by Jo Beverley
“A pirate wench?” Thea echoed.
“There was a buccaneer ball at Long Chart. Such a long time ago. That was where I met your father.” The duchess sighed happily. “A very sprightly costume—it even has a dagger. Would you like to wear it?”
Thea took out the scarlet satin skirt with golden trim but saw that it would reach only halfway down the calf. “I don’t think so,” she said and rewrapped it, knocked for a loop by this glimpse into her parents’ younger days.
“What about Good Queen Bess?” her mother asked, showing some brocade.
“That sounds hot and heavy.”
“Yes, it was, even for a winter event. Ah, what about this?” She pulled a length of white cloth out of a box with one hand and a large silver shape with the other. “The goddess Minerva.”
Goddess.That immediately appealed to Thea.
“What is this?” Thea asked, taking the lumpy silver tube. It was surprisingly light and she saw it was made of felt with a very thin layer of metal foil on top.
“Armor,” her mother said. “Roman style. For the upper body. You know—Minerva sprang fully armed from the brain of Jupiter?”
Now that Thea knew how to look at the object in her hands, she could see that it was indeed a sort of corset made to fit a woman’s upper body—curved to every detail.
“Mama, youwore this? Visibly?”
Her mother turned pink, but her eyes were sparkling. “The robe goes over it.” She displayed the white cloth, which was a long sleeveless robe with a Greek key design around the hem.
“The almost transparent robe,” Thea pointed out, “and I’ll be naked from the waist down.”
“You wear a shift beneath, of course, but there’s a metal skirt.” The duchess found another garment, this time made of strips of silver.
“That can only come down to the knee!” Thea protested.
“This is a masquerade, Thea, not Almack’s.” The duchess looked around and pointed at another stack of boxes labeled “Heads.” “There’s a helmet,” she told one of the maids. “Large, silver, and with an owl on top.”
“An owl?” Thea echoed.
“Minerva’s symbol. For wisdom. I should have been carrying it, but there’s a spear to manage as well. Perhaps in that corner,” she said to another maid. “So we had the owl put on the helmet. It’s well designed. Once on, one hardly notices it.”
Thea looked at the bosomy silver torso, the metal skirt, and the filmy fabric that would not hide much. She’d promised herself the most outrageous….
Be careful what you promise. When would she learn?
“Sandals,” the duchess said, digging into the empty muslin in the original box and finding them—Roman sandals with long silver ribbons that must wind all the way up to the knees. Which would, of course, be exposed by that ridiculous skirt.
Thea put the armor aside and held the robe against herself. When she looked down it trailed on the ground.
“Belt,” said her mother. “There’s a chain of silver in the safe.”
The robe would cover her, and at least veil the armor and her legs, but it would leave her arms bare. “No gloves, I assume.” She said it wryly, so her mother laughed as if it were a joke.
“But bracelets and armbands,” the duchess said. “They’re in the safe, too. The costume will suit you, dear, for you have natural dignity and are wise as Minerva.”
That was meant as a compliment, but to Thea it sounded like dull, dull, dull. There was only one possible decision. “Very well. Let’s take it downstairs and have a dress rehearsal.”
“You truly did wear this, Mama?” Thea asked, staring at herself in the mirror.
“Twice,” said the duchess, still carrying the long spear as if she liked the feel of it.
Or was it a halberd? There was a hatchet blade as well as a point.
“I have sweet memories of the pirate costume,” the duchess said, “but the Minerva was my favorite. So much easier to play the part. You must memorize some clever advice for when people ask you for Minerva’s wisdom.”
“Beware of duchesses wielding blades?”
Her mother laughed. “I never had to attack anyone with it. That does look very well. Believe it or not, my figure was much like yours when I was young. Such a tiny waist I had.”
And a generous bosom, Thea thought. Thea was grateful the bodice fit a little loosely there. It lessened the feeling that her breasts, her shape down to her waist, might as well be naked. To her, accustomed to high-waisted gowns, this appeared much more shocking than the lowest of her low evening bodices. She didn’t repeat,You wore this, Mama? but she thought it.
Of course in her mother’s younger days ladies were accustomed to showing their shape down to their waist, but even so….
She was wearing the skirt now, and the shift beneath, but both came down only to her knees. Could she really go out in public showing her lower legs?
She sat so Harriet could put on the sandals, but when she stood and looked, the cross-woven ribbons did not provide much decency. She grabbed for the robe. Once she had the flowing robe over all it wouldn’t be so bad. Then she realized it was open down the front.
Her mother fastened the silver chain girdle, but the flimsy cloth still fell open above to reveal part of her silver torso and below to show her lower legs as she walked.
You wore this, Mama?
