4
“Do try to behave with
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.
Smiling privately at her own whimsy, Angelica took the opportunity to slip away from Maia when her sister stopped to help Aunt Iliana adjust Mirabella’s wings. Angelica had worn the angel costume to one masque last Season and learned that wings made for a difficult evening. They came askew when dancing, they bumped and caught against people whenever moving through the crush and the harness that kept them in place felt rather like an old-fashioned long corset. Last year, Angelica realized too late that her sister had suggested that costume for just such a reason and resolved to pick her own costumes without Maia’s help in the future.
The free-flowing fabric and simplicity of her attire made it easy for Angelica to slip between a Romeo and a woodland faerie, who happened to have her own set of ungainly wings, and lose herself in the crush.
Tonight, there were no dance cards. No introductions. No matrons (or sisters) glaring from the walls, taking note of any scandalous behavior.
It was no wonder the Sterlinghouse’s annual masque was so popular.
The theme tonight was Ancient Babylon, and Lady Sterlinghouse had outdone herself. Plants hung from high on the walls, blossoming tendrils falling like Rapunzel’s hair and releasing floral scents into the air. Fountains rumbled, adding to the low hum of noise from conversation and music, masking everything but nearby sounds. The servants were dressed as ancient Babylonians in long, geometrically patterned robes, and carried trays laden with food and drink.
Angelica was standing near a fountain, wondering where the water came from that spilled down several levels and lightly sprayed into the air, when a dashing knight approached. Fortunately he wasn’t wearing real chain mail, just tooled leather over a jerkin and hose.
“I do hope you don’t intend to use those on me,” he said, gesturing to the shears in her hand.
It was difficult to tell if she knew his voice, muted as it was by the fountain and other sounds, but he seemed familiar. So Angelica smiled and unraveled a hank of the golden thread. Holding it up, pretending to measure him, she tried to see through his mask. But it was shadowy and dark, and she couldn’t get a good look. “No, I do not believe your time has yet come, sir knight. You’ll live to joust for another day.”
He laughed, and she recognized him then. The young and eligible Viscount Harrington, with whom she’d danced at several parties and even once strolled out on a patio, arm in arm. Did he recognize her? Had he sought her out?
“Perhaps you might offer a boon to this lowly man at arms,” he suggested. “It would be my honor to wear your favor into battle next.”
Angelica smiled and snipped off a generous piece of her golden cord. “I vow this is nothing more than a maiden’s favor, not the work of Atropos this night,” she told him, wrapping it around his forearm and tying it
