Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(84)

“Opium and bark brandy!” Mira exclaimed, wrinkling her nose. “A dram of powdered galanga would help a great deal more than that to—”

“I hope he consumes all the brandy he wants,” Rosalie said, shrugging carelessly. “I hope he becomes so fat and indolent that he cannot move. Because of him, my father is in exile in France and will likely starve to death. Did you see how thin Brummell was? He used to weigh thirteen or fourteen stone, and I don’t think he was over nine or ten stone when we saw him!”

“Rosalie…” Mira said cautiously, “I would advise keeping your voice lowered when you speak either of Brummell or of the king.”

Suddenly Rosalie laughed. “Are you afraid I’ll be Ranged for treason, Mira?”

“Worse. I’m afraid Lord Berkeley will overhear you talking about our misadventure.”

At the mention of her husband, Rosalie’s eyes widened. “Heavens, the time has slipped away from me! Let me finish telling you about my plan before Rand gets here. When I contrive to have a few minutes alone with Canning, I’m going to ask him about finding a position for Brummell in Calais, just as Lord Alvanley suggested. Or perhaps Caen—”

“But how are you going to accomplish that withoutyour husband noticing, and what about all of those who might see you and Canning sneak away, and put the wrong construction on the situation—”

“That’s where I need your help—” Rosalie began, and just then a light, decisive rap vibrated the door. “It’s Rand,” she whispered in frustration, raising her eyes heavenward. “Let him in, Mary,’” she said to the maid, and Mira turned to the mirror in consternation.

“We’re already fashionably late,” Rand said by way of greeting, striding into the room and stopping to take note of his wife’s appearance. A slow smile stole over his golden, blunt-featured face. “Lady Berkeley… as usual, you are breathtaking,” he said softly. Mira could not help smiling as she beheld the Berke-leys, who were a perfectly matched pair.

Rosalie was dressed as Marguerite de Valois, the wife of Henry IV of France. Her gown was a magnificent creation of red velvet trimmed with gold and jewels, nipped in tightly to reveal a tiny waist and spreading outward in a huge bell of glittering skirts. The bodice was low and pointed, trimmed with the same pattern of gems that carried down the front of the gown, while her shoulders rose in elegant majesty from sharp, fragile points of lace. Her sleeves were long and puffed, ending in bands of gold. Rosalie smiled flirtatiously and flicked open a golden feathered fan. Her hair was piled high on her head, gleaming sable curls arranged carefully to balance the tiny jeweled crown on her head.

“I shall be accompanied by the most handsome man in England tonight,” Rosalie said as her gaze moved appreciatively over her husband. Rand, of course, was masquerading as Henry IV, and his impressive masculine form was resplendent in sixteenth-century garb, including a scarlet robe, a jacket of gold cloth, spurs on his boots, a blue garter on his left leg, and three bars of ermine on the left arm. His tawny eyes, hair, and skin were emphasized by the richness of the cos-tume. “All you need is a white courser,” Rosalie continued softly, and Berkeley gave her a self-mocking smile.

“All I need is my queen,” he replied, holding out his arm. “Now, let us venture down to the ball before I begin to feel like a prancing fool.”

“Wait—aren’t you going to admire Mireille’s costume?”

Mira blushed slightly as Berkeley’s eyes alighted on her. At Rosalie’s prompting, she held out her skirts and turned around to display her outfit.

“Maid Marion,” Rand said, and grinned in approval. “Perfect. I could think of no better costume for a wood sprite.”

“We were concerned about the length of the skirt—it is rather daring,” Rosalie said critically, and Berkeley shook his head.

“It is perfect,” he repeated.

Mira’s Maid Marion costume was tempered with a saucy charm that suited her well. Her dress was made of velvet, dyed in rich forest shades of green and brown, while a small bow and quiver of arrows were slung over her back. The skirt and bustline were bordered with dark fur, and her small hat was a smaller version of Robin Hood’s, complete with a sprightly feather stuck in the brim. The skirt was only calf-length, coming to the top of a pair of soft brown boots. She looked exotic and elfin, especially with her black-brown curls pulled away from her face and left to fall down her back.

Mira fussed nervously with her costume as they went downstairs, where the mock altars to Bacchus, Apollo, Venus, Minerva, and Mars were burning with incense that filled the air with a spicy scent. Music rang through the Pavilion as the orchestra played with determined gaiety. The king had not appeared yet, but there were rumors of a very large Turk wearing a satin turban having been seen in oneof the small alcoves adjoining the ballroom. Mira looked from left to right with delight and wonder, amazed at the creativity, color, and often the brevity of the costumes that people wore. As the elderly women, dowagers, and widows sat on the sides of the room to monitor the activities of their charges, young women were whirled about on the dance floor by wizards, beasts, long-dead heroes of legends, villains, and mythological figures.

Almost as soon as they entered the ballroom, a fifteenth-century knight approached Mira. It was Carr Falkner, clad in chain mail, black hose, and rough boots. His dark green eyes, framed with black lashes, sparkled down at her merrily. Mira smiled back at him, finding his rough-and tumble charm attractive. It was obvious that he had been waiting for her to arrive.