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Would anyone recognize him only by his lips and jaw?

He gave the mask a final adjustment, tugging it downward a fraction, and made sure the knot of his head scarf was tight. Lastly, he picked up the wide-brimmed black felt hat and placed it carefully over everything, tilting it at a rakish angle.

Would Lady Wexham know him? He could not imagine someone less like a butler. His eyes seemed to glitter from the slits, looking almost black in the dim light from his candlestick.

He had not been able to discover what costume she would be wearing. He grimaced, thinking there were disadvantages to being at odds with a woman’s lady’s maid.

Taking up a pair of black gloves and giving a final adjustment to his hat, he left the attic.

When he reentered the ballroom, it was filled with people in both fancy dress and costume, half masks and full masks, grotesque and elegant. The orchestra was playing in a gallery above the immense room. The various chandeliers blazed their candles the length of the ornate plasterwork ceiling.

Saying a prayer that his masquerade would hold the evening, Rees plunged into the sea of fellow pirates, harlequins, Turks, monks, and ladies in eighteenth-century panniered dresses and powdered wigs, his eyes scanning the crowd in search of his prey.

Céline took a quick look at the crowded dance floor. It was almost half past eleven and the ball was in full swing now. The Comte had come in a short while ago, surrounded by his usual entourage. Céline had to smile at his costume of a Turkish pasha. The balloon pants made his already thick legs enormous and the turban his face rounder.

It was now or never.

She glanced down at her own costume, doubting anyone had recognized her. Her body was encased in a harlequin outfit, the gaudy diamond shapes covering a tunic that came down to mid-thigh, cinched in at the waist with a white belt. Red and blue stockings covered her
legs. A black mask covered half her face. Her hair was hidden beneath a large white cap with an upturned brim and red feather.

Thankfully, she was not the only harlequin, though each costume was a different color.

Before she could reconsider her next move, she darted out of the ballroom and hurried down the corridor until she reached the back stairs, looking about her every few seconds. The Comte’s apartment was in another part of the mansion. It seemed to take forever to reach that wing. Once or twice she had to press herself into a doorway or alcove when she heard footsteps from around a corner. But it was only an odd servant or two, some on assignations of their own while their masters were at play.

Finally she arrived at the Comte’s private suites. She approached the door and pressed her ear against it a moment. Hearing nothing, she dared open it a fraction. A small flame burned low in a lamp. She opened the door wider at the sight of another servant asleep on a striped chair, soft snores emanating from his nostrils. Good. Valentine must have succeeded in putting the sleeping draft in his drink.

Céline stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind her. She crossed to where she knew the Comte’s study was located and entered. Another servant sat slumped on the floor, his head lolling to one side.

With trembling fingers, Céline searched the desk, coming upon the packet of papers.

Unfolding them, she saw that they contained correspondence to the Comte signed by Lords Liverpool and Castlereagh themselves, the prime minister and foreign minister. She folded the documents back up, opened the front of her tunic, placed them within her camisole, and rebuttoned her costume, her heartbeat thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

With a quick look around, she closed the desk and made her way back out.

Only when she was far enough away, in a back passage, did she
allow herself to stop and catch her breath, mopping her brow with a handkerchief.

She would bring this to her rendezvous with Roland in a few hours’ time. With a smile she imagined his surprise when he beheld the papers. Finally, she had something of real value to the French.

In the meantime, she would return to the ballroom, mingling with the guests, teasing them with her identity, as if she had no other care in the world but dancing the night away.

She wondered where MacKinnon was. She had searched for him earlier but had seen no sign of him since dinner. He hadn’t been near her mother, but perhaps he’d gone to her later. Perhaps he’d taken the evening off, as some servants had. But he didn’t strike her as the type of man to be negligent in his duties. At least her mother was not gaming tonight. Perhaps that was why MacKinnon was not at her side.

Pushing aside any disappointment at not seeing him tonight, she reentered the ballroom, pasting a smile on her face.

