L eo’s mother flung open the door of his study. She’d been back for four days—he’d been back far longer than that. The heavy wooden door hit the wall behind it, no doubt scarring the wood.
Leo put down his pen and folded his hands. “Yes, Mother.”
“Why isn’t Mrs. Cabot coming?”
He smiled faintly, indulging her fury. “Coming where?”
“Here! What did you do? All was well when I left. Did you press her?” His mother, surprisingly, lifted her cane to point at him. He could see the woman from his childhood so clearly right now. Instead of the fluffy white-haired coif, her hair was a dark walnut brown, severely pulled back in a low bun. She’d been a housekeeper for years, after all. Some habits were hard to break. Her face had been clear and clean, the kind of neutral expression that years of service built into a person. Her punishments were swift and severe, but never given with malice.
Now that she was as close to a lady as she’d ever be, her anger could be aired. The lines and wrinkles of her face twisted and contorted, giving an almost cartoonish range of emotion. The two women were hardly recognizable as the same one.
“Press her about what, exactly?” Leo couldn’t even guess. He was still muddled and incoherent himself. He’d sent dozens of notes. The ones with a postmark were returned. The notes from his footman were ignored. The only indignity he could muster was that she refused to end their business deal with civility and grace.
“You wouldn’t,” his mother now gasped. She tottered forward and sunk into a chair.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Leo picked up his pen again. “If you have something coherent to say, I’d be happy to discuss it. As it is, I’ve been accused of pressing her, and then a horror so unspeakable you could only gasp. If you have nothing more than exhalations for me, I’d like to get back to work.”
“I knew it.” His mother shook her head. “You did do something. I’ll write to Mrs. Cabot right away. I’m sure I can smooth whatever this faux pas of yours is. I’ll not lose a friend because you don’t have the decency to practice social niceties.”
His mother left, hooking the heavy door with her cane, slamming it behind her. He buried his head in his hands. What was he supposed to tell her? Granson knew him? That he’d gone back to Thornridge at all? That the very thing they’d worried about, he walked right into like some kind of fool?
Leo didn’t know if it was his father or if it was Granson acting by himself. Either way, it was trouble. And now Leo had something to lose—he was no longer a boy yearning to protect a mother who could handle herself. Now he was a man who did need to protect his mother. And Prudence. And he wouldn’t mind protecting his fortune either, while he was at it. He’d made a small life here in London, lost amongst another few million people. Reginald Morgan should never surface again because his son Lenny no longer existed. There was nothing left for Reggie.
*
“I’m so nervous,” Eleanor said. They all stood in their shifts in Ophelia’s dressing room. One last meal before they would be dressed and masked for the party.
Ophelia gave a tight nod of agreement. Prudence thought she looked far calmer when they were descending Ben Nevis in gale- force winds, two members of their expedition missing, and all of them unable to feel their toes.
“But the tickets are sold out,” Justine said, the calmest looking one out of all of them. “So as long as the auctions go well, we’re in the clear. We’re going to Switzerland.”
Prudence felt like she was going to throw up. The stress of directing all the set up over the last week had taken its toll on her. Even Georgie had come and helped. She stayed not at the Strawbridge, but at Ophelia’s house, as the guest of Lord and Lady Rascomb, which sounded very fancy, even if it only meant staying with friends.
The hotel was kind enough to forward her correspondence, but most of it she threw directly in the fire. There was a delightful missive from Mrs. Moon, full of snark and gossip, sounding exactly as she spoke. She missed the older woman, but she couldn’t stand the idea of setting foot into Leo Moon’s house. Not after he was so willing to abandon her out in the middle of the English countryside. She honestly had no idea where they were, and he would just leave ? Even the thought of it now filled her with impotent anger.
He didn’t even bother conversing with her. She’d tried to make him explain, speak to her—even when she revealed her beliefs—that he in fact was the Lenny Morgan the stranger was seeking. And while Leo didn’t owe her his life story—after all, they weren’t courting, though their business arrangement was far from strictly handshakes—he did owe her kindness. And he couldn’t manage that. When she pushed back about leaving their paradise early, why had he been so cruel to her? So cold?
She wasn’t having it. And that sacrifice also meant the friendship of Mrs. Moon, which was the real shame. There was something very comforting to Prudence about being with other widows. They understood marriage, and they understood the upheaval of having the man who ultimately controlled their every aspect vanish. No matter how good or poor of a wife a woman had been, it didn’t matter, for then every man who’d ever breathed the same air as their husband found themselves entitled to the furniture you sat on, the bed you slept in, even the jewels that had adorned your breast. It made a person feel not just abandoned, but worthless. As if you were an afterthought to his life—a life that had ended. And if your husband were in the grave, what did that make you? Nothing. Invisible.
