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.”
“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.
Lady Ward rasped, “I shall come, too!” and took her grandson’s arm, leaving the dais after raking Rebecca with a contemptuous stare.
Following, her hand trembling on Fortescue’s arm, Rebecca whispered, “Forty, my gown is borrowed from Sir Peter’s Hall of Effigies upstairs. Is that very bad?”
“Not if you truly wish to wed old Peter,” his lordship replied.
She thought, “Yes, but I did not mean to entrap him so blatantly as this!”
They had passed into the hall, and lackeys were swinging wide the door of a blue and gold ante-room. Judges, contestants, and a militant Viking Princess went inside.
No sooner had the doors closed upon the curious servants than Sir Peter turned to Rebecca. “Now, ma’am,” he said kindly. “What is all this foolishness?”
“Gad!” his grandmother snarled at the ornately plastered ceiling.
“I quite understand that your gown is borrowed,” he continued with a smile. “But it certainly has never been worn to greater advantage, and I fail to see—”
“Then you are a simpleton, sir!” his relation interpolated wrathfully. “You surely must realize what gossip would make of—”
A commotion on the terrace was followed by a fumbling at the outer doors which burst open suddenly, causing the heavy brocade draperies to billow inward. A small scream escaped my Lady Ward as a dishevelled figure staggered into the room and stood blinking around at the startled group.
All evening, Rebecca had been battling a ridiculous sense of ill-usage because Trevelyan de Villars had ignored her. Now she knew why, for he very obviously had not been at the ball. He stood swaying before them, clad in simple riding dress. His dark hair was wildly disordered, his pale cheeks were scratched, and mud streaked one side of his face. His right hand clutched a limply dangling left arm bound with a handkerchief that showed wet and crimson.
“Good God!” cried The Monahan, impulsively starting towards him. “What on earth has—”
From outside came shouts, the male voices harsh with excitement. “Did he go into the house?” … “Which room?” … “This way, men!”
One hand flying to her throat, my Lady Ward eyed her favourite and gasped, “De Villars! Never say you are a—a Jacobite traitor?”
“If he is, he’ll not drag me down with him!” growled Kadenworthy.
At that, into every mind came the horror of the rope, axe, and block, and the nightmare of public dismemberment. The Monahan paled and shrank away from the wounded man.
De Villars gasped out, “My apologies … Ward. I—I’d not have come here but … they gave me little … choice.”
Rebecca, who had stood in stunned silence, cried, “Never mind that! Quickly! We must hide him!”
“Where?” wailed Lady Ward, wringing her hands in anguish. “There is no cupboard in this room, gal!”
“Under the furniture! Anywhere!”
“And incriminate us all?” Kadenworthy snarled, “Are you gone insane, ma’am? This is High Treason! You may not value that pretty head of yours, but, by God! I’ve no wish for mine to adorn a spike on Tower Bridge!”
“You are no Jacobite, Treve,” quavered Sir Peter, white to the lips. “You have only to tell them they mistake the matter, and—”
“Unhappily,” said de Villars faintly, “I was—was seen, Peter.”
“Doing what?” Fortescue demanded, with an unfamiliar air of authority.
“Aiding some … stupid damned fugitive onto … my mare.”
“Good heavens!” moaned Lady Ward. “How could you, de Villars? Is Peter’s mare! Now you have involved my grandson!”
“No.” De Villars stumbled towards the door. “I’ll go and throw myself on … their mercy.”
“And get none!” Kadenworthy glared at him. “Curse you! How could you have been so stupid?”
Turning back, de Villars peered at them blindly. “Peter? I cannot … seem to … so—you … you must hand me over. Do not … risk…” And he sagged like a rag doll and lay in a crumpled heap before them.
They all stood as if frozen.
The hall door burst open. Rebecca all but fainted with terror. The butler hurried in and cried an agitated, “Soldiers are searching the house, sir, and—oh! My God!”
As though released from the paralysis which had gripped them, Boudreaux sprang to swing the door shut. “We must do something!” he said urgently.
