Wasp (41 page)

‘A whore? My virtue was given, not sold.’

‘Listen to that silver tongue. Is there any repentance left in your soul?’

Wasp presses a finger against her father’s lips. ‘Perhaps you’ll learn the truth, but not from my mouth. You gave up that right when you sent me away. So far no one has recognised me, or knows we’ve met. It’s our secret, and the dark will keep it safe.’

Wasp has shaken the grass from her slippers and is waiting in the parlour when Nightingale returns. ‘We shall join the other guests now,’ the Harlequin says. ‘Stand beside me and keep your mouth closed, even if I point you out to someone or bring them over to see you. If drinks or sweetmeats are offered, don’t touch them. It proved hard enough to stuff you into this dress. You’ve filled out so much.’

Charming
, Wasp thinks.
So I’m to starve as well
.

The guests have been shepherded into a place off the main hall. The room is big and high and square. A fire is tucked into one wall but it’s barely hot enough to cook a rabbit. Pale light floods from candle-spiked chandeliers, turning everything the colour of dumplings. People greet one another like old friends but no more warmth lurks in their eyes than in the darkening sky outside. Footmen drift in and out with trays of wine and sweetmeats. Wasp doesn’t recognise anyone. Have they been conjured out of the walls?

‘Remember what I told you,’ Nightingale whispers into her ear.

Wasp is happy to oblige. She’s no desire to go running around in this gilded den. Despite the society magazines, she doesn’t understand anything these people are talking about. Their voices rise from a whisper to a boom then back again. Compared to the quiet elegance of the Masques they are grotesques, and a few smell like old kippers despite their lace-trimmed pomanders.

What do they think of me?
Wasp wonders.

Nightingale moves among the guests, clasping hands in her impeccable fashion. A perfect ambassador for the House. No sign of Lord Russell or his son. Are they planning a dramatic entrance? Wasp heard of one party where the host, dressed like a canary, was lowered from the ceiling in a flower-bedecked cage.

A slender fellow with a scarlet mask and a neckcloth as big as a bed sheet snares Wasp’s attention. He’s talking to someone beside the punch bowl. Richard. It’s
Richard.
The voice, mannerisms — there can be no doubting it. Conversation finished, he dips through the door into the hallway. Wasp fights the urge to run after him. She will talk to him later, preferably when Nightingale’s distracted.

More talk, more drink. Outside, the purple sky has deepened to pitch. Wasp begins to feel more painted doxy than Masque, and the heavy wig is making her neck ache. Her skirts and petticoats weigh heavily and the lace gloves make her fingers itch. Guests glance at her from time to time then return to their gossip. Nightingale is talking to a stout fellow in an embroidered blue coat and a wig flecked with silver. Both hands are clasped in front of her. It hardly seems she’s breathing.

A gaggle of roly-poly musicians arrive and station themselves near the windows. Guests trickle in and out. As the quintet tunes up, Wasp slips into the hall where the air isn’t so thick. Spotting Richard is a fine piece of providence. Is he the mystery client who hired her? She must winkle an opportunity to catch him alone.

A painting mounted beside the staircase catches her eye. A study of the gardens. Wasp recognises the fountain and higgledy-piggledy flowerbeds. It’s pretty. The prettiest picture she’s seen. The sky is a bright summer blue, the grass a lush green. Each blade has been separately painted. She can almost smell it.

She lifts the picture from the wall and tilts it towards the light. Cotton puff clouds scud across the canvas. Ravens wheel in a spiral above the shadowed hedges. This is no cheap daubing from some market artist, but the work of Lord Russell. Wasp can’t imagine the hours it must have taken.

‘Do you like it?’

Standing beside her is a tall gentleman dressed in black with gold trim. His mouth beneath the black velvet mask is pinched but kind. Bright eyes peer at her through the disguise.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t hear you.’

‘The floor swallows up your footsteps. People creep about this house like thieves.’

He eases the painting from her gloved hands and sets it back against the wall. ‘I know most of the guests,’ he continues. ‘Some people you recognise even through the most elaborate disguise. With you I confess to being flummoxed, but that is the purpose of a Masked Ball, I daresay. It will make the final revelation all the sweeter.’

‘Final revelation?’

‘You don’t know? The clock strikes midnight and the masks come off, to the delight of some and disappointment of others. Since you’re one of the few visitors to express genuine appreciation of this painting perhaps you ought to see more.’

‘My escort insists I stay in the parlour. If she finds me here she will be displeased.’

‘Escort?’

‘The lady in the bird mask.’

‘If there is an issue I’m sure she can be persuaded you’re in good hands.’

‘Is there some doubt then?’

He laughs. ‘I suspect I’m in more danger from you than you’ll ever be from me. Come, I’ll be delighted to show you around.’

Wasp worms her way around the stacks of canvases. Some are leaning against the walls, others seemingly sprout from the bare floor. Otherwise not a stick of furniture is present in this tucked-away room. ‘So these are all Lord Russell’s paintings?’

‘Indeed. It’s quite a pile, isn’t it? Have you seen the gardens? How the flowers clash? In midsummer it’s a nightmare. Everything is wrong. It makes you ill. That fool my father employs to tend his gardens has no sense of symmetry.’

‘I always thought them rather beautiful.’

‘Really? So you’ve seen them before?’

