The small pistol Brimstone had bought her lay cold and solid against her leg. A reassuringly hard reality cloaked by petticoats.
A man in a puce domino stopped just a few feet from them and bowed, leg extended, eyes glittering in the light thrown by the lanterns. George forced herself to smile, to nod her head flirtatiously. To behave normally. Every man who looked at her, who paused, who bowed, who smiled, or eyed her through his quizzing glass was suspect.
When their meal was finished, and everyone was picking at the last of the biscuits and cheese cakes, St Audley stood, swept George a profound leg, and held out his hand. ‘Come along then, dance with me.’
Taking his hand, she allowed him to help her up and to lead her into the rotunda, where the dancing was taking place. Scores of couples were already assembled in the large ballroom, and as the next set got underway, George quickly found herself parted from St Audley. She gave herself over to trying to guess the identities of the other dancers. Some of them she recognized. Others were harder to place. She was almost convinced that the lady in the brown domino was Lady Jersey, and the man in crimson Baron Ott, but she couldn’t be sure. Sometimes a man’s hair, or a woman’s laugh, or some other distinct characteristic—such as St Audley’s black brows and red hair—would give them away, but mostly the masqueraders who cared to do so did a fairly good job of disguising themselves. And at a semi-public masquerade such as this, a large number of the guests were simply unknown to her.
Circling back through the set, George could see St Audley only a few partners away. This meant the first set was almost through, and they could either stay for another, or retire to the box.
George was parched, and the room was hot and stuffy for all that the night was cold. On the side-lines stood Brimstone, Bennett, Morpeth, and Alençon. All of them watching, waiting, as tense as she was.
The music ended and they made their way back to the nearly deserted box. St Audley caught their waiter and ordered punch. He took a seat beside her and they sat and simply watched the crowd mill about on the lawn between the rotunda and the pavilion.
As they’d made their way out of the rotunda, she’d spotted Dauntry, standing quietly off to one side, his attention riveted to her. She’d known the moment he’d appeared. Even now she could feel his gaze, like moth wings fluttering against her skin.
He’d worn all black, with a silvery, mouse-grey domino draped over his head and shoulders. She swallowed with difficulty, throat tight. Rejected, he was here nonetheless.
It was St Audley’s job to entertain her, Brimstone’s to take her out and then seemingly disappear, chasing after some temping Paphian. Lord knew there were plenty of them about. At this very moment, two of them were sauntering right towards Dauntry, dominos artfully draped to expose their wares, nipples rouged and rosy in the candlelight.
She couldn’t concentrate on who else might be watching her when she knew Dauntry was. Nothing else was able to invade her senses. Hell, nothing else even seemed to matter.
George drained her cup, letting the warmth quiet the shaking of her hands as the alcohol settled her stomach. St Audley sipped his drink, eyes flitting over the crowd. The first vivid burst of fireworks exploded overhead and Brimstone appeared at the edge of the box as if conjured by the flashes of light.
As the crowd oohed and aahed, clapped and cheered, he slid his hand around her waist. ‘Come along, Georgie, let’s go for a walk. Crowd’s too thick for me.’
George swivelled her head around and looked up at him. She extended her hand. This was it. From this moment it on it was all for show, all for deception; one dangerous gamble.
‘Lead on, Bottom,’ she commanded. ‘I’ve half a mind to fall in love with you tonight.’
‘Not Bottom. Surely you’re not so cruel. Let me be Puck! Let me be Orsino. Let me be Petruchio.’
‘I’m afraid the role of Petruchio is already taken.’
Brimstone snorted and led her down the dark Lovers’ Walk, the two of them weaving their way past other couples bent on more romantic assignations.
‘What about Romeo?’
‘Dead.’
‘Hamlet?’
‘The lady’s dead in that one. Go back to comedies.’
They stopped at the grotto and George stood staring at the water cascading down into the small pool, lost in thought. Brimstone paused beside her, his hand squeezing hers.
Was the highwayman here? Had he taken the bait? Or was all their playacting for naught?
A pretty little fille de joie sidled by, stopping momentarily—as she’d been paid to do—and giving Brimstone a saucy, come-hither smile. This was it, the moment of truth…
‘How about Ariel?’ Brimstone said.
‘Ariel? I think Bottom was correct after all, off with you.’ She gave him a nudge and laughed when he swept her a deep, courtly bow before hurrying off after the girl’s disappearing form.
George turned back to the water. Gabe wouldn’t go far, and the rest of the boys were out there too, lurking in the dark paths.
This was it. Her knees trembled and she tensed the muscles of her thighs to stop them shaking. All she could do was wait. Wait and hope her highwayman was desperate enough to have followed her.
Ivo stood on the dark path that led to the grotto, cloaked in the embrace of evergreens, and watched the theatrics play out. George’s gown rustled in the silence between fireworks, Brimstone’s shoes ground the gravel of the walk audibly as he stepped around her.
Their banter flowed easily, edged with the wit that was always a game among certain sets. It felt genuine, right down to George’s exasperated expression and her bulldog’s slightly drunken walk.
Ivo ran the palm over the pommel of his dress sword, the cold metal reassuring even through the leather
