Next time, Unity would come as someone other than herself. Who or what, she did not yet know, but after dressing actors in costumes for so long, surely she could be more imaginative than choosing a low-cut gown and affixing a false beauty mark.
She had assumed there was no sense disguising herself because she would be the darkest-skinned guest in the ballroom, and that wasn’t true either. There were already several others who shared her golden-brown hue, and a few with rich coffee coloring. She wondered if she knew them and delighted in the idea that they might be wondering the same thing about her. They could be anyone.Shecould be anyone.
The one thing all of the revelers had in common were the masks disguising their features, some from the cheeks on up and others fully covering entire visages. In some cases, she could not even be certain if the fairy tale creature she was looking at was man or woman, much less guess at their true identity. They were all too well concealed.
Everyone but Lambley, that was.
His sharp cheekbones and glittering hazel eyes were out in full force, causing many a foot to stumble and bosom to flutter.
Even though he could not know their identities—or perhaps emboldened by their anonymity—women pressed against him from all sides, shamelessly angling for a sliver of his attention.
Unity had to fight the urge to do the same.
For a man with no obvious costume, the duke played the role of indolent, careless rake with surprising aplomb. No one who glimpsed him trading cheek kisses and topping off champagne would guess how tightly strung he was beneath hislassez-fairehedonistic veneer.
Unity herself couldn’t quite credit the full extent of her mistaken assumptions. She’d thought the challenge would be gaining admission to his private utopia. Once there, she’d work the same magic she’d used on Sampson’s gaming parlor and her cousin’s gentlemen’s club.
Humblingly, Lambley didn’t need her at all.
His masquerades were so remarkable, she ought to be payinghimfor allowing her to peep over his shoulder.
The first thing she’d decided was that doing it his way was far too much work. He was running himself into the ground by obsessing over every detail. One could not run a club this way.
Her most important lesson was not to copy him, but do the opposite.
If there was anything a lifetime lived outside the beau monde had taught her, it was that “good enough” was usually... well,good enough.
Perhaps it was somehow marginally better to have an odd number of fruit on each tray rather than evens, but who besides Lambley would notice or care?
In Unity’s masquerade club, her refreshment tables would simply contain refreshments. Something savory, something sweet, plenty of liquid, and that would be that. She would not be measuring the distance between sandwiches or monitoring the ratio of berries to citrus.
Here in his club, she did not do much of anything. This wasn’t a real partnership, or even a semi-partnership. It was an indulgence from a man who could afford to pander to every whim.
She was here until he found a bride, or she proved herself unnecessary, whichever came first. How was she supposed to seem necessary? She was surprised Lambley let his maids dust and his butlers buttle.
The moment he realized there was nothing she could offer after all, Unity would no longer be allowed within these rarefied walls.
She hoped he would let her remain for the rest of the season—there was so much she could learn!—but Unity was practical enough to know tonight could be her sole opportunity.
She drew her journal from her reticule, then shoved it back inside. She’d taken enough notes about methods and measurements. What she needed was thefeelof the place. That was the main thing to capture. The sense of giddiness and excess, freedom and joy.
Unity gave up her position on the margins and waded into the rambunctious crowd. She could not have been labeled a wallflower—Lambley had seen to that. By encircling the ballroom with refreshment tables and provocative art, there were no empty spaces to gobea wallflower. Someone would appear within minutes to remark upon the delicious chocolate, or to enquire your thoughts on the nude painting of Aphrodite behind you.
The plush sofas were strategically placed as well. Not in stern lines facing forward, but cozy clumps of three or five, facing each other. To take a break from the dancing was to meet new friends somewhere else.
Someone stepped into her path.
“Have we met?” A man dressed as a Robin Redbreast—the distinct red-accented costume of the Bow Street Horse Patrol—handed her a fresh glass of champagne. Or perhaps he actually did work for the patrol and had dropped by after his shift ended.
Unity blinked. “Er...”
“I am Lord X,” the Robin Redbreast said gallantly. “And you are?”
“Lady X?” Unity offered.
He beamed at her and made an impressive leg. “If this is your first masquerade, welcome! And if we’ve danced at every ball for the past decade, then I certainly hope we shan’t break the streak tonight.”
She could not help but return his easygoing smile. “It is indeed my first night. How does the duke do it?”
