Callie stood next to Mr. Button and regarded Ren with satisfaction. “I told you he was delicious underneath.”
“An understatement.” Mr. Button patted her on the arm. “Scoot now, dear. Mr. Porter and I have much to do.”
Callie waved gaily at Ren and then deserted him. Ren kept his gaze averted while Button deposited his burden on the trunk at the end of the bed.
“I—”
“Turn, please. I must get a good look at you.”
Ren gave up. The man didn’t seem likely to run screaming, at least. He turned, still looking away.
“Hmm. You are thinner than your clothing suggested. I shall have to take a quick tuck in the surcoat, I think.” Button walked a circle around him, measuring with his eyes. Ren felt rather like an insect under glass, but somehow it wasn’t the slightest bit embarrassing. Mr. Button obviously knew his business as a tailor as well as a dressmaker.
Then Button rounded him and gazed unblinking into Ren’s face. Ren fought the habitual urge to flinch away and gazed back. “I know I am hideous.”
Button nodded thoughtfully. “The scars are frightful, yes. However, you are not your scars.”
Ren blinked at that matter-of-fact assessment. A few weeks ago he might have argued it, but somehow, since Callie had danced into his life he felt like …
Like more.
* * *
Callie ran lightly down the stairs, reveling in her pain-free ankle. Worthingtons always did heal quickly.
The front hall bustled with men bringing flowers and garlands and chairs and whatnots for the ballroom. Mr. Button had rallied staff all the way from London, for Callie heard more than a few Cockney accents. As much as possible had come from local folk, but Button had thought it best to put on a big show for the people of Amberdell. “They will take pride from a fine house and a fine ball. If you bring down the tone a whit, they will be insulted.”
Callie left it up to Mr. Button’s judgment, but she hoped Ren was as rich as people seemed to think. Oh, but it was all so much fun!
The ballroom was chaos, and looked as though someone had fought another war of the roses within, but a burly gentleman named Rigg assured her that “It’ll be a right spring bower, milady, just you wait’n see.” He looked rather more like a brigand than a florist, but Callie knew better than to judge by appearances. Many of the men Mr. Button had hired looked like pirates and thieves, while others looked as refined as lords.
On her way to the kitchens to check on the finishing touches for the “nibblements,” as Mr. Button called them, Callie was waylaid by a tall, dark-haired girl in housemaid’s attire.
“Excuse me, milady, but will you be needin’ many more rooms made up? Only we’ve just found the linen closet and there’ve been mice nesting. Gone a bit nasty, I fear.”
“You should have seen the windows,” Callie murmured. The girl blinked at her. Callie frowned off into space. “Well, the local people will likely go back to their homes … but Mr. Button asked to invite a few of his friends, as well.”
“Yes, milady. Himself told me he’d need four rooms for them.”
Callie smiled. “Oh, that’s nice. I’m so looking forward to meeting Mr. Buttons’s friends. He’s such a wonderful man.”
The maid regarded her for a moment. “That he is, milady. I’m right fond of him myself.”
“I suppose we ought to get as many rooms ready as we can, just in case … have you checked for another linen closet in the west wing? I know it’s all closed up, but surely they didn’t tote pillowcases all the way across the house!”
The maid nodded. “Oh, yes, I shall check.” She curtsied and began to dash off.
“Oh—” Callie paused. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Rose, milady.”
Callie smiled. “That’s charming. I adore floral names. I am Calliope. I and all my siblings were saddled with torturous Greek myths. It’s such a burden being named after gods and goddesses. People tend to expect miracles.”
The maid snorted a laugh, then looked down. “Sorry, milady. I just didn’t expect you to be so funny.”
Callie rolled her eyes. “Goodness, if you think I’m odd, just be glad my family shan’t be attending.”
Rose curtsied again, but this time her eyes were twinkling. “Yes, milady. I’ll fetch all the linens I can find from the west wing.”
