Never before had Baron Vengrave been forced to put so much time and effort into the acquisition of a new model. Before, his models had been chosen and taken in the course of a single day. It had been two weeks since the little Paddy led him to the perfect portrait, but Vengrave was content to wait, certain that his patience would be amply rewarded.

He had not been idle during those two weeks. Rather, he used the time to gather the necessary information about his Avenging Angel. Vengrave paid well for useful knowledge, and soon he knew all he needed to about his model. The fact that his Avenging Angel was also the new Viscount Rayner did not deter Vengrave, for the Viscount was also an American and therefore not actually a noble. What's more, he made his home with the utterly ridiculous Earl and Countess of Ravenwood. What right did a pair of feckless fools have to an Angel in their midst? Far better for the young Viscount to be truly immortalized by the Baron's talent.

To that end, Vengrave soon decided that the MacArran Masque would be the perfect place to spirit his model away without the slightest notice. He dispatched his man of affairs to secure him an invitation to the Masque. It was no easy feat, considering how strict the Duke was with his guest list, but Mr. Damon Wodash had been hired for his efficiency, not his scruples. The invitation Vengrave would present at the door was meant for Sir John Timmons. While Vengrave attended the Masque, Sir John would be left wondering what he had done to offend the Duke of MacArran.

Vengrave's mouth twisted into a parody of a smile as he surveyed his costume. He picked up the thin porcelain mask he had shaped to fit him exactly and completely cover his face. In the other hand he held a paintbrush, and with deft strokes, he began to transform the mask into a work of art. The doctors in Bedlam who had called him insane were fools. Anyone suffering from an unhinged mind would certainly not have his sense of rightness. No one else would be able to appreciate how fitting his choice of facade was, except perhaps the Avenging Angel himself. After all, who was more suited to snaring an Angel than Death?

Diana studied her reflection as Hortense concentrated on setting two black velvet triangles into her tightly pulled-back hair without disturbing the numerous glass jewels woven into the coiffure. Once the little ears were set, Diana held the wide, jewelled collar in place while Hortense fastened it at the back. "Regardez-vous, mademoiselle."

Diana stood up and turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror Hortense brought forward. She couldn't help smiling at what she saw--the costume was almost exactly as she'd envisioned it. Although there had been some alterations in the name of English modesty, her gown was still unmistakably Egyptian. The stiff linen skirt that fell to her ankles had been embroidered with thousands of tiny pieces of coloured glass and caught the light with the slightest movement.

A long-sleeved chemise of black satin had been made to fit her like a second skin and gave the impression--Diana hoped--that her arms and shoulders were made from obsidian. Two wide panels of glass beads had been strategically embroidered into the silk. Golden bracelets were laddered up her arms and golden sandals adorned her feet. As she picked up the exquisitely made black mask and held it before her face, her smile widened.

"Vous étés trés belle."

"Merci, Hortense." Diana set the mask back down until she was ready to leave.

"Qui est-ce que cette bête noire?"

"Bast," Diana replied, even though she knew the name meant little to her maid.

Hortense merely shrugged. "C'est tout, mademoiselle?"

"Oui, c'est tout. Allez-vous."

Hortense made a quick curtsey and left to make sure her mistress' specially made cloak was ready.

Diana smoothed her slim-fitting dress and reflected that perhaps Lady Wylde hadn't been unreasonable in her concern about Diana's choice of costume. Although there would certainly be other Egyptian-themed costumes at the Masque, Diana doubted there would be any quite like hers. The only mythological creature of Egypt that the ton seem to be concerned with was the Sphinx. Indeed, Lady Wylde had not known who Bast was until Diana told her.

Originally, Lady Wylde suggested that Diana go as a Sphinx or even Queen Cleopatra, but Diana had remained firm. There would be many sphinxes and Cleopatras in stiff white linen, but she would be the only cat-goddess and her brightly spangled costume would make her all the more noticeable.

"Are you sure I don't look like a complete fool?"

