped briefly, Robbie suddenly felt the heat of his costume. The wig, the jacket, the cloak, even the boots had become oppressive. “Shall we get some air?”

  “That would be most welcome.”

  “But first, let us get something to drink. I’m sure the king’s servants have put the icehouse to good use and whatever they are serving will be chilled.”

  They indulged in a glass of iced champagne. Then, he found Lady Sanborn and told her they were just going into the gardens. “We will return shortly.”

  Though the chaperone studied him closely, she gave her consent. “Not long, mind.”

  Once outside the Pavilion, he guided Miss Reynolds to the green lawn and took a deep breath of the air that was laden with the remnants of rain and the breeze from the sea. The sweet smell was only enhanced by the flowery scent of his companion.

  “Finally, we have escaped the heat and the noise,” she said.

  The descending twilight now colored the sky lavender with streaks of gold, but Robbie could still see her slender form clothed in white. “Are you cold?”

  “Just a little,” she admitted. “After so warm a room, I think it’s the change that has me shivering.”