by Jaima Fixsen
“Wait.” Alistair caught her arm. “You misunderstand—” but she didn’t stay to hear. Shaking free, she slipped past the French doors and wove through the crowd, out of the ballroom and up the stairs to the family rooms.
She shut herself in a dark room, clenching and unclenching her hands, willing the blood to drain from her face before she had to rejoin Lady Fairchild in the ballroom.
Chapter Twenty-One
Misbehaving
Sophy was still churning with fury and embarrassment the next morning. She had managed to avoid Alistair the rest of the evening, ignoring his attempts to catch her eye. By pretending to fall asleep in the carriage, Sophy had delayed the inevitable post-mortem with Lady Fairchild, but she would certainly want to discuss the ball today. Sophy could not speak of what had happened to anyone, least of all Lady Fairchild. What would she say if she learned her own nephew had taken her outside and kind of—almost—kissed her?
He wouldn’t have tried such a thing with a respectable female, she thought angrily. Then reason took hold of her. Of course he would. He had probably done the same thing with scores of ladies. Next time, she would introduce his face to her fist.
Next time? What a joke! She’d been so clumsy, he’d never want to repeat that experience. Which was all to the good, because she certainly had no intentions of allowing him to ever—ever—be alone with her again.
Summoning a surly Betty, Sophy stalked to Curzon Street before Lady Fairchild awoke, arriving unconscionably early to call on Henrietta. Fortunately, Henrietta had no questions. She was full of her own schemes. Sophy knew Lady Fairchild would not approve of a Covent Garden masquerade, but Henrietta was not so particular.
“As long as we have suitable escorts there will be nothing untoward,” she assured Sophy. “And we will be masked, so you needn’t worry that anyone will find you out.”
It was tempting. Lord and Lady Fairchild were attending a reception at Carlton House this evening, and there of course, they could not bring Sophy.
“It will be easy,” Henrietta said. “Tell her you will be here, having dinner with me.”
“I don’t have a costume.”
“Pfftt.” Henrietta dismissed this objection. “I have masks and dominos already. Take a look.” Henrietta passed Sophy a bandbox containing two masks buried under an assortment of feathers and scraps of ribbon. The long cloaks she spread out on the bed for inspection.
“I’ll take the pink,” Henrietta said, fingering the thin silk. “Mama always says it is my best color. You can wear the other.”
It was a brilliant turquoise blue. Sophy imagined herself whirling through the dances, wonderfully anonymous under her mask. “Percy agrees?”
“Haven’t I said so? I’ll invite Jasper. He owes me something, after leaving my party early last night.”
“All right,” Sophy said. With a bounce of excitement, Henrietta threw her arms around Sophy, knocking the bandbox off the bed and waking her sleeping infant. Scooping him from the cradle, she set him on the bed and she and Sophy set to work soothing him, dangling ribbons and bits of finery for him to snatch and drool over.
“You will have a famous time,” Henrietta promised. “Wait and see.”
Sophy returned home in the afternoon to change her clothes for evening dress, feeding Lady Fairchild a story about a dinner party with Percy and Henrietta. But when she arrived for the masquerade at their house, Sophy was greeted with an unpleasant surprise. Jasper was not there.
“He wouldn’t come,” Henrietta said, interpreting Sophy’s horrified look as one of surprise. “So I recruited Alistair instead.”
“Cousin Sophy,” Alistair said, urbane as ever. “I’m happy to be of service.”
Constructing a reply was impossible. She glared at him instead. “Is Jasper unwell?” she asked, turning back to Henrietta.
“He’s sulking over something, the beast,” said Henrietta. “It will pass sooner if we ignore him. Don’t you think, Percy?”
“You know I don’t interfere between you and your brother,” Percy said. “Take Sophy upstairs and get ready so we can be off. Did you bring a mask, Beaumaris?”
Henrietta whisked Sophy upstairs. “Isn’t it fortunate that Alistair could come? All the ladies will be ready to scratch your eyes out.”
Sophy’s answering laugh was weak, but Henrietta was too busy to notice, directing her maid to bring a pair of diamond drops for Sophy’s ears.
