In fact, while Mirabella seemed more than capable in the ways of organizing and maintaining a household—according to her, she’d had much to do since being summoned from the small estate in the north to prepare for the Woodmore sisters’ arrival at Blackmont—she seemed woefully hesitant in the ways of the ton. Since the girl hadn’t been to London in more than seven years, Maia wasn’t surprised at her lack of confidence.
“Indeed.” Corvindale’s response was noncommittal. “I understand you three are to attend some event tomorrow night?” He was back at the ledger again, but this time he’d picked up one of the pens. Apparently the audience—such as it was—was over.
“The Midsummer’s Masquerade Ball at Sterlinghouse’s,” Maia explained. “Though your sister hasn’t debuted yet, she can attend incognito. She is quite…” Her voice trailed off. She knew when she was being dismissed. “Thank you for setting my mind at ease, my lord. I pray you will have news of my brother soon.”
“I will,” he replied and stabbed the inkpen into its well, then commenced to writing.
The scratching of pen against paper filled the silence, pausing only as she passed by and fluttered the papers on his desk when she quit the room.
4
MISS WOODMORE WALTZES
“Do try to behave with some decorum tonight, Angelica,” Maia said in a low voice as they prepared to disembark from the coach at Sterlinghouse. “Put on a good example for Mirabella.”
Angelica ignored her, moving farther away on the seat they shared so that her sister couldn’t squeeze her arm to emphasize her command.
They sat across from Mirabella and her Aunt Iliana, a nice enough woman who seemed to be forty or fifty years old. Angelica wasn’t certain if she was relieved or disappointed that their chaperone wasn’t one of those vacant-eyed, gossip-mongering old maids or widows often relegated to seeing to the safety and virtue of their charges. Like their own Mrs. Fernfeather.
In fact, she suspected Aunt Iliana might prove to be entertaining and interesting, if the intelligent glint in her bright blue eyes was any indication.
“I don’t believe you have cause for worry tonight,” Angelica whispered back to her sister. “No one will recognize me until we remove our masks, and so until then, all of my behaviors will be anonymous.” She smiled and held up the black velvet mask trimmed with a gold and silver lace fall that would offer only teasing glimpses of her cheeks and mouth. The rest of the mask completely covered her from nose to brow. “You shall have no scandal by association. Even you could do something scandalous, Cleopatra,” she added saucily.
“I certainly would not,” Maia hissed back. “And how many times do I have to tell you, I’m Hatshepsut, not Cleopatra.”
Angelica rolled her eyes. Her sister was such a pedant. “Who cares about Hatshep-whoever? No one could tell the difference anyway.”
But Maia wouldn’t leave it alone. “There’s no asp on my staff,” she replied—as if that explained everything.
Angelica was delighted that Mirabella managed to interrupt. “We’re to don our masks before entering?” There was excitement in her voice, for this was to be her first London event, even though she hadn’t yet been presented at court and her wardrobe needed to be brought up-to-date. Her mask was of ivory silk, completely covered in lace that fell beyond the section around her eyes to her jaw, and rose up to be a stiff fringe higher than her normal hairline. In this case, it didn’t matter, for she wore a wig of white that towered above her crown.
“Yes. We’ll be announced, but not with our real identities,” Maia explained before Aunt Iliana could open her mouth. She held her gold mask in hand, and the royal staff that went with her costume rested across her lap. “Only by our character or costumes.”
Angelica saw the older woman pause, then close her lips and settle back in her seat as if to give free reign to the elder Woodmore girl. She seemed, if not grateful, at least accepting of Maia’s bossy tendencies. Angelica appreciated that, for despite her sister’s overbearing attitude, she loved and admired her and would have felt badly if there was friction between her and the older woman.
“Everyone is to be unmasked at midnight,” Maia continued. “Although last year, the unmasking was much later. No one was ready until nearly one o’clock.”
“We’re here,” Angelica said as she heard the voices of the driver and footman. She moved her flowing skirts out of the way of the other passengers’ feet.
At that moment, the door swung open and the three young women and one older one were helped down.
There was an angel in white lace and an elaborate white wig.
Behind her came a petite bejeweled and bangled Egyptian queen in gold, balancing her staff in hand. She was followed by a ruff-necked Elizabeth in a wide, ungainly gown that took some effort to make it fit through the carriage door.
Last came Atropos, carrying her fateful shears and a skein of sparkling gold thread. Her gold-shot black gown draped in a modified Greek fashion in two swaths, from shoulder to waist, then wrapped around and draped again from waist to foot. The effect was a combination of elegance and sensuality, with the light, glinting cloth molding to the shape of her bosom and hips, yet falling freely to obscure her figure at any given moment.
Her arms were bare but for long black gloves, and she carried a dainty golden reticule for her skein and shears. The gown had camellias fashioned of gold fabric marching along the tops of the gathered shoulders, at the waist where the fabric was caught up, and along the generous hem where it trailed along the ground like a ripple of water. A row of gold flowers also lined the gloves from elbow to knuckle. And, her dark hair had been separated into a multitude of sections, twisted with thick gold cord and pinned high at the crown of her head so that gold and walnut brown curls cascaded down to her neck.
It didn’t take Angelica long to discover that the lace which made up the lower half of her mask tickled her cheeks and upper lip, and she considered tearing the fringe off. But after she entered the masquerade ball, she decided against it.
Tonight, she wished to remain as anonymous as possible. Something like expectancy prickled her, and she felt daring and unencumbered. She didn’t want to be approached by any young brides-to-be, asking for her to prophesy about their future husbands.
Part of the reason was that Angelica still felt unsettled when she recalled the conversation with Dewhurst—no, she would think of him as Voss, as Corvindale called him. That name suited him more than something that bespoke of early morning meadows. Despite his toffee-colored hair, he was nothing like a sunny morning. More like an afternoon frosted with a soft summer rain: beautiful to look at, yet with a filter of shadow and gloom.