Amanda Scott (15 page)

“Perhaps the people we meet tonight will encourage him to do so,” Lydia said, adding cheerfully, “and at all events, there will now be no difficulty getting away, because as soon as I told Mama that I had the headache a little, she agreed that you and I ought to remain quietly at home for the evening, and I am quite sure she has said nothing about that to Ned. Indeed, I think she means to press Lady Portland to assist her in making a match between poor James and that niece of hers, and thinks our presence would impede her efforts. It is of no account, however, for James will never agree to marry her.”

“I thought younger sons were generally made to do what their elders thought best for them,” Maggie said.

Lydia, moving to take a pink silk domino from her wardrobe, chuckled and said, “Mama never knows whether to be angrier with Ned when he tells James what to do or when he refuses to do so. It is sometimes most amusing. But James is very recalcitrant, and I daresay even Ned could not force him to wed where he does not choose to do so. I think,” she added with a more thoughtful air, “that James—like certain other younger sons—intends to marry only where he can discover a mutual affection. He will not wed merely to fill his pockets with silver or even gold.”

Ignoring the oblique reference to other younger sons, Maggie said, “But surely James would not marry to disoblige his mama.”

“N-no.” Lydia sounded uncertain, but then she added with more assurance, “But he would not marry just to oblige her, either.” When Maggie did not reply, Lydia rang for Tilda and said, “We had better begin to dress now, for we must be ready to slip out as soon as it is dark enough for us not to be seen.”

Maggie agreed, and although she was. nervous about deceiving Rothwell, Lydia’s confidence had convinced her that slipping out of the house would present no real difficulty. Not until the two of them were tiptoeing down the service stairs to the ground floor did she remember the footmen in the water-stairs passage. But when she expressed her fear, hissing the words close to Lydia’s ear, her companion chuckled openly, saying, “Never fear, Tilda will have called our man away to help her with some odd thing or other, I promise you.”

“But what of the other? Surely, he will mention seeing us. You said before that you don’t even know which it will be.”

“There will not be anyone by now,” Lydia said confidently. “Her grace, being in mourning, does not entertain, and although she keeps a man there during the day, she does not at night. Anyone who visits her after dark knows to enter from the Privy Gardens, and our man is well able to guard her terrace gate.”

As she had promised, the way was clear, and they hurried through the passage gate to the water stairs. Oliver awaited them with a large grin on his face, and held the barge steady with one oar while they boarded and made themselves comfortable. The air was chilly, and they wrapped themselves gratefully in the furs and blankets stored beneath the seats.

The moon had not yet risen, and the dark sky was full of stars. The river glimmered with the reflected torchlight and lamplight of the many windows overlooking it. Westminster Bridge cast a dark shadow, its arches outlined by the gleaming water beyond. As they passed beneath the bridge, Maggie heard the lively sounds of an organ and violin, punctuated by shrieks of laughter, coming from up ahead.

Beside her, Lydia gave one of her low chuckles. “Those lanterns you see yonder are hanging in the trees of Cuper’s Gardens,” she said. “Most folk call them Cupid’s Gardens, and nice girls don’t go there. Sometimes,” she added when another burst of feminine laughter sounded across the water, “I think nice girls don’t have nearly as much fun as not-nice girls do.”

Maggie, aware that Oliver could hear every word they said, thought she ought to say something either wise or blighting, or at least attempt to change the subject; however, she could think of no wiser course than to ask about sights they were passing, and she had heard enough about them from James, so she held her tongue, hoping Lydia would take the hint and do likewise.

The hope was a futile one, but although Lydia kept up a stream of artless chatter, Oliver was rowing with the current and it was not long before they reached the stairs with the tall narrow archway at the top. Embarking, Lydia gave Oliver strict orders to stay right where he was, and Maggie, realizing now that he would be loath to leave his vessel, did not argue. In any case, once they passed beneath the high stone arch, she saw that they would have no difficulty finding their way.

