The Wagered Widow (31 page)

Luncheon was served al fresco, since the day was pleasantly warm, and the long tables set out on the front terrace, the colourfully attired guests, the flowers that blazed in the great urns constituted a charming picture. The company was happy and carefree, and the fare a triumph of gastronomic and organizational skill, especially when one considered that the great house was being readied for the ball, and the kitchens were swarming with extra servants from the catering company.

Afterwards, a walk was proposed by those having the energy to attempt it. There was some light-hearted rivalry for the escorting of the fair ladies, and when Sir Peter coolly offered his right arm to Rebecca and his left to The Monahan, outraged cries went up. Fat and jovial Colonel Shephard accused their host of taking advantage of his position; the Reverend Boudreaux said solemnly that such greed must bring a Dread Punishment; and Rebecca, in the midst of a trill of laughter, was suddenly seized from behind and whisked away.

Still laughing, she protested, “But, really, I—” Grave grey eyes transfixed her, and the words died in her throat.

De Villars said, “It seemed only fair—to prevent bloodshed, you know.” He added softly, “Try not to appear too provoked with me, ma'am. We must not give cause for gossip.”

“Th-there has been sufficient of that, indeed,” stammered Rebecca, once more caught offstride. Fighting to appear at ease, she said the first thing that came to mind, which was an unfortunate, “Speaking of which, how is your hurt, sir?”

“De Villars—hurt?” Drawing level with them, The Monahan said an incredulous, “But not in your famous duel, surely, Treve?”

“The merest scratch, dear lady,” he answered blandly.

Mrs. Monahan's white hand fluttered to her bosom, drawing with it the eyes of most of the gentlemen. “Can I believe this? The incomparable Trevelyan de Villars bested in a duel? And by Snowden Boothe? No, I think you quiz me.”

A little flare of irritation lit de Villars' eyes as those within earshot crowded around.

“Every dog has his day,” Walter Street observed with a grin.

A slight frown marring his smooth brow, Ward said, “Treve? How is it that I heard naught of this?”

De Villars shrugged carelessly. “Because there was nothing to tell. Boothe and I found an excuse to exercize our skills and did so with little of ill-will. I chanced to be clumsy, and—”

“Clumsy?”
Colonel Shephard's tone was astonished. “In a duel?
You?
”

“It does sound incredible,” agreed The Monahan dubiously. “Unless…” She glanced to Rebecca. “Aha. I think I have it.”

Rebecca caught her breath as all eyes turned to her.

“Which reminds me,” said de Villars lazily. “I should warn you, my Peter, that you play host to a cat.”

The Monahan's malicious smile became frozen and her cheeks as pale as Rebecca's were red. Miss Street, aware of the implication, breathed, “Oh, Lud!”

Sir Peter asked innocently, “I do? Where is the creature?”

“Why—here,” drawled de Villars, ignoring the savage glare from a pair of fine green eyes. “I saw her stalking a mouse when I returned from my ride this morning.” There was an audible and collective breath of relief, and de Villars advised Ward to purge his estates of the predatory feline.

Rebecca recovered sufficiently to say, “Oh, no! You will not hurt her?”

“Of course he will not!” snapped The Monahan. “Not
all
men are monsters, dear Mrs. Parrish.”

“Do you believe that, Miss Templeby?” De Villars turned his attention to Glendenning's shy and pretty sister.

Flattered by the attention of so notorious a gentleman, the girl glowed and stammered an inaudible response, and he offered his arm and led her away.

The little party reassembled, and the stroll across the park continued, tongues progressing faster than elegantly shod feet. With Sir Peter on one side of her and Horatio Glendenning on the other, Rebecca should have felt triumphant, whereas her spirits were somewhat depressed. Why she must be plagued by a sense of impending disaster was beyond reason, yet that premonition had been troubling her of late and would not be banished. She was surprised after a little while to find that Captain Holt had contrived to slip in between herself and the viscount. They talked in desultory fashion at first, and then he said mildly, “I understand your brother is to attend the ball this evening, ma'am. I saw him with you earlier, I think. You bear him quite a resemblance.”

