Captain Jack's Woman (Bastion Club 0.50)

As soon as she crossed the threshold, she was conscious of being examined by a large number of eyes. Her confidence wavered, then surged when no one looked more than puzzled. They couldn’t place the elegant stripling, of course. Calmly, as if considering the attention only her due, Kit strolled into the crowd milling about the dance floor. She’d had Elmina recut a cast-off evening coat belonging to her cousin Geoffrey, deepest midnight blue, and had bullied her elderly maid into creating a pair of buff inexpressibles that clung to her long limbs as if molded to them. Her blue-and-gold waistcoat had once been a brocaded underskirt; it was cut long to cover the anatomical inadequacies otherwise revealed by the tight breeches. Her snowy white cravat, borrowed from Spencer’s collection, was tied in a fair imitation of the Oriental style. The brown wig had been the biggest challenge; she’d found a whole trunk of them in the attic and had spent hours making her selection, then recutting the curls to a more modern style. All in all, she felt no little pride in her disg

uise.

Her principal objective was to locate Lord Hendon amid the guests. She’d imagined she’d find him being lionized by the local ladies, but a quick survey of the room brought no such interesting specimen to light. Lady Dersingham was by the musicians’ dais, Lady Gresham was seated not far from the door, and Lady Marchmont was hovering as close as she could to the portal; all three were obviously keeping watch.

Kit grinned beneath her mask. She was one their ladyships would be keen to identify; their other prime target would be her quarry. Convinced Lord Hendon had not yet arrived, Kit circulated among the guests, keeping a weather eye on one or another of her three well-wishers at all times. She was sure they’d react when the new High Commissioner darkened the doorway.

To her mind, this opportunity to evaluate Lord Hendon was unparalleled and unlikely to be repeated. She intended to study the man behind the title, and, if the facade looked promising, to investigate further. Disguised as she was, there were any number of conversational gambits with which she could engage the new High Commissioner.

Kit glimpsed Amy in her Columbine costume at the other end of the room and headed in that direction. She passed Spencer, talking farming with Amy’s father, and carefully avoided his attention. She’d convinced him to come alone in his carriage, on the grounds that she needed to arrive without his very identifying escort to remain incognito. Thinking she meant to hoodwink Amy and their ladyships, he’d agreed readily enough, assuming that she’d use the smaller carriage. Instead, she’d ridden here on Delia. She’d never brought Delia to Marchmont Hall before, so the grooms had not recognized the mare.

The Marchmont Hall ballroom was long and narrow. Kit sauntered through the crowd, nodding here and there at people she knew, delighting in their confusion. Throughout, she kept mum. Those who knew her might recognize the husky quality of her voice and be sufficiently shrewd to think the unthinkable. She was perfectly aware her enterprise was scandalous in the extreme, but she’d no intention of being within Marchmont Hall when the time came to unmask.

As she drew closer to the musicians’ raised dais, she heard them tuning their instruments.

“You there, young man!”

Kit turned and beheld her hostess bearing down on her, a plain girl in tow. Holding her breath, Kit bowed, praying her mask hadn’t slipped.

“I haven’t the faintest notion who you are, dear boy, but you can dance, can’t you?”

Kit nodded, too relieved that Lady Marchmont hadn’t recognized her to realize the wisdom of denying that accomplishment.

“Good! You can partner this fair shepherdess then.”

Lady Marchmont held out the young girl’s gloved hand. Smoothly, Kit took it and bowed low. “Charmed,” she murmured, wondering frantically whether she could remember how to reverse the steps she’d been accustomed to performing automatically for the past six years.

The shepherdess curtsied. Behind her mask, Kit frowned critically. The girl wobbled too much—she should practice in front of a mirror.

Lady Marchmont sighed with relief and, with a farewell pat on Kit’s arm, left them in search of other suitable gentlemen to pair with single girls.

To Kit’s relief, the music started immediately, rendering conversation unnecessary. She and the shepherdess took their places in the nearest set and the ordeal began. By the first turn, Kit realized the cotillion was more of an ordeal for the shepherdess than herself. Kit had taught her youngest two male cousins to dance, so was acquainted with the gentleman’s movements. Knowing the lady’s movements by heart made it easy enough to remember and match the appropriate position. Her confidence grew with every step. The shepherdess, in contrast, was a bundle of nerves, unraveling steadily.

When, through hesitation, the girl nearly slipped, Kit spoke as encouragingly as she could: “Relax. You’re doing it quite well, but you’ll improve if you don’t tense so.”

A strained smile that was more like a grimace was her reward.

With an inward sigh, Kit set herself to calm the girl and instill a bit of confidence. She succeeded sufficiently well for the shepherdess to smile normally by the end of the measure and thank her effusively.

From the other side of the room, Jack surveyed the dancers. He’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier, rigged out in his “poor country squire togs,” a black half mask and a brown tie wig. For the first three minutes, all had gone well. After that, the evening had headed downhill. First, Lord Marchmont had recognized him, how he’d no idea. His host had immediately borne him off to present him to his wife. Unfortunately, she’d been standing with three other local ladies. He was now on nodding terms with the ladies Gresham, Dersingham, and Falworth.

Lady Marchmont had iced his cake with an arch pronouncement that she’d “someone” she most particularly wished him to meet. He’d suppressed a shudder, intensified by the gleam he saw in the other ladies’ eyes. They were all in league to leg-shackle him to some damn drab. Sheer panic had come to his rescue. He’d charmed his way from their sides and gone immediately in search of refreshment, remembering just in time to redevelop his limp. At least it provided an excuse not to dance. Strong liquor was what he’d needed to regain his equilibrium. Matthew had gone alone to the Blackbird, to line up their next cargo. Jack wished he was with him, with a tankard of their abominable home brew in front of him.

In the alcove off the ballroom where the drinks were set forth, he’d come upon George, a decidedly glum Harlequin. At sight of him, he’d uttered a hoot of laughter, for which George repaid him with a scowl.

“I know it looks damn stupid, but what could I do?”

“Call off the engagement?”

George threw him a withering look, then added: “Not that I’m not sure it constitutes sufficient cause.”

Jack thumped him on the shoulder. “Never mind your troubles—mine are worse.”

George studied the grim set of his lips. “They recognized you?”

Reaching for a brandy, Jack nodded. “Virtually immediately. God only knows what gave me away.”

George opened his mouth to tell him but never got the chance.