"Not a'tall, my boy, not a'tall."

Hank gave himself one last dubious look in the mirror before sitting down in the chair across from Ravenwood. "I feel ridiculous."

"Fustian, lad. My lady knows what she's about."

"I'm sure she does, but...do you know what would happen if I wore something like this back home?"

"To be sure, that costume is hardly fit for farming," Ravenwood conceded.

"Farming would be the least of my worries. I'd be laughed out of town. As it is, I'm almost afraid to move." Hank looked down at his snowy tunic. Only silver embroidery and decoration alleviated the pristine white of his costume from his collar to his boots.

When Lady Ravenwood told him about the MacArran Masque, Hank had decided to wear a costume similar to one he had worn to a masquerade party in New Hampshire. Lady Ravenwood quickly vetoed his idea, however, saying that a minuteman's uniform would hardly be appreciated in London.

Embarrassed, Hank had seen the wisdom in her words and requested her help in fashioning a costume, much to her delight. The result was Sir Galahad--dressed from head to toe in white and silver. Hank had been reluctant to wear it at first, positive that it was horrendously overdone, but he knew Lady Ravenwood would be very disappointed if he did not wear it.

He felt a bit more comfortable when he went downstairs to the drawing room and saw Lord Ravenwood in a suit made of gold satin. The Earl and Countess were attending the Masque as the Sun and Moon, and accordingly, Ravenwood's coat was fairly encrusted with sunburst patterns in gold thread.

"My absurd and adorable wife knows how to turn heads at these affairs, Henry. Always has and, I daresay, always will."

"High praise indeed," chuckled a voice from the doorway.

Both men stood as Lady Ravenwood entered the drawing room. Her gown of silver satin and icy blue tulle gave her the appearance of gliding. Diamonds glittered at her throat and in her hair and in one had she carried a round silver mask shaped with the face of the moon.

"You look beautiful, Lady Ravenwood," Hank said simply.

"Thank you, dear boy," Lady Ravenwood favoured him with a brilliant smile.

"You're sure t'shine everyone down, m'dear," Ravenwood added as he handed her a glass of claret.

"Everyone except our young Viscount, my lord," Lady Ravenwood corrected. "I vow, we'll be hard-pressed to keep the ladies away from such a dashing Sir Galahad." Her smile widened as Hank's face flushed. "Here now, that will never do, Henry. I'll wager no Knight of the Round Table ever coloured up just because a lady paid him a compliment."

"But no Knight of the Round Table ever received a compliment from you, Lady Ravenwood."

"Well met!" Lady Ravenwood laughed. "Well met indeed, dear boy. You learn quickly." She set down her half-empty glass. "You'll be in fine form tonight."

"I hope so."

"Oh?" Lady Ravenwood arched an elegant eyebrow. "And would this hope have anything to do with a certain lady?"

Hank blinked in surprise. Although he hadn't seen Sheila O'Brien since the escapade in Covent Garden, she was often in his thoughts. Apparently Lady Ravenwood had noticed.

"A most unusual lady," Lady Ravenwood continued. "But very beautiful and charming."

Hank was about to agree most heartily, when it struck him that she was speaking as though she knew this particular lady. "I'm not sure I--"

"I'll wager you'll have a fair bit of competition, though," Lord Ravenwood added. "Not in the least from your new friend, the Marquis."

Hank had to stifle a smile at the thought of Eric paying the least attention to Miss O'Brien, but Ravenwood's words left little doubt who the lady in question was. That made it much easier to agree with Lady Ravenwood without having to pretend sincerity.

"Rather strong-willed chit, I must say," Lord Ravenwood continued as the footmen brought in the specially-made cloaks. "Seen her set down a few of those rakes that are always dangling after her."

