Once Upon a Masquerade

by Tamara Hughes

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I am.” Mary hung a day dress in the cherry wood wardrobe. “If only we could all live our lives like this—having others clean up after us.”

  Indeed. Rebecca’s life had become nothing but cleaning up messes for everyone around her. Oh, to be Miss Endicott, a spoiled debutante whose every whim must be catered to. Miss Endicott had it all, everything Rebecca could ever wish for and more—a carefree life, a stable family, and a future to look forward to. Not to mention the pleasure of socializing with gentlemen the likes of Christopher Black.

  Mr. Black. He had the most beautiful hazel eyes. She could stare into those alluring eyes, at that extraordinary face for hours without growing bored. He’d been so considerate, seeing to her welfare before attending to his scalded lap.

  She glanced at Mary. “Does Miss Endicott often mention the caller who visited today?”

  “On occasion. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.” She picked a white leather boot off the floor.

  Mary straightened, a delighted grin on her face. “He’s caught your fancy.”

  “Of course not…that’s impossible. I’m a servant, and he’s a fine gentleman.”

  “Are you saying we maids aren’t worthy of someone like him?” Mary asked, her look incredulous.

  In all honesty, she hadn’t thought about it before now. What would have been the point? “No, not at all. I’m just not so sure I could find a gentleman who would agree.”

  “Pshaw. I believe any man would be more attracted to someone like you than Victoria no matter how much money she has.”

  “Do you?” If so, Mary didn’t understand the ways of society, or chose to ignore them.

  “Yes, I do.” Mary’s blue eyes widened. “In fact, why not solve your money troubles, and have a bit of fun?”

  That half-mad look on Mary’s face didn’t bode well. “What do you mean?”

  “What you need is a generous man with enough money to pay your father’s debt.”

  Rebecca gave a weary smile. “I’ll choose from the many who offer for my hand each day.”

  “Marriage,” Mary scoffed. “I never suggested you wed.”

  “Mary!” Rebecca’s mouth dropped open. “Under no circumstances will I sell my favors like a…a prostitute.”

  Mary grinned. “That’s not what I meant.” She swiped an arm over her flushed forehead. “After all, a prostitute is paid very little, and only on a per service basis.”

  Rebecca’s stomach churned at the thought. Oh, heavens. She didn’t need to hear this.

  “Now a mistress is treated far better,” Mary continued, oblivious. “Although not as well as a lady. A gentleman will do almost anything for a lady.” Mary’s gaze fixed on Rebecca, a wily glint in her eye. “Yes, one of society’s finest and most innocent ladies might best entice a man to be generous.”

  Rebecca almost snorted her contempt. “You’re talking fairy tales.”

  “Nonsense. If a man comes to care for you, he may be willing to help you and your father.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “I think you’d be surprised what rich folk spend their money on. They have more than plenty and an eagerness to spend.” Mary flopped down on the unkempt bed. “If given the proper encouragement, a gentleman might buy you a fine bauble or donate to a charity of your choice.”

  “You’d have me lie?”

  “Didn’t you say you needed the money soon?”

  “Yes, but—”

  With an exasperated huff, Mary flung her hands into the air. “Pay the man back when you have the funds if it eases your conscience. Although, I don’t see a need for it.”

  This was crazy talk. “If you’re so sure a gentleman will lavish his lady friends with gifts, why don’t you attempt to find an interested man?”

  Mary twirled a lock of her hair until it twisted about her finger. “I don’t need to. I already have a beau, and he doesn’t take kindly to competition.”

  While Mary stared up at the ceiling, Rebecca dislodged the matching leather boot wedged beneath the bed. “I’m going to stoke the fire and leave you to this mess if you don’t help clean up.”

  “First, you’ll need to get a gentleman’s attention,” Mary mused. “You’ll not do that as a maid.”

  “Come on now. Up, up.”

  “I have it.” Mary rolled to her stomach and propped herself on her arms. “The Vanderbilt masquerade ball is in a matter of days. Victoria has been grumbling about missing it since she received the invitation.”

