Lord of the Masquerade by Erica Ridley

Chapter 7

Unity gazed about the ballroom. It was impossible not to get caught up in the excitement and merrymaking. New guests burst through the door every two minutes to a rousing chorus of “Lord X!” or “The Ladies X!” and enthusiastic cheers accompanied by raised glasses of champagne.

By refusing to let guests pour into his ballroom, the duke drew out the moment and made the experience seem all the more special. Each arrival was an Event and celebrated in kind. That it was also a practical matter—with the night butler confirming invitations and keeping identities anonymous on the other side—was testament to Lambley’s clever mind.

Nothing he did was only the thing it seemed to be. Every decision had been contemplated and calculated and designed to evoke maximum everything.

This was like being on stage with the audience. Everyone here was part of their very own show, and they all were stars.

Unity was never an actress, but she loved the pomp of the theatre. Lambley’s masquerades were the best of all worlds. The freedom to wear the costume of one’s choice and play whatever role one desired without the pain of memorizing lines or dancing to someone else’s choreography.

At least, so it seemed. Unity now knew how much consideration and work went into making the night look wild and spontaneous.

The lights and the decor were arranged in such a way as to draw newcomers away from the door and into one of the many entertainments. Dancing, of course. Refreshments along every wall. A promenade encircling the ballroom overhead. Private chambers just behind. Garden doors, flung open to reveal the crescent moon and stars. Couples already picking their way along stone paths or embracing on one of many secluded benches.

And Lambley was in his element. Prince of the jungle, a lion overseeing his pride, beautiful to look at and too dangerous to allow close.

He was sinfully handsome in his formal evening wear. Informal evening wear, Unity amended. He had not worn tails to the ball and strode about in dazzlingly white shirtsleeves paired with a crimson waistcoat and black breeches.

Shocking dishabille, by ton standards. A gentleman never showed his shirtsleeves. But the guests had not come here tonight to be respectable. Unity’s deep-cut gown looked positively chaste compared to some of the costumes.

Did glimpsing a woman’s ankles give an attack of the vapors? Then hie thee to the closest smelling salts because here there were men and women alike whose legs were clad only in colorful stockings or skintight pantaloons. Many a Grecian goddess dressed in little more than a bedsheet, with a slit baring a sliver of leg all the way up to her thigh.

Other men eschewed tail coats, and others avoided shirts altogether. There were several fawns and satyrs bare-chested from the waist up, and even a woman dressed as a siren with only the barest scrap of material over her breasts.

Some costumes went in the opposite direction. Extravagant peacocks—literally—with an array of tail feathers the size of an open parasol. Every sort of creature was represented, real or mythological, as well as attempts to capture the flavor of other cultures, from Egypt to India to China to Russia. There were even figures present from Britain’s own history, from the famous to the infamous.

Whatever you were looking for, this was the place to find it. Whatever you wished to be, this was the place to become it.

To her surprise, no one made any snide comments or lifted their noses at the color of her skin. Lambley probably controlled that, too. Made each guest vow compliance to a list of rules so long, it truly did cover everything. Military generals and boarding school headmistresses alike would weep to be able to command their charges so thoroughly.

Best of all, Lambley made it fun. Every guest stepped into the ballroom with a smile upon their face that only widened as the night continued.

Next time, Unity would come as someone other than herself. Who or what, she did not yet know, but after dressing actors in costumes for so long, surely she could be more imaginative than choosing a low-cut gown and affixing a false beauty mark.

She had assumed there was no sense disguising herself because she would be the darkest-skinned guest in the ballroom, and that wasn’t true either. There were already several others who shared her golden-brown hue, and a few with rich coffee coloring. She wondered if she knew them and delighted in the idea that they might be wondering the same thing about her. They could be anyone. She could be anyone.

The one thing all of the revelers had in common were the masks disguising their features, some from the cheeks on up and others fully covering entire visages. In some cases, she could not even be certain if the fairy tale creature she was looking at was man or woman, much less guess at their true identity. They were all too well concealed.

Everyone but Lambley, that was.

His sharp cheekbones and glittering hazel eyes were out in full force, causing many a foot to stumble and bosom to flutter.

