‘I say. By Jove, Uncle. A bit harsh, what? I’m sure m’cousin don’t need reminding of our charity. She knows her place.’ Simon gave her one of his pleading looks. He hated a fuss. Frederica wanted to take each end of his stupid cravat and pull hard.
She certainly wasn’t going to get any sense out of him at this moment. He always did what Mortimer said, but if he thought he had any say in her life now or in the future, he was in for a surprise.
She bowed her head to hide her thoughts. ‘I understand, Uncle.’
Mortimer looked her up and down. ‘What is Lady Radthorn thinking? You are almost naked. I’ve a damned good mind to lock you in your room.’ If truth be told, he’d probably like to drag her into his underground tunnel and feed her worms. Or feed her to the worms.
‘No need to make a fuss, Uncle. I’m sure it’s all the crack,’ Simon said, surprising Frederica. ‘You should see what the ladies wear in London.’
‘I doubt they are ladies,’ Uncle Mortimer grumbled.
She wasn’t exactly a lady either. She pressed her lips together to stop from smiling.
Finally composed enough to raise her gaze, she caught both men looking at each other with a sort of satisfied smirk. Now what were they up to? ‘Will there be anything else, Uncle?’
‘I’ll be watching you, girl. Closely. Behave well, and who knows, perhaps Simon will take you to London to see the sights one day.’
Never.
‘Off you go. Be downstairs in the hallway ready to meet the guests at seven o’clock with Lady Radthorn.’ He flicked his fingers in dismissal.
Doubts about her plan assailed Frederica as she left the room. Simon was so far beneath Uncle’s thumb, he’d probably accept her despoiled state without a murmur, if Uncle Mortimer insisted.
In that case, there was nothing else she could do but run.
Robert cut across the Wynchwood lawn. Light streaming from the downstairs windows made it easy to see his way. Clearly Lord Wynchwood intended to impress his neighbours and his London guests.
Preferring to check out the lie of the land before venturing into the lion’s den, Robert pushed through the shrubbery beneath the ballroom windows and from the shadows peered into a room packed with every imaginable creature and assorted figures from history.
All the local gentry were invited, according to Weatherby, as well as the guests down from London. A few years ago he would have been one of them, though he rarely attended such dull affairs. Now here he was, an outsider skulking in the bushes.
Invitation or not, they ought to be honoured by his attendance. He’d found the perfect costume, too—a highwayman. The only person he feared might see through the disguise was Maggie. She might recognise his voice. He’d practised keeping it coarse and rough and with the beard and the waxed moustaches he’d devised from locks of his hair, he defied even his mother to recognise him.
The scrap of black silk he had fashioned for a mask covered the top half of his face. He pulled his borrowed tricorn hat down low on his brow for further concealment.
He took a deep breath. Now or never.
Careful to avoid attracting attention, he worked his way around to the front door, timing his entrance with the arrival of a carriage full of guests. Out stepped a Roman dignitary and his toga-clad lady, a male dressed as an Oriental in loose, flowing robes, who he immediately recognized as Radthorn, and a woman in a Tudor ruff and enormous skirt. Robert followed them in. Snively didn’t give him a second glance as they were directed to the antechamber where the ladies could change their shoes and leave their cloaks.
‘Really, John,’ the Tudor lady whispered having passed off her wrap to Maisie, ‘are you sure the Bracewells are quite the thing?’ She wrinkled her nose at the faded wallpaper above grimy panelling. ‘It is a little dingy.’
Lady Bentham, Robert realised. A merry young widow and John’s long-time mistress. John always said his grandmother was up for a lark. She had to be if she permitted him to house his mistress under her roof. If the old lady knew, that was.
Radthorn glanced around, his gaze passing over Robert without a gleam of recognition. ‘Old friends of the family. I haven’t been here in years.’ A smile flashed from beneath his drooping moustache. ‘It hasn’t changed a bit.’
Robert let his breath go. If his erstwhile best friend didn’t recognise him, then it appeared he was safe.
‘Why on earth was Lullington so insistent we all come?’ Lady Bentham asked. ‘It is going to be dreadfully dull.’
Radthorn shrugged. ‘You know Lullington. Young Bracewell owes him money and he’s not going to let him escape without paying up.’
Robert felt a flash of embarrassment. He’d left a great many debts in his wake. Devil take it, he would pay them no matter how long it took.
John took his lady’s arm and with many curses from him and much laughter from her, he helped her tilt her enormous hoop to allow her to pass through the doorway and they headed for the ballroom.
His heart racing more than he liked, Robert trailed them. The Roman tribune and his lady followed hard on his heels.
‘Oh, my,’ Lady Bentham said, stopping at the entrance to the grand room that ran the length of the back of the house.
Robert wasn’t surprised at her reaction to the swathes of cloth draping the walls and hundreds of candles. He’d spent most of the day helping with them.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Lady Bentham continued. ‘Who is she?’
Robert’s jaw dropped as he saw that she referred not to the decorations, but to the lady. A vision of loveliness, a glittering queen of the fairies. Frederica. He choked back a gasp.
Dressed in something floating and sheer, she looked enchanting. It didn’t take much to imagine the slender limbs beneath the skirts, or the high, pert breasts skimmed by the low-cut bodice. An ethereal queen of the fairies. He half-expected her to use the gossamer wings cunningly attached to the back of her gown and fly off on a breeze.
Every man in the room had the look of a rabid dog as they gazed at her. Only by dint of will did he stop himself from rushing to her side and covering her with his highwayman’s cloak.
Her face glowed. Beneath her mask of silk and sequins, her lips were parted in excitement. Yet her eyes held the shadows of absolute terror. Pride filled him. Pride at her beauty and her courage. The beast inside him wanted to proclaim her as his own.
He clenched his jaw instead.
‘I had no idea she was so lovely,’ Radthorn said, in an awed whisper. ‘Simon’s cousin. I met her on the hunt this morning. She is making her début under my grandmother’s guidance.’
Lady Bentham dug him in the ribs. ‘Stop salivating.’
Robert had never seen John look so besotted. He wanted to strangle his friend with his bare hands. He kept them loose at his sides.
The Roman couple pushed forwards. ‘I say there, what’s the hold up?’
The last thing he needed was an altercation. Robert extricated himself from the little knot at the door and swaggered in best highwayman style to his chosen location behind a pillar. From here he would observe yet remain unnoticed.
Like every man in the room, he found his gaze drawn to the slight figure in earth tones and diamonds. Like every man in the room, she filled his heart with a strange kind of wonder. He could see it in their eyes. How could any woman look so lovely, so pure, so unattainable?
A sprite come to taunt them all.
How could the man at her side, a cherub-faced idiot in a lion suit and a foolish grin,