She reminded herself that she did not seek to be admired. In fact this costume might garner her more
admiration
than she could handle. On the other hand, discretion in dress would
stand out here like a cherry in a bowl of peas. She twitched the
stomacher just a little higher, assuring herself she would only go out
among the revelers for a little while, and would be very careful.
She couldn’t help wonder what would happen if she met Cyn like this.
Would he recognize her? Surely not. Would he admire her? She pushed
such speculations out of mind. He’d be more likely to put her over his
knee. For tonight, she’d keep well out of Cyn Malloren’s way.
As for other admirers, all the men appeared to be drunk and she
should be able to dodge and outwit them. It was not as if there was a
shortage of willing females.
Finally, the mask. She tied on a black velvet half-mask, which had
the added advantage of securing the wig. She nodded at her reflection.
She wouldn’t know herself.
There was only one pair of shoes and they were too small. Nerissa Trclyn made much of her tiny feet.
Chastity shrugged. She doubted anyone would be surprised to see
someone in bare feet in this house. As a last gesture, she picked up a
vial of perfume, but when she smelt it, she grimaced at the heavy,
sickly rose odor.
She remembered the perfume Cyn had bought. What had he done with it?
She returned to Heatherington’s bedroom, locking the adjoining door,
and rummaged in Cyn’s bag. She found the crystal vial. She unstoppered
it and sniffed with delight at the complex blend of spice and flowers,
underlaid with elements that spoke of lust. She hesitated, wondering if
wearing it might not be dangerous in this place, then told herself that
such a discreet invitation to intimacy would be swamped by all the
other odors. She wanted to wear it for herself, because it was
wonderful, and made her feel powerful in her womanhood. She dabbed some
at her elbows and between her breasts.
The aroma drifted up warm from her body to dizzy her mind. Cyn
Malloren had exquisite taste. What a shame, she thought, that their
fates would keep them apart.
Chastity admitted the truth. Part of her desperation to find out who
was here tonight was a forlorn hope that she could glean some
information with which to help repair her reputation. Then she could
meet Cyn on honest ground.
She swallowed tears at such a hopeless task, but would not give in
to them. She had learned to be a fighter and this was the only chance
of a weapon to come her way.
Still, Chastity needed a full goblet of the rich hock before she had
enough courage to venture out. Then, with a last reassuring glance at
the stranger in the mirror, she cautiously opened the door. The
corridor was deserted, though it was only too clear that most of the
rooms were still in use. She locked the bedroom door and slipped the
key down her bodice, shivering slightly at the chill.
Or perhaps it was nerves.
She needed to mingle with the throng below, but didn’t fancy
descending the wide main stairs in clear view of anyone who cared to
look up. She guessed there would be a lesser staircase at the end of
the building and went that way. She found the secondary stairs and
encountered only a couple of bosky servants before attaining the ground
floor. A short passageway brought her to the edge of the hall.
It was quieter than it had been when she arrived, and only a
half-dozen sleepy or drunk people were sprawled about. She cautiously
drifted by them. Five were male. The sixth was an unmasked woman
snoring in a man’s arms, but no one she recognized.
Chastity guessed the other revelers were in the various rooms.
Laughter, chatter, and music seemed to swirl from all quarters, but
above all echoed singing from the back of the house. It was accompanied
by clapping and stamping feet, and occasional roars of approval.
Chastity had experienced the ripe choral style of Heatherington and
his friends, and had no desire for more. She headed in the other
direction, the side of the hall closest to where she stood.
If this house remained as it was built in the days of King James,
the rooms would run from one to the other around three sides of the
hall. She started at the front.
She entered a small dining room where two couples were rolling
together on the floor. Chastity couldn’t tell who they were, and her
nerve wasn’t up to going close enough to find out. She hurried into the
next room, a much better populated one.
This was a gaming room with all the knife-edged intensity to be
expected of people who chose cards and dice over bodies. Men and women,
masked and unmasked, moved fortunes over the tables, watching cards and
dice with feverish, glittering eyes. Chastity shuddered. She’d always
seen something evil in gaming.