Even though he could not know their identities—or perhaps emboldened by their anonymity—women pressed against him from all sides, shamelessly angling for a sliver of his attention.

Unity had to fight the urge to do the same.

For a man with no obvious costume, the duke played the role of indolent, careless rake with surprising aplomb. No one who glimpsed him trading cheek kisses and topping off champagne would guess how tightly strung he was beneath his lassez-faire hedonistic veneer.

Unity herself couldn’t quite credit the full extent of her mistaken assumptions. She’d thought the challenge would be gaining admission to his private utopia. Once there, she’d work the same magic she’d used on Sampson’s gaming parlor and her cousin’s gentlemen’s club.

Humblingly, Lambley didn’t need her at all.

His masquerades were so remarkable, she ought to be paying him for allowing her to peep over his shoulder.

The first thing she’d decided was that doing it his way was far too much work. He was running himself into the ground by obsessing over every detail. One could not run a club this way.

Her most important lesson was not to copy him, but do the opposite.

If there was anything a lifetime lived outside the beau monde had taught her, it was that “good enough” was usually... well, good enough.

Perhaps it was somehow marginally better to have an odd number of fruit on each tray rather than evens, but who besides Lambley would notice or care?

In Unity’s masquerade club, her refreshment tables would simply contain refreshments. Something savory, something sweet, plenty of liquid, and that would be that. She would not be measuring the distance between sandwiches or monitoring the ratio of berries to citrus.

Here in his club, she did not do much of anything. This wasn’t a real partnership, or even a semi-partnership. It was an indulgence from a man who could afford to pander to every whim.

She was here until he found a bride, or she proved herself unnecessary, whichever came first. How was she supposed to seem necessary? She was surprised Lambley let his maids dust and his butlers buttle.

The moment he realized there was nothing she could offer after all, Unity would no longer be allowed within these rarefied walls.

She hoped he would let her remain for the rest of the season—there was so much she could learn!—but Unity was practical enough to know tonight could be her sole opportunity.

She drew her journal from her reticule, then shoved it back inside. She’d taken enough notes about methods and measurements. What she needed was the feel of the place. That was the main thing to capture. The sense of giddiness and excess, freedom and joy.

Unity gave up her position on the margins and waded into the rambunctious crowd. She could not have been labeled a wallflower—Lambley had seen to that. By encircling the ballroom with refreshment tables and provocative art, there were no empty spaces to go be a wallflower. Someone would appear within minutes to remark upon the delicious chocolate, or to enquire your thoughts on the nude painting of Aphrodite behind you.

The plush sofas were strategically placed as well. Not in stern lines facing forward, but cozy clumps of three or five, facing each other. To take a break from the dancing was to meet new friends somewhere else.

Someone stepped into her path.

“Have we met?” A man dressed as a Robin Redbreast—the distinct red-accented costume of the Bow Street Horse Patrol—handed her a fresh glass of champagne. Or perhaps he actually did work for the patrol and had dropped by after his shift ended.

Unity blinked. “Er...”

“I am Lord X,” the Robin Redbreast said gallantly. “And you are?”

“Lady X?” Unity offered.

He beamed at her and made an impressive leg. “If this is your first masquerade, welcome! And if we’ve danced at every ball for the past decade, then I certainly hope we shan’t break the streak tonight.”

She could not help but return his easygoing smile. “It is indeed my first night. How does the duke do it?”

“Lambley?” The Robin Redbreast glanced over his shoulder. “Very, very carefully, I presume. Lambley is the definition of premeditation and tenacity. When the duke decides a thing, it will happen.”

“That makes him sound more hard than fun-loving.”

“He’s both,” said the Robin Redbreast. “Harsh and strict and relentless and more, but also the most generous soul you’ll ever meet. No one multiplies money like Lambley, and no one gives it away like Lambley, either.”

She stared at the Robin Redbreast. “Gives it away?”

“He has no friends in need. Not because he gets rid of the friend, but because Lambley does away with the need. He is the first to offer a loan when all seems lost, and at much better rates than the bank would ever give.”

“Charging a friend interest doesn’t exactly sound selfless.”

