by Eliza Lloyd
* * * * *
Nora chided herself. She wasn’t in London, slinking around the Weatherby Ball to play games; she was here to make the riskiest wager of her life.
The game was afoot, and she’d hooked Carlow, the worst of the bunch. The one she most needed. The devil she knew. He was more of a charming devil than she’d imagined, though.
Nora! You are here to spring a trap, not step into one, she admonished herself.
He was six and twenty. His hair had gotten a little darker, but it was still that sort of blond that had multiple colors along with a tempting array of waves. She’d seen him once—the circumstances now vague and fading. He’d been some part of her memory. Carlow. It was like the memory of a dream—vivid—until one opened their eyes in the morning and it was all gone.
“Good night, Carlow,” she said. He jumped to his feet and held out his hand to assist her. He was one of those men who boxed, rode, raced and wagered with impunity. He might have specific hidden virtues, but she knew the worst of his family’s vices.
“What about that walk along the terrace? Are you afraid you might reveal something you don’t want me to know?”
“I’m afraid you will succumb to my charms. Yet that doesn’t seem like the type of scandal Lady Weatherby tries to sell the masses.”
“You don’t believe? The real secret is most of us don’t either, but people do the damnedest things on this night every year.” Curses weren’t real. Everyone knew Lady Weatherby schemed to have the room full of weak-minded fools who would drink her wine, topple her potted plants and tryst behind closed doors, just so there would be stories for next year.
“Like?”
“What? You don’t know?”
“Here’s a real secret: this is the first time I have been to this particular ball. It might be legendary, but the specifics always seem hidden in mystery. Unless one reads the London Times to discover all the gossip after the ball.”
“And where does the Times get its information? From Lady Weatherby. Dorothea has a knack for outrageous propaganda.” He drew her hand to his sleeve. “Now, walk with me and I will tell you some hair-raising tales of adultery, gaming loss and death.”
“No thievery? No missing mink stoles, diamond bracelets or silver candelabra?”
“Candelabra are much too cumbersome to hide beneath one’s skirts.”
“But under this half cape, I think it could be done.” She flipped the edge of his black wrap as they walked out of the drawing room.
“No, my dear. Skip the candelabra. Trust me.” Was he winking at her beneath his domino? Teasing her?
The din of the ball met them around the next corner. The ball was in its full glory. Music played but the underlying sound of muted conversation and the tinkling of crystal caused her heart to trip with excitement. The polished wooden floor was covered in the lively movement of the feet of dancing couples, colors flashing by, dazzling whirls of veils and masks and lace and flowers.
The waltz! She’d never learned. Yearning for a better life, the life she should have had, haunted her at moments like this.
He glanced at her. “You’ve no chaperone to whom I should make delivery? I wouldn’t want to be remise in my duty.”
“At the Weatherby Ball? I am surprised chaperones are even allowed. And as I’ve mentioned, I am twenty-three.”
“You are not like the women of London,” he said. “You are much more interesting.”
“Such compliments!”
“I have an entire repertoire. Now tell me, who are you?”
“Are you worried I don’t belong?”
He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut before he executed a slight bow. “I’ve offended you. I am sorry.”
“My father was an earl.”
She was thankful for her mask. He would be sorely disappointed to see the derision in her expression; she might be smiling outwardly but she’d had practice in deception. The only way she could absolve her hatred was with proper vengeance. If she were a man, an illegal duel would suit her just fine.
“My brother is here. Somewhere. Along with the Reverend Wright. My guardians would not allow me to attend such a scandalous ball without someone to watch over me.” In actuality, her guardians, Lord and Lady Fortenay, did not know she was here. Gigi and Grandy had given their care over to Reverend Wright. The reverend had agreed to accompany Timothy and Nora on a county tour, through Dorset, Hampshire and Surry, with a slight detour through London, on their way to Kent.
“A guardian?”
