Chapter Five

"W hat is it about Mrs. Dove-Lyon's masked balls," Dorcas asked the girls who had gathered in the kitchen for breakfast before going home to their rooms to sleep, "that makes the Earl of Somerford think I should be gone from here before the next one?"

The girls looked at one another and laughed. "Lord Somerford is rather stiff about what is appropriate for ladies," one of them offered.

"Not that we know him personally," said another. "He is not a patron of our services."

Scarlett Brown explained, "Some of us met his sister when she was using Mrs. Dove-Lyon's services as a matchmaker. She told us all about him."

"Lord Somerford's sister came to Mrs. Dove-Lyon for a husband?" Dorcas was fascinated. The girls had told her stories about the women who paid for Mrs. Dove-Lyon to match them to a gentleman, but she was somehow startled that an earl's sister would be one of them.

They took it in turns to tell Dorcas about Lady Laureline and her long betrothal, which she ended when the man tried to put the wedding off for the fifth time. "Then she found out she must marry by the time she was twenty-five or she'd have no dowry. Lord Somerford tried to talk her out of using our lady's services, but she ignored him."

According to the girls, when she'd visited the Lyon's Den she bumped into a lame violinist, who turned out to be an old acquaintance and the heir to an earl. He won a series of contests, and they were soon married. And happily, by all accounts.

"All of Mrs. Dove-Lyon's matches are good ones," one of the girls said, somewhat wistfully.

"Lord Somerford bought drinks for the whole house to celebrate the birth of their baby, his nephew," Scarlett commented.

"But he was not happy about his sister using Mrs. Dove-Lyon, for all that it turned out so well," another concluded.

"The Mystère Masque happens once a year," Scarlett said, returning to the point. "It is to celebrate Mrs. Dove-Lyon's birthday, and the tickets are very sought after, and very expensive. Anything might happen on the night and usually does. But nothing that a person does not want. Our lady's wolves make sure of that."

"It is a grand night out for all of us," said another. "Even though we are working, we all wear masks and costumes, and we can pretend to be whoever we want to be." She giggled. "Last year, I was a Prussian princess in exile."

"Every year, Mrs. Dove-Lyon gives away golden tickets. No one knows how she chooses who will get them, but everyone who gets them has a wonderful time, and some find love." Scarlett sighed.

The sigh was repeated around the table. "It is a magical night."

The Mystère Masque sounded wonderful. Dorcas hoped she would be allowed to see it. That was if she was still here. Which she would not be if Lord Somerford had his way. "Does Lord Somerford go?" she asked.

The girls did not know. Only those who dealt with the tickets would know—perhaps only Mrs. Dove-Lyon herself. "Probably not," was Scarlett's opinion. "He sits and he watches. He nurses a drink or two all night and plays a friendly game of cards or two with friends, but he does not know how to enjoy himself, that one. What would he do at the Masque?"

The event caught Dorcas's imagination. When the girls showed her their costumes, she could not help but imagine herself in one. As she embroidered the last of the current pile of linens, her mind was designing a costume for herself.

She had never been to—had never even seen!—such an event. She had been too young even for village assemblies before Ves met her in the village street. He'd run away with her after just three weeks of stolen meetings—how wicked she had been! But to be fair to her seventeen-year-old self, Ves had been seven years older, so he should have had the wisdom that she lacked.

She had attended two assemblies with him as his wife, wonderful affairs to her young eyes. The venues and even the gowns were the best that could be managed behind English lines in a hostile country in the middle of a war. But Ves had assured her they were nothing to the entertainments the ton held in London or even in the country.

And the impromptu dances she and Noah had enjoyed during their marriage would have horrified her clergyman father.

Stephen jerked her out of her reverie, asking for help with a castle he was building with blocks that had been a gift from Mrs. Dove-Lyon, or so Titan had said when he delivered them. The large stern man had sat on the floor for half an hour, building towers with Stephen, and her son was trying to emulate his new hero, but the highest tower would not stay up.

