“Your mother?” she forced past her suddenly parched throat.
“Yes. She’ll be crowing for weeks. She worked over that damned invitation list of hers and vowed I would find a suitable bride tonight. She left nothing to chance as she wanted me well matched. And now I am. Perfectly so.”
“And you think—” It was all Ella could manage to get out.
“That you are perfect? Yes, in every way.”
Ella groaned. “Oh, this cannot be.” He couldn’t be Lord Ashe.
“I thought you knew,” he repeated.
She shook her head. “No, I never!”
“Does it make a difference?”
However was she to answer that? Did it make a difference to her? No, he was still the most wonderful man she’d ever met. But he thought her to be a lady. One of his mother’s eligible misses.
Not Ella Cynders, a mere companion. Make that a “disgraced-without-references-and-unemployed” companion.
Suddenly the blare of a trumpet pierced the solitude that had surrounded them.
“Excellent,” he said. “Time for the unmasking and our announcement.” He held out his hand for her.
“Announcement?”
“Of our engagement.” He drew her close again and kissed her forehead. “That was the point of the ball. So I could find a bride. And I have found you. If you think I am letting you go, you are most mistaken.”
“But I–I-I …” she stammered. “That is … Oh, the devil take me, this is happening too fast.”
He glanced at her as he towed her from the room. “Don’t you want to get married?”
“Well, yes,” she said without thinking, for she was too busy trying to find a way out of this muddle. She couldn’t be unmasked, couldn’t have him announce his engagement to a mere hired companion.
He’d be the laughing stock of London.
She had to tell him, and tell him quickly, that she couldn’t be his bride.
“I suppose you will want to tell your guardian first. Of course,” Lord Ashe was saying as he drew her closer and closer to the ballroom. “That is understandable.”
Tell her guardian? She didn’t have a guardi … Ella’s panic had her digging her heels into the carpet. Not that Ashe noticed her reluctance. He all but carried her along, as if her leaden steps were nothing of note.
As for Ella … She had to imagine that Mrs Garraway’s ship wouldn’t be sailing soon enough to get her out of London. Lady Osborn would have her thrown in Newgate before the sun was up, for bringing this scandal down upon them.
If I can find Mrs Garraway, maybe she can help, Ella thought desperately. Maybe she can get me out of here before …
Just then they slipped into the ballroom and Lord Ashe turned to her, beaming. “Go speak to your guardian and be ready when I call for you.” He winked. “Just for a few more moments, and then you will be mine always.” Before she could stop him, before she could confess the truth, he turned and strode confidently, proudly, through the crowd, towards the dais where his mother was waiting for him to announce the unmasking.
Ella drew an unsteady breath as he moved away from her. The further he went the more she felt him slipping away.
“There you are!” Lady Osborn said, coming up from behind her. “Where have you been, Pamela?” And then she looked at the young lady she assumed was her daughter.
Ella had to imagine that her hasty attempt to salvage her costume and her tumbled hair had failed given the lady’s wide-eyed expression of horror.
“What have you done?” she hissed, coming closer and taking Ella by the arm, dragging her towards the door. “Who did this to you? Is it that wretched Lord Percy? Because if he thinks to press his suit in this sort of despicable manner, he is sadly mistaken. Your father and I will never allow you—” By now Lady Osborn had dragged Ella out to the foyer and had her pinned in an alcove. The lady stood so close that not only could she see every bit of evidence of Ella’s rumpled condition, but one other pertinent fact.
That the girl she held wasn’t her daughter.
“Ella!” she said, releasing her and stepping back.
“Lady Osborn,” Ella replied, tipping her head, and fixing her gaze on the floor.
The matron glanced around and then caught Ella by the arm, rattling her like a rag doll. “Where is my daughter?”
Ella bit her lip and tried to speak. She tried to confess the truth, but the woman was hurting her, her unforgiving grasp like a pair of steel pinchers.
“Never mind, I can guess.” Lady Osborn pulled her towards the door. “She’s run off with that wicked boy.”
Ella took a furtive glance at the ballroom, where Lord Ashe stood unmasked. She could see him scanning the room, looking for her.
The last thing she saw before Lady Osborn hauled her out the door was the startled expression on his handsome face as he caught sight of her.
But it was too late. Ella was about to pay the piper for her impetuous nature and there was naught her knight could do to reach her in time.
The Ashe Ball — 1815
Ella took a deep breath when the carriage stopped before the Ashe townhouse. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t.
But now it was far too late to back out, for too many others had put their own employment on the line for her to disavow them.
Oh, Hazel, what did I let you do? she thought, as the handsome footman — one of three — opened the door and held out his hand to her. This was all Hazel’s doing — the elegant carriage driven by a well-appointed set of matching white horses, a coachman, and three footmen, all courtesy of the Marquess of Holbech, who was currently in Scotland at his hunting box and had no knowledge of his brand-new and as-yet-unmarked carriage being used in this manner.
But Hazel’s flirtatious romance with one of his footmen was enough to gain its illicit use. And, as it turned out, the Marquess’ old coachman had a romantic streak. He managed to rummage up some old, unremarkable livery for them to wear so they wouldn’t be identified.
“Remember, madam,” Hazel’s swain said quietly as he handed Ella down to the kerb. “Before midnight. We must be away.”
She nodded, drawing her cloak around her and pulling its hood down over her face. She ascended the stairs to the grand front door. Other guests were arriving as well and there was a bit of a queue to enter — for each guest had to present their invitation to pass inside.
As she neared the door, a familiar voice cut through the excited whispers around her. “I say, I have an invitation but it was stolen!” Lady Fitzsimon complained. “Now let us in!”
Ella glanced up to find the matron and her daughter standing before the butler, holding up the procession. Ella was glad for her mask, and did a second check to make sure her gown wasn’t showing under the concealing cloak. But still, if the lady recognized her …
Not that this was likely to happen, for Lady Fitzsimon was in a rare mood, facing down the Ashe butler like Wellington’s troops charging forth. She was going to breach this party if it took her all night.
The butler snapped his fingers at one of the footmen to continue checking invitations so the front steps didn’t turn into a crush.
Ella handed over her invite and held her breath until the man waved her inside, and began checking the invitations of the others behind her. She hurried along, Lady Fitzsimon’s shrill notes chasing her inside.
“I say, I was invited!” the matron complained, her voice rising sharply, almost hysterically. “I will not be denied entrance. If you would but tell Lady Ashe to come to the door, she would order you immediately to admit me and my daughter.”
“Madam,” the butler intoned, “Lady Ashe’s rules are simple. No invitation, no entrance.”