Lady Primrose’s house was near the river, and a steady stream of persons wearing rich dominos, fancy cloaks, and character costumes were descending from chairs and coaches in the street. Adjusting their dominos and masks, she and Lydia joined the throng and entered a high-ceilinged, narrow entryway, lighted by the myriad candles of an enormous crystal chandelier and dominated by a stairway that circled and swooped in a polished mahogany spiral up and up toward the domed and painted ceiling.

Their hostess awaited them at the first landing, unmasked and richly dressed. She was flanked by a couple Maggie did not know, but who were dressed as Henry VIII and Jane Seymour. All three extended gloved hands to each guest, murmuring welcome but making no effort to identify anyone. Maggie, squeezing Lady Primrose’s hand significantly, let the person in front of her move beyond earshot before she leaned nearer and whispered, “’Tis Maggie MacDrumin, my lady.”

Her ladyship’s brown eyes widened in dismay, but she kept herself otherwise well in hand, saying faintly, “Welcome, my dear. Just go with the others. The orchestra is tuning up and will begin playing a grand march in a few minutes. We hope you enjoy your evening.”

But Maggie was not to be put off so easily. She had not expected to find his highness receiving guests with his hostess, for it would be much too dangerous, but she realized now that it was entirely possible he would be in the same house with her and never make himself known. How on earth was she to meet with him?

“Please, my lady, you must arrange for me to—”

“The ladies’ withdrawing room,” Lady Primrose said firmly, “is off the next landing.” Pointedly, she turned to greet Lydia, who curtsied, murmured politely, and hurried after Maggie.

When they entered the ballroom, the orchestra could scarcely be heard above the rumble of conversation, and some moments later, when Maggie discerned the first notes of the grand march, she realized that few others in the room had heard them.

“Aren’t we going to dance?” Lydia asked a few moments later. “Everyone seems to want only to talk.”

Maggie was gazing around the crowded room, searching for some sign of the prince’s presence, though she had not the least notion what that sign might be until she detected a flurry of activity across the room, centered on one figure. Seated amidst a bevy of ladies, who buzzed around him like hungry bees, he wore pink and silver Turkish dress, with a large bunch of diamonds pinned to the silver-gray turban perched atop his elegantly curled and powdered tie-wig. He looked, Maggie thought, like Osman III in the midst of his seraglio.

Lydia, flicking her fan impatiently back and forth, was still looking around, clearly fascinated by the splendid costumes and no doubt fascinated as well by the fact that she stood in the midst of a veritable army of Jacobites.

Nearby a female voice carried above the general babble. “’Pon rep, Amanthus, have you beheld our beloved hero? You must confess, he is a genius—more, a gift from heaven!”

“To be sure, my dear,” her companion agreed heartily as they passed Maggie and Lydia, “he has such vivacity, such piercing wit, such clear judgment. In short, he is the top of perfection and truly heaven’s darling.”

Lydia’s mouth dropped open, and she stopped in her tracks, but she was not watching the two women. Maggie saw at once that her gaze was riveted on the Grand Turk, and wondered what demon had possessed Charles to make such a spectacle of himself.

“It’s him,” Lydia squeaked. “Oh, I know it is! I’ve got a wineglass with his likeness etched on it. Oh, Maggie, present me!”

“Don’t be absurd. No one is being presented, and I doubt that is who you believe it is, in any case,” she added hastily.

“Piffle, I heard those women. That man is—”

“Hush, Lydia, you must not say the name.”

Lydia’s eyes grew round and her expression changed instantly to a conspiratorial one. “Oh, I won’t breathe a syllable,” she said. “You can trust me. You know you can.”

“I know,” Maggie said mendaciously. “Now, do hush. They are trying to begin the dancing.

Before long, with the help of numerous servants and several guests, the grand march was organized and the ball began in earnest. By then Maggie realized she need not have hushed Lydia so quickly, for little was being done to conceal Prince Charles from his admirers. Of slender build and medium height, he sat as one enthroned, the black loo mask he held up casually with one hand doing little to conceal his long oval face, large dark brown eyes, neat aquiline nose, and generous mouth as he sipped his wine and received his subjects’ devotion. More and more did he appear to be the Turkish potentate he had chosen to represent that evening. Ladies continued to flutter about him, but Maggie noted unhappily that the gentlemen were paying him little heed.