Callie continued on to the kitchens but it seemed she’d just missed the cook. Again. Really, the man had the oddest habit of fleeing the kitchens just when she wished to speak with him. However, she was reassured by the bustle and delicious smells and the impressive array of herbs the man had brought with him. And knives … such big, sharp knives.
“When the cook gets back, please send someone to find me. I just want to have a word.”
The men helping in the kitchen shot each other glances, but they nodded agreeably enough before bustling on. Callie felt as if she were in the way, so she left after sneaking a taste from one of the simmering pots. Oh, heaven.
Perhaps she could leave off worrying about the food, as well.
Really, Mr. Button was a wonder. Callie found herself with nothing to do but to get ready.
When she returned to her bedchamber, she found herself the recipient of a large stack of mauve and white striped boxes. With childish glee she unpacked her own personal Christmas morning, pulling out gowns and gloves and bonnets and shawls and underthings … oh, my, the underthings! She tucked most of them away with a naughty little smile on her face. Goodness, Mr. Button was a thoughtful fellow!
Then she found her gown. “Oh.”
She pressed her fingers to her lips, then slowly reached out to lift the incredible creation from the box.
Mr. Button did, indeed, have skill unknown to mortal woman. The gown was a pact with the devil by way of heaven.
Callie held up the pale green mist of silk and pearls and shimmering white satin ribbons. In the box beneath the gown there remained a beaded mask and white satin gloves and pearl-encrusted combs and wispy, lace-edged underthings … but all Callie could see was the gown.
Mr. Button had decided she was to be Persephone, Goddess of Spring. It was indeed a gown fit for a goddess.
Someone had caused a bath to be sent up for her. Beside the steaming copper tub was a bowl of soft soap. Callie sniffed it. Rosemary soap. She’d only mentioned it yesterday. How had Mr. Button found it so quickly?
Soon she was going to stop asking that question. Button was a very magical fellow!
Callie stripped and climbed into the steaming tub but she couldn’t bear to lie about. She scrubbed down briskly and washed her hair, then sat combing it by the lovely fire in her hearth. Wistfully she wondered if she’d be allowed to keep a few of Mr. Button’s excellent servant friends, although she’d perhaps do better to hire from the village, for good feeling.
Mr. Button had tried to provide her with a lady’s maid but she’d informed him that Worthington girls could do their own hair, thank you! She did miss Elektra’s help, although if Ellie were here she’d be too busy pining over Callie’s gown to help much with her hair.
And Attie would be disemboweling some carcass in the kitchen with the cook, trying out his array of fantastic knives.
Callie pinched at her cheeks and dusted a bit of rice powder over her nose. Other women might find face paint appealing, but Worthingtons had good skin and no need to hide it. She smoothed her hair with a bit of sweet almond oil, just enough to tame the tendency to frizz. Then she pulled it back into a thick twist, propped by the shimmering combs. With a few stray tendrils around her face, for Ren’s benefit, for he dearly loved to toy with her hair. She felt she looked quite nice.
Then she noticed the case on the vanity.
It was the jewel case from the first night she was in the house.
It could only be Ren’s doing. Callie tentatively lifted the lid. Within she saw a folded scrap of paper.
“B said you would be in green.”
The
antique emerald necklace lay shimmering on top of the peacock-toned shawl she’d found in the library.
Oh, it was a lovely thing, as vivid and shamelessly attention-grabbing as she’d remembered. She stroked it with one finger.
He’d bought it for another woman.
Then again, that woman had been fool enough to let him get away. She didn’t deserve the man or the shawl … but Callie did!
Callie decided to accept the gift as a thoughtful husbandly thing and forget about the other woman. She smiled and swept the shawl over her bare shoulders. “Your loss, idiot woman.” She smirked into the mirror.
Fortunately the distinctive ring was nowhere in sight. When that time came Callie wanted her own bloody ring, thank you very much.
The necklace, now … this was clearly a family heirloom of some antiquity. An “important piece,” as Ellie would call it. Callie smiled. A necklace fit for the lady of Amberdell Manor.
