“Ha! Yes, that’s more like it.”
To shift his friend’s dangerous thoughts he talked of the masquerade set to take place the following evening. “Julia seems quite excited, which makes a nice change.”
“Yes, she almost seemed a little fey tonight.” Carmichael’s brows pushed together. “I do not remember her as being quite so flighty.”
“I admit, I feel uneasy. She has been quite moody of late, and talks of military men, and frequently mentions Hale. I cannot like it.”
“No.”
The patient ticking of the mantelpiece clock punctuated the room’s quiet.
“If she does marry him for convenience’s sake—”
“Julia?”
“No, Miss Winthrop, it is enough to make me wish I had been here so she might not have to resort to such desperate measures.”
“You?”
“Why not?” His smile glinted. “There is no need to look at me with such daggers. I am a single man, and your fair cousin—”
“Third cousin,” he growled.
“Your fair third cousin is quite fair these days. There is something about her lovely eyes …”
They pulled a man in. Made him want to drown in their sparkly depths. Gave dusky promise of a thousand tomorrows.
“Old man, are you quite all right?”
“Yes,” Jon grouched.
“Hmm. Well, I must say her looks have improved out of sight.”
“Now you sound like Hale, judging on appearance alone.”
“And you object why?”
He could say nothing.
“Old man, your attitude makes me think you a trifle envious.”
“Of what?”
“I know the delectable Miss Beauchamp is yours, but I confess to having noticed a want of affection from your side at least, that rather puts me in mind of the general’s. It is enough to make me think—”
“You do too much thinking, friend.”
“Perhaps.” Carmichael gazed at him steadily, until he could feel heat crawl up his neck. “Tell me, where does a man purchase violets at this time of year?”
Jon pushed to his feet and stalked from the room, closing the door against the sound of his friend’s gently mocking laughter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CATHERINE THREW THE book on the bedcovers, disgruntlement muddling her thoughts, making her unable to fix her attention for longer than a minute. She shifted up against the pillows. Going to bed early tonight was a stupid idea. How was she supposed to read? How was she supposed to sleep? She couldn’t. Not when everybody else was going to the masquerade.
Her desire to go to the ball had only increased after yesterday’s conversation around her birthday meal. She’d managed to sit at the dining table, artificial smile in place, as everyone save Mama, Serena, and herself discussed costumes and dances and music. For even Aunt Drusilla had consented to attend, with the general as her escort. He’d asked if Catherine should mind his attendance without her; she couldn’t very well say no, and he’d promised to go only for a short while, but still …
Perhaps ladies in mourning did not attend such things, but the initial flood of grief for her father was more an undercurrent of sadness now, sadness for her mother and sister, sadness for herself, even sadness for him. The rumors surrounding Papa had died down somewhat, but were enough to bring to mind the debts unpaid, the evenings of debauched laughter at the London house, her parents’ rows over his unexplained absences. Could the whispers be true? How could she hurt Mama by asking?
She pushed aside the weighty memories. Pushed aside the heavy bedcovers. If only she could go tonight. If only she could have the chance to dress up, and dance, and perhaps see—
Oh, if only society did not dictate one’s life quite so much!
A groan huffed out. Why did society insist on such burdensome rules anyway? Who had first decided what social customs designated right and wrong? What if that arbiter of society had been wrong? How could it hurt if she did attend? A masquerade meant she’d be disguised, nobody would recognize her, and if she could just have one chance to dance with him again, maybe he’d remember …
Catherine slipped from the bed and moved to the window. Studied the pedestrians outside, the carriages, the street lamp giving occasional glimpses of feathers, diamonds, and other accoutrements that signaled their wearers were headed to the Assembly Rooms. If only—
No. This was foolishness. She couldn’t go. Shouldn’t go. She was acting almost like Julia, whose inner restlessness showed in eyes that brightened too quickly before dulling into despondency. Last night, Catherine had snatched brief conversations with the younger girl—enough to worry for her, pray for her—but any time she probed, Julia simply shrugged off concern with a careless laugh. Talk of the ball had seemed to light Julia from within, her anticipation making her almost thrum with excitement. And for once, Catherine could empathize.
