“It’s a wonder you’re even upright this morning,” Alice said, directing a withering look over her shoulder at Jack as she proceeded after the dog on her hands and knees, “considering—”
“Thank you, Alice,” their mother said firmly. “I don’t think any of us need to entertain such considerations.”
Jack shot Marcus a look that spoke volumes. He had been looking for his own town house to buy and was staying with their mother and sisters in the meantime.
“Is this your dog?” Jack asked as the dog returned to his apparently preferred spot at Marcus’s feet.
“Yes,” Marcus said, restraining a sigh. “Mother has just this morning presented him to me.”
Their mother, standing behind Jack, could not see the way her younger son’s eyes danced at these words. Marcus treated him to the sort of glare that an older brother who was a marquess learned to cultivate at an early age by practicing on his siblings. Jack only grinned.
“The little fellow certainly seems to like you,” Jack said.
“It is rather unfair,” Alice said, sitting back on her heels. “Here I am, prepared to dote on the little thing, and he only has eyes for Marcus, who’s not even paying attention to him.”
“Dogs, much like young ladies, can easily become spoiled by too much attention,” Marcus observed meaningfully.
“Don’t listen to him,” Alice said to the dog, having coaxed him to a sitting posture at his master’s feet, from which position he gazed upward adoringly. “Just because someone is a marquess doesn’t mean he knows much of anything.”
Marcus did not dignify this with a response.
“Have you decided on a name yet?” his mother asked.
“I think you should call him Rex,” Alice said.
“Brute,” Jack suggested.
“No,” their mother and sister said as one.
Marcus looked down, thereby receiving the full effect of the devoted canine gaze directed up at him. “Socrates,” he pronounced. “Let us hope he grows in wisdom.”
“Perfect!” Alice said. “You ought to bring him to the ball, dressed in a little toga. It would be the very thing.”
“Yes, wouldn’t it?” Jack said gleefully. “And Marcus could go as Caesar. I should pay handsomely to see him sporting this fellow about the ballroom in matching togas.”
Marcus reflected that, though he was on the whole glad he was no longer fourteen, there were times when he wished it would not be considered unseemly for him to pummel his brother.
“About the ball,” their mother said. “I am a wee bit concerned, because we’ve had quite a response to the invitations. Of course I’m delighted that so many are eager to attend our ball, but I do hope it won’t become a terrible crush.”
The siblings all shared glances of affectionate exasperation. Overcrowding at ton events was a perennial concern of Lady Boxhaven, who felt that a hostess ought to be occupied with her guests’ ability to circulate freely and drink a cup of lemonade without being jostled.
“It will be fine, Mother,” Marcus said kindly. “Boxhaven House is quite up to the task of hosting everyone we know all at once.”
“I do hope so,” she said, not sounding convinced. “I would hate for anyone to feel hesitant to attend because it would be an uncivilized crush.”
“Some of the people you invited are people I would not mind in the least being discouraged by the idea of a crush,” Alice said, abandoning her efforts to secure Socrates’s attention and standing up. “Tell me again why we had to invite Lord and Lady Winstonhurst and the Monroes.”
“The Winstonhursts are friends of friends. And we can hardly avoid asking the Monroes, as we’ve asked everyone else in the neighborhood.”
“But they’re so incredibly tedious,” Alice said.
Marcus, who had been cornered by Mrs. Monroe at a concert a few weeks before and subjected to a disquisition on the magnificence of her two daughters, whom he had not seen for some time, was inclined to agree.
“If the ball is as much of a crush as Mother fears it may be, perhaps they’ll find the event inhospitable and leave early,” Jack observed. “Perhaps we should invite more people to ensure that that happens.”
“You just don’t want to dance with Florence Drummond,” Alice said.
“Does anyone?” Jack asked.
“Don’t be a beast,” their mother said. “Florence Drummond is a sweet young lady.”
Jack sighed. “I know she is, as sweet as treacle. But she talks constantly. It’s like a river of words rushing over a person, drowning you before you can either respond or escape.”