Still, she took a deep breath and began to work her way around the
room, scrutinizing the players. Heavens, there was old Lady Fanshaw.
There was no weapon in that, however. The world knew she was mad for
cards and would go to hell itself for a game. In fact, thought
Chastity, she would find nothing here. If she revealed that the queen
herself was here at play, everyone would yawn.
As she headed for the next room a hand snared her wrist. “Alone,
cara
?” She was jerked down onto a middle-aged man’s lap. “Come, bring me luck.” He paddled his plump fingers over her breasts.
Chastity suppressed an urge to struggle. Nothing was more likely to
cause speculation. Instead she collapsed against his chest and draped
her hands around his neck. He chuckled and turned his attention back to
the game. Chastity watched through the slits of her mask, and when she
saw from his avid expression that the hand was approaching a crucial
point, she wriggled provocatively and kissed his cheek.
As she’d planned, he pushed her away. “The devil, woman. I can’t see me cards!”
She gave a pout and escaped. That had been easy. She had to confess
she was beginning to enjoy herself. Behind the anonymity of her
disguise, she felt safer than ever in her life. She wasn’t Lady
Chastity Ware. She wasn’t a disgraced woman. She wasn’t even Charles.
She was newborn.
Alerted by a shout of laughter, she stopped to look at the play at another table. Here, the stakes were not money at all.
A black woman was dicing against all corners. Men rolled the dice,
but quite a few women watched the game. If a man threw eight or less,
the negress added his guineas to the pile before her. If he threw more
he kept his gold, and she lowered her bodice a fraction and raised her
skirt a good inch. Her pink silk bodice hung on her nipples, exposing
most of a magnificent chocolate-colored chest. Her skirt was halfway up
her thighs.
The dicing grew feverish. Chastity too was caught in the fascination
of waiting for that bodice to fall. Three men rolled and lost. The
negress laughed with a flash of fine white teeth. “Who now, gentlemen?
It lacks but ten to the hour. When the clock strikes, I rearrange my
clothing and we start all over again.”
Two more men rushed forward to roll the dice. Again they failed.
A long white hand adorned with a ruby signet scooped up the ivories. “Your fate has arrived, Sable.”
Chastity stifled a gasp.
It was the Marquess of Rothgar.
He must surely have just arrived, for he was impeccable in crimson
brocade trimmed with black. Snowy lace foamed at his neck and wrists.
His black hair was unpowdered. His fine, handsome features seemed
carved in marble in the flickering candlelight.
The negress, Sable, grinned. “I win anyway, milord, for if I lose, you win me.”
Rothgar shook the dice in the box. “How charming. Perhaps I need a house-slave…”
The woman’s grin became predatory. “Not if you value your neck, milord.”
Rothgar smiled coolly and threw. Two sixes gave him the definitive victory. A roar of approval shook the room.
Sable scooped all her winnings into a pouch at her belt, then stood.
She twitched sinuously and the pink silk of her loose bodice slithered
to her waist, evoking a collective groan from the men. Dusky melons in
truth, thought Chastity. Rothgar, she noted, looked politely
unimpressed.
Sable slowly inched up her skirt until she was naked to the waist,
and tucked it into her waistband. She twisted before all the watchers,
revealing a dark, curly thatch between her legs. Then she swayed over
to Rothgar and walked her fingers up his chest to his jaw. “Well,
milord, would you waste this on scrubbing floors? Did I mention that
you only win me for the night?”
“Alas,” he said, and flicked open a gold snuffbox, “and these floors are not even mine. Your foot, slave.”
Sable stepped back, and with perfect balance stretched up one leg
before him. He placed a pinch of the brown powder on her instep and
cupped her heel. He inhaled the snuff, first into one nostril then the
other.
When he straightened his head he retained her heel, keeping her leg
stretched up. Sable showed neither physical nor mental discomfort. In
fact, perhaps at a signal from him, she swayed over backward, went into
a slow handstand, and from there back to her feet facing him. The
maneuver gave all the watchers a fine view of her private parts, which
were naturally or unnaturally a scarlet red. Cherry nether lips!
Chastity realized she was gaping and shut her mouth with a snap.
