Cecelia had explained that the masquerade party consisted of gentlemen and ladies willing to tread on the cusp of scandal but unwilling to overtly flaunt their adventurousness to the world. The failure to disguise oneself could lead to disparaging gossip, but those whose identities remained a mystery could be topics of intrigue, sometimes for months.
Cecelia described the costume as a fairly simple affair. There was no need to spend a fortune designing the perfect sultana or Grecian goddess costume, she said. Instead, most of the attendees wore evening wear with complementing dominos and hats to disguise themselves. The most important accessory was the mask, which hid a person’s features and kept everyone guessing. Cecelia explained that the different levels of anonymity provided the bulk of the evening’s entertainment, though she warned that Becky might be shocked by some of the behavior she witnessed.
The masquerade took place on the twenty-third of November, two days after Becky and Jack’s visit to the Egyptian Hall. Cecelia wore a dress of amber silk trimmed with dozens of bows, and Becky wore a tulle dress over a satin slip of soft blue. A wide sash was clasped about her waist with an offset bow with long ribbons that fell all the way to her shins. Silk buttons adorned the dress’s long, full sleeves, and brilliant white kidskin gloves covered her arms. She wore two golden bracelets around her wrists, a necklace of Egyptian pebbles, and a black velvet hat festooned with gold feathers sat jauntily askew atop her head. Matching black velvet lined her blue silk domino.
The party was held in a sprawling mansion outside London. As Cecelia’s carriage rattled along in the dark—the days were so short this time of year—Cecelia explained that Georgianna Pionchet was the widow of a French diplomat. She had been born into a distinguished British family and had resided with her father, one of Wellington’s officers, in Brussels during the Hundred Days. In the midst of the war, she’d eloped with a Frenchman. Her family had disowned her in the ensuing scandal, but she and her husband had thrived beyond the war’s end, and he was soon assigned to service in London. Since her husband had died five years ago, their home had become the site of some of the most exciting and anticipated parties in England.
“Why is it that I have never heard of her?” Becky asked.
Cecelia chuckled. “You’ve been too young and sheltered to have heard of her, but I assure you, she becomes known to everyone sooner or later. Her masquerade is the most wickedly intriguing event of the season. You’ll soon see why.”
The coach lumbered down a long drive and finally halted in a brightly lit clearing cluttered with other conveyances. Seeing a footman approach, Becky prepared to exit the carriage, but Cecelia laid a hand on her arm. “Wait,” she whispered. “Your mask.”
“Oh, yes.” Becky reached for her half-mask, which lay with Cecelia’s on the seat across from them. The mask was made of stiff silk the same color as her dress, trimmed in black velvet. Sapphire chips encircled the whole, and the almond-shaped eye cutouts tilted up strongly at their edges. Cat’s eyes, Becky had thought when she’d first seen it.
Cecelia tied the ribbons behind Becky’s head, and then Becky returned the favor. Cecelia’s mask was a ghostly white abomination that completely covered her face, but Cecelia adored it—when they’d seen it in the shop, she’d exclaimed with glee that no one could possibly identify her when she wore it.
A footman met them at the door and led them down a carpeted corridor lined with blazing gilt wall sconces. He opened a door and bowed as they slipped into the ballroom unannounced.
Guests thronged the cavernous room, the majority dressed as Cecelia had described—in colorful, flowing capes with complementing hats or hoods. All wore masks. Many were plain half-masks dyed black or in colors complementing their clothing, but others were far more elaborate than Becky’s: gilded, painted, and encrusted with jewels. People stood in groups, where they chatted and laughed, and the noise level was very high. This was certainly no subdued ton party.
Scattered elaborate gold wall sconces and an enormous chandelier in the center of the room provided the light, but the room was not well lit at all. In fact, Becky found it rather gloomy and shadowy, more like a theater box during an opera than a ballroom. The thick, pungent smell of warm bodies in close proximity steamed from the dense crowd. Servants wearing stiff black and white clothing and simple black half-masks slipped through the mass of bodies, balancing trays of wine and champagne. Through the noises of revelry, Becky discerned the strains of music drifting across the vast space.
