Chapter Twenty-Two #2
turn up and had more than one nightmare in which his death featured prominently. The fear that Bingle was still being searched
for and that the truth would one day prove the ruination of them all was the bane of her existence.
Her relationship with Penelope advanced by the smallest of degrees as they encountered one another at various social engagements,
but they were pictured together in the Daily Sketch and other ladies’ magazines and were polite when they met, so the gossips largely turned their focus elsewhere. Still, when
an invitation arrived from Lord and Lady Somerset requesting the honor of their presence at a fancy dress ball to raise money
for the Save the Children fund to help war orphans, Rynn felt it incumbent on her and Thomas to accept even though it meant
prevailing on Thomas to cancel plans he’d already made for that same evening.
“I know you said you’d never go to another fancy dress ball, but if we fail to attend, someone’s sure to say I’m on the outs
with Penelope.” Rynn’s tone was apologetic. Thomas’s grimace as he read the invitation she’d just handed him told her everything
she needed to know about his feelings on the subject. They’d arrived home from touring a house in the Knightsbridge district,
which Thomas had thought had possibilities but she’d had reservations about, to find the post waiting for them, and she’d
opened that one in the lift as they went upstairs. “Besides, it’s for a good cause.”
“Joe Beckett’s fighting Frank Goddard that night,” Thomas groaned. Then his face brightened. “It’s a costume ball. We can put a mask on Hinkley—” Hinkley was his valet “—wrap him up in some kind of robe, sit him in my chair and send him with you. No one will know the difference.”
“No,” Rynn said sternly, but she had to smile. “Of course, if you really don’t wish to go . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“A ball is no fun for a man who can’t dance,” Thomas pointed out. He was using his sticks, so when they reached the door to
their apartment Rynn opened it and followed him inside. “And any man who doesn’t feel ridiculous kitted out like a swami or
Napoleon . . . well, there’s no hope for him is all I can say.”
“So you wish me to decline.”
He looked at her over his shoulder as she closed the door behind them.
“I didn’t say that. Accept the damned thing if you must.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Perhaps we can arrive late. My
money’s on Beckett knocking out Goddard no later than the second round. I can go on to the ball from there dressed as a man
who’s just been to a fight.”
Rynn laughed, and he gave her an exaggerated leer. “If you’ll dress in harem pants and a sheer vest like Lady Cadogan did
at that last costume party, it’ll almost be worth it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Rynn made a face at him—Lady Cadogan’s scandalous outfit had been the talk of the town for weeks
afterward—and then Parry arrived to help her change for dinner and Thomas went on to his room where Hinkley waited.
As it happened, Joe Beckett did indeed knock out Frank Goddard in the second round, just as Thomas predicted.
After assuring Rynn that he would leave no later than the end of the second round and get home in time to accompany her to the ball no matter what, Thomas was there at the fight, on which he bet, won and made a handsome profit, and then proved as good as his word.
“A few more investments like that, and we’ll be rich as Carnegie,” Thomas chortled as he displayed his winnings to her in
the car. At this reference to Andrew Carnegie, arguably the richest man alive, Rynn shook her head.
“Or you’ll lose every shilling you possess, and we’ll end up in the poorhouse,” she retorted, and he laughed.
“Spoken like a true wife.”
“Spoken like a person of sense,” she said, and he laughed again.
It was going on midnight when they arrived.
The ball was in full swing. The ballroom at the Somerset mansion was magnificent, with a high frescoed ceiling held up by fluted pillars, arched French doors open to let in the warm night air and masses of flowers everywhere.
The guests were no less magnificent, as Lady Somerset’s enormous fortune made her lavish entertainments practically de rigueur among those fortunate enough to receive an invitation.
It was difficult to tell who was who as couples twirled past to the lively strains of “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag,” to which a number of partygoers added a full-throated “and smile, smile, smile” where appropriate.
The guests were dressed as everyone from Henry VIII—that would be Churchill, according to Thomas, who said the pale round face beneath the half mask was unmistakable—to Mrs. Ward as Cleopatra.
The Prince of Wales, easily identifiable by his blond hair and diminutive size, was a Roman slave in a toga and gilt sandals, and Viscountess Astor was a shepherdess complete with gold-topped crook.
Rynn’s scarlet dress featured sheer chiffon panels designed to float when she danced over a slim silk column.
Glittering with spangles that caught the light with her every movement, it was sleeveless and worn with a long jet necklace and her jet earbobs, a black satin half mask and a cunning headpiece topped with three scarlet plumes.
She was supposed to be the Firebird, from the popular Russian ballet.
Thomas, in a red military jacket buttoned up over the shirt and trousers he’d worn to the fight and a trench cap, was a toy soldier.
He was up on his sticks when they arrived, but Rynn had insisted that his chair be brought along in case he should tire.
It wasn’t long before he settled into it, surrounded by a group of his cronies, all of whom excitedly listened to his blow-by-blow retelling of the fight.
Rynn danced, and talked to her acquaintances among the ladies present, and went into supper with Thomas, and, as he retired
to the card room that had been set aside for the nondancers among the gentlemen, danced some more. The champagne was heady,
and she sipped it cautiously as she sat near one of the French doors cooling off in the slight but welcome breeze. The sweet
scent of roses wafting in from the garden rivaled the most fragrant of the ladies’ perfumes. She’d been talking to Maud, who’d
just been whisked away by Lord North, and was enjoying having a minute to herself to admire the dancers and their costumes
when Penelope, who’d danced every dance as far as Rynn could tell, detached herself from her partner and pirouetted up to
her. As Rynn looked at her in some surprise, Penelope turned back to the young man she was deserting with the laughing admonishment
that if he wanted another dance, he must first provide her with a glass of lemonade, because she was parched.
“Your wish is my command, my queen. I shall return forthwith.” Seeming to take his dismissal in good part, he gave her a flourishing
bow—not so ridiculous once you realized that Penelope’s sixteenth-century gown and glittering crown were meant to turn her
into Mary, Queen of Scots, while her admirer, at a guess, was meant to be Sir Walter Raleigh—and headed toward the refreshment
room.