“She only does that when she’s nervous,” Alice said. “Kate says Florence is actually a very interesting person. I believe those were her very words.”
“Where is Kate, anyway?” Marcus asked, surreptitiously trying to nudge the dog away from his boots, which were in grave danger of being besmeared with drool. Kate, the elder of the two sisters, was twenty-three.
“Shopping,” their mother said. “She said she needed some ribbons for the ball.”
“More likely she just wanted to sit in Gunter’s watching people,” Jack said. “Ever since she attended that lecture on poetry, she’s been ‘making sketches of ideas.’”
“Well, I hope she buys some ribbon as well, because the gown she means to wear is decidedly prim,” Lady Boxhaven said. “Despite its reputation, I don’t think poetry has brought as many people together as a pretty gown. Not, of course, that I am suggesting that a pretty gown is of ultimate importance.”
“Of course not,” Marcus agreed reasonably.
“But primness is rather discouraging to suitors. Now,” she said, looking around the room speculatively, “I’ll just go have a word with Hendricks about chair placement for the ball. That is, if you don’t mind, Marcus.”
Lady Boxhaven had been the mistress of Boxhaven House until she moved, with Marcus’s younger siblings, to a town house two blocks away the year Marcus turned twenty-eight. Though he’d told her it wasn’t necessary, she’d insisted that a man of twenty-eight deserved his own lodgings. Marcus suspected her design had also been to leave him to his own devices so he might be more motivated to find a bride.
“By all means,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to take Socrates with you, to show him about the house?”
His mother merely laughed as she swept out the door.
It had not escaped Marcus’s notice that his family had been hosting more balls than usual this year, increasingly on very thin pretexts. He was not unaware of the reason for this, which was that his mother wanted to see all her children married and married well, and not one of them had yet obliged her.
Being the oldest and the one most expected to fill a nursery, Marcus knew that nothing would give his mother more pleasure than for him to marry. While he liked to oblige his mother whenever possible, he did not feel a pressing need to hasten to the altar. One thing was in his favor: His mother’s marriage to Marcus’s father, who had died in a carriage accident five years before, had been blissful, and she wanted nothing less than bliss for her children.
“Life is unpredictable,” his mother would say with a sad sigh now and again. “Think of your poor father, cut down in his prime. None of us has any guarantees. Which is why I so want for each of my children to know the happiness of a marriage founded on love.”
None of her children, who all adored her, ever replied to these thoughts with anything but a kind smile or a gentle patting of her arm. They all agreed with her that marriage to a person one loved was a very good idea, but finding such a person was not as easy as their mother seemed to think. She had met their father at a ball, where, as the night wore on, she would recount, they both just knew. Having found her perfect match so effortlessly, Lady Boxhaven was not considered by any of her children to be quite reasonable on the subject of finding a mate.
“How do you compete with love at first ball?” Kate had muttered to Jack the night before, after their mother had been remi
niscing about the fabled “night of romance” she’d shared with their father.
“It’s not supposed to be a competition,” Alice said. “She only wants us all to know the happiness that she and Papa did.”
“It’s easy for you to be relaxed about the whole thing,” Kate had moaned. “You’re not twenty-three and attending your five hundredth ball.”
“Some people would be happy to attend five hundred balls,” said Alice, who, having only come out that Season, had begun attending balls only the month before.
“Just you wait,” Kate said.
These words were not delivered in a tone of menace, but rather, one of realism. They all knew that their parent believed that each of her children, like her, would find love at a ball. Their mother was not otherwise superstitious or prone to flights of fancy, but from this belief she could not be dissuaded. Consequently, she encouraged her children to attend as many balls as possible, and she looked for any excuse to hold a ball.
In addition to balls celebrating Jack’s return from his European tour and Marcus’s thirtieth birthday, both unobjectionable reasons for celebration, there had been balls to celebrate the redecoration of the ballroom and the successful cultivation of a new rose variety at Weldwood, the family seat. Marcus would not have been surprised had his mother announced the following week that she wanted to hold a ball in honor of the arrival of Socrates in Marcus’s household, though he dearly hoped she would not.