True, Prudence had her money—thank goodness for iron-clad contracts and sympathetic lawyers—and she had her freedom. But she was still adrift. That afterthought. The woman who could just be left alone in the countryside, because no one really cared what happened to her.
“Pru?” Justine said, putting a hand on her bare shoulder.
The touch shook her out of her reverie. She sighed. “Apologies. Thousand-mile stare.”
Three sets of eyes turned to stare at her. “Pardon?” Ophelia said.
“It’s just what you say when you stare off, not paying attention.”
“We say ‘woolgathering.’” Eleanor picked up a plate loaded with cheese and fruit and handed it to Prudence.
“Thank you, I’m not very hungry.” Prudence waved her away. “And why woolgathering?”
The women all exchanged looks, waiting for the others to talk. “Because gathering wool is boring?” Justine suggested.
“Never gathered wool, so I’ll take your word for it. We had cattle.” Prudence stood, stretching her back. “Is there anything stronger than tea to drink?”
“Sherry already?” Ophelia asked, looking positively scandalized.
“Oh, no, I meant instead of tea. Have you coffee?” Prudence shook her hands out, as if she were readying to climb a rope. She felt both jittery and lethargic. Leo might come tonight. The idea of seeing him made her feel like her stomach was going to come up and exit her mouth.
“Have you not been sleeping well?” Eleanor asked.
“No, I mean, well, the sleep is fine. I’m just nervous about tonight is all.” Prudence walked away from them, hiding her face as she went to inspect their costumes. Their dresses all matched the shades of blue of the banners that now hung from the ceiling of Ophelia’s ballroom.
Justine’s was the lightest color, as she begged to be the surface, since that’s what everyone thought of her as anyway, she said. Eleanor was the darkest blue, nearly black, the depths of the sea, unable to freeze. Ophelia was the color closest to Justine, and Prudence was the darker color, closer to Eleanor’s. It was a pretty color—almost a cobalt.
And she didn’t want to wear blue. She wanted to wear red, the color of a widow on the hunt for a lover. Because that’s what she wanted to be.
“We’ve sold all the tickets, haven’t we?” Prudence asked, careful to keep her tone even and light.
“Yes,” Ophelia said, sounding puzzled. They had discussed this many times over the past week. “Should be quite the crush.”
There was a scratching at the door before it swung open. The cadre of maids entered, Georgie among them, ready to begin the preparations. Hair would take the longest, and while Georgie was useless with it, she would be good with her needle and thread, as well as providing an extra pair of hands.
The day was here. The day that ended all excuses to see Leo Moon. And she wasn’t seeing him anyway, so this was an easy bookend to that adventure. Her attempt at having a lover. A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down.
“Prudence, you haven’t eaten a thing. If you keep that up, you’ll either be drunk by eight or pass out at nine.” Justine held out the platter of food for her. “You can go last. Try to get something in there, please?”
Justine was not prone to fits of mothering or overprotection. So if she was insisting, the situation was dire.
“Fine,” Prudence said, accepting the plate. She picked at the summer strawberries and the soft brie. Ophelia was seated at the vanity table first, surrounded by the army of maids. It would take a great deal of engineering to fit them with the eighteenth-century-style wigs they’d ordered.
*
“Why aren’t you dressed?” his mother asked him, bursting into his study again.
“Mother!” He threw down his papers. “I am working. I am putting food in our mouths, do you mind?”
She thumped her cane on the floor. “Don’t speak to me that way. Go get dressed this instant.”
“I have no intention of going anywhere.” He picked up the paper he’d just thrown—it was a short note from Eyeball. He skimmed it, finding the man was asking for his next lesson. Eyeball wasn’t stupid, so that was fortunate, but he was still tiresome. At the bottom, he scrawled a sentence about seeing him at the charity ball. He could only mean this one. There were barely any parties now that the weather had turned and people were starting to leave for the countryside ahead of the Michaelmas break in Parliament.
“You had better go. If nothing else, then to see our influence in action.” His mother waved him out of the room, which didn’t work, since he was still sitting at his desk.
Mrs. Cabot says your mother assisted with the decorations. I have always enjoyed your mother and look forward to seeing her there to pay my respects.
Eyeball’s respects made it hard to swallow. He didn’t want the man anywhere near his mother. And what was he doing talking to Prudence? He tossed the missive to the desk and saw the stubborn defiance in his mother’s expression. He came by his own, naturally. But there was a time to fight and a time to bend.
