Flaming torches lined the garden paths. Acrobats cartwheeled amid the guests, jugglers juggled, and up on a tight rope, rope dancers leaped and twirled. Traipsing through the crowds were jesters, who played tricks on guests or cajoled them into playing risqué games.
Everywhere, the guests’ costumes created the effect of some grotesque dream. Thea’s Venetian cat mask was heavy on her face, and no one gave her a second look. Although this was not a true masquerade, a few faces were covered like her own.
Thea sought a glimpse of the Prince Regent or the mysterious Marquess of Hardbury, who had been so unconscionably rude to Arabella. She overheard someone saying he had not yet arrived, and someone else claiming he was on the lawn, and someone else saying who cared about the marquess, had they heard there would be a spot of theatre inside?
Watching a play sounded as good a way as any to pass the evening until Arabella let herself be found, so Thea turned to go back inside. And then she saw him: a man wearing a giant lion’s head.
Rafe!
She elbowed through the crowd, trying not to lose sight of the lion’s head. All around her were people laughing, jesters dancing. An acrobat went careening past. She had to find that lion. And when she found him, she would— What would she do? Smile at him? Hug him? Oh, there he was. He was turning. She would see his face. He would see her. She would tease him, perhaps, and say—
Nothing.
The man in the lion’s head had blue eyes and a red beard and was not Rafe.
Everything moved to a great distance. The mask clung to her heated face. The crowd roared and subsided, and the lion man greeted a friend and wandered on. Of course it wasn’t him. Too short. Too thin around the shoulders.
How silly she was, to imagine Rafe would come for her. He had said he wouldn’t. Never mind. Once she got through this awful evening and secured the money, tomorrow or the next day, she would get her carriage and go home to him.
For now, she would watch the theatre.
A makeshift stage had been set up in the middle of a ballroom, surrounded by rows of chairs, with standing room behind, most spots already taken. Excited murmurs rippled through the group. “It’s a surprise performance,” someone said, “They decided to do it just this morning…” “It’s a very modern play and quite shocking, I’ve heard,” and “Oh dear, but doesn’t Prinny hold the most dreadfully daring parties!”
Thea edged along one wall, coming to a stop by some heavy velvet curtains that sealed off an alcove, about the size of a large bed. The alcove was mercifully deserted; likely it was for the servants’ use, to come and go through the door on the other side.
The beautiful mask was heavy on her face, but she dared not remove it. Especially when she saw her parents come bustling in, rosy-cheeked and excited, dressed as a medieval knight and his lady. Clearly, they were not pining for her.
Gripping the velvet curtain, Thea scanned the crowd, searching for Helen, until a drumbeat rolled through the room, and a man in thick face paint took center stage. He launched into a poetry recital, gradually winning the crowd’s attention. The man looked familiar, but Thea could not place him, and her mind was puzzling it over when her roaming eyes landed on Percy Russell and Francis Upton, standing not ten yards from her. They wore elaborate outfits in the ostentatious style of the old French Court: plush coats and ornate waistcoats, with frilly cuffs and lacy cravats. Their eyes skated over her without recognition. Just as well; they would find it great sport to expose her and see her cast out.
As she watched, a footman, white wig in contrast to his brown skin, offered them a tray bearing two drinks. Percy and Francis took the glasses without acknowledging the servant, toasted each other, and tossed back the drinks in a single gulp. They dropped the glasses back on the tray, and then Percy said something to the footman that made them both laugh nastily.
Vile, dastardly knaves. Still nothing harmed or touched them. Even servants went out of their way to please them, and never mind that they were rude. Just look at that footman, heading in Thea’s direction now, unfazed by their rudeness, with the empty glasses rolling around on his tray and an amused expression on his features.
Her features.
The footman was a woman. An unexpectedly familiar woman.
“Martha?” Thea blinked in surprise, and Martha jerked to a halt.
“Thea, is that you?” Martha grinned. “We hoped to see you here.”
“We?” Thea looked at the empty glasses on Martha’s tray. “What are you up to? I do not believe you have taken a position as footman in the Prince Regent’s household.”
“It is a costume party. Entonces, I am wearing a costume.” Martha shrugged and tidied the two glasses on her tray. “It is not my fault if those self-centered snots do not realize it.”