Tonight’s ball was in honor of Kate’s ankle, which she had sprained a few weeks before and which had only recently been pronounced safe for dancing by their family physician.
“I wish she wouldn’t refer to the ball where she met Father as a ‘night of romance,’” Jack said. “And when she goes into that part about how he got that dreamy look in his eyes…” He shuddered. “It doesn’t bear thinking about, one’s parents at balls.”
“Well, I think it’s wonderfully romantic,” Alice said. “And I hope I do meet my husband at a ball, whoever he’ll be. I think nothing would be nicer.”
Chapter Two
* * *
As soon as Melinda and her children had left for the Boxhaven masquerade, Rosamund made her way to Uncle Piggott’s room, very much hoping Mrs. Barton would bring wine.
“Rosamund,” he greeted her. “Where is your ballgown?”
“Er...” Uncle Piggott liked to joke, but a ball Rosamund could not attend seemed like a poor topic for teasing.
“My dear,” he said with unaccustomed gentleness, “it was a rhetorical question. Of course I know Melinda didn’t suddenly become a decent person and decide to bring you to the ball. Which is why I have taken matters into my own hands.” He raised his voice and called out, “Mrs. Barton, if you please.”
Rosamund hadn’t seen the housekeeper in the shadows, but now she stepped forward. She had a pile of fabric draped over one arm and a basket on the other, and she gave Rosamund a smile tinged with conspiracy.
Rosamund drew in a quick breath, already concerned about what was brewing. “What—” she began, but Uncle Piggott cut her off.
“But me no buts, young lady. I know you are conscientious and moral and grateful to be given shelter and food, no matter that you have to work for it, and that you do not wish to cross your aunt. You are a member of this family, and thus you were invited to the Boxhaven masquerade ball. And you are going.”
Rosamund opened her mouth, but she couldn’t seem to form words.
“Now then, Mrs. Barton,” Uncle Piggott said.
Mrs. Barton set the basket and gown on the bed. “Let’s have that old thing off of you, Miss Rosamund,” she said and began undoing the row of buttons on the back of Rosamund’s frock as Uncle Piggott covered his eyes.
Rosamund found her voice. “You’ve both gone mad.”
“I hope so,” said Uncle Piggott, “if going mad means doing something for once. Melinda treats you in an appalling and completely un-Christian way, and tonight, it’s time for revenge.”
Mrs. Barton tugged off a sleeve. “I don’t think revenge is a good reason to go to a ball. Or,” Rosamund cleared her throat meaningfully, “a very Christian one.”
“As the authority on matters Christian in the Outer Reaches,” Uncle Piggott said, reaching blindly for the pipe on his bedside table as he kept his other hand over his eyes, “I deem revenge to be an excellent reason to go to a ball, particularly in this case. But it’s not the main reason you’re going. Mrs. Barton has it on good authority that there will be not one but three marquesses at the ball.” He knocked a book on the floor but finally lighted on his pipe. “Not that the Marquess of Boxhaven would not be enough to entice a young woman to a ball. I was at a dinner at which he was present ten years ago, and none of the rest of the gentlemen in the room could gain the attention of a single woman.”
“Uncle!” Rosamund said. “You once had dinner with the Marquess of Boxhaven? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
He chuckled and wedged his unlit pipe in the corner of his mouth. “Piqued your interest, didn’t I? He has a younger brother as well, who will likely be at the ball. You could do worse than attract the attention of the younger brother of a marquess.”
Rosamund could only blink, feeling lightheaded. “I should count myself lucky even to glimpse the younger son of a marquess.”
Mrs. Barton held up the dress.
A little gasp escaped Rosamund. Uncle Piggott chuckled. “Our Mrs. Barton did well, didn’t she? Hurry up and put the thing on so I can see.”