She shifted from the window to her wardrobe. Studied the contents. Sighed. Even if she could go she had nothing suitable to wear. Her pulse quickened. But Aunt Drusilla may.
A diplomat’s wife, Aunt Drusilla had spent time in Spain, her costume tonight simply an old-fashioned mantilla worn high on her head, a small concession to the masquerade. “For I am an older lady, and one does not want to appear dressed lamb-fashion.”
“You will outshine them all,” the general had said when he’d come to collect her, whilst Catherine had schooled her expression to not appear wistful as they departed.
Yes, Aunt Drusilla’s wardrobe. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to just look.
Catherine eased from her room, past the bedchamber of her mother, who had retired early, and hurried into her aunt’s room. Thank you, God. There was no maid.
She opened the wardrobe doors. Searched through the carefully hung gowns. Yes, just as she remembered. Down one end was the señorita outfit she had borrowed nearly three years ago in London. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to try it on, just to see if it still fit? Heart hammering, she snatched it up. Found the matching gloves. Added a black velvet domino. Remembered the mask. She hunted through the drawers. Nothing. Glanced at her aunt’s dressing table. Saw the couple of masks neatly arranged, seized the red one, returned to her room. Changed. Studied her reflection in the looking glass. Bit her lips until they glowed pink. Added the diamond earbobs Papa had given her at her come out. The necklace of pearls and gold.
Yes.
Memories arose. A balmy spring evening in London. The thrill of new love, laughter, dancing. Oh, how she had loved to dance with him, their movements as easy as their conversation had always been. Perhaps she was not as slim as three years ago, there was more curve now, but surely the bodice was not too low. She bit her lip. There would be many ladies showing a great deal more skin. Besides, she’d be disguised …
If she went.
Her heart thudded painfully. She shouldn’t. It would be a scandal to top all else if she were discovered.
But how could she waste this opportunity? How could she spend the rest of her life wondering, regretting? It might be the last time to remind him of who she once was, to remind him of what they once had. Wouldn’t that be a good thing?
If she went.
She shouldn’t. She couldn’t! How could she get there, anyway?
Even if the general had not already departed, she could not have asked him. He might be willing to do many things for her, but he would not do that, being such a stickler for honor and appearances. Aunt Drusilla would have simply been horrified, and liable to make such a fuss. Mama would awaken, demand to know all, and banish Catherine back to Winthrop at once. Who else? Miss Pettigrew? Julia? Julia might sympathize, but her assistance would be limited, besides which her propensity for trouble would likely lead to much more than a simple passage to the Assembly Rooms …
But wait. One of the reasons Aunt Drusilla preferred Gay Street was its proximity to so many of Bath’s chief attractions. The Assembly Rooms were only a few twists and turns away. Sure
ly she could walk there, and there was no danger, not with the pedestrians still plying the street. And how could it hurt, especially if she wore the domino as disguise?
If she went.
She stared at her masked reflection, as wisps of memory taunted anew. His intake of breath at her appearance. His warm smile. His laughter. His hands, holding hers. The way they’d danced in perfect unison. His deep, deep voice as he’d whispered, “If ever any beauty I did see, which I desir’d, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.”
Her heart thumped. How could she forgo a final reminder of that dream?
Collecting a deep breath, she eased open her door, stole past her mother’s silent bedchamber, down the central stairs. Snatches of laughter drifted from downstairs, the servants no doubt relishing an earlier night than usual. On the hall table, Dobson had left a candelabra burning, its light too bright, hurrying her movements. She slowly opened the front door. It squeaked gently, but nothing signaled that anyone had heard. Left unlocked, Catherine could easily reenter, her escapade unnoticed—provided she returned before Aunt Drusilla.
