Mirabelle gathered her resolve and moved through the twisting alleyways, making her way over to the West End. Good thing it was dark. In her smudged apparel, she wasn’t fit to be seen in such a lofty part of town. But it was her only recourse. She had to see her best friend, Henrietta Ashby.
Mirabelle turned a corner and found herself on a familiar path. She could still remember the route to Baron Ashby’s home. She had come many times before to visit with her comrade. Secretly, of course. And she was so close now. If only the blasted vehicles would get out of the way, she could better see the grand houses.
Craning her neck over horses and town coaches alike, Mirabelle peered through the gaggle of masked females, searching for that proverbial iron gate.
Ah! There it was…and the gaggle of females were traipsing through it in throngs.
“Oh no,” she groaned.
A ball.
A bloody masquerade ball!
Mirabelle ducked into the shadows. Chattering ladies in resplendent gowns waggled up the steps, feathers and ribbons adorning their features. The gents were no less brilliantly attired in evening wear, with masks of dark silks and jewels.
All ages and shapes streamed into Baron Ashby’s summer home—and Mirabelle cursed the lot of them.
Huddled in the darkness, she listened to the thrumming instruments and counted the number of arriving guests. Twenty-seven in just the last few minutes.
Blast it! How was she going to get inside the house to see Henry? She certainly couldn’t waltz in uninvited. She might be friends with Henry, but no one else in the family had ever met her. And clad as she was, Mirabelle couldn’t parade around as just another masked visitor. She would be carted into the street before she got past the threshold.
She twisted her lips, put out. She would just have to wait, she supposed, for the ball to get well under way before she could put her piratical skills to good use.
And she waited for nigh an hour before tiptoeing from the shadow of her sheltered nook and slinking into the Ashbys’ yard. The ball was in full swing, the guests all crammed inside. And in the darkness of the night, no driver took heed of her skulking figure, the servants too engrossed with their own festive gathering in the street to pay her any mind.
Amid the jeers and laughter of the coachmen, Mirabelle made her way with stealth skill through the courtyard, into the back garden where the old gnarled tree stood.
She scanned the terrain first, to make sure no one was peeking, then hiked her skirt up over her knees and clawed her way to the treetop with ease. Good thing she’d practiced climbing the ratlines aboard the Bonny Meg or she just might have ended up in a pinch right about now.
But getting out of the tree in her skirt was another matter altogether.
Lips pressed in determination, she slowly inched her way along the prickly bark. If she was in her breeches, she would just leap the rest of the way, but in a skirt, she had not the dexterity to spread her legs wide enough to make the jump.
Reaching for the balcony ledge to better support herself, she stretched and stretched and…lost her grip.
Mirabelle toppled off the branch, landing on Henry’s balcony with a hard thud.
She winced at the pain in her side. What an inelegant tumble! Good thing she wasn’t aboard the Bonny Meg. Otherwise her cheeks would be glowing apple red right about now.
Hoisting herself to her wavering feet, she ducked into Henry’s room.
Closing the glass door behind her, a frazzled Mirabelle stepped into the bedchamber—and tripped.
Fortunately a ball of satin cushioned her fall this time.
“Bloody hell,” she grumbled, staggering to her feet once more.
Mirabelle peered around the dimly lit room. An oil lamp on the dressing table was still burning and provided enough light to illuminate the ghastly sight.
Gowns tossed everywhere. On the floor. On the bed. One frock was even perched high on a bedpost. Masks littered the tables, too. The chairs…
Crunch.
The floor.
Mirabelle flinched and peeked under her boot. Some things never changed, like her comrade’s penchant for disorder.
Picking the peacock feathers from her heel, Mirabelle pondered her friend’s scatterbrained disposition. Henry was never one to make a decision until the very last possible moment, and even then, it wasn’t always the wisest choice. After tearing through a half-dozen gowns, Mirabelle couldn’t fathom what her friend had ended up wearing. It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume the girl was late even for her own parents’ ball.
She smiled. She’d really missed Henry.
