The Diamond Key (18 page)

“That’s all right then. Pays better’n a grave digger. Speakin’ of which, I ain’t gettin’ paid to crawl around in the dirt behind some gentry mort’s mansion. In fact, I ain’t gettin’ paid at all, that I can notice.”

“Stubble it. I told you you’d get paid as soon as we get the girl. It’ll be better this way.” This way the Scarecrow could be the one to hit Lady Torrie over the head and carry her to the wagon they had waiting around the block, behind the stable mews. All Lord Boyce had to do was entice her out to the gardens; and down one of the ill-lit paths. Then they’d have her all right and tight, stuffed in a big sack Scarecrow had tucked in his breeches. The plan was for Boyce to play the hero, rescuing her. If she failed to be suitably grateful, they’d keep going to that abandoned cottage. If she still would not marry him after being thoroughly compromised, Boyce planned on getting a handsome ransom from her father. He’d have to sail away, of course, but the cents-per-centers he owed were going to send him on an ocean journey anyway—without the ship.

“She ain’t never gonna go off with you, not after last time.”

“She will if she does not recognize me.” Boyce was dressed as a knight of old in a chain mail doublet, complete with visored helmet and a lance with which he was prodding the yew hedges.

“How’re you gonna recognize the chit, then, if everyone’s in costume?”

That was the easy part. Lady Torrie would be the woman with all the other fortune hunters at her feet.

* * * *

Names were not being announced at the entrance, of course, this being a masquerade, yet Torrie and her father paused at the top of the stairway leading down to the ballroom. Since she would be coming on her father’s arm, with her aunt as chaperon, and both of them had refused to don so much as a half mask, Torrie had not hidden her face either. She even wore her well-known gold and diamond key. After all, she wanted her chosen gentleman to propose to her, not to an unknown nymph or gypsy. This was not the time for flirting with gentlemen she could not recognize, either. The time for hidden glances and secret smiles, the shiver of wondering if this man was the one, if that mask hid the face she would come to love—that thrill of anticipation was long gone, never to return.

“Smile, poppet, your court awaits.”

The crowds below caught sight of the new arrivals, and nearly a score of cavaliers, Romans, and Robin Hoods surged in their direction. “Like racehorses to the starting gate,” Aunt Ann murmured from Torrie’s other side.

“At least they are all Thoroughbreds. Louisa Reese wouldn’t have anything less,” the earl said, frowning at his sister. Then he turned to Torrie. “It’s your field, my dear. Pick us a winner.”

All Torrie saw was a field of broken dreams, but she pasted a smile on her face and prepared to meet her destiny.

In almost no time at all, she had sorted out the gentlemen clamoring for her attention. Sir Eric, Lord Mayfield, and Baron Knowles had been three of her most stalwart suitors for years. Any one of them would make an adequate, if uninspiring spouse. She granted them each a dance.

“I’ll be in the card room if you need me,” Lord Duchamp said loudly enough to be heard by the gentlemen, one of whom he was hoping would seek him out before supper, so they could go home after the lobster patties.

Aunt Ann took up her vantage point in the row of gilt chairs along the dance floor’s edges. She took out her needlework. If her niece did not know her way around a ballroom by now, it was far too late for a maiden aunt to teach her.

Her father was gone, her aunt was gone, and Torrie was alone to make the decision of her life.

Sir Eric was one of the most handsome men in London, with perfect manners and elegant dress. He was a superb dancer and a charming conversationalist. Everything Lord Ingall was not, in fact. The baronet even had an adequate income. He made a more than adequate Greek god in his short toga and leather sandals. Best of all, he had proposed to Torrie in the past. How hard could it be to coax another offer from him tonight?

As hard as one of the fluted columns that held up the ceiling of the ballroom. While Torrie and Sir Eric walked to the dance floor, his eyes swiveled toward a giggling shepherdess who was showing more of her ankles than was proper—and more of her bosom than was polite, more than Torrie had dared, in fact. Torrie recognized that giggle as belonging to the woman at Madame Michaela’s, the woman who belonged to Lord Ingall, although the Cossack at her side was much too short and squat to be the viscount. Knowing Wynn had to be somewhere in the vicinity, she looked around for him, wondering what costume he would choose and if she would recognize the cad in ample time to ignore him. Sir Eric looked around, too, at the round, swaying posterior of Lady Lynbrook, and walked smack into the column.