When Dorcas was settled back in her chair again, her needle flew all the faster for thoughts of a stunning costume that would fascinate and capture Lord Somerford. There. She had put her yearnings into concrete thoughts. Very silly thoughts. If she was not well enough born as a gentleman's daughter, for a duke's third son, she was far more unsuitable, as a sergeant's widow, for an earl.

The only role available for such as her in Lord Somerford's life was not one she could possibly accept. For Stephen's sake, if for no other reason. Scarlett would say it did not hurt to dream, but Dorcas thought Scarlett was wrong.

The dreams that Dorcas was tempted to have about Lord Somerford would far too readily lead her into more temptation than she could resist. Then she would either be rejected or accepted. She didn't know which would be worse.

No. Temptation was not something to be encouraged. Except perhaps for the one single night of the Masque.

And there. She had knotted off the last thread and woven it back into the pattern until it disappeared entirely. She had better see whether Cook would mind watching Stephen while she took this batch to Mr. McMillan.

Dorcas waited nervously for Mrs. Dove-Lyon, the tinder box clasped tightly in one hand. "She will say either yes or no," she repeated to herself. The lady had not shown herself to be capricious. Dorcas had nothing to worry about.

It seemed like an age, but it was not long before one of the women servants invited her to enter the gambling den owner's office. Mrs. Dove-Lyon waited for her, as always lavishly gowned, as usual heavily veiled. She wondered why the woman wore the veil; she'd seen her unveiled only the week before and her face, though showing age, was comely and some would say even lovely. Why did she need to hide her visage? Perhaps she too enjoyed the anonymity provided by a mask that Dorcas herself wished to take advantage of—at least for a night.

She had not seen much of the lady in the week or more she had been here. Lord Somerford had not yet been able to speak to either Seward or his brother, so Dorcas had been living in Mrs. Dove-Lyon's guest room for much longer than she had expected though the widow didn't appear to mind. At least, she hadn't yet complained. Indeed, she and Stephen had spent some time together each day enjoying milk tea and chocolate biscuits, and the boy was quite taken with her.

"Mrs. Anderson," said Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. "What may I do for you? Is my hospitality lacking in some way?"

"Oh, no," Dorcas assured her. "I have never been so comfortable, and everyone has been wonderful to me and Stephen. I am sorry to have been forced to stay so long. I hope I have not inconvenienced you."

"Not at all." Mrs. Dove-Lyon sounded amused. "You make no more noise than a mouse, and Stephen is a very well-behaved child. Is that what you wanted to say to me?"

Dorcas gathered her courage. "I wanted to call in the last two tokens," she blurted.

Something about the tip of the lady's head hinted that Dorcas had surprised her. "For what, Mrs. Anderson?"

The prepared speech came tripping off Dorcas's tongue. "First, I would like an invitation to the Mystère Masque. I can sew myself a costume. And as part of that favor, I would like to ask my landlady to stay with Stephen for the night."

It was a surprise, for that was the emotion that flavored Mrs. Dove-Lyon's voice. "Granted," she said. "Be careful, now, my dear, for you have only one favor left. Use it wisely."

Dorcas shook her head. Her own invitation was of no use without the second favor. "My second request. Or, I suppose, it is my third, for the first had me rescued from my brother-in-law's dastardly plot. My third request is that you send a golden ticket to Lord Somerford."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned forward. "Mrs. Anderson, I am going to help you to make better use of your favors. Use your second token in this way. You want me to give you a night to remember. That means an invitation for you and one for Lord Somerford to the Mystère Masque. It means the materials for a costume, and a mask to match. It means someone to stay with Stephen. And it means making sure you and Lord Somerford find one another at the event. Is that what you want in return for your second token?"

What could Dorcas do, except nod? She wanted to leap to her feet and embrace the lady, but something told her the action would not be appreciated. "Thank you. You have been so kind to me."

"Please keep that thought to yourself," said Mrs. Dove-Lyon, dryly. "I cannot have you ruining my reputation. I am certain those who have lost large amounts of money at my tables would not describe me as ‘kind', and nor would those who have been forbidden the premises."