Mirabelle got right to work, rummaging through the frocks. It would be so simple to swipe something from Henry’s room, hawk it, and get back to her brothers. But she wouldn’t do such a thing. Not to Henry. She would ask Henry for help. For money. Just enough to get her back to the Bonny Meg. It was too difficult to plunder the streets of London with no tools or weapons for defense. And there was the added risk of being caught rifling. No. It was much easier to request Henry’s assistance.
“This should fit,” she murmured, holding the dress up to the light. It was a coral peach in hue, with short puffed sleeves and a long flowing skirt.
Well, there was only one true way to find out.
Mirabelle set the frock on the bed and wiggled out of her blue dress. Henry was like her in size and stature, so the dress should fit.
She slipped into the evening gown, roomy so far. But she hit a snag when it came time to fasten the buttons on the back. She couldn’t reach the bloody things!
With a frustrated huff, she took the button hook from the dressing table and did something akin to a dance, as she twisted one way, then the other, trying to get the last of the buttons in place.
Finally, she sighed. The bodice was a bit too tight. But it fit.
She dropped the button hook back on the table and massaged her aching neck. Working out the chinks, she turned her attention to shoes. Slippers, really. Dainty satin slippers. She found a pair, but footwear, it seemed, was one thing she and Henry did not share in common. She could not cram her foot into Henry’s slipper without tearing it. And what good would it do her then?
Mirabelle tossed the slippers aside and yanked on her boots. She looked down to see if black leather peeked out from under the hemline. It did.
Oh well, she needed to talk to Henry for just a little while. Maybe no one would notice.
Now for the locks. Mirabelle sat down at the dressing table and shoved the ribbons and masks aside, combing through the paraphernalia in search of hairpins. She found a dozen or so scattered across the tabletop and set to work on her coiffure, twisting it and pinning it as her governess had taught her.
A half hour or so later, she was ready. Peering into the mirror, she examined her attire. The gown fit well, the satin a bit crumpled from Henry’s neglect, but not too apparent. The waistline was below the bust, unlike the former empire style of the regent years. Her locks were whimsical-looking enough. All she needed was a mask.
Swiping one off the bed, Mirabelle held it to her face and concluded she was presentable. No one would suspect she was anything but an invited guest.
She hoped.
Now to find Henry.
The bedroom door creaked open and Mirabelle peeked into the dimly lit passageway. Empty. She slipped out of the boudoir and treaded softly through the corridor, down the stairs, and through the causeway.
Wait!
What was she doing, slinking through the winding halls like a thief? She was a guest, remember? She looked the part; now she had to act the part. If she continued to think like a pillaging pirate, she would only attract suspicion.
Mirabelle paused and straightened her shoulders. She lifted her nose a notch to appear a bit hoity, and then strutted with confidence all the way to the ballroom doors.
But as soon as she reached the shiny threshold of the grand arena, she faltered.
What a dazzling sight! Yellow silk dr
aperies…crystal chandeliers…ferns…tapestries…
A whirl of color danced by Mirabelle, the resplendent satin gowns capturing the flickering candlelight like a rainbow.
She blinked back the sheen and pressed her palm over her quivering belly. She suddenly felt sick. The heat from the room doused her like a torrent, the melted candle wax tickling her nose. The twirling frocks made her dizzy. She was hungry and tired…and apprehensive.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all?
“May I have this dance?”
Mirabelle started and stared at the gentleman holding out his hand. He wasn’t dressed like the other gents at the ball, arrayed in black breeches and tinted vests and elegant tailcoats. He looked more like a coachman. Oh, his attire fit him well, tailored to his height and breadth of chest, but it lacked the ornamentation the other dandies seemed to adore. And his mask! Why, it didn’t match the rest of his ensemble at all. It was as though he had picked up any old headdress to put across his face. Even so, there was something familiar about him. Something about his eyes, so cold and lost…
“Thank you,” she said, “but I don’t care to dance.”
Mirabelle backed away, bumped into the statue of some Roman god, almost tipped the statue over, then, flustered, scurried away.