Rees reined in his growing frustration. It seemed he had circled the massive ballroom dozens of times but still hadn’t managed to spot Lady Wexham.

Where was she, or
what
was she?

“A pirate. I’ve always dreamed of being captured by a pirate.”

Rees looked at the woman who had addressed him so boldly. She was dressed as a gypsy in a low-bodiced white shirt and multicolored skirt that only came to her midcalf. A massive head of black curls was kept in place by a bright yellow scarf around her head. She was too short to be Lady Wexham. He executed a bow. “I fear you will be disappointed in me, since I am not in the business of abducting damsels.”

She sidled closer to him so she was almost touching his chest. He moved back a pace. “Perhaps you will never have so opportune a moment.”

He took a step to the side. “I thank you, fair lady, but I will forgo
the temptation.” Without waiting for her to reply, he disappeared quickly into the crowd.

This was why he disliked masquerades. It led to unruly, unseemly conduct. People thought that because their faces couldn’t be seen, they could get away with licentious behavior.

He continued his search for Lady Wexham, scrutinizing each lady he passed, but with the dominos, it was almost impossible to tell who was who. He focused on women who seemed to be the same height and build as Lady Wexham.

Lord, help me find her. The hour grows late and I sense she’s in danger. Please give me discernment.

After another futile turn about the ballroom, weaving in and out of the crowds while ignoring the women who addressed him, Rees stopped by a fluted column, allowing it to half-obscure him. He scanned the dance floor, feeling he’d achieved nothing by milling around. The more he moved, the more the people around him moved, like an endless current, as if searching for amusement among the next group of people.

He was tired of fending off overbold females. His mouth twisted. As if any of these highborn ladies would give him a second look if they saw him tomorrow in his butler’s uniform or as a lowly clerk at the F.O.

The wisest thing to do was what he usually did as butler, stand along a wall and simply observe the people passing by him. Yet, he didn’t want to chance being accosted again.

He chose a more secluded post behind some potted palms, which acted as a screen while allowing him to view the dance floor from a fairly central spot.

After a quarter of an hour of following each female that crossed his field of vision—shepherdesses, Marie Antoinettes, Turks with baggy pants and scanty tops, huntresses with bows and quivers of arrows slung over their backs—he still had not detected any that caused him to take a second look. He began to think Lady Wexham must be wearing a wig since none of the women he’d seen resembled her in hair coloring once they came close enough.

“What a handsome pirate you make!” A Pierrot in his baggy white clown outfit with wide collar jumped in his path.

Rees stepped back involuntarily, nonplussed at being addressed so boldly by a man. But then he noticed the clown’s voice. It belonged to a woman. He narrowed his eyes, to seek more evidence. It would have been impossible to tell, because she was tall enough to be a male of medium height. Her face was painted white and a black domino masked the upper portion. A round, white hat covered her hair, which appeared short, until he saw it was held beneath a stocking cap.

“Thank you,” was all he could think to say.

As if sensing his discomfiture, she tossed back her head and laughed, then to his relief moved away.

It hadn’t been Lady Wexham, of that he was sure. The timbre of the voice was different; the build slightly more buxom, though it had been hard to tell with the loose clown suit.

As he watched her skip off, it gave him the clue he needed. He began searching for other costumes that could disguise a female figure.

There were several other Commedia dell’Arte characters. Pantaloon in his red hose and short tunic, wrapped about with a wide black cape. Harlequins scampered about in their bright blue, red, and gold costumes; the Doctor, the Captain, Scaramouche—all were male figures. Rees studied each one, but it was difficult to distinguish behind the grotesque half masks, wide ruffled collars, heavy capes, and large, floppy hats.

He studied their contours for any hint of femininity, especially those whose height matched Lady Wexham’s.

It took what seemed a long time, but finally his patient observation was rewarded. He fixed on a harlequin clown, following his progress through the crowd. It would be a perfect disguise, the body covered by a multicolored diamond-patterned tunic, the legs by colored hose. A puffy white cap with a floppy brim turned up in the front completely hid the clown’s hair. A black half mask hid the
upper portion of the face. He strained forward as the clown turned his way. The chin and jaw could be Lady Wexham’s. The height and contours were also right.