Rebecca thought, “I do?” and decided that he was attempting, not very skilfully, to be pleasant. “Thank you,” she said. “Actually, I am held to be more like to my elder brother, Jonathan. He is in Europe at present. Have you made his acquaintance, Captain?”

“Unfortunately, no. But I hear Mr. Snowden Boothe has been off in search of horses. I envy him. Do you know if he found any likely ones?”

“Hail, my Fair!” De Villars neatly inserted himself between them. “And farewell,
mon capitaine.
”

Diverted, Rebecca exclaimed, “Oh! Do you know who said that, sir?”

“I did. With my own ardent lips. Just now.”

His ardent lips were smiling the smile she had seen only in their few private moments; the smile of such sweetness that it obliterated all memory of his cynicism and rudeness. With an effort she recalled that he was only playing a part for the benefit of the other guests, and said chidingly, “No, no. 'Tis a quotation, am I not correct, Captain?”

The captain said a terse, “I have no idea, ma'am.”

Glancing at him, Rebecca surprised a set look to his jaw and a flash in his hard dark eyes, and wondered if he was annoyed because Treve—Mr. de Villars—had come up with them. The captain did not seem the flirtatious type, but one could never tell.

De Villars said, “You are quite correct, my erudite lady. The quotation is from—I had best say it softly!—Catullus.”

She clapped her hands delightedly. “I was right! My brother
would
have it was Shakespeare!”

“Pray do not tell him 'twas I betrayed his want of knowledge. I go in dread lest he call me out once more.”

Lord Glendenning scoffed, “Aye, but I can hear your knees knocking, Treve.”

“Those are not de Villars' knees,” the captain said “I fancy you hear drums, sir.”

All heads turned to him. The happy voices were stilled as they halted and stood listening. Sure enough, faint with distance a throbbing rose on the air.

Miss Street asked uneasily, “A military exercize, Captain?”

Holt shook his head. “My men are rousing the countryside, ma'am. There are escaped Jacobites hereabout. We've orders to take or kill them, before they reach the sea.”

“Poor creatures!” said Rebecca, her eyes stormy. “Even as we are so carefree, others of our countrymen are being hounded to a cruel and shameful death.”

“For which they have only themselves to blame.” De Villars took the captain's arm in friendly fashion. “Come, sir, and tell me of these fugitives. Do you know how many there are?”

Frowning after them as they walked on ahead, Rebecca found Sir Peter at her side. “You must really be more careful, dear lady,” he warned softly. “In the name of Christian charity, your sentiments do you honour, but the captain might easily have interpreted your remarks as treason.”

“In which case,” purred Mrs. Monahan, slipping her arm about Rebecca's small waist, “you would probably lose that pretty head. And even a jealous female such as myself should not wish to see that, my dear, so—pay heed to what Sir Peter tells you.”

Rebecca laughed, but she was frightened. Such things did not really happen, surely? Not to people one knew. Yet she had the oddest feeling that The Monahan was sincere. She thought of the desperate fugitives, perhaps wounded and exhausted, fleeing before the relentless pursuit, and a shiver chased down her spine.

CHAPTER
13

Fearing that they would be easily identified were they seen leaving the cottage in costume, Sir Peter urged Mrs. Boothe and Rebecca to stay at the main house on the night of the ball. There was no formal dinner party that evening. Trays were carried to the bedchambers, and later, the butler was to call for the guests, one at a time, and escort them to the ballroom by way of a rear corridor so that they could enter unobtrusively and mingle with the guests who had already arrived. A most tempting meal was sent up, but Rebecca was too excited to do more than pick at the food. Mrs. Boothe had already donned her costume and was all enthusiasm as she watched Millie dress her niece. Rebecca fought against overconfidence, but when she was powdered, attired in the glorious gown, a paste necklace of rubies and diamonds flashing convincingly about her throat, and long earrings sparkling, she could not but be hopeful of success.

Overawed, but ever practical, Millie asked anxiously, “Can you balance them hoops, Mrs. Rebecca? Turn about—give us a twirl.”

Rebecca did so, staggered, and caught her balance with a breathless laugh. “I shall have to take care,” she admitted, “lest I make a quiz of myself.”

Mrs. Boothe, her eyes misting, thought that never had she seen so beautiful a sight. If Sir Peter did not offer tonight, he must be all about in his head!

