Chapter 14

The Night of the Masquerade Ball

Io stared at her reflection in the mirror and for a moment she did not recognize herself.

Rather than the neatly tailored day dresses and luxurious velvet and silk evening gowns of the last few months, she was back in the plain cotton clothing she had worn all her life.

The woman who looked back at her had freshly cropped short black hair and wore bloomers beneath skirts that scarcely reached her calves.

The garments were as familiar as the back of her hand. And yet they no longer fit right.

Oh, the size was fine—she had neither lost nor gained any weight—but Io was no longer that same woman. Somehow, without realizing it, this new life had left its mark on her. Had changed her.

She accepted, for the first time, that there was no going back to the life she'd left behind.

"Are you sure you don't wish for any jewels, my lady? Or even a flower or ribbon in your hair?" Moira said in a plaintive voice.

Io shook off her odd mood and turned to her maid, who was visibly anguished that her mistress had rejected her offer of hairdressing.

"This will do just fine, Moira," she assured the younger woman. "Why don't you go and change into your own costume now? I won't need you again tonight. I will undress myself when I come to bed," she added, when the maid looked ready to argue.

Moira nodded sadly, as if she were being sent to face a firing squad rather than attend a fancy dress party.

It had been Eva's idea, naturally, that the servants could do their jobs every bit as well in costume as they could in their uniforms, and so they would all get a chance to enjoy Eva's birthday ball.

Which was more than Io could say for herself. The fight she'd had with Edith about her ‘costume' tonight had sapped her of any enthusiasm she'd had for the event. Granted, that had not been much to begin with. Parties and balls and frivolity wore on her like a lathe shaving a block of wood. She found them far more exhausting than standing on a frigid street corner, passing out literature to scowling strangers for hours on end.

As Io left her chambers and made her way down to the main drawing room, where the specially chosen dinner guests were to assemble before the meal, she briefly wondered if it was too late to claim sickness and skip the dinner.

But that would crush Eva, and so she continued to trudge toward the social crucible awaiting her. For some reason, she recollected a conversation with Susan Barclay from several weeks ago—not long after she had gone to Masterson's room and behaved so very recklessly. Again.

Io had gone to the library to fetch a book and had discovered Miss Barclay seated at the secretaire desk, her small hands smudged with ink and her hair less tidy than usual.

"What are you up to?" Io asked, smiling at the tiny woman.

Miss Barclay's pale, heart-shaped face blushed—as it always did when anyone spoke to her—and she gestured to the sheaf of parchment. "I'm writing out the invitations for Lady Eva's party."

Io had felt a twinge that Edith's already overworked companion had been saddled with even more work.

"May I help you?"

"Oh, that is kind. But I am almost finished.

"How many guests?"

"Three hundred."

Io's jaw sagged. "Three hundred people?"

Miss Barclay chuckled, making Io realize that she'd never heard the other woman laugh before. "Yes, that is correct."

"May I see the guest list?"

Miss Barclay handed her several sheets of paper.

Io glanced down the list, recognizing some of the names from the guests who had already attended dinners at Hastings Park. Most of the others had titles next to them.

"Where are all these people coming from?" she asked, glancing up.

"From all over. When my cousin expressed disbelief that people would make such a long journey for just one night, Mrs. Dryden assured her there was nobody in Britain who would not make the time and effort to attend the new Duke of Hastings's first ball."

Io turned back to the list. "I would like to add some names."

Susan chewed her lower lip. "Er, Miss Barrymore has already instructed the stationer to print these, my lady. If there are more—"

"Don't worry. I shall see to it," Io said. "I can't help noticing that all these guests appear to be aristocrats."

"For the most part."

"What a dull affair it will be."

Miss Barclay's eyes bulged. "I beg your pardon?"

"No writers? No actors? No philosophers, poets, thinkers of any sort?" Io shook her head. "What nonsense! I shall have more than a few additions."

"And do you wish me to tell Miss Barrymore so that adjustments can be made to the food and drink and dinner seating?"

Io had met the other woman's anxious gaze and had immediately guessed who would bear the brunt of such changes.

A struggle had raged inside her, the desire to force Edith to accept people Io wanted to socialize with warring with the realization that she would be heaping more work onto this poor woman.

She had forced a smile and handed her back the list. "I have changed my mind. I will give you my list for the next party. I understand there is to be one when we are at Hastings House in London?"

Miss Barclay's shoulders had sagged with relief. "Thank you, my lady."

Mrs. Dryden's prediction had been startlingly correct and all but a handful of the invitations had been accepted.

And so Io would spend the evening engaging in vapid chatter with three hundred people whose lives were so barren and bereft of value that they would travel half-way across the country to attend a costume ball.