Hank couldn't help grinning at the memory of the strong-willed Lady Silverbridge convincing Eric to tour the strews. "Lady Silverbridge knows her own mind and that's a fact." As the footman draped his white velvet cloak--or domino, as Lady Ravenwood called it--around his shoulders, Hank's thoughts turned from Lady Silverbridge to the fact that wearing a fur-trimmed cloak in June was utterly ridiculous. What's more, the price of the extravagant cloak he would only be wearing for an hour at the most likely have kept his aunt and uncle in coal and food for an entire winter.

Not for the first time, Hank had to remind himself that he was now living in a completely different place than New Hampshire and that it was impossible to compare the two.

"Henry?" Lady Ravenwood's voice broke into his thoughts.

He saw a footman hold the front door open and the Earl and Countess waiting for him in the doorway.

"Come along, m'boy," Ravenwood prompted. "We dare not keep the beautiful, wicked Luna waiting, for she is anxious to show you off."

Hank laughed as he followed them out to the coach. Lord and Lady Ravenwood were good-hearted people who had been very kind to him, so it hardly seemed to matter that Lady Ravenwood would have no idea what a butter dash was for or that Lord Ravenwood wouldn't know a cutter-bar if it was right under his nose.

Sheila finished pinning the white muslin cap on her red curls and then smoothed her long skirt before tying on a new, well-starched white apron. It was the first new dress she'd had in some time and the fact that it was of black bombazine was not nearly as important at the knowledge that it hadn't cost her a farthing. One of the reasons a position at Kelthorne Hall was so sought after was that His Grace saw to it that every servant--from the butler to the lowest scullery maid--received a new evening livery every year. Every other employer Sheila had heard of required servant to pay for their own clothing.

She had little time to admire the new uniform, however, and she hurried downstairs to find her brother and Preston. She eventually found them in the kitchen enjoying muffins and treacle in a corner. "Faith, did ye not get any supper?"

Bobby shook his head, his mouth to full to answer.

Preston replied instead. "Mr. Houghton asked us to run some extra errands once he found out I could read. He said we'd likely miss supper, but we did them all anyway."

"When we got Mr. 'oughton sent us down 'ere t'have suppa," Bobby eagerly took the thick slice of bread topped with cheese and a rasher of ham that the cook handed him. "And faith, y'can't tell me this ain't better than sittin' down t'a table and havin' t'mind me manners."

The cook chuckled as she handed Preston a similarly laden slice of bread. "They're to report to Charles for their duties when they're done 'ere. I'll send them along."

Sheila nodded, barely catching herself before she gave Bobby a kiss. She turned to go back upstairs, but the cook followed her and caught her arm before she could mount the first step.

"Don't fret yourself, dearie," she said as she wiped her hands on her apron. "I heard Mr. 'oughton telling Charles that the lads were 'ard-workin' and that he would mention to His Grace about 'irin' on the both of them."

Sheila grasped the cook's hand gratefully. "Thanks t'ye, Mrs. Murray. 'Tis a great relief t'hear."

"Go along with you, then," Mrs. Murray nudged her towards the stairs. "But if you know a likely gel, remember that I still need a new kitchenmaid."

"I will that," Sheila promised, then flew up the stairs before she was missed.

Eric was forced to bite back several unflattering remarks when he first realized it was Hank in the dazzling Sir Galahad costume. What the devil is that colonial about, trying to shine down his hosts? he thought when he saw the Viscount in his white splendour bowing over the hand of Bast.

Eric was dressed as an Elizabethan courtier and knew he was certain to outshine every other youngblood in his breastplate of golden armour. He felt a sting of betrayal that Hank would eclipse him so blatantly and successfully until he recalled Hank say at Lady St. John's last ball that he'd left his costume entirely in the hands of Lady Ravenwood. With that in mind, Eric was able to speak to Hank in the same manner as he usually did.

Diana thought they made a splendid pair and told them so as she linked arms with both of them, laughing about her wealth. They made a striking trio as they strolled through the crowd, stopping occasionally so Eric could greet certain guests.

Although anonymity was supposed to be the hallmark of a masked ball, very few in the haute ton wanted to remain anonymous--especially those who had spent enormous sums of money on their costumes. There would be a few who would remain unknown for the entire evening, but most people let their identities be known by the end of the first few dances.