“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. Please wait for me.” Leo stood, and his mother smiled in triumph. But it wasn’t her insistence. It was Eyeball’s.
*
Prudence was unrecognizable. She wore skirts that ballooned sideways instead of bell-shape. Her bejeweled mask revealed only her lips, which were rouged a bright scarlet. The wig pinned on her head must have weighed five pounds, piled high with powdered hair and an absurd cutout featuring the gentle slope of the Ben Nevis peak, crusted in paste jewels, as if it had been covered in a blanket of fresh snow.
Ophelia had the pleasure of wearing Mount Everest, Eleanor sported Mount Fuji, and Justine wore Mount Kilimanjaro. They all wore masks identical to Prudence’s, leaving only lips and chin visible. To Prudence’s eye, they looked strange, but Lady Rascomb clapped her hands when she saw them descend the stairs.
Each dress was a different shade of blue and cut slightly differently to accent each woman’s natural shape. Justine’s was the most true to the older fashion, a light ice-blue gown with a square neckline and sleeves ending in white lace at her elbows, showing off her ample cleavage and small waist. Ophelia’s was the shade darker, and was cut with a high cream-colored lace collar that framed her perfect jawline and then plunged low to a deep vee. Prudence thought Ophelia looked the most regal. Like the portraits of haughty Queen Elizabeth, only far more beautiful.
Prudence looked nothing like Justine or Ophelia or Eleanor, and had several inches on all three women. Prudence’s dress was cobalt, and of the four was by far the most fashionable because of her bare shoulders. The silver embroidery along the bodice stood out, the sinuous curves mimicking the shapes of waves. Eleanor was last, wearing a gown so blue it was almost purple. The silver embroidery was not just on her bodice, but stretched from skirt hem to her sleeves. The collar was high and elegant, as befitted a married woman, but it didn’t look prudish at all. She was covered, but she appeared sleek and graceful.
“Marvelous! You all look beautiful.” Lady Rascomb held her hands clasped in front of her, as if she were doing her utmost to remember the moment. Prudence felt a stab of homesickness for her own mother. What would Jane Foster think of this event? She could only picture her mother shaking her head, the indulgent hint of a smile on her face as she went back to her mending. With eight children, there was always something to mend.
Ophelia’s father, Lord Rascomb, entered the foyer from the passageway that led to his study, dressed in Germanic lederhosen. His plain black mask was in his hand, the black ribbons dangling freely. “You all look incredible. And those mountains are recognizable from here!”
Tristan Bridewell, Ophelia’s brother and Eleanor’s husband, was walking while trying to affix his minimal white lace mask. He clearly could tell which one was his wife, and openly stared, jaw dropped.
“Close your mouth,” Ophelia scolded her brother.
“Close yours,” he countered. “That’s my wife, and she is stunning.”
Prudence glanced back at Eleanor, whose neck was flushed pink, and her lips were curved into a smile.
The evening was to commence with the women of the Ladies’ Alpine Society posed around the ballroom. After the first half-hour, they would change position, taking the opportunity to dance with members of the ballroom, and then go to their next position. So they would rotate, dancing more and posing less, until the culmination at midnight, when the auction to reveal their identities would take place.
Prudence couldn’t imagine they would raise much money, but she looked forward to taking off the mask and the wig. She didn’t feel in her element here—she much preferred being out of doors, in the prairie or the woods. Like when she was at the Thornridge cottage. She cringed. She shouldn’t think of Leo now. It wasn’t helpful.
“Last chance for a nibble or a drink,” Lady Rascomb said as Prudence and her friends filed past her.
She’d barely eaten. But she couldn’t manage another bite. She was glad for the mask now—she’d keep her expression hidden.
The arrivals were slow. But their entrances brought joy. Each couple announced by the majordomo gasped as they entered the Rascomb ballroom. The embroidered ombre banners made the room shimmer with otherworldliness. The small orchestra played older pieces before the dancing commenced, which helped with the strangeness, because their world was familiar and different all at the same time. Beeswax candles were everywhere, which did give a lovely aroma to the room.
The Matterhorn construction at the deepest end of the ballroom was surprisingly well-done. Prudence hadn’t much hope, but the sculptor they’d found did an accurate job. Standing at ten feet tall, the replica had the same iconic scooped-out peak that anyone would recognize. It was painted in the same shades as the banners and their dresses, glittering with silver accents. There was a rope affixed (by Eleanor, so they knew it was safe and secure) to the top, allowing any would-be adventurer to wrap the looped end around their waist and attempt the climb.
