by Farr, Diane
Her grandmother’s attic had yielded several trunks of carefully-preserved court clothes from the previous century and an old, but still usable, box of hair powder. There were wigs, but Lilah had shuddered at the thought of donning one; they were heavy and nasty with old pomade. The powder would have to do. Miss Pickens helped her dress her hair high and off her face—although it was too short to achieve the loftiness of some of the wigs—and together, with much laughter and sneezing, they inexpertly powdered Lilah’s hair. Now the weird whiteness of her hair somehow made the delicate, bird’s wing sweep of her brows appear startlingly dark, and in the absence of surrounding color her green eyes, framed by sooty lashes, glittered like jade-colored ice. When she put the gown back on and tied a tiny silk mask over her eyes, the transformation was complete. Lilah stared at the pier glass, pleased and astonished.
And a little frightened.
She was going to a masquerade. Secretly going, for she hadn’t been invited. And she was going with Drake. Alone. This was probably the naughtiest thing Lilah had ever done. Her heart beat faster at the thought, and the mysterious girl in the mirror smiled a cat-like smile. Fun, Drake had promised her. Yes. This was going to be great fun.
Drake called for her punctually that evening and she fairly danced halfway down the stairs to meet him, as giddy as a schoolgirl. He paused in the hall and looked up at her, his hawk eyes glinting with appreciation. “Very pretty,” he said. “Been raiding your grandmother’s attic?”
“Précisément, m’sieur,” Lilah replied saucily. She swept a dainty curtsey. “I am glad it meets with your approval.”
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“Marie Antoinette.”
He gave a derisive snort. “Too common. There will be a dozen Antoinettes. You are not the only lady with access to her grandmother’s attic.”
Lilah looked resentfully at Drake’s costume, which, as far as she could see, was nonexistent. He appeared to be wearing ordinary evening dress. “I could come up with nothing else on such short notice. And look at you! You have not even bothered with a costume.”
“One of the many advantages of being male,” he told her, with the hint of a smile. “I have brought a domino. That will suffice.” He showed her the black silk cape he carried over one arm.
She looked down her nose at him. “There will be more men in dominoes, I daresay, than ladies dressed as Marie Antoinette. So do not scold me for lack of originality.”
“Was I scolding you? Heaven forbid.” He took her hand and leaned toward her, whispering close to her ear. “Go further back in time and be Madame de Pompadour,” he suggested wickedly. “You look very like her in that gown.”
Lilah glanced sideways at him, unsure whether he meant to compliment her or not. “Madame de Pompadour was not a respectable person,” she told him primly.
“No,” he agreed. His eyes traveled over Lilah’s petite form. “But she was enchanting.”
Lilah flushed with pleasure. “Was she?”
“She captivated a king.”
Lilah tossed her head daringly and assumed her best French accent. “Alors! I would like very much to captivate a king. Do you think such a one will attend the masquerade of your aunt?”
“I’m fairly confident of it. There is usually at least one Louis XIV, and several Louis XVIs for good measure.”
She opened her eyes at him. “Louis fourteen, Louis sixteen—but no Louis fifteen?”
“Alas, no. It’s difficult to impersonate a king whose sole distinguishing feature was his excellent taste in women.”
“Ah, my poor Louis. He was not enough flamboyant.” She tapped her chin with her index finger as if thinking. “I must, of a certainty, be La Pompadour tonight.”
Drake’s shoulders shook. “Your father is likely to murder me for this,” he remarked. “Let us hope he is too distracted by my theft of his bride to realize that I encouraged his daughter to impersonate a courtesan.”
Lilah reverted promptly to her own accent. “Encouraged me?” she gasped, indignant. “Forced me, you should say! This entire plan is yours from start to finish.”
“Lower your voice, for pity’s sake.” Drake caught up Lilah’s cloak and tossed it to her. He then placed a firm hand at her waist and bundled her hastily out the front door. “And stop squawking,” he commanded, stepping past the footman to open the door of the coach for her himself. “You’ll bring Miss Pickens down on our heads before we get safely away.”
