Unmasking the Hero, page 22
“A worry for the future. Phineas took that ship to Australia.”
Her gaze, which had been critically surveying the ballroom, swung quickly back to him. “Really? Then you are safe?”
“Unless he left behind any little surprises—apart from the scandal, for which we will be commiserated rather than blamed. Do you have time to join me for a quick luncheon?”
She took his arm at once, though she warned him, “I ordered little more than a snack for luncheon, for we will dine early.”
“Ah yes, and who are we entertaining for dinner?”
“Family, largely. We should have invited them to dine when you first came home, but I was too busy avoiding you.”
He dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Then your parents and my sisters?”
“And Rollo and Hope. I know Hope is only fifteen, but she will be out in no time, and she might as well get used to society in safety. Don’t mention it to my parents, but she will be at the ball, too, for a couple of hours. And I invited Sir Ernest and Rollo’s friend Mr. Meade. Also, your cousin, Mrs. Dove, and her daughter, who made her debut this Season.”
His brows flew up. “Elvira Dove? I thought her eldest was still in the schoolroom!”
“Viola is nineteen years old and quite fun. Her come-out was postponed because of Mr. Dove’s death. I presented her at court and made her a gift. I assumed you would want to.”
But there was no accusation in his eyes, only a rueful awareness. “Of course, you were quite right. You have taken on my family responsibilities as well as everything else.”
“Say what you will of my mother. She brought me up to be a good wife,” Grace said lightly.
His arm slipped around her waist, hugging her quickly to his side. “Perhaps. But I love your natural kindness.”
Grace spent the rest of the day on costume adjustments and making sure there were enough well-appointed rooms for her dinner guests to change into their costumes for the ball. And then it was time to bathe and dress for dinner, a mundane matter that would have been achieved much more quickly had not Oliver arrived in his shirt sleeves—to wash her back, as he blandly put it, before shooing the scandalized Henley away.
There was a good deal of intimate washing. At one point, he ended in the bath with her, clothes and all, and the fun and laughter of that ended with a very different kind of pleasure once he lifted her bodily from the bath and carried her, dripping, to bed.
As a result, Grace was rather more rushed than she meant to be, and the first of her guests had already arrived by the time she descended the stairs to greet them.
She found her parents and Hope and the Trewthorpes ensconced in the drawing room with glasses of sherry and ratafia. Honoria Trewthorpe looked her up and down as she entered, watching like a hawk as Oliver stood to greet her. Eager, Grace thought, to spot any signs of disrespect.
By the time she had finished welcoming the first guests, Mrs. Dove and Viola had arrived, and Honoria looked inexplicably astonished to see her cousins, as though she had forgotten them. Or perhaps she just hadn’t expected Grace to remember them.
Sir Ernest arrived then, on the heels of Lord and Lady Barnton, and the company became pleasantly diluted. Inevitably, Rollo was last, though not as late as he would have been, Grace suspected, had not Mr. Meade harried him there.
There was little opportunity for private speech with Oliver, although they did brush hands by the sherry decanter as she topped up her father’s glass.
“Has Honoria been any help to you these two years?” he murmured unexpectedly. “Or did she leave you to sink or swim?”
“She wanted me to swim with her,” Grace said humorously. “Which I wouldn’t do, since she already disapproved of me. We are, you see, frigidly polite.” Catching his expression, she smiled fleetingly and entwined her fingers with his. “It is past. Let us just enjoy the evening.”
They separated again. Grace arranged her guests in pairs to go into dinner, Grace on Lord Trewthorpe’s arm, Oliver escorting Lady Darblay. Rollo, inevitably took in Viola Dove, and Mr. Meade looked positively reverential to have Hope on his arm. In her first evening gown, Hope looked beautiful, if slightly awkward and heart-breakingly young. But Grace was glad to see Meade made her laugh and relax.
Rollo, inevitably, flirted with Viola Dove.
“What’s this I hear about Phineas fleeing the country?” Lord Trewthorpe muttered to Grace. “Honoria’s convinced you had something to do with it.”