Dorcas thought of the blocks and the daily chocolate biscuits and even a few illustrated books that had found their way into Stephen's possession; clearly someone not kind wouldn't have indulged the small boy of a near-stranger with such generosity. But she was prepared to indulge Mrs. Dove-Lyon in her self-deprecation and merely pursed her lips in disagreement.

Indeed, Mrs. Dove-Lyon appeared to recognize Dorcas's mental implication, for she cleared her throat and said, "Well. If any of them had such a thought, they have been shown the error of their ways. The token, if you please." She extended her hand with a regal gesture, like a queen accepting a gift from a supplicant.

Ah, yes. Dorcas took one of the remaining tokens from the tinder box and gave it to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Yes, Dorcas, you shall go to the ball .

When the golden ticket arrived, Ben was inclined to ignore it. After all, he had grown out of the phase of casual debauchery, and the Mystère Masque struck him as a celebration of such selfish youthful antics.

The note with it gave him pause. "You will find the woman of your dreams."

Increasingly, the woman of his dreams was Dorcas Anderson. She was not going to be at the Masque. Was she? He had told her not to go. But he had no right to tell her what to do, and nothing about his experience of women made him think she would obey, in any case.

The invitation came from Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She might have guessed his secret fantasies about Dorcas. He would not put it past the lady. She had a reputation for knowing everything.

Did she know he was thinking about asking her to broker him a match? With Dorcas? Perhaps that was the reason behind the ticket. Perhaps she knew without being asked and was giving him what he wanted.

After all, what could it hurt if he did go to the Masque—if he did meet this mystery woman? Either she would be Dorcas, or she wouldn't. Increasingly, no other would do, but if he found the mystery woman was not Dorcas, he did not have to do anything. Dance. Talk perhaps. Go home alone.

And if it was Dorcas? Ah. If it was! Surely that would mean she was as attracted to him as he was to her?

His mind spiraled off into all sorts of pleasant daydreams. Perhaps he had already found his bride and with only a very little help from Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

Yes. He would definitely go to the Masque. Not in an ornate costume, but perhaps not in a mere domino. He wanted Dorcas, if it was Dorcas, to recognize him, but to remain anonymous to everyone else. He could wear his dress uniform, could he not? Few people in London would know him in it. One dress uniform was, after all, much like another to those who had never had much to do with the army.

He would send his valet out to buy a full-face mask. His hair color was nothing special and would not give him away. Yes. His dress uniform and a full-face mask. That would be enough.

Before he could give the necessary instruction to his valet, he was interrupted by his butler. "My lord, Lord Augustus Seward is enquiring whether you are at home."

Is he, indeed? "Show him into the blue parlor," he told the butler, who looked as if he wanted to object. However, Seward did not deserve anything better than the blue parlor, a little room near the front door that was used for meeting tradesmen and supplicants.

He waited for several minutes, using them productively to put a firm rein on his temper. It would serve Dorcas better if he found out what Seward was up to before he smeared the man's offensive nose all over his disgusting face.

Whatever provocation Ben received, he would stay calm and try to project an air of affable neutrality. He had managed it with that dreadful cad Tiberius Hastings, who had treated his sister so abominably. He had kept his temper and pretended to be sympathetic until he had enough rope to hang the filthy hound.

Surely, he could do it again, with Seward. But somehow, the offenses to Dorcas seemed to strike Ben much closer to the bone than those to Laurel. Ben was a little alarmed at the implications.

Once the clock showed that eight minutes had passed, he made his way downstairs and entered the parlor. Seward was pacing back and forth—the room necessitating a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn every four paces.

"Ah, Somerford," said Seward. "You need to remind your butler of his duties. He has put me in this little room and has not sent me any refreshments."

Gad. The man has a hide like a rhinoceros ! He was tempted to point out that his butler was only authorized to offer hospitality to welcome visitors, but it would not serve his purpose.

