39. Masquerade

Chapter thirty-nine

Masquerade

L ouisa was not looking forward to this masquerade. Long ago, at the tender age of seven, she had observed a masquerade through the spindles of the upstairs bannister at her London home. It had been a raucous affair full of provocative colour and bawdy braggadocio. She remembered seeing her mother dressed as a voluptuous Bo Peep with huge panniers and curved shepherd's crook, neither of which served to keep a flock of gentlemen admirers at bay. She remembered seeing her father dressed as a Methodist clergyman, but not the sort of clergyman who should be left alone with the female members of his flock.

As a debutante last year, such events had been off-limits. Louisa's many conquests had been achieved at more insipid events like Almack's and afternoon tea. But Paris had a more liberal view of propriety for unmarried women. The masquerade was de rigeur for Josephine's houseguests, and more than a few extra visitors had driven out to Malmaison that afternoon to enjoy the sumptuous occasion .

"Will you wear the sapphires?" Cosette asked, as she put the finishing touches on Louisa's honey-coloured curls. Louisa looked down at her fiery gown, a deep, deep orange with red embroidery about the neck and hem. It was the colour of the persimmons in Malmaison's greenhouse with a touch of fire along the edges.

"Rubies would be more fitting."

"Why not roses?" said Cosette. She reached for the basket that Louisa had abandoned earlier in the greenhouse, a basket that had mysteriously made its way upstairs although its bearer had not shown his face in the last several hours. Inside were several stems of deep red roses.

"Roses," repeated Louisa.

Surely not. You cannot wear roses. You know who cut those stems.

Louisa picked up a flower from the basket—a red so dark and deep it looked like rubies still embedded in the ground. A thorn on the stem caught her finger, and the sharp stab of pain soon gave way to a drop of blood. It was not the first time a thorn had pricked her hand. Her mind flew back to Carlton House so many years ago, and the face of Gyles Audeley trespassed once again in the garden of her heart.

"Very well," said Louisa, in a moment of weakness. "I will wear the roses in my hair."

"And in your bosom?" asked Cosette, irrepressible as always.

"In my hair , Cosette," said Louisa with a flash of hauteur. Her gown was cut low enough as it was—she did not need a flower to draw attention to her decolletage.

By the time Cosette had pinned the roses in Louisa's curls, it was nearly time to go downstairs. Louisa fastened the jet-studded loo mask over her eyes, aware that it would fool none of the fellow guests with whom she had already dined. It might be enough to shield her identity from Mr. Smythe, however, if he was unaware she was in residence. She had no desire for Horatio Smythe to reminisce about the time he had spotted the runaway heiress in a hackney leaving Grosvenor Square in the dead of night.

For the evening's entertainment, the music room at Malmaison had been converted into a ballroom, with the salon next to it dedicated to those who would rather play cards than dance. The dance floor could fit thirty couples comfortably, and when Louisa descended the stairs, she discovered that the music had already begun. A whiskered harlequin in a mask took her hand and kissed it. " Enchanté, mademoiselle ." It was a strangely undignified costume in which to find the Général Archambeau. He reserved a dance on her card and was followed in swift succession by a Hussar, a Roman centurion, and a knight.

The next to approach was an Arabian prince, whom Louisa immediately identified as Alphonse. His average height was augmented by a towering turban, and a coloured ostrich plume bobbed and swayed above him with each mincing step. "Ah, ma cherie, you are looking divine. I hope you have saved the supper dance for me." He refused to let go of her gloved hand until she withdrew it with greater force than was polite, and there was an amorous—or was it acquisitive?—glitter in his eye.

Louisa looked down at her card. Unfortunately, yes, the supper dance was still free. She reluctantly pencilled in Alphonse's name. At least he would be constrained by the public nature of supper to keep his hands to himself.

"No jewels tonight?" he said, his eyes lowering to her neck .

"I chose roses instead," said Louisa simply. She clutched a handful of her fiery skirt so her slippered feet could move more quickly to another corner of the room.

It was almost time to take the floor with Général Archambeau when an unknown man materialised behind her shoulder. He was several inches taller than her, and atop his eveningwear, he wore only a black mask and a simple black domino with a hood. "Does milady have any dances left?" It was clear from his accent that his French was not fluent. Without turning her head to face him fully, Louisa could not tell if she had met him before. The tone of voice, however, had a familiar ring to it. Could it be Mr. Smythe? He was tall and English. She had never heard him speak French, but it was not hard to imagine that he did not do it well.

"I have one more dance after supper," said Louisa. She offered him her card and pencil. He took it and scrawled a name. But before she could read it, her harlequin arrived to carry her off into the swirling dance.

The supper dance, which Louisa was dreading, came even sooner than she expected. Her Arabian prince, whom she had never before seen without an elaborate cravat and padded shoulders, had taken his costume quite seriously. A purple embroidered vest hung open over his linen shirt, with a neckline even more plunging than her own, reaching all the way down to his wide embroidered sash. His Arabian trousers gathered around the ankle, revealing embroidered slippers with pointed toes that matched the purple of the rest of his costume.

"I see you are admiring my costume," said Alphonse smugly. Beneath the cutouts of his mask, his eyes were lined with kohl. Louisa could not imagine any English gentleman of her acquaintance adopting such a style .

"I believe it is more generally accepted for the gentleman to admire the lady," said Louisa tartly.

" Mais certainement! " Alphonse squeezed her hand as he led her into the next figure of the dance. "It goes without saying that you are exquisite. A little taller than is desirable, but I do not think anyone will comment on that."

"No, no one but you," murmured Louisa. The turban with the bobbing ostrich feather was assuredly a sop to his vanity so that he did not feel short in her presence.

"You spent the morning with the empress in her garden. I wonder, did she share my secret with you?"

Louisa's eyes widened with annoyance. She was glad that the next dance figure took her to another partner before she had time to answer Alphonse. When they came back together, her face was perfectly composed. "Surely a gentleman does not inquire what ladies speak of in private?"

"But a cousin may inquire, may he not?" Alphonse executed the next allemande with a flourish. " Eh bien, perhaps we can find a private moment ourselves, and I will whisper my secret in your beautiful ear."

"And miss our supper? Surely not."

Alphonse's nostrils flared. "After supper then. Let us go out to the garden together."

"But the roses will make you sneeze," said Louisa with mock sympathy. "I could not think of torturing you so."

The dance ended, and Louisa continued to manage Alphonse all through supper. They sat far enough away from the head of the table that they could not speak with Josephine, but Louisa could see their hostess sitting several chairs away, displaying a coy smile that came from her hazel eyes and showed none of her teeth. Louisa eyed the skilful maquillage and careful tailoring that kept Josephine as flawlessly fresh as a woman half her age. Louisa had submitted herself to Cosette's careful ministrations for over an hour. She shuddered to think how long Josephine would have to sit at her toilette each day.

Beside the empress was a slender, fair-haired fellow with a swan mask. Louisa recognized him right away as Horatio Smythe. His mannerisms were too noticeable for it to be otherwise. But if Mr. Smythe was a swan, then who was the fellow in the black domino who had claimed the next dance with her? Try as she could, Louisa could not see him anywhere at the long dining table. She remembered her dance card, tied to her wrist with a small piece of string. Unfolding it, she looked for the name written after the supper dance.

"Are you listening to me, cherie?" asked Alphonse, who was continuing to babble on about his need to share a certain secret with her.

Louisa stared at him blankly. No, she was not. For the name written on her card for the next dance was none other than Monsieur Pebble .