Dinner was prepared in the next room, and the stockpile of ice in the kitchen was brought in by the wagon full. Everything was as lovely as it could be. All the hard work and planning was complete, and Ophelia had instructed them all to bask in the glory of their work. But Prudence felt empty. She could fake her satisfaction, of course. It wasn’t the first time any woman had thought that, she mused as she took her place on a dais set up opposite the banners.
Ophelia, of course, began the evening at the Matterhorn peak. It was only right, since she was the leader of their expedition. Justine was nearest to the entrance, opposite of Prudence, and Eleanor was against the mirrored end wall, opposite of Ophelia.
In the end, they’d opted for simplicity, and Prudence was glad of it, as it lessened the complications of the evening by quite a bit. This had been done on a budget, and they were well under, thanks to the advice of Mrs. Moon.
Prudence wished for Mrs. Moon to appear. She missed the older woman as well. How had her life been so upended by those two people?
The crowd swelled, and the chatter became quick enough that she could no longer hear the majordomo announcing the guests. But without a doubt, she spotted Lord Grabe. His enormous shoulders were a dead giveaway. Perhaps she could be distracted by him this evening, if she could make him part with the throng of married women who followed him about.
His mask was half blue and half green, accenting his different eye colors. Prudence almost laughed. He was so vain, but if she were that beautiful and unusual, perhaps she would be as well.
A gong crashed from the orchestra, the cue for the dancing to begin. The women descended from their heights, ignoring all attempts at chatter, and headed to the dance floor. They opened the dancing with a minuet.
Ophelia danced with her father, Justine with her brother Francis, Eleanor with her husband Tristan, and Prudence was paired with the eldest Rascomb son, Arthur, the baron Berringbone, who clearly wished he was dancing with Lady Emily rather than Prudence, given the longing glances he cast the woman’s way.
Prudence didn’t mind. She hadn’t found anyone she thought could be Leo, and no older woman with a cane had yet hobbled through the entrance. The dance finished, and Prudence wobbled under the weight of her wig as she curtsied to Arthur, Lord Berringbone. As she maneuvered to her position at the mirrored end of the ballroom, she purposely walked by Lord Grabe, giving him a daring wink as she passed. He stopped mid-sentence and grinned back at her.
At least that was something. She climbed up the black dais and posed. She was Ben Nevis. The feared, mercurial Scottish mountain. Which she didn’t feel akin to at all. As the ballroom filled out with latecomers, people filed past staring at her, whispering. Prudence wasn’t sure if they were whispering about her dress, her wig mountain, or her identity. It didn’t matter. She felt nothing. In this ice-themed ballroom, Prudence could blend in.
The next bell sounded, and Prudence descended. This time, Lord Grabe was on hand.
“I’d like the next dance, Miss Ben Nevis,” he said, offering his arm. She looked up at him the best she could, the wig dangerously toppling back. She nodded as well as could be expected and smiled. “Will you not talk with me?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head no. They’d agree not to speak while in mountain costume. After all, mountains were silent, and besides, Prudence’s American accent was a dead giveaway.
“A mountain full of mystery, I see,” Lord Grabe said, his voice light and flirtatious. They made their way through the crowd, people staring as they passed.
Were they watching her or him? She was a spectacle—staring was the point—but Lord Grabe was handsome, wearing trousers that tightened at his powerful thighs and a coat cut to accent his broad shoulders. His duo-toned mask was barely a mask, which was likely so because the rest of him was so easily recognizable.
They took their place on the dance floor, and he smiled down at her. “You know, the one thing I can say for certain is that I’ve never kissed you.”
The thoroughness of her mask made it impossible to reply, even with a facial expression.
“For I have not kissed any of the mountain girls. Not even Prudence Cabot, whom I had the pleasure of escorting to the opera.” His hands were warm on her waist, and there was something comforting in him that made her want to put everything down and curl up next to him and cry.
“Perhaps you’ll excuse my indelicacy, Miss Ben Nevis, but I can admit that while I was conversing with Mrs. Cabot at the opera, I got to know precisely how tall she was compared to my own size. She is a tall woman, something which I admire. My own height can make finding a companion of a reasonable size challenging.” He gazed down at her, his different colored eyes making her almost dizzy.
He spun her in a circle. “Now why do I say all this? Because I have something very important to tell Mrs. Cabot, and I think you might be able to relay it to her, Miss Ben Nevis.”
Prudence wished she could be in love with him, even if it were for only one night. To want to be taken into his arms full of passion. But she didn’t feel that way. He was like a very lovely painting that she knew wasn’t real.
