Jack Lark: Rogue (8 page)

When he got close enough, he handed over the thick cream invitation card that Edmund had passed to him along with the costume. It was decorated with gilt swirls and flourishes, and Jack had struggled to decipher the golden script that flowed across its face. The writing bore little resemblance to the simple letters his mother had insisted he learn, but it looked important and was clearly expensive. He wondered at the sanity of the rich, who could waste money on such a frippery.

The servant read the invitation in a single glance before bowing at the waist and raising an arm to usher Jack inside. Another servant immediately slipped in front of him to escort him forward, and Jack followed him into the town house’s enormous hallway, certain that everyone would be able to hear the noise of his racing heart pounding away in his chest.

He had to do his best not to draw a loud breath as he entered the grandest building he had ever seen. His spurs clinked on the marble floor, the noise loud even over the sound of the string quartet stationed in the corner of the hallway. It was a vast and imposing space with enormous fluted columns lining the walls. An immense staircase swept down towards the entrance, its banisters of dark carved wood. Every spindle was made from twisted ironwork that must have taken a day’s work to create, yet now their beauty was lost in the splendour of so much assembled finery.

‘This way, sir.’

The servant led Jack forward, his pace slowing. Jack did not think he had ever been called ‘sir’ before; he felt his confidence build. No one was questioning his right to be there. He had turned up in the right clothes and with the correct piece of fancy card. It appeared that that was sufficient, all that was needed to gain access to a part of society that he was not even fit to serve.

His thoughts distracted him and he tripped, the rapier at his waist catching the spur on his right heel. He stumbled, the sudden noise making heads swivel in his direction. The servant leading him turned, a supercilious sneer visible as his expressionless mask slipped for just a fraction of a second.

Jack straightened. It was hard not to laugh out loud. It would be a treat to wipe the smug bastard’s face clean. He pictured the servant’s reaction should he open his mouth and reveal his true origins. It was a pleasing notion, but he kept his lip buttoned and followed the servant as they moved further into the building. He wanted to see more of the strange world that he had not known existed.

They passed through a second set of wide double doors and entered a cavernous room. Golden drapes covered the windows, their shade matching the gilding on the richly panelled walls, which were painted a delicate cream with detailing picked out in green. There were more chandeliers than Jack could count, the room fabulously bright, the chime of the glass beads just about audible in a pause in the music being played by a hidden orchestra.

The servant turned, his arm sweeping in a grand gesture indicating that Jack should find a place in the ballroom, then moved away quickly, leaving him alone. With nothing else to do, Jack eased his way into the crowd of people pressed around the room’s periphery. The fabulously dressed throng lined the wall in small groups, the buzz of their conversation underscoring the music. Yet Jack saw how few of them actually looked at one another, their masked faces constantly turning this way and that as they scrutinised other guests, as if always searching for alternative company.

It was hard to make any progress in the press of people, who guarded their places with determination. Jack got the sense that each spot was chosen with care, the positioning a calculated indication of some hidden status.

He eased his way through a group of gossiping women, the smell of their rich perfumes catching in his throat, each one vying for dominance and leaving the air heavy and cloying. He caught bits of conversation, the women speaking fast and low as they tittle-tattled.

He slipped past a man in golden robes with a crimson turban wrapped around his head, topped off with a single giant ostrich feather. In the centre of the turban was an enormous jewel the colour of blood. For a moment, Jack paused, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated the value of such a gem. Then it caught the light and he saw the dull patina revealed, the paste jewel as fake as the costume. The man saw the direction of Jack’s gaze and dipped his head in acknowledgement. It was enough to set Jack’s nerves on edge, and he moved on as quickly as he could, until he found a gap in the crowd where he could pause and savour a moment of relative freedom.

He felt his courage build. He had made it into the heart of the ball. Now all he had to do was avoid being thrown out. It was time to make himself at home.

The wine tasted like nothing he had ever drunk before. He had accepted it from a servant’s tray, drawn to the deep, dark red liquid in a thick-stemmed crystal glass. The taste of it overpowered him and he felt tears form in his eyes as he swallowed his first rich mouthful.