Bloody hell. She had to grab hold of Henry. Soon! Balls were not her forte. She would rather be aboard the Bonny Meg amid a hail of cannon blasts than trapped in this peculiar wonderland.
Keeping to the wall to avoid any more mishaps, she was having a devilishly hard time breathing with so much stuffiness in the air and a tight bodice to boot. Where was Henry?
Mirabelle scanned the crowd of a hundred or so with an eager eye. But it was hard to pinpoint one woman among so many. And all of them holding masks!
A kerfuffle near the lemonade bowl captured Mirabelle’s attention and she peered between the waltzing couples to see a vexed female feverishly plucking feathers from a distraught lady’s mask.
Henry!
Mirabelle all but vaulted onto the dance floor, quickly weaving through the throng of whirling partners.
She reached Henry without calamity, grabbed her by the wrist, and yanked her away from the simpering female who didn’t have a mask anymore.
“I say, unhand me,” griped Henrietta.
But Mirabelle dragged her all the way to the other side of the ballroom and pushed her behind a fern.
“What the devil is the matter with you?” Henrietta demanded, then, curiously: “Who are you?”
Mirabelle lifted her mask.
“Oh, Belle!” Henrietta gasped, and right away flung herself at the other woman.
With squeals of delight both females hugged and hopped for a while. It ached deep inside, to be with Henry again. She had missed her comrade so much. Tears of joy could not be squashed and Mirabelle sheepishly wiped the moisture from her eyes before Henry took heed.
“What’s the matter, Belle? Are you hurt?”
Henrietta dropped the frayed mask to the polished wood floor and removed her own bejeweled headpiece. She looked just as lovely as Mirabelle remembered her. Stunning red locks. Not the unfashionable flaming red some girls were cursed with, but a dark russet red in hue, like autumn in full glory. Her dark, bay brown eyes shimmered with warmth and mischief and laughter. And her voice had a richness to it that made Mirabelle long for her kindred company. And she had need of a friend now more than ever.
There was such sincerity in Henry’s gaze. Mirabelle sensed she could confide in her chum and not fear censure. But she swallowed her fury and heartache instead. She had to return to her brothers. And she needed her wits intact to do it. If she surrendered to her misery now, she might never get back home.
“I’m all right.” Mirabelle took in a shuddering breath to ease the flurry of emotions in her breast. She needed a moment to gather her unruly thoughts, and pointed to the shabby mask on the floor. “What was that all about?”
“Oh, Cat’s a conniving little witch.”
“Cat?”
“Catherine…never mind.” Henrietta waved a hand. “The girl was my friend up until a minute ago.”
“What happened?”
“Catherine was suppose to tweak Viscount Ravenswood’s nose and get the man to notice me. She wasn’t supposed to set her cap for him.” The baron’s daughter huffed. “As if Ravenswood would ever flirt with a mousy little thing like her.”
“Viscount Ravenswood?”
“I told you all about him. Don’t you remember?”
“Vaguely.”
Mirabelle’s indifference triggered yet another gasp from Henrietta, who promptly took her by the arms and spun her about.
“That Ravenswood.”
Henrietta pointed over her shoulder, through the ferns, to a dashing gentleman at the far end of the ballroom. A bloody big gentleman, Mirabelle mused, with dark black curls and a sinister aura about him that she didn’t find too appealing. He wore a red silk mask that sensually offset his lush—and she suspected kissable—lips.
Ravenswood was conversing with Baron Ashby—or listening to the elder gent prattle away, was more like it. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in what the baron had to say, though. Instead, he was engrossed with a particular fern—one concealing two mischievous cohorts.
Mirabelle shivered under his piercing gaze. “He seems rather dangerous.”
“He’s blind.”
“Oh, the poor man.”
Henrietta made a noise of disgust. “Blind about me, the blackguard.” She stared at Viscount Ravenswood with steely determination. “I’ve been in love with the fool ever since his brother Peter married my sister Penelope. It’s been eight years and still he treats me like a child.”
