The Shadow of Albion (14 page)

of a cape. The petticoat, which showed in the front and at the hem, was of red silk

with gilded passimenterie trim, and her dainty buckskin slippers were embroidered

with colorful beads. A muslin stole, painted with barbaric designs and edged in

squirrel fur, completed her . costume. The modiste, who had come from London to

add the finishing touches to the garment as it draped her illustrious client’s body,

had assured Lady Roxbury that her ladyship looked the very image of a wild Red

Indian.   „Do I?“ Sarah said cryptically, staring at the engraving in Ackerman’s

Fashion Repository that detailed the formal costume of the native race of England’s

far-distant American colony. A native sachem and his lady stood poised in the

hand-colored engraving as though they might at any moment go for a saunter in

Green Park. The Indian lady wore an outfit nearly identical to the one currently

adorning Sarah’s own person.

At heart Sarah suspected there was something wrong with this elegant image,

though she could not fault Madame Francine’s execution of the costume as

portrayed in the engraving. And the famed modiste had been quite correct; the

supple leather gown was indeed a very dramatic costume. Sarah thrust aside the last

of her unease, and was prepared to descend to greet her guests when there was a

tapping at the door to the dressing-room.

„See who it is,“ Sarah said to her abigail. Each time she gave an order it became

easier: she seemed to more fully inhabit the life of the woman whose face she saw

when she looked in the mirror.

A moment later, Dame Alecto Kennet entered.

„Dame Alecto,“ Sarah said, faintly surprised.

„I came to claim a moment of your time, Lady Roxbury,“ Dame Alecto said,

smiling her faint imperturbable cat-smile.?

„You are always welcome,“ Sarah said slowly. „But do you not dress for the

ball? You need not wear a fantastical costume, of course – “

„I would be sadly out of place at such an entertainment,“ Dame Alecto said

self-deprecatingly, „but I thank you for the thought. No, I have come to thank you

for your indulgence of me these past several days and beg you will excuse me: my

duties call, and I have been too long away from Bath. By your leave, I will take

myself off this evening and spare your servants the work of finding room for me any

longer.“

„I am sure that if you desire to stay, it would be no trouble to me to

accommodate you,“ Sarah said automatically. It was certainly odd for a guest to

depart a houseparty in the middle of the night, though – so hints of overheard gossip

among the servants told her – Dame Alecto was known to be eccentric, and it was

true that the Dowager Duchess wintered in Bath and might be supposed to miss her

companion. But why should Dame Alecto leave now rather than tomorrow morning?

„Your manners are very pretty, my dear child, but your godmama would not

thank you for pressing me to stay when she is wishing for my return. I did not wish

to depart without wishing you well, and extending my best wishes for the success of

your evening.“

Was it Sarah’s overheated imagination, or was there a double layer of meaning in

Dame Alecto’s voice?

„I admit I tarried here until I was quite certain you were entirely recovered from

the shock you received in your accident,“ Dame Alecto went on. „And I am vain

enough to ascribe much of your recovery to my own nursing. At any rate, I have left

a batch of my cordial with your abigail, and if you continue to dose yourself with it, I

make no doubt that you will outface the Season’s challenges in the pink of health.“

„I do hope so,“ Sarah said. She had swiftly learned that the Season as

contemplated by the Marchioness of Roxbury was to be a busy one.

„Then we will see one another again soon,“ Dame Alecto said firmly, and on the

heels of Sarah’s automatic assent, took herself from the room.

How odd, Sarah thought – but it was a momentary consideration, swept away

almost at once by the exercise of locating mask and fan and dance card, and

arranging all these objects suitably about her ladyship’s becostumed person. As she

took herself off to Mooncoign’s ballroom, Sarah gave no more thought to Dame

Alecto.

Every window of the great house blazed with light this night; all the ground-floor

rooms had been flung open to the Marchioness’s guests, and rows of flaming

torches warmed and illuminated the gardens as well. Sarah stood overlooking the

ballroom that took up most of the West Wing’s first floor. Curtains of blood-red

velvet were drawn back to reveal windowpanes like a mosaic of black ice: within

their frame the fugitive stars of torches illuminating the garden gleamed. Beeswax

candles, dyed and perfumed, blazed out across the expanse of gilded and painted

Chinese paper that covered what few walls the windows did not The floor was

black-and-white marble, patterned in a swirling knot that seemed to move of its own

and was to overset more than one dancer this evening. Music sweet and fast filled

the air from the velvet-draped dais where the Marchioness’s own private orchestra,

correct and slightly antique in powdered wigs and green-and-silver livery, bowed and

blew like maddened automatons.

And for those who did not dance, there were side rooms open where cards, or

punch, or even more hectic pleasures could be procured.

Will he come? Sarah pondered the question as she awaited the assassin as

ardently as any woman might await a lover. She stood at the edge of a cluster of her

guests; beside her was Saint-Lazarre’s sister Isabelle, dressed as a French

shepherdess. Despite the frivolous nature of her costume, Mademoiselle

Saint-Lazarre was a quiet young woman who traveled with her brother out of

necessity, not inclination, and did not interrupt Sarah’s musings with idle chatter.

The Marchioness of Roxbury’s other guests were arriving; the music-master had

looked to her before he began to play and Sarah realized it would also fall to her to

lead the first figure of the evening.

At the thought, her head began to ache faintly, and she wished for the cordial that

Dame Alecto had concocted for her. To distract herself, Sarah gazed about the

ballroom, admiring the varied costumes her guests had chosen to wear this evening.

