By the night of the masquerade, Priscilla had stopped crying. No one would have guessed her heart was broken. She had taken great pains with her costume, hoping to look like the little Dresden shepherdesses the ton so favored. Her curls were dressed to fall down behind her, allowing her lacy mask to frame her eyes. The crisp cotton of her flowered gown was bedecked with emerald ribbons, and ribbons laced up the longer bodice from an earlier era. She’d even found a puppet that had been covered in lamb’s wool to resemble a sheep, which she could cradle in one arm. A shame she could not seem to take as much joy from the ensemble as she’d hoped.
Her parents, on the other hand, were over the moon. True to his word, the duke had spoken to her father, and Mr. and Mrs. Tate were giddy with the knowledge that they could soon begin trading on their relationship with the House of Rottenford. As if determined to prove the fact, both had chosen to dress in amethyst-colored dominoes and jeweled masks like royalty.
Priscilla hadn’t been sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that His Grace had not brought Nathan with him when he had called, but all she’d seen of Nathan had been a note assuring her he was following through on his promise and investigating her “situation.”
And a situation it was. Lady Brentfield remained at large, though there had been no sightings reported. Priscilla’s parents alternated between congratulating themselves on losing her and lamenting that they were all likely to be ruined any moment. Priscilla felt as if doom hung over her head like the blade of a guillotine as she accompanied her parents to the duke’s home the evening of the masquerade.
Emerging from the long line of carriages, they joined the other gentlemen and ladies in all manner of costume who were wending their way through the double doors at the front of the mansion. Priscilla sighted courtiers in white satin breeches, a lady with a stuffed swan perched on her shining curls. Some of the guests were austerely dressed in a black domino with a simple black mask. Other masks were so adorned with peacock feathers and jewels she wasn’t sure how the wearer could see through the eyeholes.
The ballroom where the masquerade was being held was located at the back of the house. A full two stories high and surmounted with a ceiling painted like a forest canopy, the space was held aloft by tall gilded pillars shaped like palm trees. At one end, a massive gold clock, as round as the sun, ticked off the time until midnight.
The guests entered along a landing that spanned one side of the room, with wide stairs sweeping down onto the parquet floor. Already the room was crowded, with couples darting among the groups. The music of a string quartet floated through the air.
Standing at the foot of the stairs, a gentleman in the costume of a harlequin waited for her, his mask with its long pointed nose obscuring his face. The tailor had been particularly artful in his construction, for she knew His Grace’s shoulders were not so broad. Indeed, he even seemed a little shorter than she remembered as she descended to his side, but most likely that was because she was higher than him on the stairs.
He bowed over her hand. She curtsied. He linked arms with her and drew her out onto the floor, promenading about the edges of the fine room. Some ladies eyed him from behind their masks, and Priscilla could only wonder how many times he’d confessed his costume. Did the other women to whom he’d shown interest know he’d made his choice?
“When do you intend to make your announcement?” she murmured. “Midnight, at the unmasking?”
He inclined his head. He had returned to being a man of few words. Very likely Nathan had impressed upon him the importance of making a good showing tonight. This was what she had to look forward to, standing beside him, propping him up, smiling charmingly as she smoothed over every gaff, her heart slowly shriveling inside her.
Oh, but she couldn’t do it. Not when she now knew how it felt to love someone her equal. How could any man compare to Nathan?
“Your Grace,” she started, but a movement near the windows across the back of the room caught her eye. A raven-haired beauty stood with head high, her demeanor in keeping with the royal purple robes in which she was gowned. Priscilla recognized the stance immediately, one foot forward, the other back, chest up, and mysterious smile playing about her mouth. No! It couldn’t be!
Despite her best efforts, her breath hissed out of her. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, pulling away. “I see a friend I must greet.”
His Grace stiffened as if to protest, but she turned her back on him to thread her way through the other couples and groups, intent only on capturing her aunt. But by the time she reached the other side of the room, the queen had vanished.
A long-limbed Diana, silky robes fluttering, all but galloped up to her.
“Priscilla!” Daphne declared. “There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere.” She peered closer. “It is Priscilla, is it not? I cannot imagine anyone else looking so well in that outfit.”
Priscilla tucked the sheep closer under her arm, glancing about as Ariadne in a similar white silk gown and a laurel wreath on her shining hair came up to join them. “Where’s Emily?”
Ariadne nodded across the room. “By the refreshments. We managed to escape Lady Minerva, though it cost me my earbobs.” She sighed and leaned closer. “I tried to dissuade Emily from her costume, Priscilla, but she would have none of it.”
Priscilla located her friend easily. Not too many ladies dared attend a masquerade in funereal black, a skull mask covering the top of her face and ruby red paint like blood dripping from one corner of her mouth.
“Let me guess,” she said. “She decided to come as Death?”
Ariadne sighed. “Original, but highly depressing.”
“So is my news.” She beckoned her friends closer. “I just saw Aunt Sylvia.”
Daphne’s head came up, and she glanced around. “Where?”
“Don’t look!” Priscilla warned. “She was standing here only a few moments ago, dressed like a queen.”
Of course, they both looked. Ariadne frowned. “I see no one of that description.”
“That is precisely the problem,” Priscilla said as their gazes returned to hers. “She is entirely too good at escaping. We must find her, before something terrible happens. Daphne, go to Emily and enlist her aid. Ariadne, come with me. We’ll circle the room and meet under the clock.”
