Free Highwayman: Ironside by Michael Arnold Page B

hall. People still mingled, chattered, ate, drank, danced and brayed to the high ceiling. A few heads turned to appraise them, eyes glinting with intrigue. He noticed one woman, resplendent in green and silver, took particular interest, her almost black eyes bright within a mask that had been styled to resemble the face of a cat. She held his gaze for a second, the eyes at once unreadable and intense, and it took all his willpower to tear himself away.
    "Might I ask, Sir John," he said as he moved in the wake of Hippisley's imposing frame, "if Sir Frederick Mason is here? I have been meaning to speak with him for some time upon a certain matter."
    Hippisley paused, turned, drew breath to speak.
    "Sir John!" a man exclaimed with startling breathlessness, bursting from the crowd. He was a servant, wearing the ubiquitous kingfisher livery of the house, and his face, uncovered, was flushed and glistening with sweat.
    Hippisley swung the long beak on him. "What is it? Well, spit it out, man!"
    The servant stared at the floor. "We are running low on the good claret, sir."
    For a moment it looked as though Hippisley might explode in rage, but his broad chest suddenly deflated as he sighed in exasperation. "Must I deal with everything myself?" He turned to Lyle. "Forgive me, Sir Ardell. I will return forthwith."
    Lyle nodded rapidly, thanking God for His timely intervention. He might have been denied Hippisley's answer, but at least he would avoid the inquisitive gazes. He watched Hippisley stalk away, now alone in a sea of people, the thrum of the dance like waves lapping all around.
    Lyle took the opportunity to flee, making for the antechamber from whence they had come. He needed to clear his head, walking straight to the ugly exterior door that he had guessed would open out into the gardens. It was not locked, the bolt sliding back with a deep rattle, and he stepped quickly into the night air.
    The area immediately surrounding the house had been landscaped and planted with various kinds of shrubs and bushes. There were several rows of what he guessed to be fruit trees running through the lawns, their branches naked under the moonlight, and a maze of ivy and honeysuckle sprawled over a complex of trellised fences. Beyond that was the high, moss-clothed wall, keeping the garden separate from the rest of the large estate, and Lyle instinctively walked towards it, wanting to be as far from the heady masquerade as possible.
    The sounds of the ball faded as he strode into the night. The air was crisp and fresh, chilling his nostrils and throat, making him feel as if he could finally breathe freely. He paced steadily through a miniature orchard of wizened apple trees, the ground slick beneath his boots, until he came to the ivy-woven trellis, moving to the far side so that he could not be observed from the house. There he paused, tilted back his head at the night sky, wondered how best to abort this evening's reckless task now that it had been shown to be borne purely of hubris. The stars winked, mocking him. He removed his mask, worked his jaw to free it of the stifling feeling the disguise had engendered, and blew a warm gust of air through his nostrils. He knew he needed to find Grumm before he could do anything, so, with another steadying breath, he turned.
    "I'm surprised you found the time to attend this evening, sir, given your busy schedule," Felicity Mumford said. "Robbing honest folk, and such.” She sniffed daintily. “Still, at least you appear to have bathed for this engagement."
    "Madam, I..." Lyle spluttered, replacing the mask despite the terrible knowledge that it was all too late.
    She grinned. "Fear not, Major Lyle. I had rather hoped I would meet you again. Though I confess I am surprised it is so soon".
    "Thank you," Lyle said, lowering the pointless disguise. He stared at her. In her hand was her own mask. It was green and silver, like her dress, the eye holes turned up at the corners in a distinctly feline