He took another, more circumspect sip and surveyed the room. He had never seen anything like it. Some guests, the younger ones, with the firm, lithe bodies, were dancing, their claps of delight and short gasps of laughter revealing their enjoyment as they followed the intricate routines. Jack had danced before, and if pressed, he might even admit to having enjoyed it. But what he was watching that day bore no relation to the wild jigs that sometimes erupted in his mother’s palace when a wandering fiddler managed to disturb the crowd from their gin.

Less agile bodies lined the walls, heads leaning close to one another as they gossiped behind the large fans that were also used to indicate the younger members of the throng cavorting across the room. The noise of their conversation was a constant drone underscoring the music, their catty observations and caustic slights only pausing in the gaps between dances.

Jack’s eyes followed the movements of one dancer in particular. She was dressed in a complicated array of gossamer-thin silks, wrapped around her in such a way that barely any imagination was needed to picture the pert young body hidden underneath. He felt his breath catch in his throat as she twirled past, a tall young man dressed as some sort of knight looking desperately clumsy as he trailed in her wake. The girl was captivating, her beauty a delicate perfection, and Jack could not help but stare.

‘Edmund!’

Jack started as someone tapped him on the elbow. He turned and looked into the golden mask of an older man dressed in a sumptuous swathe of white fabric decorated with purple edges. He caught a glimpse of the keen blue eyes hidden behind the mask and shivered as his gut churned with a sudden fear.

‘Stop staring at that poor girl. You look like a dog on heat.’ The admonition was delivered quickly and quietly. ‘And do not drink so quickly. I don’t want Clemence to have to carry you home like last time, is that clear?’

Jack managed to get his head to nod. The wine he had drunk settled heavy and sour in his stomach and he wanted to puke. The man speaking to him was clearly Edmund’s father, and Jack was certain he was moments away from being denounced as a fraud and an impostor.

‘Caesar! Oh bravo, Sir Humphrey, bravo indeed!’ Another man addressed Edmund’s father. He was dressed as a Highlander, with an enormous bonnet atop a fat face with great ginger whiskers billowing around a plain white mask.

‘Good evening, Lord Turner.’ Edmund’s father beamed in welcome, clearly recognising the man badly hidden behind the costume. ‘May I present my son, Edmund.’

To Jack’s horror, he was ushered forward.

Lord Turner lifted a huge paw and offered it. For a moment, Jack could do nothing but stare.

‘Edmund!’ Sir Humphrey hissed the words, his embarrassment clear as Jack left the hand hanging.

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ Jack blurted the words and shook the sweating hand. He could barely breathe as he waited for Edmund’s father to explode, certain that his attempt to mimic Edmund’s upper-class drawl was about as effective as Jem’s efforts at being a footpad.

‘Och, you’re a canny wee fellow.’ Lord Turner laughed at his own dreadful attempt at a Scottish accent. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Edmund, I most borrow your father for a moment. Sir Humphrey, I’d like to speak to you about a little business matter, if I may?’

Jack stepped back as the two men moved away. His head filled with a roar of triumph as he revelled in his success as a charlatan.

‘Ow!’

He turned, half spilling his wine, as soon as he heard the exclamation of pain.

‘You trod on my foot, you great clumsy beast.’

He was face to face with the beautiful girl he had watched on the dance floor.

‘Can you not look where you are going!’ The girl lifted her foot and massaged it in both hands, her movements fluid and balanced.

‘I’m sorry.’ A heady mix of wine, success and desire fuelled Jack’s confidence. Edmund had told him to talk to no one unless it was strictly necessary, but he could not help himself. The girl captivated him. He did not think he had ever seen anyone quite so perfectly formed, and he would not forgo what might be his only chance to ever talk to someone like her.

‘As well you should be.’ The girl’s mask was nothing more than a thin silk veil that did little to hide her face. ‘Who are you?’ She snapped the words. They were an order rather than a question. She let her foot go and stood in front of him. She was a good deal shorter than him and she was forced to crane her neck back so that she could scowl up at his mask.

‘Edmund Ponsonby.’

‘From where?’

‘London.’ Jack had no idea what he was supposed to say.

The girl frowned. ‘Who is your father?’