“I’m not one made for love. But I know how to spot it. I’m very good at spotting it, since I’ve had my share of bed partners, and one thing I watch for is when she falls in love with me. That’s when I realize I must end it gently. And this skill of noticing, of predicting, has allowed me to observe a great many things.”
He paused their motion as the music died down, knowing it would once again swell. Her skirts swirled around his trousers, the shining fabric enveloping him.
“I know Mrs. Cabot is in love. Not with me, which admittedly, I did find somewhat insulting, even if I do not seek that admiration. But Mr. Leopold Moon is very much in love with Mrs. Cabot. So much so that he cannot see it himself.”
Prudence shook her head. How wrong he was. If she could only explain what had happened at the cottage—that he thought to abandon her to the whims of a stranger instead of telling her anything about himself or the situation at hand.
“I do not know what happened, but I have seen the man in the last week, and he is broken. Not in the churlish way he had been, of course, prickly and surly as he normally is. No, he is bereft. And that, if I can add more to my own selfish story, is also something I know. Because that was my father, after my mother left him. I’ve seen heartbreak up close. And Leopold Moon is in the throes of it.”
Prudence felt a swell of tears, but tamped it down. The idea that Leo missed her was too much for her to think of. As for love, she wanted that to be true.
“I’ve goaded him to arrive tonight. Perhaps too much, but I believe he’ll show. We were childhood mates, and I admit I’ve enjoyed teasing him through the years. I know his temperament, and he believes he hates me, but he doesn’t. He envies me sometimes, I think, but truthfully, I envy him. He’s very smart. His mother would do anything for him—when we were children, she was a force of nature. She’d move all of London five miles north if it would help Leo.”
Prudence laughed. She wished she could have known Mrs. Moon at that time. She must have been quite a sight to behold.
“He had a family, even if it was a family of one. He had his intelligence, his relentlessness. My God, that man wouldn’t even need sleep!” Grabe shook his head, impressed with even the memory of Leo.
“What I am saying, Miss Ben Nevis, is please let Mrs. Cabot give him a chance to redeem himself. He is lost without her. He needs her, whether he’ll admit it or not.”
Prudence allowed herself a small nod. If he came. If he approached her. If, if, if. What a friend Lord Grabe was to advocate for him.
“Now that’s over,” Grabe said with a sigh and then a winning smile. “Let’s talk about me.”
*
Leo wore all black, because well, that’s what he had. His black mask was barely a disguise, but he slicked back his hair with a pomade that made it seem a shade darker. He put on a crisp white cravat, and replaced the normal gold chain of his pocket watch with a white silk ribbon from his mother. His waistcoat was black, and he wore a formal cutaway dress coat.
“You look the very devil himself,” his mother breathed as he came down the stairs. “Bravo, my child.”
Leo raised his brows at his mother. “I wasn’t aware you wanted your son to be the Prince of Darkness.”
“If you’re the prince, that makes me the queen,” she remarked, taking his proffered arm. The footman handed them their overcoats and hats, and they clambered into the carriage to make a late entrance to what his mother had told him was the talk of the town.
They were late enough that the line of carriages was abating, though they were lined up and down the street, clogging the thoroughfare. The slow approach had Leo tapping his feet impatiently. His mother watched him without comment, but he could almost hear her thinking.
“Do you have something to say?” he demanded. Even his pulse beat faster in his temple. He hadn’t realized what an impatient man he was.
His mother shook his head, giving him an imperious look. “Not at all.”
Leo grunted. Finally, the carriage pulled up to the front of the house, and they were able to join the party already in progress. They handed off their overcoats and were ushered into the ballroom, announced in such a din that absolutely no one heard their arrival. There was a crush of people, and Leo escorted his mother to the chairs lining the room, finding some of her compatriots already ensconced in the gossip of the evening.
“You look quite dashing, Mr. Moon,” said one of his mother’s friends. Perhaps it was Mrs. Maybury? He couldn’t remember. But the look she gave him was one of pure appreciation.
He nodded his appreciation and turned to look at the festivities. The crowd was full and the air already growing humid from the breath of so many in one space. Dancing occupied the far end of the ballroom. The music was lively, and the small orchestra was good. He would expect nothing less from a party thrown by Prudence.
“Shall I get you something to drink?” Leo asked his mother, having to raise his voice over the crowd.
She shook her head no, waving him off, clearly too busy for the likes of him. The music ended and people shuffled again, dancers coming off the floor, new partners being installed. Laughter and chatter now filled the air.