Now Sir Eric was not quite so handsome, with a huge goose-egg forming on his temple. His toga was not so elegant with blood dripping down it, either. Two footmen with towels had to come lead him away while three women fluttered in his wake.

Torrie did not stay in the anteroom with them, seeing that the baronet would have sufficient care. She did not care to be a member of his entourage. She’d had a lucky escape, it seemed. Although not so lucky for Sir Eric, the disaster had shown his true colors. The man could never be content with one woman, and Torrie could not accept that. Why, if she wanted a womanizer to wed, she could have had Wynn, who did not walk into the architecture.

By the time she got back to the ballroom, Torrie had missed half her quadrille with Lord Knowles, which was no bad thing. The baron was one of the clumsiest dancers she knew, but he was sweet-natured and kind to his mother. A woman was not supposed to dance too often with her own husband at any rate, and a pleasant disposition was far more important than a nimble foot ... or a full head of hair ... or even teeth. That is what she told herself, anyway.

Rather than try to join the ongoing dance, they decided to stroll about the ballroom periphery—Torrie in her gold costume, Lord Knowles in an embroidered silver tunic. He was supposed to represent Sir Galahad, she thought, but he kept tripping over the sword at his side.

He led her toward where his mother sat and Torrie politely inquired into the older woman’s health, not expecting an actual recounting of every ache and pain the woman had suffered since the turn of the century. Torrie took the opportunity to survey the dancers. The Lynbrook woman was dancing with a different man now, a minstrel who was far too spindly-legged for his hose, much less for Lord Ingall, but she was still giggling. At least someone was having a good time.

Lady Knowles finally wound down, telling her son she was dying of thirst. “Go fetch me a drink, Joseph, and none of that orgeat, mind. I want wine.”

It was no wonder the old woman was parched. But when they reached the refreshments room, Lord Knowles slipped on a wet patch, pitched into the table, and spilled all the punch, His shoes went flying in one direction, his hairpiece in another.

It took four footmen this time, for two of them had to carry Lord Knowles’s mother out, too,

Well, perhaps the baron was a trifle too attached to his mother, Torrie thought. A mature man, a husband, for instance, ought not cry out for his mama in moments of stress. A good thing she had seen that—and his bald pate—before it was too late.

On her way to join her aunt before the next set, Torrie noticed Lady Ingall’s cousin dancing. Heavens, were all of the viscount’s paramours present tonight? Miss Herman’s partner was a fair-haired friar, though, not the viscount. Deanna seemed delighted anyway. Ingall must be losing his touch, Torrie thought as she sought her own next partner.

Lord Mayfield was another nice gentleman, if somewhat shy. At least he would not be getting up flirtations with every woman he met. Torrie was running out of time—and choices—so she asked if they could stroll on the terrace, instead of taking part in the contra-danse now forming. “Oh, I say.... That is, I am not sure ...”

She took his arm. “My aunt won’t mind, and it is a bit stuffy in here.”

So they went through the open doors to the terrace, where Torrie led her prey—her
parti—
to the farthest corner, away from the ballroom lights

“Oh, I say ... the dark.”

“Is so romantic, don’t you think?” Torrie hinted.

There was enough light for her to see his Adam’s apple bob as Mayfield gulped. “I ... I say we had not ought ... That is, oh dear.”

Was the man a complete slowtop? Torrie could not very well propose to him, could she? No, she’d done that once, with disastrous results. She stepped closer.

“Oh, my.” He stepped back.

Torrie took another step toward him. “Yes? Is there something you want to say to me?”

He took another step back. “I ... I ...”

Torrie pictured endless dinners waiting for him to ask her to pass the salt. Still, she persevered. “Something of a particular nature?” She moved close enough to lay her hand on his chest.

“I say ...”

She would never know what the clunch was going to say because he took one more step backward, away from her, and tumbled down the terrace steps.

The footmen were looking at Torrie oddly. One man crossed himself. Even she had to admit there had been an inordinate amount of bad luck this evening, almost as if the Fates were conspiring to keep her from marrying any man but— No, that was absurd. She simply had to try harder, that was all.