"He knows I am about to go out," he said, instead. "I daresay he was reluctant to delay me. To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Seward?"

"Just wanted to drop a word in your ear, Somerford. A favor. Gentleman to gentleman." Seward tried a genial smile. A muscle twitched near one eye, spoiling the effect.

"Indeed? How very kind." Ben hoped his own imitation of geniality was more successful.

Certainly, Seward seemed to be convinced, for the nerve stopped twitching and his stiff shoulders dropped into a more relaxed position. "The thing is, Somerford, heard you got Mrs. Anderson out of jail. Thought you should know the woman is not to be trusted."

Somerford shrugged. "I was doing a favor for a friend," he said. He crossed to the hearth and peered into the mirror above the mantelpiece, using it to make minute and unnecessary adjustments to his cravat. "Someone who knows Mrs. Anderson and did not believe the charges against her."

His visitor shifted restlessly, and Somerford could see the twitching begin again in the mirror's reflection. "Who would that be, I wonder? I should warn him, too."

"Warn him of what, exactly?" Somerford managed a disinterested tone when what he really wanted was to smash Seward's teeth in. He continued looking into the mirror, which made it somehow more palatable to deal with the man.

"Ah, that is the point," Seward told him eagerly. "She is a conniving, manipulative bitch, Somerford. Not many people know this, but she seduced my brother Vespasian and tricked him into marriage. Caused a break with the family, for she was just some vicar's daughter, barely even gentry, let alone good enough for a duke's son."

Ben made a non-committal noise of interest and let go of his cravat before he accidentally choked himself.

Seward was eager to continue. "Then, when poor Ves died, she did not wait two weeks. Not two weeks, Somerford, before she tricked another poor sucker into marrying her. She waited until her son was born first, so the little bastard would have the Seward name, though I daresay he wasn't my brother's get. She was sleeping with half the regiment, you know. A woman like that? She is capable of anything."

"Is that right?" Somerford managed to say. He controlled his voice so that he sounded bored, though he was speaking through a red haze of anger.

"I wanted you to know so you would not be taken in like my brother," Seward told him. "I will tell your friend, too, if you will trust me with his name."

"So, this is a purely philanthropic call?" Ben asked, wondering what Seward's real motive was.

"It is," said Seward eagerly.

"I suppose you accused Mrs. Anderson of theft out of an excess of charity toward the gentlemen of London." Oops. Some of his real feelings escaped into his words.

Fortunately, Seward did not seem to notice. Too stupid? Or too self-involved? "I saw her in the act of stealing," he answered, drawing himself up and sticking his nose in the air. "It was my duty as a law-abiding gentleman to make the theft known to the authorities."

"Ah! You actually witnessed the act! Which was what, exactly?" He turned to look at him.

"She grabbed an apple from a passing dray, Somerford. Stole it." He pressed his hands together in a prayer position and touched his lips to the tops of his fingers. "It hurt me to take action against someone who was once so closely connected to my family," he claimed, "but a gentleman must do his duty. When she appears before the magistrate…" He broke off to smile beatifically.

"She has already appeared before the magistrate," Ben told him, his rage quivering in his belly. It would not be politic to punch Seward's smug smile right through the back of his throat, he reminded himself. "Given your commitment to justice, you will be pleased to know that the man with the dray came forward to swear on oath he had given Mrs. Anderson the apple."

There was a moment's satisfaction in Seward's look of shock, but he swiftly recovered to say, "The poxy bitch probably offered to shag him."

Ben's temper finally escaped its leash, and Seward landed on the floor, holding a bruised and bleeding nose.

The butler came to Ben's shout. "Put this trash out," Ben ordered. "Seward, tell any more lies about Mrs. Anderson, and I shall find you and thrash you to within an inch of your life. Or further."

Seward opened his mouth to protest, but Ben took a step toward him. Seward scuttled out of the door. So much for that. He still didn't know what motivated the scum, but he had not been able to stand the man a moment longer.

He stretched the pain out of his knuckles. It had been worth it.