“Christ Almighty!” Jack choked on his brandy. Abruptly, he swung away from the ballroom. “What the bloody hell’s Kit doing here?”
Frowning, George looked over the guests. “Where?”
“Dancing, would you believe! With a shepherdess in pale pink—third set from the door.”
George located the slender youth dipping through the last moves of the cotillion. “You sure that’s Kit?”
Jack swallowed his “Of course I’m damned sure, I’d know her legs anywhere” and substituted a curt, “Positive.”
George studied the figure across the room. “A wig?”
“And his Sunday best,” said Jack, risking a quick glance at the ballroom. The last thing he wanted was for Kit to see him. If the Lord Lieutenant could recognize him immediately, it was certain Kit would. But she knew him as Captain Jack.
“Maybe Spencer brought him?”
“Like hell! More likely the young devil decided to come and see how the other half lives.”
George grinned. “Well, it’s safe enough. He’ll just have to leave before the unmasking and no one will be any the wiser.”
“But he’ll be a whole lot wiser if he sets eyes on either you or me.”
George’s indulgent smile faded. “Oh.”
“Indeed. So how do we remove Kit from this charming little gathering without creating a scene?”
They both sipped their brandies and considered the problem. Jack kept his back to the room; George, far less recognizable in his Harlequin suit, maintained a watchful eye on Kit.
“He’s left his partner and is moving down the room.”
“Is your fiancée here?” Jack asked. “Can you get her to take a note to Kit?”
George nodded. Jack pulled out a small tablet and pencil. After a moment’s hesitation, he scribbled a few words, then carefully folded and refolded the note. “That should do it.
” He handed the square to George. “If I’m not back by the time for unmasking, make my excuses.”
Jack put his empty glass back on the table and turned to leave.
Appalled, George barred the way. “What the hell should I say? This ball was all but organized for you.”
Jack smiled grimly. “Tell them I was called away to deal with a case of mistaken identity.”
Disentangling herself from the shepherdess’s clinging adoration, Kit beat a hasty retreat, heading for the corner where she’d last seen Amy. When she got there, Amy was nowhere in sight. Drifting back along the room, Kit kept a wary eye out for the shepherdess and Lady Marchmont.
In the end, it was Amy who found her.
“Excuse me.”
Kit swung about—Amy’s Columbine mask met her eyes. Beneath her own far more concealing mask, Kit smiled in delight and bowed elegantly.
She straightened and saw a look of confusion in Amy’s clear eyes.
“I’ve been asked to deliver this note to you—Kit!”
Kit grabbed Amy’s arm and squeezed it warningly. “Keep your voice down, you goose! What gave me away?”
“Your eyes, mostly. But there was something else—something about your height and size and the way you hold your hands, I think.” Amy’s gaze wandered over Kit’s sartorial perfection, then dropped to the slim legs perfectly revealed by the clinging knee breeches and clocked stockings. “Oh, Kit!”
Kit felt a twinge of guilt at Amy’s shocked whisper.