Chapter 10
Lady Isabella greeted them with a smile and an outstretched hand. She was lovely in a gown of deep rose-pink and with her golden hair dressed in ringlets. “Major Reynolds. Lieutenant Mayhew.”
“I hope we’re not intruding.” Nicholas indicated the front door, which had just closed behind Lady Isabella’s visitor. “We can return later if—”
“Not at all. Come upstairs, gentlemen. The kittens are in the morning room.”
She talked lightly of the kittens as they climbed the stairs, Rufus at their heels, and perhaps it was his imagination, but she didn’t seem to be quite herself.
“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked quietly.
Lady Isabella cast him a swift glance. “Perfectly!” she said, her smile bright and wide.
No,he thought, with an internal frown. Something is wrong.
Lady Isabella turned to Mayhew, still smiling brightly. “They all have different personalities, you know. I can tell you exactly which one will be the first to greet us.”
She opened the door to the sunny morning room. The kittens, asleep in the basket, roused at their entrance. A black one clambered out and came running across the carpet, its tiny tail held high in the air.
Lady Isabella bent to pick up the black kitten. “This is Boots,” she said. “And I’m afraid you may not have her, Lieutenant.”
“You’re keeping her?” Nicholas asked.
“Yes,” she said, stroking the kitten. “How can I give her away when she comes running to greet me every time I open the door?”
“Boots?” Mayhew asked, walking towards the basket of kittens.
“Major Reynolds ruined a pair of boots rescuing them,” Isabella explained as the black kitten began to purr.
Mayhew cast a laughing glance over his shoulder. “A hero, no less!”
Nicholas ignored his friend’s teasing and closed the door to prevent any escapes.
Rufus trotted over to the basket, stuck his muzzle into the tangle of kittens, and began to lick the upturned faces. Mayhew uttered a startled laugh as the kittens squeaked, scrambling over each other, vying for the dog’s attention.
“Extraordinary, isn’t it?” Nicholas said, walking across to join Mayhew. He patted Rufus. A very nice dog, with his gangly legs and plumy tail and his startling eyes. I should like a dog like him.
“The black-and-gray is the boldest,” Lady Isabella said, coming to stand alongside them. “She’s a girl. And of the two gray tabbies, one is a boy, and one a girl. Here—” She handed the black kitten to Nicholas, their fingers touching fleetingly, and then bent to pick up a gray-striped kitten. She checked its gender with brief matter-of-factness and gave it to Mayhew. “This is the boy. He loves to have his belly rubbed, see, if you hold him like this...”
Mayhew laughed again as the kitten relaxed in his grip, belly-up, purring.
“What do you think, Lieutenant?”
Nicholas retired from the conversation, listening with half an ear as he examined the paintings on the walls, Boots cupped in his hand. The black-and-gray kitten set about climbing the curtains while her boldness was discussed and the gray-striped male purred blissfully under Mayhew’s ministrations.
When the discussion turned to the logistics of traveling to Southampton with two kittens, Nicholas retired to one of the sofas. The cream and gold damask appeared to be untouched, but he thought he discerned some scratches on the lion’s claw feet, as if a kitten had tried to climb up them.
Boots settled happily on his lap. Nicholas stroked the kitten idly, listening to her purr. The warmth and softness of her coat, the vibration of her purr beneath his hand, brought back memories of Spain, of campfires and—
“I thought you didn’t like cats, Major?”
Nicholas looked up to find two pairs of eyes on him. “Er...”
“Nonsense!” Mayhew said. “If he said that, he was gammoning you, ma’am.” His grin widened. “What was the name of that kitten you picked up after Badajoz? That scruffy, multicolored creature? Amigo, wasn’t it?”
“Compa?ero,” Nicholas said reluctantly, and then added for Lady Isabella’s sake: “Companion, in Spanish.”
“He carried it around with him for months,” Mayhew said, speaking to Lady Isabella. “Said it was too young to fend for itself.”
“Oh,” said Lady Isabella. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, her expression assessing.
Nicholas cleared his throat. He stood and placed Boots on the floor. Shut up, Mayhew, or she’ll foist the last one off on me. “Which ones are you taking?”
