“You’ve become an entirely troublesome wench,” he said, smiling to soften his words. “It seems it would have been easier for me if I had accepted your first offer.”
“Easier for the nonce,” she said, “but only think of the long run—shackled to the troublesome wench till death did us part.”
His lips opened in a slow, bemused smile. “At the rate you career along, death would not have been far away,” he murmured. When Emma subjected him to a long, close scrutiny, for the tone did not match the words, he made an involuntary motion toward her.
Emma noticed a new look in his eye. She sensed some new feeling in the air, a charged atmosphere that made her uncomfortably excited, as if the blood had all rushed to her head. She changed the subject abruptly. “Now, about the party.”
Nick shook himself back to attention. What was he thinking of? It would be ungentlemanly to strike up a flirtation with Emma when he had no intention of offering for her. She was a damnably attractive wench, but she had proved her ineligibility half a dozen times since reaching London. She didn’t know how to address the ton, she galloped in Rotten Row—she didn’t even know Romeo and Juliet died! In fact, it was deuced odd that a fellow so high in the instep as Sanichton was interested in her. The thought of Sanichton caused an angry wince.
“You must go in the disguise of some fairly risqué historical character, to make clear to Sanichton you’re no better than you should be,” he said.
“Salome, perhaps?” she suggested. “Though I don’t know quite what one would wear. Diaphanous veils, I daresay. Or perhaps Mary Magdalene. She was no better than she should be. I’ve seen pictures of her. She usually wears scarlet.”
He blinked. “Stop! I didn’t mean quite that risqué! Next you will be saying Lady Godiva, to save the bother of any costume at all.”
“No, my hair isn’t long enough to play Godiva. It would leave me—exposed,” she said, glancing down at her body.
Hansard felt a heat building up at her suggestions. “It is only Sanichton we hope to disgust, not the whole of Society.”
“Are you suggesting my undraped body is disgusting?” she asked, bridling.
“I am hardly in a position to know, nor do I wish to discuss it. You will wear a costume. Perhaps go as Madame de Pompadour, in a French court gown and one of those high, powdered wigs.” He studied her a moment, envisaging how she would look. Despite his best efforts she kept turning into Lady Godiva before his very eyes.
“A powdered wig? That sounds uncomfortable. How will you go, Nick?”
“As a mail-coach driver, in a red jacket with blue collar and cuffs, with a horn to clear the way. It was my ambition when I was a youth.”
“Really? That’s something you share with Derek, only he actually did it for a while. I would have thought you’d want to be prime minister.”
“Oh no, I wasn’t born old. I had my foolish dreams, once.”
Lord James had become bored with his own company and joined them before Emma could follow up this interesting lead. James was so fascinated with the notion of a masquerade that he forgot he was sulking and entered wholeheartedly into the spirit of the thing.
“Emma shall go as Aphrodite, goddess of love!” he declared.
“Nick thinks I should go as Madame de Pompadour,” Emma told him.
“A French harlot! Really, Emma. Have you no shame?” Nick bristled up at such loose talk in front of a lady, but James rattled on, unheeding. “You must be Aphrodite, so beautiful the wind lost its breath in admiration as she rose from the sea in the pearly mist of dawn.”
“What sort of gown did she wear?” Emma asked.
“She rose from the waves au naturel. Don’t explode, Cousin,” he added aside to Nick. “Naturally we must portray her at a later date, after the three Graces had adorned her in clothes of shimmering hues, bejeweled, in a golden chariot pulled by doves.”
“Poor doves,” Emma said, laughing.
“Fortunate above all creation to be given the honor,” he said, bowing. “And I, of course, shall go as Ares, god of war, her lover, in gleaming golden, plumed helmet, brandishing a sword. A warrior always works his way with the ladies.”
“Why not as her husband?” Nick asked, curious.
“Because she didn’t love Hephaestus. He was a hardworking bore.
You
might go as Hephaestus, Cousin,” he added nonchalantly to Nick.
“I think not, thank you.”
Emma blushed. He still resented her impetuous offer after all this time.
“The role of Ares particularly suits me,” James continued, unaware of any discomfort in his listeners. “I have always felt an affinity with the poor, beleaguered fellow. His papa, Zeus, called him the worst of his children, just as Papa calls me. But the gods loved him. He survived and prospered. Yes, I shall go as Ares.”
