14
BY FAIR MEANS OR FOWL…
“Ido believe,” the wolf growled, twirling Hebe into the turn of a waltz, “I’ve found my prey to devour this night.”
Eugh.
“Prey?” Hebe queried in a tone imbued with ice. “You are mistaken, sir, for I am no man’s prey.”
Behind a mask of black fur tipped with silver, the rapacious creature spun her once more. “I don’t think you realise who I am.”
“Rather the point of a masquerade.”
“Oh, you naughty malapert!” And with a rumble of intent, he clutched her close. “My favourite sort.”
Grief.
Yet before Hebe could protest, she was tugged from the midst of the golden-masked couples and towed through the crowded Venetian splendour to a marble statue of mighty Zeus seducing a fluttering Leda.
Clad in stark black with a crimson waistcoat and opalescent moonstone stick pin to his cravat, Mr Wolf was a fearsome sight indeed. His eyes glinted in ravenous menace as gloved fingers with iron-grey claws gripped her shoulders and lustful lips drew near…
So she stabbed the lupine mutton monger in the gut with her fan, a few bare quills left purposefully protruding for just such an occasion.
As he contorted and cursed, Hebe extracted herself from his grasp and pushed her way through the crush of gentlemen draped in decadence and the ladies dressed in diaphanous satin – faces concealed, bodices revealing.
Never had she imagined a masquerade in the countryside to be so well attended or quite so lavish, but she’d swiftly realised this was no innocent’s ball but a masque of wicked sensuality and sinful excess. Perhaps not a surprise, given that Sir Henry was the host.
A velvet chaise hidden by the curling fronds of a fern offered a haven from which to view the sumptuous décor. Billowing sheaves of saffron silk framed the windows while paintings of Venice’s canals covered the stucco walls. Immense urns spruced shadowed corners and the dancefloor was lit by three gold-leaf chandeliers with reflective ormolu frames, their cut-glass droplets scattering flashes of falling light.
Thus far, she’d not sighted Lord Ernest’s golden mane at all.
Over luncheon, he’d excused that he was to visit the village of Chipping Norton in order to gather his costume and would ride directly to the ball.
Perhaps he wore a plumed tricorn hat or the mask of a jester? Possibly he was the pasha in rich copper silk who commanded a harem in the corner? Or the ghoul who haunted a winsome princess?
“There you are, Hebe!” A lavender-scented Romany queen with scarlet mask, ebony curls and swirling poppy-red skirts landed beside her on the chaise and clasped her hand. “Are you enjoying yourself, dear? I hope so. I didn’t mean to push you into that waltz…”
“Well, Mr Wolf certainly lived up to expectations.” And she patted her aunt’s arm. “But I am enjoying the spectacle of it all and…the food.” Supper would be served after midnight, but a repast was available of lavish Venetian affairs on gilded trays – soft lemon cakes and sugar-dustedfrittelleof cream and apple.
“Oh, my,” murmured Aunt all of a sudden, bracelets jangling as she adjusted the lace that edged her mask. “There’s a sultan coming this way. Sit up straight, dearest. He’s going to ask you to dance.”
Hebe’s eyes widened at the majestic ebony-masked gentleman who purposefully strode towards them in a burgundy silk kaftan. His outer robe was weaved with silver thread, trimmed at edge and collar with fur, and his buttons winked red as rubies – no doubt they were. Loose linen trousers narrowed to embroidered slippers, a wicked curved dagger tucked in his waistband, and upon his head sat a pure-white turban, a diamond the size of a swan’s egg pinned to the front.
The sultan paused before them.
Bowed low.
Then held out a gloved hand to Aunt.
“Oh, my. I…”
Hebe grinned. “This Romany queen would be delighted, Mr Sultan.” And her aunt was led to the dancefloor with a beseeching glance back over her shoulder.
Candles in the tall, bronzed flambeau flickered with the breeze from the open French doors and silhouettes of goddesses and queens, courtiers and kings twisted and writhed upon the stucco wall at their backs – both grotesque and beautiful, larger than life.
Hebe shivered and closed her eyes to breathe deep – of cologne, perfume and merriment.
Did she belong here? In a glittering masquerade of deception and sensuality?
