“The situations are completely different,” the duke told him with an authoritative air. “Trust me, old friend, before the night is out, you will have finally told the pretty widow that you love her, and your marriage will be conducted before the Season is out!”
William doubted this very much, but he did not want to destroy the relative peace that had fallen between the group, and so said nothing.
That was the problem with childhood friends, he thought as they joined the long line of guests waiting to be admitted to the Melbourne House. As much as they had one’s best interests at heart, they were ruthless when it came to scheming. Ever since Lord Fellowes had died eighteen months earlier, William had been subjected to plan after idea after strategy on how he could win the girl he’d loved since his days at Eton.
Luckily, most of the plans were so impossible that his friends had given up on them before they’d even started. The one involving Miss Carter’s tiger had come the closest to fruition, only for Killarney to scotch it on account of not wanting to spend a moment longer with his betrothed than absolutely necessary. Still, they’d been enthusiastic about Smith’s idea for him to dress as Jerry Abershawe as a way for William to control his nerves. He’d just never expected they would all decide to wear the same costume.
As he’d predicted, the Melbournes’ ball was indeed a sad crush. It took far longer than usual to even reach the doors to the mansion, let alone make their way down the receiving line to the hostess.
“Four more gentlemen of the road!” Lady Melbourne exclaimed with evident delight as she greeted them. “I am sure I know who all four of you are, but I will not betray your identities before the unmasking, I promise! Your fifth has already arrived, although I have no idea how you will find him in these crowds of people.”
William glanced at his friends.
“Louis,” they said in unison and went on the hunt for their friend.
The Melbournes’ ballroom was a whirl of color and glittering jewels. Wax candles blazed in the chandeliers and candelabras, the light reflecting from the mirrors and from the exquisite detailing on the thousands of costumes before them. Harlequins, ladies’ maids, a sailor, three vestal virgins, a gentleman dressed in a half-beau-half-belle costume, several Turks, Indians, and even a Persian whose false beard looked to be made from cat hair, were among the hundreds of guests. The four of them, dressed as they were, caused a stir among the crowd—especially with the ladies, many of whom seemed intent on discovering whether it was true that the gentlemen of the road would steal kisses instead of payment. It took several painful minutes for them to extract Conway from the clutches of an over-painted but surprisingly strong shepherdess. In contrast, Killarney took to swinging his rapier with a casual disregard that encouraged people to give them room.
“I’ve spied him,” shouted Conway over the sound of the orchestra. “There, over by the French windows. I think he’s being propositioned by Queen Elizabeth and Bloody Mary.”
Dook thought this inordinately funny, and under other circumstances, William would have laughed as well, but worry was eating a hole into his chest. Despite knowing how Louis was dressed, it had still taken the best part of half an hour to locate him. What chance, then, did he have of discovering which lady was his Amelia in disguise?
“Excuse us, your majesties, but this misbegotten cur is no gentleman of the road,” growled Killarney, exaggerating his swagger as he stepped in front of the two women.
“Arrr, he’s none other than the scoundrel James Maclaine, who turned on his own brother-in-arms, William Plunkett, in an attempt to escape the gallows,” added Conway.
Dook leaned over to whisper in William’s ear. “I keep telling Conway that highwaymen don’t speak like the rum-runners, but he insists on that accent. Be a good chap and see if you can dissuade him, will you?”
Louis, it seemed, was not happy with the attempted rescue by his friends. He drew himself up to his full height, which was further exaggerated by the heels on his black riding boots, and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Monsieur, you offend me,” he declared. “I am none other than Claude Duval, and resent being mistaken for some common English villain!”
The two queens giggled in delight, seemingly under the impression that this show was for their benefit.
The earl, however, forgot all about the rescue as he turned to his friend with an irritated expression.
“Damn it, man, you can’t be Duval, for I am!”
Louis Duponte, the Chevalier D’Arras, cast his friend a mocking look. “Non, you have not the flare to be one of my countrymen. If anyone must be le voleur de grands cheminsit, it’s me.”
“That’s a fair argument,” admitted Dook.
William and Killarney nodded in agreement, and Conway looked fit to explode.
“No, blast it all! First, I couldn’t be Plunkett, then I couldn’t be Flemming, and now I can’t be Duval? This is too much!”
“You didn’t want to be Flemming,” Killarney reminded him. “You wanted Dook to be Flemming, but he and I swapped, remember?”
“That’s not the point at all!” Conway raged.
“He is drunk, non?” asked Louis.
“When is he not?” sighed William.
His friends, except for Louis, snorted, while the Frenchman kept an expression of aloof superiority. The two queens, bored now the possibility of a daring duel had disintegrated into a boyish squabble, lost interest in them, and turned their attention toward an Indian Rajah.
“It’s all fine, Conway,” said Killarney in a soothing voice. “Why don’t you play Plunkett after all?”
“I can’t be Plunkett without Maclaine!”
Dook glanced at William and winked.
“Think, man! Maclaine was caught, so you can be Plunkett after that scoundrel tried to turn King’s evidence on you.”
“That is rather genius,” the earl admitted, looking mollified. “I think I can work with that.”
Louis grinned. “You can still be Duval if you wish, mon ami, for I only used his name when no one seemed to know Nicolas Pelletier.”
There was a brief moment of silence among them. Louis sighed and then tugged down the lace ruff at his neck to reveal the thin red ribbon he had tied there.
“Pelletier was a voleur de grands chemins,” he explained. “They took off his head by guillotine not a year before they executed my king. He is one of ours.”
“Trust you to bring the mood down,” said Killarney, punching Louis gently on the arm.
They all knew that their friend disliked overt shows of sympathy for his ordeal the year before, but his smile showed that he understood the intent behind the marquess’s words.
“Ah, forgive me, mon amis,” he said with a slight incline of his head. “We are here to ensure William’s future happiness on a last throw of the dice, non?”
William winced. “I wish you would not put it like that.”
Dook laughed and slapped him hard on the back. “Too much pressure, eh? Listen, my friends, our purpose tonight is not to convince the fair Widow Fellowes to marry our boy, but merely to get him to speak to her without tripping over his tongue. We do not want a repeat of Vauxhall Gardens!”