Chapter 10
THE brOUGHAM WAS A SNUG FIT FOR THE THREE PARTYGOERS, who happily sardined inside, Annabel pinned in the middle.
James had been kind enough to wait while she dressed—she chose a white gown to set off her dark curls, in the French style, with a very low neckline and rosebud garlands embroidered across the front skirt and around the hem, neckband, and sleeves, to match her sister’s in reverse.
She hung her summer shift and light sweater on a hook on the door and dressed as quickly as she could.
Cassie found just enough gel to fix her ringlets, with a dab left for Billy.
The two of them were gabby and giddy getting ready, if only relieved to have something to do and some way to get there.
Annabel found herself swept up in their newfound enthusiasm.
She was grateful Fanny and her mother had assumed she’d want to come, which is why they must have sent James to collect her.
She hoped her “additional guests” wouldn’t be a problem, even if they weren’t exactly Regency material.
Mrs. Lackington aside, there was every chance they’d feel as welcome as she had last night.
“Feast for the eyes, they is,” James had whispered to Billy when he wedged in last. James climbed onto his seat up top and took the reins. The horses snorted as they started back down the drive, with a certain frisson of giddyup and go. The trio was off on their Saturday night adventure.
“James thinks you guys look hot.”
“Is that what he said?” Annabel asked.
“Feast for the eyes, they is,” Billy said in a precise imitation of his cockney accent.
“Wow. You can really do that.”
“It’s my gift.”
“It gets irritating after a while, trust me,” said Cassie.
“You do that southern thing,” he countered.
“Only when I’m layin’ it on extra thick,” said Cassie in a perfect drawl. “Hang out long enough in Virginia and you would too.”
“Anyway,” Annabel interrupted, “everyone talks in period language.” She didn’t have much time to brief them. “They don’t break character at all, and neither should we.”
Cassie fluffed her ringlets. “So, we play characters?”
“Sort of. You can be who you are, but more like who you would have been then. So, I’m Miss Annabel Blake, of America. And you would be—”
“I know who I am,” said Cassie.
“I’m sorry. I guess I’m a tad nervous.”
“That we’ll embarrass you? That’s rich.”
“I wanna be an English dude,” said Billy.
Annabel tried to explain, in the nicest way possible, what the rules of the Regency Society seemed to be, how to exhibit good manners, good breeding.
She gently suggested they make excuses about dancing, because they’d never be able to keep up.
Billy, she said, could retreat to the game room and play cards.
Cassie should just stick by her side, and they’d figure it out.
“Oh, we definitely wanna dance,” said Cassie.
“I’ve got moves,” said Billy.
“He does, actually. Have moves.”
“It’s not really a ‘moves’ kind of situation,” said Annabel.
“You’re forgetting I used to practice your cotillion dances with you, ad nauseam.”
“Not since you were ten.”
“It’s gotta be like riding a bicycle.”
“There are no bicycles. Don’t mention bicycles.”
“Okay, but chassé, drop-step, bouret? Step-close-step-hop, over-close-forward, promenade? See, I remember.”
“Wow, you do.” Annabel was impressed. “But a woman can’t ask a man to dance. You get a dance card, but you have to wait for the man to ask.”
“Oh jee-zus. So basically, we play hard to get?”
Annabel, who’d only known Cassie to play easy to get, and get everything she wanted, tried not to look skeptical.
“Can I mention food?” asked Billy. “I’m starving.”
“There’ll be refreshments. I recommend against the syllabub.
And there could be a dinner.” She could tell they were tiring of her instructions.
“Anyway, if there is, just follow my lead—which fork for which course, and I’d keep the talk minimal, not too revealing, you know . . . light, sparkling conversation.”
Cassie wasn’t listening at all. “Shit. I forgot that purse thing you gave me.”
“Reticule,” said Annabel.
“Whatever, it had my lip gloss in it, and my cell phone!”
“We can live without our cell phones for one night,” said Billy, rubbing his hand through his barely tamed hair. “I think.”
“No one had a phone last night,” said Annabel. “I’m pretty sure.”
“No Insta? No posting? No likes?” Cassie looked appalled. “What if there’s internet?”
“It’s pretend, remember? You have to pretend.”
“I can pretend.” Cassie knew her sister was biting her tongue. “We got this, A-bel. How hard can it be? Give us some credit.”
Billy pulled at his crotch. “These pants itch my ass.”
“Well, me some credit, anyway,” said Cassie, adjusting her boobs.
“Breeches,” said Annabel, quietly, having her first second thoughts of the night.
***
Whatever apprehension Annabel felt dissolved into awe when the carriage turned into the long tree-lined drive leading to Norwood Manor under a sky edging past twilight.