“Those two,” Mayhew said, pointing. He turned to Lady Isabella. “But I won’t take them until next week, ma’am, if that’s all right with you?”
Negotiations complete, they exited the morning room, Lady Isabella closing the door in the face of the black-and-gray kitten’s attempt to explore.
“What happened to your Spanish kitten?” Lady Isabella asked as they descended the stairs, Rufus preceding them, his tail waving.
“He refused to cross the Huebra.”
She glanced at him. “Did you miss him?”
“A little,” he admitted.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like—?”
“Quite certain,” he said firmly. Although, truth be told, he had liked the warmth of Boots on his knee, her quiet purr, her soft fur.
In the hallway Mayhew bowed over Lady Isabella’s hand and—quite unnecessarily in Nicholas’s opinion—kissed it. “I’m in your debt, ma’am. You’ve saved my reputation!”
Lady Isabella disclaimed this with a laugh.
“What reputation?” Nicholas said, slightly sourly.
“I always give the best presents.”
“Hyde Park this afternoon?” Nicholas asked, while Mayhew accepted his hat and gloves from the butler.
“Oh,” Lady Isabella said, consternation crossing her face. “Forgive me, Major, but I don’t think I can. The masquerade tonight... my costume...” She bit her lip.
“No apology is necessary,” he said, but as he walked down the steps with Mayhew, he wondered whether the costume had been an excuse or a reason. Something was bothering Lady Isabella. She wasn’t agitated or flustered, just... not completely at ease.
He couldn’t lay the blame at Mayhew’s feet—Lady Isabella was no straw damsel to be overset by the lieutenant’s lighthearted flirting.
Nicholas took his leave of Mayhew at the end of Clarges Street. “A prime article,” the lieutenant said. “No wonder you’re making up to her.”
Nicholas looked at him with exasperation. “I told you, we’re merely friends.”
Mayhew shook his head. “A word of advice,” he said, leaning close and dropping his voice to a whisper. “Take that last kitten.”
“Damn it, Mayhew! How many times do I have to tell you? We’re merely—”
But Mayhew shook his head, his eyes alight with laughter. “I must be off!” He raised a hand in a gesture that was very like a salute and swung away.
Nicholas watched him go, torn between annoyance and amusement. Amusement won. He grunted a laugh, then set his hat more firmly on his head and strode off in the direction of Drury Lane.
* * *
Isabella retrieved Mr. Fernyhough’s letter from its hiding place. Now that the major was gone, some of her tension eased. She turned the letter over in her fingers. There would be tears when she gave it to Harriet, of that she was certain. Harriet was a sweet child, mild-tempered and eager to oblige, but she was also—as Isabella’s brother Julian would say—a watering pot.
Although the girl did have reason to cry.
Isabella sighed and climbed the stairs to Mrs. Westin’s parlor.
The room was warm with sunlight. Harriet was reading aloud in her soft, childlike voice. Isabella didn’t recognize the words, but the tenor of the book was unmistakable: another Improving Work.
Harriet finished the sentence she was reading, in which duty figured largely, and looked up, marking her place with one finger. “Your visitors have gone, ma’am?”
“Yes.” Isabella braced herself for tears. “One of them was an acquaintance of yours: Mr. Fernyhough. He desired me to give you this.” She advanced across the room as she spoke, holding the letter out, aware of Mrs. Westin’s head lifting and the knitting needles stilling, aware of Harriet’s cheeks paling and the book falling unheeded from her lap.
“Mr. Fernyhough?” Harriet spoke the name in a breathless gasp. “Here?” She rose to her feet.
“He has gone, child,” Isabella said gently. “He felt it was unwise to see you.”
“Oh.” Tears started in Harriet’s eyes.
“He was concerned for your well-being. I was able to assure him that you’re safe and well.”
The girl nodded. Her eyes were bright with moisture.
“He left this for you.”
Harriet took the letter with a trembling hand.
“Perhaps you’d like to go to your room to read it?”
The girl nodded mutely. She clutched the letter to her breast and fled the parlor.
“Mr. Fernyhough?” Mrs. Westin asked when the door had closed behind Harriet.
