Page 29 of Scandalous Nights With the Earl

‘I hope you will stay for a drink and a light supper and tell me all about your travels on the Continent.’

Chapter Six

Phillip had come as Hades, Lord of the Underworld, his mask a full one in black ceramic and his hair hidden beneath a wild and tangled wig.

He could barely identify himself and was certain he would not be recognised without much difficulty.

He’d chosen the Unseen One because he liked the hiddenness of such a god and because his father had had the ceramic mask made for himself years ago. He’d borrowed his father’s clothes, too. They were large and shapeless and hid even more of him, just as Willa had predicted.

He wondered what she would come as, for he had not seen her after the ride in the park anywhere, even though he had made himself attend both the Countess of Luxton’s ball and the Smithsons’ Mayfair party the following week in the hope of running into her.

He’d toyed with the idea of sending her a note to ask if everything was all right but decided against it. He wished Oliver and Esther might have still been in London so that he could have slipped Willa’s name into a conversation and gleaned some information about her movements. But his brother and wife had stayed with him only briefly before hurrying back to Nettleford Park.

So he was here on his own, a solitary dark-garbed figure in a mask with a confusing excitement that welled inside him. He wanted to see Wilhelmina St Claire and talk with her as he had the other week in the park. He wanted her laughter and her irreverence and that particular smile of hers which saidI know more about you than you want to tell me but I will be kind.

Shaking his head, he wondered if perhaps he was sick or tired. But it wasn’t either of those because he felt more alive than he had felt in a long while, and the feeling came down to his time in her company.

There were hundreds of people here, he realised as he stepped inside, the ball spreading over three or four large salons that stretched into the distance, the mirrors around the walls widening the space yet again.

His heart sank. There was no way he would be able to find anyone in this melee and so he took an offered drink from the serving minotaur as a distraction.

The Duggans knew their wine, was his next thought, and the night looked up.

His aunt Julia crossed before him a few yards away dressed in an outlandish sea-goddess costume. He was pleased when she did not recognise him. Further afield he could see Miss Arabella Montague surrounded by every manner of masculine fairy folk and Greek deity. She had made little attempt to hide her beautiful face and was easily identifiable.

An hour later a figure in a flowing mantle passed him by, carrying a wreath of leaves. The banded tiara of gold and green on her head was joined to a white mask but it was the notes of gardenia and violets that caught his attention. He watched her for a moment quietly stalking around the edges of the room and refusing the offered glass of wine as she did so. No one joined her, which was an oddness in itself as at every social occasion Wilhelmina was more normally within a tight group of friends.

He saw her scan the room back and forth until her glance came over him, caught across the width of the salon, noise and lights flickering and the sounds of a small orchestra tuning their instruments.

She had seen him somehow, under the ceramic mask and the clothes and the wig. His height probably had something to do with it but there were other things also at play. He watched her as she threaded through the throng to stand beside him, lifting her mask slightly to identify herself.

‘The Hidden God is an entirely appropriate costume, my lord.’

‘What gave me away?’

‘Your stillness. Everyone in the room is moving and you are stationary. I have seen that before in you.’

His glance ran over the green-and-white silk mantle she wore. ‘You are Daphne?’

‘The tree spirit?’ She shook her head. ‘Try again.’

‘Demeter? Persephone?’

‘Wrong on all counts, although you do get full marks for your knowledge of the goddesses of natural things. I am Nike, the Goddess of Victory.’

‘Minus the wings.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I thought Nike sported wings. You have none.’

At that she laughed. ‘You do surprise me, Lord Elmsworth, with the scope of your general knowledge.’

Julia had joined them now, finally recognising him, her hand resting on his arm in familiarity.

‘My goodness, Phillip. Is that you? I would never have guessed in a million years had it not been for your father’s mask.’

‘Do you know Mrs St Claire?’ he then asked.