Strains of violins tuning up reached her ear. The supper hour was over, and the ball was about to begin. She’d begged out of the meal, but her mother insisted she appear as hostess for the main festivities. She picked up the hand-held mask, a bejeweled and plumed affair on a long wand with which she could shield her face should she feel the need.
“‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends,’” she quoted sourly.
“Wipe that pained expression from your face, my dove. Rejoice in your youth and your beauty,” Rania admonished. “Assuredly, they will fade quickly enough.”
Here and now is all any man or woman can lay claim to.
When would she stop hearing Thomas in her head? When would she stop looking for him around every corner? She gave herself a small shake. She was stronger-minded than this. It was time she started behaving like it.
Constance Dalrymple’s grand fete was well underway by the time Artemisia made her way down the curving staircase to the ballroom. The decorators she’d chosen under the guise of Mr. Beddington had outdone themselves. The room was a swirl of color. Murals of the Taj Mahal, the onion-domes of St. Petersburg, Big Ben, the pyramids of Giza and a dozen other exotic sites graced the walls. Yards of silk festooned the columns at the entryways and the gas lamps burned brightly.
The guests themselves added to the riot of patterns and garish hues. Knights and ladies, sheiks and harem girls, Japanese warlords and geishas, a smattering of American Indians and one cowboy, all decked out in splendid excess. When the bon ton rose up to play, they did it with style and vigor.
“Artemisia, where have you been?” Her mother jostled through the press to join her. “The Queen is here already.”
“Where is she?”
“Over by the punchbowl as Elizabeth I. The Prince is Sir Walter Raleigh, and that fat fellow with them—“
“The one dressed as Henry VIII?”
“He’s the Russian ambassador, Vasiliy Kharitonov,” Constance said in a stage whisper.
“You don’t have to whisper. He knows he’s the Russian ambassador,” Artemisia said. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you, Mother, that the Russians should send an ambassador to the English court when everyone knows they have designs on British interests in Asia?”
Constance frowned at her. “What has that to do with anything? Our only concern is that our guests enjoy themselves. All our guests.” Her mother squinched her eyes and made a sour face. “Honestly, Artemisia, if you start talking politics you will embarrass the life out of me. I want you to go over there and charm the royals and I mean now.”
Artemisia wanted to ask why her mother didn’t go herself, but she already knew the answer. Only Artemisia had a title. Of course that didn’t keep Constance from ordering her about.
Artemisia had learned long ago to choose her battles with her mother. As long as what Constance Dalrymple wanted wasn’t too far removed from Artemisia’s own wishes, she was pleased to comply.
She stopped before Queen Victoria and dipped in a graceful bow, hands pressed palm-to-palm in keeping with the character of her costume.
“Namaste,” she intoned. “Welcome, Your Majesty. Your luminous presence in my humble home brings light to all.”
The Queen accepted this superlative as her just due and smoothly introduced Artemisia first to her beloved Albert and then to the Russian Ambassador.
“Lady Southwycke,” Victoria said. “I was just telling his Excellency, Ambassador Kharitonov, that you are an artist of no little renown.”
“Your Majesty does me honor.”
“Not at all.” The Queen waved her hand imperiously. “The ambassador was admiring the little equine statuette on the piano. If I am not mistaken, that piece is your work.”
“Yes, it is,” Artemisia said. “In fact, it is the companion piece to the one my father sent your Majesty from India. My father said he couldn’t resist keeping one for himself.”
The ambassador lifted the statuette and peered at it through his monocle. The small horse was frozen in time, caught rearing its front legs, the mane and tale flying.
“Is very fine, very fine,” Kharitonov said, pronouncing ‘very’ as if the word were ‘wary.’ “In my country, I breed horses for Russian cavalry, and it pleases me, collecting of horse sculptures. Part of collection I bring. Perhaps you come see some time.” He hefted the statue. “Is for sale, da?”
Artemisia blinked back her surprise. “No, Excellency, I never sell my work.” She hoped her father would forgive her if he ever became aware of what she was about to do. Her only defense was that the grasping Russian had forced her into doing the politically expedient thing. “However, allow me to make a small present of it. Please accept this poor statue with my compliments.”
The Queen patted her hands together in a soundless clap. “Brava, Lady Southwycke. However, never let it be said that we are less generous than our subjects. Ambassador, you may expect the companion statuette from our own collection to be sent to your lodgings on the morrow.”
The ambassador stammered his thanks to both women. Artemisia excused herself lest the ambassador ask if anything else in her sumptuous home was for sale and made her way back to her mother’s side.
“Oh, you were brilliant, darling,” her mother cooed. “The Queen positively lit up when you were speaking. Whatever you said, it was the right thing. I’m sure everyone noticed.”
Artemisia basked in her mother’s rare praise and watched the dancers assembling on the smooth hardwood. Her sister Florinda was decked out like a peacock, literally. The fantail plumage spread out on either side of her hips, making it difficult for her to negotiate even the simplest of steps.
