Colors of a Lady (13 page)

“Rollings? Do you mean Sir William Rollings?
Good God, not at all. He's a trifle too fanatical for my
tastes.”

“Fanatical?”

“Do you recall that nasty business of those
murdered slaves near Eton back in 09? The women were raped and
brutalized and the men did not fare much better.”

Thomas remembered it well. It was a nasty
business, but no one was ever brought to justice. They were slaves
and the local law did not consider it to be of the most concern.
Their owners were suitably disgusted at the loss. They wanted
reparation, but, of course, they didn't get any.

“I do indeed. What does Rollings have to do
with—do you mean to tell me that...?” Nathaniel nodded sadly at his
friend.

“Yes, Rollings is zealous in his hate—no,
his abhorrence towards anyone of African descent. It is frightening
really. He has taken it as his personal mission to rid England of
them. To achieve this end, he has committed many atrocities. Why do
you ask about him? I heard he is an investigator now.”

“He is. I actually enlisted his help in the
matter concerning Emma's aunt. Lord Sheridan informed him of a
matter that is pertinent to his investigation. However, now I worry
for Emma's safety.”

“A matter? Oh blast, does he know about
Emma's parentage?” Nathaniel asked, perking up. His eyes were wild.
How much whiskey had he consumed exactly? Thomas shrugged. Too late
to worry now. “That is no good. If I had known you were using him I
would have warned you. He's a right bastard.”

“I am worried.”

“I would not be. She is a peer's
daughter.”

“There is that silver-lining. I must be
over-thinking. She will be fine. Soon enough, her home will be
here. I shall sleep better then.”

“You shall soon be happily wed and I will be
a bachelor evermore.”

“It is your own damn fault too.”

“I know,” he agreed sadly. “At least I can
see her at Carradine’s Bal Masque. I’m to dress as Apollo. I
thought it was quite fitting considering how much time I spend
boxing.”

“I had plans on simply donning a black
domino mask and calling myself a spy. Alas, Emma was displeased
with that. She called me ‘unimaginative’,” explained Thomas. She
had actually guffawed in such a way that Thomas felt nine again.
Being ridiculed by Emma at any age made him feel as inconsequential
as an ant. She wasted no time in directing him to an Emma-approved
costume. “Instead I have to prance about in some coloured hose and
a feathered cap.” He grumbled over his costume choice. Nathaniel
saw a slight twitch of his mouth that could have been a smile.

“How delightful! You shall turn a fine
leg.”

“I had feared that we were to be Romeo and
Juliet. Women seem to fawn over that play. When really it was not
so romantic. They were right fools to the very end.”

“Juliet was a smart girl in getting Romeo to
marry her,” pointed out Nathaniel. “It must inspire their plans for
husband-hunting. Perhaps another pair of tragic lovers?”

“Indeed. Hamlet and Ophelia. She has advised
me to brood a lot and has sent over a skull for me to carry
around.”

“I cannot wait to witness this beauty.”
Nathaniel’s thrilled laugh bounced off the walls. He gulped down a
final glass and slammed it down on the table. “I shall compromise
Miss Mallory tomorrow! Capital idea, do you not think? Then she
will have to marry me!” He seemed quite pleased with his grand
idea, considering it to be highly romantic.

“That is a horrid idea. Do not even attempt
it.” But his warnings fell of the deaf ears as Nathaniel heaved
himself to his feet. He went on the hunt for some paper to write
out his plan to capture his love.

Across the houses of
Mayfair and other suitably fashionable abodes, the ton was aflutter
in preparing themselves for a grand night at the Bal Masque. With
only a couple weeks to prepare, many sent off to dressmakers for
elaborate costumes or searched through their grandmother’s trunks
for a gown reminiscent of the ancien regime. Most of the guests
arrived garbed in the brightly coloured silks and mountain-high
hairstyles that seemed more at home in the mirrored halls of
Versailles and not the streets of London. Intermixed were the togas
and plumed helmets of Roman centurions and the wide velvet skirts
and French Hoods of Henry VIII’s England.