Lilah did stop squawking, but her eyes widened as she took in the details of the small, but elegant, coach. She halted on the step, resisting the insistent hand pushing at the small of her back. “Are we riding in a closed carriage together?” Panic edged her voice.
“I will ride beside the coach, as escort.”
“Oh. Th—thank you.”
Feeling foolish, she allowed herself to be handed in and, with difficulty, sat. It took nearly a minute to arrange the folds of her skirt to her satisfaction, but she finally decided upon a posture that would result in a minimum of crushing to the voluminous costume. Out the side window, she saw Drake swing easily into the saddle of an enormous black gelding, and they were off.
He was right about Miss Pickens. It would have been disastrous to bring her into the picture. Lilah felt slightly guilty when she thought of how she had misled her faithful henchwoman. She hadn’t lied to her, exactly. But the reason why Miss Pickens had not objected to this adventure was that she was under the impression (an impression Lilah had not corrected) that Drake’s great-aunt was expecting them. And she doubtless believed that the party was taking place on the other side of Hyde Park, not out in the country somewhere. Lilah had told Miss Pickens that she was going to see her father tonight and meet her father’s intended bride. This was true, as far as it went—but Lilah suspected that Miss Pickens would never have let her out the door, had she known that Drake and Lilah were planning an ambush. And certainly not if she had known that Drake was actually taking Lilah out of London.
She journeyed toward the ball in solitary state, like Cinderella in her gilded coach—wearing gorgeous and unfamiliar clothing, heading for an unknown destination, and without a clue as to what the evening would bring. Lilah wondered if Cinderella had felt this nervous. She probably had. Lilah, unlike Cinderella, was not flouting the authority an all-powerful stepmother. She had no stepmother to defy—at least, not yet. Doubtless her would-be stepmother would disapprove of Lilah’s actions tonight as thoroughly as Cinderella’s stepmother had. She could only hope that she and Drake succeeded tonight, so Eugenia would never have the chance to lock Lilah in the attic to punish her.
Despite Drake’s assurances to the contrary, Lilah could not help picturing Miss Mayhew as a thoroughly nasty and spiteful person. She was probably warty. And hook-nosed. Yes. She must have a hooked nose.
Pleasantly occupied in these silly fantasies, Lilah failed to notice when the lights of London were left behind. The sun had gone down some time ago, and the sky had deepened to a star-spangled purple. From time to time she caught a glimpse of Drake as he rode up beside the coach to say something to the driver, but for the most part he stayed out of sight. It seemed a long time before the coach slowed and turned into a long drive choked with carriages. Lilah could not stand the suspense; she placed her hands against the window frame and leaned out like a child, peeking ahead.
Trees arched above the drive, nearly meeting in a tangle of limbs overhead. The darkness beneath would have been complete had it not been for the glow of carriage lamps lining the drive and the splash of light from nearly every window of the house that lay a hundred yards or so from where her coach had stopped. It was a large house, larger than Chadwick Hall, but not palatial. Even at this distance she could hear the sound of rollicking music and the roar of many voices conversing at once. There seemed to be laughter lacing the roar, and a few feminine shrieks. It must be quite a party.
Lilah swallowed. Her throat suddenly felt dry. Exactly how wild would this gat
hering be? She had never attended any party, let alone a fast one, unchaperoned. Masquerades, she had always been told, were dangerous. Hidden safely behind their disguises, people behaved scandalously, doing and saying things they would never normally dare. What this shocking behavior entailed had never been very clear to her, but she had a feeling she was about to find out.
Drake’s horse suddenly loomed up beside her, startling her. He leaned down toward her from the saddle. “Shall we walk from here? The drive is graveled.”
She nodded, afraid that if she spoke he would hear the nervousness in her voice. He swung lightly down off the horse and handed the bridle to his waiting groom, then reached for the handle of the coach door and helped her to alight.
