Birds of a Feather Page 11

  Lady Warburton had turned the room into a forest glade for this year’s festivities. Huge pots held trees whose outstretched fingers brushed the ceiling. Lanterns festooned their branches, supplementing the thousand candles blazing from sconces and chandeliers. Banks of flowers, thickets of ferns, and even a babbling brook adorned corners and alcoves. A wall of mirrors doubled the effect.

  Beneath this canopy surged an incongruous assortment of characters – Romans and Greeks, gods and goddesses, rulers and rogues of every description, Shakespearean characters, knights and monks, cavaliers, courtiers, and ladies-in-waiting.

  Joanna wrestled her face under control. She might not belong to this select company, but that was no excuse for behaving like an awestruck rustic.

  Harriet’s blue eyes danced with excitement from behind her mask. She was costumed as a dainty shepherdess, blonde ringlets framing her face, one hand clasping a token crook. Other shepherdesses glided through the crowd, but none surpassed her beauty.

  In contrast, Joanna was clearly a chaperon. The plain brown domino covering her hair and gown made her nearly invisible amidst this riot of color. Her unmasked face also set her apart.

  Lady Wicksfield dove into the crowd, zigzagging around clusters of gossips. The crush made it difficult for Joanna to keep up. More people jammed the ballroom than at any other event she had attended, though the first set had not yet begun.

  “Parkington has a new pair of bays—”

  She narrowly escaped being stabbed by a Roman centurion’s sword.

  “Lady Glendale canceled tomorrow’s at-home. What do you suppose—”

  A collision with Henry VIII’s padded belly reminded her that she was just a clumsy country girl who didn’t belong here. She should not allow gossip to distract her attention. Mortified, she mumbled an apology, her face flaming hotter when a ripping noise proved that she had stepped on someone’s hem as she backed away.

  By the time she escaped, a fat friar obscured Harriet. But a bright green scarf fluttered from the tall cap of the countess’s lady-in-waiting costume, allowing her to continue in the right direction.

  “Crossbridge may have to rusticate—”

  She skirted a band of improbable pirates.

  “—the bear was on the upper landing.”

  Exhaling in relief, she joined Harriet in a relatively clear alcove. The jostling seemed worse than usual, more evidence that she was nearly invisible tonight.

  Within minutes, Harriet’s court clustered around them, and Lady Wicksfield wandered off to gossip with two other ladies-in-waiting.

  “No costume?” asked Reggie, startling her. She had not seen him approach.

  “I am only a companion,” she reminded him.

  “Perhaps, but you would make a marvelous Boadicea. Far better than Miss Heathmark.” He nodded toward one of the Season’s failures. The girl’s costume would hardly attract a suitor. It emphasized her boyish figure and grim visage. She appeared ready to run her sword through anyone who approached.

  “Perhaps you should dance with her,” Joanna suggested. “Attention from a conquering hero might soften her face.” Reggie was dressed as Julius Caesar, choosing the armor of the war years rather than the flowing toga in which the man had died. He made a splendid general.

  “You are the most kind-hearted lady I know, Joanna. How can I refuse so generous a request?”

  “I am sure you could find a way if you wanted to.”

  “Perhaps.” He paused. “I have the information you requested. Sedge gave me your message, but this is no place to talk, either.”

  “The trials of being a friend rather than family. But Lady Wicksfield’s reaction to your call was too rapacious for comfort. I refuse to expose you to whatever scheme she may have devised.”

  “Thank you. She is as bad as my mother. Can you slip out during one of the sets? I will secure an antechamber.”

  “That should work.” And it would give her a chance to discuss Lord Wicksfield’s problem. A sleepless night had convinced her that she needed help if she was to find a solution. “The fourth set will be best. Harriet’s card should be full by then.”

  As he moved off, she returned her attention to Harriet – but not soon enough. Lord Almont was leading the girl out for the first set. It the was second time in three days that he had claimed that important spot, which would firmly link their names in the eyes of Society. Harriet’s reputation could suffer when she turned him down.

