Death Wears a Mask (5 page)

My instincts were confirmed as he continued. “I'm afraid something's come up. I've got to dash off. Make my excuses for me, will you?”

“It's a bit late to cry off now, isn't it?” I asked the question mildly, for I knew perfectly well that there was little chance Milo would be convinced to change his mind. He had never been very reliable, except for when it came to doing just as he pleased.

“Yes, I know. But it's rather urgent. Rumor has it that Frederick Garmond is in rather dire straits financially. He may be ready to sell off his Arabian. I've been trying to buy the beast from him for a year, and Kelvin's just rung up to say Garmond's arrived at my club. I need to speak to him before someone else does.”

“Can't it wait?” My dress fastened, I came from around the screen.

“I'm afraid not. I can't have someone else buying that horse.”

I bit back an angry retort, turning instead to the mirror and powdering my already-powdered nose, determined to give every indication of indifference. “Very well.”

“I may be able to drop by Dunmore's ball later this evening, if all goes well.”

“Don't inconvenience yourself on my account,” I answered, almost managing to keep the edge from my tone.

He came up behind me as I smoothed my hair, but I refused to look at him in the mirror.

“Don't be cross with me, darling,” he said.

“I'm not cross.”

“Yes, you are. You've done up your buttons wrong.”

I started to reach behind me, but his hands were already there, unfastening my dress so he could redo them properly. I was irritated that my frustration should have presented itself in my wardrobe, but it would have been childish to brush his hands away. His fingers moved assuredly but without any great haste, and I wished there were fewer buttons on the gown.

“There,” he said after a moment, his hands dropping to my waist. “You're quite presentable now.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes met mine in the mirror, waiting, I supposed, for protests I did not intend to give. I certainly wouldn't beg him to accompany me. If the horse was so important, let him go to it.

“I'll probably be quite late,” he said. “Garmond will no doubt require a bit of liquoring up before he'll sell.”

“I may be late myself,” I answered.

“Indeed? Well, try to behave yourself with Dunmore,” he said dryly. He dropped a kiss on my neck, then turned and left the room.

I fought back my annoyance and the sudden desire to remain at home because of my spoiled mood. But Mrs. Barrington was expecting me. Besides, I was not going to let Milo ruin my evening. I was perfectly capable of enjoying myself without his company.

I was nearly ready when I heard the bell.

A moment later, Winnelda came into the room carrying a large box. “This has just come for you, madam.”

“Thank you.” I took the box and set it on the bed, then picked up the attached card. “From my dressmaker,” I told Winnelda, cutting the string and pulling back the lid.

As the box opened, my eyes widened, and Winnelda gasped loudly as I pulled out the gown and held it up.

“Begging your pardon, madam,” she said, “but that's ever so much more beautiful than the black satin.”

*   *   *

I FELT A
bit conspicuous arriving at Lord Dunmore's home in a gown of scarlet satin. It was far more extravagant than anything I would normally wear, but a masquerade called for a bit of added glamour. At least, that was what my modiste had assured me in her note. Looking at the ostentatious ensemble now, I hoped I wasn't going to call unnecessary attention to myself.

The gown had an intricately beaded bodice with very short sleeves that gave way to a low-cut neckline that might have been overly revealing on a more buxom woman, and the back plunged quite low as well. The gown was fitted from bodice to hip, giving way to a flowing skirt, with chiffon inlays that fluttered when I walked, the effect of which was rather like floating on a red mist. A red beaded mask and red satin gloves completed the costume.

I was swept through the doors of Dunmore House and into the cavernous entrance hall with a group of other people. As we were all masked, it was a bit difficult to tell who was who, but there were several individuals I recognized, including an illustrious author, two members of Parliament, and an earl. It seemed that, whatever rumors abounded about the viscount's parties, they nevertheless held appeal for the crème de la crème of society.