“We cannot!” said Ward, his face twisted with grief. “I must think of—er, the rest of you! To aid a fleeing rebel is treason, even as Lord Kaden—”
“No!” Turning on him like a tigress, Rebecca cried, “Have you no loyalty to your own? Do you think he would turn his back on any one of us in such a tangle? De Villars is innocent of anything save kindness! We cannot condemn him to so hideous a death only to spare ourselves!” Ward stared at her in silence. She stretched out her hands pleadingly. “Oh—hide him! For the love of God! Help him!”
But it was too late. Military footsteps were marching along the hall. A brisk, cultured voice called, “The library, you two fellows! You three—this way!”
Rebecca thought in a numb, detached fashion, “It is Hilary Broadbent.”
“Alas, dear lady,” groaned Sir Peter. “I am sorrier than I can say, but Treve has brought it on himself. We cannot—”
With an incoherent snarl of impatience, Rebecca ran forward. While the rest of them watched, flabbergasted, she lifted her skirts, careless of the expanse of lace-trimmed bloomers that was revealed above her neat ankles. Turning carefully, she draped those wide, luxurious skirts over the insensible form of The Wicked Rake.
Lord Fortescue uttered an admiring exclamation and ran to lift one limp and bloody hand and shove it beneath the sheltering farthingale. The Monahan, leaping pantherlike to the candelabra, blew out as many flames as she might. My Lady Ward hurried to the credenza and extinguished the lamp there, so that only one branch of candles on the mantelpiece remained lighted.
“You are all run mad!” hissed Kadenworthy.
Letitia Boudreaux, who had neither moved nor spoken during all this, now recovered and moved to Rebecca’s side.
“God bless you!” she gulped. “What can I do?”
“Pray he does not move, or cry out! And put on your mask—quickly!” Replacing her own mask, Rebecca called softly, “We are part of the collection from upstairs!” She barely had time to tie the mask and place one hand on Letitia’s arm, before the door opened.
Major Broadbent strode in, three troopers following.
“Are they not realistic?” murmured Lord Fortescue, surveying the “effigies” with enviable aplomb. “I vow, Ward—”
“Sir Peter,” the major interposed curtly, “I pray you will believe that I mislike what I must do. There is a Jacobite loose in the vicinity. We know he is winged, and suspect he sought shelter here. The house is being searched, and I must ask your co-operation, in the King’s name.”
Standing motionless, praying, Rebecca slanted a glance at Kadenworthy. He was watching the major, his face cold and calculating. He had good reason to hate de Villars. If he spoke…! She fought back a sob of fear, and struggled not to tremble. Poor Letitia’s arm was cold as ice under her fingers. Peter Ward was like a ghost. He had vowed he would aid any Jacobite friend who asked his protection. The man lying so limp and helpless beneath her gown was his closest friend. Surely, surely, he would not betray them?
His voice strained, Ward said, “Pray do search! Who is he, do you know, Broadbent?”
“We know only that two fugitives broke through our lines. One of them got away, but the other was shot. We followed him here.”
“But—why here? He must know my home is full of people! He would be seen!”
“And hidden, belike,” said Broadbent cynically. “There are Jacobites throughout Britain where one might least expect to find ’em, Ward!”
Behind the military men, a slow grin spread across Kadenworthy’s lean visage.
“You men,” Broadbent ordered, “search this room thoroughly.”
The troopers hurried about, upending chairs and sofas, peering behind the curtains, and requiring guests to move so that they might look behind chests and under tables.
“Damned impertinence,” drawled Kadenworthy, removing his hips from the credenza in response to a terse request that he do so. “D’you expect to find your fugitive in one of the drawers, you dolt?”
Lady Ward uttered a shrill titter.
Broadbent said thoughtfully, “You’ve brought down some of the effigies, I see, Ward.” He marched forward.
Rebecca felt the blood drain from her face and thought she must faint as he halted before her.
There was an absolute, horrified silence.
Dropping to one knee, the major reached to grasp her skirt.
Choking with fear, her heart hammering, Rebecca leaned down and soundly boxed his ears.