  But all Joanna could do was make sure it did not happen again. At least he had claimed only the one set. She would counter him by giving Wethersby two sets, including the supper dance. And she must let Almont know that an offer was unwelcome.

  * * * *

  Sedge deliberately arrived late for the Warburton masquerade. His sojourn at Meadowbanks had convinced him that he must wed, but it had done little to relieve his ennui – unless it had returned because he was making no progress.

  He had spoken to widows every day. Despite having to hide his motives from the eyes of everyone in Society, he believed that he had given each candidate a reasonable chance to attract his interest. His requirements were simple enough, but so far he had found no one who merited a second look.

  Surprisingly, there was no single stumbling block. Now that he was looking for it, he had found many ladies of reasonable intelligence. Others were gracious hostesses, possessed admirable style, or even espoused some of his less public causes. But even those who seemed perfect on paper left him feeling cold. Analyzing why added new requirements to his list every day.

  Arrogant. Presumptuous. Impossible to please.

  Reggie’s quote echoed in his ears. He could hear Miss Patterson saying it, for she was not shy about speaking her mind. Not that she was right. A man needed standards if he was to maintain his position. Was it his fault that London’s widows failed to meet those standards? Everyone was too something…

  Too stupid. But he could not endure stupidity. Yes, he tolerated a great deal of it in town, but never in private. His friends were well educated, as were their wives. His own wife must fit into that group.

  Too greedy. He expected to share his sizable fortune with his wife. But he could not accept anyone whose eye dwelt solely on his purse. Nor could he stomach reckless gaming or spending. He’d already rejected two candidates because they seemed too fond of cards.

  Too demanding. He wondered if the late husbands of several widows had welcomed death as a release from an unendurable existence. The women were harridans who would make his life a misery if he made the mistake of offering. Some reminded him too strongly of his mother, who ruled the Close with an iron hand.

  Yet he had to choose someone. He had already dismissed the young ladies and the older spinsters. Must he search in the country after all? How could he judge social aplomb away from London?

  But a larger problem was his mother. She would oppose anyone of resolution and intelligence, refusing to relinquish her power without a fight. If Reggie remained adamant, his own wife would produce a future marquess. He might have to live at the Close for a time while the boy learned about his inheritance. Thus he must devise a way to blunt his mother’s inevitable antagonism. And one of these days, he must discuss the future with Reggie. Was he truly serious, or was he merely reacting to their parents’ demands?

  But that was for later. First, he must approve Lady Warburton’s masquerade. And there were still half a dozen widows to examine.

  The receiving line was gone, though Lady Warburton would be hovering nearby, suffering agonies because he had not yet arrived. His power was getting out of hand. Setting fashion modes was one thing. But lately, his choice of entertainments was focusing either envy or scorn on Society’s hostesses. Two ladies had fallen into hysterics because he had left town last week rather than attend their balls. The situation was becoming absurd – and patently unfair to the losers. No man could attend everything.

  He grimaced.

  Thus he had an additional incentive for marri
age. Once he wed, the bucks would choose a new icon from among London’s beaux, and the hostesses would follow suit, for their regard stemmed from his ability to produce eligible gentlemen at Marriage Mart events. Where he went, others followed.

  But that was for the future.

  Mentally girding his loins for an evening of revelry, he climbed the stairs. As he reached the top, Reggie emerged from the ballroom and headed for the first antechamber, frowning when he found it occupied. Only then did he notice his brother.

  Sedge suppressed his own frown. He had seen countless gentlemen go through the same motions, but he had not expected Reggie to be arranging an assignation. He could think of only one female who might be meeting him.

  “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” said Reggie, joining him at the top of the stairs.

  “If I had known you were looking for me, I would have arrived earlier. Is there a problem?”

  “I am not sure. Mother has commanded that I wait on her at the ungodly hour of nine tomorrow.”

  His spirits lightened. “She also commanded my appearance, but all is postponed. Father summoned her home this afternoon, claiming a health crisis. She left at once.”