“They’re pretty,” Sophy said, turning her head before the mirror so the jewels could wink at her.
“Aren’t they?” Henrietta allowed her maid to affix her mask and rearrange her curls. The same service was performed for Sophy and then they were both put into their dominos and the strings tied. It was a good disguise, Sophy concluded, with the hood drawn over her hair. She felt bolder under her gold spangled mask, a fortunate circumstance with Alistair in the party. She would do her best to ignore him.
“Perfect!” Henrietta said. “No one will be able to guess who we are. Do you like my pink?” Henrietta twirled, sending her cloak spinning out, revealing the silver net overdress of her gown. Her mask had paste brilliants in the eye corners to match. It was impossible not to catch some of her enthusiasm.
“You look like you’re out to wound hearts,” Sophy teased, and Henrietta burst into laughter.
“Maybe just one,” she said. Taking Sophy’s arm, she led her back down the stairs. “Well? Would you know us?” Henrietta asked, pausing halfway down.
“Yes. You forget your dimple,” said Percy. “But I believe I’m more familiar with your features than most.”
Henrietta cast Sophy a despairing glance. “Fish for compliments, and what do I get? Mere fingerlings. You’ll have to do better, my Lord, if you are to keep me at your side this evening.” In grand state, she descended the stairs and attached herself to her husband’s arm. Sophy followed more slowly, studying the pattern of the brocade covered walls.
“Still angry?” Alistair whispered, but Sophy pretended not to hear. It was easy enough, in the noisy street. Link boys dodged with frightening speed between the carriages rumbling along the cobbles. Alistair helped her into the carriage, taking the seat beside her despite her frosty glance. No one seemed to notice. The mask had some disadvantages, she realized, but it would make it much harder for him, should he try again to kiss her. She twitched her skirts away from Alistair’s well turned legs, annoyed at having to sit beside him. It was a cousin’s privilege, but she and Alistair were not related, however convenient it might be for some people to think so.
Arriving at the theatre, Sophy hardly noticed the masquerade. She was busy plotting and avoiding Alistair’s eye.
Percy had rented a box on the lowest tier where they could eat their supper and watch the spectacle. Henrietta was already darting avid looks through the crowd. “Is that Lady Saxby? No, it couldn’t be. Even she wouldn’t damp her skirts like that.” Percy nudged Henrietta, throwing a significant glance in Sophy’s direction.
As Alistair settled into the chair beside her—positioned far too close for her liking—Sophy turned away from the masquerade to face Percy. “Lord Fairchild was telling me about the debate in parliament on Lord Elgin's removal of the Greek marbles. What is your opinion, my lord?”
Henrietta’s head whipped around so she could stare incredulously at Sophy.
“Rather a thorny issue,” Percy said, shaking his head. “It’s hard to see it as anything but thievery, and yet the local Greeks did not scruple to destroy the stones for lime . . .”
Furious now, Henrietta leaned over to give Sophy a sharp pinch. She was unrepentant. Letting Alistair speculate with Henrietta on the identities of the revelers, she fed Percy questions all through supper. She did not brave a glance in Alistair’s direction until dessert. His eyes were resting on her boldly and he wore a smile more amused than deterred. He raised his glass in a silent toast and Sophy returned her eyes to her plate.
When the waiters, dressed like saracens with red tu
rbans and blackened faces, cleared away the plates, Henrietta rose from her chair. “I think it’s time we enjoyed ourselves,” she said with an accusing glare at Sophy. Percy, still mourning the marbles’ unfortunate state of preservation, missed his cue.
“Will you dance, Sophy?” Alistair asked, rising from his chair.
“I’m afraid something’s gotten inside my slipper. Do go ahead with Henrietta while I try to wiggle it out,” said Sophy.
Henrietta was radiating impatience; he agreed with a smirk. “When you are ready then, Sophy. There will be dancing for hours yet.”
