Chapter 9 #4
He sighed. “Doubtless you’re right, and powdering’s so messy.
Besides being the very devil to get out.
” He sniffed Heatherington’s perfumes, and shook one that pleased him onto an embroidered, lace-edged handkerchief, then tucked it through a buttonhole.
He put on his black shoes with high red heels and bowed to her with a flourish. “Will I do?”
Chastity swallowed. He was gorgeous. “Will anyone look before they tear your clothes off?”
He smiled slightly. “Probably not, but one has one’s standards.”
He checked the adjoining door and turned the key in the lock.
“In fact, I don’t intend to become embroiled.
For one thing, we both need our sleep before tomorrow’s adventure.
For another, I’ve no intention of risking the pox.
But I’ll have to be seen for a while. I’ll try to have a word with Toby and discover how the hunt is going.
I’ll return as soon as I can.” He halted at the door to the corridor.
“Lock the door and keep it locked to all except me.” He looked sharply at her. “Yes?”
Chastity raised her chin. “Yes. I assure you I have no desire to share this bed.”
“And yet there is only one, my dear Charles. I fear you’ll have to share it with me.”
Chastity had overlooked this obvious point. “I’ll sleep on the floor then.”
He smiled lazily. “I’d be offended, stripling. It’s a large bed and I don’t have lice.”
“It is a foible of mine, Lord Cyn. I sleep alone.”
“We’ll see.” With that he was gone.
Chastity flew to the door and locked it. Perhaps she wouldn’t even open it to him.
Reaction set in and she pressed her hands to her face. How the devil had she come to such a pass?
Cyn waited until he heard the lock click. At least she’d obeyed him thus far, but he placed little reliance on her doing so forever. He smiled and shook his head. Lord, she had courage, but it was being severely tried. Would she break before he could end this charade and protect her properly?
A roar from below stairs spoke of some mighty achievement. He didn’t care to speculate what. If he’d had any idea what kind of affair this was, he would have made an excuse to stay at the Angel.
Still, he felt he could relax now he had his damsel tucked safely away. He could relax too in the knowledge that no matter what had happened in the spring, she was an innocent in any way that mattered. Her reaction to this place told him that.
He wished he didn’t have to leave her. Any woman here, no matter how beautiful, held no appeal beside the fascination of his damsel.
He just wanted to be done with this adventure so he could force the truth from her and plan their future.
He made his way downstairs to mingle, anticipating the moment when he could return to Chastity and sanity.
Chastity wandered the bedroom restlessly. She could just imagine Cyn in the arms of one of those harpies—being groped, slobbered over, and stripped to satisfy a whore’s lust. She found her hands were fists. It wasn’t fair! Once she’d been beautiful and he wouldn’t have left her so easily.
She pulled off her wig and stood in front of the mirror. A freak. A hard-faced, bitter freak in breeches. Frantically she stripped off her male clothing and unwound the bindings around her breasts. Soon she was naked.
She gave a shuddering sigh.
She ran her hands down her body. It wasn’t a bad body.
She knew she wasn’t a crowning beauty like Nerissa Trelyn, but her body wasn’t at all bad.
Nerissa Trelyn, though, had glossy pale-blonde curls.
She had big cow-eyes with lashes thicker than Cyn’s.
She had breasts like melons, though Polite Society described them as a handsome bosom . . .
Chastity’s hands stilled. Nerissa Trelyn: daughter of the Bishop of Peterborough; wife of Lord Trelyn, image of propriety; Toast of London and social arbiter; one of the people who had seen Chastity in bed with Henry Vernham and condemned her.
Nerissa Trelyn was Heatherington’s seducer!
Chastity looked vaguely around. She picked up a brown satin dressing-gown and slipped it on. She curled up in a big chair by the fire and poured herself a glass of wine from a decanter there.
Could she be mistaken? she wondered as she sipped. It scarcely seemed believable and yet she was sure, mainly because of the distinctive, mellow voice. She wore a red wig over her blonde hair, but it was she. The great Lady Trelyn was here playing the whore.
