Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(47)
The carriage emerged unscathed to Mill Bank where the coachman halted at stairs leading to the river. Footmen who’d clung to the back of the coach jumped down to assist Mrs. Reynolds and Lady Flora, and Alec lent his hand to help them into the hired barge that awaited them at the bottom of the stairs.
The barge was hung with paper lanterns for the occasion, its benches cushioned with velvet. Lady Flora and Mrs. Reynolds settled in, their masses of skirts leaving little room for Alec. He shoved fabric aside with his boot as he sat, chuckling when Lady Flora scolded. The end of this night would work to Alec’s satisfaction, and he decided to push aside his anger and enjoy the absurdity.
The river didn’t stink quite as much here as it did farther downstream, but even so Alec put his gloved hand to his mouth as the water slapped their barge. Lady Flora and Mrs. Reynolds lifted pomander balls to their noses, the scent of spice and dried oranges drifting through the fetid air. The waterman, used to the stench, rowed on, heading the barge to the opposite bank.
At the stairs on the Lambeth side of the river, Alec helped Mrs. Reynolds and Lady Flora from the barge. At the top of the steps another coach waited, arranged by Lady Flora to take them the short distance to the Spring Gardens.
The gardens at Vauxhall had been popular for some time now—Alec had seen them on a London visit before the Jacobite Uprising had made his life hell. He led the ladies through an open gate in a thick wall, where an acrobat in a backbend scuttled past to encourage them inside.
A long avenue took them to the center of the gardens, where a silken tent in the Turkish style held food, drink, and musicians within its red and black striped walls. More walks led from the central area, some lined with trees, others with elegant colonnades containing marble statues in arched niches, directing visitors down a grand promenade.
The Spring Gardens were free to enter, and the paths were already full. The wine, ale, and food within had to be purchased, but anyone in London could stroll in and enjoy the open garden not far from the stuffy city.
Nature under control. This was the philosophy of English gardeners of the day, especially Lancelot Brown, who busily removed real nature so he could carve landscapes around great houses, and hauled away rocks and woods to put in sweeping parks. Alec had studied his drawings and those of Brown’s colleagues to help spark his ideas for the gardens at Kilmorgan Malcolm had asked him to design.
Mal had already laid out the groundwork for a grand house that would take the place of the now-ruined castle. He’d begun having stones quarried when the Jacobite rebellion had disrupted their lives and driven them into exile. Mal, with his characteristic stubbornness, carried on planning the house from afar, urging Alec to continue with his schematics for the garden. The Runt would have his way in the end, Alec was certain. Mal had a knack for it.
Lady Flora’s masked guests quickly surrounded her, wishing to show they were intimates of one of the most interesting women in London. Only Mrs. Reynolds saw Alec slip away into the darkness, watching him go without a nod.
Celia’s plan to speak to Lady Flora about calling upon her evaporated when she beheld the crush that surrounded her and Mrs. Reynolds. Lady Flora must have invited every single person in her social circle tonight—Celia had never seen so many costumes from the commedia dell’arte in one place in her life.
Lady Flora was Columbine, the lover of Harlequin and as full of schemes and japes as he. There were a quite a number of Harlequins trying to sidle next to her. Many older gentlemen came as Punchinello, each with a different sized hump on their backs. A few ladies were dressed as Pierette, as Celia was, in white velvet gowns trimmed with black braid and pompons. Many of the women wore dominos—a short silk cloak with a hood and a mask that covered the eyes.
Celia’s mother staunchly wore no costume but had consented to a domino. Celia wore a black mask and hat, as anonymous as the others.
Celia would have been excited to be at such a gathering earlier this year, at the height of the Season. She’d have fallen in with her friends, whispering and laughing with them about nonsense, thrilling when a handsome gentleman asked to escort or dance with one of them.
Now she watched as an outsider. Most of her friends had already married, or at least were engaged and had returned to their father’s estates. Celia hadn’t been entirely shunned since the Disaster—her parents were far too powerful for society to risk cutting their daughter completely—but she was avoided and talked about.
Celia wasn’t as bothered about society’s opinion of her tonight, because her thoughts were all for Alec. She found herself looking for him—had he persuaded Lady Flora to bring him along? Was he even now in a Harlequin costume, lingering at the edges of Flora’s crowd?
None of the Harlequins seemed right for him—some of the gentlemen had good physiques but not Alec’s height. No, dressing up and hovering around Lady Flora wasn’t right for Alec. He must be at home with his daughter, or possibly in the studio alone, drawing or painting.
She imagined him in his linen shirt which gaped open at the neck, his eyes focusing as he leaned to the easel to paint something beautiful. He’d absently wipe his cheek, leaving a streak of color on it. Celia’s heart gave a painful throb.
“There he is,” her mother said into her ear.
Celia jumped, and then sucked in a breath, knowing her mother could not possibly mean Alec. “Who?” Her voice cracked.
“Your brother, of course. Edward. There.”