When she reached the drawing room door she saw that Charles, one of her favorite footmen, was stationed outside.

Her smile was genuine when she saw that he was garbed as a Viking warrior.

"Good evening, my lady," he said, giving her a grin that would have sent Edith into paroxysms.

"You are looking fierce tonight, Charles. I daresay there are a few dozen ladies who would not be averse to a bit of ransacking at your hands."

His fair skin turned scarlet. "Ah, Lady Io, you're a one you are. If you don't mind me saying."

"Not at all. I like being a one, Charles." Io was still smiling like a fool when she stepped into the drawing room.

Her smile curdled like sour milk when the first person she saw was Edith headed toward her, her face pinched and eyes blazing as she took in Io's costume.

"You are late, my lady," Edith said, managing to speak the words without disturbing the frosty smile on her face. "I see you've followed through on your threat and have shown up garbed in such a way as to shame all of us."

"How kind of you to say so." Io cocked her head and gave the other woman a quizzical look. "What costume are you wearing, Edith? I can't decide if you are dressed as a nagging scold or a grasping tufthunter?"

Edith's eyes narrowed as she leaned closer and hissed, "If you leave right now and change your clothing you will miss dinner but can still return in time for the ball."

Io just laughed and glanced around the room, looking for her sister.

She grinned when she saw Eva, who made a spectacular Marie Antoinette. "If you will excuse me, Edith," she said, leaving without waiting for an answer.

Eva was surrounded by a clutch of young male dinner guests, so Io veered toward Bal, instead.

Her twin was staring moodily at nothing in particular but shook himself and smiled when she approached. "You looked delightful, Yoyo."

Io snorted. "You've seen me dressed like this all my life."

"True, but not since we've all…metamorphosed."

"Hmph." Io studied his worn clothing and the bits of straw jutting out of his sleeves, neck, and pockets. "This scarecrow costume is an appropriate look for you."

"They are called hay men here."

"Ah. But you are missing something."

"I'm afraid to ask."

"You should have some straw spilling from your ears, shouldn't you?"

Bal laughed, his eyes dancing. "Thank you, twin. Thank you also for this idea."

"You only like the costume because it did not cost you anything."

"Well, that's true." His gaze slid to where Ares stood, garbed as a Cavalier. "He'll be miserable in that heavy velvet doublet after a few hours," he predicted.

"Forget about the doublet. What about that hair?"

They laughed at the brown curly wig that draped over their youngest brother's shoulders and fell almost to his waist.

Ares chose that moment to look at them, his eyes narrowing as if he knew he was the object of their mirth.

"Where is the Roundhead?" Io asked, glancing around.

"I haven't seen Pol tonight."

"Do you think we will?"

"I'm hoping he stays away, even though it might hurt Eva's feelings. Edith seems to have a special dislike for him—even more than she does for you—and she will likely carp at him if he does make an appearance."

"I just wish Pol would snap back at her."

"He cannot do that, Yoyo. Gentlemen do not attack ladies—not even verbally and no matter how much they might deserve it."

"Oh, I know, I know." She smirked. "I will try to make up for his inability to lash out."

Bal laughed. "You already do an excellent job." His eyes widened slightly and Io turned to see what he was looking at.

It was Masterson and he was dressed like a Pilgrim—or at least like all the paintings of male Pilgrims Io had ever seen. He wore dark knee-breeches with thick white stockings and black buckled shoes. A tall capotain hat completed the costume.

His black and white apparel was striking against his blond good looks. And his calves, she couldn't help noticing, were muscular and well-formed. Io had not paid attention to his legs when she'd shown up in his bedroom that night almost three weeks ago, the last time they'd spoken to one another, although they'd exchanged plenty of looks—amused sneers on her side and haughty sneers on his—in the interim.

Somehow Masterson, with his trenchant, cool mien, managed to make the ridiculous black hat, high white collar, and buckled shoes look adorable. A reluctant smile curved her lips.

And then Edith stepped close to Masterson and laid a hand on his forearm and whispered something in his ear.

And Masterson smiled at her. True, it was not the huge dimple-exposing grin he'd shown Io that one time when he was ill onboard the Petrel, but it was a genuine smile all the same.

"Yoyo? Yoyo."

Io wrenched her gaze from the happily chatting pair and turned to find her twin regarding her with concerned amusement.

"What?" she barked.

"You were, um, looking at poor Masterson as if you wanted to carve him up like a side of beef."

"The notion is not without some appeal."

Balthazar laughed. "I can't help noticing that your interest in him seems to have—"

"I have no interest in Masterson."