Henrietta and Alistair exited the box, appearing moments later on the stage. Sophy watched them find a place in the set, noticing the masquerade at last. The backdrop behind the dancers was painted with a domed palace of crimson and yellow, surrounded by crazily leaning palm trees. Next to the dancers, this exotic scene paled to insignificance. They were garbed in domino cloaks of every hue and gargoyle-featured masks with long curving noses or court dresses of the previous century with face patches and powdered hair. She had never seen a real man in doublet and hose, looking as if he’d stepped out of a portrait frame. A lady in a dress with panniers too wide to pass through a door was somehow dancing the quadrille. How long had she had to practice walking in a frame that size? There was a woman in Roman costume dancing with a harlequin and a man in a Greek tunic with a sheepskin belted over his shoulders. Had he realized that dressing as Paris would be so uncomfortably hot?
“Is that lemonade?” Sophy asked, tilting her head in the direction of a refreshment table. “May I have some?”
“That is punch, which I believe you’d be better without,” Percy said. “I’ll have the waiter bring you some ratafia, if you would like.”
“No, I only fancied lemonade,” Sophy said quickly. A beverage was only helpful if it removed Percy from her side long enough for her to slip away. She might be able to hide herself in the corridor or behind the towering potted palms that were gathered in islands around the edges of the pit, conveniently screening some of the boxes. Alistair would come for her soon if she didn’t do something. She pinched her lips together in frustration.
“Would you care to dance?” Percy asked. Sophy nodded and they made their way to the stage, joining the other latecomers at the end of the set.
Marking time on the crowded floor, Sophy prepared to seize her chance. When the music ended and the dancers’ ordered pattern changed to a mill of confusion, she slipped out of Percy’s grasp.
“Sophy?”
He was turning after her, but there were advantages to being small. Dodging behind a corpulent monk, she left the stage and plunged into the pit, where masqueraders sallied to and fro. Some of them were hunting; others were trying to be caught. A corsair raised his quizzing glass at her, startling her with his magnified, goggling eye. Sophy retreated, edging between an Apollo and a Pompadour. Her cloak caught on the lady’s stiff lace, tugging back her hood. Sophy kept walking, ignoring the lady’s angry cry. She would be safe once she reached her goal.
She was nearing the boxes. A man in a green mask called after her as she passed, but she did not slow her steps. Their own box was empty, of course. She would be able to watch it from her hiding place. The next two boxes she merely glanced at, but as she passed the last, she froze. Tom Bagshot was there. He wore no costume, just a grey domino over his evening clothes and a silver mask pushed onto his forehead. Alerted by her sudden stop, he turned his head.
Alistair was forgotten. The shifting crowd, the grand display; they were gone too. There was only Tom, with a female at his elbow, a dark haired beauty who had to be wearing paint. Nobody had lips as red as that. She laughed, tilting her head confidingly at Tom. A moment late, Tom responded, turning away from Sophy, his mouth shaping itself into a familiar smile.
Sophy was curiously angry. Hadn’t that smile belonged to her? She was the one supposed to be making him laugh, sitting in the chair beside him. She took two strides before reason took hold of her. Halting, she closed her hands round the folds of her domino in tight fists.
What was she thinking, staring at him like a lack witted fool? The female beside him saw her, her scarlet mouth curling into a smile of bemusement and scorn. Slowly, Tom followed her eyes back to Sophy. His eyes held hers. Sophy felt herself tremble, cold with despair. Breaking free, she dove into the crowd, weaving her way to the stand of potted palms she had marked. The people closest to her would see her slip behind them, but would they care? It didn’t matter. She had to be alone, had to get hold of herself. Hoping fervently, she brushed through the branches and vanished.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Games of Chance
He couldn’t imagine why, but Sophy was here and she was alone. Without stopping to consider how this folly had come about, Tom embarked on his own.
“Forgive me. I need to . . .” What? There was nothing he could say, and he was already swinging over the front of the box, plunging into the crowd. All his reasons for avoiding Sophy disappeared, leaving only the question—why not? If he wanted to see her, why shouldn’t he? Wandering alone at a masquerade, there was no reason any man could not, he realized with a frown.
She moved quickly. In the press of people, Tom soon lost sight of her bright blue cloak and her flaming hair. The colors hardly stood out in this vivid jungle. He elbowed his way past yet another Turk. A woman dressed as an angel started toward him and then changed her mind.
