An Inadvisable Wager
Book Two, The Curse of the Weatherby Ball
By
Eliza Lloyd
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2021
Chapter One
Nora Blasington had never been to the Weatherby Ball because she had never been invited, but what was one more scantily clad Venetian seductress amongst the nobles vying for the most ridiculous costume at this year’s themed Carnival of Venice?
The ball wasn’t famous for being a themed masque. It wasn’t famous for being the gathering place for the crème de la crème of society. It wasn’t famous for the scandalous dress, the Medici-level food selection or the ball’s extravagant decorations.
It was famous for being cursed. If it could go wrong, it would. And since it was Nora’s first appearance, she would have to make it a grand one.
Shenanigans at previous Weatherby Balls had been featured in the London Times in the gossip section, except it wasn’t really gossip. The delicious and embarrassing on dits were true.
The countess whose husband died a few days after the ball. Oh no, there was no connection to the apoplectic fit he had at the ball when his wife had disappeared for part of the evening. Or in the speculation about a child born exactly nine months to the day after the ball.
There was the granddaughter of a duke who was saved from a scandalous liaison. The earl who had lost a large fortune gambling. The viscount caught cheating at cards. The missing jewels. The indiscreet wife. The death of a marquess when he tumbled down the curving staircase and was pierced in the heart by his Arabian Nights scimitar. All perfect examples of what guided Nora and which she thought she could achieve in one evening.
The Weatherbys might not care that the entire ton believed the ball to be cursed but they would care if they knew the daughter of the ton’s most notorious thief was in attendance.
Talk about curses.
Her father, George Shirley Blasington, the third Earl of Wargrove, was hanged at Newgate when she was a child. Her wonderful, humorous papa snatched from her like an unprotected purse in Seven Dials.
Her brother, Timothy, possessed the title now, but it did him little good. The Blasingtons were shunned in most circles. No, not shunned—forgotten.
Tonight, Timothy was also at the ball. He’d been the one to ask Lady Weatherby where the wicked ones were gathered. He was watching as he had been instructed and maybe praying vehemently that nothing went wrong, and that with luck they’d get their respect and property back. Nora had her own ideas about that—hence the Weatherby Ball. But Timothy would be along shortly, ready to play his part as the indignant earl saving his sister from scandal.
Would all those nights of charades and all the acting out of famed stories at the direction of Lady Fortenay finally come to some purpose? Would their varied conversations and Nora’s developed reasoning skills be sufficient to spar with a few sons of the ton?
Was there a better place to raise a little theater?
She pursed her lips, painted an outré red, and raised her brows as she passed through the crowd. Her mask was a simple black domino which she’d decorated with shiny beads and outlandish feathers that soared upward. No one would recognize her, especially since it seemed Lady Weatherby had wanted an atmosphere reminiscent of sinful Venetian nights and kept the number of candles lit by about half, Nora guessed.
And her costume? Well, she couldn’t afford extravagant, so she’d reworked one of her old dresses with the help of her lady’s maid. It was now dyed with startling red and black slashes with an eye-catching, one-of-a-kind black silk swath of material that unfolded like butterfly wings when she lifted her hands and spread her arms. Beads and feathers made the gown stiff and heavy but undeniably elegant, especially in the darkened corridors and rooms of the mansion. But, she would admit to no one, she was as proud as a Sunday peacock strutting around the room.
She was noticed, which was quite an accomplishment with this crowd, but she was focused on the goal: three very, very wicked men who had what she wanted.
Timothy swore she’d lost her mind. Yet, those she most wanted to see punished were in attendance. The London Times was also the source to understand the practices and patterns of ton nobles. They weren’t shy about revealing their excesses.
Those same nobles who’d attended her father’s hanging were snobbish hypocrites. She and Timothy weren’t shunned because their papa was a magnificent thief—they were shunned because the ill-gotten gains were gone. Had he a fortune, everyone from the gaoler to the judge could have been purchased. And the ton nobles would have winked at his activities.
And then, the last things the Blasingtons had left were stolen by a trio of crooks. Fair and just payback, some had whispered. Theft of the thief’s gain. No! Papa had been a humorous trickster who pilfered baubles and other assorted bits and bobs. Granted, he was especially good at it, but never with malice.
Since she was a child, Nora had determined she would reclaim Henbury Hall. It was a wistful dream. Who knew how she could accomplish such a thing? She’d scribbled notes describing grandiose plans, read stories of revenge, swung sticks at imaginary windmills and became Nora, the Destroyer of the Wicked, as she ran through the forests around Whitmarsh.
And tonight, she was Nora the Avenger. She’d pretend to be the woman who could lure men into handing over their assets. Find out the truth, if she could. Dazzle, deceive. Bewitch, bluff.
All the while hiding behind her mask and not revealing a moment of fear because of her audacious scheme. Oh, there was fear. Not of being discovered, but of failing because her chances were small, and her prey clever.
If that didn’t work, she’d be the petty pickpocket and card
