Darden slapped his friend on the back. “Tonight, our battalion rides to the breech and prays for a swift victory.”
*
Matthew had goneback and forth on whether he ought to go to Darden’s ridiculous masque. For one, the costume. A pigeon. Was it some sort of insult? For another, he had firmly decided that masques were irritating and foolish.
However, the earl was going and it was his own son’s event. Further, Conbatten would no doubt be there. Matthew was determined to speak to the duke and set him straight.
Finally, at Marcus’ coaxing, he’d donned his ludicrous costume. It was comprised of a very long coat of grey feathers, a hat formed into the face of a pigeon with a very sharp beak, and a grey velvet mask for his eyes.
He could not bear to look at it, but if the earl were willing to go as a squid, he supposed he must just gird his loins and forgo complaint.
Matthew left the house well ahead of the Benningtons. He did not wish to ride beside their carriage and be teased all the way to St. James Street. He would make his way quickly, in the dark. The strangers he passed might be amused, but they would not know who he was.
Getting out of the house was more difficult than he had imagined. Oyster had gone positively mad at the sight of him cloaked in feathers, then Shrimps had come running and screamed as if he encountered some otherworldly creature.
Genroy had led them both away, Shrimps weeping and Oyster’s underbite chattering.
Matthew supposed a boy brought up in a workhouse had not had a prior opportunity to see a gentleman on his way to a masque. Nor, apparently, had a dog who’d lived on the streets had that opportunity. For all that, though, the two of them were exceedingly high-strung!
The Young Bucks Club, located at a fashionable address on St. James Street, had a lime mortar front with ostentatious Greek columns at its entrance. The footmen at the doors were all dressed as bucks—their heads sprouting ridiculous antlers and their cloaks of deer hide.
Darden claimed his club was devoted to shenanigans and tomfoolery, so Matthew did not know what else he’d expected.
The footmen made a great show of examining his costume to deem it appropriately ridiculous, which of course it was, and then the doors were opened and he went inside.
One of the things he disliked so much about masques, aside from his own embarrassing costume, was that it was very hard to recognize anybody. A sea of absurdity was in his view, and it was difficult to know who he looked at.
Though, he could make some guesses. Henry the Eighth was certainly Darden, and only his friends would be strange enough to put on dresses in what he presumed were meant to be that unfortunate king’s even more unfortunate queens. It must be so, as two of them carried round plaster heads on platters.
Then, amongst the crowd, he spotted who he really sought this night.
Conbatten.
If there were others difficult to recognize, it was not so with Conbatten. His tall and lanky frame stood out among the crowd. He wore a medieval plague mask, its pointed beak even more ridiculous than his own pigeon’s beak.
This was the moment. Beatrice had not yet arrived and he must straighten the fellow out before she got here.
He marched over to the duke and tapped him on the shoulder. “A word, if you please.”
Conbatten turned to him and Matthew could not see his expression, hidden as he was behind his plague mask.
“I feel it is my duty to point out that all thought of pursuing Lady Beatrice must be put aside. I know that you have felt the pressure of believing that other gentlemen seek her out, but they are only amusing themselves, they are not serious.”
Conbatten did not reply, but only stared at him.
“Most importantly, though,” Matthew continued, “you are not at all suited. Lady Beatrice requires a gentleman who will put his attention on admiring her. You, Your Grace, cannot be that man. Everybody knows you spend far too much time on your person to be capable of it. I do not mean to be harsh, but I only give you that hint.”
Matthew had tried to keep his voice low, but was now cognizant that he had attracted the attention of some who were nearby. He must conclude the conversation.
“I just say, I have known Lady Beatrice since childhood, you and she are not at all suited,” he whispered hotly.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
Conbatten had finally replied…but it was not Conbatten. Matthew did not know who it was, but it was not the duke.
He’d been certain it was the duke! Who else was so tall?
“Might I have your name, sir?” this man who was not Conbatten asked.