But Artemisia’s gaze wasn’t fastened on her sister. She watched Florinda’s partner with growing consternation. He was dressed as musketeer, a fleur-de-lis pattern on his tunic with a plumed cavalier’s hat cocked at a rakish angle over his dark hair. He wore a black domino covering the top part of his face. Artemisia couldn’t place him exactly, but something about the man’s posture sent warning bells clanging along her nerves.
“Everyone is having a lovely time,” her mother gushed, returning a wave to a matron across the dance floor. “You may tell Mr. Beddington I’m pleased. I did send him an invitation. Is he here?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure he’s here someplace,” Artemisia said. “You know, Mother, part of the charm of a masquerade is not knowing who is behind the mask.”
“Well, I hope to heaven Florinda knows who’s behind that musketeer’s mask and manages not to make a fool of herself by stuttering like an imbecile,” Constance said. “She’s partnered with the young man I intend for her.”
“Trevelyn Deveridge?” Artemisia narrowed her eyes at the man dancing with her sister. “You should know that Mr. Beddington reported some troubling unanswered questions about his military service. It seems he may have left the corps under less than ideal circumstances.”
“That doesn’t concern me in the least.”
“It might matter to Father.”
“What your Father doesn’t know would fill the library at Oxford.” Constance gave her a toothsome smile for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. “Angus has nothing to say about the girls’ matches. Besides, in the case of the honorable Mr. Deveridge, his stint with soldiery doesn’t matter one iota. It’s his familial connections that are important, and his father, Lord Warre, cuts a wide swath through Parliament.”
“I didn’t know you were political,” Artemisia said with a frown.
Constance laughed musically, as if her daughter had just uttered a witticism. “It’s not the politics. It’s the power. That’s all it ever is, really. The Dalrymple name is joined to Southwycke, but you must admit, a dowager duchess only counts for so much. Once the house of Angus Dalrymple is entwined with both Shrewsbury and Warre, I defy anyone to ever snub me again.”
Artemisia bit her tongue. Even though they were discussing her sisters’ futures, as usual, her mother had managed to turn the situation so it was about her. Artemisia tried to remind herself that her mother had grown up barefoot in a Highland hovel. That might account for being overly self-conscious about her station—or lack thereof.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt for Constance to think of her girls for once.
The string ensemble struck up a stately gavotte and Artemisia looked back to Florinda and her dancing partner. The gentleman bared his white teeth in a dazzling smile. Then he bent in a courtly bow and finished it with a flourish. He excused himself and retreated from the dance floor.
Artemisia gasped and had to force herself to close her gaping mouth. The man her sister had been dancing with, the man her mother claimed was Trevelyn Deveridge, had just bowed as smoothly as that wretched pretender, Thomas Doverspike.
Chapter 12
Trevelyn pushed his way through the throng, making obligatory acknowledgments as he passed members of the ton he recognized beneath their costumes. He’d never been too fond of masquerades, but his father was keen on his attendance at this one. The earl had all but shoved him onto the dance floor with that tongue-tied little peacock.
Lord Warre had tried numerous times to see him wedded to a socially prominent wife. So far, Trev had eluded capture, but there had been some near misses over the years. As long as he was careful not to compromise some darling debutant, Trevelyn planned on enjoying his bachelorhood for the foreseeable future. After all, he wasn’t destined for the earldom. It wasn’t as though he needed to sire an heir and a spare.
His work in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, which he took pains to be sure his father knew nothing about, nearly made being single mandatory. Especially once he made the transfer to the Delhi office. A man couldn’t disappear into tribal regions to play the Great Game for months at a time if he had a memsahib and a passel of little ones depending upon him.
Besides, the girls his father shoved him toward—he couldn’t think of the simpering creatures as women—seemed even shallower than ever since he met the unconventional Duchess of Southwycke. There were more layers to her personality, and surprising sensuality, than a dowager has petticoats. He’d have been delighted to peel them back one by one, but not as her kept fancy man. As Trevelyn Deveridge, he’d have had no objection to making her his mistress, but as Thomas Doverspike, he was still furious that she thought she could own him as if he were one of her damn cats.
Part of his mind recognized the inconsistency in that view, but he wasn’t prepared to examine it more closely. If not for the urgency of locating Beddington, he’d avoid her completely.
Angus Dalrymple was no help, even to himself. The duchess was cagey and secretive about her trustee. Mr. Beddington had shown an almost wraithlike ability to disappear into thin air. Trevelyn practically met Lady Southwycke coming out of the office door in his guise as Terrence Dinwiddie. But when he arrived at the business address of J. S. Beddington, Esq. the only person in the well-appointed suite was the be-spectacled James Shipwash. Lady Southwycke surely hadn’t spent the better part of the morning closeted with Beddington’s assistant. He’d met with another dead end.