Isabella sighed and sat. “A clergyman.” She picked up the book that had tumbled from Harriet’s lap, smoothing the pages. There is no greater glory than a life devoted to duty, she read. She closed the book and glanced at the spine. Sermons. “An admirer of Harriet’s. He withdrew his suit when Colonel Durham forbade the match.”
“Quite proper.” Mrs. Westin nodded her approval. She resumed her knitting.
Isabella glanced at her. Proper, yes, but look at the unhappiness that has resulted. She didn’t utter the words. Instead she placed the book to one side and said, “Lieutenant Mayhew has agreed to take two of the kittens.”
“That’s good,” Mrs. Westin said, not looking up from her knitting.
Isabella bit her lip, wishing she could talk freely with her cousin and knowing that she couldn’t; their views on the subject of familial duty were widely divergent. She stood. “I have a letter to write, Elinor. Please excuse me.”
“Of course, my dear.” Mrs. Westin smiled serenely, her needles moving with a brisk click-click-click. A sleeve of sturdy blue wool dangled from one knitting needle.
Isabella let herself out of the parlor. She walked back to the morning room and the kittens and sat at the escritoire to compose a letter to her brother, the Duke of Middlebury. Paper, quill, ink, sealing wax... The words, though, weren’t easy to find. She stared down at the sheet of hot-pressed paper, aware of an ache growing behind her temples. What to reveal and what to hide?
“How much should I tell him, Rufus?”
Rufus was no help; he merely wagged his tail.
* * *
There was something about a masked ball—a freedom, a loosening of constraints, a slight edge of the risqué. One could wear clothing that in other settings, in the same company, would be shocking. Isabella glanced down at her feet in their Grecian sandals. She couldn’t have gilded her toenails on any other occasion—not unless she wished to shock the Polite World and draw censure down upon her head—but hers weren’t the only painted toenails, tonight. A glance around the crowded ballroom showed several other ladies had the audacity to mimic the whores of Paris. One even appeared to be dressed as a whore. Brave, thought Isabella. I wouldn’t care to display so much flesh.
The music fitted the mood of the assembled guests: loud, with a slightly wild edge to it. Few débutantes were present. Their mothers had prudently kept them away. The Worthingtons’ masquerade did have a reputation, after all.
Isabella scanned the ballroom through the eyeholes of her golden mask, looking for the major’s chosen bride, Clarissa Whedon. She was relieved not to find her; this was scarcely the place for a girl just out of the schoolroom.
Isabella found herself frowning. How could the major wish for so young a bride? And for such a reason? A placid, biddable girl without any opinions of her own. A girl whose character was still unformed.
He’ll be bored within a month.
She shrugged. If that was the sort of marriage Major Reynolds wanted, he was welcome to it.
She scanned the room again, searching for him. There were a number of men with his height and breadth of shoulder—she saw a black-bearded pirate, a Roman legionnaire, a knight in armor with a red, perspiring face beneath his visor—Poor man; not a good choice of costume—a monk, a sailor with a tarred ponytail, an executioner, and a rather tall Napoleon—but none who had the major’s carriage.
“Isn’t this fun!” Gussie said. Her eyes gleamed with merriment behind the concealment of her mask. With her red hooded cloak, pinafore and pigtails and pantalettes, and the basket of strawberries on her arm, there was no doubting who she was.
Isabella laughed. “Yes!” She reached for another strawberry. Red Riding Hood’s basket was almost empty.
A winged Faerie flitted past, giggling behind her mask, pursued by a horned satyr. The ballroom boasted half a dozen Faeries, in addition to a lavishly feathered peacock, a number of shepherdesses, a mermaid with an awkward tail, a butterfly, several buxom milkmaids, two Marie Antoinettes with powdered hair, a rather clever marionette, and a Cleopatra.
And a Grecian harvest goddess.
Isabella touched the tiny golden corn sheaves that dangled from her earlobes.
“There’s another goddess.” Gussie pointed.
Isabella followed the direction of her finger. A Diana stood by the far pillar, boyish in a short Grecian tunic, a bow and a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder.
“Who’s that with her? Good gracious!” Gussie gave a choke of laughter. “Just look at what Sarah Faraday is wearing.”
Isabella had seen. She politely refrained from commenting.
“Oh, and there’s Cupid. Look!”