  Rebecca dropped the boot to the floor, her patience at an end.

  With a grimace, Mary rose and lifted a lavender gown from the bed. “I know a chambermaid who could let you in through the servants’ entrance. The rest would be up to you.”

  “You can’t be serious.” She bent to retrieve the footwear once more.

  “Why not?” Holding the fine garment in front of her, Mary twirled about. “With the right gown, you’ll be the spitting image of a snobbish debutante.”

  “What gown? Mary, you are daft.”

  “You can borrow one from Victoria. She can’t pack everything she owns for their coming trip, even for a two-month stay. And I’ll fix your hair like I do for her.” Mary gave a nod, her smile growing broader by the minute. “I’m going to convince you to go.”

  “No. You won’t. By the time this ball comes round, you’ll be gone to Chicago with Miss Endicott, and I’ll be blissfully spared from your bullying.”

  “Oh, I could find an excuse to stay behind. In fact…” Mary coughed. “I think I’m becoming ill as we speak. Dear me, I believe I might have something horribly contagious.”

  “Going to a ball is ridiculous notion.”

  “How badly do you want to help your father? Moments ago, you feared for his life, and here is the solution to his troubles.”

  “There has to be a better way.”

  “If you have another idea, I’d like to hear it.”

  Blast. As much as she hated to admit it, Mary was right. Her father needed help, and he had no one else to turn to. He relied on her, and she wouldn’t fail him.

  “Is a ball really so outlandish?” Mary asked. “For heaven’s sake, your family used to have wealth and the Weatherford name. They attended events like this one all the time.”

  “My mother was a Waterford.”

  “Exactly. Don’t you see? This is destiny. A chance to experience what might have been.”

  “My parents haven’t appeared in society for ten years, and I’ve never been taught how to act the lady.” Without her mother, she never would. Rebecca studied her callused hands, so rough and work-worn. “I wouldn’t know the first thing.”

  Mary danced about with an imaginary partner. “If Victoria is any example, you should be rude, conceited, and a bit of a half-wit.”

  Rebecca’s shoulders shook with a reluctant laugh.

  “I know you can read. You always have your nose in a book. Find one that tells you what you need to know. Anything you can’t find there you can ask Bradford to teach you.”

  True, the Endicotts’ butler took great pride in his knowledge of how the better half lived.

  Dear Lord. What was she thinking? “If anyone found out, I’d be let go for sure. And seducing a man—I have no idea…” Her cheeks began to burn for the second time today.

  “Don’t worry. It’s easy,” Mary insisted with a chuckle. “Too easy. Most men are already undressing you in their minds the first moment you meet. All you have to do is give them a little encouragement.”

  That didn’t sound so very difficult. Rebecca released her lip from between her teeth before she wore a hole right through it. She could do this, if she had to.

  Mary took hold of Rebecca’s shoulders. “Attend the Vanderbilt ball. If you find yourself in an uncomfortable situation, you could always disappear with no one the wiser.”

  She shook off Mary’s hands. “I don’t like the thought of borrowing fro
m Miss Endicott. If caught, I would be labeled a thief.” Attend a ball? Could she dare? She rubbed her temples. What other choice did she have to save her father? Indeed, what other choice did she have to save herself? Once her father failed to pay, those men would come after her. Oh, Lord help her. “I do have a few of my mother’s gowns,” she muttered, “although they must be terribly out of fashion.”

  “I’m sure I can do something with them. It’s a masquerade ball—we need a costume, not a formal gown,” Mary assured her.

  A rush of dread rattled Rebecca’s nerves. “This idea is crazy.”

  “It’s brilliant.” Mary’s face lit with excitement. “Someday you’ll thank me.”

  That possibility was slim to none.

  Could she truly find a man willing to help her? A man like Christopher Black.

  She’d never know if she didn’t try, and her father’s life was worth the risk.

  Chapter Two

  DEAR GOD, I MUST be insane.

  The din from the party grew in intensity as Rebecca approached a back entrance to the Vanderbilt’s ballroom. She willed her legs to move forward, each step taking her closer to her fate. To move ahead was to actually go through with this pretense. To go back was to give up on her father, to fail in saving him, and to resign herself to a life that slowly suffocated her.

