She skimmed the rest of the invitation, noting that the masque would be held in a fortnight. The ball offered the perfect opportunity to learn more about the viscountess’s husband.
Mary Morris, Bess Whitfield’s dresser, had named Maxwell Stanford, Viscount Hamilton, as one of Bess’s lovers. Unlike the mad Earl of Newland, Maxwell had a wife and daughter. Both would suffer from the humiliation if Bess’s diary became public. The scandal sheets would relish printing any outrageous story about the viscount and the notorious actress. Gossip would be rampant.
In short, Maxwell had more than sufficient motive to kill Bess for her incriminating diary.
Evelyn wondered if either mother or daughter had any idea about the viscount’s extracurricular activities with the actress. Perhaps they wouldn’t be surprised. Many married men of the beau monde had mistresses.
Just as the wives had lovers.
Evelyn didn’t want such a marriage for herself. She could not picture herself cuckolding her husband, and she knew she would be distraught if her spouse took a mistress.
She turned her attention back to the invitation. She had never wanted to be paraded about as a debutante, but she did enjoy an occasional masque or party, and Cecilia Stanford’s yearly costume ball was one of Evelyn’s favorites. Like all the guests, she could don a costume and shed a part of the rigid propriety that constrained members of polite society.
Evelyn contemplated what to wear. Cleopatra came to mind. She loved the Egyptian period.
She thought of Jack and wondered if he was on the guest list. What would he wear?
Instantly, Mark Antony sprang to mind.
Good Lord.
What was she thinking?
She didn’t know if Jack was invited. She only knew that she wanted him there. The opportunity to observe Viscount Hamilton could be invaluable to their investigation. But if she were truthful to herself, that wasn’t the only reason she wanted Jack Harding to attend.
She was becoming accustomed to having him around, and that was a bad, bad thing.
She shifted in her desk chair, reached for a piece of foolscap, and penned a note.
Mr. Harding,
Received an invitation to Viscountess Hamilton’s costume ball. Will you attend?
Lady Evelyn
Evelyn needn’t mention the viscount himself. Jack would make the connection to Maxwell Stanford, the viscount that Mary Morris had said was one of Bess Whitfield’s lovers.
Hours later, Hodges entered the drawing room carrying a silver salver with an envelope addressed to Evelyn. She waited until the butler departed before opening the envelope. Bold, black script dominated the page.
No invite as of yet. What can you do?
Jack hadn’t bothered to address the note or sign his name.
Shrewd barrister.
She tore his note into tiny pieces and threw it into the fireplace.
It had been weeks since Evelyn had last paid Lady Georgina Stanford a visit. Evelyn stood on the steps of a magnificent Berkeley Square mansion and raised the brass door knocker.
Within seconds, a dour-faced butler opened the door.
Evelyn looked up at the servant in surprise. Hodges would have taken forever to reach the door, assuming he even heard the knock, she mused.
“Good afternoon, Lady Evelyn. Lady Georgina is expecting you,” the butler said.
Evelyn stepped inside a stunning marble vestibule with a vaulted ceiling. Sparkling chandeliers holding dozens of candles drew her eyes upward. Sunlight from the open door bounced off the chandeliers’ crystal prisms, creating magnificent iridescent images on the marble floor.
She followed the butler down the hall, past two sitting rooms and a music conservatory. Peering momentarily into each room they passed, she hoped to catch a glimpse of the viscount, but all were empty. She doubted whether he was in. Whenever Evelyn had visited in the past, he had never been home, and only rarely had she seen him out.
The butler opened a door into a formal drawing room, and Evelyn entered. Royal blue silk settees matched the curtains, and the same shade was in the Aubusson carpet. Priceless artwork from Dutch and Flemish masters Rembrandt, Jan Steen, Sir Anthony Van Dyck, and Peter Paul Rubens lined the walls.
Georgina Stanford stood as soon as she spotted Evelyn.
“Evelyn!” Georgina’s face lit with a smile. She rushed over to embrace Evelyn. “It was such a pleasant surprise to get your note asking to see me.”