“Put your mask on,” he ordered. She obeyed, tying the strings with trembling fingers. Drake followed suit, donning his mask and domino, then extended his arm to her. With a deep breath, she took it. He paused for a moment, looking down at her. She looked up inquiringly, but his expression was impossible to read through his mask in the half-light.
“Courage, Miss Chadwick,” he said lightly, and squeezed her hand for comfort. “If Fimber refuses to admit us, it will only be Lord Drakesley and an unidentified companion who have been turned away in disgrace—not you. And at least it was a pleasant evening for a drive.”
She gave him a rather shaky smile. And together they walked to meet whatever lay ahead.
Chapter 7
She was swimming in an ocean of noise. Dazzled by the riot of light and color all around her, Lilah halted in the foyer and waited for Drake to catch up with her. He was conferring with the butler and, she suspected, tipping the old man lavishly. She saw the butler’s well-trained face slip momentarily into a broad smile before he bowed and waved Drake in.
So, Drake had been right. Whatever trials were in store for them this night, at least they had not been humiliated at his great-aunt’s door.
As he stepped past the bowing butler, Drake flashed a conspiratorial smile at her. Lilah felt her breath catch. She had not looked at him fully until now, in the glow of dozens of candles and against this glittering backdrop. He was overwhelming. The black silk domino and mask reminded her of her initial impression: again he looked more like a highwayman than an earl. The flowing cape shrouded his tall person from neck to heel, making him seem a towering figure of menace—or romance. She wasn’t sure which. But when he moved toward her and the swirling silk parted, revealing the understated elegance of his evening attire, her impression shifted again. He looked like both a highwayman and an earl. The combination should have been incongruous. In Drake, it was not.
Confusion and alarm chased each other through her thoughts. She felt much too drawn to him. It was dangerous. He was dangerous. He reached her side, overshadowing her, forcing her to look up to meet his eyes. She didn’t like it. She disliked men who dominated, men who had that hateful air of command—an attitude Drake had in abundance. She disliked feeling powerless and weak. And he definitely made her feel weak. When her eyes met his, something at the core of her being, something vital, turned to mush. She couldn’t think properly. She couldn’t breathe properly. Her knees trembled.
And she didn’t like it one bit, she told herself, fighting the sensation as his gloved hand touched her bare arm, guiding her across the foyer to the ballroom. No, she didn’t like it at all.
The din emanating from the ballroom was actually supportable, once they were in the ballroom itself. The confines of the marbled foyer had amplified the racket, but the ballroom had a high, airy ceiling and French doors open to the spring evening. From his height, Drake still had to lean in to speak to her, but she had no difficulty distinguishing his voice from the cacophony around her.
“Congratulate me.”
“For what, pray tell?”
“We arrived unscathed, we entered without hindrance, no one other than Fimber knows we are here, and Fimber is sworn to secrecy.”
She looked up at him. He was glancing around the room with an expression she recognized, even through the mask, as keen anticipation. Drake was enjoying every moment of this ordeal.
“The setup is perfect,” he said exultantly. “Why, it’s almost as good as being invisible. We shall come upon Sir Horace and Eugenia unawares, and in disguise. They’ll have no chance to brace themselves for confrontation. They will be too flustered to withstand our persuasion.”
“Yes, it is a marvelous plan,” she agreed, biting back a laugh. “But you have overlooked one important detail.”
He glanced down at her, one eyebrow raised. Lilah tucked the corners of her mouth into a demure smile. “Everyone else is in disguise, too.”
She had to suppress a giggle as she watched Drake take a second look at the crowd swirling around his great-aunt’s ballroom. His expression gradually changed from anticipation to chagrin. What she had said was true; the advantage of their being disguised was wiped out by the disadvantage of everyone else being disguised. It was all very well to speak of coming upon the couple unawares—but how would they know Sir Horace and Eugenia if they saw them?
