This was but the opening salvo. The weapons that she kept in her arsenal included the moue, the tear, the trembling pout, and the tremulous voice. These were generally more effective than her reasoning, which Ferrin found nonsensical and a trial to his gray matter. “You are looking quite splendid tonight. The plume is particularly charming.”
“Thank you.” She allowed the silver half mask she held over the upper portion of her face to fall away and reveal her full pleasure of the pretty compliment. “You will join us in the ballroom, will you not?”
“Of course, Mother.”
“My friends delight in seeing you. I fear they do not know many rakes. They are quite fascinated by your manner.”
“I see.” He bent forward so there was no danger that he could be overheard. “May I roam freely or will you want to parade me on a leash?”
This time when her ladyship lowered her mask it was to snap it sharply against her son’s forearm. “You are the very devil,” she whispered.
Grinning, Ferrin straightened. “You are mistaken, Mother. Tonight I am a pirate.” From beneath his tricornered hat, he pulled down a black silk patch and fixed it over his right eye. “See?”
“The very devil,” she repeated. There was no censure in her tone, only affection. She touched his cheek and smiled, perfectly content with this outcome. Turning to go, her ladyship paused when she glimpsed Wellsley standing at attention on the other side of the table. “And you, Mr. Wellsley, you are of an eligible age, are you not? Well past it, I should think. As is Ferrin. Do not squander your inheritance in one sitting at the card table with my son when there are so many young women in the next room willing to relieve you of it over the course of a lifetime.”
Before Wellsley could make a reply, Lady Gardner presented her back to him and made a grand exit for the ballroom. Wellsley sunk back into his chair and looked up at Ferrin. “I need libation.”
Ferrin nodded, waving over one of the footmen. He finished the last finger of whisky remaining in his tumbler and gave it over. “Two more of the same,” he said. “None of the punch from the fountain, please.” When the liveried servant was gone, Ferrin took measure of his friend. “Will you be all right? I cannot tell whether it is astonishment that put you back in your chair or relief.”
“Both, I think.” Wellsley tossed his hat on the table and used four fingers to rake back his hair. The effect was to lend him more in the way of a disreputable air than the disheveled neckcloth. “She said she likes me well enough, so that is something, I suppose.”
“Well, of course she likes you. Why wouldn’t she? You have £12,000 per annum, a townhouse in London, an estate in the North, a family with as few rascals as one can properly hope for, and a countenance that does not stop clocks. God’s truth, Wellsley, I can’t think why I haven’t proposed.”
Wellsley’s staccato burst of laughter had heads turning in their direction again. He collected himself, straightening in his chair just as the drinks were brought to them. He raised the tumbler, saluted his friend, and drank deeply. “Dutch courage,” he said, setting the glass down. “Mayhap Miss Wynetta will take another turn on the floor with me.”
“The queen of the Nile? You will have to cut through the throng to get to her. Will you take my cutlass?”
“No. I do not think that will be necessary.” He returned his hat to his head and relied on Ferrin’s judgment to let him know when he’d achieved the proper roguish angle. With most of his bright-yellow hair covered, it was left to him to disguise his face. He withdrew a scarf from beneath the sleeve of his frock coat, folded it in a triangle, then used it to hide his nose, mouth, and squared-off chin. “Well?” he asked, getting to his feet. He removed the pistol and aimed it at Ferrin’s chest. “Stand and deliver.”
“Convincing. You will not credit it, but I am quaking in my boots.”
“Good. Now let us see who—” Wellsley stopped, his attention caught by the figure who had stepped forward and was now framed in the open doorway.
Seeing his friend’s gaze fixed on the threshold of the card room, Ferrin thought his mother had returned. “Never say she has brought reinforcements to drag us out.”
Wellsley merely shook his head.
Seeing something akin to reverence in his friend’s eyes, Ferrin was forced to turn and see what manner of creature could inspire it. He was aware of a niggling hope that it was Netta.
The queen standing at the threshold was not the woman-child Cleopatra, but she was immediately recognizable to him and every other man in the room. They were all staring at Boudicca come to life. The heavy mass of flame-red hair, the brightly dyed orange tunic and thick blue mantle, the twisted golden torc at her throat, and gold bracelets on her left wrist and arm proclaimed her as the fierce warrior queen of ancient Britain. Lest anyone doubt it, she carried a spear a head taller than she was.
Wellsley started to take a step forward, but Ferrin managed to rise and insert himself directly in his friend’s path. “You do not even like redheads,” Wellsley whispered from behind.
Over his shoulder, Ferrin said, “I am prepared to reevaluate. One must, you know, when presented with new evidence. It is in the nature of scientific inquiry. Do you know her?”
“If I did, I would go to my grave with it.”
It was just as well, Ferrin decided. She was Boudicca, and more than that he didn’t need to know. Like the torc at her throat, the brooch that held her mantle closed, and the bracelets on her wrist and arm, the mask that covered her upper face was hammered gold. Gold threads were woven into her tunic, and her bodice shimmered in the candlelight as she drew in a deep breath. Ferrin had the odd notion that she was steeling herself for battle. She had yet to hold the glance of any one man, but she had paused long enough on the threshold to examine all of them.
He stepped forward and closed the distance between them. “My queen,” he said, making a courtly bow. “There is someone in particular you are seeking? A pirate, perhaps?”
She did not smile or incline her head to acknowledge the overture. Her posture was unyielding: shoulders back, head high, feet planted slightly apart so she would not be moved. “A shepherdess,” she said.
Ferrin indicated the occupants of the card room with a wave of his hand, encouraging Boudicca to take a second look. “Knights Templar. Roman centurions. King Arthur. A highwayman. Two Harlequins. A king’s executioner. Sir Francis Drake. A cardinal and a friar. Not a single shepherdess. Tell me, does she have ribbons on her crook?”
“Yes.”
“Their color?”
“Green.”
“I have only seen pink, blue, and yellow.”
“That is what I have observed also.”
“May I escort you through the squeeze in the ballroom? Mayhap with two pairs of eyes making the search, we shall find her.” From behind her mask, Ferrin could make out the faint narrowing of her gaze. She was regarding him skeptically, her attention riveted on the black silk patch covering his right eye. “Three eyes are not as good as four,” he said, “but they’re half again as good as two.”
She smiled a little then, not enough to show her teeth or brighten
