A glittery shiver tingled up her spine.
The fifth of November…
Tonight.
An idea both sparked and formed in the same instant.
She had time.
She could attend this masquerade ball.
This year for her birthday, Eva had presented her with a black velvet dress trimmed with gold lace from her atelier in Paris. The gift had stolen the breath from Tilly’s lungs. That was how exquisite it was.
When she’d thanked Eva, the other woman had smiled in that intense way of hers—no one could match Eva for intensity—and said, “Every woman should have such a dress in her wardrobe. But Tilly?”
“Aye?”
“You must promise to wear it.”
Tilly had nodded her agreement.
And she’d kept her promise—though it had only been in the privacy of her room.
Still, she brought it with her when she traveled with Isabel, in case an opportunity ever arose for her to wear it.
Never had that opportunity arisen until…now.
Nervy anticipation skittered through her veins and had her all lit up on the inside. If she legged it this minute, she just had time before the shops closed. Her mind began ticking off a list of necessities for such an evening—hooded cloak…silk mask…satin slippers of the sort worn by ladies for their fancy evenings out. These last nine years, she’d only worn sturdy leather boots.
For here was the reason her plan was unimpeachable—a word Lord Percival liked to use—as long as she left the ball before the unmasking at midnight, no one would ever know.
Then a few days later, she would leave Brighton with Lord Percival and Isabel and return to London with no one the wiser.
No one except her, of course.
And the memory of her first—and last—masquerade ball she would forever carry with her and treasure.
She could dance and drink champagne and have herself a little wild night.
How much trouble could she get into, anyway?
2
Later
Rhys hadn’t begun the evening intending to attend a masquerade ball.
He’d started the evening, improbably, at a rather serious-minded supper party.
But that was the thing about the Brighton season—which came after the London season and lasted from late summer through Christmas—one generally accepted invitations to balls and parties one would have ignored in London.
Which was how Rhys had found himself seated at a table at a supper party surrounded by all the preeminent politicians of the day, including none other than the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne.
Even as Rhys himself had not a lick of interest in politics.
Even as he knew this to be a serious failing of his character.
Well, it was but one of many.