The Robin Redbreast’s expression was droll. “Spoken like someone who has never needed money the bank refused to give.”

“No,” she said softly. “I’ve been in situations more dire than that.”

What’s more, the behavior he was describing sounded awfully similar to the loans her grandfather provided in the old neighborhood. A memory Unity very much cherished, even if her grandfather’s legendary generosity meant that he had given away every penny of a vast inheritance that Mother had hoped would last for generations. Grandfather cared about other people. About those whom he could help now, not later.

She would not be surprised if most of Lambley’s even greater wealth was likewise spent on everyone but himself.

“You’re right. Looking out for oneself does not negate looking out for others at the same time. Doesn’t such generosity risk an abundance of hangers-on, rather than actual friends?”

“Again,” said the Robin Redbreast, “of course we’re hangers-on. Before you judge us too harshly for our shamelessness, I believe the duke wants it like that. Keeping us in our place is no doubt part of his strategy. He prefers to keep friends in doses he can control. Saturday nights, from ten to dawn. And we are happy to oblige. Or are you different?”

“We’re not bosom friends,” Unity admitted.

“But you and I could be.” The Robin Redbreast held out an elbow. “Might I entice you onto the dance floor, Lady X?”

“I think you might,” she said, to her surprise. “But not quite yet. I am still getting my feel for the place. Could you find me in an hour?”

“Don’t forget about me,” said the Robin Redbreast. “My heart will be quite shattered.” He scampered off.

Unity returned her searching gaze to the Duke of Lambley.

He was somehow even more enigmatic than before. Cold and warm, closed and generous. Everyone longed to be near him, but few actually knew him.

She tried to imagine what it was like for the Robin Redbreast. To attend this party every season for years, and still not be known as anything other than Lord X. Valued enough to be given a loan if need be, irrelevant enough not to be missed between seasons.

“Handsome, ain’t he?” said a swan covered in a thick blanket of white feathers.

Unity pretended she hadn’t been gawking openly at her temporary employer. “Who?”

The swan rolled her eyes. “Lambley, of course. I take it you haven’t had him yet.”

“Had... him... I... no...”

“Figured as much. There’s a different heat in a girl’s eyes, once she knows what she’s missing. Yours is the hunger of wanting to know.”

“I don’t... want...” Unity stammered, but it was useless. She wanted to peek inside Lambley’s head and climb up his strong, tightly muscled body and the swan knew it. “It’s not my fault he’s attractive,” she muttered.

“He’s sex in a cravat,” the swan agreed. “If you get your chance, take it.”

Unity was glad her mask hid her blush.

“And then he’ll be done with you.” The swan inspected her long nails. “Just one more unknown for him to test and try and ultimately discard once it becomes known. You’ll never be more attractive to him than the moments before you say yes.”

“I’m not planning on saying yes,” Unity assured her.

“Darling, everyone in this room would say yes. Especially those of us who know better. A man like that... you can’t help the fantasy of being the one he wants to keep. That with you, one night wouldn’t be long enough.” The swan burst out laughing. “One night? What am I talking about? No one has ever had him for an entire night.”

“Are you... in love with him?” Unity asked.

“Oh, no. I’m married. Although, if Lambley were capable of love, I’ve no doubt the duke could woo any maiden from her husband. Alas, his heart is dark and shriveled. There’s no room in his rigid life for love.”

“That’s a cruel thing to say.”

“He told me so himself.” The swan shrugged. “The only feelings I’ve ever seen him admit to are displeasure and lust. He says love is for fools, and he does not suffer them.”

“That sounds...”

“Cold? Heartless? He would agree.”

“...sad,” Unity finished quietly.

And perhaps inaccurate. The duke was a man who prided himself on being icy and unforgiving, yet was also known for being extraordinarily generous. He opened his home, if not his heart, and was even at this moment fetching tarts and ratafia for his guests as though he were a footman and not the lord of the manor.

What’s more, he had agreed to Unity’s scheme despite patently not requiring her assistance. It was like the loans, she realized. Rather than give her money as though she were a beggar, he was allowing her to “work” for her keep. Here, in the most spectacular ballroom in Mayfair.

He was helping her, not the other way around.

