Page 124

T he itching started as Simon descended the stairs for the party, and by the time he entered the garden, his back and shoulders begged to be scratched.

The perils of wearing garments pulled from an attic chest.

Still, a grown man did not scratch himself in public. One simply ignored the itch.

There were perhaps seventy-five guests assembled, or perhaps even more.

The best thing about the masquerade was that he didn’t have to go about being introduced to all and sundry.

He bowed his head as he walked through the crowd, blissfully anonymous.

Or, perhaps, given the low bows and deep curtsies, perhaps not.

Perhaps the Swilling Duke scandal had blown over, and the respectable people of Leicestershire welcomed him.

He waved off a passing footman with a tray and, in the hopes that moving his body would ease the annoying prickling, made his way to a table where other servants were filling glasses from a giant punch bowl.

“Ah, your grace, is that you?” A man slapped his back, setting off a wave of tingles.

He recognized the voice and grin as George’s.

“So much for the mask,” Simon said. “I ought to dispense with the nuisance.”

George laughed and handed him a brimming glass. “You’re hard to miss. Quite the tallest guest here tonight.”

“Aside from Percy.”

“Ah, him.” George waved a hand dismissively. “Where is your Hermia? Has she abandoned you already?”

He surreptitiously scratched his forearm. She wasn’t his Hermia—er, Nancy. Not yet, but she would be. “I haven’t seen Nancy yet. Only look there—that must be the fairy queen and her king.”

George craned his neck and let out a wry chuckle. “That gown’s indecent. Cass must have pulled it from the trunk with our great-grandmother’s night clothes. It’s a wonder Saulsfield allowed her to wear it.”

Simon reached a hand back to his neck. If he could but just get a finger under his frilly collar…

“And there is Mother looking queenly with Fitz, who is playing the ruler of Athens, and who will require Hermia’s marriage or send her to a convent. Lovely crown, your majesty,” he called and smiled slyly. “Wouldn’t that be a tragedy, our Nancy confined to a convent.”

George’s baiting only served to enhance the physical irritation.

Simon steeled himself to resist the furious prickles along his shoulders and swiveled his head, the deuced mask restricting his peripheral vision. Lights twinkled and shimmered in the water of the bubbling center fountain.

Candles perched everywhere, in nooks and crannies, set against small mirrors and in punched-tin lanterns, while ropes strung with strips of thin tin stretched above, glittering in the light from the torches.

The twangs and squeals of instruments being tuned came from the long terrace where the dancing would take place.

In the parkland outside the garden, more torches surrounded a burning man, who’d be set afire later.

“Your sister did a bang-up job with the garden decorations,” he said.

“There’ll be drinking, dancing, eating. We’ll have fireworks, and then the unmasking, and then those who are so inclined may have a midsummer bonfire,” George said.

“As long as we don’t burn down the manor house, I’m content.

” He tugged at his coat collar. “I’m not keen on these costumes though.

I’d rather have worn a toga, but Mel forbade wasting good bedsheets on costumes, and Mother concurred.

Was there a coat to go with that peacock of a waistcoat you’re wearing, your grace? ”

“I dispensed with it. It was too tight.” As was the waistcoat. He’d barely managed to button it. “And the shirt’s damnably itchy.” He shook a lacy cuff and then gave in to the need to scratch again. “You don’t suppose your sister fished out a shirt for me that was infested?”

“Cass?” He shook his head. “No. But if it was Nancy?—”

A figure in a tattered green shirt and a brown tunic flashed by tossing sparkles into the air, and behind him a winged fairy in white pulled streamers of shiny ribbons, while a small hobgoblin with horns tossed coal dust.

George shot a hand out for the hobgoblin and missed, and then cursed under his breath. “They’ve let the hellions out of the nursery,” he said.

But Simon’s attention was transfixed by the figure in green.

Bounding onto a parapet, the creature waved and more sparkles flew, settling like pixie dust on the upturned faces below.

Dark fairy wings caught the light and small horns adorned a knit cap pulled down like a knight’s visor with eyeholes.

“James has arrived,” George mused. “We’re in for it from Puck. I’d best go and search out my wife, and then try to snatch up that hobgoblin and put him to bed.”

“ I am that merry wanderer of the night, Robin Goodfellow .” The green creature’s voice carried across the garden, a melodic high tenor, silencing the crowd to murmurs.

With an exaggerated bow, Puck sent another handful of sparkles, and then surveyed the crowd, pointing a wand at Saulsfield.