Cecelia squeezed her hand. “Well, let’s find Georgianna, shall we?”
“How on earth will we find anyone in this crowd?”
She hadn’t expected Cecelia to hear her over the din, so she was surprised when her friend answered with a chuckle, “Oh, we’ll find her.”
A giggling woman in a flowing cape pushed past them, nearly trampling Becky. As Becky struggled to regain her balance, a masked gentleman wearing a puce domino brushed past her, in hot pursuit of the woman.
“Goodness,” Becky murmured.
Cecelia gave her a knowing smile. “Oh, it hasn’t even begun. You’ll see.”
Becky had never been in the midst of such boisterous cheerfulness before and found it all rather overwhelming. She allowed Cecelia to tug her along, and they weaved through the crowd together, hand in hand.
Suddenly, Cecelia came to such an abrupt halt that Becky nearly slammed into her from behind. A man stood a few feet in front of them—a tall, dark-haired man wearing a black half-mask over a straight Roman nose. He was staring directly at Cecelia.
“Oh, drat,” Cecelia muttered.
The man’s lush lips curled into a sinful smile, and his dark eyes flared with recognition. The three of them gazed at one another for a protracted moment, and then the man gave a mocking bow before returning his attention to his companions.
Cecelia blew out a breath through pursed lips. Grasping Becky’s hand again, she pulled her forward. “Isn’t it lovely,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm, “that he should be the one to recognize me in this mask.”
“Who is he?” Becky asked.
“Oh, I dare not say his name aloud here. You wouldn’t know him, in any case. Over the summer we had a liaison. It is quite over, but he hasn’t acknowledged that yet. Ah, there is our esteemed hostess. Come, let us go pay our respects.”
They came to a halt before a tall and generously proportioned woman wearing rust-colored silk and a matching mask bedecked with rubies. Her hat was at least two feet tall, with plumes of dark red feathers bursting from the brim. No wonder she’d been easy to find—with her height and the hat combined, she towered over everyone here.
The woman turned to them, smiling through a wide, generous mouth. Behind the mask, dancing eyes observed them, and Becky instantly realized that the woman had already perceived her identity. Becky curtsied, and Mrs. Pionchet returned the gesture.
“Good evening,” their hostess said, her voice low, rich, and husky.
“Good evening,” Cecelia said. “I’d like to introduce my good friend.”
The dark eyes glinted at her. “Welcome, my dear.”
“Thank you,” Becky said. The fact that none of them used names made her feel slightly disoriented.
The woman flicked out a hand. A tray of champagne appeared beneath it, and she plucked up a glass and handed it to Becky. She took another and handed it to Cecelia.
“Have you met the comte, viscountess?” Mrs. Pionchet inquired of Cecelia.
“Why, no. I haven’t.”
“Come, then,” she said, beckoning at them, curling her long, black-gloved fingers in an inviting gesture. “I shall introduce you.”
The comte was a short, balding man with a thick French accent, and again, no names were exchanged. Mrs. Pionchet referred to Becky as “the lady” and Cecelia as “the viscountess.” It was all very odd indeed, Becky thought. And she didn’t miss that the comte stared hard at Cecelia, licking his lips as they walked away from him.
&n
bsp; Mrs. Pionchet introduced them to several more people. Becky was silent, speaking only when spoken to, fascinated by the costumes and attitudes of the people surrounding her. It was a different world.
She and Cecelia found some space to stand at one side of the room. Elaborately painted Chinese screens stood at intervals along the walls, and when Becky peeked behind one of them, she jerked her head back, heat rushing to her face. A man and a woman, her dress sleeves pulled down low on her arms and the tops of her breasts exposed, had been embracing—emphatically embracing—on a couch set in an alcove.
Seeing the look on Becky’s face, Cecelia laughed. “Don’t tell me.”
“Very well, I won’t,” Becky said primly.
“Becky, for goodness’ sakes. Don’t be missish.”