Eric was debating with Hank and Diana which of the Pinks would be the first unmasked when they were approached by a regal Highlander. Diana immediately dropped a curtsey. "Your Grace."

"Lady Bast," MacArran nodded, making Diana smile. As the host, the Duke was the only person not wearing a mask. "Sir Galahad."

"Your Grace," Hank smiled, returning the older man's nod.

"The first dance is about to begin," MacArran gave Eric a stern look.

Eric ground his teeth. "Pray tell Lady Cholmondeley I will be along in a moment."

"Come along now," MacArran suggested, although everyone who heard it knew it was an order.

"Yes, sir." With a bow to Diana, Eric followed his grandfather through the crowd.

"I thought he would have secured you for the first dance," Hank commented.

Diana smiled at Hank's puzzled tone and the compliment it implied. "You don't bother yourself with Society's rules, do you, my lord?"

Hank shrugged, "I tried to understand them all when I first arrived, but soon gave it up as a hopeless task."

Diana laughed, "Then you aren't aware that at a ball it is customary for the host or hostess to open the quadrille with the guest of the highest rank. I believe that would be the Duchess of Warwick and her daughter, Lady Cholmondeley."

"Poor Eric," Hank shook his head, recalling Lady Cholmondeley as a haughty, pinched-faced young woman concerned with little besides the latest on dit. "I suppose his loss is my gain. Will you take this turn with me, Lady Bast?"

"I should be delighted, Sir Galahad."

Sheila couldn't remember the last time she had rushed about so frantically and she was certain her feet would be aching for days afterward, but she was enjoying the Masque enormously. She hurried back and forth, carrying empty trays from the ballroom and returning from the kitchen with replenished trays of canapes, pastries and sweetmeats. Each trip into the ballroom brought glimpse of the glittering costumes and Sheila found herself arranging the pastries extra carefully so that she could watch everything for longer stretches.

She was so intent of catching sight of the waltz in the ballroom that she forgot to fade into invisibility when a couple approached the table. She was placing a pastry when she felt it slipping from her fingers and had to tighten her grip. Much to her surprise, the pastry was still trying to escape. She glanced at it and was horrified to see black-gloved fingers holding the same pastry.

She released it immediately, mortified at the thought of playing tug-of-war with one of His Grace's guests. Risking a glance upwards, she was relieved to see that the brown eyes behind the cat half-mask were amused rather than angry. When she saw the Marquis approaching, she gave a quick curtsey by way of apology and blended into the background, praying that the lady would be kind enough not to mention her terrible mistake to his lordship.

When she realized that the housemaid was the girl Viscount Rayner had met in Covent Garden, she didn't know whether to be shocked or burst out laughing. She also recalled the Marquis teasing his friend about "Irish lassies" since that night and could only assume that Rayner that developed a tendre for the young woman.

Diana wondered whether Hank knew that the girl was employed by the Duke of MacArran. Eric was obviously unaware of the fact, or he would have ceased to view the Viscount's interest as a good joke.

As for Diana, she found the situation highly romantic and by far the most interesting thing to happen since her arrival in London. It reminded her of the novels she was fond of and she couldn't help but wonder whether Sir Galahad and the servant were aware of one another's presence. Smiling, she accepted the glass of champagne Eric held out to her, all the while planning a way for the American lord and the Irish maid to meet.

He left the card room after a few minutes and headed in the opposite direction of the ballroom. Surely in a house as big as Kelthorne Hall, there would be somewhere that he could snatch a few moments of solitude. He wondered if he'd ever become accustomed to the crowds at Society's balls. The Masque was even more of a crush than others and the gawdy, sparkling costumes all seemed to blend into a swirl of colour and noise that made his head ache.

Lady Ravenwood had been correct about the attention Hank would receive, which was another reason for his escape. Although he enjoyed the dancing and the teasing compliments of the young ladies, the prying questions of their mammas were discomfiting.