Bal blinked at her sharp tone. "Ah."

"Other than to expose his hypocrisy to the world," she amended. "To show that his scrupulously proper fa?ade is just that: a fa?ade. To prove that he has feet of clay, just like any other man. To—" Io stopped when she saw the knowing look in Bal's eyes.

She turned away from her twin abruptly, irked by the heat creeping up her neck, and forced herself to look at anyone but Masterson.

Her gaze was snagged by her oldest brother. Zeus was dressed like a Roman senator, his toga short enough to show off muscular legs and sandals that laced up to his knees. His shoulders looked even broader than they did sheathed in a suit.

On his head was a circlet of olives leaves.

He looked very…senatorial. Io was stunned that her reserved sibling had donned such a revealing costume. She wondered, with a smirk, what Edith made of his attire.

The man beside him was almost as handsome as Zeus, although his haughty expression made him far less attractive, in Io's opinion. There was quite a crowd in the room and yet the two of them seemed to have a buffer of empty space between them and all the other guests.

"Who is that man talking to Zeus?"

"That is the Duke of Axbridge."

Io raised an eyebrow at her twin's rather sour tone. "Is he as proud and disagreeable as he looks?"

"Even more so."

"Why is Zeus talking to him?"

Bal shrugged. "Because he is a duke, I suppose."

"Are they forming some sort of duke club?"

Bal laughed. "I think you should go over and ask them."

Io slanted a look at Masterson to make sure he could see her before she nodded at her twin. "Perhaps I will."

***

Corbin desperately wished that Miss Barrymore would go stand next to somebody else so that he could gawk his fill at Lady Io.

He had seen her in her traditional clothing before, but he'd forgotten how appealing she made the unusual garments look. Of course, she would make even an oversized burlap sack look attractive.

Just listen to you! Smitten. It is pathetic.

Corbin ignored the scolding voice—he'd had plenty of practice lately—and tried to concentrate on Miss Barrymore's conversation.

"—and I believe he will not make an appearance tonight. You should see if you can find him. Otherwise, the table will be unbalanced."

Corbin's mind scrambled to recall who she might be talking about.

"I daresay he will be in the stables, as he always is," she added with venom in her tone, answering his unasked question.

"I saw Lord Apollo earlier," Corbin lied, not wanting to pour kerosene on an already incendiary situation. "I will go look for him, Miss Barrymore."

"You should make haste as there is not much time before we go into the dining room," she said crisply, and then turned at the sound of somebody saying her name.

Corbin's shoulders sagged with relief when she was gone. He was bloody exhausted from trying to keep the Hales and Miss Barrymore from each other's throats.

Especially when all you really want to do is grab Lady Io Hale and whisk her up to your chambers.

He could not deny it.

The object of his obsession suddenly broke away from her twin's side and strode across the huge room, her confident, loose-limbed walk attracting the eyes of every man in the room.

His nostrils flared when he saw where she was headed: right toward the Duke of Axbridge.

Corbin did not dislike many people on sight, but Axbridge was one of them. The man was arrogant to the bone, not to mention judgmental and opinionated. For whatever reason, Hastings seemed determined to tolerate him. Corbin wondered if it was just a relief for his old friend to have another duke to talk to. The status of a duke was so rare that he knew Hastings must feel isolated, and so Corbin tried to tolerate Axbridge for his sake. But the proud, supercilious Englishman was hard to palate.

Lady Io came to a halt in front of the two dark-haired men. Although she was tall, they both towered over her.

Even from this distance Corbin could see the change in Axbridge's expression. He didn't smile, but he warmed up by several degrees when Hastings introduced the two.

Corbin watched in fascinated fury as Lady Io worked her unique brand of charm on the aloof peer. Right before his eyes he witnessed the remarkable change in Axbridge, until he was all but eating out of her hand. Hastings looked on with approval while the other two chattered with increasing animation. Was his best friend hoping to marry off his sister to Axbridge?

Corbin heard a low rumble and realized that it had come from him. He was growling like a dog in the manger.

"Good evening, Mr. Masterson."

His head whipped around and then down to the voice's owner. "Good evening, Miss Barclay," he said, and then gently teased, "But where is your costume?"

She blushed as she gestured to her drab gray dress, which was the dowdiest evening gown that Corbin had ever seen. "I am in solidarity with my cousin," she said, referring to the fact that Miss Barrymore was still in mourning, and also not in costume tonight.

"Does that mean that you won't be at the ball?"

"I will take a peek, but no, I will not be participating in the festivities."

He thought he heard some regret in her voice.

She cleared her throat and cut him an uncomfortable look.

