Lord of the Masquerade by Erica Ridley
Chapter 1
London, 1819
Julian Newcombe-Ives, the sixth Duke of Lambley, stood with his hands on the railing of the first-floor promenade encircling the grand ballroom and gazed down on his kingdom. The golden flecks in his hazel eyes glittered in the sparkling light of six crystal chandeliers. The barest hint of a smile teased briefly at his lips.
Everything was exactly as he’d planned it. As he wanted it. As he demanded. He controlled every detail of his weekly masquerades with the same ruthless precision he managed the rest of his dukedom.
Losing control? That was for people like his guests, who were currently engaged in all manner of debauchery and bacchanalia.
Discreet footmen with silver trays moved between the generous champagne towers. Strategically placed refreshment tables were heaped with sweet chocolate, succulent fruits, and other aphrodisiacs.
The orchestra was the finest in London, though only half of Julian’s guests had joined the dance floor to waltz with a stranger, their bodies pressed together far closer than was proper.
The other half of his guests were... elsewhere.
Up here, on the first floor, in one of the many sumptuous guest chambers designed for private pleasures. Out on the exterior balconies, seeking the heat of each other’s embrace between elegant Chinese folding screens erected to give lovers a semblance of privacy.
Or down in the wild garden below, enjoying the heady scent of spring roses and the anonymity of an inky black sky dotted with stars but devoid of the moon.
The ball opened at ten and ended just before dawn. Masks were worn the entire time—unless, like Julian, one did not care who glimpsed his face. It was his party. He was proud of the elegant hedonism and subversive equality he offered.
Some of the men and women below were lords and ladies. Others were opera singers, barristers, modistes, auctioneers, gamblers. If they were to notice each other at all outside of these walls, it would be to commission a gown or waistcoat, or perhaps only to turn up one’s nose and carry on.
But here—here! There were no such airs at the Duke of Lambley’s masquerades. He did not permit it. Everyone walked through the door to exactly the same reception. In fact—
The door to the exterior receiving room swung open. A pair of ladies with extravagant Venetian masks and barely-there bodices burst inside the grand ballroom.
“Presenting... Lady X, and her companion, Lady X!” the night butler’s voice boomed out.
The whirling revelers erupted in cheers, lifting their champagne flutes to cries of, “Lady X! Lady X!”
All of the masquerade guests were Lord or Lady X. Enquiring further was strictly prohibited. Only Julian and his trusted night butler knew their true identities.
Aspiring revelers were welcomed into the receiving room one carriage at a time. First-time guests were required to present a personal invitation, signed and sealed by the duke himself. Their details were then logged in cipher in the night butler’s secret ledger, and the invitation destroyed. Guests were then free to entertain themselves however they liked.
The two who had just entered the ballroom looked like any number of other fashionable ladies in extravagant gowns and even more expensive masks. It was impossible to guess their age behind the contours of the porcelain masks and the distraction of colorful feathers and plentiful décolletage on display. Most guests would assume the newcomers were in search of a night’s romance with one of the many equally handsome gentlemen in attendance.
Julian happened to know that these two ladies already had their partners in mind. In fact, they’d arrived together. They had eyes for no one but each other. They could not flirt publicly before the pinch-faced patronesses of Almack’s or beneath the bright sun at Hyde Park, but here in Julian’s domain, they were free to love as they pleased. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.
At the Duke of Lambley’s masquerades, society was under his control, not the other way around. The only rules were the ones he imposed: Complete anonymity and freedom of choice at every moment.
He had thrown his first such ball a decade ago. A much smaller affair, but the potential was clear from the very first hour. What had begun as a once-a-season indulgence quickly became monthly, then fortnightly, then weekly. During the parliamentary season, his balls were as much an institution as Almack’s—and just as exclusive.
For the five months of the social season, the patronesses presided over their insipid assembly rooms every Wednesday evening, and the duke ruled over decadent Saturday nights.
He peered over the enormous ballroom, his eyes missing no detail. Every candle in every chandelier was lit. Every glass of champagne, full. Every refreshment table, overflowing. There were no queues for food or drink. There was an excess of options at every turn, and an army of footmen trained to respond to the slightest cue.
“Presenting Lord X!” the night butler called out.
“Lord X!” roared the crowd with delight.
Julian’s servants might not know the names of the men and women they attended, but many of the guests wore the same masks to every masquerade. Hera had staked her claim on Zeus, and so on, leaving nothing to chance so the nameless lovers could be reunited.
