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“Impertinence is not a trait you inherited from my side of the family,” Leticia said sulkily, reaching for the wine decanter. “The blue suits you, by the way. A wonderful match for your eyes—which you will keep lowered, if you please, along with your chin. Debutantes are shy. Gentlemen are piqued by shyness.”
“I can’t imagine why. I should think they’d be bored spitless. Thank you, Hanks,” Regina said as her maid clasped a single string of perfect pearls about her throat. She then crossed the room to her mother and bent down to kiss the woman’s thin, papery cheek, holding her breath because her mama thought to cover the smell of spirits with copious amounts of perfume, which in reality only made things worse on both counts. “Aunt Claire and Miranda will be here shortly. I should go downstairs now. Will you be all right?”
With a sidelong glance at the cut-glass decanter, Leticia nodded her head. “I have company.”
Regina opened her mouth to remonstrate with her mother but thought better of such a useless exercise. Instead, she looked enquiringly to Hanks, who winked at her. The wine had been watered. Good. After the first decanter, Leticia’s palate must turn numb, as Regina’s watering of the second (and sometimes third) decanter had yet to be noticed.
“Then I’ll be on my way. I believe Miranda said something about our hostess’s fine desserts, so I’m taking my largest reticule along with me so I can bring home a sampling for you.”
Leticia brightened. “Lemon squares. If it’s Lady Montag’s soiree, there will be lemon squares. Simple, but her cook is wonderfully talented.”
“It’s not too late to accompany us,” Regina suggested, wishing her mama would go out in Society more than she did. Cousin Miranda was a pleasant enough companion, but prone to recklessness and, more than once, had to be scooted out from behind some potted palm and away from some half-pay officer when it was time to leave.
“I’m certain your aunt Claire will prove sufficient as chaperone. Now go along. Hanks and I will be fine. Won’t we, Hanks?”
“Yes, my lady,” the maid said, dropping into a curtsy.
With one last, warning look at Hanks, Regina picked up her reticule and shawl and headed for the staircase, arriving in the foyer just as a footman announced that the elaborate Mentmore coach awaited her in the Square. The Mentmores hadn’t had a fine crested coach until Reginald Hackett had purchased one for their use during the Season, with the caveat that his Regina was never to be taken about town in anything else.
She hastened outside and was handed up into the dark coach, seating herself on the rear-facing seat, beside Miranda’s maid, Doris Ann. “Am I late or are you early?” she asked her cousin and then frowned as she noticed that her cousin was alone on her seat. “Miranda? Where’s Aunt Claire?”
Her cousin’s laugh tinkled (Regina might have said tittered, but everyone else thought it delightful), and she patted at the golden curls that were Regina’s secret envy. Anyone could have dark brown hair, but Miranda’s locks were extraordinary and highly in fashion at the moment, as were her fairer-than-fair skin, petite stature and, it would appear, her nearly flat chest.
“Mama is enjoying a rare evening at home as Aunt Leticia is serving as our chaperone this evening,” Miranda explained, and then the tinkle-titter was repeated.
Regina’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not amusing. I told Mama Aunt Claire was accompanying us.”
Miranda gave a dismissive wave of her tiny hand. “As if you’ve never lied to her before. And if you haven’t, then it’s high time you started. Not that Aunt Leticia probably remembers half of what anyone says to her, what with the— Oh, I’m sorry, Reggie. I talk without thinking, I do it all the time, don’t I?”
“You do a variety of things without thinking,” Regina told her, squeezing her hands together on her lap. “Now tell me where this coach is heading before I knock on the roof and have it turned back to Berkeley Square.”
“No, you can’t do that! I can’t go alone, and I simply must go. You complain that no one wants you save for your papa’s money. Well, nobody wants me at all. Papa may be a viscount and Grandfather Geoffrey an earl, but the entire world knows we’re all next door to paupers. Oh, Papa will find some rich merchant for me, I suppose, as Grandfather did for Aunt Leticia, if no one more suitable falls madly in love with me before the Season ends—but not as rich as Uncle Reginald and probably twice as crude. Before that happens, I want to have some fun. I’ve been planning all week. Doris Ann, show her.” She motioned to her maid, who then reached down to the tapestry bag at her feet. “What do we want with a horrid, boring recital, when we can go to a ball?”