She and Oliver had already decided how to deal with such queries, so she replied calmly, “It was His Grace of Dearham who caught him. There were many witnesses and no way to cover it up.”
Trewthorpe shook his head. “Bad business. I wouldn’t have believed it of him. Though if rumor is correct and he had taken to playing at the Orange Tree… Is Maida Gardens any better? What on earth were you all doing there?”
“I heard a rumor of a talented soprano, which turned out to be exaggerated. However, there is a harpist I will chase up one day. Let’s not talk of Phineas. It is not easy for Oliver.”
“Nor Honoria.”
There was no lingering over wine after dinner since everyone had to change into costume for the ball. Grace swept Hope up to her rooms.
“Mama thinks I will sit here dozing and reading until three in the morning,” Hope said mischievously.
“And so you will. From half-past eleven! No supper dance. No leaving the ballroom unless I am with you. Or Oliver or Rollo escorts you. Do not be enticed onto the terrace with flattering words, and do not remove your mask under any circumstances. Or let anyone else try to do so!”
“There are a lot of rules,” Hope said mutinously.
“There are when you are fifteen. The alternative is, you do as Mama says and wait here all evening. With Henley.”
Hope wrinkled her nose. “It’s very strange, this life you live. I am only curious.”
“I know. But it is only fun, Hope. Too much, during the Season, perhaps. The rest of life still awaits you beyond balls and parties. One way or another, you will have at least one Season in London. Mama will insist upon it, so you might as well have an early glimpse to inspire you.”
“Or not. Is it fun, Gracie?” Hope asked shrewdly. “Sometimes, I’ve thought you don’t find it so, just go through the motions, albeit with a certain amount of enthusiasm.”
Grace thought about that, and, curiously, honesty was easy now. “I enjoyed it before I was married. The novelty of new people and constant entertainment, theatre, dancing, talking of everything, all the admiration and genteel flirting. Afterward, it was different. I had more freedom as a married lady, but I was, largely, playing a role. Like an actor on a stage.”
“For your pride? Because Wenning left?”
Grace nodded.
“And now?” Hope pursued. “Are you glad he is back?”
“Yes,” Grace admitted. “Now I am glad.”
“And the playacting?”
“That is a good question,” Grace allowed. “I suppose there was always something of me in it. We all playact to some extent… Just not, perhaps, with those I love.” She shook off her philosophical mood and reached for Hope’s costume. “We’re going down to the country next week.”
“So am I. With Miss Fenchurch. I think Mama and Papa will stay in London until next month.”
“You can come to us for a while, too.”
Hope hugged her. “I think I will leave you alone for a little. This is your wedding trip, is it not?” And she laughed with delight when Grace blushed.
*
Oliver strolled early into what he thought was the empty ballroom until he was greeted by a snort of laughter from the terrace. Rollo, glass in hand, stood on the terrace, gazing through the open French window at him. Apart from a mask dangling around his neck, he looked much as he always did. Though he was certainly amused by Oliver’s portrayal of King Charles II.
“No costume, Rollo,” Oliver observed. “Can it be you are not joining in the spirit of the event?”
“Oh, no, I’m here in flesh and spirit. Forgot about the costume, to be honest, so thought I’d just masquerade as a viscount’s heir.”
“You are a viscount’s heir,” Oliver observed, strolling over to join him. The servants would be out any moment to light the outside lanterns and torches. For now, it was quite pleasant in the dusk of a summer evening.
“Tell that to my father,” Rollo said bitterly.
“I can’t imagine he needs reminding.”
“What’s the point of being heir to something that won’t exist by the time you inherit it? What’s the point of being heir if you can’t touch it or do anything with it?”
Oliver cast him an assessing look. “Am I right in thinking this is more than just a lament for a lost allowance?”
Rollo let out a reluctant laugh. “You inherited young, didn’t you? You never had time to feel useless.”
“Grace said you had ideas to bring the land back into profit, ideas that your father is reluctant to implement?”