“Yes,” Isabella said. “But have you seen your cousin? He said he’d be here.”
Perhaps he hadn’t realized quite how far the Worthingtons’ estate was from town? Seven miles, in the dark, was no slight distance. He could have lost his way or—
A disturbance near the doorway drew her attention. Voices rose. She heard gasps, laughter.
A man emerged from the crowd near the entrance, dressed in a brown frieze coat. There was no mistaking his height or his soldier’s bearing.
Isabella’s mouth dropped open.
She wasn’t the only one transfixed. Heads turned as Major Reynolds passed. A stir of conversation rose in his wake.
“Oh,” said Isabella, finding her breath as he walked towards them. “How perfect!” She held out her hand to him. “Major, I’m truly impressed.”
Major Reynolds bowed over her fingers. “I’m pleased you approve.”
She could only shake her head and stare at him. An ogre confronted her, gray-skinned, with flaring, red-rimmed nostrils, a jutting, knotted brow, and matted black hair hanging past his shoulders. A livid scar deformed half his face, papier-maché sculpted into scarlet ridges of burned flesh.
“Where did you get it?” Gussie reached out to touch the mask with one finger.
“A costumier near Drury Lane.”
“It’s perfect,” Isabella said again. “Absolutely perfect.” She meant more than the mask. The major was thumbing his nose at the ton and at the same time joining them in their laughter.
Very few men would have either the wit or the courage to do that.
“It seemed . . . apt,” the major said. His face was hidden behind the mask, all but his mouth and chin.
He had a very nice mouth, Isabella realized. An expressive mouth, with nicely shaped lips. A mouth that, right now, was quirked up at the corners, as if he barely held back laughter.
Bless you for having a sense of humor, Major. There could be no more ridicule after tonight, not after Major Reynolds had invited London to laugh with him.
His eyes, green and glittering behind the mask, examined her costume—the elaborately upswept hair bound with gold ribbon, the tiny golden corn sheaves dangling from her earlobes, the gown of cream satin falling to her ankles in long, sheer pleats, its bodice bound with golden cord, the delicate Grecian sandals. His eyes lingered a moment on her gilded toenails and then rose to inspect the staff she held, crowned with gold-painted corn sheaves and intricately bound with golden ribbon. “Demeter,” he said.
“Well done, Major.”
Viscount Washburne emerged from the crowded dance floor, splendid in a huntsman’s costume, a wolf skin thrown over his shoulders. “The quadrille,” he said to Gussie, holding out his hand to her. He glanced at Major Reynolds and his eyes widened. For a moment he stared, and then he uttered a crack of laughter. “Magnificent!”
Major Reynolds grinned. “Thank you.”
Gussie put down her basket of strawberries. She took her husband’s hand. “Make sure he has some punch,” she said over her shoulder, as Lucas Washburne pulled her onto the dance floor.
“Punch?”
“A Worthington tradition,” Isabella said. “You must try it. It’s... Well, you shall judge for yourself.”
His mouth quirked again in amusement. “That good?”
“Better!”
“Then I must certainly try it.” He held out his arm to her. “If you’ll lead me to it?”
They strolled slowly around the perimeter of the room to the accompaniment of the quadrille. The familiar tune had an edge to it, a slight wildness not found at more formal balls. The dancers caught the mood of the music. Isabella watched them for a moment, enjoying their gaiety, before turning her attention to the guests clustering the edges of the dance floor.
Satisfaction grew in her breast with each indrawn breath, each startled gaze, each choke of laughter, each low-voiced murmur of admiration that Major Reynolds’ mask evoked. “Major,” she said, in a low voice. “You are a genius.”
“Taken the wind out of their sails,” he murmured, inclining his head to a rather portly Robin Hood.
The table that bore the deep, silver punch bowl was crowded with revelers. It took some minutes before they were able to procure glasses.
Major Reynolds looked at his glass dubiously. Sliced strawberries and oranges floated in the punch. “It’s pink,” he said. “Are you certain—?”
“Try it!”
His lips twisted in amusement. She thought she saw a gleam in the eyes hidden behind his mask.
The major’s first sip was tentative. His second was not. “The deuce!” he said, examining the punch more closely. “What have they put in it?”