  Reggie paled. “You don’t suppose he suffered another attack!”

  “Of course not. We would all have been summoned in that case. He probably wants a personal report on your affair with Miss Patterson.”

  “I’m not—”

  “I know. I believe you have no designs on the chit. Just watch out for traps.”

  “Joanna would never do anything underhanded. She is far too caring. In fact, she sent me to dance with Miss Heathmark an hour ago, suggesting that my attentions would soften the girl’s expression enough to attract other partners. And she was right. Three cubs signed her card when our set was over.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Reggie sighed. “I doubt Father wants a simple report – he can get that by post. It is more likely that he wants a sympathetic audience for his ranting. I threatened to leave the country if he did not cease his demands.”

  “You didn’t!” But the words stuck in this throat as a new arrival mounted the stairs. “Good God! What is she doing here?” He turned his most ferocious glare on his mistress.

  Jenny LaRue was dressed – barely – as Aphrodite, her diaphanous costume revealing every inch of her notorious body. Another time, he might have appreciated the sight, but tonight fury obscured all else.

  “I love your costume, Sedgie,” she said breathlessly, tripping up the steps to his side. He was garbed as an Elizabethan courtier in padded trunk-hose, embroidered doublet, and narrow ruff. “Who is your friend?”

  Jenny was not overly bright – her talents were purely physical – but he’d never dreamed she could be this stupid. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, ignoring the sudden confusion on her face. “How did you get in? Lady Warburton is very strict about who receives invitations to these affairs.”

  “B-but you invited me.”

  “Never.”

  “Of course you did!” Pouting, she pulled out a letter.

  “This is a forgery.” He handed it to Reggie. The writing was only vaguely similar to his and contained endearments he would never have uttered, let alone put on paper.

  “Not his hand,” agreed Reggie. “Someone hoaxed you, Miss LaRue. The question is who and why.”

  “Later,” Sedge suggested. “We must get her out of here before anyone sees that costume.”

  “Damn you!” Her voice turned strident. “My invitation is just as good as yours. And what’s wrong with my dress? It’s a bloody masquerade, isn’t it?”

  “The invitation was also forged, Jenny.” He ground his teeth at her language. What had he ever seen in this low-class wench? “Lady Warburton only welcomes Society’s highest sticklers. Both your profession and that costume make you ineligible.”

  “I will see her home and explain,” offered Reggie, grasping Jenny’s arm. “Did you wear a cloak, my dear?”

  “Of course I did! It’s windy.” She pulled free of his grasp. “But I ain’t goin’ nowhere with no stranger.”

  “Jenny—”

  “No. You won’t ruin my evening. I’ve dreamed of this for days. If Lady Warburton asks me to leave, I’ll go, but you’re probably lying about her, too. You just want to hurt me.”

  Sedge ignored her, addressing Reggie over her head as his arm blocked her progress. She had to be half seas over to behave so recklessly, for she must know she would never find another protector if he denounced her. “Carry her if you have to. If she says another word, gag her. I will deal with the footmen who let her in.” He didn’t bother introducing Reggie. The less Jenny knew, the better. The situation was precarious enough already.

  Footsteps approached from the ballroom, dropping his heart into his shoes. If Lady Warburton saw Jenny, his reputation would be in shreds. Everyone knew who paid her bills.

  But the woman who appeared was worse. Miss Patterson had nearly reached the first antechamber when she spotted the group near the stairs. Her face lit with pleasure.

  “Good heavens, it’s Mary Jones!” she exclaimed, rushing up to throw her arms around Jenny’s shoulders. “Or Mary Johnson, I should say. What are you doing in London? How is your family? Are you going home at last? Your father longs to see his grandchildren. He talks about them constantly. But why didn’t you tell him you were accepted in the highest circles? He would be so proud!”