And that’s when he saw the women ascend to the four ends of the room. They had to be the members of the Ladies’ Alpine Society. Each was dressed in blue—the color of the banners he’d helped Prudence pick out on Bond Street all those months back. It had been a delightful day: he’d pretended his coldness, and she’d flirted back with her charming smile. His mother had been there, but ultimately stayed in the carriage, her knee bothering her as she had moved in and out of the vehicle too many times.
Those colors were imprinted in his mind. Each woman wore a towering, old-fashioned wig on her head, and a dark, stiff mask over her face. Given the different cuts of the gown and the heights of the daises, it was impossible to tell which woman was whom at a distance.
“There’s an auction at midnight,” Mrs. Maybury told his mother. “They’ll reveal the girls then. I’m not certain it’s proper, but then I’m not certain it isn’t, either.”
But Leo didn’t want to wait until midnight to find Prudence. He wanted to talk to her, to understand why she wasn’t corresponding with him. He understood that he’d behaved poorly at Thornridge. But the fear of Reggie walking back into his life, after all he’d done to build something in London for himself and his mother, was too much to bear. And how could anyone admit such a thing and be understood? I’m afraid my father will destroy me and take all our money? I’m afraid I’ll have to beg or con my way into a decent meal for my mother again?
How does a person explain the misery of a father like Reggie to a woman who held her family so dear? The veneration in Prudence’s voice when she spoke of her childhood and her parents’ dedication to each other was unmistakable. How could she look at him with any respect if he told her that he had long hoped his father was dead?
Even if Prudence no longer wanted to be his lover, it wasn’t right to punish his mother for his behavior. But the word lover stuck in his throat. It wasn’t as crass as all that. And the word lover was nowhere near as complete a meaning for what they were.
They were friends and companions, as well as intimates. Their time together was more than just bedsport. At least, for him. A few weeks ago, he would have wagered every farthing that was the same for her. But now. Now he didn’t know.
He approached each woman, not too close, and tried to not be too overt. Men blended in the crowd far more than ladies, as every man was wearing a black coat. There were different cuts and different masks on each man’s face, but from a distance, they all looked the same.
The first one, in an ice-blue gown, he immediately disqualified. Her proportions were all wrong. The second one, in a gown so dark it was almost black, he also dismissed. Her bright red lips were too full. They were the wrong shape. And her neck wasn’t long and elegant as Prudence’s was.
The next one he was almost certain was her. She wore a gown the color of an expensive sapphire. Her neck was long and elegant, and she had a small bust and a long waist. But it was also her posture, the way she carried herself. But he was a man of thoroughness, so he went to the fourth woman to make sure. It took some work to move through the crowd, but once there, he immediately congratulated himself on knowing Prudence. This woman was also not her. Closer to height, she was not as confident in her stance, but haughtier in her carriage. This lady had English aristocracy stamped all over her. This one was Miss Bridewell, of that he was certain.
He made his way back over to Prudence, but before he arrived, a chime went off and the women descended into the clamor of the crowd. He lost sight of her, and then, noticing the surge to the dance floor, he followed. And there, dancing with Prudence, was Eyeball.
Rage sizzled inside him. Of course Eyeball was there to swoop her away. He was always one for a rich widow, and it didn’t hurt that Prudence was beautiful and smart and witty. Even if Eyeball were looking for a wife, Prudence would make a decent prize. With a title, Eyeball didn’t require connections, he required capital, which Prudence could supply in spades.
Disgusted, he made his way back to his mother. He couldn’t stand to watch Eyeball work his charms on Prudence. It made him physically ill to think that Prudence might actually fall for one of his ridiculous eye colors.
“Whoever wins the bid at midnight escorts them in to dine,” a woman said in the crowd.
Ah, that was the rub with the auction, then. He was unwilling to make a scene trying to gain her attention as she descended from her perch, and it appeared they only danced a single set before moving back up to their posing daises. Fine. He could find the card room until the clock struck midnight.
He always did well at cards. Finding the room swimming with easy marks, he settled in at a table and raised a finger at a footman to bring him a drink. Time ticked by pleasantly enough. He managed to get through two sets of table mates before the hour grew late enough. He took his leave, his winnings, and his wine and headed to the ballroom.
The crowd had shifted again. The dancing was through, and men were attempting to climb the faux Matterhorn at the front of the room. The slick soft soles of the formal shoes proved to be a challenge for the brave men who tried their best.
“Looks awfully difficult,” a man said near him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the woman said as Leo jostled past.
He was sick of hearing about adventure and mountains, of ambitions and luxury. He was sick of this ball and watching men proving themselves on a stupid fake mountain. He was sick of newspaper reports celebrating some asinine explorer, as if there weren’t plenty of people in the world who struggled daily for food and clothes and shelter. How dare they flaunt themselves when others had to push and struggle for their barest needs? What was he even doing here?
