Chapter 20
Flora sighed as she waited her turn to enter the ballroom, her commedia dell’arte mask a heavy weight across her nose and cheeks.
It was a handsome piece of work, painted in diamonds of green and blue, matching her gown to perfection.
The half mask sported a frill of peacock feathers along the brow in a sort of plumed cap.
She wished she had opted for one of the full-face masks that covered their wearers from chin to hairline; it would have kept her frown concealed from the other guests.
She had had no desire to attend this function whatsoever, not when her heart lay broken in pieces by the canal in St. James’s.
Yet when her acquaintance Belinda Chesterfield, another poetess from the Calliope Club, sent her a letter saying a mysterious patron wanted to meet with her at the ball for the purposes of commissioning a new set of works, what else could Flora do but agree?
The season would be over shortly, after all, and the chances for patronage would be slim until the following year, when the ton began throwing their riches about once more.
Flora supposed she should be grateful for the chance to earn a little more coin for her rented rooms, and even more grateful that Mrs. Chesterfield was willing to lend out her husband so that Flora could meet her potential benefactor at this infernal masquerade as proposed.
“Are you all right, Miss Witcombe?” Mr. Horace Chesterfield whispered at her elbow. He had apparently caught her miserable expression.
She attempted a smile, though the corners of her mouth barely lifted. “I’m fine.” She patted his arm, which was looped gallantly through hers. “Thank you again for escorting me.”
As much as they flouted the laws of etiquette, even the Calliope would not allow an unpartnered, unchaperoned woman to attend their ball.
Normally the choice of Mr. Horace Chesterfield as a chaperone—married and in no way related to Flora by blood—would have been forbidden, yet the rules on the invitations demanded complete anonymity.
Any man would do, and as Mr. Chesterfield had planned to attend anyway, it seemed more convenient than dragging Miles to this wretched event.
They at last reached the ballroom door and handed their invitation to the master of ceremonies, who had no reason to think they were anything but man and wife, or brother and sister, or any number of acceptable pairings. He merely ushered them inside the ballroom.
Byron had outdone himself. A gigantic chandelier of purple and gold paste gems had been hung from the center of the ceiling, ablaze with opulent candlelight.
A troupe of musicians in half masks played against the far wall.
Salvers of wineglasses were borne by servants dressed as harlequins and Pierrots, their masked faces doll-like and eerie.
Several hundred revelers were decked out in all their masquerade finery: feathers and lace, flowers and satin, dripping in jewels both real and false.
Some wore costumes that concealed their identities completely, but most had made only the barest gesture in that direction.
Flora recognized several members of her club, alongside the dowager countess and her entourage.
It was an exhilarating scene, but Flora wanted nothing more than to be home.
But first, she had business to attend to. “Mrs. Chesterfield mentioned that this patron was quite eager to speak with me before supper is served,” she said into Mr. Chesterfield’s ear. “How will I know him?”
Mr. Chesterfield shrugged affably. “Belinda said he would know you by your mask and approach you directly.”
Flora touched the feathered edge of her mask, a gift from Mrs. Chesterfield herself. “It just all seems so needlessly cloak and dagger. Why couldn’t this mystery patron write to me instead? Or meet me at the club during the day?”
“I have ceased to speculate on the motivations of rich men,” said Mr. Chesterfield with a sigh.
“Mr. Chesterfield,” Flora said, “you yourself are a rich man.” Compared to most, at least.
“And I could not say why I do whatever it is I do, either. Unless, of course, it involves my excellent wife.” His eyes twinkled behind his mask. “In that case, my reasons are clear. Why, I would even escort a lovely girl to a ball, if that is what’s needed.”
Flora inclined her head in thanks, though she wished to groan.
Why had she let Belinda Chesterfield convince her to attend?
Even the promise of a lucrative patronage did not seem so enticing, now that she was inside the hot, crowded ballroom.
Everywhere she looked, she was only reminded of what she would never have.
There wasn’t a single person in attendance who was not paired man to woman, or at the very least, embroiled in a knot of conversation with an even number of each.
Arms were wrapped around waists and shoulders, whispers being passed from lips to ears.
Painted mouths stretched into smiles, laughing under the lines of half masks.