Hank found a staircase that led down to the kitchens and was prepared to descend--knowing no one at the ball would ever dream of entering a kitchen--when he saw a door right of the staircase standing ajar. A quick look inside revealed it to be a storage room for dry foodstuffs. It was cool, dim and quiet, and best of all, no one would look for him inside. Any servant that found him would let him alone, seeing as he was dressed as a guest and fairly well-known at Kelthorne. Likely they would think he was out of his wits, but Hank decided he didn't care about that. He took off his silver helmet, sat down on a barrel and snagged a handful of oyster crackers from an open tin, resolving to stay until his head had cleared of noise and lights.

It was well past midnight and Hank, still used to country hours, was tempted to lean back and take a short nap. He grinned at the thought of being discovered snoozing on top of a flour barrel dressed in white satin and silver. Lady Silverbridge might think it a fine joke, but Eric would be appalled. Hank tried to picture the Marquis' reaction and had to choke back a laugh.

He stopped with a cracker halfway to his mouth when he heard footsteps approaching his hideaway. He sat up straighter and resigned himself to this bit of embarrassment.

A young boy entered the room and gave a start of surprise when he saw it was occupied. "Bedad! Y'scared th'very divil from me, m'lord."

Hank grinned. He immediately would have recognized that voice if he hadn't recognized the freckled face. "Sorry, Bobby," he replied, as though their meeting were perfectly natural.

Bobby blinked and raised his eyes. "Hank?! Blessed St. Patrick, what're ye doin' here?"

"Hiding," Hank laughed.

Bobby's eyes widened as he took in Hank's clothing. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, d'ye mean t'say yer a guest of his Dukeship?"

"That's right. What about--"

"Bedad, yer one of the Fancy, Hank?"

"The Fancy?" Hank raised his eyebrows.

"Th'lords and ladies what canna be bother t'take notice of anyone wi'out Earl or Duke behind his name."

"I'm a Viscount, if that's what you mean."

"Blessed St. Patrick, Hank--me lord--I can't be talkin' t'ye. What th'divil are y'doin' in a pantry? Divil take ye, Hank...I mean, me lord...why did ye not say y'were a bleedin' Viscount? Bloody hell, I thought y'were an American."

"I am American."

"Faith, then how can y'be a Viscount?"

"I inherited the title from a distant relative." Hank frowned, "What difference does it make?"

"Faith, if I'm seen talkin' t'ye, I'll be losin' me chance fer a position here. Aye, and Sheila could surely lose hers too."

"Sheila?" Hank smiled involuntarily. "She works here, too?"

"Aye. 'Twas herself that got Preston and meself the positions tonight."

"Bobby, could you get a message to her for me?"

"Not fer a fortune!" Bobby scowled. "She'd be packed out as sure as yer born for consorting with one of the Fancy."

"Bobby, I'm not one of the Fancy." Hank tried to calm the indignant boy. "I've only been a Viscount for a little over a month and I'm not very good at it. For most of my life I've lived on a farm in New Hampshire."

Bobby's dark expression faded. "Me family lived on a farm in Ireland, but I was just a wee lad then."

"Just a wee lad, were you?" Hank grinned.

Bobby cocked his head and regarded Hank carefully. "Truly, ye'll no have Sheila dismissed?"

"I promise, Bobby."

"It'll no be a simple task t'get a message t'her."

"But you'll try?"

"Aye," Bobby nodded. "What do I tell her?"

"Ask her if there's any way we could meet face to face."

"Cor, don't ask fer much, do ye?" Bobby picked up the kegs he'd been sent for. "I'll try t'get word t'her, me lord."

"Hank," Hank corrected.

Apparently reassured by that, Bobby nodded again. "Aye, Hank, I'll tell her."

When Bobby was gone, Hank let out a happy sigh and put his helmet back on. Maybe this ball would turn out to be more interesting that he'd expected.

On to Part VI
Back to Bard's Cavern