Rothgar applauded gently. He held out a hand, and as if she had been
the finest lady, correctly dressed, led Sable from the room.
Chastity sucked in a breath. She’d never even imagined anything like
that, and it had leeched away her feelings of confidence. She was badly
out of her depth in this company. She longed to flee back to her room
to hide under the covers and wait for morning.
But she still had her mission to accomplish and something else to
worry about. She didn’t think Rothgar would recognize her, though he
had a devilish reputation for omniscience, but she knew Cyn wouldn’t
want to bump into his brother here.
The problem was she couldn’t warn Cyn without destroying her disguise, all of it.
Sable’s entertainment being over, the watchers were milling around
reviewing it. They seemed sated for the moment. Chastity only had to
talk her way past two invitations to dalliance as she made her way to a
desk in a corner.
It wasn’t locked and she found paper, pens, and ink. The pen needed
trimming and the ink was syrupy, but she managed to scribble
Rothgar is here
. She folded the note and pushed it down behind her stomacher. If she had the opportunity she’d slip it to Cyn.
She hurried into the next room, which turned out to be a gallery
running across the back of the house. It was being used as a ballroom,
if such rompings could be called a ball. A trio scraped away to produce
music, but they were deep in their cups and wild in their rhythms. The
dancers were equally wild in their moves.
Here Chastity at last began to gather names for her mental list.
Lady Jane Treese, by the stars—the most malicious gossip in England.
Meg Cordingly, Susan Fellows, and Letty Proud. The plump redhead would
not be so proud if word escaped that she’d been tossed from hand to
hand the length of the room, her skirts flying every which way.
In London, Chastity had heard sly speculation as to whether Letty’s
hair grew the same flaming red all over. Now the world knew. Instead of
triumphant, Chastity felt sad. It would be impossible to use any names
gathered here without causing great hurt.
Moreover, she envied the revelers. Their behavior might be lewd and
wrong, but for this brief moment they were happy. She could hardly
remember what happiness was.
A man grabbed her and swung her into a merry dance. With horror, she realized it was Fort.
“Hey, my pretty, don’t look so shocked. Tell me your name.”
He really was quite handsome with his blue eyes, curly brown hair,
and even teeth. He smiled beguilingly. How long was it since he’d
smiled that way at her? Not so long ago, though it seemed a lifetime.
“Are you incognito?” he asked. “Give me a false name, pretty one. I’ll not care.”
“Chloe,” she said, thinking of a starchy aunt, her father’s eldest sister.
He laughed. “Not my favorite name but never mind.” He dragged her close and kissed her.
Chastity froze. This was a terrible sin, wasn’t it?
He pushed her away angrily. “What’s the matter, doxy? Am I not to your taste?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she gasped, in a breathy, twittery voice. “I… I don’t feel well. I need a place to throw up!”
“ ‘Struth,” he said with a laugh, and steered her over to the door.
“Go down that corridor and you’ll be outside. Good luck to you.”
With that he returned to the dancing. Chastity smiled sadly. That
was the careless kindness she remembered from the past. Fort was a hard
man and easily angered, but not unkind. She considered everything from
his point of view. He’d been one of the ones to catch Vernham in her
bed, but he hadn’t been really angry until she’d refused to marry. Only
then had he joined with her father in berating her.
Chastity hovered in the corridor, watching her brother. Was he here
just for the party, or as part of the hunt? He must be concerned about
Verity, but it would be typical of him to enjoy himself too when
occasion presented. He found another partner, and after a while left
the room with her. Chastity gathered her courage and returned to the
dancing, seeking yet more evidence.
Heatherington passed through the room, applauding his guests, his
paramour by his side. Chastity worked her way closer. It was surely
Nerissa. That teetering walk, and a habit she had of stroking her neck
as if checking for wrinkles…
A man moved in front of Chastity, blocking her way. “Alone? Surely
not. Not anymore, at least.” He held out his hand in an invitation to
the dance. It was the large Captain Gresham. He hadn’t changed from his
uniform and it was disarranged, his white waistcoat hanging open, his
cravat gone, and his shirt open at the neck. He’d lost his wig too, and
revealed dark hair shorn to a stubble.