The Secret of Pembrooke Park(58)

“Yes you did. And why not?” she teased. “It’s a pleasure to see you formally attired—and not in black forms or surplice.”

“You think this is formal?” Mr. Chapman said. “You’ve never seen me in my university gown—then you would be truly impressed.” He winked at her.

Mr. Chapman did indeed look handsome in his dark frock coat, striped waistcoat and elegant cravat, breeches and white stockings outlining muscular calves. The man obviously did more with his time than compose sermons.

Noticing Leah’s nervous expression, Abigail reached over and squeezed her hand. “Are you all right?”

“I shall be,” she replied, with a brave smile.

They arrived at a Hunts Hall awash in light—torches lined the drive and candle lamps glowed in every window.

“Time for our masks,” Abigail reminded them, pulling forth her own. “Though we probably won’t need to wear them all night.”

“I don’t mind,” Leah said, tying on hers.

William followed suit, his mask a thin strip of black silk with cut-out eyeholes.

The groom helped Abigail and Leah down, and William escorted them to the door. Inside, liveried footmen took their wraps. Since it was a masked ball, no butler called out the names of those arriving, which would of course render the masks futile.

In truth, masks did not disguise everyone’s identity. Abigail knew she would recognize Andrew Morgan with his curly dark hair and athletic build, mask or not. And there was no disguising William Chapman’s deep red hair. And the black mask framed his telltale blue eyes to great advantage.

Leah, however, in a gown so much more elegant than her usual plain dress, and with her hair curled and arranged so beautifully atop her head, looked far different than her usual self. And with the large mask she’d chosen to wear, extending from forehead to mouth, she was nearly unrecognizable.

Andrew, however, no doubt identifying William, lost no time in coming over to greet them.

“Who are these mystery women?” he teased. “And how does such an ordinary ginger-haired fellow come to have two such enchanting ladies on his arm? It isn’t fair.” He gazed at Leah warmly. “Do me the honor of taking my arm, miss, whoever you may be.” He playfully offered his arm, and Leah took it with a faint smile, though Abigail did not miss the nervous tremor of her hands as she did so, nor her eyes darting around the room from behind her mask.

“Will she be all right, do you think?” Abigail whispered after Andrew led Leah away.

“I hope so,” Mr. Chapman said. But he looked worried as well.

He and Abigail strolled slowly around the anteroom for a few minutes, Mr. Chapman greeting the people he recognized and performing introductions.

From inside the ballroom, musicians struck up a minuet.

“I don’t care for the minuet, Miss F . . . fair lady. But if you have your heart set on it, I will of course dance it with you.”

“I don’t mind sitting it out.”

“Then may I have the honor of the next set?”

“You may indeed.”

He bowed. “I am off to pay my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. If I can find them. But I shall be back to claim you.”

She nodded and walked slowly into the ballroom, taking in the modest number of dancers opening the ball. Were Mr. and Mrs. Morgan among them? She thought not. But there was Andrew Morgan dancing the old-fashioned, formal minuet with a lady not Leah Chapman. Had he abandoned her already? Apparently, his mother had insisted he open the ball with a different young lady. Miss Padgett, she guessed, taking in the woman’s blond ringlets, low-cut heavily flounced gown, and tiny mask, no wider than a pair of spectacles.

Abigail looked this way and that for Leah but did not see her in the ballroom. So she returned to the anterooms—card room, vestibules, and then dining room, where servants were busy setting up an overflowing buffet table for the midnight supper.

She asked a footman where the ladies’ lounge was located and found Leah inside, staring at her masked reflection in a cheval looking glass. Seeing Abigail, she quickly touched a hand to her coiffure.

“Just checking my hair,” she said. But again Abigail noticed her hand tremble.

Abigail stepped nearer. “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly.

Leah shook her head. “It’s nothing really. Mrs. Morgan has every right to ask her son to open the ball with the lady of her choosing. Who wasn’t, of course, me.”

Abigail pressed her hand. “Come, let’s join the others,” she urged. “No doubt Andrew will want to dance with you as soon as his duty allows.”

Leah forced a smile. “You go on. I’ll be there in two minutes, I promise.”

“Very well. But if you’re not, I shall come back and drag you out.” Abigail winked, pressed Leah’s hand once more, and left the lounge.

Crossing the hall, she was about to return to the ballroom, when a man’s profile caught her attention. She froze, heart pounding.

“Gilbert . . . ?” she called. She would recognize him anywhere, ill-fitting mask or no.

He turned to face her, eyes widening behind his mask. “Abby! I had no idea you knew the Morgans.”

“Nor I you.”

He walked nearer. Though not a tall man, he still cut an impressive figure in his evening coat, waistcoat, and cravat. He said, “I only recently met Mr. Morgan in Town. He hired my employer to design an expansion for Hunts Hall and invited us down for several days. A bit of a house party.”