Thea felt shaky, as if solid ground had turned fluid under her feet. She’d always tried to behave correctly, but now she didn’t know what that meant.
Maria Harroving had a shady reputation, but she was still accepted everywhere.
Maddy shocked people, but she wasn’t excluded.
The Duchess of Yeovil—the epitome of respectability—had attended masquerades as a gaudy pirate wench and a half-naked Minerva.
Very well. It was clearly time for change.
A maid presented the helmet—a ridiculously large silver bowl that would cover her hair and even incorporated a mask of sorts. Bits flared out from the sides to cover her cheeks and met a nasal that ran down to the tip of her nose.
And on top sat a small, silver-feathered owl.
Her mother settled the helmet in place. It must have been made of cork, and it was thickly padded inside so it was surprisingly comfortable. Comfortable, that was, for a large, enclosing bowl crowned with an owl.
“It will be horribly hot. And how do I dance in this?”
“With difficulty, but you take it off for the unmasking and there will be hours of dancing after that.” The duchess put the halberd into her hand. “There. What memories it brings back.”
Thea turned to the mirror again and suddenly felt like someone different. Someone who could have adventures and perhaps even a little exciting insanity. Someone worthy of another fiery kiss. She realized she was disappointed that Darien hadn’t attempted to kiss her since that first time.
Did he not want to?
She wouldn’t allow that thought. In fact, she’d demand a thorough kiss as her reward for doing this. Why should he always get to set the terms?
She wished there wasn’t nearly a week to wait.
And a very frustrating week it was.
That evening, she and her family went to the theater, with Cully, Avonfort, and his sister Deborah as guests. Darien was present, but in other company. The plan was already in operation and he was in the box belonging to the Duke of Belcraven. It sat on the opposite side of the stage to the Yeovil box, which meant a large distance but an excellent view.
The Duke and Duchess of Belcraven were there, as was his heir, the Marquess of Arden and his marchioness. Arden was a Rogue, though if the plan was working, few would think of that. They would merely see Darien in the approving company of another elite family.
Darien was affably keeping his part of the bargain, and when his eyes met hers across the theater, he bowed slightly, as if saying, “See? I keep my promises.” If his teeth were gritted, it wasn’t obvious. Hers were because Avonfort kept making snide
comments about rabid dogs and bloody doorsteps.
“Gads,” he said as they rose at the second intermission, intending to stroll in the gallery. “What’s Ball doing there?”
They glanced back to see Sir Stephen and Lady Ball entering the Belcraven box, clearly to speak to Darien. Another Rogue, and this time a respected politician.
“Perhaps he hopes to recruit Darien to the reformist party,” Thea said as they continued out of the box.
“Dangerous nonsense,” Avonfort said.
“Recruiting him?”
“Reform.”
“All reform?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
“With riot and mayhem in every quarter, it’s the worst possible time to be changing anything.”
“Perhaps there’s riot and mayhem because things need changing,” Thea pointed out.
“Typical of a woman to come up with a silly idea like that.”
With difficulty, Thea accepted that this wasn’t the time for a raging argument. “Bonnets and trimming areso much more important,” she simpered.
He didn’t catch her sarcasm. Instead, he smiled indulgently. “Anything that makes you prettier, my dear.”
If her fan were a pistol, she might well have shot him. Darien would have understood, but Darien would never have expressed such narrow-minded ideas. Yes, despite his many faults, he had a quick understanding and an open and flexible mind.
She knew then that she wasn’t going to marry Avonfort, but that didn’t fill her with joy. It wasn’t as if she could marry a Cave instead. Her future had recently seemed solid, stable, and orderly; now she faced uncertainty and even chaos.
She fired the thought in Darien’s direction.My life was all in good order before you came on the scene, you wretched man!
When they returned to their box, two men were taking their leave of Darien in the Belcraven one. One was silver-haired and slightly rotund, and the other was much younger, dark-haired, and elegant.
“Isn’t that Charrington?” Thea asked, pointedly. The Earl of Charrington, an epitome of fashion and sophistication, was more Avonfort’s type.
“With the Austrian ambassador!” Avonfort exclaimed. “He won’t be pleased at having to talk to Darien.”
As if in direct contradiction, the silver-haired man laughed and slapped Darien on the back.
“Probably knows him from the war,” Thea said, managing not to smirk.
She was truly impressed. The Earl of Charrington was a Rogue. He’d been raised in diplomatic circles, but even he wouldn’t be able to force an ambassador to go where he didn’t want to go, or to show genuine warmth when there. It was genuine warmth. As she took her seat, she could see it reflected in Darien.
At the next intermission, three military officers with a great deal of gold braid indicating high rank crammed into the Belcraven box and carried Darien away, chatting and laughing.