  She took a calming inhale. She could do this. Tonight she was Rebecca Bailey, a lady, an heiress. An heiress dressed as a maid. She’d been a fool to allow Mary to choose her costume. Although the gown befitted a lady with its shiny pearl buttons and delicate lace at the bodice and sleeves, the idea of acting a housemaid grated. As if she didn’t do that enough already.

  A feather duster in hand, she smoothed her satin skirts and chiffon apron with trembling fingers and took those last few steps to the brightly-lit doorway. Once there, her breath caught in her throat.

  The enormous ballroom beyond was grander than she’d ever imagined. The musicians—no, the orchestra—sat on a balcony nearly twenty feet above the floor. A scene from the marriage of Cupid and Psyche graced the high ceiling, and tall stained-glass windows reflected the silvery glow from the calcium lights.

  Yet the guests were the most fascinating of all. From historical figures to peasants and gypsies, all dressed in the finest materials, and all dripping in jewels. Their creativity delighted her. How much time and money they must have spent making each look unique.

  With her heart thumping and her palms damp, she stepped through the doorway. Oh, to be a painting on the wall even for a short while, so she could observe without drawing any notice in kind. Rolling Mary’s strand of pearls between her fingers, she prayed no one would discover they were counterfeit, or more importantly that she was not who she seemed. On bated breath, she searched the room for the one who’d been on her mind these last days, knowing she couldn’t chance meeting him again.

  “Looking for someone?” An elderly woman sat in a rosewood chair to the side of the door. She wore a stylish dress of black lace, with her white hair drawn up in a black net and diamonds dangling from her ears and throat.

  “Yes—No, no one,” Rebecca replied, her knees quaking.

  “And who might you be?” The woman leaned forward, squinting through her thick spectacles.

  “I’m Rebecca, Rebecca Bailey. How do you…do?” Her legs shook all the more as her throat closed off, making it nearly impossible to speak.

  “Quite well. Quite well. Is this your first season, child? You seem a bit nervous.”

  “No. I’m…I’m just new to New York. This is my first ball here.” The lie left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  A gentleman dressed as a French lancer in a blue military uniform with a long thin sword strapped to his belt approached. “Bonsoir, Mrs. Breckenridge. You make a fetching sight this fine evening.”

  Mrs. Breckenridge chuckled. “Dear Mr. Westerly. You bring blushes to an old lady’s cheek with such talk.”

  “I never speak anything other than the truth, ma chére.” He kissed the back of Mrs. Breckenridge’s hand as the woman chortled with glee.

  “Miss Bailey, may I introduce Mr. Philip Westerly, our local charmer. Mr. Westerly, this is Miss Rebecca Bailey. She’s a newcomer to New York.”

  “Enchanté.” Mr. Westerly whisked the plumed hat from his blond head in a gallant bow.

  Rebecca smiled and curtsied, some of her nervousness melting away. “Likewise.”

  Mr. Westerly’s blue eyes glowed before he turned back to the woman who’d introduced them. “Mrs. Breckenridge, I see you’re in your usual position, always the observer.”

  “It suits me to watch.”

  “And no costume once again, I see.”

  “I’m too old for silly costumes. But I do enjoy watching the foolishness all the same.”

  His attention returned to Rebecca, his gaze sweeping the length of her body. “Your costume is most interesting, Miss Bailey. It suits you. It’s truly pleasing. Although I admit it makes me feel as though I can order you about at will.”

  “What is your command, sir?” she teased, his open flirtations both exciting and nerve-racking all at the same time.

  Mr. Westerly tapped his lips thoughtfully. “Hmm. An interesting question.”

  Although his aristocratic features appealed to her, with his pronounced cheekbones and the long line of his jaw, she preferred darker hair to his sandy blond and hazel eyes to his shade of blue. Even so, she thought back to what Mary had said. She needed to use her charms to interest a man, and at this point, she best not be choosy.