Here was a highwayman, deep-cuffed coat, tricom, and pistols – Captain Stephen

Price of the Royal Engineers, who had been her guest at dinner – there a noble of the

Sun King’s court – Saint-Lazarre; she had made sure to know what costume was

his. Pharaohs, princesses, and playing cards; laurel-crowned Greeks and noble

Romans filled her ballroom: this night, the Marchioness of Roxbury played hostess

to the sun, the moon, and the stars.

The dancing was to begin at nine-thirty and it was nearly that now. Soon she must

choose a partner with whom to lead out the first figure, but Sarah kept her eyes

turned toward the staircase that led into the ballroom.

One of the curiosities of the house was that to enter the ballroom one ascended a

staircase that took one halfway up the second story and passed through an archway

to a landing where one appeared high above the ballroom, displayed to any

spectators below as if upon a stage. Descent was accomplished by means of the six

shallow steps that led to the ballroom floor. The whole arrangement guaranteed that

every new arrival would be the center of attention at least once during the evening. A

Roman general descended the stairway at the moment; he wore a scarlet loo-mask

and carried a crested helmet beneath his arm. His crimson cape billowed behind him

as he reached the last step and made his way toward Sarah.

„Wessex!“ Sarah had recognized him only at the last minute. He should have

looked ridiculous in such outlandish garb. but his stern expression saved him from

such a fate. As she spoke his name, he made a leg and sketched her an elaborate

bow.

„As you see, madame. Dare I hope that it is I you will choose for the inestimable

honor of the first dance?“

Preoccupied by the knowledge that a murderer was skulking in the shrubbery,

Sarah had thus far resisted the blandishments of all the precipitous gallants who had

begged to be allowed to write their names in her dance card. The sound of

Wessex’s mannered drawl sparked irritation. The man was far too self-assured. And

while she could not recall ever having wished to marry him, the haste with which he

had reputated their betrothal irked her, as did the ease with which he contemplated

murder——

„Perhaps,“ Sarah snapped, unfurling her Indian-painted fan with a snap. She

wanted to ask him about the assassin, but with so many people around, it wasn’t

possible for them to have any private words.

„I shall live in hope,“ Wessex murmured. „Allow me to felicitate you, Lady

Roxbury, upon the… startling originality of your costume.“

Though the words were spoken in tones of the deepest gravity, there was

something about the set of Wessex’s mouth, the glint of the black eyes behind the

mask….

„I chose it with the greatest of care,“ she announced, though in truth Sarah could

not recall having seen the outfit before this evening, and something in her heart told

her that it was not, despite the modiste’s claims, an accurate representation of the

native dress in the wild Americas. „I am excessively fond of it.“

„And my admiration of it transcends my poor ability to express my feelings,“

Wessex responded. „But your guests, as you see, are ravenous for dancing, so if

you would deign to oblige me – “

And so it was that Sarah, nearly without knowing how she did it, led off her ball

with the Duke of Wessex.

Across the black-and-white floor, Saint-Lazarre was dancing with Lady Elizabeth

Perivale, who was rail-thin and hoydenish. The one good thing about dancing, Sarah

realized, was that the activity granted one a larger measure of privacy than did

standing still. Though there would be waltzing later, for propriety’s sake the ball

began with a country dance, whose elaborate stately figures had not changed much

from the court dances of Charles H.

„Will he be here?“ Sarah demanded.

„Count upon it, ma’am – no assassin can resist a masquerade ball,“ Wessex

replied.

But as the hour crept toward midnight, Sarah found herself almost wishing the

so-far-absent assassin would make his appearance. She could not imagine how it

was that everyone thought these affairs so appealing – for herself, Sarah found it

monstrously flat. Lady Roxbury had attended so many balls since her first Season;

perhaps that was why she found this supposed entertainment so very dull?

No matter; it still would not do for her to retreat to the library with a good book.

But having spent the last two hours dancing with all who had claimed her – Wessex

having made himself not-so-mysteriously absent as soon as the first quadrille had

ended – Sarah was now weary enough to feel that she had earned the right to seek

quieter pursuits. When Saint-Lazarre left the dancers to seek out the relative quiet of

one of the side rooms, Sarah followed stealthily, catching the tail end of the

conversation just as she arrived.

„Though it is true that England is a Christian realm, King Henry turns a blind eye

to white witchcraft in his dominion, following his great-grandfather’s example. The

witches of England worked hard to place Charles II on his rightful throne, and his

descendants have not forgotten,“ a man’s voice said.

„And it is also true that your farms and flocks have prospered since you have

become freer in your covenant with the Oldest People, but how can your prosperity

excuse your blindness to others’ misfortune?“ she heard Saint-Lazarre say.

The salon had been reserved for smoking, and a blue haze hung heavily on the air,

though the windows were open to the gardens beyond. There were half a dozen men

present, including both Captain Price and Saint-Lazarre, their lavish masquerade

costumes lending a freakish air of unreality to the talk. Sarah paused just outside the

doorway to listen.

„You mean that we do not open our borders to every hellgrammite that seeks to

cross them with a tale of woe as his passport?“ a man dressed as Scaramouche said.

„Saint-Lazarre, no man is more sensible to the troubles upon the Continent than I,

but England must look to her own cares first. It is our gold that keeps Prussia and

Austria in the field, do not forget.“

Saint-Lazarre made some reply, but Sarah ceased to listen to him, for she saw

faint movement just beyond the long windows, in the gardens below. And while it

was true that her gardens were open to all this night, there was something furtive