“A ball? I’m not dressed for a— What are those?”
“Dominos,” Miranda said proudly, grabbing at a mass of emerald-green silk and pulling it onto her lap before Doris Ann passed a similar silk creation, this one in scarlet, to Regina. “And the masks, Doris Ann. Show her the masks!”
One after the other, two half masks were lifted from the tapestry bag and handed to Miranda and Regina.
“Aren’t they glorious!” Miranda exclaimed, holding hers up to her face. It was cunningly flirtatious, almost catlike, sewn all over with closely set green glass stones that matched the emerald silk, with larger stones topping off the many curving tips, which fanned up and out at the sides and top, rather like emerald flames. “See? These satin ribbons tie behind the head. They’re both pretty, but I really like this one best, if you don’t mind?”
“You look like a cat,” Regina said, looking down at the mask in her hands. “And I mean that in the nicest way. Mine’s … white.”
“Ivory, Regina,” Miranda corrected. “It’s shaped much like mine, except for that part that covers your nose, and isn’t that the most gorgeous lace? And all those tiny seed pearls curling all over? And those tiny little silken rosebuds? And the lovely satin ribbons? Oh, stop frowning, Reggie. It’s pretty!”
Regina looked at the mask again. Yes, there were rosebuds, three of them. One at either side of the mask and a third that, once she had it on, would be smack in the middle of her forehead. She plucked them off even as Miranda eeked in protest before breaking into a wide grin and clapping in delight.
“Then you’ll go?”
Regina looked down at the mask. She fingered the decadent scarlet silk puddle in her lap. She wavered.
“I’m certain I was told that masquerade balls are not as acceptable as they once were.”
“Well, of course they’re not, silly, or else I wouldn’t have had to steal the invitation from my brother’s desk, now, would I? But since Justin is out of town at some boxing mill, in any case, why should the invitation go to waste? Besides, the hostess is Lady Fortesque, and I know Justin has spoken of her more than a few times, so the whole thing is still … reasonably acceptable.”
Regina fingered the silk once more. Scarlet. Debutantes did not wear scarlet. They didn’t wear masks, either, she felt fairly sure. She knew for certain that they didn’t attend balls without a parent or other chaperone present.
“What happens at a masquerade ball?”
Miranda shrugged. “I would suppose that everyone hides behind their masks until such time as they’re told to take them off. Not that we’ll do that, of course. We’ll be long gone by then. But while we’re there …” She paused, probably for dramatic effect. “While we’re there, we tell no one our true names, and we’re free to dance and flirt and— Oh, Reggie, please say yes!”
Being a debutante was boring. It probably was supposed to be boring, so that everyone would quickly find someone suitable, marry and never have to do it again. Being a Hackett, daughter of the poor, martyred Lady Leticia and the totally unacceptable Reginald, Regina had endured her share of impolite stares, snide innuendo and even a few horrified mamas, who had physically escorted their sons in the opposite direction when there was a chance of having to stop and exchange pleasantries with the wealthy but socially inferior Miss Hackett. Except for those titled but poor as church mice peers who might entertain lowering themselves to courting her father’s money. Those she avoided, much to her papa’s chagrin.
To be able to dance—yes, and to flirt—without anyone knowing her name? To not be the coarse, jumped-up shipping merchant’s daughter or even the sad, drunken Lady Leticia’s daughter, just for a few stolen hours?
Sensing that her cousin was wavering, Miranda pressed her case. “We’ll be wearing these lovely capes to conceal our clothing. Doris Ann and I found them in the attics, and they don’t even half smell of camphor, not since we aired them. Can you believe my parents once actually were young enough to have worn them and these masks aeons ago? That’s why you get the scarlet one, since Papa is so short and you are so horridly tall, like your father. But not everyone is so boring as to just wear dominos and masks. Some of the guests will come in complete costumes. There will be knights and shepherdesses—all sorts of fanciful things. Why, who knows, Reggie. Perhaps by the time midnight strikes, you will have kissed a devil. Isn’t that beyond anything exciting?”