Billy tumbled out first, grateful for the fresh air, then pretended to help James hand “the ladies” down.
But when the three of them turned to gaze up at the grand country house with its warm sandstone facade lit by torches, and the front door under a Greek-columned portico, wide open and welcoming, the thrill was undeniable.
“Okay, ten out of ten. No notes,” said Cassie.
“This is gonna be epic,” said Billy.
Annabel was mesmerized. “I tried to tell you.”
They fell in with the well-dressed throng, dotted with regiment red coats, streaming into the black-and-white checkerboard entrance hall under a great chandelier, where people milled about murmuring greetings and compliments, already assuming their parts.
Annabel felt it all the way to her toes, the low hum of high hopes for the evening to come.
She couldn’t help casting around for some sign among the red coats of D’Evercy’s fine black but vowed to enjoy herself whether he was there or not.
Cassie and Billy followed as she merged with the purling crowd flowing toward the source of the excitement.
The opulent ballroom exploded into view with its high frescoed ceiling, moiré wallpaper, dramatic red drapes on windows as tall as hills.
There were statues on pedestals, paintings of important-looking people, a massive hearth.
It was a smaller ball, but more refined.
Couples danced at the center, musicians played, officers mingled with ladies, everyone drinking champagne or iced punch offered by servers who wove through the crowd carrying silver trays.
“Major vibe shift detected,” Billy whispered to Cassie. “This is sick.”
“Just follow my lead,” Cassie whispered back.
“I thought we were following Annabel.”
“Whatever. Just be yourself. We got this.”
Annabel surveyed the room for a glimpse of Fanny’s friendly face among the buns and ringlets festooned with headbands, fillets, and bows.
Seeing neither Fanny nor D’Evercy, she brushed it off.
Two nights in a row might be too much “pretending” for some people, but not for her.
It would be enough—the glow of the room, blushing youth, ripened age, order, decorum, civility.
“So, this,” Annabel said to her companions, “is the Regency Society.”
“Dude, you were right,” Billy said. “They really go all-out with the pretend. It even smells different.”
Cassie sniffed the air. “Yeah, they must be pretending there’s no deodorant.”
Annabel lifted her chin to the chandelier. Like last night, it was lit by real candles.
“See?” she said to Cassie. “Isn’t it amazing?”
“Okay, it is, I admit,” said Cassie. “Hashtag-Regency-Core.”
Annabel looked mildly alarmed. “You can’t say that, okay?”
“I’m not gonna say that!” Cassie scanned the room for good-looking guys. “But I’m warning you, I am feeling particularly spicy tonight.”
Annabel didn’t look reassured.
Cassie swiped two champagne flutes from a passing tray. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.” She handed one to her sister. “You need to relax.”
Annabel took a fizzing sip, hoping it would help, as Althea Warnaby and her gaggle turned their swanlike necks to ogle Billy.
“Don’t look now, but those babes are totally checking me out.”
“Yeah, they can’t wait to meet Mr. Doofus!” said Cassie, with a sardonic laugh.
“It cannot be so!”
Annabel turned to see Lady Gidding-Wedmore upon them, with Mrs. Lackington glued to her side.
“You, sir, a Doofus?”
“I—uh—uh . . .” Billy looked to Annabel, who wasn’t sure how to rescue him, and Cassie, dying on the inside.
“I am a Doofus!” he finally declared in his posh English accent, pleased with himself.
Annabel inserted herself politely. “Lady Gidding-Wedmore, Mrs. Lackington, may I present my elder sister, Miss Cassandra Blake . . .”
Cassie vaguely curtsied. It wasn’t her gift.
“And our . . . English cousin? . . . Mister . . .”
“Doofus,” said Cassie. “Mr. Doofus is his name.”
With no idea what to do next, Billy semi-curtsied, too, sending Lady Gidding-Wedmore into gales of laughter. Mrs. Lackington trained her sights on him.
“The Sir Edward Doofuses of Dawlish, in Devon?” she said with an arrowed eyebrow.
Billy opened his mouth to speak, but it was all happening too fast. Annabel leapt in to save him.
“No, Mrs. Lackington. The Sir William Doofuses of Derwent, in Derbyshire.” She was grateful to find a just good enough map of England in her head, and a determination not to let the character playing the nosy gossip get one up on them. Annabel could play too.
“Tell me, Mr. Doofus,” said Mrs. Lackington, not letting it go. “Have you been long out of Derbyshire?”
Annabel started to answer for him, but Billy gave her an I-got-this wink.
“Actually, I’ve just finished reading Classics,” he said with a winning smile. “At Oxford!”
Annabel blanched.
“Oh, a gentleman and a scholar!” said Lady Gidding-Wedmore. “And are you married, Mr. Doofus?” Getting right to the point.