The Wagered Widow (32 page)

“A most persistent buccaneer brought me down to supper and has gone off to fetch me a plate.” Beneath the table, Rebecca slid tired feet out of her high heeled slippers. “When other gentlemen came over, he flourished a great sword at them, so I have been granted a few moments of rest. I suspect he is Horatio Glendenning, and I think he has a suspicion of who I am, though I've adopted the most delicious Spanish accent so as to deceive him. Are you enjoying yourself, dear?”

“Immensely, but I have identified only a few people. Delilah is The Monahan, of course. Have you spotted Lady Ward yet?”

“No. Have you? There is a Joan of Arc here, but she is too plump.”

“I thought the same. I'm not very clever at guessing people. I only identified Mrs. Monahan because she wears that beautiful antique ring. Have you noticed it, love? A most cunningly wrought golden dragon with red eyes.”

“Yes, I admired it at the boat party. It is so unusual she might have known it would betray her identity.”

“With the gown she almost wears, I doubt any of the gentlemen would notice her
ring,
” said Mrs. Boothe with a giggle. “In fact—” She broke off, her chin sagging.

A female Viking had come into the room, escorted by Sir Peter. The lady was not of great stature, but her enormous helm boasted two very large, upcurving horns, which presented a distinct hazard to those in her vicinity. Thick flaxen braids hung on both sides of her thin face. A beautifully embroidered blouse and full dark skirt completed her costume. She carried herself with a prideful arrogance, and there could be no mistaking her. Rebecca whispered an awed, “So she was
not
Joan d'Arc … after all!”

Catching sight of The Scarlet Signorina, the Viking lady glanced idly away, but as if comprehension was slow in dawning, her head fairly shot back, her eyes all but goggling. The effect was, to say the least, alarming. The helm did not respond with the proper degree of alacrity and settled midway on her head, one large horn sticking out above her nose like some demented unicorn.

Lord Glendenning, bearing two laden plates, strove vainly to stifle an involuntary whoop. The golden Delilah, seated at a nearby table, chuckled audibly. Highly diverted, Rebecca's eyes swept the amused crowd, seeking de Villars, well knowing how his appreciation of the ridiculous would be titillated by this apparition.

Lady Ward uttered a squawk, clutched at the arm of her grandson, and became so white that Rebecca sprang to her feet in alarm. “Ma'am? Are you ill?”

“That … that … gown!” gasped my lady.

Coming anxiously to join them, Delilah asked, “Is aught amiss, my lady Viking?”

“Do not
dare
to reveal my identity,” snapped Lady Ward, recovering.

Behind her begemmed mask, the green eyes of The Monahan widened. “Lud! I'd not been aware of it—till now.”

Sir Peter said uneasily, “Are you all right—”

At this point the lord justice, stooping to hear the remarks of a pretty milkmaid, passed by. He inadvertently collided with the horn of my lady's helm that, being now opposed to its fellow, swooped out behind her head. He gave a yelp as his wig was neatly speared and sailed away with my lady, who had stepped aside to allow him to pass. Another laugh went up. The reverend gentleman, good-naturedly accepting his premature unmasking, grinned, and reclaimed his property.

Lady Ward was less magnanimous. Whirling on him, she shrilled, “Pray
what
are you about, sir?”

“Allow me, ma'am,” said Sir Peter and, with a deft tug, straightened helm and horns. Lady Ward was more irked than grateful and proceeded to deliver a withering indictment of dim-witted and unmannerly young men that petrified the unfortunate Boudreaux.

Lord Horatio handed one of his plates to Rebecca, seized her by the elbow, and guided her quickly away. “I knew I had seen that gown somewhere before,” he murmured, as they left the debacle behind. “How ever did you acquire it? The old lady regards that collection as sacrosanct.”

“Oh, dear! Does she? Mrs. Kellstrand was so kind as to allow me to borrow it,” said Rebecca, abandoning the attempt to conceal her identity. “Will she be very angry, do you suppose?”

They found an unoccupied table and sat down, and the viscount said cheerily, “Never worry. Peter is the apple of her eye, he'll soon have her out of the boughs. And heaven knows, she shouldn't have flown into 'em—you look delicious. The colour is perfect for—Ma'am? You are not greatly distressed, I trust?”