“Neither of us will be kissing any devils,” Regina said, holding the mask to her face as Doris Ann tied the satin ribbons to keep it in place. “We’ll stay for an hour, no more than that, and then make a late appearance at the recital, just in case your mother or mine ever chances to speak to the hostess. We will be late because one of the coach horses turned up lame. Also, Miranda, you will not leave my side, nor I yours, for more than the space of a dance. Agreed?”
Miranda was already struggling to push her arms into the sleeves of the concealing domino. “Oh yes, yes, agreed! Most definitely agreed!”
“And if we’re caught out, I’ll tell everyone it was all your idea, and that you kidnapped me.”
“Reggie! You wouldn’t!”
“No, probably not,” Regina agreed. “But I was just now remembering the time Mama and I visited at Mentmore and you blamed me for tossing you into the ornamental pond.”
“And they believed me and not you,” Miranda said, tying the strings of the domino under her pert little chin before pulling the hood up and over her hair. “That’s because I look so sweet and innocent and you look … well, never mind.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” Regina said as the horses drew to a halt outside a large building lit with flambeaux that cast strange shadows inside the coach. “I look so what?”
Miranda fidgeted on the seat. “Well, Mama says decadent, but Papa says exotic. And Justin …”
“Yes? My idiot cousin Justin says what?”
“He says you always look like you’re ready. And stop looking at me with your eyes all gone wide that way because I don’t know what that means, but Mama said he shouldn’t talk like that in front of me. Come on, Reggie. If we only have an hour, let’s make the most of it.”
“I suppose now I have Grandmother Hackett to blame for something else,” Regina grumbled as she tied the strings of the scarlet domino around her throat and covered her hair with the hood. “All right, I’m ready.”
HE WORE HIS DARK blond hair parted on the side and allowed it to hang loose to his shoulders, covering the thin, golden strings that secured the mask to his head. It had been fashioned for him by the premiere costumer in Paris, following Puck’s own design. It fit him perfectly, as he’d submitted to the molding of what some would call a death mask so that the costumer could work with an exact model of his customer’s bone structure.
It was a three-quarter rather than a half mask, smoothly curving down over his nose and cheekbones and rising to his hairline, all of it hugging his face. The design was simple: no lace or frills or jewels or feathers for Puck. Instead, the impact from the mask—and it was considerable—came from the paintwork applied to its smooth surface.
His inspiration had been a Catherine wheel. Eight widening, pie-shaped wedges of dramatic color emanated from the center of the wheel, located at the bridge of his nose, rather in a pinwheel design, yet all sleek and of a piece. Painted gold gilt wedges cut down the right side of his nose and across his lower cheek, up and over his right temple, the left side of his forehead, out from his left eye and across his upper cheekbone. The reverse for the other four “blades,” all of those painted in deepest ebony.
All one saw of his face beneath mask and flowing hair was his wide, full mouth, his leanly sculpted chin and a pair of amused blue-green eyes.
The result was mesmerizing. He’d planned for mesmerizing.
And he hadn’t stopped with the mask.
He was dressed all in black, even to his waistcoat and the lace at his throat and cuffs. He wore a full, knee-length, black silk courtier’s cloak lined with shimmering gold and carried a long, ebony stick bearing black streamers and a gold serpent-head top. A ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg and ringed by diamonds nestled in the spill of black lace that was his cravat. He carried a shallow, wide-brimmed, black musketeer hat adorned with a fat, curled black feather.
Paris had exclaimed over him when he’d first donned the costume; the lovely Lady de Balbec most of all, he recalled with a smile. She’d pleaded with him to leave the mask on, even as she eagerly peeled away his clothing and pulled him down on top of her, coyly begging the “masked stranger” not to ravish her. Women had the strangest notions at times, but that’s what made them all so delightful.
Tonight, as in Paris, in a ballroom filled with uninspired dominos and devils, kings and harlequins, milkmaids and fools, he was as startlingly different as night from day. He knew he’d draw attention. Why else had he bothered to come?
