by Emma East
“You have not answered my question. The consequences of liaisons?”
Willoughby snorted. “There are many tricks to avoid those pesky responsibilities, old man. Do not worry—I have heard of no unfortunate accidents since I started attending these functions.”
Darcy’s skepticism was at its peak, but it would do little harm to attend. He could at least sightsee among the crowd, observe the animals in their natural habitat. Which society ladies would be in attendance? What ratio of women to men would there be? Darcy supposed he should expect a large attendance of whiskers. The prospect would intrigue many men—Darcy himself was intrigued. Yet, how many women would truly wish to take part in such a party?
What kind of woman? Insipid and silly, laughing at being so brazen to attend and yet unwilling to participate in activities that could harm their reputations? Or would there really be women there who, once applied to, would be eager to seek a stranger to seduce them and eager to walk away? Darcy, in his experience, found women ill at ease of releasing the attention of a man she thought to have caught.
“What of blackmail?” Darcy asked as they trundled slowly to a stop. They were outside a stately home and, curiously, there were few windows that had lights shining from within.
“There are procedures,” Willoughby said vaguely, already leaning forward to anticipate the opening of the carriage door.
But Willoughby stuck out his arm when the door opened to stop Darcy from exiting. “I almost forgot!”
“This is the mask?” Darcy asked when Willoughby dropped a mask in his hand. “I thought it would be… better.”
“They distribute better ones inside. This is just to preserve our identity, just like the hired carriage.”
There is no harm in going inside, Darcy told himself as he followed Willoughby through the gates, the home protected by a high stone wall. The gates were further guarded by two stone dragons, gaudy decorations that Darcy looked askance at as they passed. But perhaps this is foolish of me. I am just as vulnerable to rumor and gossip as anyone else in society. More than, considering the people I care for.
“Click those heels, man!” Willoughby called from a few steps ahead with a laugh.
He sighed. It was true that he had responsibilities. But were they so great that he could afford no time for fun? Willoughby was the perfect gentleman to find it, and Darcy trusted him not to lead him too far astray.
But he would need to be careful. Georgiana needed a role model.
My reputation was pristine and Georgiana acted willfully and wildly. What harm can this do to her now?
“Why the dreadful frown?” Willoughby stopped on the top step of the front stairs. With his face concealed with a mask as bland as his own, Darcy felt a tinge of unease that made him forget his irritation for a moment.
Darcy tugged at his cravat. “This does not look like the most well-attended gathering.”
“Do not fret, friend. There will be more than enough people inside for your enjoyment.”
“Willoughby—”
“Shh! Damn it, man. We cannot use each other’s names!”
Darcy put his hands in the air. “I apologize. But… How can you know you can trust the organizer if you do not even know their identity? What if society is being played for fools?”
“Then I am certain it would have come out ten years ago when they began,” Willoughby said. “The person has been vetted every year when no scandal or rumor has appeared in the papers. It lacks both reporters and gossips. If any do slip through, despite all the procedures, well… the society ensures they do not belong in society after that. But I have heard of no one’s identity ever being revealed through either malice or negligence. Only an attendee’s stupidity can reveal their identity.”
Chapter Three
“Your name, miss?”
“Eli—”
“Not aloud,” the man in the black executioner’s mask said, interrupting her sharply. He tapped on the ledger in front of him. “Here.”
She had needed no ticket. Elizabeth had walked up the drive from the road with her hood pulled up and wore the silly kitten mask to further conceal her face. She had hesitated upon the doorstep, biting her lip with great vigor as she worked out what else she could do to get her sisters back. To protect their reputations if they would not protect their own. The stupid, inconsiderate twits! If they would have their reputations ruined, so be it! But they should not destroy all hope for Jane, too, as their actions assuredly would.
But she would not submit her uncle to the mortification of rescuing her sisters and she refused to reveal that she had not protected her sisters as well she might, so this was her best option.
Besides, it could not be too intimate a gathering if they invited Lydia and Kitty. Together, they could out-gossip all the women in Hertfordshire. Potentially no one would recognize the sisters at all and thus protect their names.
Elizabeth debated about the name she put on the ledger. Line fifty-six, she read. What had her sisters put? She could not see the lines above her own due to the way the executioner had wrapped the ledger; a heavy black fabric concealed the lines above hers. She hesitated, a spot of ink dropping onto the page and blotting the creamy page.
“The anonymity of our guests is of primary importance to us,” the executioner informed her. They were reassuring words; however, the way he gazed at Elizabeth made her skin prickle in self-consciousness, like he had understood her desire to write a false name. His tone was a subtle reprimand and warning both.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet, she wrote.
“Good.” The executioner pulled the ledger away and then motioned to the door beside him. “Enter through here and take off your mask.”
“But I only want—”
“Someone will provide a new one to you.”
She followed these directions, her stomach unsettled and uneasy. Huge black panels separated the entrance of the house, creating the reception area where guests wrote their names in the ledger. The door likely led to a small sitting room or other formal room. She could hear the noise of the party behind the curtains shielding the reception area—the hum of music, chatter, and laughter crept faintly through the thick drapes.
