Kasey Michaels - A Midsummer Night's Sin

All one saw of his face beneath mask and flowing hair was his wide, full mouth, his leanly sculpted chin and a pair of amused blue-green eyes.

The result was mesmerizing. He’d planned for mesmerizing.

And he hadn’t stopped with the mask.

He was dressed all in black, even to his waistcoat and the lace at his throat and cuffs. He wore a full, knee-length, black silk courtier’s cloak lined with shimmering gold and carried a long, ebony stick bearing black streamers and a gold serpent-head top. A ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg and ringed by diamonds nestled in the spill of black lace that was his cravat. He carried a shallow, wide-brimmed, black musketeer hat adorned with a fat, curled black feather.

Paris had exclaimed over him when he’d first donned the costume; the lovely Lady de Balbec most of all, he recalled with a smile. She’d pleaded with him to leave the mask on, even as she eagerly peeled away his clothing and pulled him down on top of her, coyly begging the “masked stranger” not to ravish her. Women had the strangest notions at times, but that’s what made them all so delightful.

Tonight, as in Paris, in a ballroom filled with uninspired dominos and devils, kings and harlequins, milkmaids and fools, he was as startlingly different as night from day. He knew he’d draw attention. Why else had he bothered to come?

As he saw the Baron Henry Sutton (black domino, black mask—how very uninspired) and Mr. Richard Carstairs (court fool, down to the bells on his hat and shoes), Puck swept one side of his cape back and over his shoulder, exposing the shimmering gold silk, flourished his hat and made them both an elegant leg.

“Gentlemen, my honor,” he said smoothly.

“Yes, yes, the bastard’s honor,” the baron groused. “What in blazes do you call that rigout?”

“Sin, gentlemen,” Puck drawled smoothly, making a small business out of adjusting the black lace at his cuffs. “I call it Sin.”

Dickie Carstairs lifted up his mask and scratched at the side of his nose. “He has a point there, Henry. Doesn’t exactly look like a day in May, does he? Can we go now? These bloody bells are giving me a headache. Or do we have to introduce him to anyone?”

“Unfortunately, that is the purpose of the exercise,” the baron said, casting his gaze out across the large ballroom.

Puck did the same. It was a rented room, as even Lady Fortesque wouldn’t dream of hosting such an affair in her Portland Square mansion. She’d been quite clever in the way she’d employed screens and tall, obscuring plants to cut the boxy dimensions of the place while at the same time providing privacy and secluded couches for those who wished a romantic dalliance.

Servants wearing satyr masks circulated with trays bearing gold-painted glasses filled with heady mead, and they were hard-pressed to keep the trays full, as whatever courage hadn’t been obtained by concealing one’s face behind a mask could be found in a glass or two of the potent, honeyed brew.

He saw a tall man dressed all in furs paying court to a bewigged and patched Marie Antoinette. There was a scattering of other costumes, but for the most part, the guests had covered themselves only with dominos and plain-to-clever masks.

After all, concealment was the order of the evening.

“All right, over there,” the baron said after a moment. “Let’s begin with the good king Henry Tudor, shall we? He’s actually Viscount Bradley, and no, he didn’t have to stuff his doublet with straw, although there may be some sawdust in his stockings, to give him a leg. He’s horse mad, if that helps.”

“It does. I shall apply to him for advice about setting up my stables. And who is that with him?”

“That’s Will Browning,” Dickie Carstairs informed him quietly. “Wildly popular. If he were to accept you, you’d at least be able to count the Corinthians as your acquaintance. But he won’t. No title but still too high in the instep for you.”

“He’s forever jumping a fence or shooting pips out of playing cards or milling down a man at Jackson’s, but he prides himself most on his fencing,” the baron added.

Puck ran his gaze up and down the tall, rather athletic-looking figure. “Does he now?” he said, smiling. “Then I shall have to challenge him to a friendly competition, won’t I?”

The baron shrugged. “Why don’t you just do that. Once you’re stuck in bed recovering from the pinking he gives you, Dickie and I won’t have to be bothered introducing you to anyone else. Come along, let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Over the course of the succeeding twenty minutes, Puck was introduced to no less than ten gentlemen of the ton . He was utterly snubbed by two, shook hands with three, three more had served with Beau on the peninsula and expressed delight in greeting the man’s brother. He had arranged a meeting on Sale Day at Tattersalls with Viscount Bradley, who had attended Eton with his father, and a fencing match with Mr. Browning, who had taken Puck’s measure, just as Puck had taken his, and declared that he looked forward to cutting such a brash upstart down to size.

Puck had, of course, failed to mention that he had studied with the famed Motet at the Académie d’Armes de Paris . Some things should be a surprise.

Now Puck was bored.

“You two fine gentlemen know no women?” he asked as Dickie Carstairs snagged another golden cup of mead from a passing satyr. “I do not ask that you introduce my unacceptable self to your sisters or your wives, who would not be in attendance tonight in any case, but are there no females present who might find it within their sympathy to invite me to their next small party?”

“Lady Fortesque,” Dickie offered. “But you probably already met her as you came in. Harriette Wilson and her sisters and a few other courtesans are probably somewhere about and a clutch of canaries from Covent Garden and some low-born actresses, as well. If you’re looking for a tumble, nothing beats an actress, I say. The good ones even make you believe they like it. What?” He rubbed at his side, where the baron’s elbow had just jabbed him.

“Jack’s mother is an actress,” Henry Sutton said quietly and then bowed to Puck. “My apologies, Mr. Blackthorn. My friend appears to have left his brains at home this evening. However, to answer your question, no, as far as I can see, Lady Fortesque confined her invitations to the gentlemen and then populated the room with … amenable barques of frailty, if you understand my meaning.”

Puck allowed himself to be forgiving. “There are considerably more men in attendance, I did note that, yes.”

“And now there will be two less, although I am sure the number of females will swell once, as Mr. Carstairs so rudely pointed out, the theaters close down for the night. I can already see where this evening will go and do not wish to be any part of such public debauchery,” the baron said, bowing once more. “Enjoy your first taste of London Society at its most base, Mr. Blackthorn.”

Puck returned the bow, offered his thanks and watched as the two men took their leave, Dickie’s arms gesturing wildly as he most probably asked the baron what he’d said that was so upsetting. Dickie Carstairs, Puck had decided, most probably drove the wagon and dug the holes after Jack and the baron had dispatched the targets; he seemed qualified for little else.

He should probably go, as well, as the idea of enjoying himself in this overheated, painfully obvious setting for anonymous yet public liaisons did not appeal. He’d never been at a loss for female companionship when he’d wished it, and the very last thing he wished would be to bed an actress. He’d seen where that sort of folly could lead.