Rollo shrugged impatiently. “He has no faith in me. Can’t blame him. I’m a wastrel, and everyone tells me I’m going to the devil. Thing is, I know I’m expensive, but I’ve got nothing else to do.”
“What would you do if you got the chance?”
Oliver was almost sorry he asked, for Rollo was still telling him when Grace came to find him.
Resplendent in an auburn wig and Elizabethan ruffles, with a tartan sash across her breast and matching mask over her upper face, she looked incredibly beautiful in a way that was entirely light-hearted. Mary, Queen of Scots, clearly, before tragedy broke her.
“There you are!” she exclaimed. “The guests are arriving.”
Oliver rose obediently from the wall on which he had been sitting and dusted off his backside. Through her mask, Grace’s eyes danced at Oliver’s long, black curly wig and ornate coat of black and silver grey.
“Do you have an unlimited supply of that cloth?” she teased.
“It was a gift, and it seemed to suit the Merry Monarch.”
Rollo followed him inside, so Oliver waited a moment to let him catch up.
“I’ll tell you what, Rollo,” he said casually. “You’ve clearly read up on the subject, so give me a few weeks, and then come down to Harcourt in time for harvest. Follow my stewards around and learn the practicalities. And then, perhaps, we can speak to Lord Darblay together.”
Rollo’s mouth fell open. “Really? You’d do that?”
“Of course. Unless I see you’re not interested, in which case, I’ll withdraw my offer.”
Rollo stopped in his tracks and thrust out his hand. “Tell you what, Wenning, you’re really not a bad fellow at all. I almost forgive you for what you did to Grace. In fact,” he added with an engaging grin, “you can look on having me under your feet as penance.”
*
The ballroom filled up with almost alarming speed. Queen Cleopatra and ladies of Greek, Roman, and medieval times, arrived in droves, escorted by Roman soldiers, knights in half-armor, pirates, and bygone kings, to be welcomed by the Queen of Scots and King Charles II.
Both Bridget Arpington—in a coned hat and gorgeously embroidered, flowing medieval gown—and her husband, a gallant knight, laughed when they saw her.
“Mary preexecution,” Arpington mourned. “I am disappointed.”
“I decided carrying my own head around was undignified,” Grace told them, and they were still grinning as they bowed to His Majesty beside her.
Grace did not recognize everyone, though their voices usually gave her a hint. Sir Nash Boothe, she knew at once—in a piratical costume that didn’t quite suit his Brutus hair style. However, as she did with all but closet friends and family, she merely smiled and welcomed him without any sign of recognition. Although she didn’t want him there, it would probably have caused more talk if he hadn’t come.
An obvious Queen Elizabeth sailed alone into the room, a crown topping a wig that almost matched Grace’s own. Her ruffles were higher, her gown wider, and her mask more glittering. They curtseyed gravely to each other, and only when Queen Elizabeth’s lips curved did Grace begin to suspect that she beheld one of London’s most talented actresses.
“Your Majesty is most welcome,” Grace assured her, and “Elizabeth” moved on to exchange “Majesties” with Oliver.
But at last, the bulk of the guests had arrived, and Grace nodded to the leader of the orchestra in the gallery. At once, they began to bring their pleasant background music to a halt and would pause to let everyone prepare for the first dance.
“You are good at this,” Oliver murmured.
“My mother’s training,” she reminded him.
“No,” he said simply. He was smiling beneath his mask, no doubt much as the merry monarch’s when in pursuit of ladyloves. “Do you suppose we would shock the world if we opened the dancing together? At least we would be in disguise.”
“Sadly, I am promised to a pirate.”
Oliver laughed as she walked away. Already, she had never enjoyed a ball so much in two years. Immediately, she was accosted by Eleanor of Aquitaine—she knew, for she had already discussed costumes with Mrs. Dove.
“Might I ask one more favor?” Queen Eleanor murmured. “Not for the first dance, but at some point, if you can see through his disguise, could you possibly introduce Viola to the Duke of Dearham?”
