Much to Evangeline's open delight, it was beginning to snow quite heavily as the Radcliffe House party set off in the town carriage, and by the time the ball got under way, a thin carpet of white had already begun to settle over the town. As far as Evangeline was concerned, the royal sleigh would be hers the following day.
The Christmas bal masque at the Old Ship was always an important social occasion, attended by everyone who was anyone in Brighton and the surrounding area. It was always a great crush, with so many carriages thronging Ship Street that it took quite a time to reach the doors of the assembly rooms. On arriving, every lady was presented with a wrist favor of ivy leaves, lace, and dainty gold satin ribbons, and every gentleman with a sprig of holly for his lapel.
Megan had been dreading running the gauntlet of Evangeline's many friends and acquaintances, but to her relief she was just introduced as Miss Mortimer. There was no mention of the awkward fact of her being a companion, and people were left to imagine what connection she might have with Evangeline. She was later to discover that the general consensus was that she was another of Evangeline's numerous nieces come to stay with her for Christmas, a green girl from an inferior branch of the family who was bound to waste the eclat of having Greville at her side. Megan had to admit to a sneaking vanity in having such a handsome, eligible gentleman as her official escort. His narrow black mask hardly concealed his features at all, and he seemed to be recognized by many of the masked, veiled, or dominoed ladies present They were nearly all guilty of much wishful thinking where he was concerned, and so took much catty pleasure in criticizing Megan's simple use of pansies in her hair as verging on the rustic.
Evangeline's party soon met up with the Holcrofts and Oliver, and they all adjourned to the ballroom, where a cotillion was in progress. One of the red velvet sofas around the edge of the crowded floor was providently still free, so they promptly laid claim to it. The three ladies took their seats, and the four gentlemen stood behind. The sofa was flanked on either side with arrangements of ferns, and nearby more ferns concealed a stand on which rested one of the large blocks of ice. It imparted a breath of refreshing coolness to the already overheated air. Fans fluttered everywhere, chandeliers and candles shimmered, and flames licked around Yule logs that had been placed on every coal fire. At the end of the ball there would be carol singing by firelight, and no one would be allowed to depart without a wanning stirrup cup of mulled wine. But to begin with, champagne and fruit cup were the order of the evening.
From the moment of joining up with the Holcroft party, Rupert and Greville had politely ignored Oliver, but he drew their attention as a footman hurried over with a tray of drinks. Perhaps it was the glitter of his pale eyes behind his mask as he took a glass of champagne, or the faint smile on his lips; whatever it was, they both suddenly found themselves remembering what he and Ralph Strickland had done to the waiter at the Union Club. They glanced at each other, and knew they were thinking the same thing.
Evangeline sipped a glass of apple cup, then turned to Megan. "My dear, you are to do as you wish tonight. No one knows you are my companion, so there is no need to be a shrinking violet. You may dance every single measure if you feel so inclined."
"That is very kind of you, Lady Evangeline, but don't you wish me to be close by at all times in case you require me?"
"Require you? At a ball? Whatever for? There, a polonaise has been announced, so off with you now. Greville? Step out with Miss Mortimer immediately!"
Megan hardly dared think what he might feel about being ordered to dance with her, but when she ventured to glance at him, he did not seem to display any resentment; indeed, when their eyes met behind their masks, he smiled. To receive a second such smile in one day made things a great deal easier for her, and suddenly she realized she could enjoy the night ahead.
The polonaise commenced, and she moved easily into the steps remembered from her school days. She ignored the jealous glances of other ladies, for with the benefit of a mask, she felt equal to them all. After that she danced every dance; first a polonaise and minuet with Greville, then an allemande with Rupert, a contredanse with Sir Jocelyn, and after that a landler with a plump bishop who refused to accept that she was not the Duchess of Yeovil, a lady apparently known for an eccentric abhorrence of jewelry.
Greville's evening was by no means the disagreeable occasion he had expected, for against all the odds, he realized he was more than just intrigued by Megan, he actually enjoyed being with her. Companion or not, it was no hardship at all to step out with her for another allemande. But soon his smile was extinguished as he espied a voluptuous young woman clad in diamonds and magenta. She was wearing a domino that all but hid her face, and her dark hair was tucked beneath a gray silk turban adorned with silver tassels. Greville knew it was Sybil Garsington, for he would have recognized that statuesque figure and alarming bosom anywhere. She was dancing with her rotund, bald-headed brother, Sigismund, who shuffled rather than danced. But although the future Lord Garsington was far from light-footed on the dance floor, when it came to fighting a duel with swords, he was very nimble and sure indeed.
