Page 54 of Better Than a Duke
“Edmund?”
“Would you just give me a boost, my lord?” Edmund asked, walking up to take hold of Flintlock’s pommel with one hand. “I can get on myself.”
“Certainly.” Crouching, Lord Hentrose cupped his hands, and Edmund stepped into them. The marquis gave a slight lift, and hardly daring to breathe, Edmund swung one leg over and settled into the saddle. He’d done it, just the same way he’d seenLord Hentrose mount Charlie. Even if he’d wanted to hide his grin, he wouldn’t have been able to do it.
“Well done, Pickle,” his mother whispered, guiding Delilah over beside him.
“I’ve been practicing on the hallway table.”
She pursed her lips. “Let’s not tell Aunt and Uncle that.”
“I’m not daft.”
A minute later Parsley appeared again, mounted on a chestnut gelding named Arthur the grooms used when they were running errands or escorting the marquis. Edmund didn’t know if Arthur was a Biscuits or not. He assumed so, since all the other horses were Biscuits. He liked that. To be in the Biscuits family, all you had to do was be at Raines House. If he spent the night, maybe he could be a Biscuits, too. And Mama, as well.
“We look magnificent, Eddie,” Becks said, as she and Dandelion started off at a walk beside him. “I hope everyone sees us.”
“You’re right about getting some help, Becks. We should talk to Mrs. Brubbins, and to Butler and George, and to Bradley, if they think he’ll help. And to Mrs. Alliday, so we’ll know when Masquerade changes the menu without asking anyone.”
“Yes. And we’ll use faux names for everyone, so we’re the only ones who know what’s afoot, even if someone else overhears us. I think we should call Papa the Major.”
“Why? He’s not in the army.”
“Because he’snotin the army. They’re not supposed to know who we’re talking about, remember?”
That did make a certain amount of sense, in a nine-year-old female sort of way. Edmund nodded. “Mama should be the Mongoose, then. She’s very fierce.”
“Yes, she is.” Becks nodded. “Grandmama’s helping Masquerade, so we need a name for her, too.”
“Bony?” he suggested. “She’s very thin.”
“No, that sounds like Bonaparte, and she’s not French.” Becks wrinkled her nose. “She has cats. Papa says she prefers them to people. How about Whiskers?”
“That’s good. Can we call the Duke of Trent something like Old Moldy?”
Giggling, she nodded. “That’s perfect. What about your great-aunt and-uncle?”
“Mutton for Uncle Lord Harold,” he said, because that man liked his mutton. “I would say Wheels for Aunt Lady Margaret, but everyone will know who that is.”
“Something with anM.”
He considered that for a moment. “Maudlin? No. Meddler? She’s the one who threw Mama at Trent.”
“She might guess that one.”
He thought for a moment. “She likes to drink Madeira.”
Becks clapped. “Perfect! Madeira.”
Edmund nodded. “Madame Masquerade, Ma—”
“Not ‘madame.’ It’s too specific. Just Masquerade.”
Looking over at Becks, he nodded. “You’re good at this.”
“Thank you. Sometimes I fill whole imaginary castles with imaginary people.”
“Masquerade, and Major, Mongoose, Old Moldy, Mutton, Madeira, and… Oh, and Whiskers. It’s not anMlike the others.”
