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“That tall masked highwayman started clapping and then everyone joined in. I think you have a mysterious admirer, Beatrice.”
“Not mysterious.” She’d known him instantly. No mask could hide those handsome features, that chiseled jaw, those mismatched blue eyes.
He’d applauded and her heart had soared into the chandeliers. He’d been swallowed up by the crowd but she knew he was there, and that he cared for her, and she meant to find him and claim him for a waltz.
“It’s Mr. Wright, isn’t it?” asked Viola, her eyes dancing. “He makes a dashing highwayman. Maybe he’ll throw you over his shoulder and kidnap you.”
That would be fine with Beatrice. She was still walking on air, her heart speeding with the knowledge of what she’d done. She felt powerful and more than a little drunk, even though she’d only touched her lips to the wine.
She took her friends’ arms. “Shall we, ladies?”
“We shall,” they said in unison.
They walked through the crowded room, arms linked and heads held high.
“That was quite the entrance, Bea.” Rafe kissed her on the cheek. He wore a green Robin Hood costume with a peaked cap stuck with a jaunty feather. “Wouldn’t have missed that performance for the world. I gather that’s not the costume you’re meant to be wearing?”
“Not even close,” she replied.
“Her other costume was much more elaborate, Lord Rafe,” said Viola.
“Good evening, Miss Beaton.” Rafe made a flourishing bow. “Miss Mayberry.” He doffed his cap for Isobel, who performed the briefest of curtsies in return. She’d always disapproved of Rafe’s wild, and purportedly criminal, ways.
Beatrice searched the crowd for Ford. His tricorn hat shouldn’t be difficult to find.
“Looking for someone, Bea?” Rafe asked.
“A certain tall, dark, and handsome highwayman, perhaps?” Viola asked.
Beatrice noticed a young girl wedged between the potted ferns and the wall. “I think we have another wallflower to befriend.” She nodded toward the girl, who looked truly miserable, the feathers on her straw bonnet drooping to match her forlorn expression.
“A new recruit!” said Viola.
“Ladies,” Rafe said with a bow. “I have an assignation with a brandy bottle.”
“He hasn’t changed at all,” said Isobel, watchingRafe walk away. “It’s a shame he’s such an inebriate. He has a fine head on his shoulders but it’s always sloshing with brandy.”
The three of them headed for the ferns.
“Good evening,” said Beatrice.
“Oh. Good evening,” said the girl, glancing around to make sure they were addressing her.
“I used to hide exactly in that spot during balls,” said Beatrice. “We won’t all four fit, though.”
“I suppose n-not,” the girl stammered, her cheeks turning beet red.
“I’m Lady Beatrice Bentley, and this is Miss Beaton and Miss Mayberry. Might I know your name?”
“I’m Lady Philippa Bramble. This is only my second ball. I’m new to London. Thank you for inviting me, Lady Beatrice.”
“You don’t mean that. You’re having a terrible time.”
“I was until I saw you emerge in your spectacles holding your book. It was splendid. I love your costume. I wish I could wear a simple gown instead of this hideous creation.”
“What are you meant to be?” asked Viola.
“I’m not quite sure.” Lady Philippa glanced down at her dress with a woeful expression. “I think I’m meant to be a shepherdess?” She wore a straw bonnet and a wide, ruffled gown all in white. “Though I feel more like the sheep.”
