had secured money for her family, and Randolph had gained a pretty companion strong enough to keep his selfish, greedy sons from taking advantage of his failing years. He had been her mentor and guide, gaining great joy in her success as a lady of quality and fashion.
But now Randolph was gone, and his protection with it. The Ton tolerated her because of her connections, but their suspicions and distrust were plain for all to see.
It made Amelia uncomfortable, but it no longer hurt. There was only one person whose opinion concerned her, only one whose approval she hoped to win.
And he’s unlikely to care about anything but my opinion on Grecian vases, she thought with a sigh.
“Prepare yourself, my dear Amy, for Lord Gowding has spotted you,” said Lydia, interrupting Amelia’s memories.
“Please, no,” she groaned from behind her forced smile. “The man is far too free with his hands at the best of times.”
“I’ll endeavor to save you, dearest,” promised her friend. “But consider that I did warn you that dressing as Cleopatra would bring trouble your way.”
It was on the tip of Amelia’s tongue to inform her friend that there was nothing in the least improper about her costume, but then her eyes landed on Baron Gowding, and she understood precisely what Lydia was referring to.
“My fair Cleopatra, temptress of the Nile!” the older lord cried out as he finally came upon them.
He was dressed somewhat improbably as Marc Antony, although his armor did not quite reach across his chest, and Amelia did not dare look down to see how short his tunic really was. He did not wear a mask to disguise his identity, but his hair and face were glistening with sweat in the candlelight.
“Indeed,” she replied, being as cold and aloof as she dared. Gowding lacked the consequence of the Melbournes or the Devonshires, but he was still from an old, wealthy family, and thus able to damage her standing in the Ton if he so wished.
“It is the will of the Fates that we should be together!” he stated, motioning vaguely toward a trio of women in Roman dress, who were fanning themselves vigorously in the stifling heat of the ballroom. “Come, let me take you away to my barge, where we can feast and drink wine, just like our namesakes!”
She bit down the acerbic retort that tugged at her lips. Equally, she refrained from pointing out that the real Marc Antony had died when he was at least thirty years the junior of the baron and had been considerably more athletic according to the records. She swallowed her pride and allowed him to take her hand as he proceeded to quote Shakespeare to her, if somewhat inaccurately.
“You stir immortal longings in me, my Egyptian Pearl,” he announced before lightly kissing her fingers.
“I don’t think that’s what Shakespeare meant when he wrote that line,” she replied with a shake of her head, but Gowding was not to be dissuaded.
“What other longings could such a beauty as yourself cause in a man, oh Queen of the Nile?” he replied, seeming to believe he’d just paid her a great compliment.
“Do you know, Lord Gowding, I think they are dressed as vestal virgins, not the fates,” said Lydia, drawing the baron’s attention to her. “Can you not tell from the detailing on their dresses?”
The baron, in his defense, blinked several times as he looked Amelia’s companion up and down very slowly before a broad grin lit up his very red face. He let go of her hand, his attention now fully captured by Lydia.
“Miss Willow! Or should I say, Sir John Fielding?” he asked. “A clever costume to dress as the Blind Beak of Bow Street, although it does not do much to disguise your identity.”
“Neither does yours, Lord Gowding,” said Amelia, unable to help herself, but he nodded happily at her statement.
“It was impossible to find a mask suitable for the role, you know, and as I consider Marcus Antonius something of a personal hero, I decided to fully act the part.”
“As did I,” replied Lydia, who had put a lot of effort into dressing as the famous Bow Street Magistrate, right down to a black bandage resting just above her eyes and a switch carried in her right hand. “I had to borrow my grandfather’s spare robes and wig, but this dratted tricorne refuses to stay on top of this thing. I am curious to know how you coped with wearing them in your own