Daphne stood beside Mr Beattie in the upper gallery, watching two maids polish the vast ballroom until it gleamed. A footman balanced on a ladder, trimming the wicks of the chandelier with quiet concentration.
Preparations for the Autumn Masque were underway. Gilded mirrors lined every wall. Crimson curtains framed the terrace windows. A colour that spoke of passions Mr Hawke preferred to keep hidden.
Mounted above the grand fireplace, a pair of oversized Venetian fox masks watched the room, one snarling, the other leering. Trust Mr Hawke to choose menace and mischief. A testament to his conflicting nature, no doubt.
“As you offered to help, Miss Harland, you may begin here.” Mr Beattie spoke with the gravity of a general on campaign. “Take this list. Check the maids’ work. There’s no room for error. Precision is key.”
She accepted the list with a nod of regret.
The tasks for the Masque filled both sides of the page. Still, it was better than spending another hour alone in thecottage, thinking about Mr Hawke. She’d hardly seen him since he escorted Aunt Augusta out under a storm of theatrical protests two days ago.
He’d left Shadowmere on foot yesterday, just before dusk, two white roses in hand. Mr Ramsey claimed he’d gone for a walk, but the man who returned looked dreadfully solemn.
“Do you have any questions, Miss Harland?” Mr Beattie asked.
She did. Too many to mention.
Who wanted her father dead? That should have been the most pressing. Where was Mr Irving now? Abroad, she hoped. Would Mrs Foster appear in the dead of night, toss a sack over her head, and bundle her out of the house?
But only one thought consumed her.
Would she ever feel the warmth of Mr Hawke’s lips again? The weight of his body against hers? The murmur of his voice in her ear?
Fickle fool. Read the list and forget about him.
How could she, when his scent clung to the air?
When every room hummed with his presence?
“Ensure screens are decorated and positioned in every shadowed corner of the ballroom,” she read, dragging her thoughts back to the task. She looked up to find Mr Beattie twisting the ends of his moustache into perfect points. “Screens in a ballroom? Whatever for?”
“It’s not for us to question the guests’ habits, Miss Harland.” He turned and barked at the footman below. “Careful, Emery! That’s Italian crystal. One slip on that ladder and you’ll bring the whole thing down.”
“Italian crystal.” She hummed in appreciation. “Mr Hawke knows how to host a lavish party.”
She thought of the red crystal flutes that had arrived thatmorning. The silk-lined marquees in the garden. Each one complete with a velvet daybed draped in expensive furs and the thick scent of incense in the air.
“One gets what one pays for, ma’am.”
“How mucharethe tickets for the Masque?”
Mr Beattie glanced behind him and lowered his voice. “At five hundred pounds a head, the guests expect both privacy and spectacle.”
“Five hundred pounds?” Daphne gripped the balustrade. Her aunt would have reached for a vinaigrette. “How many attend?”
“Anywhere up to fifty.”
“Good heavens. That would buy a townhouse in Mayfair. Or a small kingdom abroad.”
Mr Hawke must be wealthier than Midas. So why host parties for people he despised? It had to be about owning secrets. About holding power over London’s elite.
“How long does he intend to host these events?”
How much money did one man need?
“Mr Hawke keeps his plans close to his chest. That’s all I shall say on the matter.” Mr Beattie tapped the parchment in her hand. “Back to the tasks. I expect them completed before day’s end.”
She glanced at the sheet. “Apple garland safety?”