Evelyn hugged her friend. An attractive young woman with abundantly thick chestnut hair and hazel eyes, Georgina was tall, slender, and quick to smile. If she was a fourth-year debutante, it was not for lack of offers, but for lack of interest on her part.
The two women took seats side by side. A maid carried in a tea tray with scones and crumpets. Georgina poured two cups of steaming green tea and handed one to Evelyn.
Evelyn waited until the door closed behind the servant before speaking. “I received your mother’s invitation to the masquerade ball.”
“I take it you are attending?” Georgina asked.
“It’s my favorite event of the Season. What will you be?”
“I was thinking of Diana, Goddess of the Hunt,” Georgina said.
“Diana! Didn’t Roman mythology depict her with one breast bared?”
“Exactly.”
Evelyn shot her friend an incredulous look. “Georgina Stanford, you wouldn’t dare.”
“Why not? That would surely push Mother over the edge.”
“Who has she been pressuring you to marry now?” Evelyn asked.
“Lucas Crawford, the son of the Earl of Haverston.”
“Lucas Crawford is merely a boy.”
“Ah, but he is heir to the earldom. And from the looks of Haverston, he hasn’t long to wait.”
“What will you do?”
“Thumb my nose at him. I’ve been meeting with a group of feminist women and we are currently reading Mary Wollstonecraft’s book A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, in which she argues women are regarded inferior to men because of their lack of education. Even though Wollstonecraft has been dead now seventeen years, her ideas still provide endless fodder for discussion, and we currently are debating her beliefs on marriage.”
“The conversation must be fascinating,” Evelyn said.
Georgina’s voice rose an octave. “It is! There are women in our group who believe the poets—including Byron—spout nonsense merely to trick young girls into believing in love. These girls then marry and sacrifice their identities, their very souls, to their husbands. Men are not taken over by such poetic fancy; rather, they use it in order to control women until they have legally relinquished all their rights in matrimony. They compare marriage to slavery.”
Evelyn laughed. “It doesn’t sound like a group that would interest your mother.”
Georgina rolled her eyes and reached for one of the scones on the tray.
Evelyn felt an instant’s guilt tighten her chest. What if Georgina’s father had murdered Bess Whitfield?
Evelyn truly liked Georgina. They were friends, and friends didn’t seek to harm each other. But then again, there was Randolph’s very life to consider. He was an innocent man, and unlike the viscount, Randolph didn’t have a title or wealth to favorably influence a Bow Street magistrate.
With renewed conviction, Evelyn tucked her guilt away and pressed on with her plans.
“Are your parents home today?” Evelyn inquired.
“No. Father is at one of his clubs as usual, and Mother is attending Lady Litmanson’s garden party. I claimed a headache to escape Mother’s constant nagging on the subject of Mr. Crawford.”
“Do you ever want to marry?” Evelyn asked.
“Only if there is a meeting of the minds.”
Evelyn thought of Randolph. “I understand.”
“Tell me about your Mr. Sheldon.”
Like the rest of society, Georgina had no idea Randolph Sheldon was in hiding. Or that he was a suspect in the
Drury Lane Theatre’s lead actress’s murder. Evelyn wanted to keep it a secret for as long as possible.
That is, until Bow Street Runners found Randolph and gave her no choice.
“Randolph is away researching a subject for my father,” Evelyn lied smoothly.
“You must miss him then?”
The innocent question stopped Evelyn for a moment. If she was truthful to herself, she didn’t miss Randolph as much as she would have thought.
Before the murder, they had routinely conversed in the evenings when Randolph stopped by to speak with her father. Other days, she had visited her father’s offices in Oxford when she knew Randolph was present. Oftentimes, Randolph was grading papers or researching a topic for her father. They had spent countless hours together talking, poring over volumes in the university library, working side by side.
Evelyn was concerned for Randolph, yes. His situation was constantly on her mind, yes.
But did she miss him? Truly miss him?
No.
Georgina was looking at her curiously. “Is something wrong, Evelyn?”
“I ah—”
“There is another man,” Georgina said matter-of-factly.
“Not in the way that you mean,” Evelyn said.