  Sedge’s heart stopped altogether. He would be a laughingstock by morning. Miss Patterson now had the perfect revenge for any embarrassment he might have caused her. She could turn the tables on him quite thoroughly. One word would convince her that he had invited Jenny. She already held him in contempt. And Society would follow suit, of course. His history of playing pranks had finally circled back to bite him.

  Jenny opened her mouth as his brain groped for some way to avert disaster. But the words that emerged were worse than any he had anticipated.

  “Shut up,” she hissed, her face twisting into an unrecognizable mask of terror. “You got the wrong horse by the tail. I ain’t this Mary creature.” Shoving Miss Patterson viciously aside, she raced down the stairs.

  “Damn!” He reacted too late to save Miss Patterson from cracking her head against a baluster. “Catch her, Reggie. Find out what the devil is going on,” he added, for Reggie was staring, his love clear in his horrified eyes. “I will look after this one.”

  He scooped Miss Patterson into his arms as Reggie reluctantly headed for the door. Her face was stark white in sharp contrast to her brown domino. Carrying her into an empty room, he laid her on a couch.

  Her pallor and cold hands terrified him. How could he explain her injury? Claiming that she had slipped would make her look clumsy and might affect her position. Yet the truth would precipitate the very scandal he was trying to avoid.

  He slid back her hood and removed her spectacles, then unpinned her hair so he could examine the sizable lump on the back of her scalp. Though the bleeding was minimal, her breathing seemed labored.

  Unfastening the domino, he pulled it away from her throat, then jerked the feathered cap from his head so he could press an ear to her chest. Her heart beat steadily. But still she lay like a corpse.

  Damnation! he fumed, running his fingers through his hair. Why had she tried to snare Reggie? If she had not talked him into an assignation, neither of them would have been in the hallway. Miss Patterson would not be hurt, and he could have gotten Jenny away with no one the wiser.

  “Wake up, damn you,” he growled.

  Reggie would be furious if she was seriously hurt. The look on his face matched those Sedge had often seen on Randolph’s. Could he prevent Reggie from making a fool of himself, or had this affair already progressed too far? But speculation could wait until later, he reminded himself. How was he to explain her injury?

  Her hands were icy. Chafing warmed them but did nothing to awaken her. Shaking made no differe
nce. Nor did cursing. He was ready to swallow his pride and fetch help when the color finally seeped back into her face.

  She stirred. “What—” Her face snapped into a frown.

  “Lie quiet, Miss Patterson,” he suggested, finally able to banish the most pressing fears. “You fell and bumped your head.”

  “Fell?” She frowned, blinking several times. Her eyes were an unexpectedly rich brown now that spectacles did not obscure them. “Where is Mary? Why has she treated her parents so badly?”

  “You mistook Miss LaRue for someone else,” he said, inexplicably protecting her from the sordid side of Society. Jenny must be hiding a serious fall from grace. Was she better born than anyone knew? But why then had her accent lapsed so badly?

  “Hardly. Mary was my closest friend for years.” Her voice slurred, as if she were only half conscious. “We did everything together. Another person might share her face – after all, I’ve not seen her in quite a while – but I could never mistake the scar on her shoulder. I put it there when we were ten. We weren’t supposed to be out on the church roof, so when I heard Papa coming, I told her to jump, then pushed her off when she balked. She landed badly, but she forgave me long ago, so why wouldn’t she talk to me?”

  She sounded bewildered. He could feel heat climbing his face as he tried to compose a reply. “This is no time for conversation,” he finally declared. “I will fetch Lady Wicksfield to look after you.”

  “No!”

  He glared.

  “You have done enough, my lord.” Finally wide awake, she struggled to rise.

  “You should rest longer.” But he helped her sit, supporting her shoulders when her face paled. His hand shook with the contact, infuriating him. How could he feel attraction at a time like this?

  “I will be fine in a moment.” She tilted her head toward the ballroom, then exhaled in relief. “The same set. Was I unconscious for long?”

  “Only a few minutes.”

  “Excellent. Leave me now. I will compose myself, then rejoin Harriet.”