Helen’s eyes glistened with a sudden sheen of tears. “Hattie told me that His Grace—that is, Anthony—means to give Northall House to us. Perhaps we shall go there for Christmas. To the place…the place we loved one another best.”
“Perhaps you might also ask Captain Sharp to have your husband’s portrait removed from the gallery and hung up in the nursery,” Charity suggested. “That is what brought your daughter downstairs, when she found me.”
Helen chewed at her lower lip. “Do you think he would agree?”
If he had had no qualms about offering Hattie the countryside estate at which she had been born, then Charity doubted a simple portrait would incite much of a fuss. “There is no harm in the asking, is there?”
A hint of a grimace touched Helen’s mouth. “I fear I have not half so much boldness in me. Not like—not like—”
“Me?” Charity suggested mildly, with a lift of her brows.
“I meant no offense,” Helen hastened to say.
“And I have taken none,” Charity replied. “If I had done, you would certainly know it. A woman in my position is, from time to time, called to defend her own honor, since nobody else will. You may safely assume that, as your hair is still firmly attached to your head, I do not consider myself offended.”
Helen issued a startled, incredulous laugh. “You are—very frank, Miss Nightingale,” she said. “I suppose I cannot help but to respect it.”
And Helen had not turned up half so haughty and dismissive as Charity had herself assumed she would be. A welcome surprise, that. But before she could respond, there came the sound of footsteps upon the stairs, slow and steady, and Helen’s spine stiffened.
“I have taken up too much of your time,” she said, coloring, as she rose from her seat. But it was not possible for her to have vacated the room swiftly enough to avoid Anthony, who had arrived at last in the foyer.
“Helen,” he said in surprise to have found her there, lingering just at the fringes of the doorway. His jaw tightened, and just at the moment, Charity could see how such a forbidding expression might put the fear of God—and of him—into a woman dependent upon him for her living. His dark gaze slid past Helen to Charity. “Has anything occurred of which I ought to be aware?” he asked, his voice flat.
She had, after all, been the victim of his mother’s cutting words before. “No,” she said as she set aside her tea cup and rose to her feet. “I was only chatting with your sister-in-law for a few moments. It was very bad of you to keep me waiting,” she added, as she slid her arm through his, putting herself between them. “Good evening, Helen,” she said over her shoulder.
“Good evening, Miss Nightingale,” Helen replied, a bright burst of color singeing her cheek. She dipped a perfectly correct, if somewhat wobbly curtsey. “A-Anthony,” she added.
“Imagine that,” Anthony murmured, his brow archedin surprise as he watched Helen take her leave, retreating up the stairs. “I’ve beenYour Gracefor months. And now Anthony. What did you say to her?”
“Nothing that oughtn’t to have been said months ago,” Charity said. She slipped her free hand into her reticule, retrieving a black domino mask, which she offered to him.
“What is this for?” he asked.
“The Cyprians’ Ball,” she said as she turned them toward the front door. “Did I notmake mention of it? It’s a masquerade.”
Chapter Fourteen
You realize, do you not,” Anthony said as he affixed the domino to his face, tying the strings behind his head, “that this is rather insufficient as far as costumes go?” Besides being rather flimsy, it would not go particularly far toward obscuring his identity. The eyepatch beneath it would see to that well enough, as would the numerous scars that the domino couldn’t even come close to hiding.
Charity laughed as she alighted from the carriage. She had tied on her own mask before they had arrived, but it had been too dark within the carriage to get a glimpse of it. Only now in the light pouring through the windows of the grand house at which they had arrived could he see it at last. Flimsier even than the one she had offered to him, it was hardly a mask at all—just a few thin frills of lace woven in sparkling gold thread. A veil made of net would have better guarded her identity.
“It’s pretense,” she said, with a delicate wave of her hand before she settled it into the crook of his arm. “It’s all just pretense. Only a bit of fun; the tiniest concession toward the secrecy we are meant to employ. Perhaps half of those in attendance will arrive in masks at all. Fewer still with arrive in any sort of costume.” She tipped her head back, touching the point of her chin as if in thought. “It’s possible,” she added, “perhaps even likely that some might arrive withoutclothing entirely.”
“Truly?” He couldn’t imagine it.
“Well, perhaps not arrive, per se,” she allowed. “Thatwouldcause a stir. But a few have been known to shed their costumes—or clothing—at the door. As anyone else might a cloak or a coat.”
Anthony squinted up at the house, its glittering windows awash with light. A cry went up from within, mingled voices and cheers attesting to the merriment already well underway. “Whose house is this?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and fished in her reticule to pull out a card with gold lettering emblazoned upon it. An invitation, he assumed.
“Doesn’t it? Are we not meant to thank our host?”
Charity tilted her head back to laugh once more, her dark curls shimmering in the light from the windows. “Certainly not,” she said. “Even if you could find the host, he—or she—would never admit to it. Like as not the use of this home has been secured for the evening at a premium, from someone not even in attendance and more likely not even in London at present.” She smiled up at him, her warm, dark eyes shining with her amusement. “Tonight is for pleasure, for excitement. I imagine you’ll see a fair few people whom you will recognize. You should not, at all costs, address them by name, for this evening they have none they’ll claim.”
“Even names are forbidden?”
“Notforbidden,” she said, as she gave a small tug upon his arm, pulling him toward the door. “Not exactly. It’s just that tonight is meant to be a fantasy, and tomorrow it will be as if it never happened. There will be no strict adherence to propriety, and there will be quite a lot of wickedness. In addition to those whose sins are well-known, there are plenty who rely upon the secrecy of those in attendance to hide their own iniquity. You might see a man you know locked in a torrid embrace with his mistress this evening, and still he would deny his attendance tomorrow, if you were indiscreet enough to ask him.”