She stepped out into the darkness. The route to the Assembly Rooms was one she had walked many times before. A turn onto George Street, left onto Bartlett, then onto Alfred. She hastened her steps, a lone woman was not safe, even if some people thought Bath’s chief inhabitants only feeble old men. Relief bloomed within at the sight of the glowing flambeaux lighting the entrance. Groups moved to the colonnaded great doors, through which spilled strains of merriment and music. Now to get inside …
Her heart sank. She had no voucher! Oh, why hadn’t she thought this through?
A large party of revelers moved slowly to the entrance. She inched through the shadows to hover in the dim outskirts, avoiding eye contact as they laughed amongst themselves.
“Well, hello!”
She jumped. Glanced up to see a middle-aged man peering at her. Her brain scrambled for something to say. “Hola.”
He laughed. “I didn’t know we had a señorita in our midst.”
“You do now, señor,” she said and smiled. Perhaps if she stayed in character, and spoke the little Spanish she remembered from Aunt Drusilla’s lessons long ago, tonight might prove as successful as her last venture to a masque.
The older man who appeared in charge presented his vouchers, and she shuffled to the opposite side, glad the black domino didn’t draw attention. Amid the bustle and bright chatter she inched forward, closer, closer to the door.
“Excuse me, miss.”
The party began moving, so she walked quickly, without a backward glance.
“Miss!”
Catherine dashed inside, exhilaration pounding her chest as she threaded through another large crowd then hurried downstairs to the changing room, all the while marveling at the variety of costumes—and the fact that she was actually here. After removing the domino, she glanced at her costume. Smiled. It did look well, even if the neckline felt a little low.
“Miss?”
She jumped. “Y-yes?”
A woman dressed as Columbine motioned to Catherine’s hair. “Your comb is simply beautiful.”
“Th-thank you.” She had been unable to resist using Julia’s gift, a seed pearl and gold comb, to prop up the black lace mantilla. But unlike Aunt Drusilla’s, Catherine’s veil did not hide all her hair. She offered the kind lady a compliment on her dress, and carefully retied the ribbons on her mask, before noticing the ample girth of Mrs. Lampscombe in the background. Her pulse spiked as she maneuvered around the kindly Columbine.
“Ah, a pretty señorita.” Mrs. Lampscombe eyed her dress. “There are a few of you here tonight.”
“Si, señora.”
“Hmm, well.” Mrs. Lampscombe frowned, glanced at Catherine one more time, then bustled self-importantly away.
When Catherine’s heart had resumed its regular beat, she moved back up the stairs to the ballroom. The trick as a single lady was to walk purposefully, to make it seem as if she was with a party. The mask provided confidence, her recent encounters giving assurance that while she might not go unnoticed, she could still pass undetected. Of course, if Aunt Drusilla saw her …
Her heart picked up pace again. But her aunt’s recognition was unlikely, seeing as she much preferred conversation to dancing, and would likely spend the night with her cronies—and the general—in the Tea Room. She moved to stand near the fireplace, the flames warming her back as she stood partially obscured by the plumes waving from the headdresses of the older ladies sitting in front. Before her, a cavalcade of dancers performed a country-dance. Mrs. Lampscombe was correct. Catherine could see at least two other señoritas amongst the other costumes, which also included a shepherdess, a Cupid, several Grecian-inspired characters, as well as several from the Medieval and Elizabethan ages.
“Good evening.” A man’s voice breathed beside her.
She glanced up. Stiffened. Was that Lord Carmichael dressed as a chevalier? The viscount had never really noticed her; surely he would not recognize her now? She dipped a curtsy, lowered her eyes, lowered the pitch of her voice. “Si, señor.”
“May I say you are the prettiest señorita here tonight?”
She held her fan close to her face, and peeked up. “Si, señor.”
He grinned. “Tell me, can you say anything beyond those two words?”
“Si, señor.” She glanced around. If she could get away …
Her heart thumped. Aunt Drusilla was walking toward her beside the general!
“Would you care to dance?”
If she danced, he might recognize her. But if she did not dance, Aunt Drusilla would definitely recognize her. “Si, señor.”
He laughed, drawing her by the hand. It was another country-dance, one in which she need not mind her steps, as she had danced it many times before.
