Moonlight Masquerade

by Ruth Axtell

  “Certainly. Come, have a seat.” She patted the place beside her, relieved to have an excuse to end her exchange with de la Roche. “I have a very clever Frenchwoman who makes my gowns. She is the envy of all London but is very selective of whom she takes on.”

  “Yours are so pretty and so different from what we are forced to wear.”

  She eyed their white muslin gowns identical except for the color of the sash.

  “Your gown is of such a rich hue and such a striking pattern! May I touch it, please, madame?”

  “Certainly.” She smiled, holding out a length of her skirt, glad to see that de la Roche had moved off. “This is turkey red print. Madame Delantre assures me it is all the crack.”

  “It is so vivid.”

  They discussed the merits of embroidered muslin to the newer roller printed cottons. Céline’s mind returned to the dilemma of getting hold of the courier’s message to the Comte.

  Shouts from the stream jolted them from their conversation.

  “He’s fallen in! Jacomo has fallen in!” A group of children jumped up and down on the bridge, pointing to the water.

  Céline stood at once, peering toward the stream. She didn’t think it was too deep. Still, if it was a child who didn’t know how to swim, it could prove fatal.

  She spotted MacKinnon at the edge of the grassy bank. He’d stripped off his jacket and boots and was already splashing into the water. In seconds it was over his waist, so it was deeper than she had supposed.

  He swam to the center and reached the boy, whose arms were flailing about as his head bobbed in and out of the water. MacKinnon grasped the boy under his arms and hauled him out. They reached the edge of the stream to cheers from the onlookers who crowded around its grassy bank.

  Dripping wet, he carried the boy to his awaiting mother.

  The woman hugged the boy to her breast, thanking MacKinnon in a mixture of French and broken English.

  “It’s all right. I’m sure the lad is fine, just a bit frightened.”

  The other children had run off the bridge and were clamoring to get near their companion.

  The boy finally looked up from his mother’s shoulder, tears mixing with the water dripping from his dark hair. Suddenly, he smiled and everyone applauded.

  Céline had moved with the crowd and now approached MacKinnon as he turned away from the mother and child. She offered him the blanket she’d been sitting on. “That was very quick thinking of you.”

  He took it, murmuring his thanks, and rubbed it across his front and head, leaving his hair in disarray.

  “Thank you, but any number of people would have done the same,” he said, continuing to pat the blanket against his sodden garments. “I just happened to reach the boy first.”

  She shuddered, looking at the stream. “I didn’t think the water was so deep, but the child could have drowned.”

  “Yes. It only takes minutes. I saw enough men drown at sea.”

  His story of serving under Nelson must at least be true. His tone was too sober to be otherwise. In the direct sunlight, the small scar on the edge of his chin was more visible. It only added to his allure. Had he received it in a fight at sea?

  “It is not a pleasant death, but then none is in war.”

  Longing to offer him some comfort, she clenched her fist to keep it at her side. “I’m sorry.”

  He seemed to shake aside whatever memories he was recalling. “It was long ago.” He glanced down at his garments with a rueful smile. “I suppose I should go and change.”

  “Yes, please, before you catch a chill.”

  He held up the damp blanket. “I’ll find you another.”

  She shook her head with a laugh. “That’s quite all right. I can manage.”

  “Thank you for your thoughtfulness. I’ll return to my post as soon as I’ve changed.”

  “Please, don’t bother. There are more than enough servants here.” She smiled at him. “After all, you are the hero of the hour. You deserve some time to recover. You may have the afternoon free.”

  With a small salute, he turned and left the field. She continued watching him, his stride long and sure. How little she knew about him—and yet how drawn she felt. He didn’t resemble Rumford in the least. What sorts of horrors had he seen in battle? How had her old butler become acquainted with him?

  She should ask Valentine to search his quarters. Tit for tat. Mulling over this manner of obtaining more information on her butler, she made her way to the mother to ask after the boy.

