Home > The Lord of the Highwaymen(5)

The Lord of the Highwaymen(5)
Author: Elizabeth Bramwell

“You’ll be treated little better than an opera dancer by the men, and with hatred from the women the moment you put off your blacks, even if you mourned me for a century,” he’d said as she sat beside his sickbed.

“I might never take off my blacks,” she’d replied, her eyes stinging with genuine tears for the old gentleman who’d saved her and her family from financial ruin.

“Nonsense, you’ll return to Society twelve months to the day, if only to irritate Archibald! Remember everything I’ve taught you, my girl,” he said, his mind still sharp even though his body was no longer obeying him. “Do not become bitter because of the gossips, for when they are talking about you, it means they have not forgotten you. It will become boring with time if you let it.”

She’d taken his old, frail hand, tears filling her eyes. “What will I do without you to advise me?”

“Marry for love instead of security this time,” he replied in his usual, no-nonsense fashion. “One of those handsome lads you’ve known since you were still in the schoolroom, for example. Don’t blush, you goose! I know you’ve never played me false, despite permission to do so! I’ve left you enough to be comfortable after I’ve gone even if you choose not to marry again, and with no penalties if you do. Ha! It will keep it out of the hands of those wastrel idiots I am forced to call my sons. I was a terrible father, you know, but I like to think I was a good husband.”

“The best of husbands,” she’d replied.

He had been old enough to have been her grandfather on the day they married, and neither of them had been under any illusion about the nature of their match. Amelia had secured money for her family, and Randolph had gained a pretty companion strong enough to keep his selfish, greedy sons from taking advantage of his failing years. He had been her mentor and guide, gaining great joy in her success as a lady of quality and fashion.

But now Randolph was gone, and his protection with it. The Ton tolerated her because of her connections, but their suspicions and distrust were plain for all to see.

It made Amelia uncomfortable, but it no longer hurt. There was only one person whose opinion concerned her, only one whose approval she hoped to win.

And he’s unlikely to care about anything but my opinion on Grecian vases, she thought with a sigh.

“Prepare yourself, my dear Amy, for Lord Gowding has spotted you,” said Lydia, interrupting Amelia’s memories.

“Please, no,” she groaned from behind her forced smile. “The man is far too free with his hands at the best of times.”

“I’ll endeavor to save you, dearest,” promised her friend. “But consider that I did warn you that dressing as Cleopatra would bring trouble your way.”

It was on the tip of Amelia’s tongue to inform her friend that there was nothing in the least improper about her costume, but then her eyes landed on Baron Gowding, and she understood precisely what Lydia was referring to.

“My fair Cleopatra, temptress of the Nile!” the older lord cried out as he finally came upon them.

He was dressed somewhat improbably as Marc Antony, although his armor did not quite reach across his chest, and Amelia did not dare look down to see how short his tunic really was. He did not wear a mask to disguise his identity, but his hair and face were glistening with sweat in the candlelight.

“Indeed,” she replied, being as cold and aloof as she dared. Gowding lacked the consequence of the Melbournes or the Devonshires, but he was still from an old, wealthy family, and thus able to damage her standing in the Ton if he so wished.

“It is the will of the Fates that we should be together!” he stated, motioning vaguely toward a trio of women in Roman dress, who were fanning themselves vigorously in the stifling heat of the ballroom. “Come, let me take you away to my barge, where we can feast and drink wine, just like our namesakes!”

She bit down the acerbic retort that tugged at her lips. Equally, she refrained from pointing out that the real Marc Antony had died when he was at least thirty years the junior of the baron and had been considerably more athletic according to the records. She swallowed her pride and allowed him to take her hand as he proceeded to quote Shakespeare to her, if somewhat inaccurately.

“You stir immortal longings in me, my Egyptian Pearl,” he announced before lightly kissing her fingers.

“I don’t think that’s what Shakespeare meant when he wrote that line,” she replied with a shake of her head, but Gowding was not to be dissuaded.

“What other longings could such a beauty as yourself cause in a man, oh Queen of the Nile?” he replied, seeming to believe he’d just paid her a great compliment.

“Do you know, Lord Gowding, I think they are dressed as vestal virgins, not the fates,” said Lydia, drawing the baron’s attention to her. “Can you not tell from the detailing on their dresses?”

The baron, in his defense, blinked several times as he looked Amelia’s companion up and down very slowly before a broad grin lit up his very red face. He let go of her hand, his attention now fully captured by Lydia.

“Miss Willow! Or should I say, Sir John Fielding?” he asked. “A clever costume to dress as the Blind Beak of Bow Street, although it does not do much to disguise your identity.”

“Neither does yours, Lord Gowding,” said Amelia, unable to help herself, but he nodded happily at her statement.

“It was impossible to find a mask suitable for the role, you know, and as I consider Marcus Antonius something of a personal hero, I decided to fully act the part.”

“As did I,” replied Lydia, who had put a lot of effort into dressing as the famous Bow Street Magistrate, right down to a black bandage resting just above her eyes and a switch carried in her right hand. “I had to borrow my grandfather’s spare robes and wig, but this dratted tricorne refuses to stay on top of this thing. I am curious to know how you coped with wearing them in your own youth, my lord, for I confess I am well pleased such fashions are consigned to the past!”

Amelia turned her head away, pretending to admire some of Lady Melbourne’s decorations so that Gowding could not see her laughter. The poor man did not know how to politely respond to Lydia’s question, for he did not like being reminded that he was far past his prime.

“One manages,” was all he managed to say, his earlier arrogance dimming before their eyes.

“I have often wondered how you kept your paint from smudging onto your clothes,” added Amelia, wondering how the ridiculous fashions had ever become so widespread in England. “Did you ever worry about it marking your coat when you were at a ball and could not easily change?”

“What about eating?” added Lydia. “I tried to ask my father once, but he said that he had never been a dashed Macaroni, and that I should ask you when next we met.”

Gowding’s cheeks went pink, but the insult had been delivered with such perfect innocence that the baron could not take offense without appearing a fool.

“I prefer to consider myself a member of the dandy set, rather than one who adopted the extremes of fashion,” he replied, falling entirely out of character. “Ah, I believe I have just spied a friend of mine and must congratulate him on his costume. I must beg my leave of you both, ladies, and hope that you have an enjoyable evening.”

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