Revealed (45 page)

The park’s reconstruction was nowhere near complete, but in an effort to keep up public enthusiasm for his ambitious, expensive projects (and perhaps lease some of the fifty-plus manor houses intended to be built in the park as a means of financing the reconstruction), the Prince opened the park once a year for the Gold Ball, an evening of dinner, dancing, and entertainments unparalleled by the finest hostesses in London.

As it was called the Gold Ball, it’s no surprise gold was the predominant color. A pavilion was erected beside the central Prince of Wales Circus, outfitted with thousands of yards of gold-threaded Indian silks, golden and crystal chandeliers hung from the caves, and millions of gold-dipped candles that reflected off the gold-laquered dance floor like a lake of fire. The pavilion boasted private boxes that functioned as separate rooms, decorated in sumptuous style. The dancing and merriment spilled out into the park, along torchlit paths, and it was not uncommon to find gold-dressed Earls and Viscountesses wandering lost in the park come morning, having had, of course, the time of their lives.

No one turned down an invitation to the Gold Ball at Regent’s Park. Even the Duke of Wellington, whose ambivilence toward the spendthrift Prince was well-known in discreet circles, would be there. Whether he would follow the fashion and take leave of his conservative formal black attire and wear shades of gold provided much speculation. Had Phillippa weighed in, she would have likely wagered against it. Wellington was a friend of her father’s, and even though he was a fine dresser, a suit of gold might be too much, even for him. But she didn’t have the time or inclination to ponder the Duke’s choice of evening garments. Her mind was irrevocably focused on other matters.

Where was he? Phillippa and Totty had endured the long line of carriages, the long line to be announced and received, and now, the stirring, whirling masses on the hectare-sized dance floor. With Marcus’s height, she thought that even though most everyone was wearing the same color and had been supplied with gold masks, she would be able to spot him.

But she’d been at the party a full half hour and had not seen him.

“Drat it all!” she said aloud, startling Totty, who stood beside her, nearly oversetting the drink handed to her by a gold-liveried footman.

“Whatever’s the problem dear?” Totty replied, steadying her drink so it didn’t spill, before taking a sip.

“I . . . haven’t spotted, er, Broughton, is all,” Phillippa answered, eyeing Totty’s drink.

“Well, go and look for him; he’s likely with his cronies at the card tables. I’ve a mind to wander into the dining area, see what goodies are being served.”

Phillippa squeezed her fan tightly, hiding her nerves. “Oh no, I’d much rather stay with you.” With a final glance at Totty’s hand, she asked, “Totty, darling, would you do me a favor? Could you make that your last drink of the evening?”

Totty looked at Phillippa as if she had lost her mind.

“Its just that”—and here, Phillippa decided to forgo artifice and spill out her concerns—“I am afraid something is going to happen this evening, and I need you to have your wits about you.”

Totty took one step closer to Phillippa, then without a glance, placed her glass on a passing footman’s tray. “What’s going to happen tonight?” she asked seriously.

“I don’t know,” Phillippa answered, “but if you would be so good as to keep an eye out for Marcus Worth—”

“Phillippa, you made quite certain this past week that he would not be invited.”

“I know, but I still think he’s here.”

“How?” Totty replied. “They didn’t let anyone past the entrance to the park without an invitation! And there are the Prince’s guards—”

“I don’t know how, but he’s here.” She took a deep breath, sighed. “Somewhere, he’s here.”

“Of course he’s here,” a deep voice said from behind Phillippa as a hand snaked to her waist. “I wouldn’t miss this party for the world.”

She knew it was Broughton the moment he touched her. Not because he inspired any stirring of feeling, but because he did not.

“Hello!” Phillippa replied, perhaps a bit too brightly, but she was rewarded with a smile from Broughton. He did look his ravishing best, gold silk coat and waistcoat, the puff of white at his throat marked only by a large gold pin with his family crest on it.

“Hello to you, too,” he responded with a growl. Perhaps he was trying to be alluring, provocative. Too bad Phillippa could only find such posturing tiresome right now.

“Hello as well!” Nora piped up from behind Broughton, wedging her way into the group. “Phillippa, we’ve been looking for you everywhere. You’ll never guess what we just saw!”

“It was rather astounding, in fact: Miss Sterling, hiding behind a bit of shrubbery,” Broughton drawled, mischief in his eyes.

“She was wearing copper! Can you imagine? Her dressmaker must have run out of gold!”

“Indeed?” Phillippa asked, swallowing her pity for poor Penny Sterling. She knew she should have guided her to Madame Le Trois, but—

“You were so right to cut her when you did!” Nora continued blithely.

“Truly, the child’s a mess.” Broughton continued, taking two glasses of champagne off a tray brought by a footman and handing one to Phillippa. “Now, I must claim the next dance with you. Phillippa?”

But Phillippa wasn’t paying attention. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the champagne-serving footman.

He stooped a little as he walked, a trifle bowlegged. He wore the mask, the gold uniform, the gold-dusted hair of all the footmen lining the floor, but it was his eyes—those warm, kind brown eyes staring through the mask—that held her. Everything else in the pavilion dropped away.

It’s just me,
he mouthed, and held a finger to his lips.

“Phillippa? Phillippa,” Broughton was saying, and then, following her line of sight to the footman who stood behind him, addressed the footman callously. “You’re done here, aren’t you? Sod off then.” Once Marcus took a discreet step back, Broughton turned his attention back to Phillippa. “The waltz has begun . . . Shall we?”