Rebecca, who had been scanning the crowd as he spoke, apologized. “Forgive me. I was paying attention, only—if I appear upset, it is partly because of my brother. He went into the village this morning to attempt to find a suitable costume, and I've not seen him since. I cannot but be apprehensive.”

“Oh, do not give it another thought, dear lady. In this crush it is impossible to find anyone. For instance, I have been attempting to spot de Villars, and quite without—”

“Is that you, Viscount?”

A Cossack, with huge moustachios, removed his mask to reveal the stern features of Captain Holt. “Cannot seem to get through the crush to Sir Peter,” he said crisply. “I've to leave. Be so good as to convey my regrets?”

“Of course. Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“Only that we have cornered some of these blasted rebels. Broadbent already left, and I must not tarry. Your pardon, sir, ma'am.” And he was gone, swallowed up in the chattering crowd.

A blaring fanfare from the orchestra very soon summoned everyone back to the ballroom. Six chairs had been placed at the rear of the dais, and five of these were occupied by the judges, consisting of the lord justice, a gypsy fortune teller, a very fat Chinese mandarin, a Dutch farmwife, and a tattered chimney sweep.

When everyone was assembled, Sir Peter held up his hand for quiet. Gradually, the noise died down, and he announced, “'Tis almost—the Witching Hour!” He clapped his hands sharply. Unearthly music struck up, haunting at first, then rising to a wild, tempestuous melody. From both sides of the great ballroom came witches, fairies, and warlocks, skipping and leaping to the dais, there to dance with skill and precision for the pleasure of the brilliant company. A lighter refrain brought elves and pixies who bounded and cartwheeled their way to join the dancers, mingling with them in a clever ballet that drew repeated bursts of applause. Then, with a clash of cymbals, the music stopped. The dancers all froze into attitudes of tense expectancy, everyone pointing to a black drapery that curtained off a corner of the room. The draperies were slowly drawn aside. Beyond, two silver-cloaked and hooded figures held flaming torches to illumine the face of a great clock. The small hand pointed to the hour, its fellow creeping toward it. The crowd watched breathlessly. The two hands met. A brief hush, then the first chime pealed, the guests joining in the count until “Twelve!” became a roar of triumph.

Four youths in blue and silver tunics and white hose now marched in and swung up glittering trumpets. A fanfare cut through the uproar.

Sir Peter stood once more. “It is time,” he announced loudly, “for the judging. We have six finalists, and must choose one to reign as Ruler of the Midsummer's Eve Ball!” Again, he was interrupted by the excited crowd, and the trumpeters had to be employed to restore quiet. Sir Peter took up a sheet of parchment. “Will these ladies and gentlemen please come to the dais? The Great God Pan … Don Quixote … Queen Elizabeth…” Applause had greeted each name, but some confusion now ensued, since it seemed there were three Queen Elizabeths. It was settled at last, and a truly spectacular royal lady made her way to the dais. Sir Peter resumed his list. “Delilah!” More applause. “A Viking Princess.” The shouts were laced with a few chuckles, but Lady Ward marched serenely to her triumph. “And—lastly,” said Sir Peter, tantalizingly, “The—Scarlet Signorina!”

Rebecca's horrified gasp was lost in the roar of acclaim. Glendenning made his way through the enthusiastic crowd, leading her to the dais.

“I
cannot!
” she cried, trying to free her hand.

He grinned. “'Course you can. No call to be nervous,” and, willy-nilly, she was drawn along.

She had no chance to protest further, and took her place among the other contestants, praying she would be rejected. Outrage gleamed in the eyes of the Viking Princess, but by not so much as a quiver did the smile change on Delilah's lovely face.

The judges were making notes and conferring gravely together; the onlookers watched eagerly; and Rebecca waited, probably the only person in that festive hall who was in utter misery. Why, oh
why,
had it never occurred to her that this might happen? She could take no credit for either the devising or creation of the magnificent gown she wore. If it became known that she had borrowed her finery, and from whom, it must look as though she stood on extremely close terms with the Wards. Even more deplorable, she now realized belatedly, in having loaned her a possession he was known to prize highly, Sir Peter might very well be judged as having publicly declared his interest. Tears of humiliation started to Rebecca's eyes. Her only hope was that The Monahan or the Viking Princess would win, although there was always the chance that de Villars would reign over the ball.

