Chapter Ten
Ashley stared at the note Henderson, their butler, had just delivered, her carefully constructed composure threatening to crack. Raven’s bold handwriting slashed across the expensive paper with frustrating brevity:
Summoned by Prinny. Cannot refuse. Will join you at Lady Summerton’s as soon as possible. Go on ahead—don’t wait for me.
R
“Is there a reply, Your Grace?” Henderson’s voice was carefully neutral, but Ashley caught the flicker of sympathy in his eyes. The entire household probably knew by now that the Duke and Duchess of Blackstone maintained separate bedchambers and led largely separate lives.
“No reply,” she said, keeping her voice steady through sheer force of will. “Please inform the coachman I’ll be ready to depart in twenty minutes.”
As Henderson withdrew, Ashley crumpled the note in her fist. Of course. Of course, Prinny would choose tonight to summon Raven. The Prince Regent’s timing was impeccable—or rather, spectacularly terrible.
She’d spent the entire day preparing for this evening.
Her costume was perfect with layers of colorful scarves and jingling jewelry, dark kohl around her eyes, her hair loose and wild in a way no proper duchess would ever appear in public.
She’d planned every detail, rehearsed what she might say if the moment presented itself, steeled her courage for the seduction she’d been building toward since that shattering kiss in the entrance hall.
And now she would arrive alone, like some pathetic wife whose husband couldn’t even be bothered to escort her to a ball.
Stop it, she told herself firmly, smoothing out the wrinkled note and tucking it into her reticule. Raven couldn’t refuse a summons from Prinny—no one could. He would come to the ball eventually. She simply had to be patient.
Though patience had never been her strong suit. If she’d had more patience, she’d have gone to Wolf before running headfirst and confronting Carstairs and perhaps things would be different. Perhaps she could have selected a man she wanted to marry.
An image of Raven dressed as a highwayman flew into her head. Would she have picked him? How could she when he didn’t let anyone know him?
She pressed her hand over her heart. She wanted to know him.
Twenty-five minutes later, Ashley’s carriage rolled to a stop before Lady Summerton’s brilliantly lit townhouse.
Music and laughter spilled from the open doors, and a steady stream of elaborately costumed guests made their way up the steps.
She saw Greek gods and goddesses, mythical creatures, historical figures from every era.
The annual masquerade was always spectacular, but Lady Summerton had outdone herself this year.
Ashley descended from the carriage alone, her colorful skirts swirling around her ankles, the bells on her costume tinkling softly with each movement. Several heads turned as she passed, and she heard whispered speculation about her identity. Good. The whole point of a masquerade was mystery.
Inside, the ballroom was transformed into something from an Arabian tale.
Lady Summerton did the same thing every year.
Silk drapes in jewel tones hung from the ceiling, creating intimate alcoves.
Candles flickered in ornate lanterns, casting dancing shadows across the crowd.
A fortune teller’s tent had been erected in one corner—how perfect for her costume—and servants in exotic dress circulated with champagne and delicacies.
“Ashley!” Farah’s voice carried across the room, and Ashley turned to see her friend waving from near the refreshment table. Farah was dressed as Boudica, complete with a toy spear and an elaborate horned crown, while Rockwell beside her wore Roman armor with obvious reluctance.
Ashley made her way through the crowd, gathering appreciative glances as she moved. The gypsy costume was working exactly as intended—bold, eye-catching, impossible to ignore.
“You look magnificent!” Farah embraced her, bells jingling on both their costumes. “Where’s Blackstone? Don’t tell me he’s wearing a boring domino after all.”
“Prinny summoned him,” Ashley said, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice. “He’ll be here later. He’s coming as a highwayman. I picked his costume.”
“How perfectly villainous,” Courtney appeared at her elbow, dressed as Cleopatra in draped white silk and an elaborate black wig. “Lucien refused to coordinate costumes with me. He’s somewhere being King Arthur, of all things.”
“At least your husbands are here,” Tiffany said with a laugh, her hand resting on her growing belly. She’d chosen a simple but elegant costume as a wood nymph, all flowing green silk and floral wreaths. “Wolf is discussing politics in the card room. As if we came to a masquerade to be serious.”
“Speaking of the card room,” a familiar male voice interjected, and Ashley turned to find Lord Marlowe—Fane—dressed as a pirate, complete with tricorn hat and a rather realistic-looking cutlass.