  The introduction of the Hobby Horse Quadrille drew all attention to the center of the ballroom.

  “Ah. I had heard there would be performances this evening.” Mr. Westerly extended his arm. “Miss Bailey, may I escort you closer to the dancing?”

  “Yes, that would be splendid.” Now what had Mary said about attracting a man? Laugh at his stories. Tell him how handsome he is. Make him believe he’s clever and amusing. With what she hoped was a coy smile, Rebecca eased her gloved fingers into the crook of his arm.

  “Mrs. Breckenridge?” Mr. Westerly offered with an outstretched hand.

  The older woman waved them off. “No, thank you. I’m comfortable right here. Go along.”

  As Mr. Westerly led Rebecca away from the safety of her corner, she wondered what she should say or do to encourage him. The very idea set her nerves on edge. She searched for something witty, something charming to say, before her mouth took over. “You’re very handsome,” she blurted. How stupid.

  Mr. Westerly’s lips twitched as he gave her a sidelong glance.

  “I meant, you look very handsome this evening,” she corrected. The enormous room grew uncomfortably warm.

  Mr. Westerly didn’t seem the least affected by the temperature change. “Merci, mademoiselle. May I say I find you to be the loveliest woman here?”

  “Thank you, sir.” Self-consciously, she looked away. She was a pathetic seductress.

  As they joined the throng, she overheard that the dancers assuming their starting positions were, in fact, guests. The performers, both male and female, wore white satin vests and breeches with bright red riding coats. They sat upon dancers concealed in hide costumes, complete with flowing manes and tails.

  Circus music began to trill in the air, and the horses pranced about in awkward canters, the riders struggling to stay mounted. The audience cheered when one fell from his perch onto the hard polished floor. Rebecca laughed at the unexpected silliness amid such luxury and watched the fallen man chuckle, brush himself off, and climb back onto his unsteady steed.

  Mr. Westerly’s hand grasped her elbow, drawing her away from the curious performance. “Miss Bailey, allow me to introduce you to Miss Julia Stevenson. Miss Stevenson, may I present Miss Rebecca Bailey.”

  “Good evening,” Rebecca said to a lavender garbed gypsy with long, dark hair and stunning charcoal eyes.

  “The pleasure is mine.” Miss Stevenson eyed Mr. Westerly, a smile play
ing about her lips, before her attention turned to the guests around them.

  As quickly as she’d dismissed her, Rebecca wondered if the woman had even noticed her standing beside Mr. Westerly.

  “Did you see that Mrs. Astor is here?” Miss Stevenson asked with an excited lilt to her voice.

  “Where?” Mr. Westerly looked toward the area Miss Stevenson nodded.

  “Over there, near the hearth. I’m surprised she came with so many guests outside her social circle.”

  “I’ve heard her daughter will be performing in one of the quadrilles tonight,” Mr. Westerly supplied.

  Mrs. Astor, clothed in a dark gown with long flowing sleeves and bejeweled in several diamond necklaces, sat regally on the far side of the ballroom. From her throne, she held court with an impressive pair, a Venetian princess in white and yellow brocade and the Duke de Guise decked entirely in black and yellow.

  “Who is the couple she’s speaking with?” Rebecca asked.

  Miss Stevenson’s brows lowered in a perplexed look. “You met them when you arrived, our hosts, William and Alva Vanderbilt.” She laughed. “Too much champagne already? Why, the ball has just begun.”

  Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat. “Of course, I can’t see anything from a distance. They’re only a blur,” she lied, making a note to avoid them both at all costs.

  Mr. Westerly seemed unconcerned by her slip. In fact, he didn’t appear interested in her at all. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

  He sauntered away and shook hands with a tall gentleman.

  That hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped. Possibly with more practice… Not that she had much time for practice. Her deadline loomed in just four days. If only she knew who might be receptive to her fumbling flirtations. Her gaze wandered to Miss Stevenson, who continued to study the crowd. “Is there someone in particular you’re searching for?”

  Miss Stevenson glanced at her with a sly wink. “The man of my dreams.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “I’m not sure, but he’s out there somewhere.”