‘Well, I—’

‘These paintings were kept in a folly on the far side of the estate. Perhaps you’ve seen that also? A notorious dabbler, Lord Russell never used to be so interested in art. Each new pastime was a fleeting wonder. Every business venture, every speculation whether in land or shipping had him excited on Monday and bored by Tuesday. His stables were full of unridden horses. A new pianoforte, brought all the way from Austria, went out of tune for want of playing. I remember a stomach-heaving week when dinner guests were obliged to eat exotic dishes from the Orient. His restless whims cost a petty fortune. If he desired something he took it then lost interest.’

She keeps her voice level. ‘Where is Lord Russell?’

‘In Bath spa taking the waters. He has been troubled of late. A family problem. I doubt any cure will be derived from the visit but it will serve him better than haunting his own rooms.’

Wasp pauses at one of the tall windows. The gardens are spread out below in a moon-kissed chequerboard of lawns and lantern-speckled hedges. As a girl she often ran behind her father as he performed his duties around the estate. She knows each turn of the path, every leaf-shaded corner. All of the things the House of Masques has forced into her seem to leak away. She’s becoming Bethany Harris again. Beth is in the walls, the floor, in the footsteps along the passage. Like a mind gone too old and returning to childhood again.

So he does care.

Following this man up to the attic chambers, she’d been both surprised and relieved at her sense of calm. He was merely a genial guest pandering to a lady’s whims before the dancing started. Whoever her mystery client turned out to be, she would use all her wiles to hide her identity when midnight’s moment of revelation came.

The past is mine to conjure or lock away at will,
she thinks.

Muted, as if in another world, the musicians launch into their first tune. ‘Shouldn’t you see to your other guests?’ she says, turning.

George Russell’s mask is in his hand. His eyes are half closed and full of pain. Reaching up, he tears off Wasp’s disguise.

‘I believe it’s time to stop playing games now, Bethany. Don’t you?’

A Covenant

‘Did you hire me, Richard?’

‘No.’

‘Did you know I would be there?’

‘Why the inquisition?’

‘I have a history with that household. Were you aware of it?’

‘People talk. I don’t get involved in their petty scandals.’

‘Do they have something to gossip about, then?’

His eyes follow the line of Wasp’s skirts. ‘Perhaps. In any case it was quite a pickle you found yourself in.’

Wasp lets out a long breath. Outside the window of Richard’s carriage, Russell Hall’s coloured lanterns are already dwindling. ‘It was horrible. I thought I was in danger and I don’t even know the reason.’

‘In danger? From George? When you barged into my card game, which I was poised to win incidentally, and begged me to take you home I thought someone had threatened to shoot you. What became of your escort?’

‘She’s probably looking for me as we speak. How well do you know George?’

Richard shrugs. His mask lies on the seat beside him but his face is unreadable. ‘A bright new spark in Parliament. That makes him a useful acquaintance. Up until now, though, he’s been using his burgeoning career as an excuse to spend a great deal of time in town. Gossip has it he got into a scandal over some village girl and decided to quit the muddy hamlet his father owns. Servants can prove difficult when a bit of nonsense lodges inside their heads. I’m surprised he didn’t take a stick to the girl.’

For the first time in weeks, Wasp feels herself blush to her roots. She hopes Richard won’t notice in the dim light. ‘You said, “Up until now”. What’s changed?’

‘The change is in the shape of a young lady by the name of Annabel Talbot, a cousin of the Russells’, whose engagement the Ball is in celebration of.’

‘Engagement?’

‘George is going to wed her, or at least her papa thinks he is. ’Twould be a good catch for the girl. Unfortunately there’s nothing but dandelions drifting about in her head. Oh, she’s a pretty, warmhearted soul, bred in the proper fashion. She’d make George a good wife, bear his heirs, turn a blind eye when he dips his wick elsewhere, that sort of thing. However, I’ve seen George debate in the Commons and I can’t see him settling for such a soft prospect.’

‘He recognised me, despite the clothes and mask.’

‘Perhaps he knows you better than you think.’

‘In any case I’m sorry you will miss your party.’

He flicks his hand. ‘There are a hundred such frivolities in the course of a season.’

Wasp glances out of the window. ‘We came by a shortcut. A track through the woods. It must be here somewhere. Can we take it now? I need to talk to you.’

‘Hmm, I think I know it. The old drovers’ road. An axle-breaker, as I recall. This is all very mysterious. Care to throw a little morsel my way?’

‘You left me a card. A card that said I could count on you for help. I need that help now, more than I ever thought I would.’

Richard’s face is a dim shadow against a greater blackness. She hears a rasp in his breath and his breeches rustling as he shifts his legs.

He’s not going to do it,
is her immediate thought.
The card was just a courtesy, like two people exchanging addresses with no intention of writing. He’ll likely fumble for some excuse and drop me out of the coach the moment we’re back in the city.

He calls out instructions to the driver. A minute later the carriage makes an abrupt right turn. What little starlight glimmers outside the window is swallowed up. The springs jounce. Branches scratch the wooden panels. After half a mile of bone-breaking travel the driver pulls his team to a snorting halt in some tuck-away in the trees.

Richard settles back in his seat. ‘We should be afforded enough privacy. This track is so little used not even the local footpads frequent it. I have to say this is quite an adventure.’

‘It’s too quiet. Your driver will overhear us.’

He leans his head out of the window. ‘Ross, go and see to the horses. Don’t come back until I call you.’

Wood creaks as the coachman climbs from his perch. Wasp waits until his soft footfalls recede.

How do I begin?
she thinks.
How can I ask anything of this pampered boy?