“Until I am twenty-five or married. And my brother certainly isn’t experienced enough for that task.”
“You didn’t answer my question about your dowry. I can see there is a great need in your life for a man like me.”
“Hmm, I do have a few newly acquired sovereigns to my name,” she said. Along with a reticule full of coins she’d lifted from the gaming table. They’d never miss a few schillings. However, if Carlow continued to talk as a legitimate suiter might, Nora wasn’t sure she could endure such exaggerated gallantry. Nora the Avenger was determined and diabolically clever. Simple Nora Blasington bore deep scars and dreamt big dreams. And she didn’t belong in Carlow’s world no matter her current strategy.
He laughed. “You are a delight. Let’s dance together before some fribble finds you and steals you away.”
“No, I don’t think so. I may go back to the card room. If you are promised to dance with another, please, you are free.” The next part of the plan was the most difficult. She couldn’t seem too eager.
“My dear Venetian goddess, allow me a few more moments.”
“I don’t want to monopolize your time. Not when there are so many women you’ve yet to discover.”
“I promised a walk along the terrace. Or would you prefer a meander along the buffet? It is sumptuous. Last year, Lady Weatherby had a French chef prepare amuse-bouche using different truffles from France. The white truffle…” He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed the tips. “Superb.”
She smiled and bumped against his shoulder. “The buffet then, only because you have promised such euphoric delights for my simple palate.”
“No, I have only promised good food. Euphoric delights aren’t for innocents.”
The humming background noise of the ball, the orchestra and the multitudes faded as Carlow’s meaning hit its mark. She turned to stare at him, wetting her lips and then biting her lower one. Vengeance was like an archery target. There were misses, and there were varying degrees of success with each concentric ring. Carlow was going to willingly help her hit the inner circle.
A bull’s eye, years in the making.
If Nora were some young debutante, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, she would be afraid to handle a man such as Gabriel Sutter. Or Nash Hildebrande. Or Ellis Rawden. They were all men of the world, believing they could do no wrong. Propped up by their peers. Encouraged by their fathers and families.
Fortunately, Nora had been properly instructed by an avid bluestocking, one of London’s most intellectual women in her day, Hester Burney, Lady Fortenay. Her sweet and caring Gigi. She lived a quiet life in the country now, with her books and her equally intelligent counter-pointer-outer, James.
The spine Nora grew was all her own, though.
Nora knew very few people. She and Timothy had lived a solitary life in Dorset after their father died. Mother had gone soon after. Their saviors had been Lord and Lady Fortenay. Even now Lady Fortenay wrote with regularity, delivery of their mail at rectories on their route, worrying the two of them would find themselves in mischief.
Lady Fortenay knew Nora’s father and mother, of course, and was more forgiving of Papa than she ought to have been. Mama and Papa were second cousins and Lady Fortenay their aunt. As a child, once Nora understood that fact, she was more accepting about why and how she and Timothy had landed at Lord and Lady Fortenay’s doorstop.
Gigi knew of Nora’s plans for revenge too, but Nora believed Gigi didn’t truly think
she would extract her vengeance in the manner she proclaimed. Slicing a lord’s manhood wasn’t considered too ladylike and really would defeat her immediate purpose.
The indulgences of Lord and Lady Fortenay would end at their deaths, and they were quite old now. What would she and Timothy do without their Grandy and Gigi? Nora and Timothy were wards; they weren’t heirs. More importantly, Lord and Lady Fortenay weren’t flush with riches. The underclasses might believe they had money and property. Such conditions were normally well hidden. Their sons had married money, both daughters of the merchant class: one who married for the promise of a title while the other son eloped to Gretna Green. Their sons spent very little time at Whitmarsh, but they’d hire a carriage the moment they heard it was time to distribute the small inheritance.
