an expensive costume made up would help her achieve her goal. Everyone would recognise Marianne instantly. And would assume that the woman she shadowed, who was dressed, very primly, as a white cat, must be Lady Julia.
Once they’d gone, Julia was able to add the last, final touch to her disguise.
From her reticule, she withdrew the bottle of perfume she’d taken from Nellie’s dressing table earlier. Normally, ladies dabbed scent behind their ears and on their wrists. But she couldn’t get at her ears through the mass of false hair and peacock feathers. Neither was she going to risk pulling off her elbow-length evening gloves. She’d never get them buttoned up again without help from a maid.
Finally, in desperation, she tipped the bottle between her breasts, hoping she didn’t spill too much on her gloves in the process. The cloud of scent which billowed out made her eyes water for a second or two. But at least it would mark her out as the Nightingale. Nellie had this perfume specially made, so rumour went, by one of the most exclusive parfumeurs in Paris. There was a lot of musk in it. Not at all the sort of light, floral scent a young girl like Julia would normally use, if she were to use scent, which she didn’t. Plain soap and water was enough for her.
Lifting her chin, she opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. As she made her way to the back stairs, she concentrated on the languid way Nellie had taught her to walk, swaying her hips in what felt like an exaggerated manner, but when viewed in a mirror simply looked sensuous. They’d only practised for a couple of afternoons, but the heels, as Nellie had promised, did help her to avoid striding out the way she usually did. Though she wasn’t mannish. She walked with a purposeful manner, that was all. She’d taken on a lot of responsibilities since her mother had died, and she’d never get the half of her duties done if she dawdled about.
She clutched at the handrail all the way down the stairs. The last thing she wished to do was trip and tumble headlong into the hall below.
‘Nellie, my love,’ cried a man’s voice, as she descended from the last step. ‘You look sublime!’
It was a slender young man, dressed as an Elizabethan courtier. She was just basking in a sense of achievement at having fooled him, when he shocked her by walking slap up to her and kissing her cheek, just where the mask ended and her skin began.
She’d sniffed and turned her head away before she realised the gesture might give her away.
‘Beg pardon,’ said the courtier, raising his hands in apparent surrender. ‘Didn’t think. Must have taken you hours to get into costume. Don’t want it spoiled before you go into the ball.’
Thank heaven this young man didn’t know her very well. She slid him a sideways glance, wondering exactly who he was. At this time of year the house always swarmed with all sorts of extra staff, from Nellie the famous singer, to the humble artist brought in to chalk fabulous yet ephemeral decorations on the ballroom floor. He couldn’t be one of the extra servants, even though she’d met him in the service corridor, or he wouldn’t be all dressed up and ready to attend the masquerade. From the familiar way he’d spoken to her, it was more likely he was one of the troupe of players who worked at the same theatre as Nellie. Wasn’t he the one who played romantic leads? Eduardo something or other—that was it. Though the name was patently false. This man was no more Italian than Nellie, for all that people called her the Neapolitan Nightingale.
Still, he would lend credence to her disguise if he escorted her into the ballroom. So she took his arm and drifted down the corridor beside him, thankful that she’d bitten her tongue when he’d accosted her. The moment she opened her mouth, her disguise would fall apart. No matter how hard she’d tried, she simply couldn’t imitate the mellifluous tone of Nellie’s voice, let alone capture the way she peppered her speech with vulgarisms.
But at least if Eduardo had been fooled by the way she’d moved, the fake mole on her bosom, and the cloud of perfume hanging round her, then it looked as though her plan stood some chance of succeeding.
‘Uh-oh,’ murmured Eduardo into her ear, a few moments later. ‘Here come your admirers.’
She froze as the gentlemen guests of the house party all turned to peruse her through their eyeglasses, detached themselves from the respectable females they were supposed to be escorting and headed her way. Her stomach lurched. Was this what Nellie felt like every time she went onstage?
‘Don’t worry, I shan’t cramp your style,’ said Eduardo, letting go of her arm. She was just about to beg him not to desert her, when he slapped her bottom with an earthy chuckle.
Making her wish him at Jericho.
Five minutes later, she realised he was no worse than any of the other men. They all seemed to think her derrière existed for the sole purpose of being patted, or pinched, or squeezed. It wasn’t long before she was sure it must be a mass of bruises. How on earth did Nellie put up with this kind of treatment? She was sorely tempted to sidle into an alcove and keep her back to the wall, only that might mean losing sight of David.
She’d hoped he would have been amongst the crowd clustering round Nellie. But, bother him if he wasn’t being particularly attentive to her tonight—at least, the woman he thought was her, since she was dressed as a white cat, and attended by a girl who was very obviously Marianne.
Oh, but he did look splendid in the full-skirted coat, long dark wig, and tricorne hat of the seventeenth century. The telescope he held in his hand told the world that he was dressed as Sir Isaac Newton. Well, of course, David being a man of science himself, he was bound to choose such a costume, rather than something more frivolous, like a pirate, or a Roman emperor, or an Elizabethan courtier.
Her own Uncle Maurice was dressed tonight as Henry VIII, a figure he managed to emulate extremely well, since he was rather corpulent and florid of complexion. She smiled at him in relief when he offered her a glass of champagne, feeling sure her dear old Uncle Maurice wouldn’t pinch her, or squeeze her bottom. But her relief was short-lived. First, he tried to manoeuvre her under one of the kissing boughs. Then he asked if she would like to come to his room that night. Of course Uncle Maurice was rather foxed. And he didn’t have very good eyesight. Nevertheless, it was with genuine indignation, larded with a good deal of revulsion, that she rapped him over the wrist with her fan.
It was all proving far more difficult than she could have imagined. She’d assumed David would have approached her before now. She’d banked on it. He’d been so fascinated by Nellie, from the moment she’d arrived. So fascinated that she’d even accused him of flirting with the singer.
David had pokered up. Sworn it was no such thing.
‘If you cannot tell the difference between flirting, and the conversation of an educated man with an intelligent woman, then I despair of you,’ he’d said. ‘The Neapolitan Nightingale has a unique perspective on the world. She has travelled extensively, and rubbed shoulders with the very highest, though she comes from very humble origins.’
Nellie certainly did have an entertaining way of talking, Julia had to admit. Though her stories were sometimes rather scurrilous, she always related them so wittily that Julia could hardly blame David for joining the throng of her admirers.
Though now she wished she hadn’t reproved him for doing so. He was behaving with perfect propriety, just when she most wished him to stray!
She’d almost given up hope of getting him on his own, when a gust of cold air swirled into the ballroom, heralding the arrival of a troupe of mummers. At the sound of their pipe, fiddle, and drum, the professional musicians laid down their own