Uttering a startled yelp, the major jumped back to sit sprawling on the floor before her.
“How dare you, sir!” she said, managing somehow to dimple roguishly at him, as she took off her mask.
“By … by Gad!” gasped the major, leaning back on his hands. “You like to scared the wits out of me, Rebecca!”
The guests laughed convincingly, though many of the knees in that perilous room were weak as water.
“For shame, Broadbent!” said the Reverend Boudreaux sternly. “You stand sadly in want of respect, sir!”
Unhappily aware of the wide grins on the faces of his troopers, the major clambered to his feet. “I thought—I thought the ladies were effigies, sir,” he stammered, very red in the face.
“Disgusting!” snorted my lady.
“No, really, ma’am.” Rebecca laughed. “’Twas what we strove for, after all. You see, Sir Peter? Hilary was convinced. Now own we fooled you, also!”
Ward shrugged and said wryly, “In this light, ma’am, I’ll admit it was most effective.”
The major drew out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “I beg you will believe that you fooled me, ladies.”
“There!” Rebecca clapped her hands, but her eyes grew round as an unseen hand tugged at her bloomers. She had thought to have stepped on something when she boxed Hilary’s ears. She must be crushing de Villars’ fingers! She moved her foot, and the farthingale swayed heart-stoppingly. “I win my bet, Sir Peter!” she cried, a little too gaily. “You must pay me at once, sir!”
“I shall do more,” he said, bowing. “You are undeniably the Queen of our Ball! Eh, Grandmama?”
With a tight little smile, Lady Ward inclined her head. “Hail to the Queen!”
The declaration was taken up and repeated lustily. Broadbent hesitated, watching as they all crowded around Rebecca. He could not know that for several of the ladies, tears were very close behind their rather shrill laughter. He was miserable in a task he loathed and thought that these people presented anything but the picture of a group of terrified conspirators.
“I would suggest, sir,” sneered Lord Kadenworthy, sensing his indecision, “that you withdraw before word of your—”
Captain Holt intervened from the doorway, “Do you require assistance, sir?”
Rebecca’s heart leapt with fright. Holt would know at once this entire scene was ridiculous, for he had seen her with Ward and would be aware there was no likelihood of Ward mistaking her for an effigy!
“Thank you—no,” said Broadbent, his dislike apparent in his cold condescension. “Have you finished with the kitchen quarters?”
“We have.” Advancing into the room, the captain said suspiciously, “If there is any difficulty with these people…”
“Perhaps,” murmured Fortescue, “we should explain the nature of the difficulty. The captain might be able to tell us if it is customary to—”
The captain, Broadbent was bitterly aware, would be delighted to report an incident that, however innocent, might be interpreted as misconduct. He intervened sharply, “We waste time here! Holt, take your people upstairs!”
Holt frowned, but beckoned to his men and retreated.
“Peter,” drawled Kadenworthy, “I saw your dear friend de Villars at the unmasking. He and I have an—ah, matter to discuss. I am becoming bored. If you will be done with the judging, I’d as soon return to the party.”
Broadbent scowled at him resentfully, but he saw laughter brimming in the eyes of The Monahan and, beyond her, the stiff, disapproving countenance of the Viking Princess. “Dear God!” he thought, and led his troopers from the room.
Rebecca felt suddenly weak and giddy. As the door closed, she clapped both hands to her mouth and closed her eyes. Letitia began to weep softly. Boudreaux hastened to her and, sprinting forward, Kadenworthy slipped an arm about Rebecca. “You’re not going to faint, m’dear,” he said, a new warmth to his voice. “Jove, but if that was not the bravest thing I ever saw!”
“Indeed, it was!” admitted Lady Ward, her own voice shaking.
More practically, The Monahan said, “Do we not tend Trevelyan’s wound, he’s like to bleed to death.”
At once, Rebecca lifted her skirts and stepped away. De Villars lay as before, giving no indication of having regained consciousness.
“Lud!” gasped Letitia, terror-stricken. “Is he dead?”