Another executioner waited for her in the side room. She bit her lip as she stood in front of her—a woman, this time, with a flowing black gown and a surprisingly tasteful hood over her face and hair.
“Do not fret, Miss. We will find you a mask that will fit. Hm. Shall we try another kitten to replace this one?” Her tone was soft and lilting, and a little bored. It would be dull signing in visitors all night, she imagined.
“Ma’am, I truly wish to only find my sisters. This is what I told the man outside. My sisters did not receive permission to attend this, um, gathering. Please? Won’t you help me find them?”
“We must go through the process, dear,” she said firmly, picking through the box of masks in front of her. “A kitten would suit you.”
“Did you see them, at least? Can you tell me what masks they wore so I might find them easily?”
The executioner did not look up from her task, her elegantly trimmed nails flicking through the masks with long-practiced boredom.
“You are tiresome, dear. Perhaps a milkmaid would be better,” the woman sighed and then stopped her search. “Ah, here it is.”
The refined, oddly dressed woman plucked out a tasseled white mask from the drawer. Elizabeth accepted it with some hesitation.
“Well, hurry, Miss Kitten,” she said.
“Miss Kitten?”
The executioner’s eyes glittered at her. “Unless you would prefer offering your real name—which no one would recommend—then you shall use the character your mask represents. Would you prefer a duck? Or a piglet? Or a milkmaid?”
“I, um, will wear this one,” Elizabeth said. “But I do not see why you are bothering with this process when I have told both you and the man outside I am only here for my sisters. I did not even receive an invitation myself—”
/>
“Oh, but you did,” said the executioner, and in her voice was a smile. “Come along, Miss Kitten. You are ready, are you not?”
“I did?”
“The mask, sweetie.”
That didn’t make sense. Her sisters had bought the mask… hadn’t they? Elizabeth followed at her heels as the executioner escorted her back to the door. “Please, will you not help me? My sisters are young and barely out. Can you point me to the organizer if you have no ability to help me yourself?”
The executioner stopped at the door and turned to Elizabeth. She was just a smidgeon taller than Elizabeth, but Elizabeth only noticed it as the woman stepped toward her, looming.
“I am the organizer and I assure you that I have heard your entreaties and feel them deeply, Miss Kitten,” she said in her charming, sophisticated way. She did not sound empathetic at all. She did not sound as if she even cared about the welfare of Elizabeth’s sisters or how vulnerable they were. Her tone was mocking, laughing. “I am sure we will find them inside.”
How foolish those girls were to come here with no chaperone and no friends! The hosts obviously cannot be bothered to protect the silly fools!
But could she really go into the party after them? When any misstep could embarrass her family’s name?
I must or Lydia and Kitty will be sure to ruin our family name!
“There you go, Miss Kitten. Chin up. Now, here you are—and be sure to keep your mask on the entire night.”
“I would not wish to remove it,” Elizabeth said under her breath.
“Good,” purred the executioner. She opened the door.
Elizabeth braced herself and then forced herself to proceed. The executioner let the curtain fall back into place behind her. She dearly hoped she would not have to encounter them again that night—they would do nothing but frustrate her, she was certain.
She touched the edge of her mask to ensure it stayed in place. She had no desire to reveal her identity to the party assembled, and she pulled her domino tight at her neck. She had not expected such a large crowd to be in attendance. She would never find Lydia and Kitty in this mess of people.
Perhaps that is why the hosts will not even be bothered to search. The attempt would be useless with this many people crowded into one space!
The doors to the back lawns were wide open and the party had spilled outside. The party was evenly mixed between the two sexes. The colors in the room were lush and decadent, the fabrics rich and far more grand than the fabrics in her own costume. Birds, peacocks, maidens, queens, crones—the room contained them all, and it was a cacophony of noise that nearly overwhelmed her.
The manor was in an area of London unfamiliar to Elizabeth and she had discerned little of its grandeur upon descending from the hired coach that had dropped her at the street. However, it proved to be spacious and grand despite being in town, which normally made for rather cramped spaces. The sheer space reminded Elizabeth of her friends’ homes in Hertfordshire.
And yet, despite the spaciousness of the rooms, people were squashed into the ballroom, the dining room, and even the halls. Who could countenance so many people still being in London when the season was drawing to a close?
But they were people of privilege, the upper levels of the social spheres. The women wore gowns in rich fabrics and jewelry shone and twinkled in the candlelight of the great chandeliers overhead. The women eyed the gentlemen and snapped their fans in their flirtatious excitement. Meanwhile, the men, dressed in their finely cut jackets and breeches, their leather boots shining, admired the women in their turn.
How would she ever find her sisters?
Biting her lip, she scanned the parts of the ballroom she could see from the entranceway. No luck. Lydia and Kitty had torn up their dresses from Aunt Gardiner and reworked them to their satisfaction. Elizabeth could not see those garish dresses now as she stood on tiptoe to observe the corners of the room. She weaved through the crowd, avoiding the champagne flutes being proffered by waiting servants, and listened for Kitty’s girlish, flirtatious giggle, or some outrageous remark that only her youngest sister could make.