An annoyed frown creased Drake’s forehead. “We’ll find them,” he vowed. “We have one advantage, anyhow—we know they are here. Pretend to converse with me, but look about you. It will be easier for you to recognize your father than for me to recognize Eugenia.”
“Why do you think so?”
“The ladies are thoroughly disguised. Many of the men are simply wearing dominoes, as I am. Sir Horace may be among them.”
“You are right,” she said approvingly. She may be allied with a lunatic, but at least he was an intelligent lunatic. “Papa is a modest man, so I would be surprised to see him wearing anything outlandish.” She scanned the crowd, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “At the very least, I hope he is not that idiot dressed as a pig.”
Drake led her on a slow promenade round the circumference of the room. Their progress was frequently impeded by collisions with laughing couples and knots of loudly conversing people. Lilah did not recognize a soul. It gave her a peculiar feeling to scrutinize the oddly-dressed throng and realize that she was surrounded by the haut ton. Was that woman in the monkey mask a duchess? Did the overstuffed courtier in the devil costume hold the fate of hundreds of tenants in his hoof-clad hands? “I weep for England,” she murmured, biting back a laugh.
Drake’s hand was momentarily knocked from her wrist when a tipsy sheep caromed into her, spilling his glass of champagne down his woolly front. “Beg y’r pardon!” shouted the sheep. “Bad luck, what? A shocking crush. I say, I s’pose I’ll shrink now, eh? Ha! Ha! Wet wool, you know! Shrink!”
Lilah was saved from falling into conversation with the sheep by Drake’s firm hand reconnecting with hers. She bestowed an apologetic smile upon the jolly soul—who seemed to take no offense when Drake pulled her bodily away from him—and, clinging tightly to Drake’s hand, squeezed between two laughing ladies to catch up with him.
“I can’t see anything,” she complained. “We’ll never find them this way.”
“You’re too short,” Drake said grumpily.
“Well, you needn’t say it as if you blamed me. We can’t all be giants like you. If I describe my father, can you look for him?”
“Not unless he has some distinguishing characteristic he couldn’t possibly disguise. I don’t suppose he’s hugely fat, or one-legged, or anything like that?”
Lilah choked. “No. No such luck.”
“What a pity.” Drake was scanning the room again. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Ah. Come this way.”
“Do you see Eugenia?”
“No, but I see a way to make you taller.” He seized her hand and began pulling her toward the wall.
“Drake,” said Lilah warningly, trying unsuccessfully to free her hand, “if you dare put me up on stilts —”
“No, no, nothing so alarming,” he promised. Then, as they had reached the wall, he swung around and took her by the waist, chuckling wickedly. “Althoug
h I’d give a pony to see you on stilts. Especially in this costume.”
She gasped. “Dreadful man! I am wearing hoops.”
“Precisely. Stilts would provide a most entertaining view.”
Before she could formulate a reply sufficiently withering to put him in his place, someone suddenly knocked into her from behind. She stumbled forward into Drake’s chest. His hands steadied her, but did not push her away. Lilah pulled back quickly; their brief contact had not only made her forget whatever she was about to say, it had thrilled her in a terrifying way. What, oh what, was the matter with her?
“Step up,” he said. His voice sounded strangely hoarse. “On the plinth.”
He jerked his head to indicate the decorative column standing, waist-high, near the wall. It appeared designed to hold a statue or vase, but at the moment it stood empty. One of the revelers had doubtless knocked down and broken whatever decorative object it had originally held. Lilah eyed it with misgiving. “I cannot step up on that thing. It is too tall.”
“I will lift you.”
“No!” cried Lilah, panic sharpening her voice, but it was too late. His strong hands encircled her waist and she sailed up into the air. With an outraged splutter, she scrambled onto the plinth. It was the only place her dangling feet could find a purchase.
The column seemed much higher than it had looked from the ground, and too small for safety. Her feet were planted, but she was afraid to stand upright. “Are you mad?” she panted. She was bent nearly in two, clutching his shoulders as she tried to find her balance.