My Lady's Pleasure (32 page)

She sat up and bounced gently, knowing how close he was to his own crest. She saw his muscles tighten and strain against the knots. And she saw—and heard and felt—his release. He let out a long, soft groan, and his back arched up off the rug. His mouth was open, his eyes were closed, and she saw that he was as satisfied as she had been.

When he opened his eyes, he saw his wife smiling at him.

She stood up, and then untied his restraints.

“I hope you’ll remember that I’m new at this,” she said with a little laugh. “I’m not quite sure how to go about it.”

“You did marvelously,” he said, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. “Simply marvelously.”

He stood up and dressed, and they left the little room, which no longer seemed like a dungeon. After he locked the door behind them, he took his wife’s hand and kissed it.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

 

They came out of the cellar into the kitchen, where an energetic staff was producing food of every imaginable kind. Pies were coming out of the oven as others were going in. Hams were being sliced, turkeys being carved, and salads being dressed. All the servants, whether their domain was upstairs or down, were in their best uniforms. Lady Loughlin nodded her approval to her staff. As she was saying a few words to the cook, Dodson, the butler, approached her husband.

“Mr. Gerard was here not long ago, looking for you, sir,” he said. “He seemed a bit agitated.”

Lord Loughlin frowned in concern. It took a lot to agitate Alphonse Gerard. “Did he say where I might find him?”

“He did not, my lord.”

Lord Loughlin turned to his wife. “I must go find Gerry and see what’s going on, and then I’ll rejoin you.” He went off in search of his friend.

 

His search for Gerry was as fruitless as Gerry’s search for him had been. After he had told the butler he was looking for his host, Gerry had rejoined the two girls in the drawing room.

“I can’t find Lord Loughlin, but I can’t bear the thought of that woman on the loose. Who knows what she’ll do next? We must find her and, if necessary, confine her until we can turn her over to the authorities.”

Lady Georgiana thought this a little overzealous, but she, too, wanted to get to the bottom of this and put it behind her. She stood up. “Then let us go find her.”

Miss Mumford was easier to find than either Gerry or Lord Loughlin. She was in her own room, a small chamber on the top floor, sewing a white ribbon onto the bodice of her costume, that of a shepherdess.

The door was opened, and when the three visitors appeared, all looking grim, Miss Mumford was clearly flustered.

“Good afternoon,” she said, looking from one face to another. “To what do I owe the honor . . . ?”

Miss Niven hadn’t wanted to confront her companion when the two had been alone, but now that she had her friends with her she was up to the task.

“Miss Mumford,” she said calmly, “I believe you are the person responsible for the threats to Lady Georgiana and to me.”

Miss Mumford hesitated for only a moment, and then stood up, ramrod straight. “Miss Niven,” she said, “I don’t know how you can accuse me of such a thing.”

“I saw you,” said the girl. “I saw you put the A on my mirror with lipstick.”

She again hesitated only a moment, and her air of injured honor evaporated as quickly as it had come on. But it wasn’t replaced by the guilty resignation of someone who’d clearly been caught in the act. There was confusion, there was regret, and there were the first stirrings of panic, but there was no guilt, and no resignation.

“No, no, I can explain.” She raised her hands, palms toward Miss Niven, in a gesture of innocence.

“Explain!” Gerry expostulated. “You can explain threatening an innocent young lady?” He paused, and then remembered himself. “
Two
innocent young ladies?”

“It wasn’t me,” said Miss Mumford, with desperation in her voice. “It wasn’t me, as God is my witness.”

“It wasn’t you?!” Gerry scoffed. “Yet there you stand, quite literally red-handed.” He pointed to Miss Mumford’s right hand, which did, indeed, have red lipstick on it. At this, Georgiana had to look at the floor so no one would see her smile.

“Let me explain!” Miss Mumford said again. “I did write the A on the mirror, but that’s all I did. I swear it! That’s all I did!”

Here Miss Niven stepped in again. “Sit down, Miss Mumford,” she said severely. “And do explain.”

Miss Mumford took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the small bed.

“You see,” she said, “I was in the room and accidentally heard Lady Georgiana tell Miss Niven about the A on her mirror.” She took a deep breath. “At the time, I thought only that it was terrible that these young ladies keep getting these threats.” She gestured at both the girls. “But then I had an idea,” she added quietly.

“You see, Miss Niven and I have had words over the past few days,” she said, knotting her hands together in her lap, clearly wretched. “And I thought that if I could manage it that there should be another threat—a harmless one, to be sure—and I could be with her to help her and comfort her, perhaps she might be grateful and things could go back to the way they were.”

She was clearly having a difficult time getting the words out, but she went on. “I put the letter on the mirror when I knew she was going to be at breakfast, and I was going to find her and ask her to try on her costume one last time, and we’d find the letter together. . . .” With this, she burst into tears.

Lady Georgiana looked at her friend, expecting her to melt at this display of what was clearly honest misery. Miss Niven, though, did no such thing. She wasn’t sympathetic; she was angry. Angry that this woman, whom she’d known long and, she thought, well, could do such a thing to her.

“It is not in my power to dismiss you outright, as you serve at the pleasure of Lord Bellingford, my guardian,” she said coldly. “But it is difficult to see how, after this incident, we could ever be suitable companions again.”

Miss Mumford put her head in her hands and sobbed. “I am so very sorry. I just wanted us to be friends again.”

She looked at Miss Niven through her tears. “I have always loved you and wanted what was best for you. I couldn’t bear the idea that you no longer needed me.”