*   *   *

By ten o'clock the grand ballroom was athrong with an incredible company. Shepherdesses and Grecian nymphs were ogled by several Julius Caesars and a rather embarrassingly authentic-looking Pan, who Rebecca later decided must be Trevelyan de Villars, partly because of his height and easy grace, and partly because of that naughty costume. There were Elizabethan ladies with high ruffs and standing collars and farthingales, gentlemen in doublet and hose with short cloaks and dress swords. The steeple headdresses and flowing veils of the sixteenth century vied with gold turbans from the mysterious East. A centurion danced with a gentle Juliet. Cleopatra arrived, escorted by a full-bodied Henry the Eighth, and an equally stout pirate. Brigands rubbed elbows with Chinese mandarins, ladies of the harem, and Puritanical gentlemen in wide white collars and vandyke beards. And everywhere laughter and jollity and the freedom of masked countenances.

Yet even this brilliant gathering was moved to stare and exclaim when the next competitor appeared on the raised dais across which each new arrival had to pass so as to be seen by the judges and admired by the throng. Tall she was, a statuesque beauty clad in a flowing cream silk gown that left one dimpled shoulder bare, and was tied criss-cross about the breasts with ribands of green satin. Shining black locks were pulled back so as to descend loosely behind her shoulders—a wig, possibly. And her mask, edged with jewels, covered sufficient of her classic features as to leave most in doubt, but several wondering.

“Delilah!” announced the major-domo, ringingly.

To one side of the applauding crowd, a dashing buccaneer turned his scarfed head and nudged the lord justice at his side. “Choice, eh, Fitz?”

The gentleman of the cloth exclaimed, “Shocking! Why, I can see her
ankles!
And—Horatio, her toenails are gilded! Who is she, I wonder?”

“She is The Monahan, you great gudgeon,” imparted Glendenning, disrespectfully. He turned back to the dais, watched the arrival of a milkmaid, and was contemplating the provocative smile of a thirteenth-century princess when his friend breathed an admiring, “Now … by Jove!” and his attention returned to the dais.

The major-domo proclaimed resonantly, “The Scarlet Signorina!”

With leisured grace came this Spanish lady from the perilous days that had closed the sixteenth century. The brilliant red velvet of her vast farthingale fell richly over an underdress of white brocade embroidered in silver. Bands of ermine edged the deep outer sleeves, front openings, and hem of her gown. The neckline was square and high, rising at the back to a very high-standing collar of white brocade trimmed in silver. Jet curls, piled on her head and threaded with strings of pearls, enhanced a skin almost transparent in its purity. A jewelled fan was clasped in one hand, and the other was gracefully extended as she swept into her curtsey. The roar of applause brought every head turning, and the applause swelled, luring a shy smile to the full-lipped mouth.

Sir Peter, his receiving done for the evening, had just wandered into the ballroom. He was the only person not masked, since his duties as host clearly established his identity, and he looked breathtakingly handsome in the flowing periwig, dashing green
justaucorps
jacket, and culottes of seventy years earlier. Catching sight of the dazzling vision on the dais, he gasped, “Now … by God!”

“Enchanting, is she not?” chuckled a buccaneer, and began to edge his way through the throng of gentlemen waiting to besiege The Scarlet Signorina.

Recovering his scattered wits, Sir Peter followed.

*   *   *

The little abigail put down her tray of wine glasses and, sitting beside The Scarlet Signorina in a secluded corner of the refreshment room, said in a voice that quivered with emotion, “Oh, my love! Such a triumph for you! I vow you are the most sought after lady at the ball!
Everyone
is clamouring for your identity, and your company! You must be fairly exhausted.”

“Aunt Alby,” said Rebecca. “Whyever are you carrying that tray?”

“One of the guests asked that I remove it from his table,” Mrs. Boothe giggled. “Is it not hilarious? I am
truly
incognito! What a relief to escape myself for an evening!”

Rebecca was rather indignant, however, and said that since only footmen and lackeys were at work in the big room, she would have thought the guest might have been more perceptive.

“Well, I expect he would, my dearest, only he was a little foxed. And I truly was flattered. How comes it about that you sit here alone? 'Tis the first time you've not been surrounded.”