So far, Timothy hadn’t succumbed to the temptation to marry a cit, though her brother needed to marry. He was spending too much of his time in idleness and indulgence. And fishing with his friend, Dill. She didn’t want him to become like them. And Nora didn’t want to be a nag who scolded him from dawn ’til dusk. Let a wife do that, if that’s what he needed. But how would Timothy provide if he didn’t have an anchor and some reliable income?
There was so much against him: a tainted title, no income, no property, rumor and shame. Marrying money might be possible. A cit? Timothy’s pride was as wide and deep as Papa’s.
And it all came back to Henbury Hall. They would have no life if they didn’t get their home back.
“Oh, this looks delicious,” Nora said, admiring the lavish dishes.
“Roast veal with white sauce and mushrooms. I would recommend the roast fowl, though.”
“Is it tender? I don’t enjoy aggressively chewing my meat. It needs to melt in my mouth. Like butter, if possible.”
“Because it’s not ladylike?”
She laughed. “Slicing meat should always be done with a gentle hand. And that is impossible with a tough cut.”
“I would suggest a sharper knife.”
“Thank you, Carlow. I will keep that in mind.” He watched her intently, which made her a little warm. Nora let him see an excess of smiles and coy looks and the very daintiest of dainty touches, here and there.
The buffet was resplendent with confectionary, a variety of meats, savories, broths, sauces. The scent of grilled meat filled the air. And bread, all freshly made and piping hot. Her small plate was laden with goodies. She would much rather be sitting with her brother or Grandy and Gigi so she could squeal and delight in her meal without criticism or disapproval. At least not overmuch.
Carlow led them to an empty table where a single candle burned and a nest of fresh flowers circled the base. He sat next to her and removed his mask. He’d carried two plates to the table, one with meats, the other, surprisingly, with a variety of vegetables including a mound of pickles.
“Take off your mask, my dear. We have played this game long enough,” he said, picking up his fork.
“Oh no, not until the night is over. We must play by the rules Lady Weatherby has set down.”
“There are no rules. At least not rules you and I must live by.”
“My chaperone and my brother would think otherwise.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Where are these supposed chaperones? They have been lax so far.”
Nora nibbled at her food. Her heart tripped at a fretful pace, but she kept a fearless gaze as she looked into his eyes. There was a scar at the side of his face from his temple to down below his ear. It took nothing from his aristocratic look; it might have even given him a more daring edge. His eyes were dark like hers, but his brows and lashes gave him a contemplative expression unless he was smiling. Were his thoughts so deep then? Was he thinking about the next life he and his family could ruin?
She sighed. “They are watching. Rest assured.”
“Do they not trust you?”
“An understatement, Carlow. My guardian has always thought I had a wild streak. And they rightly blamed my father but, clever girl that I am, I let them believe they tamed that aspect of my nature.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“So, why are you not escorting a woman of your acquaintance tonight? Averse to marriage, are you?”
“My dear, I have practically asked you twice for your hand this evening. I wouldn’t say I am averse, but I am certainly waiting for the right woman.”
“I, for one, could not be betrothed to a man who eats as many pickles as you seem wont.”
“I will never eat another pickle in my life.” He pushed the plate away in a dramatic gesture.
“You misunderstand,” she said, bringing the plate to her side of the table. “I love pickles. Two in a household with such a craving could never be suitable for a long-term affair, such as marriage.”
She plucked up one of the small, sweet-pickled vegetables and popped it in her mouth whole.
“I may have a sudden interest in gardening. I will plant you all the cucumbers you wish. And you will have jars, nay barrels, of pickles to eat at your heart’s content.”
“I thought you said you were already gardening.”
“Oh, that. A personal project, one that doesn’t involve vegetables but several plants, bushes, bridges and waterfalls. At one of my properties.”
“I see. We’ll need a brooder house full of chickens too. I like pickled eggs as well.”
He reached toward her and dropped his hand over hers. “I ask again. Tell me who you are so that I may obtain an audience with your guardian. We could be married in three weeks.”
