A Stroke of Malice (Lady Darby Mystery #8) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,4

forward with two baskets. One was given to Lord Edward and the other to Lady Malvina.

“Now we shall begin the drawing for our characters in his lordship’s court. Lord Edward shall be distributing the lady’s parts, while Lady Malvina will pass out the men’s.”

I could see now that the baskets contained tiny rolls of parchment, each secured by a green or purple ribbon.

“Once you have received your role, you will have until six o’clock to assemble your costume and props from any items you have brought with you, as well as the trunks filled with items in the mural room, adjacent to the ballroom upstairs.” She raised one hand. “However, I must insist that no one remove any of the ancient weaponry from the guardroom.” Her gaze slid toward where a cluster of younger men stood near the ormolu sideboard. “We do not want a repeat of last year’s mock joust, when a guest nearly lost his eye.”

My eyes widened in surprise, but I didn’t need to ask how that had come about. Drunken young men pretending to be knights, and sharp swords and lances, did not mix well together.

The duchess then nodded to Lady Malvina and her son, but before the girl could take a step forward, Lord Edward gently restrained her with a touch to her arm.

“Before we begin, I would like to issue my first edict,” he proclaimed. “All of the gentlemen present, whatever their role, shall at the pleasure of their laird, don kilts.” He made a leg, displaying his own expertly wrapped cloth in the red, green, and black tartan of the Kerrs.

Several of the men grumbled, but most of the gathering murmured approval, clapping in delight. I glanced at my husband, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a small smile playing over his lips. It had been a year since I’d seen him draped in a kilt, and I couldn’t deny that the idea of seeing him attired as such caused a pleasant fluttering in my abdomen.

“So be it,” the duchess declared with a laugh before gesturing to the butler, who I presumed was dispatching servants in search of enough tartan to bedeck every man in attendance. Then she selected a parchment from her son’s basket, and sent him and Lady Malvina off to distribute the slips of paper. Whatever role she read on the small scroll must have pleased her, for her lips curled upward in almost fiendish satisfaction.

Lady Malvina was the first to pass around our side of the room, so Alana and I watched as the men chose their roles from her basket. Trevor attempted to compliment her, but the poor girl was so bashful, she could only stammer a short reply before hurrying away.

Philip was the first to unroll his parchment. “Oh good heavens,” he chuckled before turning it for the rest of us to see. “I’m to be a Jack o’ Dandy.”

Philip was far from unfashionable, but he was also no foolish fop. In any case, it shouldn’t be any hardship for him to play such a role.

“I hope Barnes is up to the challenge,” Alana remarked, recognizing her husband’s valet would have the greatest amount of work to do to transform him for such a part.

Trevor grinned broadly before snatching another glass of whisky from the tray on the table beside him. “Best to get into character now.”

I shook my head as he passed me his piece of parchment, which read “good-natured drunkard.”

“You do know you only have to pretend to be your character,” Alana reminded him in a voice I’d often wondered if all older sisters perfected.

Trevor’s eyes narrowed slightly at the corners, but he did not reply. Perhaps because he was waiting to comment on what chosen role she was to play.

I glanced at Gage, who was staring down at his parchment. His expression was difficult to decipher. I couldn’t tell if he was displeased by his role or simply bemused. “What is it?”

He passed it to me almost reluctantly. “Sir Ogle.”

I understood now. The idea of openly ogling ladies would be repellant to my husband, but once again, it was all a game of pretend. “You know you don’t actually have to ogle anyone,” I pointed out.

“She’s right, old chap. Just wag your eyebrows a great deal and make leering faces,” Philip jested, plainly enjoying his friend’s discomfort.

Gage arched a single eyebrow. “I will if you starch your shirt collar up to your cheekbones and wear a facial patch.” Both had been