She fastened it about her neck and sauntered naked to where the gown lay in serene state across the bed.
Callie dressed carefully. First the sheer stockings, gartered above the knee with green ribbons. Then the barely there chemise, a mere wisp of batiste so fine Callie would have little trouble reading through it. She looked into the box for pantalets, but Mr. Button seemed to have forgotten those and Callie had none left after the sword fight.
Ah, the sword fight …
The clock in the hall boomed distantly and Callie started. Oh, heavens, she couldn’t be late to her own ball!
Donning the gown was a simple affair. All the work was in the details and the fit. Which, astonishingly, was perfection. Callie frowned at the mirror. Mr. Button might have made one thing for one woman in those few days he’d had to prepare, but she knew every woman in the village had ordered a new gown and probably masks and gloves and goodness knows what else …
It simply wasn’t possible for Button and Cabot to fill all those orders. Not humanly possible, at any rate.
But Callie had no time to contemplate the otherworldly powers of the dressmaker. The gown fastened up the back with minuscule buttons, but Callie had always dressed herself and found it no great difficulty.
When she turned back to the mirror, she caught her breath. First of all, she looked stunning, regal, and mysterious. Secondly, there was a great deal of Worthington bosom on display.
She inhaled experimentally. The gown was well fitted, there was no doubt about it. Her bosom only seemed as though it were about to slip its moorings. In fact, it was battened down quite adequately.
When she tugged the satin gloves high upon her arms and donned the little silk slippers that had come in the box—when had Mr. Button measured her feet?—Callie blinked at her reflection. She had often looked fairly pretty, but she had never before been beautiful, not even in the rose-pink dress from the night before. To be truthful, she suspected that “goddess” suited her better than did “harlot.”
Although harlot was bound to be more fun.
With her own toilette done, she was finally free to think about Ren’s costume.
Mr. Button had been most secretive. If she was to be the goddess Persephone, then would Mr. Porter be forced to go as Hades? That seemed rather the opposite effect than the “let’s meet the village” intent of the evening. Callie bit her lip worriedly. Mr. Button did seem to be a theatrical sort of fellow, didn’t he?
* * *
Ren frowned at Button. “I think this is a bit much. I’d rather not make such a sideshow of myself.”
Button didn’t sigh, or twitch, or to his credit, even clench his jaw, though this was the twentieth time Ren had tried to wriggle out of his agreement to wear the “costume.”
Button did, however, put down the cravat he was attempting to press again, for one more try. He turned to Ren. “Mr. Porter, I have great sympathy for what you will confront tonight.”
Ren glanced at Mr. Button’s clear, unmarked face and then glanced away. “I doubt that.”
Mr. Button clasped his hands before him. “Mr. Porter, there are more ways to carry scars than on one’s face. I know a little something about being an outsider. I am the son of a tailor, but my father was a large man, fond of drinking and wagering on races and arm wrestling to prove to one and all that tailoring was a man’s work.
“I was not a usual sort of boy. I knew from a very young age that I was different. I am a person of talent and ambition. I am a brave man, much braver than I ever expected I should be. I am well connected with many friends. Now. Then, I was only a lonely boy who never seemed to walk in step with other boys. Or with anyone, really. In particular my father.
“I hid my differences as well as I could, for many years. I think if there is anything in this material world that will kill one’s soul, it is the act of hiding oneself. To be so fearful of rejection that one spends every moment alone, just to keep one’s secret … is that really so much better than taking the chance on rejection?”
“You’re talking about me now.”
Button slid him a glance. “I’m talking about all of us. Everyone has something they keep secret. Sometimes good, sometimes bad … although I think milady would probably argue that the good or evil—”
“Will be in the intent,” Ren finished for him, and they both chuckled.
Ren regarded Button. “You said you have friends now. What did you do differently?”
Button looked him right in the eye. “I stopped bloody hiding.” Then he shrugged. “Some people rejected me. Some people simply pretended I didn’t exist. A few, the best of them all, I think, accepted me just as I am and, furthermore, found value in me that I never knew I had.”
