London, June, 1812
A thousand lamps blazed in the elms. Colonnades, fountains, cascades and porticos, while throngs of people of all sorts made up this night of masquerade in Vauxhall Gardens.
Amid this wonder, Margaret Leighâs heart raced. She was here to meet a gentleman, a man who would pay for her company.
âAre you certain you wish to do this, Maggie?â Her cousinâs brow furrowed. âIt is not at all proper.â
She slanted him an amused look. âYou are one to speak of propriety.â
Henry had long been the scourge of the family. A schoolmasterâs son and a vicarâs nephew, Henry ran off to join a theater company when heâd barely begun to shave. Now, there was little family left to condemn him, only Margaret and her younger brother.
Henry nodded and waved a hand. âTo the devil with propriety, anyway. Life is too short not to seek enjoyment where we can.â
Margaret released a nervous breath. âWell, I cannot afford either enjoyment or propriety at the moment.â
Henry pursed his lips in sympathy. Wearing horns on his head and tight-fitting green trousers and coat, his expression looked nothing more than comical.
Margaret stifled a laugh.
Henry was dressed as Puck in a costume from Covent Garden Theatre where he performed small parts. For Margaret, he had borrowed a fairy costumeâa gown of palest blush, its skirts fashioned from so many layers of silk net that she seemed to float as she walked. It was quite the most beautiful gown sheâd ever worn.
âHere we are.â Henry stopped at the supper boxes along the South Walk.
Margaret, an impoverished vicarâs daughter, and her cousin Henry, an actor of no renown, were to be guests of the Duke of Manning. For the festivities, the duke had engaged several boxes joined together, decorated with flowers and swags of colorful silks. Already, the boxes seemed filled with people. Most of the gentlemen wore black dominoes, but the women wore a variety of costumes, from rustic milkmaids frocks to elaborate Egyptian princessesâ gowns. The gentleman had arranged his rendezvous with Margaret to take place among the friends of the duke.
Margaret gave Henry a rueful smile. âIf our parents could see us now.â
Her cousin laughed. âI envision them collectively rolling over in their graves. I can almost hear your father.â He made a dramatic gesture as if preaching from a pulpit. ââ¦I have written unto you not to keep company, if any man that is called a brother be a fornicatorâ¦â
Tears pricked at Margaretâs eyes. âYou sound just like him.â
Henry sobered. âMy talent for mimicry.â
Margaretâs father had passed away of a sudden apoplexy not two months earlier and grief still overcame her at unforeseen moments. Heâd been the last of that generation. They were orphans now, Margaret thought.
Henryâs sympathetic look returned, but he quickly smiled and punched her on the arm. âI daresay your father would consider the Duke of Manning improper company for you.â
âAnd his friend.â The gentleman she was to meet.
The notorious Duke of Manning had run off with the Earl of Linwallâs wife, set up housekeeping with her, and sired several children by herâthe Fitzmanning Miscellany, the society gossips called them. In the supper box, the duke and his lady were easy to recognize, greeting their guests, both dressed in white wigs and colorful brocades that were fashionable decades ago.
Margaret turned back to Henry. âFor a man and woman living in sin, they look very happy.â
âThey do indeed.â Henry clasped her arm and stepped forward. âThe rewards of impropriety.â
They showed their invitation to the footman positioned at the entry to the boxes. As he admitted them, Margaret scanned the gentlemen in black dominoes. His would be lined in red, heâd written to her.