“ I jest to Oberon and make him smile. ” He did a little jig on the narrow ledge, stumbled, and when the crowd gasped, laughed, and righted himself as if it had all been an act.

It was a long drop to the other side, Simon recalled.

“Is that one of the Lovelaces playing Puck and quoting Shakespeare?” A hand touched his own. Miss Hazelton leaned closer, her breast pressing into his itchy arm, and blast it, he didn’t dare try to scratch it lest she accuse him of fondling her and try to force a marriage.

He took a step sideways, rubbed his arm, and looked her over. She wore the barest of masks; the barest of gowns as well, a white Grecian frock trimmed with a Greek key pattern. He’d wager there was naught but a thin chemise underneath.

“He’s a daring fellow,” she prompted, leaning in.

He would find himself sidestepping straight into the punch bowl if she kept this up.

“Why aren’t you wearing side hoops?” he asked, unable to conceal the annoyance. The damn shirt was almost unbearable.

“Lady Saulsfield sent a gown up to me, but I had the foresight to bring my own costume.” She cocked her head and smiled up at him. “I trust I will do as Helena. Do you like it?”

Any man liked getting an eyeful of a woman’s body. As long as it wasn’t his mother or sister, or—he thought of Nancy—his intended, publicly in the almost altogether.

“You don’t like it.” She made one of those oh-so-charming little moues that ladies must work to perfect.

A wave of itching coursed across his neck, and he spotted Percy making his way through the crowd. “Charming,” he said. Especially charming if the sight distracted Percy from Nancy.

“ The fairy king doth keep his revels here tonight ,” Puck said. “ Take heed the queen come not within his sight. ”

“For shame, Puck,” Cassandra, who was playing said fairy queen, called. “The Bard would lash you with his quill to see how you are using his words.”

The guests laughed, and Puck pulled three acorns from a pocket and began to juggle them.

“Where is your Hermia?” Miss Hazelton asked.

Simon heard murmurs and turned toward the drinks table. A woman had stepped into the light, walking regally. She paused a moment and lowered her chin toward the servants, who stood, ladles and trays in hand, gawping and giggling, and then she continued her approach.

Hermia had arrived.

The gown… the gown was still dreadful with its tiny flowers on a yellowed white background and wide panniers.

She’d added a lacy fichu to cover the lovely view she’d revealed in the music room, and her small bosom seemed even smaller.

Perhaps she’d donned different stays to achieve that ramrod straight back and balance the wig, a massive white beehive dotted with pink bows.

With that dress, the wig perched on her head, and a mask concealing all but blue eyes and rouged lips, she stood in sharp contrast to Miss Hazelton.

Nancy must be as miserable in that uncomfortable get-up as he was in this shirt.

Miss Hazelton gasped and laughed, and the new arrival turned haughty blue eyes on her and struck a dramatic pose.

“ Helena, I understand not what you mean by this ,” the new lady said in a husky contralto, “ It seems that you scorn me .”

“She’s quoting Shakespeare too,” someone nearby said.

Wonderful. They had an audience.

Miss Hazelton fell into the giggles. He would have laughed too if he didn’t have to avoid offending Nancy, and if he didn’t need to shed this damn shirt.

From his place on high, Puck put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, drawing the attention back to the figure on the garden wall.

“Laughter?” he cried. “ Am I not he who frightens the maidens of the village ? Hark.” He twirled his wand and pointed into the darkness.

“ What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here, so near the bower of the fairy queen ?”

Two figures in burlap tunics rushed into the light, their headpieces adorned with ass’s ears and snouts. The guests erupted into laughter.

“Bottoms up.” Puck pulled a glass from another pocket and mimed drinking.

A tall figure shouldered his way through to Simon.

“Sir Percy.” Simon nodded to the new arrival.

Percy’s eyes widened at the sight of Miss Hazelton. While his so-called friend was distracted by lust, Simon slid a hand under his own waistcoat and scratched.

You’re welcome to the lady and her fortune.

Percy looked at Nancy, his lips quirking. “I say, blue eyes, right height… Miss Nancy, I presume? That’s quite a, er, wig.”

“A whole family of dormice might lodge there,” Simon said.

No reaction. He’d hoped for a laugh or a scowl. Not that puzzled twist of her lips.

“Or other varmints,” Simon said. “Does your shirt itch, Percy? This one is devilish uncomfortable.”

The blue eyes under the beehive wig widened and then settled back into boredom.

It had only been a moment, but that reaction revealed something. Devil take it, the itching had him so addled he couldn’t think what.