The poor little dears. They had no idea what threats the wide world held, what delights it offered. And they never would, by the look of them.
Inside, Bennett and Morpeth were waiting, alongside the proprietor. Her brother-in-law was examining a fowling piece, while St Audley looked on, both their faces serious as they evaluated the gun. Sydney tested the balance, switched hands, switched back, and then was finally persuaded to hand the piece over to St Audley, who promptly set about doing exactly the same thing.
They’d be indignant if she were to openly compare them to ladies in a draper’s shop, but that was exactly what they put her in mind of.
George smiled and accepted a glass of ale from Bennett before unpacking her new pistol. Brimstone had acquired it for her the day before, something small enough for her to carry about her person, to conceal within in a pocket, but deadly all the same.
Today they had reserved the famous shooting gallery so she could practice firing it. Those who weren’t examining guns in the shop were busily engaged in the shooting gallery. Some of the gentlemen had brought their own guns, while others were busy testing those that the Mantons had for sale.
George took a sip of ale and set about loading her pistol. It was important to get to know its quirks. Did it pull to one side? How far was it accurate? How hard was it to retrieve from her pocket? Did the hammer or frizzen catch when she did so? She’d brought several different pockets to try out. Her best guess was that the small day hoops would be the best choice, but for something so serious, she had to be sure.
Off to one side, Brimstone and Bennett were grimly testing a pair of duelling pistols. St Audley stood at the ready to set targets for her. She finished her ale and nodded to him to set the first one and stand aside…
Chapter Twenty-Six
Is it our imagination, or does Mrs E— appear not in her usual spirits? Could it be that she has finally been the first to be dismissed? What man could be so foolish?
Tête-à-Tête, 3 February 1789
Tonight was the night.
The trap had been carefully set. Her regular visitors had all been appraised of her attendance…All that remained was for the highwayman to show his hand.
Would he? Was the opportunity they were presenting as irresistible as they’d imagined?
Had they all turned a series of unrelated events into a conspiracy that didn’t exist?
She’d dressed carefully, purposefully wearing her usual amber, heavily embroidered in gold. Over this, she draped a plain black domino. Even with her loo mask hiding the upper half of her face she was easily identifiable.
The ride to Vauxhall passed quickly enough, since the road was not choked with the throngs that flocked to the gardens during the season. The city flashed past the small carriage window like a series of vignettes. George tried to breathe steadily, to control the quaking sensation roiling her stomach.
Soon enough she found herself being helped from the carriage by a serious-faced Brimstone. He’d for-gone a domino, and wore only a simple black loo mask. George smiled up at him as he claimed her hand.
‘Good evening, Gabe,’ she said, slipping her arm into his and stepping aside to allow the earl and countess to exit the carriage.
‘Good evening, my Lady of Mystery,’ he responded, leading her into the gardens in the wake of their hosts.
The gardens were nearly overflowing with masked guests. It must have cost Lord Frampton a fortune to rent the gardens out for the night. Normally, Vauxhall wasn’t open in the winter months, but Frampton wanted to puff off his latest find, a plump little soprano from Poland, and so he’d arranged with the proprietor to open it for one night only, at his expense. He’d issued gilded cards of invitation to the ton, and notices had been inserted in the papers, advertising a Venetian masquerade, the cost of admission for those without a card being enormously steep at two guineas.
George glanced about as Brimstone escorted her to their box. Scandalously clad courtesans mingled with the ladies and gentlemen of the ton. Wealthy merchants and barristers took their supper boxes next to the lords and ladies.
London had been quiet of late, and everyone was looking for an escape from the dreary weather. The gentry and merchant classes flocked to those few occasions when they could be assured of rubbing elbows with society. George felt a flicker of anticipation deep in her chest, blooming, filling her, undercut by a shiver of fear. Was he here tonight? Was he out there in the dark garden, waiting? Or was he mingling with the colourful crowd, watching her?
The walkways were lit with colourful globes and the musicians had already begun to play. The mob of bright masqueraders was seething with suppressed merriment. Everyone waiting for the fireworks to set the evening off, or searching for someone or other in the crowd. It felt like the evening before a battle. Everyone just a little too gay, a little too loud. It was exhilarating in a way a simple ton drum could never be. The evening had an edge to it.
Gathered in the large supper box the earl had rented were most of her friends. Each of them easy for her to identify, even hidden behind their dominos and masks. They were gathered in a knot: tense, wary, ready.
All except Dauntry.
Alienated or not, she’d expected him to be present. The same part of her that was searching the crowd for the highwayman was tense with the hunt for Dauntry as well.
George claimed her seat and then the earl called for their supper. While they all consumed the paper-thin wafers of ham and tiny roasted chickens that Vauxhall was so rightly famous for, George could feel her body becoming more and more tense, back rigid, shoulders hard, legs shaking with the