“It’s probably best if one doesn’t know,” Isabella said, raising her own glass to her lips.
The punch was potent, slightly sweet, slightly tart, cool in her mouth and hot in her throat. She swallowed, feeling warmth spread beneath her skin. Dangerous to drink too much, she told herself.
After the quadrille came a waltz. Isabella leaned her staff against a wall and allowed Major Reynolds to lead her onto the dance floor. They made their bows and then came together, his hand at her waist, hers on his shoulder. She’d worn no gloves tonight, for the veracity of her costume, and neither had he. She was aware of the heat of the major’s palm, the strength of his fingers. Their handclasp felt surprisingly intimate.
The Worthingtons’ waltz was no staid Almack’s dance, but something far more exhilarating and fast-paced. The musicians plied their bows with ever increasing speed. Major Reynolds kept time with the music, whirling her around the dance floor until she was breathless and laughing. He retained hold of her hand when they halted, steadying her. “More punch?” he asked, as he escorted her from the dance floor.
Recklessly she nodded.
Dance followed dance until Isabella lost all track of time. She saw Major Reynolds frequently on the dance floor: the brown coat, the mane of shaggy black hair, the scowling ogre’s mask. From the set of his mouth, he was enjoying himself.
The heat in the ballroom rose. The punch bowl was frequently emptied. Eyes glittered behind masks, cheeks were flushed, and mouths were wide with laughter. The knight removed his gauntlets, gorget, and breastplate. Sweat stained his undergarments.
Isabella ate a supper of lobster patties and white soup and returned to the ballroom to dance again.
“Where’s your staff, Demeter?”
The voice was familiar: Major Reynolds.
Isabella turned. “I have no idea!” she said, laughing up at him. “I’ve lost it!”
“For shame,” he said.
The mask was grotesque above his grinning mouth. For a moment the wrongness of it almost made her dizzy. Such a strong, well-formed body, such a hideous, deformed head. Take it off, she wanted to say, but she bit the words back. Too much punch, she scolded herself silently. I must drink no more.
“The next dance is to be a waltz,” Major Reynolds said. “And then I believe fireworks will follow.”
“Isabella!”
Another familiar voice, and this one far from welcome.
Isabella lost her smile. She turned. “Sarah. Have you met Major Reynolds?”
She made the introductions with cool politeness, but if Sarah Faraday noticed the coolness she made no move to leave. She was well on the way to being intoxicated, her laugh too loud, her words slurring, her face red above the green ruff encircling her neck.
Isabella glanced down at Sarah’s dress. What was she? The gown was a profusion of green frills, layer upon layer of them, thickening her already stout figure.
“How charming you look together,” Sarah Faraday said. “Beauty and the Beast!”
Isabella looked up from her perusal of the green gown. “Demeter and an ogre, actually,” she said coldly. “What are you? A cabbage?”
She regretted the words as soon as she’d uttered them, too spiteful, too petty, but Sarah Faraday failed to notice the insult.
“A dryad.” She pirouetted, almost falling over in the process, the dozens of frills flaring out, making her look even stouter. “Dressed in spring leaves.”
“Very original,” Major Reynolds said, politely.
Very cabbage,Isabella thought.
The musicians struck up the waltz. “Excuse us,” Major Reynolds said, holding out his hand to Isabella. “This is our dance.”
Isabella let him lead her onto the dance floor. “Beauty and the Beast!” she said, her voice sharp. “If she starts putting that around London—”
“It’s a compliment,” the major said, sounding amused. “For you, at least.”
“But you’re not a beast, any more than you’re an ogre!” Anger made her tone hot. “And if she—”
“You sound like my nephew.” Major Reynolds was smiling at her. “And I shall give you the same answer I gave him: I can fight my own battles.”
“But—”
“Ignore her.”
“Yes, but what if she—”
“I don’t care.” Major Reynolds tugged her closer. “Dance,” he said in her ear.
Isabella pursed her lips. “Is that an order, Major?”
“Most definitely.”
Her ill-humor slid away. “An autocrat, I perceive.”
He grinned at her, his teeth glinting white beneath the scowling ogre’s mask, and tightened his grip on her hand. “Of the worst kind,” he said, and swept her into the waltz.