Marquesses at the Masquerade(5)

Being the oldest and the one most expected to fill a nursery, Marcus knew that nothing would give his mother more pleasure than for him to marry. While he liked to oblige his mother whenever possible, he did not feel a pressing need to hasten to the altar. One thing was in his favor: His mother’s marriage to Marcus’s father, who had died in a carriage accident five years before, had been blissful, and she wanted nothing less than bliss for her children.

“Life is unpredictable,” his mother would say with a sad sigh now and again. “Think of your poor father, cut down in his prime. None of us has any guarantees. Which is why I so want for each of my children to know the happiness of a marriage founded on love.”

None of her children, who all adored her, ever replied to these thoughts with anything but a kind smile or a gentle patting of her arm. They all agreed with her that marriage to a person one loved was a very good idea, but finding such a person was not as easy as their mother seemed to think. She had met their father at a ball, where, as the night wore on, she would recount, they both just knew. Having found her perfect match so effortlessly, Lady Boxhaven was not considered by any of her children to be quite reasonable on the subject of finding a mate.

“How do you compete with love at first ball?” Kate had muttered to Jack the night before, after their mother had been reminiscing about the fabled “night of romance” she’d shared with their father.

“It’s not supposed to be a competition,” Alice said. “She only wants us all to know the happiness that she and Papa did.”

“It’s easy for you to be relaxed about the whole thing,” Kate had moaned. “You’re not twenty-three and attending your five hundredth ball.”

“Some people would be happy to attend five hundred balls,” said Alice, who, having only come out that Season, had begun attending balls only the month before.

“Just you wait,” Kate said.

These words were not delivered in a tone of menace, but rather, one of realism. They all knew that their parent believed that each of her children, like her, would find love at a ball. Their mother was not otherwise superstitious or prone to flights of fancy, but from this belief she could not be dissuaded. Consequently, she encouraged her children to attend as many balls as possible, and she looked for any excuse to hold a ball.

In addition to balls celebrating Jack’s return from his European tour and Marcus’s thirtieth birthday, both unobjectionable reasons for celebration, there had been balls to celebrate the redecoration of the ballroom and the successful cultivation of a new rose variety at Weldwood, the family seat. Marcus would not have been surprised had his mother announced the following week that she wanted to hold a ball in honor of the arrival of Socrates in Marcus’s household, though he dearly hoped she would not.

Tonight’s ball was in honor of Kate’s ankle, which she had sprained a few weeks before and which had only recently been pronounced safe for dancing by their family physician.

“I wish she wouldn’t refer to the ball where she met Father as a ‘night of romance,’” Jack said. “And when she goes into that part about how he got that dreamy look in his eyes…” He shuddered. “It doesn’t bear thinking about, one’s parents at balls.”

“Well, I think it’s wonderfully romantic,” Alice said. “And I hope I do meet my husband at a ball, whoever he’ll be. I think nothing would be nicer.”





Chapter Two





* * *



As soon as Melinda and her children had left for the Boxhaven masquerade, Rosamund made her way to Uncle Piggott’s room, very much hoping Mrs. Barton would bring wine.

“Rosamund,” he greeted her. “Where is your ballgown?”

“Er...” Uncle Piggott liked to joke, but a ball Rosamund could not attend seemed like a poor topic for teasing.

“My dear,” he said with unaccustomed gentleness, “it was a rhetorical question. Of course I know Melinda didn’t suddenly become a decent person and decide to bring you to the ball. Which is why I have taken matters into my own hands.” He raised his voice and called out, “Mrs. Barton, if you please.”

Rosamund hadn’t seen the housekeeper in the shadows, but now she stepped forward. She had a pile of fabric draped over one arm and a basket on the other, and she gave Rosamund a smile tinged with conspiracy.

Rosamund drew in a quick breath, already concerned about what was brewing. “What—” she began, but Uncle Piggott cut her off.

“But me no buts, young lady. I know you are conscientious and moral and grateful to be given shelter and food, no matter that you have to work for it, and that you do not wish to cross your aunt. You are a member of this family, and thus you were invited to the Boxhaven masquerade ball. And you are going.”

Rosamund opened her mouth, but she couldn’t seem to form words.

“Now then, Mrs. Barton,” Uncle Piggott said.

Mrs. Barton set the basket and gown on the bed. “Let’s have that old thing off of you, Miss Rosamund,” she said and began undoing the row of buttons on the back of Rosamund’s frock as Uncle Piggott covered his eyes.

Rosamund found her voice. “You’ve both gone mad.”

“I hope so,” said Uncle Piggott, “if going mad means doing something for once. Melinda treats you in an appalling and completely un-Christian way, and tonight, it’s time for revenge.”