“Are you certain of this, Rose?”
Baroness Lady Rose Stanford, now a widow due to her husband’s most timely death, turned about and peered at her backside in the full-length looking glass. Her hair hung down her back in a riot of curls. It was always a surprise to see just how unruly it was. The temptation to snip it all off overwhelmed her at times. While she was doing her utmost to become more adventurous—hence the flouting of mourning her cur of a dead spouse—cutting her hair off seemed a bit drastic. At the moment, however, the freedom of leaving her hair unpinned was…exhilarating. “Of course I’m certain. It’s rumored that the Earl of Hallandale is to attend.” She swung her hair then faced the youngest of her three sisters, Lady Huntley, Gabriella. “Why would you think otherwise?”
“That old geezer? I’m surprised he’s not met his maker.”
“Er, he did. I’m speaking of his heir, Oscar Percival Massey, Viscount Monclair, and now, the Earl of Hallandale. He is whom I’m hoping to snag. Though according to current gossip, Mr. Massey hasn’t been seen in, well, forever. Some fallout or other.”
Gabriella let out a long, impatient whoosh of air, though she spoke gently. “Oh, Rose. When are you going to realize you are a jewel in your own right?”
“Says the current Countess of Huntley.” Rose shoved her sister’s disgusting pity to the far reaches of her mind and grabbed a handful of her hair. “Maybe we should plait it. It seems scandalous to leave it loose.” She caught her sister’s expression in the mirror.
Gabriella appeared to shake off her faux pas. “Never mind about Hallandale. Back to this masquerade. First—” She ticked off one finger. “This is a Shufflebottom affair. The man is notknown for his decorous behavior. Second—” She ticked the next finger. “You’re already bucking norms by way of ditching your black bombazine some seven months before proper dictate. Third—” Her finger stopped just short of touching the next finger. “Well, I’ve forgotten my third point.” Her hands fell to her sides. “All I’m saying, Rose, is that his party is not the sort goodtonattend.”
Rose wanted to stomp her foot. Only, what Gabriella was saying was true. “But I want it to be. Besides, you’re going.” Erg, she hated how she sounded like a child. Worse, Rose was the eldest, not the youngest of the four sisters. Gabriella was the youngest.Thatwas what Gabriella’s lofty title of countess allotted her.
Confidence. Somehow Rose had lost her own…so many years ago.
Well, that stopped now. She had a plan. Soon, she too would have the prestige and status due her station. Then her sisters would see that she was just as worthy as they. This party served one other purpose: It gave her another step in the process of her journey in becoming more spontaneous.
A masquerade ball was the perfect launch for her new life.
Her new self.
She deserved more than the legacy of her late husband’s abhorrent treatment of her, of their marriage, of their very life after his being conveniently stabbed in the chest backstage at King’s Royale Theatre three months ago. “Why are you badgering me? You and Huntley are going.”
“Yes, but that’s because the Prime Minister—” Gabriella broke off as if she’d said too much.
Rose turned from the mirror and faced her. “What about the Prime Minister?”
“Nothing,” Gabriella said. She snapped her fingers at Jane, Rose’s lady’s maid. “Do something with her hair. Waist lengthhair of unruly waves do not belong on—” She turned to Rose. “Whoexactly are you portending to be?”
Rose gave an indignant sniff. “A lady’s maid, andI’vedecided to leave my hair down.”
Jane gasped.
“Rose.” Gabriella’s voice was a warning Rose chose to ignore.
“I want to be something no one would ever expect.” Rose spun back to the mirror. “Jane, I insist on borrowing a mobcap.” Shewouldfind Hallandale’s heir. Shewouldbe a countess before the blasted month was out. She vowed it.
No one would find her out. It was a masquerade.
How difficult could it be?
~~~
Quite difficult, Rose quickly discerned. Despite her bravado in the privacy of her bedchamber with Jane and Gabriella, Rose was a bundle of nerves, walking through the door of an already ballroom crush that was suffocating after the cool mid-October night. Everywhere she turned, she bumped into an exotic bird, a menagerie animal, a Henry the VIII, or a Marie Antoinette. Court jesters, harlequins. All crowding about her without leaving an ounce of room to breathe. At least her feet were protected in her ugly yet serviceable maid’s shoes where her toes weren’t pinched.
The most enticing thing about her belowstairs costume was her mask. Silk-covered papier mâché with swirls and curls tipped with diamonds no lady’s maid would ever dream of donning.
The Earl of Huntley, Gabriella’s husband, guided Gabriella and Rose across the vast hall by way of skirting an already packed dance floor. He snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and offered them to Rose and Gabriella. He leaned in and whispered something to his wife thenstraightened. “I’m off to the card room, ladies. I shall return.” He narrowed his eyes on Gabriella. “Try to stay out of trouble, love.”
“Really, my lord, you are too much,” Gabriella said on a huff. Her indignation was a ruse, considering the curve of her lips as her husband returned a smile that was much too intimate before sauntering away.
Envy permeated Rose’s insides. Stanford and she had never even had a friendly relationship, though classifying Gabriella and Huntley’s relationship as friendly was laughable considering the current that stretched between them like a taut rope burning on either end.
Rose sipped from her flute, surveying the throng, her gaze stopping at the ballroom doors. “Oh, blast.”
“What?” Gabriella spoke sharply.