Nick turned to Emma. “And you, Emma?” he asked. “Will you go as de Pompadour?”
“No, I believe I shall go as Aphrodite,” she said. “I cannot like to go as a French courtesan when I have been nagging at Sanichton about his friend’s infidelity.”
“Aphrodite was hardly innocent in that respect,” Nick pointed out.
James said firmly, “It is settled, Cousin. Emma and I are going as Aphrodite and Ares. We shall be happy to arrange the details of the party for you. No doubt you have more serious matters to attend to— eh, Hephaestus?” he added slyly.
“As a matter of fact, I do. It is to be a smallish party, James. Don’t go building an amphitheater in the ballroom.”
James winced. “The amphitheater is of Roman origin, Cousin. Actually Etrusco-Campanian, but not Greek. I am not likely to make such an egregious error as that. A few Corinthian columns, strategically placed, with amphorae and marble busts on top, will be sufficient to set the mood. You can hire them from Covent Garden for a pittance.”
When Nick took a deep breath, Emma knew he was about to ring a peel over them and hastened to prevent it.
“The party hasn’t a Grecian theme, James,” she said. “It is only you and I who are dressing as Greek deities. I’m sure Nick’s ballroom will do fine just as it is.”
James thought a moment, then conceded that he had gotten carried away. “For me, there will be only the two of us at the party, but I take your point.”
Emma went to speak to Hansard’s aunt Gertrude. She and Miss Foxworth volunteered to write up the invitations. They settled on a date three days hence.
After Emma had left the saloon, James turned a questioning eye on his cousin. “You realize Sanichton will abhor the idea of a masquerade party, Cousin? It is the reason he turned off his last flirt. And to see Emma and me as lovers—he’ll have uphill work keeping his jealousy on the leash. I shouldn’t be surprised if he forgets himself and says
demme.”
“I realize it,” Nick replied.
James’s face melted into a winning smile. “You are the best of cousins. Do you know, I was beginning to take the absurd notion that you had changed your mind about me and Emma? I even accused you, in my heart, of trying to divert Emma’s love from me by putting Sanichton forward. I have wronged you, Cuz. You were only exculpating my strange ways by exposing her to that consummate bore. You are throwing this masquerade to prevent his offering for my Emma.”
“If you say so.”
“Truth to tell, I was beginning to worry about Sanichton. Now that I know I have your approval, I shall repay you by mending my errant ways and proving an exemplary husband. My Ares days are over—except for the masquerade, of course. No more squabbling with Papa. I shall
settle down,”
he said, adopting a noble mien, as if he were declaring his resignation to a heinous death.
Rising, he rubbed his blackened eye. “I feel like Mark Anthony after a gaudy night with Cleopatra.” His motions, when he rose to leave, were unsteady. Nick figured the thrashing he had been subjected to had something to do with his promise of reformation. It wouldn’t last, of course—but it might last long enough to fool Emma.
Nick’s scheme to turn Sanichton off had borne strange and unwanted fruit. He could see, when Emma and James were together, that there was still a mutual attraction. They were both impetuous. They were apt to leap first and gauge the distance after. And she was eager to have someone to put forward to stave off her papa’s visit. Had he just done something remarkably foolish?
Chapter Fifteen
The next day was spent making preparations for the masquerade party. The major arrangements were handled by the servants, of course. Emma, Hansard, and James planned a trip to the costumer in the morning to hire their outfits. Before they got away, Lord Sanichton’s carriage arrived, and its extremely disturbed occupant came striding into Nick’s saloon.
After bowing and greeting Emma, he said in a thin voice to Nick, “Might I see you in private a moment, Hansard?”
James, never one to keep his tongue between his teeth, asked mischievously, “Do let us all hear your complaint, Sanichton.”
Sanichton stiffened and said, “Who said anything about a complaint?”
“Your chin said it, my dear fellow. When a man’s chin takes to riding two inches higher than usual and his shoulders stiffen like concrete, he has either endured a thrashing or a complaint is forthcoming. Naturally you have done nothing to merit a thrashing,” he said, making it sound like an insult.
Sanichton gave him a scalding look. “No doubt you would be familiar with complaints and thrashings, Lord James.”
“Who better? It is Emma’s masquerade party, I expect, that has brought you pelting
ventre à terre
to cast aspersions on the innocent scheme?”