Mirabelle glanced back at Ravenswood. The dark glare in his eyes didn’t seem all that innocent. “Are you sure he thinks of you as a child?”
“I’m very sure.”
It looked as though Mirabelle wasn’t the only one in the world with troubles of the heart. “Then you are still unwed?”
An inelegant snort. “Of course I am. No one but Ravenswood will do.” She sighed then. “Although Mama is convinced I will die a spinster and insists on throwing these troublesome balls to help find me a mate.”
“You’re only twenty.”
Henrietta shrugged. “Mama thinks I’m difficult. This is my third season without a husband and she’s sure I’ll have many more.”
“And what does your father think?”
Although Mirabelle recognized the baron—for Henry had pointed him out at public assemblies like Vauxhall and Ascot’s—she didn’t know the man personally. Or any of the Ashbys for that matter. She and Henry had a clandestine friendship. Oh, Henry had wanted to introduce her to her kin, but Mirabelle had been apprehensive. It was obvious, despite the tutelage of her governess, that she was no aristocrat. And she didn’t want to embarrass her comrade with her common lineage. Lofty lords and ladies always looked down on anyone in trade. And to remark that her father was a “merchant” would send brows skyward.
Henry thought the whole thing rather droll. Her parents, lofty. “It was a contradiction in terms,” the girl had always said. But Mirabelle could sense, even with the Ashbys’ eccentric disposition—like naming their youngest offspring Henry—the couple still adhered to propriety. One didn’t want to risk the ignominy of being shunned by the ton, not with five daughters to marry off. Well, one daughter now. If memory served, the four eldest Ashby girls were already wed.
“Papa doesn’t think much on the matter of my marital state,” said Henrietta. “He’s quite content to marry off four girls and keep me around for good.”
Mirabelle smiled. “He loves you that much?”
“He likes to be in the company of his only son. And while I adore Papa, I’d rather spend the rest of my years with Ravenswood.” Her lips pursed, deep in thought. “I’m going to have to do something scandalous to get Ravenswood’s attention.”
Mirabelle sud
denly felt sorry for Viscount Ravenswood.
“Scandalous?” She eyed Henry’s accouterments. “You mean like wearing a very revealing gown?”
Henrietta glanced at her apparel and sighed again. “Can you believe it? Rose silk, deep ruffs, a heart-shaped neckline, and still the dratted man won’t look at me. He tells me to put on a chemisette; the impudence. I’m not a debutante.”
Mirabelle had a sudden desire to goad her comrade. “It is a bit too charming, shall we say?”
“Don’t you start that, too.” Henrietta looked at her with reproach. “Besides, your dress is just as risqué…I say, isn’t that my dress?”
“Yes, well, I had to sneak into the house and borrow the dress to come and talk with you. I didn’t bring along my dancing clothes, you know? I didn’t know you were having a ball!”
“Oh, that’s right.” Henrietta pulled her back behind the fern. “Why are you here, Belle?”
“I’m stranded,” she said bluntly.
“What do you mean?”
Oh, I was kidnapped by a rogue sailor, who trampled my heart, and now I’m all alone in the streets of London.
“Tell me, Belle.”
The soft coaxing did the trick. All those cumbersome sentiments Mirabelle had tried to stomp down into her toes raised their loud and pesky heads, and she was rapt with the intense desire to confide her troubles to her friend. “I’m a fool, Henry. I very nearly gave my heart away to a rogue.”
Henrietta perked up. “Ooh, really?”
“Really. I even thought I could share a life with him. But I was wrong. I can’t be with him.”
“Why, Belle?”
Because he doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t want anything to do with me or my brothers or the Bonny Meg. “I just can’t have him. Trust me, Henry.”
“I do, Belle. Hush. It’s all right.”
Mirabelle took in a steady breath, to quiet the jitters in her belly. “I have to get back home to my brothers, Henry.”
“Say no more.” The girl put up a hand. “I know were Papa keeps a stash of coins hidden from Mama.”
Too Great A Temptation Page 21