“Acquit me of any wish to confuse you, mignonne, but am I right in assuming you will not agree to leaving this uncomfortably overcrowded salon with me to seek a quieter place where we might talk?”
She’d instantly stiffened. “You assume correctly, Your Grace.”
Sebastian sighed. “You are the devil’s own daughter to sedu
ce, mignonne.”
The smile that curved her lips suggested she approved of the epithet.
“For all that, you’ll still be mine.”
The smile vanished. She flashed him a look of righteous fury; if he hadn’t still held her hand, she would have whirled, curtsied, and flounced off. But the instant she started to move away, he drew her back. “No—don’t leave me.” He covered the simple, far-too-heartfelt plea with an easy smile. “You’re safer with me than with any other—and together we’re better entertained than we otherwise would be.” He caught her eye. “A truce, mignonne—until tonight.”
He’d intended to speak with her of his intentions, the purpose behind his invitation. He’d counted on Thierry’s having received his letter and having told her of his request—she would have agreed readily to a private discussion after that. But . . . not knowing of his invitation, she would not go apart with him—and it was impossible for him to mention the word “marriage” in such a crowded place; he would bring all conversation to a halt.
She was searching his eyes, well aware of the caveat—that when he said “until tonight,” he meant just that. That tonight he would come for her, and then they would see.
She tilted her head, then nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace—a truce.”
Sebastian smiled, raised her hand to his lips. “Until tonight.”
Her cloak already wrapped about her, her mask already in place, Helena left her room and headed for the stairs, summoned by Marjorie’s call.
“We will be late, ma petite! Such a wait we will have!”
“I’m coming.”
Helena started down the stairs just as the front door opened. Thierry, still in his morning coat, tired and weary, came in.
Marjorie had whirled; now she rushed to her husband. “Mon Dieu! Thank God you are come—we must go immédiatement!”
Thierry summoned a smile for her and for Helena. “You will have to permit me to change, chérie. Go ahead, and I will follow.”
“But, Gaston—”
“Madame, I cannot grace the masquerade in all my dirt. Let me get my costume”—Thierry’s glance took in the mail stacked on the side table—“and glance over these letters. Then I will follow tout de suite, chérie—that I promise.”
Marjorie pouted, but accepted the assurance. She kissed Thierry’s cheek. “Tout de suite, oui?”
Thierry returned the kiss. “Oui.”
He beamed at Helena and kissed his fingers to her. “You look ravishing, ma petite. Have fun.”
Scooping up his letters, he strode quickly for the stairs, passing Louis with a reassuring word.
Louis helped Marjorie and Helena into the carriage, then joined them. The coach lurched and rumbled off toward Berkeley Square. As Marjorie had prophesied, there was a long line of carriages waiting to set their passengers down before Lowy House.
The night was clear and bitingly cold, yet the sight of wave after wave of fantastically garbed guests arriving in costumes both outrageous and rich had drawn a large knot of onlookers. A plush red carpet laid from front door to pavement’s edge was flanked by banks of holly and ivy. Flares burned brightly, illuminating the arriving guests for all to see.
When Helena was handed down from the carriage, there were no oohs and aahs. She appeared a gray mouse, draped in rich velvet, true enough, but hardly outstanding. Then she lifted her head and put back the hood of her cloak. Every eye fixed on her. The light from the flares caught the gold circlet of laurel leaves set amid her black curls, danced over the solid gold mask, also stamped with laurel leaves, that hid her face. Even though the cloak still concealed the rest of her costume, mouths dropped open as the onlookers stared.
With every indication of proprietorial pride, Louis led both Helena and Marjorie up the sweep of red and on through the open front door. The moment they were inside, Helena retrieved her hand and tugged at the gold cloak strings at her throat.
She’d worn the costume before, was well aware of its effect on susceptible males; as she handed the heavy cloak to a waiting footman, his eyes nearly started from his head. In the slim sheath of pale blue silk fashioned in a Roman toga, with telltale laurel leaves worked in gold thread at the neckline, hem, and along the fluttering border, she was every man’s fantasy of a Roman empress. Which was who she’d elected to be: St. Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine. Seduced by the dramatic tone that pervaded masquerades, everyone who knew her always assumed she would come as Helen of Troy.
The silk sheath was anchored by a gold clasp on her right shoulder; the costume left most of her shoulders and arms bare. She wore gold amulets on both arms, gold bracelets on both wrists. There was gold dangling from her lobes and a heavy gold necklace encircling her throat. Her skin was whitest ivory, her hair blacker than black in contrast. With the gold and pale blue as a foil, she looked stunning and knew it. Drew confidence from the fact.
Extremely high heels concealed beneath the long skirts added to her mystery—fully masked, her lack of height was the characteristic most searched for.