“—oh, you are a scoundrel—”
Elizabeth turned her head toward the sound and took a step toward the source, when a hand grabbed her wrist and jerked her backward.
“Sir!” she cried.
“Where would a little kitten like yourself be hurrying off to?” said the man, pulling her back toward him with his grip on her hand. He had a donkey mask—one suited to his attitude, she thought, wrenching her hand out of his grasp.
“You are befuddled, sir,” she said, attempting to straighten out her disordered thoughts. He had badly startled her.
The gentleman, his long, blond hair pulled back with a red ribbon that matched the trim on his jacket, leered at her. “Befuddled… no, I think not. Only enchanted by your charms, little kitten.”
She pulled her arm away from his reaching hands. “Forgive me for not returning the compliment.”
She slipped away and heard him cry out an angry protest behind her, but she had put the crowd between them and he could not follow. She weaved through the people, averting her eyes when someone would turn toward her. She was making a nuisance of herself, parting the crowd with barely an apology uttered.
She reached the doors to the garden, thrown open to allow in the warm night air. The sweet scent of gardenias and jasmine laid heavy on the air. Whoever owned the house had installed gas lamps throughout the garden, shedding light on the parties that had drifted outside.
If they have hidden in one of these bushes—
What will I do? What could I ever tell our Uncle Gardiner?
But she feared going out there by herself. In the crowd was safety, was illumination. Outside, there was darkness and shadows. She did not wish to lose herself in it.
She hesitated in the open doorway, her hand curling into the heavy curtain that draped the door.
“Pardon me, miss.”
Elizabeth obliged the gentleman and stepped out of the way. He slid past her, his domino a great, rich black velvet and his mask that of a judge. He took one step onto the patio and then peered around the garden with the same air of hopelessness she had. His white-gloved hands curled into fists at his side.
“Damn the man.”
“Do you search for someone, sir?”
The man startled. He turned the upper half of his body, taking her in, and then stiffly returned his focus to the garden. The tips of his ears turned pink.
“I apologize, miss. Forgive my conduct.”
She smiled a little. As if she had not heard worse from the stablehands and farmers around the estate. Even her father gave Mrs. Bennet the nervous flutters when he was really cross and she would cry out about the gentle ears of women and children.
“It is no bother, sir.”
“Still, it is not like me to behave so.” The man observed her and she could tell that his eyes were a dark, fine grey that matched the complicated brocade on his domino. Then he held out his hand. “Would you allow me to express my apologies with a dance?”
“It is certainly not a sin requiring dancing and blood sacrifices for forgiveness,” she said. Then she turned her head, her gaze going to the entrance of the ballroom. She was certain that was Lydia’s rambunctious laugh. She hurriedly wished the gentleman a goodnight and then dove back into the crowded ballroom.
She reached the source of the laughter—a woman in a flowing red ball gown, surrounded by gentlemen and indiscriminate with her affections. But it was neither Lydia nor Kitty. Her sisters lacked the jewels this lady wore and neither could afford the fabrics draped around her.
Sinking into herself, she bore this disappointment well. She moved to the edge of the ballroom, near the door, and pressed her back to the wall. Her eyes stung, but she refused—refused—to give into the urge to cry out her frustration.
Those cruel, thoughtless girls! When I see them again, they will never forget what the back of a wooden sp
oon feels like!
How would their parents ever forgive Elizabeth? Their safety and virtue was her responsibility as the most mature. She could hear her mother’s sobs and shrieks now. The weight of her father’s disappointed gaze. The shame as her other sisters told her that there was nothing else she could have done.
“Champagne, madam?”
“Thank you.”
She may as well take a moment to herself. She took the flute and took a sip. Silky and smooth. Lady Lucas would enjoy the vintage immensely.
Will I ever be able to look her in the eye again?
She drained her glass.
Elizabeth watched the woman in red from her close vantage point. A tall woman with a very Lydia-like laugh, she carried herself like an attractive woman who understood her value. There was a force around her, nearly physical, like a heat wave carried in the surrounding air. It wholly captured the men who listened intently when she spoke, laughed at her jokes, and flirted with abandon. There were three men, but no jostling or jealousy betwixt them. Despite the ratio of men to women, they were content to vie for her affections.
And generous she was with them.
Elizabeth blushed as she watched. The man to the woman’s left, a dusty grey cloak stretched over his broad shoulders, leaned forward to whisper something in the woman’s ear. His hand rested casually on her hip, an intimate and tender touch.
The woman’s lips curled. Dangerous. Deadly. She leaned her head on the man’s shoulder and then, suddenly reached out to the man across from her. He was eager to slide closer, and he dipped his head down—
Elizabeth jerked her gaze away.
Her throat contracted as she finished the rest of her champagne.
They... Here. In the open. In front of everyone...
Her gaze now roamed the room, picking up slight incongruities she had missed upon her initial passage across the room. Only now could she spot the difference. Lady Lucas would have screamed at the amount of indecent touches shared between couples—and more than couples, she thought with a glance toward the woman in red with her gaggle of men. Indecorous. Indecent. Immodest.