George’s question dragged Jack’s mind from his preoccupation. “Wear?” He frowned. “I must have a domino lying about somewhere.”
“You haven’t read this, have you?” George dropped the invitation onto the desk. “It clearly states a proper costume is mandatory. No dominos allowed.”
“Damn!” Jack read the invitation, his lip curling in disgust. “You know what this means? A string of shepherdesses and Dresden milkmaids, all either hitting you over the head with their crooks or knocking your shins with their pails.”
George laughed and settled in a chair opposite the desk. “It won’t be that bad.”
Jack raised a cynical brow. “What are you going as?”
George flushed. “Harlequin.” Jack laughed. George looked pained. “I’m told it’s one of the sacrifices I must make in light of my soon-to-be-wedded state.”
“Thank God I’m not engaged!” Jack stared at the invitation again. Then a slow smile, one George was well acquainted with, broke across his face.
“What are you going to do?” George asked, trepidation shading his tone.
“Well-it’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it?” Jack sat back, pleasurable anticipation gleaming in his eyes. “They’re expecting me to turn up, disguised but still recognizable, prime fodder for their matrimonial cannons, right?”
George nodded.
“Did I tell you I’ve heard, from an unimpeachable source, that Lady Marchmont herself has me in her sights, for some nameless protégé?”
George shook his head.
“Well, she has. It occurs to me that if I’m to attend this event at all, it had best be in a disguise which will not be readily penetrated. If I can pull that off, I’ll be able to reconnoiter the field without giving away my dispositions. I’ll go as Captain Jack, pirate and smuggler, leader of the Hunstanton Gang.”
George appeared skeptical. “What about your hair?”
“There’s a wig of my grandfather’s about somewhere. With that taken care of, I should be able to pass muster undetected, don’t you think?”
At Jack’s inquiring look, George nodded dully. With his hair covered, Jack’s height was unusual but not distinctive. However…George eyed the figure behind the desk. There weren’t many men in North Norfolk built like Jack, but he knew better than to quibble. Jack would do what Jack would do, regardless of such minor difficulties. The success of his disguise would depend on how observant the females of the district were. And most hadn’t seen Jack in ten and more years.
“Who knows?” Jack mused. “One of these females might actually suit me.”
George stared. “You mean you’re seriously considering marrying?” His tone was several degrees past incredulous.
Jack waved one hand languidly, as if the subject was not of much importance. “I’ll have to sometime, for an heir if nothing else. But don’t get the idea I’m all that keen to follow your lead. A dashed risky business, marriage, by all accounts.”
George relaxed, then took the opportunity provided by this rare allusion to a topic that Jack more normally eschewed to ask: “What sort of wife are you imagining for yourself?”
“Me?” Jack’s eyes flew wide. He considered. “She’d have to be able to support the position-be acceptable as Lady Hendon and the mother of my heir and all that.”
“Naturally.”
“Beyond that…” Jack shrugged, then grinned. “I suppose it’d make life easier if she was at least passably good-looking and could string a conversation along over the breakfast cups. Aside from that, all I’d ask is that she keep out of what are purely my concerns.”
“Ah,” said George, looking skeptical. “Which concerns are those?”
“If you imagine I’m going to settle to monogamous wedded bliss with a woman who’s only passably good-looking, you’re wrong.” Jack’s acerbity was marked. “I’ve never understood all the fuss about fidelity and marriage. As far as I can see, the two don’t necessarily connect.”
George’s lips thinned, but he knew better than to lecture Jack on that subject. “But you don’t have a mistress at present.”
Jack’s smile was blinding. “Not just at the moment, no. But I’ve a candidate in mind who’ll fill the position admirably.” His silver-grey gaze grew distant as his thoughts dwelled on Kit’s delicate curves.
George humphed and fell silent.
“Anyway,” Jack said, shaking free of his reverie, “any wife of mine would have to understand she’d have no influence in such areas of my life.” With Kit as his mistress, he couldn’t imagine even wanting a wife. He certainly wouldn’t want one to warm his bed-Kit would do that very nicely.
Chapter 14
Noise, laughter, and the distant scrape of a violin greeted Kit as she strolled up the steps of Marchmont Hall. At the door, the butler stood, sharp eyes searching each guest for the required sprig of laurel. Drawing abreast of him, Kit smiled and raised her gloved fingers to the leaves thrust through the buttonhole in her lapel.
The butler bowed. Kit inclined her head, pleased that the retainer had not recognized her. He’d seen her frequently enough in her skirts to be a reasonable test case. Confidence brimming, she sauntered to the wide double doors that gave onto the ballroom, pausing at the last to check that her plain black mask was in place, shading her eyes as well as covering her telltale mouth and chin.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, she was conscious of being examined by a large number of eyes. Her confidence wavered, then surged when no one looked more than puzzled. They couldn’t place the elegant stripling, of course. Calmly, as if considering the attention only her due, Kit strolled into the crowd milling about the dance floor. She’d had Elmina recut a cast-off evening coat belonging to her cousin Geoffrey, deepest midnight blue, and had bullied her elderly maid into creating a pair of buff inexpressibles that clung to her long limbs as if molded to them. Her blue-and-gold waistcoat had once been a brocaded underskirt; it was cut long to cover the anatomical inadequacies otherwise revealed by the tight breeches. Her snowy white cravat, borrowed from Spencer’s collection, was tied in a fair imitation of the Oriental style. The brown wig had been the biggest challenge; she’d found a whole trunk of them in the attic and had spent hours making her selection, then recutting the curls to a more modern style. All in all, she felt no little pride in her disguise.
Her principal objective was to locate Lord Hendon amid the guests. She’d imagined she’d find him being lionized by the local ladies, but a quick survey of the room brought no such interesting specimen to light. Lady Dersingham was by the musicians’ dais, Lady Gresham was seated not far from the door, and Lady Marchmont was hovering as close as she could to the portal; all three were obviously keeping watch.
Kit grinned beneath her mask. She was one their ladyships would be keen to identify; their other prime target would be her quarry. Convinced Lord Hendon had not yet arrived, Kit circulated among the guests, keeping a weather eye on one or another of her three well-wishers at all times. She was sure they’d react when the new High Commissioner darkened the doorway.
To her mind, this opportunity to evaluate Lord Hendon was unparalleled and unlikely to be repeated. She intended to study the man behind the title, and, if the facade looked promising, to investigate further. Disguised as she was, there were any number of conversational gambits with which she could engage the new High Commissioner.
Kit glimpsed Amy in her Columbine costume at the other end of the room and headed in that direction. She passed Spencer, talking farming with Amy’s father, and carefully avoided his attention. She’d convinced him to come alone in his carriage, on the grounds that she needed to arrive without his very identifying escort to remain incognito. Thinking she meant to hoodwink Amy and their ladyships, he’d agreed readily enough, assuming that she’d use the smaller carriage. Instead, she’d ridden here on Delia. She’d never brought Delia to Marchmont Hall before, so the grooms had not recognized the mare.