At this, Miss Niven did begin to thaw. She sat down on the bed next to her companion and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“What has happened, I think, is that I have gone beyond the age where I require the services of someone in your position, and that is what I will tell my guardian. For the many years that I did require those services, you performed them ably and assiduously, and I will always be grateful. That is what I will be thinking of when I ask Lord Bellingford to write you a wonderful reference, and I’m sure we will both do all that is possible to secure another position for you. You will not be left out on the street.”

Miss Mumford’s sobs subsided a bit, and she tried to smile at Miss Niven through her tears. “I am sorry, you know. So sorry.”

“I do know. It was a silly thing to attempt, but there has been no harm done and I shall not hold it against you. But I do think we have reached the end of our road.”

Miss Mumford stood up and made an effort to muster her dignity. “Perhaps we have. Perhaps we have.” She looked at her erstwhile charge once more. “I am so sorry.”

The three left Miss Mumford to her regrets, and went back downstairs. They did take their walk, but it was a very subdued one. They walked here and there, talking of Miss Mumford and of the events of the last several days, and wondering—again—who might be behind the threats, as it was clear to all of them that Miss Mumford had told the truth.

Both girls, though, were getting tired of the subject. They were young, and they were vibrant, and the prospect of the evening’s masquerade held much more fascination for them than dead peacocks and tainted milk. In time, their talk turned to the festivities, and their mood rebounded.

They were almost cheerful as they turned back toward the house.

They reached the drive just in time to see a carriage leave for the station. Miss Mumford would never return to Penfield.

B
y the time the threesome walked up the front steps, there were only a few hours remaining before the party was to start, and the house was ready for its biggest night of the year.

The orchestra was setting up on one end of the largest room, which was to be set aside for dancing. The supper was beginning to be laid in the adjoining room. One of the smaller drawing rooms had been converted to a giant coat closet, and the powder rooms were stocked with soaps and powders and creams. Supplies of cigars and port were stowed in the library for the gentlemen, and the breakfast room, farthest from the orchestra, was made comfortable for any lady who wanted to escape the bustle and noise.

The outbuildings were also ready. It was a tradition to invite the local villagers to come celebrate with roasted pig and beer, and long tables were set up in the peacock pavilion to accommodate them, the peacocks being banned for the evening.

In the stables, there were mounds of hay, buckets of oats, and troughs of fresh water for the horses. There were brushes and blankets for the visiting grooms to use, and food set out for all the servants.

Although all the guests were closeted in their rooms, preparing their persons and donning their costumes, there were people everywhere. They were the people responsible for making sure everything ran smoothly—the servants of the house, the additional help hired for the purpose, and the staff of the houseguests. They were running from place to place, cleaning up this, straightening that, laying out the other, and Penfield was a hive of activity.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. Half an hour before the guests were due to arrive, everything was ready, and all was still. Not calm, though. There was an air of electric anticipation even where there was no movement.

The stillness was broken by the master and mistress of the house, coming down the stairs together. They were dressed as Czar Nicholas II of Russia, who had taken the throne the year before, and his wife, Alexandra. Lord Loughlin was resplendent in a genuine hussar’s uniform, with a broad sash and gold epaulets, and his wife wore a purple gown with a jeweled bodice. Following a tradition that began with the very first Penfield masquerade, the host and hostess did not wear masks.

They took one last look around the rooms, but it was a mere formality. Everything was as it should be.

Just as they finished their tour they heard the sound of the first carriage pulling up to the door. And then the second. And then it was as though a signal had been sent, and the floodgates opened. The guests who were staying in the house started coming down the stairs as carriage after carriage disgorged costumed revelers at the front door.

The Loughlins’ masquerade wasn’t quite like other masked balls, where men wore traditional evening dress and women wore ball gowns and masks. At Penfield, all the guests were dressed as something other than themselves, and both men and women wore masks. While some people could be identified by distinctive shape, or gait, or hair, many were truly anonymous. It was that anonymity that added to the excitement of the evening, and made an invitation to the ball the coveted item it had come to be.

The array of costumes was staggering. Among the men, there were Julius Caesars and Henry the Eighths. There were, as Freddy had predicted, satyrs aplenty. There were monks and musketeers, cricketers and court jesters. There was one towering Zeus, wearing a false beard and carrying a thunderbolt.

Among the ladies, there were goddesses, goddesses, and more goddesses. There was Diana (of the hunt), several Daphnes (of virtue), a Luna with an iridescent moon as a halo, and a magnificent Pandora who came with her own gilded box. There were many faeries, and at least two Florence Nightingales. There was a threesome—sisters, perhaps—dressed as the three little maids from
The Mikado
. (There was also a man dressed as Ko-Ko, but he didn’t seem to be of the same party.) There was a highly stylized cat with a sleek black dress and a headband with pointed ears.

While there were guests who clearly knew one another—husbands and wives, particular friends—everyone saw far more people whom they didn’t recognize than whom they did. The costumes eased the sometimes awkward business of striking up a conversation with a stranger, and the rooms filled with the buzz of excitement and novelty.

Lady Georgiana and Miss Niven had no trouble finding each other behind the masks, as each had seen the costume of the other. Miss Niven was a thing to behold, tall and stately in a beautiful white dress with Roman-style folds of fabric, her eyes made up and her hair straightened in imitation of Cleopatra, or at least of pictures of Cleopatra.

Georgiana had used her slim, boyish figure to great advantage as Alice. Her costume precisely replicated the illustrations in the book that both she and her friend had read as children. She wore a knee-length blue dress with starched skirt and white pinafore, white stockings, and little black shoes with straps. She’d brushed her hair back simply, and anchored it with a headband. Her mask, which she’d had made specially, was the familiar face.