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A Midsummer Night's Sin

Год написания книги
2018
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“Impertinence is not a trait you inherited from my side of the family,” Leticia said sulkily, reaching for the wine decanter. “The blue suits you, by the way. A wonderful match for your eyes—which you will keep lowered, if you please, along with your chin. Debutantes are shy. Gentlemen are piqued by shyness.”

“I can’t imagine why. I should think they’d be bored spitless. Thank you, Hanks,” Regina said as her maid clasped a single string of perfect pearls about her throat. She then crossed the room to her mother and bent down to kiss the woman’s thin, papery cheek, holding her breath because her mama thought to cover the smell of spirits with copious amounts of perfume, which in reality only made things worse on both counts. “Aunt Claire and Miranda will be here shortly. I should go downstairs now. Will you be all right?”

With a sidelong glance at the cut-glass decanter, Leticia nodded her head. “I have company.”

Regina opened her mouth to remonstrate with her mother but thought better of such a useless exercise. Instead, she looked enquiringly to Hanks, who winked at her. The wine had been watered. Good. After the first decanter, Leticia’s palate must turn numb, as Regina’s watering of the second (and sometimes third) decanter had yet to be noticed.

“Then I’ll be on my way. I believe Miranda said something about our hostess’s fine desserts, so I’m taking my largest reticule along with me so I can bring home a sampling for you.”

Leticia brightened. “Lemon squares. If it’s Lady Montag’s soiree, there will be lemon squares. Simple, but her cook is wonderfully talented.”

“It’s not too late to accompany us,” Regina suggested, wishing her mama would go out in Society more than she did. Cousin Miranda was a pleasant enough companion, but prone to recklessness and, more than once, had to be scooted out from behind some potted palm and away from some half-pay officer when it was time to leave.

“I’m certain your aunt Claire will prove sufficient as chaperone. Now go along. Hanks and I will be fine. Won’t we, Hanks?”

“Yes, my lady,” the maid said, dropping into a curtsy.

With one last, warning look at Hanks, Regina picked up her reticule and shawl and headed for the staircase, arriving in the foyer just as a footman announced that the elaborate Mentmore coach awaited her in the Square. The Mentmores hadn’t had a fine crested coach until Reginald Hackett had purchased one for their use during the Season, with the caveat that his Regina was never to be taken about town in anything else.

She hastened outside and was handed up into the dark coach, seating herself on the rear-facing seat, beside Miranda’s maid, Doris Ann. “Am I late or are you early?” she asked her cousin and then frowned as she noticed that her cousin was alone on her seat. “Miranda? Where’s Aunt Claire?”

Her cousin’s laugh tinkled (Regina might have said tittered, but everyone else thought it delightful), and she patted at the golden curls that were Regina’s secret envy. Anyone could have dark brown hair, but Miranda’s locks were extraordinary and highly in fashion at the moment, as were her fairer-than-fair skin, petite stature and, it would appear, her nearly flat chest.

“Mama is enjoying a rare evening at home as Aunt Leticia is serving as our chaperone this evening,” Miranda explained, and then the tinkle-titter was repeated.

Regina’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not amusing. I told Mama Aunt Claire was accompanying us.”

Miranda gave a dismissive wave of her tiny hand. “As if you’ve never lied to her before. And if you haven’t, then it’s high time you started. Not that Aunt Leticia probably remembers half of what anyone says to her, what with the— Oh, I’m sorry, Reggie. I talk without thinking, I do it all the time, don’t I?”

“You do a variety of things without thinking,” Regina told her, squeezing her hands together on her lap. “Now tell me where this coach is heading before I knock on the roof and have it turned back to Berkeley Square.”

“No, you can’t do that! I can’t go alone, and I simply must go. You complain that no one wants you save for your papa’s money. Well, nobody wants me at all. Papa may be a viscount and Grandfather Geoffrey an earl, but the entire world knows we’re all next door to paupers. Oh, Papa will find some rich merchant for me, I suppose, as Grandfather did for Aunt Leticia, if no one more suitable falls madly in love with me before the Season ends—but not as rich as Uncle Reginald and probably twice as crude. Before that happens, I want to have some fun. I’ve been planning all week. Doris Ann, show her.” She motioned to her maid, who then reached down to the tapestry bag at her feet. “What do we want with a horrid, boring recital, when we can go to a ball?”

“A ball? I’m not dressed for a— What are those?”

“Dominos,” Miranda said proudly, grabbing at a mass of emerald-green silk and pulling it onto her lap before Doris Ann passed a similar silk creation, this one in scarlet, to Regina. “And the masks, Doris Ann. Show her the masks!”

One after the other, two half masks were lifted from the tapestry bag and handed to Miranda and Regina.

“Aren’t they glorious!” Miranda exclaimed, holding hers up to her face. It was cunningly flirtatious, almost catlike, sewn all over with closely set green glass stones that matched the emerald silk, with larger stones topping off the many curving tips, which fanned up and out at the sides and top, rather like emerald flames. “See? These satin ribbons tie behind the head. They’re both pretty, but I really like this one best, if you don’t mind?”

“You look like a cat,” Regina said, looking down at the mask in her hands. “And I mean that in the nicest way. Mine’s … white.”

“Ivory, Regina,” Miranda corrected. “It’s shaped much like mine, except for that part that covers your nose, and isn’t that the most gorgeous lace? And all those tiny seed pearls curling all over? And those tiny little silken rosebuds? And the lovely satin ribbons? Oh, stop frowning, Reggie. It’s pretty!”

Regina looked at the mask again. Yes, there were rosebuds, three of them. One at either side of the mask and a third that, once she had it on, would be smack in the middle of her forehead. She plucked them off even as Miranda eeked in protest before breaking into a wide grin and clapping in delight.

