Page 42 of Beguiled
To hellwith the consequences.
Chapter Twelve
Given how close Murdo’s house was to the Assembly Rooms, they walked there, Murdo garnering a good many whistles and teasing catcalls for his highland dress on the way.
The crowds were dense, the carriages and sedan chairs carrying guests to the ball barely able to move. Even on foot it was taking Murdo and David an absurdly long time to make their way to the entrance.
“This could grow ugly,” David said as a sedan chair wielded by yelling highlanders charged past, its long poles striking anyone who didn’t get out of the way quickly enough. A barrage of profanity was yelled after it by aggrieved members of the crowd.
“I know what you mean,” Murdo muttered. “Those lunatics will start a riot behaving like that. Come on, let’s get inside and away from this madness.”
Murdo took the lead, elbowing his way more roughly through the last bit of crowd that stood between them and the doors to the Assembly Rooms, and David followed in his wake.
The entrance was beautifully decorated. Diaphanous fabric was wound around the columns and arches, and gas-lit transparencies were cleverly placed to create a winding path from the portico to the inner doors, the colourful, shivering images oddly lifelike in the faint breeze.
“Come on,” Murdo said in David’s ear, his deep voice amused, and David realised he’d come to a standstill halfway through the magical little grotto, staring at the wonders around him like the country bumpkin he was.
“Sorry,” he muttered and moved forward, Murdo at his elbow.
They barely got two feet beyond the inner doors before their way was barred by a pair of redcoats brandishing bayonets. Murdo fished a pair of tickets out of his inside pocket and flashed them at the pair. One of the redcoats raised his bayonet, but the other looked unsure.
“This one ain’t dressed right,” he said to the other. “We’re not supposed to let ’em in if they ain’t dressed right.”
The other one eyed Murdo nervously. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but Private Jackson ’ere is right. We ain’t supposed to let anyone in that ain’t in court dress. Or a skirt, of course, like your very good self.”
“Askirt,” Murdo repeated, looking at the man who swallowed conspicuously. “A kilt, you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not ‘sir’,” Murdo corrected calmly. “It’s ‘my lord’. Lord Murdo Balfour, to be precise.”
The poor man looked positively nauseated. “Sorry,” he said, adding after a painful pause, “my lord.”
Murdo let out a long-suffering sigh and turned to David. “Well, Mr. Lauriston, I can only apologise for this ridiculous situation. Would you be good enough to wait here while I go and speak to His Majesty? As his personal guest, I know he will wish you to be admitted, but these fellows apparently have nothing better to do than put us to trouble of asking the King to intervene in the matter personally.”
David truly wished he’d worn a bloody kilt now. He was mortified, both on his own behalf and on behalf of the two redcoats who were squirming now.
“Hello there, Murdo! Are my guard dogs giving you jip?”
The new voice came from the bottom of the staircase behind the redcoats, and when David peered round them, it was to see none other than Captain Sinclair walking towards them. He was dressed in a fancier set of the same regimentals his men were wearing, his shako under his arm and a wide smile on his handsome face.
“Ah, Captain,” Murdo greeted him. “Apparently, your men aren’t satisfied with Mr. Lauriston’s dress this evening.”
Sinclair chuckled and looked at the redcoat who’d been doing the talking. “Let them through, Jackson. I can vouch for the fact that this gentleman was invited by the King himself.”
“Yes, Captain,” the man said quickly, and the crossed bayonets were drawn back, clearing their path.
Murdo sailed through the gap, and David followed in his wake.
“No doubt we’ll see you later, Captain Sinclair,” Murdo said as they passed him.
“No doubt,” the captain replied with a roguish grin. “Once the guests are all arrived, we’ll shut these doors, and then I fully intend to monopolise all the prettiest ladies. Consider yourselves warned, gentlemen.”
Murdo laughed by way of answer, and then they were mounting the magnificent staircase that led to the principal ballroom and the throng of richly dressed guests.
The ballroom had been transformed into the King’s own personal throne room. Panels of rich blue velvet were pinned over the windows, their gold-fringed edges brushing the highly polished floor. Massive chandeliers blazed with a thousand candles. A magnificent dais with a gilded throne and a crimson velvet canopy over it had been set up at one end for the King’s sole use. He sat there, surrounded by several of his entourage, watching the dancing with a bored expression.
The guests all seemed to be trying to invoke the spirit of the nobleGael. How many eagles, David wondered, had died to bedeck the caps and hair ornaments of the ladies and gentlemen at this night’s ball? He’d be surprised if there were any birds left in the sky. The quantity and variety of tartan was even more overwhelming: kilts and trousers for the men, shawls and sashes for the ladies. And then there was the sparkle of aristocratic jewellery. Jewels on fingers and wrists and necks; jewels twinkling in cravat folds and on earlobes. The showy dazzle of the rich and titled.