“There’s an auction at midnight,” Mrs. Maybury told his mother. “They’ll reveal the girls then. I’m not certain it’s proper, but then I’m not certain it isn’t, either.”
But Leo didn’t want to wait until midnight to find Prudence. He wanted to talk to her, to understand why she wasn’t corresponding with him. He understood that he’d behaved poorly at Thornridge. But the fear of Reggie walking back into his life, after all he’d done to build something in London for himself and his mother, was too much to bear. And how could anyone admit such a thing and be understood?I’m afraid my father will destroy me and take all our money? I’m afraid I’ll have to beg or con my way into a decent meal for my mother again?
How does a person explain the misery of a father like Reggie to a woman who held her family so dear? The veneration in Prudence’s voice when she spoke of her childhood and herparents’ dedication to each other was unmistakable. How could she look at him with any respect if he told her that he had long hoped his father was dead?
Even if Prudence no longer wanted to be his lover, it wasn’t right to punish his mother for his behavior. But the wordloverstuck in his throat. It wasn’t as crass as all that. And the wordloverwas nowhere near as complete a meaning for what they were.
They were friends and companions, as well as intimates. Their time together was more than just bedsport. At least, for him. A few weeks ago, he would have wagered every farthing that was the same for her. But now. Now he didn’t know.
He approached each woman, not too close, and tried to not be too overt. Men blended in the crowd far more than ladies, as every man was wearing a black coat. There were different cuts and different masks on each man’s face, but from a distance, they all looked the same.
The first one, in an ice-blue gown, he immediately disqualified. Her proportions were all wrong. The second one, in a gown so dark it was almost black, he also dismissed. Her bright red lips were too full. They were the wrong shape. And her neck wasn’t long and elegant as Prudence’s was.
The next one he was almost certain was her. She wore a gown the color of an expensive sapphire. Her neck was long and elegant, and she had a small bust and a long waist. But it was also her posture, the way she carried herself. But he was a man of thoroughness, so he went to the fourth woman to make sure. It took some work to move through the crowd, but once there, he immediately congratulated himself on knowing Prudence. This woman was also not her. Closer to height, she was not as confident in her stance, but haughtier in her carriage. This lady had English aristocracy stamped all over her. This one was Miss Bridewell, of that he was certain.
He made his way back over to Prudence, but before he arrived, a chime went off and the women descended into the clamor of the crowd. He lost sight of her, and then, noticing the surge to the dance floor, he followed. And there, dancing with Prudence, was Eyeball.
Rage sizzled inside him. Of course Eyeball was there to swoop her away. He was always one for a rich widow, and it didn’t hurt that Prudence was beautiful and smart and witty. Even if Eyeball were looking for a wife, Prudence would make a decent prize. With a title, Eyeball didn’t require connections, he required capital, which Prudence could supply in spades.
Disgusted, he made his way back to his mother. He couldn’t stand to watch Eyeball work his charms on Prudence. It made him physically ill to think that Prudence might actually fall for one of his ridiculous eye colors.
“Whoever wins the bid at midnight escorts them in to dine,” a woman said in the crowd.
Ah, that was the rub with the auction, then. He was unwilling to make a scene trying to gain her attention as she descended from her perch, and it appeared they only danced a single set before moving back up to their posing daises. Fine. He could find the card room until the clock struck midnight.
He always did well at cards. Finding the room swimming with easy marks, he settled in at a table and raised a finger at a footman to bring him a drink. Time ticked by pleasantly enough. He managed to get through two sets of table mates before the hour grew late enough. He took his leave, his winnings, and his wine and headed to the ballroom.
The crowd had shifted again. The dancing was through, and men were attempting to climb the faux Matterhorn at the front of the room. The slick soft soles of the formal shoes proved to be a challenge for the brave men who tried their best.
“Looks awfully difficult,” a man said near him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the woman said as Leo jostled past.
He was sick of hearing about adventure and mountains, of ambitions and luxury. He was sick of this ball and watching men proving themselves on a stupid fake mountain. He was sick of newspaper reports celebrating some asinine explorer, as if there weren’t plenty of people in the world who struggled daily for food and clothes and shelter. How dare they flaunt themselves when others had to push and struggle for their barest needs? What was he even doing here?
Through some hidden stair, Tristan Bridewell appeared at the peak of the faux Matterhorn. He’d removed his mask, and his open, golden good looks irritated Leo even further. He didn’t consider himself an envious man, but suddenly, tonight, he found himself soured through and through.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tristan Bridewell said, trying to quiet the crowd down. “Thank you so much for coming to this late-in-the-Season celebration. As you know, we are raising money for a majority women’s expedition up to the Matterhorn next summer. I will also be joining the group, as an aid and companion—”
“You mean you’ll be climbing it, and they’ll be getting the credit!” a man yelled from the crowd. Leo fairly growled at the man, standing somewhere in front of him.
“No, sir, I’m afraid I will be bringing up the rear. My sister, Miss Ophelia Bridewell, is the leader of our expedition, and is scheduled to be the first woman ever to step foot on the Matterhorn’s vaunted peak.”
There was a hush over the crowd. Everyone knew what had happened to the crew that had successfully ascended the mountain three years ago—they’d ended up dying on the way down. Or at least, half of them did. Including the British aristocrat. It was hard not to see the parallels for Miss Bridewell.
“But to ensure we have the best equipment and the best local guides, we need your help. Tonight, we auction off the identity of our four intrepid adventuresses! The highest bid unveils the lady from her disguise, and allows that person to escort the lady into dinner before all other guests.” Mr. Bridewell gestured to the door leading to the dining room, where the partygoers would eat in shifts, if they ate at all.
“Because both my wife and my sister will be up for auction this evening, please be aware that I’m watching you.” Bridewell winked at the crowd after giving his menacing glare. He turned, reached down behind him, and he grasped the hand of a young lady in the ice-white skirts.
“Let us start the evening at the surface ice, shall we? Miss Kilimanjaro.”
The crowd stared blankly at first. Whichever climber this was, she was stunning. Bridewell looked out at them, bemused.
“She does have that effect on people. Shall we start the bidding at ten pounds?”
A man shouted for ten over the sound of several other voices. The fee quickly escalated to one hundred pounds. The average worker’s wage for two years. More shouting, and at one point, it looked as if a fistfight might occur.
A triumph was finally held by one man, holding his banknotes over his head. “Five hundred pounds!”