Cecelia was right—she shouldn’t be feeling appalled, or even surprised. She had embraced a man—men—before. Yet the flagrant decadence of this display was beginning to make her uncomfortable.
She didn’t judge anyone here—how could she? She’d done far more with Jack, a man to whom she wasn’t married, than the man and woman behind the screen. Still, she didn’t belong here. All around them, men and women flirted, the men aggressive, the women coquettish. Becky didn’t want to flirt with anyone… not anyone here.
Cecelia had leaned away from her, and Becky saw that a slight, black-clad man was whispering into her ear. When he finished, Cecelia gave a murmured response, and he walked away as Cecelia turned back to Becky.
“Becky…” She hesitated, glancing in the direction the man had gone.
“What is it?”
“George—the man we encountered earlier. He has told several people I am here… with him.” Her lips thinned in annoyance. “He has asked me to meet him on the terrace. I’ve no idea as to his intentions, but I feel I must explain to him in no uncertain terms—”
“Of course you must,” Becky said.
“I don’t like to leave you alone.”
“I can see that this is distressing you, Cecelia, so I think you should speak to him. In any case, I’ll not be alone,” she assured her friend, and then, spotting Mrs. Pionchet, “Look, our hostess is approaching.”
Mrs. Pionchet arrived on the arm of a masked gentleman, whom she introduced as “the baronet.” Cecelia curtsied politely and then made her excuses. With a final squeeze of Becky’s hand, she took her leave.
Mrs. Pionchet and the gentleman led her about and introduced her to a string of people, but they had all begun to look alike to Becky. Her head felt fuzzy from the champagne, and she didn’t like the way every man she was introduced to studied her as if to determine whether she was a piece of meat worthy of sticking a fork into.
Spotting an empty velvet-cushioned chair tucked between one of the Chinese screens and a terrace door, Becky said, “Oh, you go ahead, Mrs. Pionchet. I believe I should like to sit for a while.”
Mrs. Pionchet didn’t argue. Pressing another glass of champagne into Becky’s hand, she and the baronet swept away, cutting a swathe through the crowd.
Becky sipped at the champagne and watched people come and go. She saw a man proposition a woman, saw the woman’s chest flush pink in response before she wrapped her arms around the man’s neck, drew him in, and whispered in his ear—probably an affirmative response, because within a matter of seconds, they had slipped away.
Another couple toasted each other, drank their full glasses of champagne in one draught, and then threw back their heads and laughed full, throaty, uninhibited laughs. Their obvious joy made tears of envy sting at Becky’s eyes.
She shook herself slightly. Why did she feel so melancholy? An empty, hollow feeling had settled in her stomach. Loneliness, that was it. Yet she had no desire to carouse with these strangers. Nobody here interested her.
Nothing had changed, she thought ruefully. She’d never been one for social gatherings. She was too shy, too bookish. Too much of a bluestocking.
A high-pitched laugh sounded from beyond the screen, and Becky tilted her head. She’d heard that laugh before.
“Did you see that pamphlet showing the two of them in bed?” The person who spoke was a woman, her voice unfamiliar. “With the duke and that enormous scar looking on in rage? I nearly burst my seams for laughing!”
Becky went very still. She’d assumed she was a topic at parties and in drawing rooms, but she’d thought they’d be whispering about her disgrace and shame. She hadn’t expected anyone would be laughing at her.
“Mr. Fulton is such a handsome man.” The tone matched the sound of the first laugh Becky had heard, and from the high-pitched nasality of the speaking voice, she knew who it was: Lady Borrill, the woman who’d passed her on the stairs at Sheffield’s Hotel, had informed Garrett, and had been one of the crowd to storm in on her and Jack.
The other lady made a disparaging noise through her nose. “Indeed. And he could have any woman in London in his bed, and he chose her. Can you imagine?” She paused briefly, and then added in a disgusted tone, “She is such a mouse, so bookish. And a cripple, to boot!”
Becky sat very still, her face a frozen mask. She would not react. She knew people judged her and disparaged her scarred elbow. She knew people were gossiping about her, and she knew Lady Borrill was the instigator of the entire scandal. None of this was a surprise.