Other guests, like Julian, did not pick the same partner twice. Some might be fooled by a change in costume, but not him. He did not forget a face—or even part of a face. He could recognize this lord by the cleft in his chin, or that lady by the sway of her hip.
Julian observed, and he remembered. It was part of what made his parties so memorable. The footmen knew the swan preferred her ratafia slightly less sweet but with extra grapes. They knew the tastes of the gentleman in the crimson mask, the lady with the lavender wig, the highwayman in the domino with its flowing black cape.
Lambley’s staff brought each guest exactly what they wanted before the thought even fully formed in their minds. To step into this ballroom was to have one’s innermost dreams brought to life.
After committing every current detail to memory, the duke released the banister of the six-foot wide promenade encircling the ballroom and made his way to the marble steps.
The head footman met him on the stairway.
Julian murmured instructions. His staff was used to these constant improvements. If it was possible to perfect the art of the masquerade, Julian intended to achieve it.
A dancer with tired feet? A plush chair, comfortable slippers. Too hot? A footman to relieve milord of his coat or cravat. Too cold? A shawl for madame’s shoulders and a pearl pin to keep it closed. No need to return the brooch. A token of the masquerade, compliments of His Grace.
“Presenting Lady X!” called the night butler.
“Lady X!” shouted the crowd, lifting their glasses.
This Lady X was the ballet dancer determined to become the duke’s long-term mistress.
Julian did not have a long-term anything, other than his dukedom. Not even his cherished masquerades. Someday soon he would need to take a bride, and that would be more than enough disruption to his schedule, thank you very much.
He could have hurried down the stairs and out of sight before Zylphia glimpsed him, but Julian did not hide from anyone or anything.
She bounded up to him, breathless. “I missed you.”
“Good evening, Lady X.”
She giggled. “You know it’s me.”
“And you know the rules,” he reminded her. “Anonymity. Freedom of choice. If you are determined to break either of them, your invitation will be rescinded.”
“I can understand not wishing to bed the others a second time...” She trailed her fingers up his lapel. “But with me…”
“You should find someone less busy.” He removed her hand from his chest. “I’ve a party to attend to.”
She twisted her lips. “I would ask if you ever relax, but we both know the answer to that.”
He frowned at the edge to her words. Of course he relaxed. He’d spent forty minutes with her in one of the upstairs chambers last month. If that wasn’t taking a respite, what was? Normally he did not allow himself a minute over half an hour. Not when there were guests to be looked after. He had been positively negligent.
“I have responsibilities,” he reminded her.
She pouted. “And no heart. I pity the woman you take as your wife.”
So did Julian, frankly. It was one of the many reasons he had not yet acquired one.
It was not that he didn’t believe in the concept of love. He believed in it very much, and created a magical midnight world specifically to bring a sense of romance into the lives of others.
It was the duke himself who was incapable of emotion.
He was exactly as coldhearted as Zylphia accused. He did not want to see her again, naked or otherwise. He did not want a mistress. He did not want to confront the same face again, day in and day out. And he definitely did not want to become close. Love was for those who could not control their hearts.
There was nothing Julian could not control.
He arched a brow. “If your situation is such that you must acquire a wealthy patron posthaste, three different guests tonight have authorized me to point interested parties in their direction.”
She brightened. “Who? Where?”
“Do you see the mask with the hooked nose and the emerald feathers?”
Within minutes, she fluttered off toward a strapping young man whose family had made a respectable fortune on horseflesh. What he and Miss Zylphia arranged outside of this ballroom had no bearing on Julian. He wished them both luck.
He was no rake. Not in the ordinary sense. He did not set out to seduce or to romance. Women were attracted to his power, not his poetic words. This suited him very well. Neither party wishing for more than each was willing to give.
Julian certainly didn’t lack for more. What would he wish for? He had everything. The highest title, short of royalty. Enough gold, he might as well be royalty. A grand London residence, several country estates, the most well-run households in all of England.
He had not just designed the perfect life, he was living it. The last thing he wanted was for it to change.
“Lambley,” came a warm male voice.
The duke turned to see the masked Earl and Countess of Wainwright, who had met at one of his masquerades two seasons prior.
He bowed. “Lady X. Lord X.”
“You’ve outdone yourself once again,” said the earl.