All Phillippa wanted to do was stay there, speak to Marcus. But with the expectant eyes of Broughton and Nora upon her, her options were limited.

“I . . . I can’t abandon Totty.” She smiled.

“Of course you can, child,” Totty replied, “I’ll wait here for you.”

“Of course you can, she says,” Broughton added, his impatience beginning to show. “As if you need your companion’s permission.”

Broughton was right, of course, if a little cruel. She was her own woman, she didn’t need Totty’s permission. But she’d intended to stay by her side that night. She flicked a glance to Totty, then, discreetly, to Marcus, who hung back against one of the pavilion’s decorated supportive pillars. She would be on the dance floor. She would be safe from trouble there, surely.

“Yes, Phillip, I’d love to dance with you,” Phillippa smiled, causing Broughton’s petulant grimace to break into a smile. She handed her drink to Totty, took his arm, and as Nora’s next dance partner came to fetch her, the pair of couples took the floor.

Marcus stood stock-still as Phillippa and Broughton took the floor, his stomach doing nastly little flip-flops as he watched them twirl away. He wasn’t surprised that she had ignored his request to not attend the party. By all accounts, one could be on their deathbed and still feel it necessary to attend the Gold Ball. But what did surprise him was that she had looked at him kindly.

He did not expect kindness from Phillippa Benning. Tales of her exploits this past week had burned his ears. She could teach a master class in English snobbery. So why did she look at him as if she had been waiting for him, and only him?

Then again, maybe she had just been startled.

As Marcus mused over these things, he was unaware that someone had gingerly maneuvered from the dance floor’s sideline and come to stand next to him at his post.

“Unless Laurent is dancing with Mrs. Benning, you’re staring in the wrong direction.”

A gnarled old man leaning heavily on a cane stood beside him, whistling through his teeth as he spoke. His moth-eaten, gold-spun clothing was possibly fashionable fifty years ago, but certainly no longer. However, as Baron Fortesque, no one questioned the balding, warted, liver-spotted old man’s right to be there. Besides, most everyone else was having too good a time to notice that the old man had an improbably full, if dirty, set of teeth.

“Do you think she got the package I sent?” Marcus asked, bowing to serve Byrne’s stooped frame a glass of champagne, which he downed in one gulp, playing to character.

“Of course she did. Didn’t stop her coming, though, did it?” Byrne muttered, in a hacking, wheezing voice. Marcus wondered briefly how much of his brother’s disassociated demeanor was artifice.

“No, but she was reluctant to leave Mrs. Tottendale’s side. Maybe she’s trying to stay out of trouble.”
For me,
he thought.

“Well, the old bat is right there, drink in hand as usual.” Byrne commented, nodding toward Totty, who stood calmly at the edge of the dancing. “Marcus, we have work to do.”

Marcus nodded, and then, with one last glance out to the most beautiful couple on the dance floor, he turned away.

So, if half of that couple sought the eyes of one particular footman, he wasn’t there to see. And if Totty raised a brow and discreetly shot a look back to the same bowlegged footman and the old man, neither of them noticed.

Phillippa knew that she and Broughton were drawing attention. The flimsy half masks did little to hide their identities, and the two of them were so well-known that their figures could be picked out at a distance. She knew what everyone was saying, too: that they were charmingly coupled, that they looked marvelous together. But Phillippa’s delight in being the cause of everyone’s whispers and smiles was marred by the fact that she was scouring the crowd, looking for something, anything. Keeping her eyes open.

“You keep staring over my shoulder instead of at me, I’ll become quite cross,” Broughton remarked, as he took her through a turn.

Phillippa’s gaze immediately returned to Broughton’s. “Oh, I . . . I just saw the Duke of Wellington, look.” She pointed to the edge of the structure, where Wellington (who sported a waistcoat of gold; everything else was stark, formal evening dress) was surrounded by fawning ladies and gentlemen alike. Phillippa couldn’t be sure, she squinted a bit, but . . . was that Lord Sterling speaking with the Duke?

“Phillippa, what on earth are you doing
gawking
?” Broughton sniffed. “So unbecoming. The man’s no better than you or me.”

Phillippa’s brow furrowed. “Actually . . .”

“War hero or not, his title is bestowed,” Broughton scoffed, as if it was a shocking secret.

Phillippa smiled at Broughton and deftly changed the subject. “I’m terrible, I know. But I see interesting people, and I simply have to look at them. When I spy the Prince Regent, I promise not to ignore you and gawk too horribly.”

Broughton gave out a bark of laughter, drawing many approving eyes toward the apparently happy couple.

“Certainly you’ve met the Prince before?” Broughton asked.

“I was presented, but only for a moment,” Phillippa answered.

“Well then, let’s make sure he remembers you this time.” As the music ended, he guided her to far side of the pavilion, where the Prince Regent and his entourage were holding court.

She kept her head up as they moved through the crowd, her heart thudding the entire time. Part of her was desperate to go with Broughton and make their bows to the Prince. But the other part of her kept wary. She glanced back at the man she thought could be Sterling speaking with Wellington. They were engrossed in conversation. She twisted her head, trying to spot Totty, but to no avail. She did lock eyes briefly with Nora, who grinned at her ecstatically.

“Phillip, really, should we?” she asked hesitantly.