Through some hidden stair, Tristan Bridewell appeared at the peak of the faux Matterhorn. He’d removed his mask, and his open, golden good looks irritated Leo even further. He didn’t consider himself an envious man, but suddenly, tonight, he found himself soured through and through.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tristan Bridewell said, trying to quiet the crowd down. “Thank you so much for coming to this late-in-the-Season celebration. As you know, we are raising money for a majority women’s expedition up to the Matterhorn next summer. I will also be joining the group, as an aid and companion—”
“You mean you’ll be climbing it, and they’ll be getting the credit!” a man yelled from the crowd. Leo fairly growled at the man, standing somewhere in front of him.
“No, sir, I’m afraid I will be bringing up the rear. My sister, Miss Ophelia Bridewell, is the leader of our expedition, and is scheduled to be the first woman ever to step foot on the Matterhorn’s vaunted peak.”
There was a hush over the crowd. Everyone knew what had happened to the crew that had successfully ascended the mountain three years ago—they’d ended up dying on the way down. Or at least, half of them did. Including the British aristocrat. It was hard not to see the parallels for Miss Bridewell.
“But to ensure we have the best equipment and the best local guides, we need your help. Tonight, we auction off the identity of our four intrepid adventuresses! The highest bid unveils the lady from her disguise, and allows that person to escort the lady into dinner before all other guests.” Mr. Bridewell gestured to the door leading to the dining room, where the partygoers would eat in shifts, if they ate at all.
“Because both my wife and my sister will be up for auction this evening, please be aware that I’m watching you.” Bridewell winked at the crowd after giving his menacing glare. He turned, reached down behind him, and he grasped the hand of a young lady in the ice-white skirts.
“Let us start the evening at the surface ice, shall we? Miss Kilimanjaro.”
The crowd stared blankly at first. Whichever climber this was, she was stunning. Bridewell looked out at them, bemused.
“She does have that effect on people. Shall we start the bidding at ten pounds?”
A man shouted for ten over the sound of several other voices. The fee quickly escalated to one hundred pounds. The average worker’s wage for two years. More shouting, and at one point, it looked as if a fistfight might occur.
A triumph was finally held by one man, holding his banknotes over his head. “Five hundred pounds!”
Tristan pointed at the bidder. Leo craned his neck around to see the absolutely crazed look on the man’s face. “Five hundred! Any other bidders?”
People murmured, but no one else waved any banknotes.
“You win, sir! Come forward, and my father, Lord Rascomb will collect your notes, and you may collect Miss Kilimanjaro. But not before we learn her identity!”
The musicians played a lively jig while two women appeared on the platform, removing the wig carefully. Then Miss Kilimanjaro untied her mask, revealing herself to be Miss Justine Brewer. The winning bidder’s face brightened and his chest puffed out. He’d clearly hoped it would be her. Leo suddenly thought that he was not the only man here who had set about trying to discern which lady was which.
Everyone clapped and laughed as Miss Brewer gave an elegant curtsy. She descended the mountain and disappeared from Leo’s sight.
“Next we have Miss Everest. The tallest mountain in the known world, the unconquerable peak, the challenge of future mountaineers!”
“Get on with it!” someone yelled.
Bridewell gave a scowl to the crowd. “Do I have ten pounds?”
The bidding was not quite as anxious as Miss Brewer’s round was, but there was a restrained and respectable debate between some older men in the crowd. A few younger men made their attempts, but ultimately, it settled at three hundred and fifty pounds to a Mr. Grainger of the London Alpine Society.
Lewd jests rippled through the crowd of Grainger finally climbing a mountain. Miss Everest’s wig was removed, revealing a pile of golden blonde curls. The woman untied her mask and proved herself to be Miss Ophelia Bridewell, the daughter of their host, and the leader of their expedition. The rude comments ceased immediately.
“Next is Miss Ben Nevis!” The woman climbed up to join Bridewell on the platform. That cobalt blue dress that accented her beautifully long neck bared her strong, sculpted shoulders, and the embroidered silver bodice adorned her trim torso that he knew so well.
“I would like to make sure it is known that the Ladies’ Alpine Society successfully ascended the Scottish peak last summer. We came in under budget, under time, and I managed to realize that I needed a wife. If that’s not the Ladies’ Alpine Society producing miracles, I don’t know what is.”
