A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,130
at Thomas. “I may not be able to take full credit for Arthur’s insistence upon sending in notice of his upcoming nuptials to all the papers—the announcements should appear tomorrow morning, by the way—but I am willing to accept your compliments on the rest of it. So, no, Donovan. The so very rich and willing Georgianna is not Maxwell’s sister. But you’re close, I’ll give you that.”
The orchestra seated behind a low barrier struck up a loud fanfare before Thomas could answer and, amid a round of giggles and teasing entreaties, the ladies and gentlemen began to unmask, their identities revealed to shouts of “I knew it was you!” and “You! I never guessed!” and a single, “Good Lord! It’s m’wife! M’own wife! Gad, I’m done for!”
Marguerite lifted the eye mask from her own face as Thomas did the same, and then they both leaned slightly forward, watching as Lord Mappleton pulled a sequined half-mask from his features and motioned for Miss Rollins to do the same.
She did.
She removed her pink eye mask, the one with three long feathers attached to it.
She then went a step farther and pulled off her wig, the glorious blond one that had come to be known throughout the ton, exposing a sadly matted Brutus crop of dark brown hair.
As Lord Mappleton stared, his mouth at half cock, Miss Georgianna Rollins stripped off her gloves—Miss Rollins always wore-above-the-elbow gloves—flinging them, one after the other, in his lordship’s face.
Next to go—as heads turned and more mouths gaped and a single, overly volatile lady fainted into her partner’s arms—were the necklace and Miss Rollins’s modest circlet of lace ruching, so that the bodice of the low-cut, loosely fitting gown was exposed—as well as a faint, unimpressive, but nonetheless shocking scattering of dark brown chest hair.
One more unveiling was to follow, Marguerite knew as she stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth to keep from laughing out loud, and within a moment Miss Georgianna Rollins had ripped the bodice of her gown to the waist, revealing a slim but muscular expanse of chest—that, and the certain knowledge that she was no more a female than Lord Mappleton was a king.
“Georgianna!” Lord Mappleton choked out above the laughs and catcalls of the crowd, his difficulty in speaking most probably caused by the tight constriction of his throat as he swallowed his dreams for wedding a fortune and what little, if anything, remained of his reputation. Had his conveniently slow-moving mind leapt ahead to thoughts of the morning papers? Marguerite certainly hoped so!
“Not Georgianna, you monumental ignoramus,” Miss Rollins said in a surprisingly baritone voice. “George!”
Marguerite spoke quietly as Thomas busily attempted to keep a swooning Mrs. Billings from slipping to the ground. “Not Maxwell’s sister, Donovan, but his brother. George makes a fairly presentable debutante for a boy just turned fifteen, don’t you agree?” she asked, turning to him, her smile so wide her cheeks felt stretched. “Society will laugh at first, then become angered to realize that, in a way, they were as duped as poor Arthur. It will take years and years for them to forgive him. So that’s three,” she purred, and then held up her fingers. “And you doubted me. For shame, Donovan. What do you have to say for yourself now?”
Thomas didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He, like the rest of the world who had been unsuspecting witnesses to Mappleton’s avid courtship of George Rollins, was laughing too hard to say a single, solitary thing.
CHAPTER 18
As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.
— Proverbs 26:11
“Well, now, boyo, if this isn’t the loveliest time you’ve ever shown me,” Dooley said as he crouched behind a large bush he had learned, too late, was dotted with thorns. “Make me stand the whole day long at Laleham’s, where absolutely nothing was happening—I coulda had pigeons roosting on me for all the moving I did—then you force me to gulp down m’dinner in two bites before dragging me off to watch Harewood over there stumbling around in the dark in this park. Bridget will be that pleased that her dear husband has seen so much of Londontown.”
Thomas hunkered down beside Dooley, squinting in order to spot Sir Ralph’s dim form in the moonlight. “You nag worse than a fishwife, Paddy, do you know that? Now, keep your voice down. Harewood’s stopped again, and this time I don’t think he’s going any farther.”
They had positioned themselves in a hired coach outside Sir Ralph’s residence before