Across from hell was a garden to rival even Eliza’s. Blooms arranged in artful displays lined every surface, including the floors. They spilled across tables and lined walkways. A bounty of pastries and macarons in every shade of the rainbow threatened to topple the table they rested on, piled on stands nearly as tall as Benedict.
And in the center of it all, a dance floor. Heaven and hell in a single breath.
The effect was overwhelming. Already the air churned with heat and perfume, laughter pitched too sharply, strings tightening like a bow pulled past safety.
It was no wonder that news of the masquerade reached them at Bodmin every year. The gossip columns reported on it in hushed whispers, sins and scandals of all sorts recounted inexcruciating detail. It was said that more shocking and thrilling matches were made on that makeshift dance floor in a single night than the rest of the season combined.
With each masquerade, his father grew ever more irate. It had become a trend for his father to make yet another ill-advised wager that very evening. Benedict suspected it was a scheme to ensure he had a plausible reason—the inevitable loss—to terrorize the household.
Wayland chose that moment to enter the office. His hair was ragged, as though he’d run his fingers through it a few hundred times. He wore a navy coat over a delicately embroidered waistcoat of navy and silver, with a periwinkle cravat. The effect was surprisingly fashionable for the usually spartan Wayland.
“What are you supposed to be?” Benedict asked.
“Ask my wife. I do as I’m told in this respect,” he said, smoothing a hand along the silver buttons on the waistcoat. “Advice I’d highly recommend to any gentleman.”
For a moment, Wayland occupied himself by over-pouring a glass of scotch and enjoying an oversized gulp. He then turned to Benedict, his eyes narrowing in on the single flower. He rolled his eyes at the sight but did not comment.
“There are enough people downstairs that you can mingle without too much difficulty—though you could have chosen a less conspicuous gown,” he said to Bella.
“Do you know how far in advance ladies need to order these if they cannot afford the rush fees?”
“No.”
“I assure you, there was no less conspicuous option to be found.”
Wayland held up his hands in a placating gesture.
He sighed, then declared, “Once more, unto the breech.”
Benedict trailed the others out, meeting Wayland by the door. “If you hate these events so much, why do you host?”
“My wife sacrificed many things to be with me. I am more than happy to sacrifice one evening a year for her. And these are, on occasions where my children are not being used as pawns in a game they haven’t the slightest idea they’re playing, quite diverting. The grumbling is for show.”
“You haven’t told them?” Benedict asked, distracted as he used the landing to survey the scene below. Perhaps two dozen of theton’s finest mingled about, draped in satin and jewels. But there was no precious violet to be seen.
Wayland sighed as they descended the stairs. “I gave them the sternest lecture I could manage. But I didn’t tell them. It’s almost certainly the wrong decision, but I couldn’t bring myself to.”
Benedict’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. Eliza was walking into the lion’s den blissfully unaware that the beasts were present and ravenous. “You should have told them.”
“I’ve already had to admit to my wife that my past sins led to our daughter being directly targeted for humiliation, ruin, and heartbreak. You’ll need to forgive the selfish impulse to pray we can resolve this before my girls learn precisely how wretched I am.”
Benedict shook his head as he bit his tongue. It would not do to be thrown from the club before he was certain Draycott was curled up somewhere clutching his ballocks and his Eliza was safe.
Wayland escorted him to the bar where that familiar dunner was pouring something amber. The enforcer had dressed simply, in all black, and he’d not bothered with the domino Benedict had seen some of the staff wearing.
“Bash,” Wayland began, “scotch for us both. And you remember your role tonight?”
“Yes, as soon as the girls arrive, Potter’ll take over here, and I’ll move upstairs for a wider view. Everyone has memorizedDraycott’s description—even Potter. Though I’m not sure it will do much good. Lady Arabella made him sound like every other dandy that comes in here.”
“He’s got the scar,” Benedict said, drawing a line across his cheek in demonstration.
“And he’ll be wearing a mask. No doubt of it.”
Benedict swallowed hard, for the first time recognizing how insurmountable the task might be. Already there were too many people to keep track of. And the crush was yet to come.
Bash handed over their drinks. “I’d make these the last all night. Potter couldn’t keep an order straight to save his life.”
“Why do you employ this person?” Benedict asked Wayland.