Laughter rolled through the crowd. Yes, yes, Tristan was an unserious man, and marriage somehow made him less so. Leo’s stomach tightened in anticipation. But the idiot kept talking. Leo pushed his way further up. He wanted to see her better. Mostly, he wanted her to see him when he won, and they could speak freely as he escorted her in for their midnight supper.
“Get on with it!” Leo was about to yell when someone else beat him to it.
“Do I bore you?” Bridewell asked with some venom.
“Yes!” came the emphatic reply.
“I’m insulted,” he said, though his jovial manner belied that he was not, in fact, anything of the sort. “Fine, onto beautiful ladies, if that’s what you want. Miss Ben Nevis! Let’s start at ten pounds!”
Leo didn’t have time for this. “One hundred pounds!”
Without so much as a hesitation came “Two hundred!” from further in the crowd.
Incensed, Leo responded with “Three hundred.” He made his way nearer to the other bidder, who had now increased the wager to four hundred.
“Five,” yelled Leo, finally picking his way over to none other than Eyeball.
Eyeball looked in him straight in the face and yelled, “Six!”
“Six hundred pounds, so far the highest bid,” Bridewell said. “Do I hear seven?”
“Seven!” Leo said, turning his attention to the front, to Prudence. She stared down at him. Did she see him? Did she understand and know why he bid on her so outlandishly? Surely, she had to know that his ardor for her had not cooled—not one ounce.
“Eight!” Eyeball shouted.
“You great fool,” Leo spat. “You don’t have that kind of money.”
Eyeball gave him a lazy grin. “You’ve been teaching me how to invest, Leo. Of course I have this kind of money. Are you willing to spend yours?”
“Nine!” Leo yelled.
“I would like to remind the gentlemen here that you must be able to submit your funds to my father within two days’ time.”
“One. Thousand. Pounds.” Eyeball announced, staring Leo dead in the eye.
It was a ridiculous sum of money. It was all of his liquid assets. Yes, his investments would be fine, and they would be able to pay their household without issue at the quarterly, but one thousand pounds to merely speak to Prudence?
There was a gripping in his bowels, his stomach, and he began to sweat. The feeling of not having enough money—the one emotion that had been his constant until only a few years ago—swallowed him whole. His peripheral vision began to blacken, as if great theatre curtains were slowly closing. He blinked, wanting to shout eleven hundred! He wanted to be her hero. The man who would do whatever it took.
But he realized then that every man has his price. And while his was not eleven hundred pounds, it was never wanting to feel that desperation ever again. He couldn’t force his mother into a restricted existence, not even in thought.
Leo looked up at Prudence, feeling her stare on him from her great height. How he wanted her to understand, to accept, to love. But he couldn’t explain, so she would never realize what tonight had cost him.
Leo shook his head.
“One thousand pounds, to the large gentleman the size of a tree. Thank you.” Bridewell was clearly unsettled by the bidding war.
Eyeball came over and stood next to Leo, leaning over to whisper to him. “You shouldn’t have given up.”
“Fuck off, you absolute entitled shit,” Leo ground out.
“If you were willing to fight for her, she’d go to you. As it is, she’ll settle for me. At least I know I can get her to come round to my charm eventually.” Eyeball strode off with confidence, reaching into the internal breast pocket of his coat to dig out his banknotes.
Leo had never hated anyone more in that moment. Not even Reggie, who’d never done anything good in the world. But he couldn’t turn away from the spectacle. Prudence’s wig was removed, and unlike the other two ladies, her hair pins loosened, and that honey-colored hair tumbled down around her bare shoulders.
It was like a knife in the gut. She undid her black mask, revealing that straight nose and high cheekbones. She looked straight at him, and he could almost feel her silky hair threaded between his fingers. The taste of the morning tea and biscuits at the cottage on her lips as he casually grazed them with his own. The smell of summer grass and blue skies. The happiness that he’d cut short, fearing that his past was catching up to him, threatening all that he held dear.
Then she turned away, descending the mountain to meet Eyeball, who would sit by her as she ate. Talk to her of the party, of whatever stupid thing came into his distractingly limited mind. Leo turned then, making his way back to collect his mother, as Bridewell announced the final woman, Miss Fuji.
The bidding was low, as everyone knew this was Bridewell’s wife. But Leo didn’t care about any of it. He had to go—he couldn’t be among this wealth, this luxury, these people.
When he returned to his mother, she almost protested that she wasn’t ready until she saw his face. Then she stood without a word, bid goodnight to her friends, and they went home. Leo was glad she didn’t speak. Once home, she ordered the footman to serve Leo brandy in his study and a hot toddy to her in her room.
It was a small gesture of caretaking, and one Leo noticed and appreciated. Loved her even more for understanding.