for me—but you?”
Gabriel wore a huge wig and more clothing than he’d ever donned at one time. The heavy velvet and ermine-trimmed cloak was stifling.
“Perhaps if I remove my—”
“Oh no.” She shook her head. “You mustn’t remove even a stitch—not until everyone has seen you.”
“But, darling, they won’t know me because I will be wearing this.” He lifted the mask Drake had given him.
“They will know you,” she assured him.
“What does that mean, Miss Clare? Are you referring to my nose?”
She giggled. His serious wife giggled.
Gabriel heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Very well, we shall suffer in all our court finery. Come. It will be better to walk than swelter in here.”
The streets were full of costume-clad guests with the same idea.
“There seem to be an unprecedented number of Cleopatras,” he murmured in her ear as they approached the head of the receiving line.
She shivered.
“What, are you cold?”
“No, only thinking of all those asps.”
He chuckled as they reached the head of the stairs.
“My goodness,” she said, her eyes wide as they handed their cloaks over to the footman and looked at the scene below.
There were Greeks, Romans, figures from all eras of English royalty, explorers, and other, less recognizable characters milling around the packed ballroom dance floor.
“You were right about the Cavaliers,” she said, adjusting the basket on her arm before pointing to a clutch of Royalists in a far corner.
“Good God,” Gabriel muttered. “It is sweltering in here. Why are all the windows closed?”
“I understand it is not unusual for the Regent to attend. He is great friends with the duke.”
Gabriel doubted the rotund monarch would be up for such an arduous trek as they had just taken.
A tall, uncharacteristically blond Cromwell approached them and pointed at Gabriel. “Seize him! And bring him to the tower,” he ordered nobody in particular.
Gabriel cut him a haughty look. “I’m the other Charles— or can’t you tell? Besides, it would appear your men have deserted you.”
Byer glanced over his shoulders and frowned. “What the devil happened to them?”
“How did you know it was me? Oh, never mind—it was Drake, wasn’t it?”
“I will not reveal my sources.” He cut a glance at Drusilla and bowed low. “And how arrogant we are to assume it was Your Highness I knew. It was your lovely companion I recognized.”
“Kind sir.” Drusilla dropped a curtsy and then handed him an orange. “And who are you? The Protector of lobsters?”
Gabriel laughed.
“Sharp-tongued Nell.” Byer ran a finger around the ruff at his neck, his exposed skin indeed an alarming shade of red.
“Hot?” Gabriel asked with a snicker. “I almost took that costume, but I am wiser than you.”
“I can’t imagine yours is much better,” Byer said, eyeing the heavy cloak.
“It isn’t.” Gabriel cut his wife a pitiful look.
She heaved a mock sigh. “Very well, you may take it off, Your Highness.”
Gabriel opened the heavy gold clasp that held the garment on and swept it off with a flourish. He gestured to a passing footman. “Put this in the cloakroom, please.”
The man sagged when Gabriel laid the burden in his arms.
The ballroom became even stuffier as more guests made their way from their carriages.
The doors remained closed in anticipation of a royal visit and the massive room was stultifying, a heavy fog of perfume and sweat hovering above the crush of bodies.
The dance floor was cramped and Gabriel was grateful his costume did not allow for much dancing as he could barely see past his wig. Drusilla, on the other hand, had danced with a very stiff Byer and a half-dozen others by the time supper rolled around. He looked over the dancers on the floor, searching for her plain bonnet, which was conspicuous among all the sparkling finery. He’d last seen her dancing with a man dressed as what he supposed was a corsair. But they were nowhere to be seen, now.
* * *
Drusilla leaned heavily on the tall corsair’s arm as she limped beside him. “Are you sure you are quite all right?” he asked, “Or shall I carry you.”
She cringed at the thought of making such a spectacle—even though she was in costume. “No, I do not require carrying. Perhaps you might help me to a seat on the terrace and then fetch my husband.”
“Ah, of course. And who might he be in this wild menagerie?”
“His Royal Highness Charles II.”
Her companion chuckled as he opened one of the closed French doors and guided her through before closing it behind her. “Better than Charles I.”
Drusilla smiled at the small