‘So that’s it,’ I say. ‘The Hardcastles are hard up and they’re pawning their daughter off like old jewellery.’
My thoughts flock back to this morning’s chess game, the smile on Evelyn’s face as I winced out of the Sun Room. Ravencourt isn’t buying a bride, he’s buying a bottomless well of spite. I wonder if the old fool understands what he’s getting into.
‘And what of Sebastian Bell?’ I say, remembering the task I set him. ‘Did you speak with him?’
‘Afraid not, the poor fellow was passed out on the floor of his room when I arrived,’ he says, genuine pity in his voice. ‘I saw the dead rabbit; seems your footman has a twisted sense of humour. I called for the doctor and left them to it. Your experiment will have to wait another day.’
My disappointment is drowned out by the music beating at the ballroom’s closed doors, the sound tumbling into the hall when a servant sweeps them open for us. There must be at least fifty people inside, whirling through a soft puddle of light cast by a chandelier wreathed in candles. An orchestra is playing with bravado on a stage pressed against the far wall, but the majority of the room has been given over to the dance floor where Harlequins in full livery court Egyptian queens and grinning devils. Jesters leap and mock, dislodging powdered wigs and gold masks held up on long sticks. Dresses, capes and cowls swoop and swish across the floor, the crush of bodies disorientating. The only space to be found surrounds Michael Hardcastle in his dazzling sun mask, its pointed rays extending such a distance from his face that it’s unsafe to venture anywhere near him.
We’re viewing all this from a mezzanine, a small staircase leading down to the dance floor. My fingers are rapping the banister, keeping time with the music. Some part of me, the part that’s still Ravencourt, knows this song and is enjoying it. He yearns to pick up an instrument and play.
‘Ravencourt’s a musician?’ I ask Cunningham.
‘In his youth,’ he says. ‘Talented violinist, by all accounts. Broke his arm riding, and could never play as well again. He still misses it, I think.’
‘He does,’ I say, surprised by the depth of his longing.
Putting it aside, I return my attention to the matter at hand, but I have no idea how we’re going to spot Sutcliffe among the crowd.
Or the footman.
My heart sinks. I hadn’t considered that. Amid the noise and the crush of bodies, a blade could do its work and vanish without anybody ever being the wiser.
Such thoughts would have caused Bell to flee back to his room, but Ravencourt is made of sterner stuff. If this is where the attempt will be made on Evelyn’s life, this is where I must be, come what may, and so with Charles supporting my arm, we descend the stairs, keeping to the shadowy edges of the ballroom.
Clowns slap me on the back and women swirl in front of me, butterfly masks in hand. I ignore much of it, pushing my way to the couches near the French doors, where I can better rest my weary legs.
Until now, I’d only witnessed my fellow guests in their handfuls, their spite spread thin across the house. To be ensnared among them all, as I am now, is something else entirely, and the further I descend into the uproar, the thicker their malice seems to become. Most of the men look to have spent the afternoon soaking in their cups and are staggering instead of dancing, snarling and staring, their conduct savage. Young women throw their heads back and laugh, their make-up running and hair coming loose as they’re passed from body to body, goading a small group of wives who’ve grouped together for safety, wary of these panting, wild-eyed creatures.
Nothing like a mask to reveal somebody’s true nature.
Beside me Charles has grown increasingly tense, his fingers digging deeper into my forearm with every step. All of this is wrong. The celebration is too desperate. This is the last party before Gomorrah fell.
We reach a couch, Charles lowering me onto the cushions. Waitresses are moving through the crowd with trays of drinks, but it’s proving impossible to signal them from our position on the fringe of the party. It’s too loud to talk, but he points towards the champagne table guests are stumbling away from arm in arm. I nod, dabbing the sweat from my forehead. Perhaps a drink will serve to settle my nerves. As he leaves to fetch a bottle, I feel a breeze on my skin and notice that somebody has opened the French doors, presumably to let a little air circulate. It’s pitch-black outside, but braziers have been lit, the flickering flames winding all the way up to a reflecting pool surrounded by trees.
The darkness swirls, taking shape, solidifying as it sweeps inside, candlelight dripping onto a pale face.
Not a face, a mask.
A white porcelain beak mask.
I look around for Charles, hoping he’s near enough to lay hands on the fellow, but the crowd has carried him away. Looking back towards the French doors, I see the Plague Doctor slipping through the revellers shoulder first.
Gripping my cane, I heave myself to my feet. Wrecks have been raised from the ocean bed with less effort, but I hobble towards the cascade of costumes shrouding my quarry. I follow glimpses – the glint of a mask, the swirl of a cloak – but he’s fog in a forest, impossible to snatch hold of.
I lose him somewhere in the far corner.
Turning on the spot, I try to catch sight of him, but somebody comes clattering into me. I bellow in fury, finding myself looking into a pair of brown eyes peering out from behind a porcelain beak mask. My heart leaps and so do I evidently, for the mask is swiftly removed to reveal the pinched boyish face behind.
‘Gosh, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t—’