38
Cordelia walked the long way to the ballroom, the one that passed by all the visitors’ rooms. She saw the Marchioness of Grimsby dressed as Hebe. Even in a mask, she held her head so much higher than anyone else that she was easy to distinguish. She also spotted Lois, dressed as an Egyptian queen.
The ballroom that had always felt rather empty was, for the first time since she’d come to Ashdown Abbey, almost half full. But instead of being lit by the bright electric lights for the ball, she’d decided to use candles one last time. To keep with the historic atmosphere. Even the footmen, in their livery uniforms, looked as if they’d stepped out of a history book.
She saw several men dressed as knights, kings, and Romans in togas. One man was dressed as a monk, and his black habit not only covered his entire body but obscured his face. She gave an involuntary shiver. The monk reminded her of the bones that she and Thomas had found. The skeleton was now buried in the Petersley cemetery; hopefully, the ghost of Ashdown Abbey had finally found peace. If only she could find peace of her own.
Penelope was smiling underneath her mask. Stuyvesant, poorly concealed, was dressed in a cowboy hat, with a mask, and paying her court. Cordelia could not help but smile to herself. So far, her plan was working brilliantly and she didn’t feel so much as a pang of jealousy. The small orchestra struck up a tune and an elderly Roman asked for her hand. Cordelia made the mistake of speaking with her American accent to the elderly gentleman, but she wouldn’t make that mistake again. She spoke softly, with an English accent. She found that it was easy enough to imitate. It’d been drummed in her ears since she arrived in England.
Stuyvesant stopped in front of her and her heart dropped. “Queen Elizabeth I, may I have the honor of this dance?”
“You may, sir.”
He placed his hand on her waist and took her hand with his other. She felt the familiar warmth of his touch, but not the tingling in her belly that she felt whenever Thomas was nearby. She looked over her shoulder for him but couldn’t identify him among the guests.
“Tired of me already, Your Majesty?”
“If you’re going to be impertinent,” she said in her crispest imitation of an English lady, “I am going to have to cut off your head.”
“I’m fond of my head exactly where it is.”
“I’m sure that you are not the only one who is fond of your head.”
He spun her around and she closed her eyes and tried to recapture the joy she’d once felt while dancing with him. She wanted to feel that way again. He’d travelled halfway across the world for her and her heart was not fickle.
But divorce?
She tried not to shudder just thinking of it. He hadn’t guessed who she was. Cordelia inclined her head and bowed formally. She was not about to give her disguise away yet. Stuyvesant barely waited to acknowledge her nod before walking to Penelope’s side and bowing to her. Cordelia could no longer hold in her smile. She grinned. Her strategy was working marvelously.
“Might I ’ave this dance, m’lady queen,” a gruff voice said beside her. She turned to see a masked man dressed like a seventeenth-century pirate, with an elaborate red coat, high-heeled boots, and a real sabre worn at his slim waist, complete with an enormous, curly black wig and a wide-brimmed hat with a tall white feather. He swept off the hat and bowed to her with a great flourish.
A laugh bubbled from her and she held out her hand to him. “Yes, I would be happy to dance with a pirate,” she said in a slight British accent.
“Privateer,” he said with another familiar smile. “The legal kind of pirate.”
“That’s rather less dashing.”
“Nonsense,” he said in the same gruff, disguised voice. “I am Sir Francis Drake, a privateer for my queen. You, Elizabeth Regina.”
“And what do you intend to steal for me?” Cordelia asked in the same crisp English accent.
“Not for you, but from you,” he said as he took her into his arms for the waltz. He leaned in by her ear and whispered, “The greatest treasure of all—your heart.”
She felt a delicious shiver down her spine. Two could play this game. “But perhaps my heart is already taken by another rogue.”
The privateer released her hand and touched his sword hilt. “Then the scallywag will have to answer to my sword.”
“Your sword speaks? How very singular,” she snapped. “Does it dance as well as you?”
“Better,” the privateer said, and threw his head back and laughed. A laugh that warmed her stolen heart. A laugh she recognized—the privateer was Thomas. She wondered how she hadn’t known him instantly, but he was wearing those ridiculously heeled boots, so he appeared taller than usual. And the large red coat made him look broader in the shoulders. But how could she have not recognized his smile, or the warm comradery she felt in his presence? The aching need to be closer to him?
“If you are going to flirt so outrageously with all the ladies,” she said theatrically, “more than one husband will want to dance with your sword.”
“I only intend to flirt with one lady,” he said softly, no longer speaking with a gruff voice. “The only one who holds my heart.”
She felt tears come unbidden to her eyes and a sharp stab of pain in her chest near her heart. He must have thought she was Penelope. Thomasstillloved her.
“I’m not who you think I am,” she said softly, forgetting for the first time to speak with an English accent.