Georgina placed her teacup in her saucer and leaned forward. “Tell me.”
“I came today to ask a favor. I want to ensure a certain man is on the guest list for your mother’s costume ball.”
“Name him and I will have an invitation immediately sent out if it hasn’t been already.”
“A Mr. Jack Harding—”
“The barrister and jury master?” Georgina asked.
“Yes, how did you know?”
Georgina waved a hand. “Rest assured he’s on the guest list. If he has not already received it, his invitation should arrive any moment. He gets invited to all the ton functions, you see, but he rarely attends. Apparently he is extremely busy. But he is in favor with the beau monde—he has aided a few in legal matters. Any society matron would be thrilled to have him in attendance. It seems his chosen discipline has been quite lucrative.”
Evelyn frowned. Jack was not the money-grasping barrister she had initially believed. An image of Hannah Ware and her clinging children came to mind—like six small starving street urchins desperate for their next meal. Their mother would have been executed, lost to them forever, if not for Jack’s volunteered services.
Jack was proving to be a complex man.
“If Mr. Harding rarely attends that would explain why I haven’t seen him at past functions,” Evelyn said.
“Other barristers of his chambers are invited as well because they have curried favor with my father,” Georgina added.
Interesting, Evelyn thought. What types of favors would a viscount require of three other barristers?
Had Maxwell Stanford been involved in troublesome behavior in the past? Evelyn wondered.
“Why are you interested in Mr. Harding?” Georgina asked. “Has he caught your eye?”
“No,” Evelyn answered quickly. “Absolutely not.”
Georgina eyed her curiously. “He is a handsome man. It wouldn’t be unusual if you—”
“No, you are mistaken. It’s not that at all. Father is interested in having Mr. Harding as a guest lecturer at Oxford. I thought to help him.” The lie came too easily to Evelyn’s lips.
“Then why doesn’t your father speak with him?”
“He has. He will. I thought to as well,” Evelyn rushed.
“I see,” Georgina said in a tone that implied she didn’t believe her one bit. “Do not be too hard on yourself, Evelyn. Mary Wollstonecraft says a woman needs to explore all aspects of her inner self—even the sensual side—in order to find the freedom to be truly happy.”
Chapter 19
“Cleopatra was an excellent choice. I do believe your barrister will be struck dumb.”
Evelyn whirled around to see Lady Georgina. Her friend smiled slyly, and her hazel eyes shone behind her half mask. She had indeed dressed as Diana, Goddess of the Hunt, but thankfully, her white tunic covered both breasts. Strapped to her back was a dainty bow and quiver of golden arrows.
Evelyn returned Georgina’s smile. “He’s not my barrister, Georgina, but an acquaintance. And it’s not me that has to be on guard. With your bow and arrows, you look quite like Cupid. Lucas Crawford best be wary.”
“Ha!” Georgina laughed. “Dressed as you are, every man in attendance will be looking at you and trying to discern your identity when the arrow hits them. You look stunning, Evelyn.”
Evelyn felt a thrill of excitement at the compliment. She had dressed with care tonight. She wore a sheath dress of gold tissue with a low bodice. Without a restraining corset and the heavy, voluminous skirts of a traditional ball gown, the dress felt as light as air. Thong sandals laced up her daringly bare ankles. Gold serpent bands with emerald eyes wrapped around each of her upper arms. She had contemplated wearing a wig of straight black hair, but at the last minute had chose instead to style her own hair. A jeweled headband with emeralds that matched the eyes of the serpent bands held her hair while the rest cascaded down her back in a platinum waterfall. A sequined, gold half mask hid her identity, making her feel bold and brazen. Had Evelyn not told her friend she was to dress as Cleopatra, Georgina would scarcely have recognized her.
Evelyn knew she looked attractive, and she admitted to herself that she wanted Jack Harding to see her this way, wanted him to look upon her as a beautiful woman and not just as the scholarly child who had followed him around conjugating Latin and Greek verbs.
Don’t be reckless, her inner voice warned. Such an attraction is perilous.
“Do you know what costume your barrister is wearing?” Georgina asked.