Could she have recognized Chastity?
No, she’d definitely had her eyes and mind on other matters.
On the whole, Chastity wasn’t surprised that Nerissa Trelyn had lovers; the world knew she’d married Lord Trelyn for his money, and he appeared to be a cold, dry man.
But for her to be in such a place . . .
And she’d had the gall to condemn Chastity Ware!
How many more were here? How many more hypocrites?
Chastity drained the glass and stood. She had to find out. She began to drag on her clothes again but paused. Her brother Fort. If she bumped into him, he’d know her.
She needed to be masked. But only the women were masked. If she dressed as a woman, with wig and mask, surely no one would recognize her. Chastity had recognized Nerissa Trelyn by her voice and so would be careful to disguise her own.
She hovered uncertainly. She wanted, quite desperately, to stay safe in his room. But she wanted, just as desperately, to confirm the unbelievable—that Nerissa Trelyn was reveling below stairs—because if it were so, there might be some way to use the information to help her own situation.
She’d do it. Just a brief and cautious foray.
Chastity flung open the doors of Lord Heatherington’s armoire, but found it contained only men’s clothing. She beat her hands together in frustration. She could doubtless assemble a female costume from the bits of clothing lying around this house, but she didn’t dare go searching.
The adjoining room. She’d go odds it belonged to a woman.
In a moment she’d turned the lock and was in. Yes! Clearly a woman’s room. Now, would the clothes fit? A glance in the armoire told her they would—not perfectly, but well enough.
She couldn’t suppress a laugh of delight at the selection of pretty gowns before her.
It had been so long since she’d seen such delicious confections.
She threw off the dressing-gown and pulled on a sheer white silk chemise with elbow-length sleeves edged with a double layer of foaming lace.
She shivered with pleasure as it slithered over her skin, a mere veil over her body, not substantial at all.
Next, she chose a padded petticoat of white satin trimmed with yellow ribbon.
She stepped into it and tied the laces at her waist. A brocade stomacher went on top, its V front coming down over the waistband of the petticoat.
She had some trouble tying the laces in the back, but there was no question of summoning a servant and so she did the best she could, smiling at the memory of dressing Cyn, sighing at the thought of what it would be like to be dressed, or undressed, by him.
She pushed such thoughts aside.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The stomacher barely covered her nipples and pushed up the fullness of her breasts.
Their swelling was only covered by the filmy chemise.
She’d never worn such a bold bodice before, but she liked it.
After her long, arid masquerade it felt so wonderful to be a woman again.
She took down an open gown of yellow-and-brown-striped silk and put it on, hooking it to the stomacher at the sides of the waist. Above and below it spread open to show both petticoat and stomacher. The elbow-length sleeves showed the lacy frill of the chemise.
She twirled, laughing for the pleasure of fine things, for the rustling, slithering feel of silk.
The skirts hung rather limp and would be better for hoops, but if the lady who owned all this had hoops she was wearing them.
The padding of the petticoat gave some fullness, and Chastity was clearly a little taller than the true owner, for the skirts did not trail.
It occurred to her that this could be Nerissa Trelyn’s room. She sought for clues but found nothing to confirm her suspicions. Suppressing her conscience, she searched thoroughly. Nothing in any of the drawers.
Then she found a small ivory box. In it were two letters, two heated love letters.
She sighed with frustration. They were probably from Lord Heatherington but were addressed to Desirée.
The name meant nothing, for fashion dictated that a man address his beloved by a fanciful name.
Chastity had been Bella to one suitor and Clorinda to another.
But then she wondered whether Heatherington kept his love letters.
She hurried to search his room. After unsuccessfully checking boxes and drawers—the sort of places where a lady would carefully store her billets doux—she at last found one stuffed carelessly into a jacket pocket.
The lady’s style was more flowery, but no less outrageous.
It made Chastity blush to read such a lustful communication.