“Banns? So cliché. Why wouldn’t we run off to Gretna Green if we are doing everything so quickly?”
“I’ll pack the pickles,” he said.
She laughed. She couldn’t have him think she was too attracted to him, though.
They ate in silence but not with any sort of calmness. His knee rested against hers. His gaze suggested myriad improprieties. Only one misdeed mattered, and she was closer to her goal than she believed possible. Her hope runneth over, though. If not tonight, then never.
Nora pressed a hand to her stomach. “I’ve eaten too much. Maybe Lady Weatherby is planning to kill us all with such rich fare.”
“I don’t think that has actually happened yet. At least I don’t know of anyone who has fallen over, bludgeoned by their gluttony and Lady Weatherby’s French cooks. It is time for that evening walk. I promise you will feel better afterward.” He held his hand out to assist her to her feet. The domino he left on the table.
“That’s what I have heard,” she said, reaching back subtly to grab the small keepsake that would remind her of this night. She tucked it in a secret pocket within her skirt.
He turned sharply. Without his domino, his emotions were written in vivid color upon his face. The raw desire she saw was a little frightening. Was it possible he was actually attracted to her and not just flirting? No! It couldn’t be. Any sensible man would never believe a masked woman at the Weatherby Ball had honest intentions. But he did know that, and he liked her anyway.
She and Gigi had read volumes of history and philosophy. Had she missed the parts about men succumbing with such ease? Well, there was Dante and Beatrice, but Beatrice was the destroyer of all vices and queen of virtue. A far cry from Nora’s vengeful nature.
Beatrice would never flirt or let Dante believe something which wasn’t true. But Nora wasn’t Beatrice; she was Salome, dancing around virtue and vice—and suggesting an actual liaison that would occur in Lady Weatherby’s library later while convincing him it was his idea. Ah well, Salome got John the Baptist’s head; all Nora was after was Henbury Hall.
As they entered the crowded ballroom again, Carlow led her around the room, bumping shoulders as they navigated the large hall. “Everyone will wonder why you are spending so much time with me,” she said, leaning close and whispering near his ear.
“Only the old gossips who keep track of nearly every movement of every person here. But they have the same disadvan
tage I do. They don’t know who you are.”
“Tomorrow they will. Once my mask is off.”
“Surprises are just so annoying. I really wish you would tell me now.”
“And have you flee the ball in horror once you see my visage?”
“Somehow I don’t think it is your face you are hiding from me. You don’t want me to know who you are for some other reason, and I can’t think of any woman of my acquaintance who knows me well enough to tease and flirt the way you are.”
“In order words, I have you flummoxed?”
“Thoroughly. I’m glad you are enjoying it.”
“As much as you seem to be.” She smiled broadly. She was enjoying it. A little too much.
Nora noticed the looks they garnered, more so now that he wasn’t wearing his mask. Who is with Lord Carlow? She could almost hear the secret inquiries and she most definitely could see the heads coming together and the lips whispering about them.
The double door leading to the long marble terrace was open and guests were popping in and out. Some followed by chaperones; others together, but alone.
Once Nora breathed in some fresh air, made so by the recent rainfall, she felt fortified and ready to proceed to the final part of her scheme. Oh, so many plans had been made and discarded. And as it turned out, she was having incredible success because Carlow was cooperating.
“What a beautiful evening,” he said.
“Yes. Nearly perfect.” She glanced up at the night sky. Was she going to be satisfied when this was over? All the loss. All the heartache.
“Tell me, why aren’t you married? You seem perfectly suitable for such an institution,” he said.
“I’m crushed. You have been complimenting me all evening and now I am just perfectly suitable?”
They strolled down the stairs and into the rose garden, the June bushes just barely working up the strength to show a bud. There was a fragrant smell adding to the scent of clear skies and damp earth. While there were others in the garden, they were basically alone on their walking path.
“As London judges a marriageable age woman, you are suitable. Perhaps a tad overripe.”