Thea glanced at her mother and they shared a smile.
“Very satisfactory,” the duchess said.
It was, but from Thea’s point of view it had been a dull and disappointing evening.
The next day was Sunday, and she and her parents attended service at St. George’s, Hanover Square, which they often did. Despite the name, the fashionable church did not sit in the square, but it was close enough to be a natural place of worship for Lord Darien. The plan was that they again show their favor, but Thea attended church in an unseemly eagerness. She looked forward to discussing last night’s triumph and how he was feeling about the Rogues.
She saw him across the church, noting as well the people who were still uneasy. Quite a few would be residents of Hanover Square with good reason to distrust a Cave. One of them could be the person responsible for splashing blood on his doorstep.
She leaned close to her mother to murmur, “No more bloody doorsteps?”
“No, but the Rogues set people to watch the house at night.”
“Even before yesterday?”
“Yes.”
Thea hoped he never learned of that.
Darien was with a fat young man in ridiculous clothes. Surely not his beloved brother. No, he’d be in uniform anyway. She wondered who he was. He didn’t look like Darien’s type at all.
After the service, her mother went straight for Darien and his companion, who was introduced as Mr. Uppington, who’d been a subaltern in Darien’s regiment. As an explanation, that left a lot to be desired. The young man seemed both willing to please and very stupid.
She had no opportunity for private conversation with Darien. Most people dined country style on Sunday, quietly with family in the early afternoon. Thea’s mother invited Darien and his friend, which gave Thea a moment’s hope, but he and Uppington were engaged to dine at Maria Vandeimen’s house. How very unfair.
Chapter 24
Darien had no idea why his goddess looked cross, but he would have liked to spend time with her and find out. Having Pup around, however, was like having a troublesome child. He couldn’t be let out of sight without some mishap—last night it had been cockfighting and he’d had his pocket picked and his watch stolen—but Darien was busier than ever. He needed a keeper, preferably a wife, and Maria had offered to help.
As they walked to Van’s house, Darien tried to prepare the ground. “So, Pup. What are your plans?”
“Plans?” Pup repeated the word as if this might be a new game. Then he said, “Astley’s?”
Astley’s was the theater known for circuses and spectacles.
“I mean for your future. Now you’ve had a taste of London, are you ready to settle down?”
“Settle down?”
Holding on to his patience, Darien laid it out. “You’ve a neat little fortune now, Pup. You’ll want a place of your own. A house. An estate. A wife.”
“Wife?”
“A pretty woman to come home to. Someone who’ll delight in arranging everything just as you like it.” A sensible person who’ll take care of you like the overgrown child you are.
“Oh, awife ,” Pup said, as if it were a novel idea. “Don’t know about that, Canem. Ladies don’t seem much interested in me.”
Darien almost said,You have money now. You only need to show yourself to be hooked. That wasn’t the image to plant in Pup’s mind.
“You’re here in London in the season. Lovely ladies hanging on every bough, waiting to be picked.”
“Like at Violet Vane’s?”
“Ladies, Pup. Respectable women. The sort you marry.”
“Oh. Wife, eh?” Pup said, clearly still getting to grips with the concept.
His tone was that of a lad presented with his first hunter—thrilled, but nervous about the animal’s size and power. He’d never been a coward, however. Foxstall would say he hadn’t the wits to know when to be afraid, and he might be right, but that meant that if the right lady could be found Pup would probably mount her without flinching.
Darien pushed that image out of his mind and steered Pup into Van’s house.
Maria greeted Pup with good manners and a motherly touch, instantly putting him at his ease. As they dined, she gently interviewed him, framing questions so simply that he soon relaxed and adored her. Darien began to worry that Pup would try to become Maria Vandeimen’s lapdog. He’d not intended to off-load his burden in that way.
She introduced the subject of marriage in a roundabout way, rambling on about her first and second marriages. Both were painted as havens of calm and stability. Darien knew nothing of her first marriage, but if Van provided calm and stability, Canem Cave was a ninety-year-old washerwoman.
Amusement died when Maria turned to ask Darien about his own marriage plans.
“None as yet.”
“You will want an heir,” she stated, ringing for servants to bring the second course.
“Doubt it. Frank may oblige. If not, the Cave line will die. Who will mourn?”
“It deserves to live if only for you.”
That startled and perhaps embarrassed him. “We’re
here to discuss Pup’s prospects,” he reminded her.
“I am capable of driving two horses at once, Darien.”
“In different directions?” he countered, and she chuckled.
“Touché. I will steer one and then turn my attention to the other.”
“My head’s spinning at the image presented.”
She laughed again. “You are very literal, are you not? Ignore images and put yourself in my hands and you will be the beginning of an honorable line.”