“That family grows more disgraceful by the year,” Lady Borrill said. “It is only due to Viscount Westcliff’s influence that they are not shunned by every soul in London.”
“Surely even his good reputation will not survive a breach this reprehensible!”
Lady Borrill sighed loudly. “I doubt it. I know I shall never speak with any of them again. And neither should you. Think of what it would do to your own reputation should you be linked to one of the Jameses.”
“My daughter is a friend to the duke’s daughter.”
“You must call an end to their acquaintance. Immediately.”
“Oh, of course. I certainly will,” the other woman, whom Becky still had not recognized, said, a note of finality in her voice. “I will order all communication between them to cease this very instant.”
“What’s a beautiful lady like you doing all alone here on zees lonely sofa?”
Becky snapped to attention as clammy fingers stroked her neck. She jumped up out of the chair, spinning to look at the person who’d touched her. Blinking in surprise, she studied the stranger. Beyond him, the party continued. She’d been so engrossed in the horrid conversation behind the screen that she had forgotten where she was.
The Frenchman wore a mustard-colored domino, a simple brown half-mask, and a felt cap, and he didn’t look familiar at all. Obviously deep in his cups, he reeked of spirits. She racked her brain, trying to recall if Mrs. Pionchet had introduced her to this man. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. There were many Frenchmen in this crowd, and Becky’s attention had waned after the first dozen nameless introductions.
“Just resting… er… monsieur,” she responded, trying to be polite even as the skin on the back of her neck crawled from his touch.
He reached up a finger to trace her collarbone. It was an attempt at a seductive gesture, but Becky yanked herself away, feeling unconscionably soiled. Appalled, she gazed into his bleary eyes. A hazy recollection of the rules of propriety came to her, insisting she slap him across the face and march away. But that awareness came too late. His fingers wrapped around her neck, and he heaved her against him.
“Just one leetle kiss, eh?” he murmured down at her, his acrid alcoholic breath washing over her face.
Panic surged through Becky. They were surrounded by people, but no one paid them any heed—not here. His arms wrapped around her, solid bands of iron, pinning her against him.
A pair of thin, shiny lips descended toward hers.
No. This was not going to happen. She was going to severely damage his ballocks. She nudged her knee between his legs, as if she were snuggling closer. He sighed in pleasure, clearly thinking she
’d submitted to his irresistible amorous advances.
And then he jerked away from her, his hands wrenched from her body so forcefully she could feel the strain on her buttons. She gasped from shock at the sudden movement, and looking up, she saw a suntanned hand gripping the man’s mustard-silk-covered shoulder.
“Jack.” She said it in an almost-whisper, her voice replete with relief, happiness, true pleasure. She gazed up at him, but he didn’t look at her. Instead, he gazed down at the stranger from behind a plain black mask, his features implacable.
“Go away.” His voice was pleasant, but there was an edge to it that sharpened each word to a dagger point. “And you will never approach this lady again, do you understand?”
“Ah,” said the Frenchman with a bleary smile. “You tink she ees yours?”
Jack’s dark eyes slid for the briefest of seconds to Becky and then returned to focus on the stranger. “Yes,” he said, quiet but very certain of himself. “She is mine.”
And then he shoved him away. The Frenchman stumbled backward into a group of revelers, who seemed to think a man literally crashing into their group was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. They helped him up as one, then saw him off with multiple pats to the back, no one sparing a glance at either Becky or Jack.
“Oh, Jack. I’m so glad you’re here.”
His features didn’t soften. He stared at her. “You were kissing that man.”
His eyes flashed with hurt. He thought… oh, God! She shook her head vehemently. “No! He grabbed me. I was trying to defend myself—”
Jack made a scoffing noise. “Didn’t look like it to me.”
She closed her eyes to stave off a sudden onslaught of tears. Her hands shook at her sides. Now that it was over, the horror of what had just happened surged through her. The man could have dragged her out of this place screaming, and no one would have done a thing.
A Season of Seduction Page 14