“I believe you said that last week,” Julian murmured.
“It’s true every time,” the earl replied. “I’ve no idea how one could possibly improve on perfection, but you astonish me every week without fail.”
“I thought I astonished you,” teased his wife.
The earl scooped her into his arms. “I’m about to astonish you,” he growled, and carried his bride up the marble stairs without remembering to take his leave from the duke.
Julian grinned. This was what his masquerades were for. To enable those capable of love to find it, often in the hearts of the person they least expected, just like the earl and his countess had done.
How horrified they had been when they first discovered the identity of their nameless lover! And how besotted they were now. An heir at home in the nursery, and his parents as wildly in love as ever.
Julian made his way through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries, accepting compliments, pointing those who wanted something in the direction of that which they desired.
It took half an hour to cross from the rear staircase to the door leading to the receiving vestibule. A record. It often took much longer. His parties were beginning to run themselves.
A footman rushed forward to open the door.
Julian exited the ballroom and stepped into the relative quiet of the receiving room. When the door closed behind him, the buzz of a hundred hushed conversations and the footfalls of the dancers were no longer audible. Only the muffled music from the orchestra slipped through the cracks around the door like the scented smoke of exotic incense.
The night butler grinned at him. “Lambley.”
“Fairfax,” the duke returned. “Anything to report?”
“All is calm and as you predicted.”
Exactly how Julian liked it.
Fairfax handed over the masquerade log for Julian’s perusal.
Anthony Fairfax had been Julian’s friend long before he became the night butler. As a member of the ton, he recognized the members of the beau monde on sight—and as a former degenerate gambler, Fairfax was well versed in the underworld as well, making him uniquely suited to match faces to invitations.
Anthony Fairfax had been a common sight amongst the beau monde until his family’s debts drove him out of the ballrooms and into the gaming hells.
It had not gone well for him at the tables, until the day his new wife won him at a game of cards. And then it had gone worse. Fairfax did not have enough blunt to manage his own matters, much less take on another dependent. That he married “beneath” him only distanced him further from the bon ton.
And then Julian had offered him employment. The money Fairfax needed, at the cost of severing his remaining ties with polite society. A proper gentleman was not employed, for God’s sake. And definitely not as a night butler at Mayfair’s most scandalous masquerades. A veritable servant. What a fall from grace!
In truth, Fairfax’s position had risen. He controlled access to the most exclusive balls in London. He knew the identities of the masked lords and ladies, checking their blushing faces against the coded register of permitted guests before determining who would be allowed inside and who would not. Fairfax enjoyed more popularity now with certain sets than he ever had as an impoverished, but respectable, gentleman. And infinitely more power.
Julian could certainly understand the allure of that.
And, he admitted, it was rather heady to know who was who, and doing what with whom. It was one of the ways Julian maintained control over his surroundings. By giving people what they desired, predicting the outcome of that action became easy. He much preferred being the grantor of wishes than the victim of whims. Impulsiveness was for fools.
He handed the log back to Fairfax.
“It’s a new year,” Julian said. “You haven’t asked me to augment your salary.”
“You raised it last year,” Fairfax reminded him. “If I tossed out a number, you’re likely to double it.”
“It’s a paid post, not a game of whist,” Julian said. “If I have the blunt to lose, why not take it from me?”
“Because you’re my friend.”
“Exactly why I want to give it to you. What is money for, if not to be used?”
“With that attitude, I have no idea how you still possess any,” Fairfax said. “Wait until you have a wife.”
Julian cocked a brow. “She’ll spend all of my money?”
“She’ll lock you in the attic so that you stop spending it,” Fairfax replied.
“Then I shall never marry,” Julian answered. “I should allow no man or woman to have control over me or my actions.”
“Mm-hm.” Fairfax smirked. “Remember this conversation after you fall in love.”
Julian let out a sigh. “I am incapable of love. Sometimes I wish that were not true.”
“Be careful what you say at a masquerade,” Fairfax warned. “On nights such as these, even the most unlikely wishes might come true.”
Julian cuffed his friend’s shoulder and let himself back into the ballroom.
Such words painted a pretty picture, but it was all poppycock. Even if Julian’s heart weren’t made of stone, he was a duke, and peers did not marry for love. His future wife would be a perfectly proper highborn lady with land and a dowry and a healthy self-interest in becoming a duchess.
It wasn’t love, but it would have to be enough.