“Dearham?” Grace repeated, startled. Mrs. Dove was aiming high and not necessarily wisely for her daughter. She took her arm, drawing her a little aside to avoid an approaching couple. “Ma’am, you do know His Grace is a confirmed rake? And every hostess knows that the only beauty he never pursues is the marriageable variety.”
“Viola has already attracted a number of very eligible suitors,” Mrs. Dove replied with dignity. “And his grace will eventually have to marry. I see no reason why Viola should not be the one to capture his heart. Someone has to.”
“That is true,” Grace allowed. “I would just hate him to break her heart. But yes, of course, I will introduce them if the moment allows.”
And so the marriage mart moves on, she thought wryly. And with her faith in love restored, she allowed the possibility of genuine affection in a ducal marriage. Once, she had believed only love had led to her own marriage. And then, when Oliver abandoned her, that she had merely been sold for generous settlements to an aristocrat who just wanted a vessel for an heir of his body before he risked a dangerous journey. Now, her cynicism dampened, she could wish Viola and Dearham well, whether with each other or not.
A piratical gentleman, with an eyepatch over his mask and a scimitar clanking at his hip, materialized by her side. He made a much better pirate than Boothe, though she might have been influenced by the flashing smile.
“My promised dance?” said none other than His Grace of Dearham.
“I believe it is.” As the orchestra struck up, she walked with him to the center of the dance floor, which she had worked hard to make look like a courtyard. As the waltz began, more couples joined them, and Grace was able to murmur, “Thank you for your help with Phineas.”
“I hear he’s flown.” For a moment, his eyes were unusually serious. “Did he really cheat? Or did I ruin an innocent man?”
“He was not innocent. He tried to kill Oliver. Three times. And he was responsible for the estrangement between us that you will be too gentlemanly to mention. For that, Oliver and I, not you, ruined him.”
“You are a sweet girl,” Dearham said. “I wish now I’d cut Wenning out with you. Or at least tried to.”
“No, you don’t, Fish.”
He laughed and spun her in the waltz. Her anxious gaze discovered Hope in her medieval costume, deep in conversation with a similarly dressed Viola Dove. Eleanor of Aquitaine hovered nearby. As did the not terribly piratical Sir Nash Boothe. Her stomach twinged in faint alarm. But there were, surely, enough people looking out for her.
When her dance with Dearham was over, she took his arm and led him toward Viola and her mother.
“Here is a wicked fellow in need of encouragement to reform. Mr. Pirate, allow me to present you to this most beautiful of our maidens.”
The ducal pirate appeared delighted with the introduction and immediately asked Viola to dance.
Her duty done, Grace turned in search of Hope and found her walking onto the dance floor with the over-smart pirate, Sir Nash Boothe.
*
Hope had no idea who her piratical cavalier was. And, in fact, it took some time for her to realize he was flirting with her. This both amused and flattered her, not least because he clearly had no idea that she was only fifteen years old, and so she was quite happy to dance with him.
“You remind me of someone,” he told her as they came together in the country dance. “And yet, I am sure I would know you if we had met before.”
“I assure you, we have not met before.”
He smiled tantalizingly. “How can you know that? Do you know who I am?”
“Should I?”
“If you have been in London for most of the Season.”
The dance parted them, but she picked up the conversation when they next joined hands. “I have been here for several weeks.”
“Then how strange that we have never met.”
“Not really.”
Apparently intrigued, they danced together up the line, exchanging conversation when they could, between smiles for temporary partners.
“Then you are so far above me?” he suggested. “Like a royal princess?”
“Alas, I am kept in my solitary tower.”
“Perhaps you are in need of rescuing?”
“Actually, I like my tower.”
“Even though you have met me outside it? My lady, you wound me.”
“No, I don’t. Besides, no one in their right mind would choose to be rescued by a corsair. Out of the frying pan…”
“Don’t you read Lord Byron?” he asked, dancing her back to the end of the line.
“That is poetry, not real life.”
He laughed.
Only as the dance ended did he say, “Grant me one more favor, my lady?”