Did that sound like a coldhearted knave?

“He’s the worst kind of rake,” the swan warned. “The kind you know will break your heart because he tells you so before he starts. The sort of man you think you can change if you just want it bad enough. But there is no changing anyone, Lady X. We are all who we are.”

“I won’t forget,” Unity vowed. “And I swear I don’t wish to keep him.”

“Good luck with that promise,” the swan said. “Oh look, there’s my husband. I promised to dance with him at least once before we select our ‘amusements’ for the night.”

And with that, she glided through the crowd to take the arm of... the Robin Redbreast?

The charming Horse Patrol officer who had flirted with Unity was the swan’s husband?

Good God, he might have meant for her to become his “amusement” for the evening. Unity jerked her startled eyes away. She would not be the duke’s plaything or anyone else’s. She was here for one reason alone: independence.

And she would let nothing stand in the way of—

“What do you think so far?” The duke. It was the Duke of Lambley. Standing right in front of her. His glittering hazel eyes concentrated solely on Unity.

“You’re... it’s... marvelous.” She brushed a stray curl out of her face, only to realize it wasn’t a curl at all, but a feather from her mask. Lambley could not see her expression, other than her mouth just beneath the bottom edge of the papier-mâché. She smiled for him. “You must know it’s marvelous.”

“One tries one’s best,” the duke demurred, but he wore no mask, and therefore his pleasure at Unity’s words were plain for her to see. “Have you been propositioned yet?”

She coughed into her gloved fist.

He laughed. “It’s all in good fun.”

Suddenly, Unity remembered she was supposed to be a courtesan. She pretended to be put out by this proclamation. “Their offers are not serious?”

“They’re very serious,” Lambley corrected her. “But it’s all voluntary. No one under this roof is to do anything they’d rather not, with anyone they’d rather not. Scandalous activities or otherwise. You can say no to any dance without having to sit out all the rest, and you certainly needn’t go upstairs unless you wish to.”

“I actually have no idea what I’d find upstairs,” she reminded him. “Our tour consisted only of the ground floor.”

The wickedness in his grin was unmistakable. “I can show you anything you want to see.”

Unity’s skin flushed and her pulse skipped. “For a ‘voluntary’ assignation with my host? That sounds like a dishonorable proposal, Your Grace.”

“It is,” he assured her. “You and I can indulge every disreputable act you can imagine, free of charge. Leave your reticule downstairs. This won’t cost you a farthing.”

Now she knew he was teasing her. Wasn’t he? It was a jest, because she was the courtesan and he the one who should pay for her time. He wasn’t really offering to take her upstairs for a thorough ravishing. Was he?

“I’ll consider it,” she said pertly.

To her eternal vexation, she was considering it, damn him. It was impossible not to. Sex in a cravat, the swan had said. If you get your chance, take it.

Unity could do no such thing, no matter how her quickening body felt about the sensual proposal. She needed to keep her post all season to learn everything while she still could. She could not risk being cast aside in disinterest after a ten-minute tup.

Er... thirty-minutes? An hour? How much time would a man like Lambley take? Would he consider his time so valuable that not a single item of clothing would be removed? Or did he treat each new conquest with the same slow, deliberate exploration that he gave everything else he touched?

He didn’t care, the swan had warned. Heart of stone, incapable of love.

That was good, Unity reminded herself. She, too, was incapable of love—or at least, not permitted to indulge in such flighty nonsense until after she gained her independence. If she lay with a man, it would be because she chose him, not because she needed his money or the security he could provide her. Unity could provide those things for herself. Or would be able to. Soon.

If she could stop staring hungrily at her employer’s mouth, wondering what it would be like if he kissed her.

“Perhaps after the ball,” she said, “we could—”

“Everyone leaves at dawn,” he said firmly. “Even you, Lady X. In fact, we should discuss your arrival time. In the future, you should not attempt early ingress. My rules are meant to be followed.”

Ah, there it was. Her place.

Perhaps he had been serious when he offered to take her upstairs to one of the bedchambers, but his interest did not extend beyond that. She dipped an ironic curtsey. Just business, then.

Luckily, she didn’t want anything more from him than that.