I had heard of the opulence of Dunmore House, and I found the reports were not exaggerated. The entrance hall was a gleaming expanse of marble floors that ran from the doorway to a grand red-carpeted staircase. There was a door to the right that I assumed was some sort of sitting room, and beyond that was the entrance to a corridor that led to the other rooms on that side of the house. The tall gilt doors to the ballroom were on the left. I moved with the wave of people into the massive ballroom and was embraced by the swell of music coming from the orchestra in the corner. It was a beautiful room with gleaming parquet floors and ivory walls with gold-leaf molding. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, and golden sconces on the wall held candles that gave off a warm glow that electric lighting couldn't match.

The room was lavishly but tastefully decorated with an abundance of floral arrangements, and I detected the scents of rose, jasmine, and gardenia, along with subtler scents, hanging pleasantly in the air. I noticed many of the blooms that had been selected were out of season. It was apparent that the viscount had spared no expense on this ball, down to the last detail, and I wondered briefly what sort of impact such excessive parties made on his bank account.

“And who might this stunning creature be?” said a voice behind me. I turned to the approaching gentleman. He wore a half mask that obscured his features. Nevertheless, I recognized the posture and tone of voice. It was Lord Dunmore himself, arrayed in flawless evening dress and a mask of silver and black diamonds. Even masked, I supposed it would be difficult to mistake him for anyone else.

“It's a lovely party, my lord,” I said, as he took my hand in his.

“I see you have found me out.” He smiled. “I suppose, then, that I must confess I recognized you the moment you walked through the door. Some things cannot be hidden with a mask.” His eyes ran over me in an appraising way. “You're a vision. Red suits you perfectly.”

“Thank you. Your home is magnificent.”

“You're too kind. I'm so glad you've come. But where is your husband?” He glanced around as though Milo might be lurking somewhere behind me.

“I'm afraid he was called away on urgent business.”

“Oh? Well, his loss is my gain.” He held out his hand. “Might I have the honor of this dance?”

“Of course, my lord.”

He escorted me to the dance floor and pulled me to him in the manner of a man who is quite accustomed to feeling a woman in his arms. He danced beautifully, and I saw several women watching him as we moved about the floor, his warm hand against the bare skin of my back.

“I was afraid you wouldn't come, given the short notice,” he said. “Imagine my delight to see you walk in, outshining every woman here, no less. I'm surprised your husband lets you out alone, looking as you do.”

“Mr. Ames suffers no alarm on my account.”

“Indeed? Well, he's a very fortunate man.”

“And what about you, Lord Dunmore?” I asked, trying to deflect his flattery. “I wonder that some charming lady has not yet stolen your heart.”

“Alas, Mrs. Ames, it seems the best of them are already taken.”

I smiled, and we finished the rest of the dance in a comfortable silence. The song concluded, and he escorted me back to the edge of the room, where great piles of food sat on long white-clothed tables. A group of three women stood conversing near one of them. I might not have recognized them, but for the lovely red hair of the woman in a copper-colored gown. It was Mrs. Douglas-Hughes and, I realized, Felicity and Marjorie Echols.

“Hello, Mrs. Ames,” Mrs. Douglas-Hughes said, as I approached.

“Hello, Mrs. Douglas-Hughes. And it's Felicity and Marjorie Echols, isn't it? You all look lovely.”

“Now, what is the point of a masquerade if everyone acknowledges that they know everyone else?” Lord Dunmore complained good-naturedly.

“I think knowing people is ever so much nicer than conversing with strangers,” said Felicity Echols, her wide green eyes accentuated by the glittering turquoise mask she wore. “One knows where one stands with everyone.”

Her sister, attired in blue satin and a mask composed of flower petals, disagreed. “I think a masquerade is mysterious and romantic, myself. Not knowing is half the fun.”

“I must agree with Marjorie,” Lord Dunmore said. “There is something alluring about anonymity, isn't there? One might be anyone … do anything.”

“An alarming suggestion.” Mrs. Douglas-Hughes laughed.

“Where is your husband?” Lord Dunmore asked Mrs. Douglas-Hughes. “I'm going to pull him aside for drinks and billiards. Foster, too, if I can find him in this infernal crush. I believe he's wearing a tiger's mask.”

“But the ball's only just begun,” said Marjorie Echols, something like disappointment in her tone.