“Then you’ll go?”

Regina looked down at the mask. She fingered the decadent scarlet silk puddle in her lap. She wavered.

“I’m certain I was told that masquerade balls are not as acceptable as they once were.”

“Well, of course they’re not, silly, or else I wouldn’t have had to steal the invitation from my brother’s desk, now, would I? But since Justin is out of town at some boxing mill, in any case, why should the invitation go to waste? Besides, the hostess is Lady Fortesque, and I know Justin has spoken of her more than a few times, so the whole thing is still … reasonably acceptable.”

Regina fingered the silk once more. Scarlet. Debutantes did not wear scarlet. They didn’t wear masks, either, she felt fairly sure. She knew for certain that they didn’t attend balls without a parent or other chaperone present.

“What happens at a masquerade ball?”

Miranda shrugged. “I would suppose that everyone hides behind their masks until such time as they’re told to take them off. Not that we’ll do that, of course. We’ll be long gone by then. But while we’re there …” She paused, probably for dramatic effect. “While we’re there, we tell no one our true names, and we’re free to dance and flirt and— Oh, Reggie, please say yes!”

Being a debutante was boring. It probably was supposed to be boring, so that everyone would quickly find someone suitable, marry and never have to do it again. Being a Hackett, daughter of the poor, martyred Lady Leticia and the totally unacceptable Reginald, Regina had endured her share of impolite stares, snide innuendo and even a few horrified mamas, who had physically escorted their sons in the opposite direction when there was a chance of having to stop and exchange pleasantries with the wealthy but socially inferior Miss Hackett. Except for those titled but poor as church mice peers who might entertain lowering themselves to courting her father’s money. Those she avoided, much to her papa’s chagrin.

To be able to dance—yes, and to flirt—without anyone knowing her name? To not be the coarse, jumped-up shipping merchant’s daughter or even the sad, drunken Lady Leticia’s daughter, just for a few stolen hours?

Sensing that her cousin was wavering, Miranda pressed her case. “We’ll be wearing these lovely capes to conceal our clothing. Doris Ann and I found them in the attics, and they don’t even half smell of camphor, not since we aired them. Can you believe my parents once actually were young enough to have worn them and these masks aeons ago? That’s why you get the scarlet one, since Papa is so short and you are so horridly tall, like your father. But not everyone is so boring as to just wear dominos and masks. Some of the guests will come in complete costumes. There will be knights and shepherdesses—all sorts of fanciful things. Why, who knows, Reggie. Perhaps by the time midnight strikes, you will have kissed a devil. Isn’t that beyond anything exciting?”

“Neither of us will be kissing any devils,” Regina said, holding the mask to her face as Doris Ann tied the satin ribbons to keep it in place. “We’ll stay for an hour, no more than that, and then make a late appearance at the recital, just in case your mother or mine ever chances to speak to the hostess. We will be late because one of the coach horses turned up lame. Also, Miranda, you will not leave my side, nor I yours, for more than the space of a dance. Agreed?”

Miranda was already struggling to push her arms into the sleeves of the concealing domino. “Oh yes, yes, agreed! Most definitely agreed!”

“And if we’re caught out, I’ll tell everyone it was all your idea, and that you kidnapped me.”

“Reggie! You wouldn’t!”

“No, probably not,” Regina agreed. “But I was just now remembering the time Mama and I visited at Mentmore and you blamed me for tossing you into the ornamental pond.”

“And they believed me and not you,” Miranda said, tying the strings of the domino under her pert little chin before pulling the hood up and over her hair. “That’s because I look so sweet and innocent and you look … well, never mind.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Regina said as the horses drew to a halt outside a large building lit with flambeaux that cast strange shadows inside the coach. “I look so what?”

Miranda fidgeted on the seat. “Well, Mama says decadent, but Papa says exotic. And Justin …”

“Yes? My idiot cousin Justin says what?”

“He says you always look like you’re ready. And stop looking at me with your eyes all gone wide that way because I don’t know what that means, but Mama said he shouldn’t talk like that in front of me. Come on, Reggie. If we only have an hour, let’s make the most of it.”

“I suppose now I have Grandmother Hackett to blame for something else,” Regina grumbled as she tied the strings of the scarlet domino around her throat and covered her hair with the hood. “All right, I’m ready.”

HE WORE HIS DARK blond hair parted on the side and allowed it to hang loose to his shoulders, covering the thin, golden strings that secured the mask to his head. It had been fashioned for him by the premiere costumer in Paris, following Puck’s own design. It fit him perfectly, as he’d submitted to the molding of what some would call a death mask so that the costumer could work with an exact model of his customer’s bone structure.

It was a three-quarter rather than a half mask, smoothly curving down over his nose and cheekbones and rising to his hairline, all of it hugging his face. The design was simple: no lace or frills or jewels or feathers for Puck. Instead, the impact from the mask—and it was considerable—came from the paintwork applied to its smooth surface.

His inspiration had been a Catherine wheel. Eight widening, pie-shaped wedges of dramatic color emanated from the center of the wheel, located at the bridge of his nose, rather in a pinwheel design, yet all sleek and of a piece. Painted gold gilt wedges cut down the right side of his nose and across his lower cheek, up and over his right temple, the left side of his forehead, out from his left eye and across his upper cheekbone. The reverse for the other four “blades,” all of those painted in deepest ebony.

All one saw of his face beneath mask and flowing hair was his wide, full mouth, his leanly sculpted chin and a pair of amused blue-green eyes.

The result was mesmerizing. He’d planned for mesmerizing.
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