Fortescue had already dropped to one knee and was easing the wounded man onto his back. He felt for a pulse. “No, he ain’t dead, yet,” he said, and began to unwind the sodden handkerchief from de Villars’ arm.
“Nor are we safe, yet,” Kadenworthy warned as Letitia appropriated her brother’s handkerchief and knelt beside de Villars. “He must be got upstairs.”
“How?” said Ward helplessly. “We cannot carry him!”
“Could pretend he was foxed,” Fortescue suggested. “But—he’s all blood. Anyone sees him and we’re properly dished.”
De Villars sighed, and opened his eyes. For a moment he stared up at them blankly. Then, sitting up, he asked, “Am I not arrested yet? Or—do I dream this?”
“You are free for the moment,” said Lady Ward. “Thanks only to Mrs. Parrish, without whose courage you would be on your way to the Tower!”
De Villars’ tired eyes turned to search Rebecca’s pale face, but he said nothing.
“If I might venture a remark, sir,” said the butler, who had watched the dramatic interlude in silence. “The guests will be coming for the Ruler, at any second!”
Wringing her hands, Rebecca half sobbed, “Oh—I could not g-go out there just—just now. I could not!”
“Of course she could not!” said Ward. “She has risked enough!”
“Crown me Queen!” his grandmother suggested. “I’ll go out there!”
“And right bravely,” Fortescue agreed with rare tact. “But we shall need your nursing skills to help Treve, ma’am. If only we can smuggle him abovestairs.”
The butler said, “Sir—were I to get another costume, could Mr. de Villars climb the stairs?”
“’Course I can climb the stairs,” de Villars asserted. “D’ye think I’m foxed, Greywood?”
The butler smiled and, not waiting for his employer’s consent, slipped into the hall.
Fortescue helped de Villars to his feet. Assuring them rather threadily that he was “much better now,” the injured man took one tentative step and sagged weakly. “Confound it!” he groaned, clinging to his lordship’s arm. “I—I imperil you all! Perhaps you should—render me up, Peter!”
His own voice strained with nervousness, Ward snapped, “To die? For doing no more than—than any one of us would have done?”
Kadenworthy said a contemptuous, “If you really believe that, Ward, you are a fool. I, for one, would not have taken such a risk. No more, I doubt, would you.”
Rebecca scarcely heard them. Not until de Villars had staggered into the room had she known how ghastly was the taste of pure terror. It was almost inconceivable that the vital arrogance of him could have been so swiftly reduced to this helplessness. And just as inconceivable the fact that he—the man who had sneered at the folly of aiding a fugitive—should have been the very one to commit such gallant folly. She heard again Anthony’s childish voice: “I found out that his eyes say different to his words.” Those eyes were fixed on her now. They were strained and tired and full of pain, but faint and familiar came that quirkish twist of the white lips. An undeniably suggestive wink was directed at her. She fought tears. The wretch was teasing her because he had recovered consciousness and given that outrageous tug at her undergarments! Blinking, she thought, “There is no propriety in him! He is the outside of enough!” But she also thought him exceeding brave, and his irrepressible grin gave her the strength she needed.
Her chin tossed upward. She took a deep breath and stood away from Lord Kadenworthy’s supporting arm. “I am better now. I thank you, my lord.” She summoned a quivering smile. “Shall we go, Sir Peter?”
He stared at her, pale and obviously panicked. His grandmother glared at him, and he recovered sufficiently to go and offer his arm. “Are you sure it will not be too much of a strain for you, Mrs. Parrish?”
She looked up into his handsome, concerned face. And she knew he would have stood by and allowed his best friend to be delivered up to a cruel and shameful execution, and lifted not a hand to help. He was trying now, because the rest of them had stood firm, but he was very frightened. The last scales fell from her eyes. Handsome Peter Ward had been her dream—her knight in shining armour. But the dream was false, and although someday she might wed him, the deep respect and admiration she had felt for him were gone forever. Sadly, she said, “Quite sure, I thank you.”
As they walked past The Monahan, that lady bowed into a deep curtsey.
Rebecca glanced at her in surprise.
Delilah murmured, “Bravo!”