Obviously the veneer of anonymity gave the guests leeway to be free with their attentions.
Mr. Chesterfield raised his voice to be heard above the buzz of the music and voices. “Would you like to dance once they start playing something suitable?” he asked.
“Oh, no, thank you,” Flora said. “I would rather not.”
“I wouldn’t mind. Belinda says I’m a rather accomplished stepper. I know all the old country reels and even some of the new ones.”
He was trying to cheer her up, she knew, and she wished she could tell him what a futile endeavor that was. Verbena Montrose was going to be married in a few days. There could be no cheer in Flora’s soul with that wedding on the horizon.
“Perhaps later,” she said, though she doubted she would change her mind.
Mr. Chesterfield might have smiled at her in reply, though it was impossible to tell with his mouth hidden behind his mask. Yet in the next instant, his whole spine went rigid and his eyes shifted in his mask holes as they tracked something across the room.
Flora didn’t need to see his face to correctly interpret his consternation. The source of his agitation became clear when the thick crowd parted to admit Lord Byron into their midst.
“Pah!” said Mr. Chesterfield almost to himself. “Not that rake again. He still owes me three pounds from a card game.”
“Hello, fellow strangers!” Byron said in an odd, gruff voice.
He swept his tricorn hat from his head and executed a theatrical bow.
His small mask, shaped like a cat’s head complete with pointed ears and trembling wire whiskers, was not nearly enough of a disguise; his chin could be spotted leagues away.
“Good evening,” said Mr. Chesterfield stiffly.
Byron righted himself with a grin aimed at Flora. “Might I steal the alluring gentleman away for a moment? I fear we have some business matters to discuss.”
Mr. Chesterfield harrumphed. “Is the business the matter of the three pounds you owe me?”
“I owe you? We do not even know each other’s true identities.”
“Everyone knows it’s you, Byron,” Flora said, sighing.
Byron frowned. “Some people enjoy a little mystery, you know. But yes, all right, ruin it for us all.” He turned to Mr. Chesterfield. “Please, Mr. Chesterfield, if you would be so kind?”
Mr. Chesterfield gave Flora an apologetic glance as he was enveloped by Byron’s arm, along with his voluminous black cloak, and spirited away to some corner of the ballroom where the press of bodies hid them from Flora’s sight.
She crossed her arms. A fine thing! Nothing like leaving a woman unattended at a ball that was no doubt brimming with rakes and scoundrels hiding behind masks. Her teeth ground together in frustration.
A servant swept by and deposited a glass of rich red wine in her hand without slowing down.
Flora stared into the cup in confusion. This night was foisting all sorts of things upon her without her say-so.
She was just about to scan the room, desperate for any knot of conversation she could reasonably insert herself into, when the ballroom doors opened.
Flora watched with her heart in her mouth as a newcomer strode in.
He was the epitome of grace and masculine bearing, from the tips of his well-heeled pumps to the top of his jaunty tricorn hat.
His stockings were a faultless silk, his breeches a light cream.
His waistcoat, at least the part that was peeking out from beneath his black cutaway tailcoat, was a sumptuous brocade of midnight blue chased with silver.
He sported a full harlequin mask over his face with black and blue diamonds painted across it, interrupted only by the sparkle of false gems that seemed to stand in for beauty marks.
The gentleman was handsome to the extreme, a dandy of impeccable taste, and all the more breathtaking because Flora knew him to be Verbena Montrose.
Even stuffed under the tricorn hat, Verbena’s hair was unmistakable. The few errant curls that spilled between the confines of hat and mask were all Flora needed to identify her.
Flora, in her panic, turned fully around so her back was to the door. What in the world was Verbena doing here—dressed in those clothes—on the night before she was to leave for Eden?
The red wine that Flora had been clasping listlessly in her hand suddenly looked more attractive, and she quaffed a long swallow.
With drink to steady her nerves, she attempted to glance over her shoulder to ascertain Verbena’s progress, only to find that the Midnight Harlequin was now standing right behind her and staring fervently into her eyes.
“Why have you—?” Flora tried to ask, but Verbena—or rather, her alter ego—raised a single gloved finger to her porcelain lips. Flora’s words died on her tongue. Her heart fluttered in her breast.
The band struck up a waltz.