Page 54 of The Wallflower Ruse

Someone...who? With an unwelcome sense of foreboding—as if she hadn’t enough to worry about already—Lucinda followed her up the stairs.

Restive and Davis, who was playing valet for the moment, drove to the Bell Inn, a pretty spot on the river.

“Come for Lady D’s masquerade, have you, my lord?” The innkeeper bowed low.

“Yes, for my sins,” Restive said, as ostlers hurried out to take the horses’ heads, and Davis unloaded the baggage. “I don’t care much for masquerades anymore, but I didn’t like to refuse Lady Delworth’s invitation.”

“Aye, she’s a goodhearted lady,” the innkeeper said. “Has plenty of overnight guests, looks like, by the number of carriages going in early.”

“Anyone you recognized?” Restive grimaced. “I wouldn’t mind knowing in advance whom I’m likely to encounter there.”

“Not to say recognize, exactly,” the innkeeper said, “but one of the carriages had a lozenge on the panel.”

“Perhaps one of her ladyship’s cronies?” Restive said. “One doesn’t expect many dowagers at a masquerade.” Except perhaps those known for seeking excitement.

“A young one, mayhap, my lord?” The innkeeper winked, and Restive smirked. Thanks to the broadsheets, his reputation was well known, and he couldn’t risk going out of character tonight. Anyone might be working for the seditionists, and although the innkeeper likely wasn’t, the walls had ears.

Fifteen minutes later, attired as a shepherdess with her beribboned crook and carrying several posies in a basket, Davis slipped out a side door. Meanwhile, Restive dressed himself as Prince Rupert of the Rhine. There were plenty of places to stow weapons as the soldier prince. Not only that, he could carry a sword cane, too. The only drawback was the long, curly wig, which was de rigueur at the time of the Restoration and for far too long afterwards.

He stowed his mask in a pocket and sauntered out of the inn and down the street, twirling the beribboned cane. It was less than half a mile to Lady Delworth’s house. He had been invited there once, years ago, before the death of her husband. It was set back from the river, with a terrace leading to a swath of lawn and the embankment of the Thames. Despite the stone wall surrounding most of the estate, it was easy to access it via the water—on foot at low tide and by boat when the tide was high.

He strolled along, affecting unconcern whilst anxiety gnawed at him. When he reached Davis, who was flirting obnoxiously with one of Restive’s men, he snapped, “Well?”

“Care for a posy, guv?” Davis asked. “Or maybe three or five? Plenty willing ladies at the masquerade.”

Restive’s man, whose name was Baker, told Davis to shut his cakehole. “Miss Belair went in willingly with Pearce. The coach they came in belongs to Lady Tollister, but she was already here.”

Proof that she was involved—no surprise, but in what way? She didn’t have the wits to plot sedition, but she had plenty of guile.

“Some others are here,” the man went on. “A young lady in a hack, alone and not in costume, shortly before Miss Belair and Pearce. A Neptune, a Harlequin and a Columbine, a Richard Lionheart, a Roman senator, and a goddess—Athena, I think, but a bit long in the tooth. She weren’t no Venus, that’s for sure. I didn’t recognize any of ‘em. Just now, Mr. and Mrs. Haraldson, not in costume. Then two young toffs dressed as gladiators.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not a pretty sight, I can tell you that. And Mr. Pain-in-the-arse Wharton as Henry the Eighth.”

“Unoriginal,” Davis said. “Never fear, coz. Soon’s I get rid of these flowers, I’ll take care of Wharton.”

“Watch him, but don’t kill him.” Restive tossed a coin into the basket, scooped up all the posies, thanked Baker, and forced himself to stroll the rest of the way.

~ * ~

Lucinda and Alfreda had just reached the bedchamber where they were to dress when Mr. Pearce careened out of a passage toward them. “Lucinda!” he cried, belatedly noticing Alfreda. “Oh, it’s you, Miss, er, Wallace. Glad you could come. Lucinda, I mean Miss Belair, I need to speak with you.”

“Go ahead then,” Lucinda said, and when he paused, said, “Here I am. Speak.”

“Privately,” he mouthed.

“Ooh,” Alfreda said, “how romantic. Go on then, Lucinda. Come and get me when you’re done.” She paused. “With whatever you’re going to do in private.”

“We’re going to talk,” Lucinda scoffed. “Nothing more.”

“If you say so,” Alfreda said slyly.

“I have the utmost respect for Miss Belair,” Mr. Pearce said pompously, and then his lip quivered. One could almost see the warring emotions as they passed through him. “I would never stoop to taking advantage.”

“Boring. What else is a masquerade for?” Alfreda tittered and walked away.

“Very well,” Lucinda said. “What is it?”

He took her by the arm and hustled her along the corridor. “I want you to see my mother,” he said.

“Your mother is here?”