Miss Helena Mallory, swathed in sheets of
snowy white muslin draped artfully around her lithe body, climbed
the steps leading into the Carradine’s sprawling home. Her fiery
hair was left loose around her shoulders like a lion’s mane. A bow
was looped through her left arm, thoroughly hoping to use it
against some rake later this night. A silver half-mask ornamented
with tall feathers was designed to hide her face. To many, she was
recognizable by the freckles that dotted her arms and the bright
hair of her Irish ancestry.

Her mother, Lady Mallory, had donned the
clothing of her youth, similar to many of the mothers with a
powdery white face and a well-placed mouche near her lips painted
lips. She ushered her newly engaged daughter into the throng of
masked guests.

“La, I feel like a young girl again!” She
exclaimed, voice tinkling like a silver bell. Helena's eyes darted
here and there at the guests attempting to make out a kindred soul.
Escape, Helena thought. Leave her mother to languish beneath the
adoringly hungry gazes riveted to her. She did it quite well. With
an errant elder husband, she did what she pleased and with whom she
pleased. Her salon was notorious for the many well-placed men who
came to visit.

“Mama, I think I spy Lettice over there!”
That was a lie. But how could her mother know otherwise? Her eyes
were already roaming around the crowd, searching for her fun.
Lettice was also the last person Helena wished to see. After the
debacle at her home last week, Helena decided to call upon her
alone. It did not go well. Lettice, back erect, eyes blazing, spew
out a litany of insults in regards to her former bosom buddy.
Helena quickly made excuses to leave.

“You know someone for fifteen years and they
turn out maniacal. It is no wonder some girls are afraid of
marriage,” she said to herself, weaving between people. Helena had
listened attentively while Emma explained a story that sounded
right out of the scandal sheets.

“So, dear Helena, I am a woman of colour but
still the same Emma.”

Her mouth had been agape for most of Emma’s
tale. It seemed unbelievable and yet everything about Emma made
more sense. This also explained the rudeness of Lettice. It was
still inexcusable.

“This is right shocking,” muttered Helena.
“But, as you said, you are still yourself so it changes
little.”

“Thank you,” Emma replied. She reached over
to place her hand upon Helena’s. “That means so much to me.”

“Sadly, most are not so enlightened. It will
be difficult for you once the ton catches wind of it. But you are
strong and rich and Nathaniel and Lord Hartwell will dispose of
anyone who speaks against you.”

Emma let out a short laugh. It was not
genuine. Her heart felt heavy. She was tired already and it had
barely begun.

“Cheer up! Next week is that odious Lady
Carradine’s ball. We shall drink to excess and dance holes in our
slippers!”

Helena’s rosebud lips curved into a smile at
the memory. Tonight should be a grand time. Judging by the sheer
number guests, Lady Carradine hoped to ruin a handful of
ladies.

“Dear me, what a crush!” The singsong voice
belonged to Emma. She tripped over her trailing silk sleeve on her
way to greet Helena. Her abundance of curly hair was left wild,
much like Helena’s own and was barely constrained by a wreath of
colourful flowers. Her olive skin shone brightly against the white
gown, appearing like burnished gold. A tall man in a midnight blue
doublet and dark hose followed her closely. With his unnatural
height and the pair of grey eyes peering from behind his mask, it
had to be Lord Hartwell. They were both carrying props: a basket
full of herbs for her and a human skull for him.

“Emma! At last!” Helena shouted, crossing
the short distance to her friend. “Oh, I mean, Ophelia! And Prince
Hamlet! I must say I am certainly glad I am not the only person who
is not the beheaded Bourbon Queen.”

Emma huffed in agreement. She could barely
see over the towering powdered wigs. Some were made even higher
with birds of paradise and hulking ships. It was a wonder no one's
neck snapped. She thought darkly to herself the guillotine must
have been mighty sharp to slice so easily through the strong, yet
elegant necks of the aristocracy.

“Have you seen our esteemed hostess yet?”
She asked. The music came to a sudden stop. In place of the lively
whine of the stringed instruments, the bold heralding of trumpets
filled the ballroom.

“Hark, it is an angel!” Someone's voice rose
above the noise, directing everyone's attention to a figure poised
at the top of the stairs. Otherworldly in a draping gown of the
thinnest Chinese silk, she glistened with a liberal amount of
diamonds embroidered onto the fabric. A beautifully crafted pair of
silvery wings sprouted from her back, matching the silver bangles
at her wrists. Her black hair, too, was sparkling from some unknown
powder. Many women in the ton were already patting their own
tresses, making notes to speak to their own maids on achieving the
same effect. As a last thought, Lady Carradine completed her attire
with a silver lace half-mask.

