Feeling a touch…remote from it all, she rose from the velvet chaise and made her way to the French doors with their fluttering silk.
Beyond, the familiar darkness beckoned and so she stepped through to leave the merriment behind.
“ISAY,have you seen a woman in white feathers anywhere?”
“No,” Ernest replied to the masked wolf – or Sir Henry, as he wore the same costume every year – and narrowed his eyes to gaze out over the crowded ballroom. To be truthful, he couldn’t make out a lot as he’d done without his eyeglasses. They’d looked absurd with his masquerade outfit but he wasn’t utterly sightless and a certain blur added to the opulence of the occasion.
And what an occasion.
This masquerade would outdo many in Mayfair with its noble attendees and glittering jewels, but then Sir Henry was as rich as crocuses and had sold many a horse to duke and earl, his sleek thoroughbreds winning respect and admiration.
Needless to say, Ernest had attempted to press Sir Henry on any recent purchases but he’d denied buying so much as a horseshoe this past summer, and further attempts to extract information had been met with the usual tight-lipped suspicion of the horse training fraternity.
Ernest watched on as a gilded Cleopatra slunk by, glancing over her shoulder with batting black lashes, but it wasn’t Hebe – her chin too sharp – so he returned his gaze to the dancefloor, wishing he’d made more of an effort to discover her costume.
Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent cavorted past them with a tempestuous woman in tattered swirling red skirts and corseted bodice.
Hmm.
“That sultan fellow?” Sir Henry queried. “Says he’s a buyer looking to acquire some prime flesh, but I don’t recall inviting him. Keeps questioning me about my horses. So, if you’re looking for information, I’d start with him. Suspicious.” He sniffed. “But then he is Irish.”
One had to admit that Redmond O’Conner suited the role, and no one had guessed it was the Rothwell stable master beneath all that Ottoman magnificence.
After the maze incident, Ernest had decided that there was no better place than this ball to gather horse-related gossip, and so Redmond – under the guise of a wealthy Irish horse buyer, in turn under the guise of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent – would enquire amongst the guests as to whether any decent studs had recently come onto the market – chestnut ones with a white star on their forehead and answering to the name of Sir Oswald.
“I’ll have a word with the sultan and see what I can find out,” promised Ernest.
Sir Henry nodded. “Now, tell me more about that fine filly of an artist residing with you this summer? Seems to shy at the last and has a stubborn temperament, but most likely just needs a damn hard ri–”
“Mrs Locke,” snarled Ernest, “is my houseguest and not to be gossiped of.”
“Well, I’d giv–”
“My lord,” a winsome voice breathed, “is that you?”
Across the ballroom a blurred flash of pure white amongst all the vibrance caught his eye, feathers floating and–
“It is you, Lord Ernest.”
Had those been the feathers of a swan?
“You promised me a dance?”
Squinting down, he discovered a winsome milkmaid. Or Sir Henry’s sister, as her disguise was so thin, he could view her chest flush.
Bugger.
SUMMER WASat last spreading its wings upon the land, a warmth lingering into the evenings with a promise of balmy nights to come.
Hebe turned from the balustrade as a couple danced from the ballroom and onto the terrace, the gentleman’s hands lingering upon her waist, the lady’s laughter soft and silken.
With rapt gaze they whispered to one another, not aware or caring that an audience of one watched on.
Tonight she felt tired of always looking upon others who enjoyed and experienced passion. ’Twas as though she herself was stuck within a scene of a painting, never moving with time but imprisoned within the gilded frame of Tobias’s malice.
She looked away as they kissed.
Steps led from the terrace to a formal garden, but just beyond, a lake shimmered like glass, reflecting the half moon and the celestial heavens, and like a swan to water, she drifted towards it, down the gravel path, the lake calling her, its coolness inviting and pure.