  13

  Since overhearing de la Roche’s conversation in the storeroom, Rees had been keeping an eye on him. What he saw only deepened his worry over Lady Wexham.

  De la Roche approached Lady Wexham at every opportunity. The Frenchman seemed to be at her side at dinner, beside her in the evenings in the drawing room, and when he wasn’t talking to her, he was watching her.

  Rees didn’t like the man’s single-mindedness. Lady Wexham, he had to admit—and admire despite himself—never seemed fazed by his attention. She smiled and welcomed him whenever he approached. But whenever he left, her smile would fade and a brooding look replaced the amusement in her eyes.

  It was clear from Rees’s observation that she did not welcome the Frenchman’s attentions. The fact that she didn’t let on told Rees more clearly than anything else that she wished no one to know. A normal woman would berate the man behind his back. The more Rees observed Lady Wexham, the stronger his belief that she let few know her real thoughts.

  What worried him most was the belief that sooner or later, she was going to make a mistake.

  That’s when he made up his mind to attend the ball as a guest and not stand against the wall as a footman. He must do it to protect Lady Wexham.

  Whatever Valentine had told her mistress about him, Lady Wexham seemed to have a regard for him. He’d seen that most strongly when he’d rescued the lad from the water. Lady Wexham had been right there, not rushing to the child as everyone else but coming to him first with a blanket. He didn’t want to allow himself to take it as a sign that it was more than the normal attention a lady would give her servant, but it was becoming harder to keep his hopes and yearnings in check.

  He tried to shake aside such thoughts. He must remain objective if he were to finish his assignment. The night he’d followed her had proven she was involved in something clandestine.

  She had met a man, that much was certain. Whether it had been an amorous assignation or one involving a French contact, he couldn’t be sure, but he’d wager it was the latter. He had discerned no special favor Lady Wexham bestowed on any of the male guests.

  Despite inviting her male callers into her bedroom after her niece’s ball, Lady Wexham’s behavior was exemplary from all Rees had observed. The longer he was in her company, the more convinced he became that she was not bestowing her favors on any man—sinfully or otherwise. The fact would bring him relief if the alternative weren’t so distasteful.

  Which brought him to his decision. Tonight was the masked ball. He had spent every evening hidden outside after midnight, watching for Lady Wexham, but she had taken no more solitary walks to the temple. If she was meeting this person again, Rees thought it likely to be during the ball.

  By donning a disguise and mingling freely with the guests, he would be able to observe without being seen. He’d gleaned enough from the servants to know that many people were invited from as far away as London. One more person in costume among a hundred would attract little notice.

  Doubtless, de la Roche would be watching Lady Wexham’s every step as well.

  Rees was taking a gamble, he knew. Lady Wexham likely expected him to keep an eye on her mother although she had not given him any specific instructions. What would he say if she searched for him during the ball? He decided to make up some excuse that he had been needed down in the kitchens. The palace was so vast it was unlikely she would discover he wasn’t there. By the following day, he hoped all would be forgotten.
All he knew was he had to protect Lady Wexham this evening.

  Carrying out his plan proved tricky. Here, he had no room to himself but shared a small chamber with Tom. He had to find a way to obtain a proper masquerade costume and keep it hidden until the event. He had to find a place to change from his butler’s togs into his masquerade sometime during the evening.

  Thankfully, Tom had been busy downstairs between the dining room and kitchens since early evening. Rees, too, had been there, but now that the ball was fully under way, he left his post against the ballroom wall and climbed up to one of the many garrets above the mansion.