“Oh bother,” muttered Emma. “She is quite
the character, but Lady Carradine looks gorgeous tonight.”

“Despite her faults, she is a lovely woman,”
Helena agreed. “For this being a masquerade, I can identify nearly
everyone here.”

“High society is a tightly-knit group and we
know the same people from birth until death, so that is not
surprising.” Lord Hartwell said. “These are much better on the
Continent. We are quite isolated in London.”

“We ladies are more so isolated. We do not
have the luxury of a Grand Tour or the freedom to leave England as
often as our allowances will allow,” Emma noted. Her tone was
tinged with annoyance.

“Instead,” continued Helena. “We have to
rely on our husbands, fathers, brothers, or whatever male relative
to take us abroad. At least, my brother has finally agreed to take
me to on a pre-wedding trip. My mother is overjoyed to be rid of
me.”

“Lord Mallory agreed? How unlike him!”
Helena's brother, now the Viscount Mallory upon their father's
death a few years ago, was renowned for his conservative views.
Many blamed his flighty mother and rambunctious sister for his
descent into somberness.

“Yes, Emma, I nearly fainted when he told
me! For him to consider going to the Continent at such a time. Yes,
the war is ending, but the future is uncertain.”

“I am sure we should not descent into
warfare this year. I do believe it is quite over,” Thomas informed
them. “As, Miss Mallory said, the future is uncertain. But the
Sixth Coalition will do all it can to ensure the peace.”

“Surely Napoleon will abdicate soon. He
cannot survive this,” Emma pointed out. With all the guns and men
of the Six Coalition on him, even Napoleon could not escape. “I
heard Talleyrand has turned on his master and is set to aid the
Bourbon king.”

“My God, listen to the pair of you. You
sound like men,” Thomas teased. He hand came to rest on the small
of Emma's back. She leaned infinitesimally towards him, tossing up
a smile to him.

“How distressing! Like men!” Helena cried.
“We are unfashionably discussing politics at a ball! Whatever shall
we do?”

“I think I might as well go home and cry
into my wedding trousseau,” Emma said without rancor.

“Well met. I will not tease any further.”
Thomas surveyed the ballroom with a sharp, discerning eye. His
vision riveted upon something across the ballroom. Emma was far too
short to see what grabbed his attention. Times like these, she
wished to be a head or two taller.

He cleared his throat, eyes darting back
down to Emma and Helena. The latter had noticed nothing amiss with
the Marquess, whispering to Emma about a nearby masked dancer.

“Will you excuse me for a few moments,
ladies? Miss Mallory.” Hartwell bowed. “Emma.” He placed a
feather-light kiss upon her furrowed brow. “I will not be long.” He
disappeared momentarily, a surprising feat since he was garbed
entirely in dark colours.

“I wonder where he's going,” Emma
questioned.

“Perhaps he has an assignation?” Helena
suggested without a thought. “We are at a masquerade after
all.”

Emma's brow was a knot of consternation, a
combination of her own insecurities and Helena's off-handed
remarks. Helena blanched upon realizing her slip.

“Oh, I am quite kidding, my dear. Lord
Hartwell is quite smitten with you. I am sure he is to greet an old
acquaintance.”

“I am sure that is a logical assumption and
yet...he can be ever so mysterious at times.” She sighed, reaching
a hand up to push some errant curls out of her eyes. “It is quite
hot in here, is it not?” She extracted a fan from her basket and
began to fan herself. “Goodness, I do believe there are some
refreshment tables over in that area.”

“Over there, you say?” Helena craned her
neck. “In the direction Lord Hartwell went? How lucky for us!”

With a shared meaningful look, the women set
off purposefully through the throng. Emma regretted her choice of a
basket as a prop. It hindered her easy movement. She pulled up her
long skirts after nearly tripping on them a number of times. She
quite hated her decision for a short train as well. She did look
quite the part of Ophelia.

“He just ducked out into that hallway,”
hissed Helena, tugging on Emma's arm. She yanked her out of their
original path. They bumped into a few people and Emma muttered out
half-hearted apologies.