Mistress of Sins (Dredthorne Hall #3) - Hazel Hunter Page 0,2
with a smile. “Miss Catherine is in the library, Miss Reed.”
As she made her way through the house Jennet noted the finest of the latest décor fashions had accompanied the family from London, including new opulent gold-trimmed draperies and exotic-looking chairs with curved legs and inlays of brass. The Tindall family had no qualms about displaying their taste for the modern, or the affluence that allowed them to indulge it.
In the library she found Catherine dozing on an ebonized chaise of green damask, her lemon silk morning gown making her appear as if wrapped in a beam of early sunlight. Artful curls of brown escaped her sophisticated, golden-laced Greco-Roman hairstyle to frame her rose-cheeked face. Against her breast lay an open volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, adding a romantic note to the tableau.
“What do I look like?” Catherine asked without opening her eyes. “A pretty demure miss, or an enchanting, provocative coquette?”
“You are everything without artifice,” Jennet assured her drily. “Except for the Shakespeare. Everyone knows how you hate to read.”
“Sadly, true.” Her friend wrinkled her nose, tossed the book aside and sat up to grin at her. “So, you must amuse me now that I am whisked from the diversions of London. I have news, but you must first tell me that you have an intrigue to share. I dare not hope for a scandal in Renwick.”
Extracting the bedraggled note from her reticule, she offered it to Catherine. “An All Hallows’ Eve masquerade at Dredthorne may suffice.”
“Egad. I received one of these, too. A masked ball at the most haunted mansion in the county seems rather ghastly. I can hardly contain my excitement.” Her friend read the invitation and chuckled. “I imagine you know why you were singled out.”
Jennet sighed and nodded as she sat down on a chintz-covered chair across from Catherine. Since childhood she had possessed a natural talent for deciphering the feelings and intentions of others. Although she herself didn’t know how, she could always tell what most people were thinking by the changes in their reactions, expressions and stances during conversation. This gift allowed her to anticipate and avoid a great deal of that which she regarded as unpleasant, but it had also given her a reputation as a natural diviner.
“In London the new fashion in fortune-telling is to gaze into a crystal ball while making predictions,” Catherine told her as she turned the note over. “Mine was also unsigned. Who do you think sent them?”
“Mr. Pickering, I daresay.” Jennet tugged off her gloves. “He’s called three times since he came back from the city, and told Mama he has leased a property near Reed Park for a shooting party.”
“Ah, the ever-determined Arthur. I quite forgot his fascination with you.” Her friend sighed. “He is not titled, handsome or particularly interesting, and I must say his dancing is entirely dreadful. Still, you could do worse.”
“I thank you for your opinions.” Her enthusiasm for London society meant Catherine knew everything about everyone, which sometimes proved annoying. “As I have told Mr. Pickering many times, I have no intention of marrying.”
“Even when the gentleman has a house in Grosvenor’s Square, and seven thousand a year?” Her friend grinned as she handed back the invitation. “I am certain that he has mentioned that on a dozen occasions.”
“I am not concerned with Mr. Pickering,” Jennet told her crisply. “Mama found the invitation first, and you know how nonsensical she becomes about curses. I think I must attend, if only to prove to her that nothing dreadful will happen. Yet she will not allow me to go to Dredthorne Hall alone, for fear of the ghosts she believes haunts it.”
“A frightful dilemma.” Catherine gave her a wry look. “You may tell dear Mrs. Reed that we will attend the masquerade together. I will play bodyguard and not for a moment leave your side.”
“The ball will be held in three days,” she pointed out, “and we have no costumes.”
“We can make our own masks.” Her friend rose from the chaise. “My grandmother’s trunks should contain something suitably decrepit to serve as our regalia. Come, we must raid the attics.”
A short time later they came downstairs with two old but still-wearable ball gowns, which Catherine gave to her maid to clean and press. She then retrieved two lengths of velvet, matching ribbon and the sewing box from her room so they could fashion masks.
“A domino style is simple to sew, and will provide adequate concealment,” Catherine said as they went back to the