Daphne scurried off, and Ariadne fell into step beside Priscilla.
“This is awful,” she commiserated as they set off around the room. “What could she want? Why did she come? How did she manage a costume?”
“Can you quote me no plays?” Priscilla challenged, gaze darting from person to person as they passed the Oriental screen hiding the string quartet. “Give me no plots?”
“Not a one,” Ariadne assured her. “Madwomen are generally content to hide in a garret or stand around and wash their hands. Your aunt is unique in her menace.”
“How very comforting,” Priscilla quipped.
For most of her life, she had admired her aunt’s skill in Society. Lady Brentfield had known just how to turn a phrase to filet someone who had displeased her, how to honey her words to draw men to her. When her aunt entered a room, everyone in it noticed. When had she become so adapt at hiding?
Though Priscilla and Ariadne accosted two other ladies dressed as queens and pushed their way to the center of more than one knot of people, she could not find her aunt. Daphne and Emily reported similar failure when they all met under the clock a short time later.
“Are you certain it was your aunt?” Emily asked. “There must be more than one queen attending tonight.”
“It appears to be a standard costume,” Ariadne agreed as another blond queen strolled past them.
“It was her,” Priscilla insisted. “She has a way of standing, of moving. I know it as well as my own, for she taught it to me.”
“Then we must try again,” Emily said. “Extend the search beyond the ballroom. Daphne and I will take the west wing; you and Ariadne take the east.”
With a nod, they all set off once more.
The east wing of the house contained the library where Priscilla had met Nathan and calmed Acantha. The lofty room was empty, but it still elicited a sigh from Ariadne. Priscilla knew envy when she heard it.
They peered in other rooms, but all were empty of guests. Indeed, many were dark, and only the light from the corridor allowed them to see into the depths. Why would her aunt hide in any of them? Surely she’d want to be among people, where the excitement was sure to be.
Unless she planned to make her own excitement.
Priscilla shivered as they finished with the last room on that floor and started back toward the ballroom. Even the corridor seemed deserted. Perhaps that was why Priscilla easily spotted a movement from the corner of her eye. She started to turn in that direction, but Ariadne caught her arm.
“Pretend you don’t see him,” she whispered. “A gentleman garbed like a Roman centurion has been following us for the last little while.”
Priscilla’s heart beat as quickly as her slippers flew down the carpet. “Could it be Nathan Kent?”
Ariadne shook her head. “This fellow has hair blacker than midnight, and I don’t think it’s a wig.” She glanced at Priscilla. “Oh, Priscilla, what if he’s your blackmailer?”
Her steps nearly faltered. Mr. Richmont had black hair, and as he was related the duke, he had to be in attendance tonight. Was he the one who had been blackmailing her after all? Was the woman in a gray dress who had visited the graveyard just a coincidence, and it was her former suitor who had pushed over the stone?
Aunt Sylvia bent on trouble, her blackmailer stalking her steps, and her betrothal to a man she didn’t love to be announced within the hour: It was enough to give a lady a fit of the vapors! Unfortunately, she hadn’t the luxury.
“This way,” she said to Ariadne and steered her safely back into the ballroom.
They paused at the top of the stairs. In their absence, a circus troupe had arrived and was performing in the center of the room, the guests clustered around them. Priscilla’s gaze swept the crowd. She spied Emily and Daphne, her parents, and the duke. Where was her aunt?
Beside her, Ariadne stiffened. “There he is,” she whispered with a jerk of her head to the right that unsettled her laurel wreath. Priscilla glanced in that direction.
A tall man with a tunic of scarlet wool covered in a bronze breastplate, black mask covering the top half of his face, stood farther along the landing. As Ariadne had said, black hair, unfashionably long, hung to his shoulders. The wave in it told Priscilla he usually wore it in a queue. She knew Mr. Richmont’s hair was neatly trimmed. So who was this fellow? And why was he following them?
“Priscilla!” Ariadne hissed, one finger trembling as she pointed. “Look!”
Priscilla’s head swung around. Below them, meandering through the crowd, was the raven-haired queen she’d seen earlier. As Priscilla watched, she reached the harlequin’s side and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. Even as the harlequin stiffened, she turned and walked away. His Grace followed her.
“Oh, no! He’s in terrible danger,” Priscilla cried. “I have to save him!”
Ariadne gave her a push toward the stairs. “Go! I’ll keep our centurion busy.”
Priscilla didn’t hesitate. She lifted her skirts and fled down the stairs. Only when she’d put a group or two between her and her friend did she dare look back.
Ariadne and the centurion stood in close conversation on the landing. The gentleman raised a bare hand and caressed her cheek.
Oh, my!
Praying Ariadne could hold her own against seduction, Priscilla pushed through the crowd, trying to find His Grace or her aunt.
Emily met her at the doors to the terrace.
“We saw them,” she reported. “Daphne has gone in search of Mr. Kent. I wasn’t sure whether my presence would make matters better or worse.” She held open the door. “They’re just at the edge of the balcony.”
Priscilla saw them as well. Aunt Sylvia was rubbing one hand along the duke’s arm, her mouth curved in a smile. Then she raised her other hand, and moonlight gleamed on cold metal.
Priscilla ran.