"Oh, good Lord above!" Greville breathed, praying neither of them would glance in his direction.
"Is something wrong?" Megan asked quickly.
"Do you see the vision in magenta!"
"What of her?"
"It's Sybil Garsington, and that is her brother Sigismund with her."
Recalling what had been said at Donaldson's, Megan's head turned immediately. "I fear she has observed you, sir."
He groaned. "Well, at least she cannot descend upon me while the dance is in progress."
"Maybe, but she has the look of an excellent bloodhound," Megan said a little wickedly.
"You point out nothing I do not already know."
"And she is no doubt anticipating your attendance at the soiree musicale tomorrow night."
"You have no heart, Miss Mortimer," he replied dryly. The polonaise was drawing to a close, and he looked urgently at her. "I don't care what you do, Miss Mortimer, but I will be eternally grateful if you keep that woman away from me!"
The final chord was played, but as Megan rose from an elegant curtsy, she found herself without a partner, for Sir Greville Seton had made a very hasty and undignified exit from the floor. His parting entreaty was still in her ears as she turned toward the Garsington brother and sister; to her horror they were almost upon her! Fearing to be trampled, she began to move out of their way, but they stepped aside as well and there was a collision. Sybil lost her balance and went down with a furious piglet squeal that brought the ball to a startled halt.
What ensued was a noisy fracas such as only the Garsingtons could create. Sybil continued to squeal, and her lisping outrage was directed at Megan. "Oh, you beathtly cweature! You twipped me!"
"I-I didn't mean to do it, truly I didn't," Megan protested.
Sigismund Garsington hopped up and down and called for assistance as if he feared his sister had been mortally injured.
Megan tried to assist Sybil to her feet, but then the crowded floor parted like the Red Sea as Lord and Lady Garsington surged anxiously to their stricken offspring. For a second time Megan was obliged to step hastily aside, and this time she was successful, which was as well; otherwise she would have been elbowed out of the way.
At last Sybil was persuaded to get up, but even this she did with considerable volume. Lord Garsington patted her hand and kept asking her if she felt faint, which was exceedingly unlikely given the noise she was making, and Lady Garsington fussed with her crumpled gown and dislodged turban. Sigismund had retrieved her fan from the sanded floor; however, instead of trying to cool his sister, he employed it on himself! As Sybil was led to a sofa, they all four cast such accusing looks at Megan that she was left in no doubt they believed her to have acted with malice aforethought. When she glanced at the rest of the ball, she saw more such looks, mostly from those ladies whose jealousy had been apparent from the outset. She felt quite dreadful, and wished Sir Greville Seton in perdition for being the cause of her scrape.
To her relief the orchestra struck up Sir Roger de Coverley, and the ball got under way again. Sir Jocelyn had already come to her side, and now would not take a refusal for the reel. "Ignore the Garsingtons, m'dear, for they are a very silly family," he said, patting her hand as he led her toward a set where Rupert and Chloe had already taken their places.
The reel began, and as the sets whirled to the sound of much laughter, Oliver watched sourly from behind the sofa. He was consumed with jealousy to see Rupert and Chloe getting on well again. Rupert's unexpected return to Brighton had annoyed him greatly, for it did not take great intelligence to see that he was very much in love with Chloe and deeply regretted fumbling his chance with her; it was equally as obvious that Chloe was weakening toward him. That wouldn't do, it wouldn't do at all! Rupert had to be rendered hors de combat. It was annoying that the shove down the stage steps had not resulted in a broken leg or worse, but there was more than one way to skin the proverbial cat. Oliver smiled a little, for a fashionable ball was the perfect place to play a little trick upon Lord Rupert Radcliffe.
No sooner had he decided what to do than Evangeline unwittingly aided and abetted him. Seated on the sofa, she was already feeling the heat when suddenly she suffered from one of her flushes as well. "Oh, dear, oh, dear," she gasped. "Mr. March, will you be so good as to procure me another fruit cup? I vow I am hot enough to ignite."
"Certainly, Lady Evangeline," he replied smoothly, and embarked upon the errand almost eagerly, for it was the very excuse he needed. He relieved a startled footman of an almost full tray of apple cup, and spirited it away behind a particularly lavish arrangement of ferns. There he placed it on a small table, disposed of most of the glasses, then took a vial of clear liquid from his pocket. It contained some of the eastern tincture with which he and Ralph had enjoyed such fun with the waiter in London. He emptied it all into one of the remaining glasses, then gave another of his thin unpleasant smiles. "Your health, Radcliffe," he murmured.