Where was she? She couldn’t have disappeared. There were no doors here into the corridors. Tom moved to the edge of the pit to survey the crowd. He saw an Egyptian princess and a shepherdess, but no slight figure swathed in blue. A Mephistopheles was pursuing a laughing Daphne—despite the leaves woven around her arms he didn’t think she would resist as hard as she ought. Mephistopheles’ advances seemed quite welcome. No damsels turning into trees tonight . . . Tom turned and looked at the palms behind him. There were three of them, in giant brass urns. He moved closer, and thought he saw movement in the shadows behind them.
He’d found her. But was she alone? Tom thinned his mouth into a hard line, ignoring his sudden qualms. Sidling into the shadow of the nearest plant, he let his eyes wander the crowd. He must wait for the right moment, lest he draw unwelcome attention. Edging under the leaves, he spied a slice of blue through the foliage. Blue, and nothing else. He smiled and began to hum to himself. Here we go round the mulberry bush . . .
One last look at the pit. Mephistopheles was the only one who saw him; over Daphne’s shoulder he gave Tom a slow wink.
Tom stepped further in, keeping his cloak held tight. “Sophy!” he whispered.
She was hunched down, her head level with the top of the nearest urn, her fingers gripping the edge. Her hood had fallen back and her mask was hanging by its strings, so he was struck by the full force of her furious glare.
“What?” he asked, momentarily baffled.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Was she expecting someone else? Impossible. “I came to ask you the same question.”
“I’m here with Lord and Lady Arundel. I won’t ask after your party. A lady doesn’t notice bits of muslin,” she said nastily. Tom nearly choked.
“Bits of . . .” A laugh escaped him. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Sophy. The lady you take for—I suppose you think her my fancy piece?” Sophy didn’t answer, so he kept going, his face cracking into a wide grin. “That’s Anna Morris, the daughter of a friend of my late father.”
Sophy was red as a lobster, but she kept her dignity. “And you walked away from her without a word?”
Tom sucked in a breath through his teeth. He had. There were others in the box; Anna was not alone, but he had treated her exactly as a man might treat a paid companion, dropping her on sight of a new quarry.
“Merciful Lord,” Tom breathed. Anna was going to kill him.
“She isn’t then?” Sophy asked, interested anew. “She shouldn’t be so obvious with her paint. It sends ent
irely the wrong message.”
“Is that what your mother tells you? I thought she had a rather beautiful mouth.”
Sophy snorted. “Yes, I saw you hanging on her lips. ”
“Well, I was supposed to be,” Tom conceded. “And I was, until you gave me the start of my life. What are you doing here alone?” His question came out sharper than he intended. Sophy licked her lips.
“Hiding,” she muttered.
“From who?”
“The cousin, Alistair.” She cocked her head towards the ballroom, invisible through their leafy screen.
Tom lowered his voice. “Why do you need to hide, Sophy?”
She raised one shoulder in a delicate shrug, sending velvet shadows into the hollows of her collarbones. “I can’t explain.”
“Has he tried to take liberties?” Tom scowled.
Sophy’s face crumpled into a grin. “Hah! You look as fierce as my father.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“No.” It made no sense that she should be restored to sunny smiles. He wanted to shake her. He repeated his question.
“Did he insult you?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” She dropped her eyes. “It was more of an embarrassment than anything else. Every time I look at him I want to run away.”
“Your father? Your brother? They did nothing?” The brother was an ineffectual idiot, but surely her father—
“I didn’t tell them.”
“Why not?”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It was nothing really. Please let’s not speak of it. Won’t you sit down?” She asked as if she were at home in her parents’ drawing room, then spoiled the effect by grinning at him.
Already bent over double, it was some relief to settle beside her on the ground. Shielding her dress with her cloak, she slid back a few inches so she could lean against the wall, wrapping her arms around her drawn up knees. Tom copied her, unable to resist her folly. There would be all kinds of trouble if they were found here, never mind that they were hiding like a pair of truant children.