The note was addressed to Hercules and signed Desirée, but must surely be in the writer’s own hand.
It was hardly the kind of letter one would dictate to a secretary.
Would the writing prove to be that of Lady Trelyn?
Chastity placed the letter carefully in the waistcoat pocket of her suit. She was more anxious than ever to continue her investigation, to seek a firm identification of Nerissa, and detect any other hypocrites cavorting below.
But she needed a wig, and there was none. For a moment she thought she would have to abandon her adventure, and was aware of guilty relief, but then she remembered the black wig Cyn had bought from Mrs. Crupley. Was it still in his portmanteau?
She found it was. It was a poor specimen of coarse black horsehair, but she thought it would do for this occasion.
She dragged a comb through it to tame it, then dusted the curls with the powder in the lady’s room—a rather unpleasant pink, perfumed with roses.
Chastity coughed as the stuff billowed around her.
It worked, however. When she put the mass of curls on her head, the powder softened the unlikely dense black, and made the effect quite pleasing.
Chastity made free with the lady’s dressing table. A rabbit’s foot dipped in rouge gave extra color to her cheeks, and a finger in a pot produced cream rouge for the lips. She dusted her face with white powder, and affixed a black velvet heart by her mouth—an invitation to a kiss.
Chastity assessed herself in the mirror with satisfaction.
A fine lady stood there, ready for a ball or for court, though perhaps a little over-painted for the latter.
She looked older and bolder than herself.
For sure, Toby Berrisford wouldn’t recognize a certain youth, and Fort wouldn’t recognize his sister.
Chastity Ware had always dressed demurely, as befitted a well-brought-up young lady in search of a husband.
And she looked good. Her waist was trim, her shoulders smooth and white, and if her breasts lacked the mass of cantaloupes, they were still shown to advantage by the low bodice.
She reminded herself that she did not seek to be admired.
In fact this costume might garner her more admiration than she could handle.
On the other hand, discretion in dress would stand out here like a cherry in a bowl of peas.
She twitched the stomacher just a little higher, assuring herself she would only go out among the revelers for a little while, and would be very careful.
She couldn’t help wonder what would happen if she met Cyn like this. Would he recognize her? Surely not. Would he admire her? She pushed such speculations out of mind. He’d be more likely to put her over his knee. For tonight, she’d keep well out of Cyn Malloren’s way.
As for other admirers, all the men appeared to be drunk and she should be able to dodge and outwit them. It was not as if there was a shortage of willing females.
Finally, the mask. She tied on a black velvet half-mask, which had the added advantage of securing the wig. She nodded at her reflection. She wouldn’t know herself.
There was only one pair of shoes and they were too small. Nerissa Trelyn made much of her tiny feet.
Chastity shrugged. She doubted anyone would be surprised to see someone in bare feet in this house. As a last gesture, she picked up a vial of perfume, but when she smelt it, she grimaced at the heavy, sickly rose odor.
She remembered the perfume Cyn had bought. What had he done with it?
She returned to Heatherington’s bedroom, locking the adjoining door, and rummaged in Cyn’s bag.
She found the crystal vial. She unstoppered it and sniffed with delight at the complex blend of spice and flowers, underlaid with elements that spoke of lust. She hesitated, wondering if wearing it might not be dangerous in this place, then told herself that such a discreet invitation to intimacy would be swamped by all the other odors.
She wanted to wear it for herself, because it was wonderful, and made her feel powerful in her womanhood.
She dabbed some at her elbows and between her breasts.
The aroma drifted up warm from her body to dizzy her mind. Cyn Malloren had exquisite taste. What a shame, she thought, that their fates would keep them apart.
Chastity admitted the truth. Part of her desperation to find out who was here tonight was a forlorn hope that she could glean some information with which to help repair her reputation. Then she could meet Cyn on honest ground.
She swallowed tears at such a hopeless task, but would not give in to them. She had learned to be a fighter and this was the only chance of a weapon to come her way.