A dash of blackmail had not gone amiss concerning his IOUs with Lady Gibbon, although he’d merely looked amused and muttered about having already settled them in kind.
Without doubt, she would not have gone if Rakecombe had said yes, or given his reasoning, but the imperious “No” had stiffened her resolve in a trice.
So here they were, sewing a tail for her skirts, a pair of gloves with claws and a mask complete with whiskers.
Cordelia sighed again, and Aideen considered fulfilling her role as duchess and having words with her friend’s betrothed. Weren’t all duchesses supposed to be matronly gobermouches?
“You haven’t written any more shepherd and sheep poems, have you?”
“Goodness, no. It’s just…” The tail was put to one side. “Lord Oakdean is attending the Miltons’ ball as well.”
Aideen’s eyebrow shot up. All the ton was aware of the Miltons’ masquerades. They managed to stay the right side of respectable only because of their hosts huge influence, but everyone knew they were a smidgeon risqué – not suitable for newly engaged viscounts or young ladies – which was why Aideen wanted to go.
The duke may not be attending, but for once in her life she’d be most intrigued to view the high society goings-on, masks only serving to reveal their true selves.
And besides, she’d heard the Miltons served superb lobster patties.
“How do you know he’ll be there?”
Fiddling with the velvet tail, Cordy’s entire demeanour spoke of guilt. “I was awaiting Oakdean in his drawing room and started sifting through the post – purely as something to do.”
“Of course,” agreed Aideen, jostling up on the settee and not believing her for a moment.
“Well, the Miltons’ invite always has elaborate gold lettering. My brother used to go so I recognise its style.”
“To be sure, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s attending.”
“I spoke to my maid who is sweet with the footman at Oakdean’s, who in turn is cousin to his valet and therefore had it confirmed.”
“Oh.”
“Hmm.”
“You could always…” The idea was scandalous, and a duchess should shy from scandal, but… “come along?”
Blue eyes widened like Wedgwood cake plates. “No! I couldn’t… Could I? No… Well. No. Although…”
“Lord Winterbourne will chaperone us. And you would be in disguise.” She tapped a finger to her lip. “But no, you are right, it’s a bad idea. I’m a bad influence and a terrible frie–”
“It’s a fabulous idea,” Cordelia gushed.
“It is?” Oh lawks.
“Yes,” her friend assured, a fevered light entering her eye. “I have been coddled and sheltered and hidden for nearly twenty years and sometimes I feel as though I will marry Oakdean and nothing will change.” Aideen gawped as Cordelia stood and paced the rug, ribbons struggling to keep up. “Sometimes I feel he is only marrying me because I am the diamond of the Season, and when we marry, he’ll place me on the mantelpiece, admire me for an hour and then put me away in a cupboard again.”
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“No, because it is selfish and wicked. How can I complain when at the orphanage I see such poverty? But I feel so…stifled.” She flopped back on the settee in a very un-Cordelia-like manner.
“But how will attending the ball help?”
“I want to be free for one night. Not an ornament or a proper miss but a person. My own person. Do you know my mother makes me practise laughing to sound young and girlish?”
Aideen shook her head.
“Well she does – closes her eyes, listens, and tells me if it’s too loud or deep. Then I have to do it again and again until it has the correct balance. I’m not allowed supper otherwise.”
Unsure what to say, and glad she was half-Irish, Aideen gave her friend a hug: the English were a peculiar lot.