As he saw the Baron Henry Sutton (black domino, black mask—how very uninspired) and Mr. Richard Carstairs (court fool, down to the bells on his hat and shoes), Puck swept one side of his cape back and over his shoulder, exposing the shimmering gold silk, flourished his hat and made them both an elegant leg.
“Gentlemen, my honor,” he said smoothly.
“Yes, yes, the bastard’s honor,” the baron groused. “What in blazes do you call that rigout?”
“Sin, gentlemen,” Puck drawled smoothly, making a small business out of adjusting the black lace at his cuffs. “I call it Sin.”
Dickie Carstairs lifted up his mask and scratched at the side of his nose. “He has a point there, Henry. Doesn’t exactly look like a day in May, does he? Can we go now? These bloody bells are giving me a headache. Or do we have to introduce him to anyone?”
“Unfortunately, that is the purpose of the exercise,” the baron said, casting his gaze out across the large ballroom.
Puck did the same. It was a rented room, as even Lady Fortesque wouldn’t dream of hosting such an affair in her Portland Square mansion. She’d been quite clever in the way she’d employed screens and tall, obscuring plants to cut the boxy dimensions of the place while at the same time providing privacy and secluded couches for those who wished a romantic dalliance.
Servants wearing satyr masks circulated with trays bearing gold-painted glasses filled with heady mead, and they were hard-pressed to keep the trays full, as whatever courage hadn’t been obtained by concealing one’s face behind a mask could be found in a glass or two of the potent, honeyed brew.
He saw a tall man dressed all in furs paying court to a bewigged and patched Marie Antoinette. There was a scattering of other costumes, but for the most part, the guests had covered themselves only with dominos and plain-to-clever masks.
After all, concealment was the order of the evening.
“All right, over there,” the baron said after a moment. “Let’s begin with the good king Henry Tudor, shall we? He’s actually Viscount Bradley, and no, he didn’t have to stuff his doublet with straw, although there may be some sawdust in his stockings, to give him a leg. He’s horse mad, if that helps.”
“It does. I shall apply to him for advice about setting up my stables. And who is that with him?”
“That’s Will Browning,” Dickie Carstairs informed him quietly. “Wildly popular. If he were to accept you, you’d at least be able to count the Corinthians as your acquaintance. But he won’t. No title but still too high in the instep for you.”
“He’s forever jumping a fence or shooting pips out of playing cards or milling down a man at Jackson’s, but he prides himself most on his fencing,” the baron added.
Puck ran his gaze up and down the tall, rather athletic-looking figure. “Does he now?” he said, smiling. “Then I shall have to challenge him to a friendly competition, won’t I?”
The baron shrugged. “Why don’t you just do that. Once you’re stuck in bed recovering from the pinking he gives you, Dickie and I won’t have to be bothered introducing you to anyone else. Come along, let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Over the course of the succeeding twenty minutes, Puck was introduced to no less than ten gentlemen of the ton. He was utterly snubbed by two, shook hands with three, three more had served with Beau on the peninsula and expressed delight in greeting the man’s brother. He had arranged a meeting on Sale Day at Tattersalls with Viscount Bradley, who had attended Eton with his father, and a fencing match with Mr. Browning, who had taken Puck’s measure, just as Puck had taken his, and declared that he looked forward to cutting such a brash upstart down to size.
Puck had, of course, failed to mention that he had studied with the famed Motet at the Académie d’Armes de Paris. Some things should be a surprise.
Now Puck was bored.
“You two fine gentlemen know no women?” he asked as Dickie Carstairs snagged another golden cup of mead from a passing satyr. “I do not ask that you introduce my unacceptable self to your sisters or your wives, who would not be in attendance tonight in any case, but are there no females present who might find it within their sympathy to invite me to their next small party?”
“Lady Fortesque,” Dickie offered. “But you probably already met her as you came in. Harriette Wilson and her sisters and a few other courtesans are probably somewhere about and a clutch of canaries from Covent Garden and some low-born actresses, as well. If you’re looking for a tumble, nothing beats an actress, I say. The good ones even make you believe they like it. What?” He rubbed at his side, where the baron’s elbow had just jabbed him.