‘That man over there.’ Jack gestured with his wine glass, nearly spilling the last of its contents on to the floor.

The frown deepened. ‘Do I know you?’

Jack’s tongue felt as if it had been tied in knots. ‘No, I don’t think so. I am not often in town.’ He forced the words out. Even he wanted to laugh at his attempt at an upper-class accent. It sounded fake, but the girl appeared to notice nothing amiss.

‘I see.’ She already sounded bored. ‘Do you know George?’

‘George?’ Jack’s confidence was slipping.

‘It is his party.’ The girl was scowling now.

‘I am afraid I ain’t had the pleasure.’

The girl looked as if Jack had suddenly farted. ‘Where did you say you came from?’

Jack put his glass to his mouth. His confidence was running away quicker than a pickpocket from a peeler.

‘I say, you are drunk already.’ The girl’s hands went to her hips and she shook her head like a despairing mother confronting a wayward child. ‘What jolly bad form.’ She turned on her heel and was gone in moments, leaving Jack trembling. But he still had the wherewithal to stare at her behind as she flounced away.

He finished his wine. The fleeting conversation had left him in no doubt that it was time to hide. He would have to idle away two hours at least before he could hand over Edmund’s note. It should be easy to find a hidey-hole in such a grand mansion. Then he could beat a retreat and head back to where he belonged.

He stepped away, pushing past a pair of short, rather dumpy women dressed in wide-hipped dresses, and headed for the door of the ballroom. He had nearly made it outside when his attention was diverted by a table covered in tiny cakes laid out on elegant china stands.

His stomach rumbled. He needed something to soak up the wine that sat heavy in his gut, and if he had to sit and wait out the evening then at least he would do it with something to eat.

The table was not popular, with few guests paying any attention to the sweet treats laid out for their delectation. Jack moved quickly, picking up a heavy napkin in which he planned to stash a dozen or so of the pretty little cakes, but immediately found his path blocked by the back of a large woman dressed in a tight-fitting dark-blue gown. As he waited for her to move, another guest, a man dressed all in green so that he resembled some sort of tree, clattered into Jack’s back, knocking him forward and driving the hilt of his rapier into the voluptuous woman’s backside. To his horror, she turned and faced him.

‘Sir Cavalier!’ she screeched loudly as she ran her eyes over him. ‘Were you poking me with your sword!’ It was followed by the sort of giggle only someone two sheets to the wind could give.

Jack backed away. The woman loomed large, her enormous bosoms bulging over the rim of a tight bronze breastplate. On her head was some kind of helmet with a pair of enormous wings sticking out, one on either side.

‘I am dreadfully sorry,’ Jack stammered. The dirty smile plastered across the woman’s ample cheeks bore the familiar flush of the inebriated. It was a look he recognised well.

‘Do not apologise, young sir!’ the woman squealed as Jack backed away. She came after him, her hands reaching for him. Jack’s back was pressed hard against the pair of gossips and he was trapped. ‘I fancy I rather like being poked.’

The woman’s hands dropped low and began rummaging below his belt. Jack’s eyes widened as he felt her fingers take him firmly in their grasp. He gasped and made to pull away, but she held him fast.

‘You are such a dashing Cavalier.’ The woman shivered with pleasure. With her right hand firmly planted, she lifted her left and knocked Jack’s wide-brimmed hat to the floor before seizing the back of his neck, pulling his head forward and plunging his face into her heaving bosom.

Jack was too astonished to react. His assailant pushed his face in deeper, his mask slipping upwards so that his nose and mouth were smothered in warm cleavage.

‘Edmund!’

Jack barely registered Edmund’s father shouting at him, his hearing muffled by the wide expanse of flesh that engulfed his head.

‘Edmund, what the devil are you doing?’ He felt a hand pull at his shoulder and was wrenched free from his sweaty, pungent prison. ‘What do you think you are playing at? I should . . .’

Sir Humphrey stammered to silence as he saw Jack’s face, his mask left firmly embedded in the woman’s bosom.

‘Who the devil are you?’

‘I . . .’ Jack was struggling to breathe. He was given no time to form a coherent sentence. Edmund’s father grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him forward so that their faces were no more than an inch apart.