The judges had reached a decision! Sir Peter came to his feet and raised one hand. The room hushed. “Third place,” he called, “goes to a very enchanting—Delilah!”

Cheers rang out. The Monahan curtseyed with superb grace and moved to stand to one side of Ward.

There was much cheering again when Ward said, “Second place to that authentic rogue—the Great God Pan!”

Pan bowed his thanks. Straightening, his eyes glinted at Rebecca from behind his mask.

Her knees shook. Surely—
surely
they would not name her?

“And the first place,” Ward's voice rang with excitement, “goes to—
The Scarlet Signorina!
”

The storm of acclaim drowned Rebecca's moan. A sea of faces looked up at her with delighted approval. On the dais, the Viking Princess glared her frustrated fury. A faint smile touched the mouth of Delilah. Pan was grinning widely. Ward was at her side.

“Queen of the Midsummer's Eve Ball! Our two hundred and fiftieth Ruler! Lead us in unmasking. Who are you, lovely one?”

His hands were unfastening her mask. She said desperately, “Sir Peter! You must stop this. I
cannot
be—”

But the mask was drawn away. A roar went up. “The Little Parrish! It is The Little Parrish!”

De Villars' name for her. How widespread it had become. In desperation, Rebecca turned to him. Pan raised a fine-boned hand and removed his mask. Her heart thudded into her slippers. She was gazing at a lean, amused face she had never seen before. She heard Ward laugh and exclaim, “Kadenworthy! You rascal!” She thought, “
Kadenworthy?
The man Treve almost killed? Here?”

Everyone was unmasking. Amid the hubbub and laughter, Rebecca was not surprised, of course, that FitzWilliam Boudreaux was the lord justice, or that Delilah was indeed The Monahan. She managed a smile upon discovering that one of her judges, the Dutch farm wife, was Letitia Boudreaux, but she had not the acquaintance of the gypsy fortune teller, who was a Countess somebody or other; neither did she recognize the well-preserved elderly gentleman who was Don Quixote tonight. She'd had not the faintest suspicion that the rotund Chinese mandarin would turn out to be a well-pillowed George Melton, and she was thoroughly astounded when the tattered chimney sweep was revealed as her brother's immaculate bosom bow, Lord Graham Fortescue.

“Forty!” she gasped, as overjoyed as she was surprised. “I didn't know it was
you!
”

He blushed and said with simple pride, “Bet Snow a monkey I'd fool you!”

“Oh, is he here? Forty, I am in the most dreadful—” She broke off in consternation as Sir Peter dropped to one knee before her and took her hand between both his own in the ancient oath of fealty.

Her eyes sparking with wrath, Lady Ward cried, “One
moment,
if you please!”

There was no doubt of what she was going to say.

“Please!” said Rebecca firmly, overriding her ladyship and withdrawing her hand from Sir Peter's clasp. “I cannot accept such an honour!”

“Hah!” exclaimed my lady. “So I should hope!”

Dismayed, Sir Peter stood. “What? Whyever not?”

“Oh, Lud! What a gapeseed!” grated his grandmama,
sotto voce.
“Are you
totally
blind, Ward?”

The consternation among the watching crowd died down, and there was a tense silence as they all waited to know what was happening.

Rebecca said clearly, “I am more grateful than I can say. But I must decline the honour you do me. This gown, you see, is—”

She was interrupted by a cluster of sharp, staccato sounds. To her, they seemed like so many brittle tree branches snapping, but several gentlemen, obviously alarmed, sprinted to the terrace doors. Someone shouted, “Jacobites!” and another cry was heard, “Poor devils! Blasted close by!”

This set off a flurry of alarm and silenced Lady Ward, who had seized the opportunity to address a few pithy remarks to her grandson.

A footman came quickly to the dais and spoke to Ward in an urgent undertone. Sir Peter nodded, made an imperative gesture to the musicians, and shouted a cheerful, “On with the dance!”

The music struck up. Over it, Colonel Shephard demanded indignantly, “But who is to rule us, Ward?”

Sir Peter replied with smiling composure that the judges and the six finalists would adjourn to another room to thrash out the problem.

“I wager a monkey it will be Delilah!” offered a demon, and was at once surrounded by eager bettors.

The major-domo called a minuet. The ominous interruption was forgotten, and the guests prepared happily for the dance.