Torrie went to the ladies’ retiring room to fix her hair. Ruthie had been out of sorts again tonight, so it was not pinned as securely as usual. Then again, the night had proved more strenuous than expected. She really had to see about Ruthie’s health in the morning, for she liked the woman, in addition to needing her. Ruthie would have to wait for tomorrow. Tonight Torrie had to find a husband.

When she returned to the ballroom, she surveyed the remaining bachelors. Mr. Gilmartin was dressed as Bottom. Torrie refused to marry any man who resembled either end of an ass. Sir Jason swept her a courtly bow, and knocked over a servant’s tray of wineglasses with his out-flung arm. She was not exactly sure of the identity of the Pierrot who asked her for the next dance, but she was sure he had not bathed in weeks.

Then she saw him. He was bent over to kiss Mrs. Reese’s wrinkled cheek. Heavens, was no woman safe from Ingall’s blandishments? He was dressed as a corsair, she thought, strong, bold, and dangerous. With his proud nose and wide stance, to say nothing of his trim waist, bright smile, and shining brown locks, he was the answer to every maiden’s prayers—if she had been praying to be the heroine of a novel. Torrie had no intention of being the latest victim of his lordship’s seductive spell, so she turned her back to find her next partner. With any luck, he’d turn into her life’s partner, whomever he was.

* * * *

Wynn greeted his hostess, then looked around to make sure the females he was supposed to be escorting had arrived safely. Marissa had found a high-backed chair from which to hold court. Cousin Deanna was radiant in the arms of a cowled monk. Bette was looking years younger as she bounced from partner to partner down the line of the dance. Surely one of the preening peacocks would claim her as a prize.

Then he saw her. Like him, Lady Torrie wore no mask, but she had a coronet of gold leaves woven through her curls. She was wearing a thoroughly inadequate amount of some clinging gold fabric, loosely draped in the semblance of a Greek chiton, with the crisscrossing bodice leaving one breast barely covered, and the other half exposed.

Wynn could not swallow, and he was not even wearing a tight neckcloth. His mouth was dry, his pulse was racing, and he had to pull the dangling ends of his tablecloth sash around to the front of his breeches. Then she turned and he could see a tiny pair of gold gossamer wings affixed to the back of her gown. Nike, of course. Winged Victory. One inch less fabric and she would have been Wanton Victory, with her gold sandals and painted toenails.

No, he thought, she should have been Diana, with her bow and arrows, for Lady Victoria was obviously on the hunt. He saw her reject one prospective dance partner after the other, as if no man could meet her impossible standards. She looked in his direction, raised her chin, and walked away.

Well, whatever game Winged Victory was playing, Wynn vowed, she would not win. He’d find himself a more beautiful, more charming, more passionate wife than she could ever have been. In his dreams. In London, he would settle for a girl with a good heart.

He did not have much better luck than Torrie.

The first young lady Mrs. Reese introduced him to fainted. He carried her to an anteroom that was, oddly enough, already employed as a field hospital. English balls must have changed more than he’d thought, that they kept a surgeon on hand.

The next female, he judged, pretended a swoon so he might carry her, too. Mrs. Reese splashed the contents of her wineglass in the chit’s face, to put an end to that nonsense, as she put it.

The third young lady got some of her seven veils twisted in the knife hilt at his waist. When he pulled the dagger to free her, the diaphanous stuff ripped, leaving her two veils short of modesty, with her petticoat showing.

Perhaps this was not going to be the easy victory Wynn thought.

Mrs. Reese, bent on matchmaking for her favorite benefactor, thought he ought to dance, to meet all the females in a given set, but Wynn had been out of the habit for too long to remember half the steps of the line dances. He’d never liked the posturing, toe-pointing minuet, and the quadrille was for ballet dancers, he considered, not men in boots. Which left the waltz, but unfortunately carried overtones he was not yet ready to have heard by an unknown female. So he decided to ask Bette, to see how she was faring, and if she had met any likely candidates. It was late enough in the evening, and she had danced with enough other gentlemen, that no one could cry foul at one waltz between old friends.

She was too short for him, though, and he had to bend his neck to listen to her excited chatter, so they decided to sit the dance out, on the sidelines.