Sanichton glanced warily at Emma. “I did wish to have a word about it, as a matter of fact.” As Hansard made no move to arrange privacy for the discussion, he took a seat and emptied his budget in front of them all. “Naturally you wish to entertain Lady Capehart during her visit, Hansard, but I really cannot think a masquerade party is the way to set about it. Lady Capehart would not realize the danger inherent in such carrying on.”
Emma batted her long lashes and asked, “Whatever can you mean, milord? I particularly asked Nick if I might have one—when he mentioned having a little do for me, you know. I have always loved a masquerade party above anything.”
Frustration consumed Lord Sanichton. The last thing he wanted was to deprive Emma of her treat, yet to see this innocent girl fall prey to the licentiousness of masked villains was more than he could tolerate.
“You are speaking of innocent country parties,” he said. “In London, the masquerade has become an excuse for every wretched excess. Drunkeness, immodesty in dress, licentiousness. I should think you’d know better, Hansard.”
“You may be sure that is not the sort of party that will occur under my roof,” Nick said, mounting his high horse.
Lord James was even more irate. “Really, milord! You forget yourself. This is nothing else but an assault on Hansard’s character to suggest he would permit anything of the sort. I don’t know about you, Cousin,” he said, turning to Nick, “but if anyone spoke so churlishly to me, I would call him out on the spot.”
Sanichton saw that Nick was glaring at him, Emma was regarding him with distinct disfavor, and young James was bent on making mischief.
“Naturally I didn’t mean Hansard would wittingly be party to such excesses,” he said. “I hope you know me better than that, Hansard. It is the matter of wearing disguises that leads folks astray. Hide a man’s face, and he feels free to give vent to his lowest cravings. And with an innocent little creature like Lady Capehart—”
“Ah, but you misunderstand the matter, Sanichton,” Nick said smoothly. “I am inviting only ladies and gentlemen to the party, not a parcel of debauchees. I trust my friends can behave themselves, even with the upper half of their faces hidden.”
“If you feel the temptation will prove too strong for you, Sanichton—” James said. Sanichton gave a
bah
of disgust. “A man of character will hardly turn into a wild beast only because he wears a mask,” James added. “Only a craven coward would behave so.”
Sanichton saw that he was being shown in a poor light. Emma was regarding him suspiciously, as if he might assault her, if he had the concealment of a mask.
“It’s true it will be a small, private party, with only the cream of Society,” he said, frowning and wringing his hands. “Not like a public brawl at the Pantheon. No doubt you’ve heard of the wretched excesses perpetrated there?”
“Not all that wretched,” James said, with an air of authority. “I’ve seen more drunkards at the Duchess of Memme’s balls. Or were you referring to the light-skirts, Sanichton?”
“There is no need to discuss this in front of Lady Capehart,” he said stiffly. Then he turned to Nick. “If you can guarantee there will be no improper behavior, then Lady Margaret and I will be happy to attend.”
Nick stared at him as if he were looking at some reprehensible lower form of life. “I am not in the habit of guaranteeing security for my guests. Surely that is taken for granted. If you feel the least concern for your safety, then naturally you must not put yourself out to attend. I accept your excuse for declining.”
“It’s not myself I’m worried about! It is Lady Capehart. And, of course, Margaret.”
“Very considerate, Sanichton,” Nick replied, his nostrils thinning, “but there’s no need for you to concern yourself for the safety of a lady under my roof.”
Sanichton realized his concern for Lady Capehart had led him into a grave social solecism. “Of course. I’m sorry I offended you, Hansard. Naturally you will take every precaution for Lady Capehart’s safety. I don’t know if you heard the tale, but it happens my cousin Miss Trueman was viciously assaulted at a masquerade party in Brighton by a drunken officer. A chap from an excellent family, too. My cousin, I fear, was not wholly innocent. She wore a somewhat revealing costume. Again, the masquerade was used as a pretext for immodesty. The matter was hushed up, but it has left me with a distaste for masked parties.”
“If you feel that way, I don’t think you should come,” Emma said at once. “We would not want you to be uncomfortable all evening. We quite understand, don’t we, Nick?”
“Oh, no! I shall come,” Sanichton said. Emma stared at Nick with a stricken look on her face. Sanichton turned to her and asked in a conciliating tone, “And what costume have you chosen, Lady Capehart?”