Evelyn scanned the crowded ballroom and the masked guests. “I have no idea. And he’s not my barrister.”
Two giggling women, one dressed as a shepherdess and the other as an angel, held the arms of a portly man dressed as Henry the Eighth. The trio stumbled, then pushed past Evelyn and Georgina.
“There is such a crush. It will be difficult to find anyone tonight,” Georgina said.
Normal etiquette required the announcing of the guests by the Hamilton staff, but tonight was a masquerade ball, and that formality did not apply. A charge of mystery and excitement hummed through the ballroom. The guests’ costumes were extravagant, and many had taken great pains to hide their identities. Every area of the globe seemed to be represented, from Arabian sheiks and harem girls, to Chinese monks, to medieval knights and their ladies.
Liveried servants wove through the crowd, passing out flutes of bubbling champagne as the guests mingled in an orgy of self-indulgence. Behind masks, eyes glittered with lustful intent—searching for partners with similar dissolute plans to indulge their own guilty pleasures while remaining blissfully anonymous.
The entire ballroom was a kaleidoscope of brilliant color and flickering lights. Combined with the laughter and music, it amplified Evelyn’s senses.
Just then a pair of strong hands encircled Evelyn’s waist from behind and boldly lifted her up to stand on a wooden chair beside her.
“A queen deserves to be up on a throne,” a masculine voice said.
Evelyn gasped as she looked down on Jack. Dressed as a pirate, he wore black from his gleaming boots to his plumed hat. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing his bronzed throat and a sprinkling of dark hair. A sword and eye patch completed his look.
Evelyn recalled another time she had thought Jack the perfect pirate. In the dim back alley behind the Drury Lane Theatre, Jack had been dressed entirely in black. He had looked like a dashing, but dangerous pirate then as well.
“Dear Lord, Jack. You scared me half to death,” Evelyn said.
She realized her slip with formality as soon as his Christian name left her lips. Evelyn looked to Georgina who no doubt would believe her prior assumptions that Jack was her barrister were true.
<
br /> With as much dignity as she could muster, Evelyn stepped down from the chair.
“May I introduce Lady Georgina Stanford.” Motioning to Jack, Evelyn said, “This is Mr. Harding.”
Jack swept off his hat and bowed formally. “A pleasure, Lady Stanford.”
Georgina smiled charmingly. “Formal introductions are not necessary tonight, Mr. Harding. Mother believes it will add to the fun if her guests pretend anonymity, but I am pleased to meet you.”
“Your mother is wise. But pray tell me, rumors abound that she knows what costumes her guests selected before tonight and that she knows every guests’ identity behind their masks. Is it true?”
“You can ask her for yourself, Mr. Harding. She approaches with my father as we speak. Pardon my early escape, however, before my mother can barrage me with questions about a particular guest.” Georgina curtsied and hurried away.
Evelyn turned as a couple came forward.
Lady Cecilia, Viscountess Hamilton, was dressed as Queen Elizabeth, complete with neck ruff, voluminous skirts, white-powdered face, and towering red wig—a formidable presence, much like the queen she imitated. A renowned ton hostess, Cecilia took her annual masquerade quite seriously.
Maxwell Stanford, on the other hand, had not bothered with a costume. In his late fifties, he was still a handsome man with a full head of jet hair and trim build. His curled mustache reached far past his lip, from cheek to cheek.
The viscount’s eyes traveled from Jack and came to rest upon Evelyn. Instantly his gaze sharpened. His mustache twitched as one corner of his mouth twisted upward.
“Mr. Harding,” Lady Cecilia said. “I trust you are enjoying yourself.”
“Your ball is quite spectacular as are you yourself, my lady,” Jack said. “No other hostess can do it justice.”
Lady Cecilia smiled, instantly charmed. Her cheeks flamed as red as her wig. “I’m flattered, Mr. Harding.”
Evelyn wanted to roll her eyes. Only Jack could make the severe hostess blush.
The viscount spoke up, his rapier gaze boldly passing over Evelyn. “I know better than to ask the true identity of this lovely Cleopatra, but I hope you are enjoying the festivities as well.”
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