  He retrieved the clothes he’d procured earlier in Aylesbury. He’d found a shop where he was able to rent a pirate’s outfit. It had been either that or Turkish garb with a turban. Both offered the advantage of sufficient head covering to hide his hair. He had hidden the clothes and sword in an old trunk in an unused attic. Now, as he donned the black breeches, glossy black boots, and white shirt with wide, brightly colored sash around the waist, he felt a sense of freedom he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

  He paused, gazing at his reflection in an old, spotted looking glass. He was no longer a serious butler but a daring, dangerous rogue. He took up the fake sword, a curved scimitar, and stuck it into his sash then wrapped a scarf around his head, tying it tightly at the base of his skull. He placed the black domino over his eyes and nose, tying it behind his head. The half mask covered most of his face, reaching down to almost his upper lip.

  Would anyone recognize him only by his lips and jaw?

  He gave the mask a final adjustment, tugging it downward a fraction, and made sure the knot of his head scarf was tight. Lastly, he picked up the wide-brimmed black felt hat and placed it carefully over everything, tilting it at a rakish angle.

  Would Lady Wexham know him? He could not imagine someone less like a butler. His eyes seemed to glitter from the slits, looking almost black in the dim light from his candlestick.

  He had not been able to discover what costume she would be wearing. He grimaced, thinking there were disadvantages to being at odds with a woman’s lady’s maid.

  Taking up a pair of black gloves and giving a final adjustment to his hat, he left the attic.

  When he reentered the ballroom, it was filled with people in both fancy dress and costume, half masks and full masks, grotesque and elegant. The orchestra was playing in a gallery above the immense room. The various chandeliers blazed their candles the length of the ornate plasterwork ceiling.

  Saying a prayer that his masquerade would hold the evening, Rees plunged into the sea of fellow pirates, harlequins, Turks, monks, and ladies in eighteenth-century panniered dresses and powdered wigs, his eyes scanning the crowd in search of his prey.

  Céline took a quick look at the crowded dance floor. It was almost half past eleven and the ball was in full swing now. The Comte had come in a short while ago, surrounded by his usual entourage. Céline had to smile at his costume of a Turkish pasha. The balloon pants made his already thick legs enormous and the turban his face rounder.

  It was now or never.

  She glanced down at her own costume, doubting anyone had recognized her. Her body was encased in a harlequin outfit, the gaudy diamond shapes covering a tunic that came down to mid-thigh, cinched in at the waist with a white belt. Red and blue stockings covered her legs. A black mask covered half her face. Her hair was hidden beneath a large white cap with an upturned brim and red feather.

  Thankfully, she was not the only harlequin, though each costume was a different color.

  Before she could reconsider her next move, she darted out of the ballroom and hurried down the corridor until she reached the back stairs, looking about her every few seconds. The Comte’s apartment was in another part of the mansion. It seemed to take forever to reach that wing. Once or twice she had to press herself into a doorway or alcove when she heard footsteps from around a corner. But it was only an odd servant or two, some on assignations of their own while their masters were at play.

  Finally she arrived at the Comte’s private suites. She approached the door and pressed her ear against it a moment. Hearing nothing, she dared open it a fraction. A small flame burned low in a lamp. She opened the door wider at the sight of another servant asleep on a striped chair, soft snores emanating from his nostrils. Good. Valentine must have succeeded in putting the sleeping draft in his drink.

  Céline stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind her. She crossed to where she knew the Comte’s study was located and entered. Another servant sat slumped on the floor, his head lolling to one side.

  With trembling fingers, Céline searched the desk, coming upon the packet of papers.

  Unfolding them, she saw that they contained correspondence to the Comte signed by Lords Liverpool and Castlereagh themselves, the prime minister and foreign minister. She folded the documents back up, opened the front of her tunic, placed them within her camisole, and rebuttoned her costume, her heartbeat thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

  With a quick look around, she closed the desk and made her way back out.

  Only when she was far enough away, in a back passage, did she allow herself to stop and catch her breath, mopping her brow with a handkerchief.

  She would bring this to her rendezvous with Roland in a few hours’ time. With a smile she imagined his surprise when he beheld the papers. Finally, she had something of real value to the French.