The general moved within her line of sight. He had not bothered to dress up, having said the previous day that his military coat should suffice, especially as he’d earned it the hard way, unlike the foolish dandies who hired theirs. She paced back. The general was turning, turning—
“Excuse me, sir.” Leaving a nonplussed viscount, she rushed behind a man dressed in a Hindustani turban and robes, allowing his passage through the room to screen her, until she reached the relative sanctuary of the room’s corner. There, people milled together, their figures alternately shielding her from view and affording glimpses of the dancing.
A pink señorita turned her head to stare. Catherine waved her fan to cool herself as she kept searching, searching. In another corner she recognized Julia, her fair hair dressed with flowers apropos of the Greek goddess Persephone, talking animatedly to a dark-haired man who, though his back be to her, reminded Catherine somewhat of Major Hale. In yet another she saw Lady Milton and Perry, neither of whom had bothered to dress up, chatting with Mrs. Lampscombe. The room twirled with color and magic and crystals, a plethora of the fanciful: soldiers, Greek gods and goddesses, comic and classical figures. Oh, where was—?
There! Her heart threatened to escape the thin satin of her gown. How handsome he looked, dressed as a chevalier like his friend. For despite the black mask, the tall blond figure could never be disguised too effectively.
“Good evening.”
Catherine froze. Turned. Recognized the green eyes glittering behind the diamond-encrusted silver mask. Recognized that only one matron could appear so modish simply by the addition of star-shaped diamonds embroidered onto a clinging black gown and nestled in the high black wig which covered the natural color of her hair. Her smile remained fixed as she curtsied. “G-good evening, mi señora.”
The emerald gaze scanned Catherine’s costume before offering a tiny nod. “I see you are aware of me but, alas, I remain in the dark.”
“But you are the night sky, are you not?”
For a moment the figure in black stilled, before a small chuckle came from behind the mask. “Well said, my dear.”
As the scrutiny continued, C
atherine lifted the fan to hide her face. How could she escape?
“I confess to admiring your earrings very much.”
“Gracias, señora.”
Her heart panged amidst the color and noise and the fear of discovery. Poor Papa, trying to buy her affection through expensive trinkets. She lowered her head, blinking away the burn in her eyes.
“Ah, now I see.” At the purr in the voice she peeked up. “That is a very pretty comb.”
Catherine’s breath caught.
Lady Harkness chuckled. “You surprise me, my dear. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
She gasped. Lady Harkness had recognized her?
“Carlew, who is that divine creature in red talking to your mother?”
Jonathan watched the figure carefully, tiny sparks of half recognition flickering as she bent her head. “I am not sure.”
“I managed half a dance with her before she ran away.”
“Losing your charm, are you?”
“Never! She simply must not have known it was me.”
“Which is rather the point of a masquerade, is it not?”
“Well, yes. But anyone with half an eye can tell it is you underneath that getup.”
Jon shrugged. Dressed in a French cavalier style as Carmichael had insisted, the faint ridiculousness he’d felt at home had quickly worn off, surrounded as he was by others who looked far more foolish.
“I shall ask your mother to introduce me, and insist on finishing my dance with the pretty señorita.”
“As you wish.”
Carmichael grinned and disappeared through the throng.
Good luck to him. Jon did not want to dance. He’d fulfilled his obligations by dancing with his sister and mother, but his feet might as well have lead in them.
“Excuse me, sir?” Mr. Donaldson, the master of ceremonies, bowed. “May I offer the hand of a Miss Galbraith, should you be seeking a partner?”
“Of course.” It was ungentlemanly to refuse. Jon bowed to the young lady, whose smile suggested she’d despaired of finding a partner. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, sir.” The young blonde shepherdess curtsied, and he led her out to join the set that was just forming. As he waited for their turn, he scanned the room. With the advantage his height provided, he could see his mother and the señorita had disappeared, whilst Julia was in the next set, dancing with young Milton, a twist to her lips that suggested disgust. Carmichael he could not see. Had he found his mystery lady?
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 24