"Is something wrong, Miss Barclay?"

"Miss Barrymore wondered if you had gone to fetch Lord Apollo yet?"

Damnation! "No, I haven't." He darted a look at Lady Io and her new swain. It galled him to leave them to their flirtation, but what else could he do? He turned back to the tiny blonde woman and forced a pleasant expression. "I will do that right now."

***

Io could not believe it when Masterson simply left the room. She had seen him gawking as she'd outrageously flirted with Axbridge. She had felt his anger burning a hole through her from across the room.

And then he had simply left.

No doubt to run some errand for his mistress.

"Your brother tells me that you are an authoress," Axbridge said, pulling Io from her thoughts.

She looked up at the duke—not a hardship as the man was gorgeous—and smiled. "I wasn't aware Zeus knew that."

"I didn't," Zeus chimed in. "Axbridge meant that Balthazar told him. And then he told me," he added with a slightly aggrieved look. Was that pain she saw in his pale blue gaze?

"Ah," was all Io could think to say.

"I would like to read one of your books," Axbridge said.

Io laughed. "I'm afraid you aren't the intended audience, Your Grace. Did Bal not tell you they are for children?"

"He told me. I have several nieces and nephews who are of an age to enjoy your stories," he said, surprising her with his tenacity.

"I have several copies and would be delighted to give you one."

"You are generous as well as lovely."

As always, a sneer wanted to jump to Io's mouth at such hollow flattery—what did her looks have to do with giving him a book, after all? Shouldn't he be complimenting her brain?

But a glance at Zeus made her curb her tongue and say, "You are too kind, Your Grace."

There. She could play the game just as well as Edith.

"Hastings tells me that you will be joining him in London next month," Axbridge said.

"Yes, along with my sister and brothers. Have you met them all?"

Axbridge's dark brown eyes narrowed slightly and when they slid across the room Io couldn't help noticing they stopped where Eva held court. "I have met everyone except the elusive Lord Apollo. It appears he is not here tonight."

Io cut a glance at Zeus to see how he received that information, but he had a slight frown on his face as he regarded Edith, who was standing with her cousin. Based on the way Miss Barclay was cringing, Edith was berating her for something or other.

Axbridge lightly cleared his throat, reminding her that he was waiting for an answer.

"Apollo is here, Your Grace. He is just elusive," Io said, smiling. Oh, Pol. Where are you?

***

Corbin backed away from the large corner stall as quietly as he was able, wincing when he stepped on an especially loud plank. Not until he was out in the open air did he release the breath he'd been holding.

He inhaled deeply and hurried back toward the castle, his mind in chaos at what he'd just seen. Belatedly, he realized that he should be composing an excuse for Apollo's absence that would, if not satisfy, at least temporarily appease Miss Barrymore.

But when he slipped into the dining room a short time later, he discovered that every chair was taken, so she must have had the servants subtly adjust the seating.

Corbin was relieved that he'd not needed to lie to his employer's fiancée, not that he would have hesitated to do so.

With what he'd discovered in the stables still at the forefront of his mind, the meal sped past like a blur.

Did Lord Apollo's siblings know?

Did Hastings know?

Those thoughts consumed him and Corbin was sure the women on either side of him thought him the worst sort of tongue-tied dunce.

Even the sight of Lady Io shamelessly flirting with Axbridge could not penetrate his preoccupation and he fled the dining room with unseemly haste the moment the meal was over, giving Hastings a vague excuse of needing to tend to a ball-related matter to escape the masculine postprandial ritual of port and cigars.

Corbin was on his way to the ballroom, wanting to at least make good on his lie by ensuring that all was ready for the masses of guests who were about to descend on the castle, when a quiet voice stopped him.

"Masterson."

Corbin jolted and swung around, encountering the miss-matched gaze of the subject of his recent musings.

"Lord Apollo," he said, sounding stiff and stilted to his own ears.

"I know you saw me—us," the younger man said, dispensing with any attempt at subterfuge.

"I did," Corbin admitted. "And I have not told anyone. Nor will I."

Relief flickered across Apollo's face. "Thank you." Without another word, Lord Apollo strode in the opposite direction from the ballroom.

Corbin watched him until he disappeared. Only when the other man turned the corner did it occur to him that they were dressed similarly. Lord Apollo's stark Roundhead garb was oddly suitable for the morose, introverted young man.

He was relieved they'd spoken—as brief as it had been. It had felt wrong to scurry away from the stables like a fleeing rodent, but it would have been worse to stay. Or at least a hundred times more awkward.

Now Corbin could turn his thoughts back to another Hale, this one far less accommodating than her reclusive brother.