If the sea under moonlight could be captured, this was what it would look like. Blue satin cascaded in soft ripples and glimmered with silver lace and scatterings of embroidered flowers done in silver thread. Tiny crystals here and there twinkled, completing the impression that the gown was pure enchantment.
“Where did you get this?” Rosamund breathed.
“A castoff from a previous employer,” Mrs. Barton said. “It would never fit me”—this was surely true, as Mrs. Barton was tiny and the dress looked to be about the size of Rosamund’s taller frame—“and I don’t have a ball invitation. But you do, Miss Rosamund.”
“I can’t wear this,” Rosamund said.
“Of course you can.” Mrs. Barton smiled. “And nothing would delight me more than to send you to that ball dressed as you ought to be.”
Standing there in just her chemise, Rosamund felt her eyes begin to mist. She sniffed.
“None of that, Rosamund,” Uncle Piggott said with mock sternness. “You’ll end up with red eyes, and take it from me: Gentlemen are leery of ladies with red eyes.”
“What if someone recognizes me?”
“It’s a masquerade,” he reminded her. “You’ll have a mask, and since Melinda has kept you hidden all these years, it’s not as if anyone there will know you.”
“But what if I see Melinda or my cousins?”
“They would never expect to see you there, and so they won’t. Now, do you want to go to this ball or not?”
“Yes,” Rosamund whispered fiercely. “Yes, I do.”
“Then there’s no time to waste.”
They had thought of everything. In addition to the dress and a fresh petticoat, there were ribbons for Rosamund’s hair and a pair of slightly worn dancing shoes with paste jewels.
“Where did you get them?” Rosamund asked in wonder.
“I had a few shillings lying about, and Mrs. Barton found them at the market.” Uncle Piggott held up a hand as Rosamund looked dismayed. “And before you go into hysterics of concern about the state of my purse, consider that I am an old man, and if I want to spend a few shillings on my favorite young lady, I ought to be allowed that pleasure.”
“Then I won’t say anything but thank you,” she said as she slipped into the shoes. Miraculously, they fit, which seemed just right, because already this night seemed like some kind of enchantment had befallen her.
She was to go in the family coach, which would take her the five blocks to Boxhaven House and bring her ho
me at midnight, well before the time when Melinda and her daughters would wish to return. She’d been concerned about involving John Coachman in this plan, but Mrs. Barton had assured her that he, along with all the servants, was in support of the plan.
Right before Uncle Piggott sent Rosamund down to the waiting coach, he gestured to Mrs. Barton, who produced a beautiful strand of pearls.
“Are those… my mother’s pearls?”
“Of course,” he said. “What else would you wear to the ball?”
“But Melinda—”
“Had no right to take them from you.”
It had been the hardest moment after a succession of hard times. When she’d arrived at the Monroes’ house after the wrenching months of her mother’s final illness, Melinda had told her, “You shall be given a chance to make up for all the trouble your arrival is causing and all that is being provided to you.”
“Of course, Aunt,” she’d said. “I shall be happy to be of any help.”
Melinda had held out her hand. “The pearls, if you please.”
“Excuse me?”
“The pearls,” Melinda had said impatiently. “They should never have been given to your mother.”
Rosamund had swallowed. The pearls were the only thing she had left from her mother—in truth, the only thing at all she had left from her family. Everything else, all the bits and pieces that hadn’t amounted to much, had been sold to pay the bills.
“I had always understood Grandmother gave them to Mother at her wedding.”
“A misunderstanding,” Melinda had said, and Rosamund’s heart had sunk at the insincerity stamped on her aunt’s features. “I will keep them, as a sort of down payment for your care.”
Rosamund had surrendered the pearls.
Now, she stared at them lying across Mrs. Barton’s palm, the jewels lustrous in the firelight. Her heart squeezed. Her mother had hardly ever had occasion to wear them, but sometimes she had put them on for one of their meager family dinners, and their glamour had brought a wisp of cheerful elegance to their homey surroundings.
Marquesses at the Masquerade Page 2