Determined to present her messages, and deciding that there was no great need in such company to be particularly secretive about it, she waited only until she was certain that Lydia was engaged to dance the minuet before dismissing her own would-be partner and making her way determinedly to the prince. His female audience, apparently hanging on his every word, made way for her with such reluctance that had she not been resolved upon her course, they might well have prevented her. As it was, she was a little out of breath when she made her curtsy.

“I am Margaret MacDrumin, your highness,” she said, rising in obedience to a languid signal from the hand holding the wineglass. “I bring messages from my father, Andrew MacDrumin of MacDrumin and other loyal supporters of the true Crown.”

“And where is this father of yours, Miss Margaret, that he does not present his messages in person and sees fit to send only a female to our presence.” Charles Stewart did not even look at her. His gaze drifted beyond her, aimlessly, as though he really did not expect it to encounter anything he much wanted to see.

“My father is too carefully watched by English soldiers and their Scots toadies, sir,” she said calmly, fighting a sudden, quite unexpected, sense of irritation. “He couldna come without endangering you, but he wants you to know that he and the others remain loyal to the cause and will take up arms again the moment you march into Scotland with your armies.”

A fleeting look of bitterness crossed the prince’s pale face, and for a moment before he took the messages from her and lifted his mask again he looked directly at her, but his tone was still one of boredom when he said, “They await my armies, do they? Does it not occur to the MacDrumin and his friends that if everyone waits for someone else to produce these armies, there will be none forthcoming at all?”

Before Maggie could remind him that Highlanders took their lives in their hands if they so much as held arms in their possession, a female wearing a diaphanous gown of silver-trimmed pale blue silk insinuated herself between Maggie and the prince and said dotingly to him, “Armies will rise up out of the very ground to follow you, dear sir, when you decide the time has come to march. We are your devoted slaves, I promise you.”

He murmured something, but his attention had wandered again, and when he lifted his glass to sip, Maggie felt a sudden urge to shove the foolish woman aside, grab him by his royal shoulders, and shake him till his teeth rattled. From all she could see, he was content to sit amongst his admirers, stewing himself in wine and complaining of lack of support, which would help no one. Why on earth, she wondered, was he not moving about the room, talking to the men, stirring them to action? Fighting to control her frustration long enough to find a place where she could vent it safely, she turned sharply away, only to come face to face with James Carsley, easily recognizable despite his mask.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the circle of the prince’s admirers, muttering, “Where the devil is my sister?”

“Dancing with someone, of course,” Maggie replied curtly.

“How could you bring her to a place like this? You know perfectly well that this nest of Jacobites is no place for the Earl of Rothwell’s sister. Ned will flay you both for this.”

“He will know nothing about it unless you are so mean-spirited as to tell him. For that matter, I daresay he will not be pleased to learn that you were here yourself.”

“He has long since given up trying to pipe the tunes for my dancing. In any case, I am here only because Dev told me Lydia meant to come, and don’t pretend that you truly think she ought to be here, though ’tis certainly a pretty way for you to be revenged upon my half-brother. I know you have little enough liking for his dictatorial ways.”

“I would never take revenge in such a way, no matter what Rothwell did, and certainly not against his innocent sister. Lydia insisted upon coming, and indeed, sir, I did not know how to get away without her, and I had to come.”

James looked past her, his mouth tightening. “I’ve seen portraits of that fellow,” he said grimly, “and that’s where you were when I found you. He had his mask up then, so I didn’t recognize him, but I do now. Have you gone quite mad?”

Her gaze followed his and she saw that the prince had indeed lowered his mask to talk to Lady Primrose, who appeared to be expostulating with him. Turning back to James, she said with a sigh, “I am not mad, sir, I promise, though I daresay I must be a little muddled at least not to deny all knowledge of his identity or beg you not to tell anyone. But he does seem rather to be advertising his presence to all and sundry.”

“By old Harry,” James muttered, “is that what you admire?”

“He is not as I remember him,” she admitted. “I believe he is drunk already, for one thing, though the ball has scarce begun.” Two men had joined the group they were watching, and they too seemed to be speaking urgently to the prince.