“I will not show my face.”
Button waved a hand. “No matter. It is a masque, after all. I meant it figuratively, of course. If you expose yourself to rejection, you are also exposing yourself to acceptance. You’d be surprised at who stays and who goes.”
She stayed.
For now.
Ren didn’t speak. He only eyed the little man with solemn consideration while his cravat was being tied, again. Then he turned to regard himself in the mirror. His face might still be a horror, but the rest of him had never looked so fine.
“I think, Button, that anyone would be blind not to see the value in you.”
Button smiled and spread his hands. “Well, but of course! I am, after all, me.”
Chapter 25
It was almost time for the guests to begin arriving. Cabot brought a cup of tea on a saucer across the busy ballroom to his master. Button took it with a smile. Everything about the little man was gleeful this evening, from the jaunty diagonal jacquard stripe of his ivory silk waistcoat to the bounce in his toes. He obviously had every confidence that his elaborate planning would bear great fruit.
As happy as he was to see his beloved master so certain, Cabot could only gaze about the bustling preparations with a gloom born of apprehension.
Button was a gregarious man. He would naturally think that the way to boost someone’s spirits and self-assurance would be to throw a grand party. Cabot, who was of a more introspective nature, suspected that Sir Lawrence might not be as receptive to the oncoming madness as Button hoped.
“Sir, are you quite sure you ought to have invited them?”
Button’s grin faltered slightly, but his nod was firm as his eyes followed a trim housemaid carrying a stack of cushions for the chairs arranged in cunning conversational groupings along the far wall. “Her ladyship urged me to invite my friends. What could be so wrong with that?”
Cabot did not pursue the topic. Friends. Enemies. It was such a fine line, in the end.
So he, as usual, stood at his master’s side. However, his habitually neutral gaze grew fond as he looked down at the neat part in his master’s thinning hair. Button, as usual, took no notice.
* * *
Callie held her mask by the ribbon tie as she left her room. It was a delicate slip of satin and beading, worked in a pattern of leaves around the
eyeholes with a cluster of tiny satin blooms of lily of the valley at her temple. The sparkling glass beads did not clash with the emerald necklace, but seemed to make it gleam even more richly in concert.
“Callie.”
She looked up from adjusting her gloves to see Ren there awaiting her.
Oh, my.
He stood dressed in a very fine forest-green suit, perfectly cut and fitted, trimmed in just a tiny border of gold thread. It was the sort of thing fancied by princes and dukes … but more restrained. It said, “Yes, there are rumors that I have royal blood but don’t let’s go on about it.” By being just a hint ostentatious, it had the effect of arrogant grandeur.
The silk surcoat was just the perfect tone of deep green to set off Callie’s gown. The weskit was silk of a green so dark as to be black except when the light hit it just right, and the buttons had the glitter of true gold. His trousers were black and he wore boots, giving him a military edge.
Surprisingly, Button had left Ren’s wild auburn hair uncut and had simply tamed it back into a lordly queue. His mask … oh, Button had outdone himself on the mask.
It was a mimic of Callie’s, beaded as if made of leaves, only his was beaded in black and gold and the shimmering effect was of feathers. It turned his eyes dark, like the gloaming of the day. He was a nighthawk, a mystery.
There was no attempt to hide the scars. Ren’s mask covered no more than anyone’s would. Yet, with the severe dignity of the suit and the screaming drama of the mask, the scars upon his forehead and his cheek seemed … almost fitting. He seemed a warlord, a feudal king of old, a soldier and commander.
He looked gentlemanly yet dangerous. Perfect. Then Callie realized that he wore the medal and a medieval-style gold-cloth sash that denoted knighthood.
Ren watched as delight spread across Callie’s face and suddenly he felt ready to face the very legions of hell with her at his side armed only with the gold-knobbed walking stick Button had forced upon him.
“A weapon to defend your dignity,” Button had claimed. “Such a great many stairs—and such a regrettable opportunity to fall upon one’s knightly arse before all.”
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