“Jack’s mother is an actress,” Henry Sutton said quietly and then bowed to Puck. “My apologies, Mr. Blackthorn. My friend appears to have left his brains at home this evening. However, to answer your question, no, as far as I can see, Lady Fortesque confined her invitations to the gentlemen and then populated the room with … amenable barques of frailty, if you understand my meaning.”
Puck allowed himself to be forgiving. “There are considerably more men in attendance, I did note that, yes.”
“And now there will be two less, although I am sure the number of females will swell once, as Mr. Carstairs so rudely pointed out, the theaters close down for the night. I can already see where this evening will go and do not wish to be any part of such public debauchery,” the baron said, bowing once more. “Enjoy your first taste of London Society at its most base, Mr. Blackthorn.”
Puck returned the bow, offered his thanks and watched as the two men took their leave, Dickie’s arms gesturing wildly as he most probably asked the baron what he’d said that was so upsetting. Dickie Carstairs, Puck had decided, most probably drove the wagon and dug the holes after Jack and the baron had dispatched the targets; he seemed qualified for little else.
He should probably go, as well, as the idea of enjoying himself in this overheated, painfully obvious setting for anonymous yet public liaisons did not appeal. He’d never been at a loss for female companionship when he’d wished it, and the very last thing he wished would be to bed an actress. He’d seen where that sort of folly could lead.
Puck turned rather abruptly, his mind having taken him somewhere he preferred not to go, and all but cannoned into one of the guests.
“I beg your pardon, I was not— Well, hello, beautiful lady.”
“How would you know? I’m wearing this ridiculous mask.”
Puck was taken aback by this pert answer nearly as much as by the clear disdain in the young woman’s voice; he hadn’t been dismissed out of hand by a female since he was thirteen. But that reaction faded quickly as his attention was captured by the most amazingly clear blue eyes framed by lashes so long and dark he could scarcely believe them real.
And that mouth. Not only pert, but wide, and lush, and definitely inviting. There was a small brown mole—no, beauty spot—at the upper-left corner of those sensuous lips, which only added to the overall impression of sensuality. Of carnal knowledge and the pleasures of sex. A woman wasn’t born with a mouth like that without knowing what it was for or how to use it.
He put his hands on her shoulders, noting that she was rather tall for a woman, and boldly inspected the rest of her.
She was slimly built, her scarlet silk domino hiding most of the curves he felt certain were there but unable to conceal the fact that the breasts beneath it were wonderfully full and high and, he was equally certain, Heaven to touch, to tease, to taste.
Best of all, she was here. He leaned forward, smoothly insinuating his mouth beside her ear so that she’d be sure to hear him above the hubbub around them.
“We’ll dance, you and I,” he whispered, sliding his hands down her arms, cupping her slim waist beneath the domino even as he took her right hand and raised it to his lips.
Her fingers were cold, although the room was stuffy and overly warm, but she did not move away from him. Her gaze did slide toward the middle of the floor, where couples were gathering as the musicians struck up a waltz.
“No, not here. You’re much too exquisite for this motley crew,” he soothed, and then twirled her about, deftly maneuvering them toward the opened French doors and out onto the narrow, moonlit balcony.
Once there, seeing that the rather crude benches to either side of the doorway were occupied by amorous couples who didn’t seem to mind an audience, he let go of her waist but not her hand, turning her about to lead them down the wide shallow steps and into the meager, flambeaux-lit gardens.
She didn’t protest but just lifted her skirts and followed where he led.
It took some doing, but he finally managed to locate a small clearing devoid of other occupants. There was no bench, but the grass seemed plentiful enough, and there was always that stout tree trunk to lean her against as he got to know her better.
Know her body better. Intimately.
He already felt sure he knew her enough.
She was here, wasn’t she? She was apparently willing. What more did he need to know?
“What is your name, scarlet lady?” he asked her, looking into her wide, unblinking eyes, feeling himself becoming lost in those clear, swirling depths.
“I’d first know yours. Is it Mr. Black or Mr. Gold?” she said, showing spirit yet again.
Puck laughed. “It’s neither. My name is Robin Goodfellow.”
