“That discussing historical figures at a masquerade is bound to lead to confusion,” replied her friend, still smiling. “Think about our favorite Roman general for a moment.”
Amelia frowned, and then her friend’s meaning dawned on her.
“William was talking in metaphors,” she groaned. “Damn and blast it, he meant the actual Marc Antony and not Lord Gowding.”
“That’s the problem with clever men,” replied Lydia with a commiserating tone. “I have often wondered if intellect comes at the cost of romance. I suppose the question is which of those two qualities you prefer in a potential lover.”
“Husband,” corrected Amelia, then felt her cheeks flame as Lydia grinned.
“I knew it!”
“Not that it matters right now,” sighed Amelia. “I’ve made everything worse.”
“It will right itself, I just know it,” promised her friend.
Amelia just shook her head with faint exasperation. “If you only ever accept one piece of advice from me, it is this: never trust a man when it comes to matters of the heart.”
“I knew that already,” said Lydia cheerfully. “Now, let’s go back to the ballroom and secure your future happiness, shall we?”
“As long as you don’t mention Marc Antony,” muttered Amelia, but allowed herself to be led back to the lion’s den.
*
Between the champagne at the masquerade and the copious amounts of whiskey he’d imbibed over the last half an hour, William was considerably worse for wear. He had laid claim to the right-hand side of the leather couch closest to the fireplace, his forehead resting on the green-topped card table in front of him. His frock coat, mask, and tricorne were piled on the floor at his feet, and while he refused to let any of the staff remove them, he had agreed to put the pistol and swordstick into the cloakroom.
A few acquaintances hailed him as they made their way to the main card tables on the far side of the room, but he could not bring himself to do more than grunt in response. Somehow, and by that, he meant Conway and Killarney, word had got about of his embarrassment at the masquerade, and there were only so many pitying looks he could take before tearing out his own hair in frustration.
The usual chatter and laughter of the club members washed over his misery as fortunes exchanged hands at the card tables, political arguments raged about the fireplace, and bawdy gossip was shared among friends and enemies alike. The Grand Subscription room filled gradually as gentlemen left balls and soirees to spend the rest of the evening in the club, and even as William wallowed in dejection, he noticed that all but his friends were dressed in appropriate club attire rather than costumes.
For some reason, it made him feel even more depressed, although his friends were either oblivious or simply did not care.
Killarney was doing his best to teach Conway his favorite ballad about a highwayman, and Conway seemed to be deliberately getting the words wrong just to irritate him. They drank liberally between each verse, calling to their favorite waiter to top up their glasses whenever they were less than half full. Both were still in their full costumes, much to the amusement of the other members of Brooks, although they drew the line at allowing the two lords to duel with their rapiers, because of the risk they would knock over the card tables.
Louis, sprawled in his chair, had removed his lace cravat to reveal the red ribbon tied about his throat. His mask remained in place, although his tricorne had slipped to a jaunty angle that covered one eye. He gave the impression of being asleep, but his occasional smirks in response to the conversations around him indicated otherwise. A glass of wine balanced precariously at the very end of his fingertips, threatening the rug with a splash of burgundy should he lose his balance for a moment.
Dook, whether from morbid curiosity or a genuine desire to help, seemed intent on making William relive the disastrous encounter with Amelia over and over again.
“So, she did seem to be interested in pursuing the conversation, then?” he said for the third time, frowning thoughtfully at his fingertips. He’d removed his mask but not his tricorne, arguing that his hair was in no fit state to be seen by men of taste, no matter how terrible the breach of etiquette.
“It seemed like it, but then I started talking about academic works on Egyptian hieroglyphics,” said William, rolling his head so he could rest his cheek on the tabletop while glaring at his friend. “How many times are you going to make me relive my misery, Dook?”
“As many as it takes for me to form a new plan of action,” said his friend, giving William a reassuring pat on the head. “I am convinced that her dressing as Cleopatra was important. I thought she liked all that prosy old stuff?”
William stared at him for a few moments, trying to decide whether his friend was serious.
“Even I know that a discussion about the linguistic basis of a dead, undecipherable language is not conducive to flirtation,” William said, rather pleased that he didn’t slur his speech.
“But what if hieroglyphics are the language of love?” demanded Killarney before he and Conway collapsed into fits of laughter. Even Louis, his eyes still closed, couldn’t help smiling.
William lifted his head long enough to drain the contents of his whiskey glass. He settled back to using the table as a pillow and held his glass in the air until one of the waiters came over to replenish it for him.
There were distinct advantages to being a member of Brooks’s Club, with the quality of service being one of them.
“It’s more likely to be the language of the gods, although there are possibly several variations,” sighed William. “Personally, I am one of those who think writing evolved as a language of trade, but I admit that we have much to research in that area.”
“Good God, man, is this how you spoke to Amelia?” asked Conway, his laughter coming to an abrupt halt.
“No. It was more academic in tone because she has twice the intellect of you and Killarney combined.”
“No wonder you made a mull of things,” said Conway, indifferent to the insult. “Women don’t want their intellect respected when they are alone with a fellow. What do you think they want?”
“Oranges?” offered Dook before swearing when the earl wrenched his chair back in retaliation.
“Flirtation, you fool! They want flirtation!”
“What, only in the orangery?” asked Killarney, his face the epitome of innocence. “What would they like in the other rooms of the house?”
“Nothing but privacy in the vestibule,” murmured Louis, his eyes still closed. “I learned that one from experience most terrible.”
Even William was momentarily pulled from his misery by this comment, but the fact that Louis still had the wine glass balanced on his fingertips meant the chevalier was not far enough in his cups to share the details of this promising tale.
“I meant that our saintly friend here should have listened to our advice and flirted with Amelia. Why else would she have been dressed as Cleopatra?” continued Conway.
“Because she likes the Ancient Egyptians?” countered Dook.
“In the earl’s defense, she did say that she didn’t want to talk about hieroglyphics,” said William.
None of his friends appeared to be paying attention to him, so he drained another glass of whisky before holding it up for the waiter.