As the crowd parted momentarily in front of the harlequin, Rees’s gaze drifted downward. He couldn’t help noticing the shapely legs and frowned. If it was indeed a female, she was wearing an indecently immodest garment. Although her body was fully covered—unlike some of the sheer gowns worn by those pretending to be the huntress Diana—it still revealed too much of her contours.

As he continued to observe her—for the more he did so, the more he was convinced the harlequin was a female—he grudgingly admired her audacity in how far she carried out the masquerade, to the extent of even asking a lady to dance!

It was a French gavotte, danced in a lively tempo. She danced the male part flawlessly, bowing and promenading and turning her female partner around. She was wise to have chosen a lady of slighter build and height, dressed as a shepherdess.

As was the custom, the couple danced two dances in a row before bowing and curtsying to each other and parting.

Rees’s gaze followed the harlequin, not wishing to lose her again in the crowd.

A few moments later, the musicians began to play the opening notes of a new piece. Dancers began to shift to form sets on the wide parquet floor.

On impulse, Rees quickened his step, making for the harlequin before she had a chance to ask another partner to dance.

He didn’t know quite what he intended.

He bit back an exclamation when a lady wearing a towering powdered wig and feathered half mask stepped in his path. Her panniered dress was so wide on each side that it barricaded him. Ignoring his obvious desire to walk around her, she waved her ostrich feather fan in front of her, blocking his view. “I’ll wager I know who you are.”

Those words got his attention. “I beg your pardon,” he said attempting to disguise his voice.

With a flick, she closed her fan and tapped it against his shoulder. “You are the Marquis de Lalande.”

He expelled a breath in relief and was able to smile at her triumphant tone. “You have guessed it, I fear.”

She took a step closer, her rouged lips parting in a smile. But he was once more in control and managed to bow and step aside. “If you will excuse me, madame, I must flee. I would have no one guess my identity.”

Without waiting for a reply, he walked away from her, scanning the crowd for his harlequin. Good, she was still standing there, surveying the crowd as if seeking someone to partner.

He reached her before the dance began. He could see it would be a cotillion by the squares still forming.

For a moment, he wavered, no longer sure if it was Lady Wexham. The half mask covered most of her face. It was ridged in grotesque false wrinkles over the forehead, the eye slits were so narrow, he could not see her eyes clearly.

“Monsieur?” The voice was low and inquiring, but there was something in the timbre that sounded familiar.

Standing directly in front of her, to prevent her moving elsewhere, he bowed. “May I have the honor of this dance?” He spoke to her in French, hoping his accent wouldn’t sound too British.

Her head moved back a fraction as if his request had startled her. But she rallied almost immediately, placing her hands on her hips and smiling. Those were her lips, he perceived with satisfaction. “I think you mistake me for a lady, Monsieur le Pirate.” Her colorful arm waved to the side. “There are plenty of fair damsels who would be flattered by your request.”

She spoke in French, still disguising her voice.

He knew he was taking a grave risk in revealing his knowledge of French. He didn’t understand what devilry possessed him; he didn’t
take the time to question it. All he knew was that he wanted to dance with her this evening. There would never be another opportunity like this one. “Ah, but it is my desire to dance with Harlequin.”

She cocked her head, staring up at him. It was still difficult to discern the color of her irises. “People will think you very strange.”

Behind his mask Rees felt a boldness to continue this fantasy. No longer a butler or junior clerk, but a pirate, a lady’s protector—or abductor. It was a person he hardly knew but had no wish to stop. “A
bal masqué
brings out the strangest behavior in individuals. A lady in Harlequin’s disguise.”

Her breath caught. “You would not want to give away my secret, I hope.”

He held out a black-gloved hand. “Come, the music is beginning. No one will notice you in this crowd.”

Without another word, she placed her white-gloved hand in his, and he closed his own around it.