  In the meantime, she would return to the ballroom, mingling with the guests, teasing them with her identity, as if she had no other care in the world but dancing the night away.

  She wondered where MacKinnon was. She had searched for him earlier but had seen no sign of him since dinner. He hadn’t been near her mother, but perhaps he’d gone to her later. Perhaps he’d taken the evening off, as some servants had. But he didn’t strike her as the type of man to be negligent in his duties. At least her mother was not gaming tonight. Perhaps that was why MacKinnon was not at her side.

  Pushing aside any disappointment at not seeing him tonight, she reentered the ballroom, pasting a smile on her face.

  Rees reined in his growing frustration. It seemed he had circled the massive ballroom dozens of times but still hadn’t managed to spot Lady Wexham.

  Where was she, or what was she?

  “A pirate. I’ve always dreamed of being captured by a pirate.”

  Rees looked at the woman who had addressed him so boldly. She was dressed as a gypsy in a low-bodiced white shirt and multicolored skirt that only came to her midcalf. A massive head of black curls was kept in place by a bright yellow scarf around her head. She was too short to be Lady Wexham. He executed a bow. “I fear you will be disappointed in me, since I am not in the business of abducting damsels.”

  She sidled closer to him so she was almost touching his chest. He moved back a pace. “Perhaps you will never have so opportune a moment.”

  He took a step to the side. “I thank you, fair lady, but I will forgo the temptation.” Without waiting for her to reply, he disappeared quickly into the crowd.

  This was why he disliked masquerades. It led to unruly, unseemly conduct. People thought that because their faces couldn’t be seen, they could get away with licentious behavior.

  He continued his search for Lady Wexham, scrutinizing each lady he passed, but with the dominos, it was almost impossible to tell who was who. He focused on women who seemed to be the same height and build as Lady Wexham.

  Lord, help me find her. The hour grows late and I sense she’s in danger. Please give me discernment.

  After another futile turn about the ballroom, weaving in and out of the crowds while ignoring the women who addressed him, Rees stopped by a fluted column, allowing it to half-obscure him. He scanned the dance floor, feeling he’d achieved nothing by milling around. The more he moved, the more the people around him moved, like an endless current, as if searching for amusement among the next group of people.

&nbs
p; He was tired of fending off overbold females. His mouth twisted. As if any of these highborn ladies would give him a second look if they saw him tomorrow in his butler’s uniform or as a lowly clerk at the F.O.

  The wisest thing to do was what he usually did as butler, stand along a wall and simply observe the people passing by him. Yet, he didn’t want to chance being accosted again.

  He chose a more secluded post behind some potted palms, which acted as a screen while allowing him to view the dance floor from a fairly central spot.

  After a quarter of an hour of following each female that crossed his field of vision—shepherdesses, Marie Antoinettes, Turks with baggy pants and scanty tops, huntresses with bows and quivers of arrows slung over their backs—he still had not detected any that caused him to take a second look. He began to think Lady Wexham must be wearing a wig since none of the women he’d seen resembled her in hair coloring once they came close enough.

  “What a handsome pirate you make!” A Pierrot in his baggy white clown outfit with wide collar jumped in his path.

  Rees stepped back involuntarily, nonplussed at being addressed so boldly by a man. But then he noticed the clown’s voice. It belonged to a woman. He narrowed his eyes, to seek more evidence. It would have been impossible to tell, because she was tall enough to be a male of medium height. Her face was painted white and a black domino masked the upper portion. A round, white hat covered her hair, which appeared short, until he saw it was held beneath a stocking cap.

  “Thank you,” was all he could think to say.

  As if sensing his discomfiture, she tossed back her head and laughed, then to his relief moved away.

  It hadn’t been Lady Wexham, of that he was sure. The timbre of the voice was different; the build slightly more buxom, though it had been hard to tell with the loose clown suit.

  As he watched her skip off, it gave him the clue he needed. He began searching for other costumes that could disguise a female figure.