“Exactly. I should have begun drinking hours ago.”

“Aren't you worried your guests will miss you?” I asked.

He smiled. “That's why I enjoy a masquerade; no one will know whether I'm here or not. And I'll expect all of you ladies to dance with me later.” He took my hand in his. “Will you dance the midnight waltz with me, after the unmasking?”

“If you wish.”

“Good. Ah, there he is,” he said, spotting a gentleman I supposed was Mr. Douglas-Hughes. “If you ladies will excuse me…”

We watched him walk away. “I hope Sandy doesn't drink too much.” Mrs. Douglas-Hughes sighed. “He never feels well when he does.”

“What do the gentlemen do at balls in America, with alcohol being illegal?” Marjorie asked.

“They sneak away to drink just as they do here,” Mamie said with a laugh. “Men, it seems, are much the same the world over.”

“I've never known a man quite like Lord Dunmore,” Marjorie Echols said, her eyes following his form across the room. “He's so handsome, isn't he? It's a pity about him, really.”

“Surely he's not as bad as all that.” I questioned lightly.

“Nothing unforgivable, I suppose. But there have been a string of showgirls and actresses. And then there's Vivian Garmond, of course. But you know about that.”

“I … I'm afraid I don't,” I confessed.

“Really? I'm surprised you haven't heard.”

“Marjorie, perhaps you shouldn't…” began Felicity.

Her sister ignored her. “They're quite close. I've heard he pays for her house. They also say her young son looks very like the viscount, and he doesn't bother to deny it.”

I raised my brows. While a mistress was sometimes considered de rigueur among the titled class, having it known so openly seemed to me a rather defiant step. Rumors and supposition were one thing; openly supporting a woman and practical admittance of an illegitimate child were quite another.

“Oh, she claims to have a husband that died, and people make a show of believing it, but everyone knows the child is his. I suppose he feels he needn't marry her when he can likely get a younger, well-connected woman to wed him, sordid reputation or not.”

I digested this information silently. It made sense now, her inclusion at a dinner party where no one much wanted anything to do with her, the way her eyes followed the viscount when he wasn't looking. If it was true, it certainly did nothing to improve my opinion of Lord Dunmore. Then again, I had learned to take rumor with a grain of salt.

I glanced around the room, wondering if Mrs. Garmond was in attendance tonight. I had the feeling that she might be somewhere about the room, watching with her sad, dark eyes while the man she loved flirted with other women. If I came across her, I was determined I should make an effort to be friendly. I certainly knew something of what it was like to live under the shadow of scandal.

“Of course, she may not want to marry him,” Marjorie continued. “With all the other rumors about him…”

“Marjorie, don't.” It seemed that there was something almost desperate in Felicity Echols's whispered reprimand, though her sister merely shrugged.

“This is one of my favorite waltzes,” Mrs. Douglas-Hughes interposed as the band struck up Lanner's “Die Romantiker.” It seemed that she was very adept at seamless conversational detours.

“Yes, come, Felicity,” Marjorie instructed. “Let's find someone to dance with us.”

She led her sister away even as a gentleman approached Mrs. Douglas-Hughes and escorted her to the dance floor.

I stood for a moment, watching the festivities. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, but I saw nothing of the debauchery I had been led to expect. I will not say I was disappointed, but I was a bit perplexed that, forewarned as I had been of great wickedness, I had yet to see anything remotely scandalous.

Of course, the evening was still young.

 

5

DESPITE MY INITIAL
reluctance to attend, I found myself genuinely enjoying the ball as the night progressed. I danced with several gentlemen, conversed with several notable figures, and sampled some of the very good food Lord Dunmore had provided. All told, I almost managed to forget that I had been commissioned to catch a thief. Almost, but not quite.

I had been keeping an eye out for Mrs. Barrington. I assumed our plan was still in force, but I had yet to spot her in the crush of the ballroom. I didn't even know what she was wearing or what type of mask she had chosen. It occurred to me that our plot was very haphazard indeed. If we had intended to accomplish anything, it would have behooved us to be a bit more organized. Nevertheless, I thought I should at least make an effort to find her.