Home > The Lord of the Highwaymen(4)

The Lord of the Highwaymen(4)
Author: Elizabeth Bramwell

“Or Astley’s,” sighed Killarney. “That was painful for us all.”

William winced again. “Can we not talk about that?”

The duke gave him a sympathetic smile before turning back to the rest of their friends.

“We are to assume the characters of our alter egos, gentlemen, and cut a dash through this ball by holding up everyone dressed in riches, stealing kisses from the prettiest ladies, and mocking fights with anyone who challenges us until we catch the scent of our fox. Once we identify Amelia, we will take her to the orangery, where William can then declare himself.”

“There’s a Soprano in the orangery,” said Louis. “Our host may have chosen her more for her looks than her talent, so we must wait until she is done or find a way to clear the room.”

“Then that’s your responsibility,” said Dook with a nod to the Frenchman. “Conway and Killarney will make sure Amelia makes it to William in one piece, and I shall concentrate on keeping some of her more aggressive suitors out of her path. Is everyone agreed?”

“Wait a minute, has this been the plan the whole time?” demanded William as he looked at each of his friends in turn. “You all intended to dress as highwaymen this whole time, didn’t you?”

Louis glanced at him, one perfect brow arching over the top of his mask. “You do not recall the plan we agreed on?”

“It was the brandy,” explained Killarney, as William began to deploy some of his choicest insults about the legitimacy of their births. “He never could hold the stuff. Pistols at the ready, my friends—and hands off the goddess Minerva over there—she’s mine!”

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

As I were going over the fair Killarney mountains

I came on Captain Howell and the money he was counting

First, I drew me pistol and then I drew me rapier

And said, “stand and deliver, for yer money I lay claim te!”

Mush rim damma dur um da

One for the daddy-o

There’s whiskey in the jar

Darling Sporting Jenny


When the Melbournes hosted a ball during the London Season, everyone who considered themselves to be a member of the Beau Monde jealously guarded their invitations. When the guest list included a rare appearance by the Devonshires, all the royal dukes, William Pitt, and Prince George, anyone failing to attend risked being labeled as uninvited, and thus, not a person of consequence.

Lady Amelia Fellowes, widowed eighteen months earlier, just weeks before her twenty-third birthday, was under no illusions as to where she stood in polite society now that her husband was gone. Tolerated was the word that sprang to mind. She was neither rich nor influential, but she had good friends in high circles, and that meant invitations still came her way.

“It’s a sad crush already,” observed her companion, Lydia. “No doubt, we’ll all be fainting from the heat before the midnight unmasking, and Lady Melbourne’s triumph will be complete.”

“You don’t have to sound so bitter about it,” Amelia told her oldest friend. “And you only have yourself to blame if you overheat in that ridiculous wig.”

Lydia’s face cracked into a grin as she patted the ancient coiffure, causing a small cloud of dust and powder to disperse about them. “Hideous, isn’t it? I know a magistrate doesn’t need to wear a wig, but I could not resist it. Is my tricorne still attached?”

“Mostly,” Amelia replied after a quick inspection. “What about my tiara?”

“As perfect as when Cleopatra herself wore the original,” Lydia promised. “Your hair is so straight! How did your maid manage to style it?”

Amelia thought back to the painful scenes in her dressing room and shuddered at the memory. “With great difficulty, I assure you. I shall never be able to see smooth sheets without a pang of sympathy ever again.”

“It’s a stroke of fortune that your hair is naturally black,” said Lydia before giving a graceful nod toward a lady dressed as Ann Boleyn. “At least you won’t worry about the dye running down your neck and staining your dress.”

“Nor do I need to worry about making my way through tight spaces,” added Amelia, gesturing toward a man whose costume was a giant dragon twice his natural girth. “I wager you a shilling that he gets stuck in a doorway before the night is out.”

“Accepted, for it’s more likely he’ll set himself on fire from the candles,” said Lydia, shaking her head at the sight. “Why do we do it to ourselves, I wonder? Why do we go to such absurd lengths for these masquerades?”

“Because we are the Beau Monde,” said Amelia with great aplomb, “and we must perform the ridiculous with dignity and grace. Shall we go find a footman with some champagne, dearest? I fear we are going to need it if we are to survive this night!”

Lydia gave her enthusiastic agreement, and the two ladies began to work their way into the heart of Melbourne House in search of refreshments.

Amelia had to admire Lady Melbourne’s ability to throw a party, even as envy gnawed at her heart. The decorations were truly splendid, for instead of relying on just the giant candelabras for light, the entire ballroom was illuminated with variegated lamps of various colors that made a rainbow effect across the guests. Flowers and wreaths of greenery festooned around pillars and spilled free of boxes brought in for the occasion. While a few were already beginning to wilt from the heat, the Melbournes’ staff were quick to remove the most pathetic looking blooms so that they did not ruin the display.

Despite the party being referred to as a “ball,” there was little dancing thanks to the more elaborate costumes. While many of those present would have been able to make their way through a simple dance without injury, it was unlikely that the lady dressed as Mary Rose could complete a single turn without incident. The man costumed as a pair of bellows was already struggling to move without crashing into another guest, and he was only standing still. Despite this, every room was filled with music, and no expense had been spared on the entertainment. A small orchestra played lively tunes from an alcove above the ballroom, while a string quartet occupied the balcony for any guests trying to escape the heat. Apparently, there was even a noted soprano giving a recital in the orangery, much to the delight of several gentlemen whose eyes were enjoying the performance far more than their ears.

“Pink champagne,” said Lydia as a footman handed them two delicate glasses. “No expense has been spared, I see.”

“Did you think that it would be?”

“Well, no,” confessed her friend. “The only reason I attend these events is that the refreshments are without compare. It’s even enough to make me don a costume!”

Amelia smiled at this. While supper would not be served for another hour or so, Lord Melbourne’s cellars had been thrown open, and the pink champagne flowed liberally to the delight of everyone present. Amelia sipped at her glass, thankful more for the coolness of the liquid than the extravagant generosity on display, for in the hot squeeze of the crowded house, she would have gratefully accepted water as the only refreshment.

She was also uncomfortable. Not because of her costume or the excessive makeup, but because of the vicious glances of her fellow guests. Randolph had told her it would be like this, even as old age had finally caught up with him.

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