“I thought you were attending with Miss— with Mrs Beckford?” Cavanagh said, lowering his handheld mask. He wore a blood-red toga draped over a white tunic, a gold wreath in his hair. Cavanagh’s gaze dropped to Miss Vale’s bulging breasts. “Did the lady have a fit of the vapours and is hiding in your conveyance?”
Lawrence cleared his throat. “This is Mrs Beckford. And I suggest you avert your damn gaze.”
“I see.” Cavanagh gave a knowing grin.
“We are working on adding an air of credence to our disguise.”
“Is that so? If the idea is to appear as desperate lovers, you’ve excelled in the task.” He captured Miss Vale’s hand, brought it to his lips and introduced himself. “It is a pleasure to meet the lady who has Trent in a quandary. A man must admire any woman willing to fight for justice.”
Lawrence gritted his teeth else he was liable to punch his friend. He cast Miss Vale a sidelong glance. “By quandary, he refers to the fact that I would rather you were safe at home in Shepperton.”
That was a lie.
Miss Vale simply smiled. “Have you had any luck finding our quarry, Mr Cavanagh? It might help if we knew his choice of costume this evening.”
“Layton is dressed in the garb of an Elizabethan and is wearing a ridiculous white ruff.” Cavanagh jerked his head to the left. “He’s standing near the painting of a ship navigating the Thames.”
Layton nuzzled the neck of a milkmaid while his hand delved under the hem of her skirt. It struck Lawrence that his costume was an intentional choice. He might make excuses for not removing his shirt and ruff but would have no problem removing his codpiece.
“Perhaps if I could get a closer look at his face whilst he’s wearing the mask,” Miss Vale replied, “I might confirm if he is the rogue who carried out the vicious assault.”
While her suggestion made logical sense, a sudden pang of foreboding warned Lawrence against the idea. “And what of Phillip Wincote?”
“He’s the one leaning against the wall near the drinks tray, dressed in black and sporting the full-face devil mask.” Cavanagh took a step closer. “There’s talk he ruined an innocent at Mrs Calderham’s ball. The chit’s father called him out and took a lead ball to the arm as a result.”
An icy shiver ran the breadth of Lawrence’s shoulders when he locked gazes with the rogue on the opposite side of the room. With the villain’s face covered by the mask, it was impossible to determine his expression. Smug was his guess. Wincote stood alone with his arms folded across his chest—an arrogant pose, not a defensive one.
The urge to capture Miss Vale in his arms and never let go came upon him. “You have no way of assessing Wincote’s likeness in that mask.” Not unless Lawrence ripped the image of the grinning imp from the rogue’s face and delivered a vicious punch.
Miss Vale frowned. “He has the same conceited air about him. I doubt I shall ever forget his insolent grin. But there is something about Mr Layton I dislike, too.”
Frustrated by their lack of progress, Lawrence sighed. While Wincote gave them his full attention, Layton was too busy fondling the milkmaid to consider the other people in the room. But as a man who had suffered disappointment many times, Lawrence knew better than to judge things on face value.
To add to his irritation, Mrs Crandall entered the room in the white gown of a vestal virgin. One could not mistake her vibrant red hair or the overstated sway of the hips that was supposed to convey a sensual appeal.
“Blast,” Cavanagh muttered. “I don’t trust that woman. She has already slipped me the key to her private chamber. I’m supposed to meet her there on the stroke of midnight.”
Lawrence couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease his friend. “And the servants will enter her room in the morning to find a red toga, a fig-leaf crown and a pile of gnawed bones. I’d suggest a quick escape, but the woman is heading this way.”
“One always assumes it is men who prey on women, not the other way around,” Miss Vale said. “You must be firm, Mr Cavanagh, else you will never have peace.”
A vision of Miss Vale fighting the masked rogue burst into Lawrence’s mind. Murderous thoughts came upon him again, and he glanced around the room only to meet Layton’s surreptitious stare. Cunning men did not make their interest as obvious as Wincote had done. And it was a devious man who drugged Miss Vale’s maid so he might enter the lady’s chamber and claim his prize.
“Ah, Trent. Mrs Beckford.” The madam of the house came to join their group. She sidled next to Cavanagh and touched his shoulder as if already familiar with the feel of his body. “Woods said I wouldn’t miss the shepherdess with bountiful breasts. I understand your prowess in bed has caused no end of trouble for Trent.”
Damnation!
His heart stopped while he awaited Miss Vale’s reply.
He needn’t have worried. The lady trailed her fingers over his brass buttons like a skilled courtesan and gave a coy smirk. “A woman is only as good as her partner. And Lawrence knows his way around a lady’s bedchamber.”
Mrs Crandall’s gaze dropped to his breeches, and she moistened her lips. “So I am told, though I prefer my men a little less brooding.”
Mrs Crandall made him sound like the worst of rakes.
Miss Vale stiffened at his side but made a quick recovery. “When a man has such an impressive physique, brooding enhances his appeal. Indeed, I can scarce keep my hands to myself.”
“Then you will want a key? There are but a few rooms left.”