The Marchmont Hall ballroom was long and narrow. Kit sauntered through the crowd, nodding here and there at people she knew, delighting in their confusion. Throughout, she kept mum. Those who knew her might recognize the husky quality of her voice and be sufficiently shrewd to think the unthinkable. She was perfectly aware her enterprise was scandalous in the extreme, but she’d no intention of being within Marchmont Hall when the time came to unmask.
As she drew closer to the musicians’ raised dais, she heard them tuning their instruments.
“You there, young man!”
Kit turned and beheld her hostess bearing down on her, a plain girl in tow. Holding her breath, Kit bowed, praying her mask hadn’t slipped.
“I haven’t the faintest notion who you are, dear boy, but you can dance, can’t you?”
Kit nodded, too relieved that Lady Marchmont hadn’t recognized her to realize the wisdom of denying that accomplishment.
“Good! You can partner this fair shepherdess then.”
Lady Marchmont held out the young girl’s gloved hand. Smoothly, Kit took it and bowed low. “Charmed,” she murmured, wondering frantically whether she could remember how to reverse the steps she’d been accustomed to performing automatically for the past six years.
The shepherdess curtsied. Behind her mask, Kit frowned critically. The girl wobbled too much-she should practice in front of a mirror.
Lady Marchmont sighed with relief and, with a farewell pat on Kit’s arm, left them in search of other suitable gentlemen to pair with single girls.
To Kit’s relief, the music started immediately, rendering conversation unnecessary. She and the shepherdess took their places in the nearest set and the ordeal began. By the first turn, Kit realized the cotillion was more of an ordeal for the shepherdess than herself. Kit had taught her youngest two male cousins to dance, so was acquainted with the gentleman’s movements. Knowing the lady’s movements by heart made it easy enough to remember and match the appropriate position. Her confidence grew with every step. The shepherdess, in contrast, was a bundle of nerves, unraveling steadily.
When, through hesitation, the girl nearly slipped, Kit spoke as encouragingly as she could: “Relax. You’re doing it quite well, but you’ll improve if you don’t tense so.”
A strained smile that was more like a grimace was her reward.
With an inward sigh, Kit set herself to calm the girl and instill a bit of confidence. She succeeded sufficiently well for the shepherdess to smile normally by the end of the measure and thank her effusively.
From the other side of the room, Jack surveyed the dancers. He’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier, rigged out in his “poor country squire togs,” a black half mask and a brown tie wig. For the first three minutes, all had gone well. After that, the evening had headed downhill. First, Lord Marchmont had recognized him, how he’d no idea. His host had immediately borne him off to present him to his wife. Unfortunately, she’d been standing with three other local ladies. He was now on nodding terms with the ladies Gresham, Dersingham, and Falworth.
Lady Marchmont had iced his cake with an arch pronouncement that she’d “someone” she most particularly wished him to meet. He’d suppressed a shudder, intensified by the gleam he saw in the other ladies’ eyes. They were all in league to leg-shackle him to some damn drab. Sheer panic had come to his rescue. He’d charmed his way from their sides and gone immediately in search of refreshment, remembering just in time to redevelop his limp. At least it provided an excuse not to dance. Strong liquor was what he’d needed to regain his equilibrium. Matthew had gone alone to the Blackbird, to line up their next cargo. Jack wished he was with him, with a tankard of their abominable home brew in front of him.
In the alcove off the ballroom where the drinks were set forth, he’d come upon George, a decidedly glum Harlequin. At sight of him, he’d uttered a hoot of laughter, for which George repaid him with a scowl.
“I know it looks damn stupid, but what could I do?”
“Call off the engagement?”
George threw him a withering look, then added: “Not that I’m not sure it constitutes sufficient cause.”
Jack thumped him on the shoulder. “Never mind your troubles-mine are worse.”
George studied the grim set of his lips. “They recognized you?”
Reaching for a brandy, Jack nodded. “Virtually immediately. God only knows what gave me away.”
George opened his mouth to tell him but never got the chance.
“Christ Almighty!” Jack choked on his brandy. Abruptly, he swung away from the ballroom. “What the bloody hell’s Kit doing here?”
Frowning, George looked over the guests. “Where?”
“Dancing, would you believe! With a shepherdess in pale pink-third set from the door.”
George located the slender youth dipping through the last moves of the cotillion. “You sure that’s Kit?”
Jack swallowed his “Of course I’m damned sure, I’d know her legs anywhere” and substituted a curt, “Positive.”
George studied the figure across the room. “A wig?”
“And his Sunday best,” said Jack, risking a quick glance at the ballroom. The last thing he wanted was for Kit to see him. If the Lord Lieutenant could recognize him immediately, it was certain Kit would. But she knew him as Captain Jack.
“Maybe Spencer brought him?”
“Like hell! More likely the young devil decided to come and see how the other half lives.”
George grinned. “Well, it’s safe enough. He’ll just have to leave before the unmasking and no one will be any the wiser.”
“But he’ll be a whole lot wiser if he sets eyes on either you or me.”
George’s indulgent smile faded. “Oh.”
“Indeed. So how do we remove Kit from this charming little gathering without creating a scene?”
They both sipped their brandies and considered the problem. Jack kept his back to the room; George, far less recognizable in his Harlequin suit, maintained a watchful eye on Kit.
“He’s left his partner and is moving down the room.”
“Is your fiancée here?” Jack asked. “Can you get her to take a note to Kit?”
George nodded. Jack pulled out a small tablet and pencil. After a moment’s hesitation, he scribbled a few words, then carefully folded and refolded the note. “That should do it.” He handed the square to George. “If I’m not back by the time for unmasking, make my excuses.”
Jack put his empty glass back on the table and turned to leave.
Appalled, George barred the way. “What the hell should I say? This ball was all but organized for you.”
Jack smiled grimly. “Tell them I was called away to deal with a case of mistaken identity.”
Disentangling herself from the shepherdess’s clinging adoration, Kit beat a hasty retreat, heading for the corner where she’d last seen Amy. When she got there, Amy was nowhere in sight. Drifting back along the room, Kit kept a wary eye out for the shepherdess and Lady Marchmont.
In the end, it was Amy who found her.
“Excuse me.”
Kit swung about-Amy’s Columbine mask met her eyes. Beneath her own far more concealing mask, Kit smiled in delight and bowed elegantly.
She straightened and saw a look of confusion in Amy’s clear eyes.
“I’ve been asked to deliver this note to you-Kit!”
Kit grabbed Amy’s arm and squeezed it warningly. “Keep your voice down, you goose! What gave me away?”
“Your eyes, mostly. But there was something else-something about your height and size and the way you hold your hands, I think.” Amy’s gaze wandered over Kit’s sartorial perfection, then dropped to the slim legs perfectly revealed by the clinging knee breeches and clocked stockings. “Oh, Kit!”