His sister Claire stood beside him in a perfectly appropriate Elizabethan gown, looking far more respectable than her rakish brother.
“Lord Marlowe,” Ashley greeted him with a slight curtsy. “Piracy suits you.”
“Doesn’t it just?” His grin was unrepentant. “Though I confess, I’m disappointed to find you without your formidable husband. After last night’s opera performance, I rather thought he’d be glued to your side.”
Ashley felt heat creep into her cheeks, grateful for the concealing kohl around her eyes. “He’ll be here shortly. Royal summons, you understand.”
“Ah yes, Prinny.” Fane rolled his eyes. “The man has the worst timing in England. My sympathies, Your Grace. But he will also want to attend so I’m sure your husband will be along soon.”
“Who will be along?” another voice asked, and Viscount Vale joined their growing circle, dressed as some kind of medieval knight. His sister Valora was at his side, stunning in a Grecian gown of pale blue that set off her fair hair and eyes.
“Lord Vale, Miss Valora,” Ashley acknowledged them both. “Lovely to see you.”
“Ashley.” Valora embraced her warmly. “Your costume is absolutely perfect. So much more interesting than another boring shepherdess.”
“I was thinking the same about yours,” Ashley said sincerely. “You make a beautiful goddess.”
“Athena, specifically,” Valora said with a smile. “Goddess of wisdom and warfare. I thought it fitting.”
“Fitting because you’re so wise, or because you’re constantly waging war?” Fane asked with false innocence, and Ashley saw Valora’s expression tighten.
“Both,” she said coolly. “Though some battles are hardly worth fighting.”
“Children, please,” Claire interjected with the long-suffering tone of someone well-practiced in mediating between her brother and Valora. “It’s a masquerade. Can we not have one evening without the two of you sparring?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Fane asked, but he moved away slightly, as if sensing Valora’s genuine irritation.
Ashley watched the exchange with interest. Everyone in their circle knew Valora harbored feelings for Fane, though she’d never admitted it aloud. And everyone knew Fane was determinedly avoiding anything resembling serious attachment, especially to innocent young ladies like Valora.
It was a shame, really. They would be perfect together if Fane could see past his rake’s reputation and Valora could admit what she wanted.
Rather like her own situation, Ashley thought with dark humor. Wanting something desperately while the object of that desire remained frustratingly out of reach.
“Gentlemen,” Farah said with pointed sweetness, “I believe there are card games starting in the east salon. Why don’t you go lose some money while we ladies catch up?”
“Always happy to oblige.” Rockwell appeared from somewhere, offering his wife a kiss on the cheek. “Though I plan to win, not lose.”
“Naturally,” Tiffany said dryly. “Off with you, all of you. We have important matters to discuss.”
The men departed with varying degrees of reluctance, Fane casting one last inscrutable look at Valora before disappearing into the crowd. As soon as they were gone, the women drew closer together, forming a tight circle near one of the silk-draped alcoves.
“Finally,” Courtney said. “I’ve been dying to talk about the investments. Tiffany, tell them the news!”
Tiffany’s eyes sparkled with triumph. “We had a major win this week. The shipping venture to the Americas that we invested in three months ago… Well, the first ships returned, and the profits exceeded even our most optimistic projections.”
“How much?” Farah asked eagerly.
“Thirty percent return,” Tiffany said with satisfaction. “Which puts us significantly ahead in the wager. Unless Blackstone or Marlowe have somehow pulled off a miracle in the past week, we’re winning.”
Ashley felt a flutter of guilt at the mention of Raven. She knew about his shipping venture to the Indies—he’d discussed it with her over dinner that wonderful evening before everything had become so complicated. Should she mention his investments in the Indies? Where should her loyalty lie?
“That’s wonderful,” she said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. “Have we calculated where we stand overall?”
“I’ve estimated that we’re ahead by approximately fifteen percent,” Valora said, her mind for figures evident, even at a masquerade. “With only two months left in the wager, it would take an extraordinary investment for either Blackstone or Marlowe to catch up.”
“And the prize?” Claire asked. “Have we decided what we’re demanding when we win?”
“Public acknowledgment,” Courtney said firmly. “I want them to admit, in front of everyone at White’s, that women can be just as savvy with investments as men.”
“Agreed,” the other women chorused.
Ashley nodded along, though her mind was elsewhere. In two months, Raven would discover he’d been competing against his own wife. How would he react? Would he be furious at the deception? Impressed by her financial acumen? Some combination of both?