Even Wilder than Bridgerton: Inside the Scandalous World of Georgian Masked Balls

Elizabeth Chudleigh adjusted her mask as she approached the opera house. Flickering candlelight from the chandeliers winked at her from inside the magnificent building, beckoning her to the masquerade. A mischievous Harlequin, a flock of giddy shepherdesses, and a handful of masked guests pushed past her, all eager to join the celebration.

As she observed their costumes, Chudleigh might have questioned her own choice. She had adopted the guise of Iphigenia, a famous figure from Greek mythology who was sacrificed to the gods during the Trojan Wars. With the help of the popular actor Susannah Cibber, she had transformed herself into a striking figure. Her masquerade costume would soon explode London’s expectations of dress and behavior, revealing far more than it concealed.

Her nerves were jangling. She likely thought about how Iphigenia felt in her final moments before meeting her fate. However, while Iphigenia was an innocent victim, Chudleigh’s nerves were self-inflicted. She had made this choice herself. Was it the right decision? She risked losing her position as maid of honor in the Princess of Wales’ household if her plan failed. Yet, recognition was the ultimate purpose of her gamble. Upon discovery, her reputation would either be destroyed or immortalized, cementing her place in high society.

Chudleigh presented her ticket and strode into the crowd. Heads turned immediately. Conversations faded into whispers. Everyone asked the same questions: “Who is that?” and “What is she wearing?” Covered by little more than a sheer gauze top and a long, flowing skirt, Chudleigh’s breasts were prominently on display. Her face remained hidden behind the mask. She could feel the gazes of countless eyes scrutinizing her as she moved through the foyer.

Among the stunned spectators were the social reformer Elizabeth Montagu and Chudleigh’s childhood friend, Horace Walpole. Both were astounded by the brazen maid of honor. Walpole noted she was “so naked that you would have taken her for Andromeda.” Montagu recalled that Chudleigh’s attire was remarkable.

Not all reactions were positive. Augusta, the Princess of Wales, was alarmed. She descended on Chudleigh with a shawl, which Chudleigh quickly shrugged aside. Other maids of honor, though not entirely pure themselves, were offended. They refused to speak to Chudleigh for the entire evening. This disapproval could have ended Chudleigh’s career in Augusta’s household. But she had attracted the attention of an elderly man in an “old-fashioned English habit.” Under the mask was King George II. He was a lifelong patron of the masquerade and utterly captivated by Chudleigh. Her risqué dress captured his attention, and her charm secured it. She became a favored mistress and earned a place in his inner circle.

Chudleigh became an overnight sensation. In the weeks that followed, stories and prints of her scandalous dress flooded newspapers. At least six different depictions of her circulated across London. Teasing verses captured the humor and daring she embodied. That single appearance brought Chudleigh status, connections, and celebrity. She would later earn epithets including duchess, countess, and, after remarrying while her first husband was still alive, bigamist. But few would forget the evening she defied social standards and displayed her sexuality on her own terms.

By 1749, the masquerade was a fashionable fixture in London. It had permeated British culture, appearing in theater, literature, art, and print. Although it had struggled in the early 1700s, it became wildly popular under Johann Jakob Heidegger, the manager of the King’s Theatre in Haymarket. Heidegger transformed this European court entertainment into a commercial enterprise. He sold tickets to fund his productions.

While tickets were technically available to everyone, the high price meant only the elite could afford them. Additional costs for costumes and transportation created further barriers for the middle and lower classes. For the beau monde, consisting of nobility, gentry, and fashionable artists, these costs were no concern. They flaunted their wealth and taste on this elite stage.

Participants could choose their costumes, from characters to bejeweled dresses, but a mask was mandatory. The mask distinguished the masquerade from other gatherings like balls or fetes. This thrill of discovery turned the event into a cultural phenomenon. In an era of increasing consumer goods, masquerades satisfied the Georgian love of spectacle. The capital’s glitterati used these events to reinforce their superiority through displays of wealth. Thus, recognition, rather than disguise, became the prevailing feature of these gatherings.

The events captivated Britons of all backgrounds. Those who could not attend could join the crowds outside the opera house or watch from the gallery. Some even bought memorabilia, such as engravings and porcelain figures, to capitalize on the craze.

Critics, however, were not enamored with the spectacle. Bishop Edmund Gibson, author Henry Fielding, and satirical engraver William Hogarth opposed the entertainment. They argued the masquerade was a den of debauchery that would lead to national immorality. Hogarth lambasted the event in his engravings, associating it with prostitution and vice. Despite these criticisms, the masquerade remained London’s most extravagant pastime.

As the British Empire grew, costumes drew from diverse global sources. At the King of Denmark’s masquerade in 1768, white masqueraders dressed as nabobs, “Chinamen,” and enslaved people. Miss Kitty Cambridge and her chaperone attended in Indian costumes. They noted that actor Mr. Mendez, dressed as a black slave named Mungo, had great effect with his diamond necklace. Such racial transgression went exclusively in one direction. White masqueraders portrayed figures from across the world, while people of color were expected to dress as themselves or in neutral domino costumes.

Julius Soubise, a formerly enslaved Afro-Caribbean servant, often attended as Mungo. Known as the ‘Mungo Macaroni,’ he faced limits on his costuming. In the novel Nocturnal Revels, Soubise is advised to choose a costume suited to his complexion rather than dressing as a sultan. Masquerades often reinforced, rather than challenged, colonial power structures.

Gender boundaries were also tested. Henry Seymour Conway, known for convincing impersonations, dressed as women. Years earlier, he tried to impersonate the Duchess of Manchester. Though he could not find her, he presented a convincing female figure using black silk and peacock plumes from his sister’s wardrobe.

If men could dress as women, women could dress as men. In 1771, Mrs. Crewe and Mrs. Bouverie dressed as men, borrowing hats from male friends. This satirized politicians like Charles James Fox, who would later serve as foreign secretary. In 1775, a man and woman appeared dressed as components of each other’s wardrobe. The woman wore large breeches and ostrich feathers; the man wore a petticoat and a ducal coronet. This satirized the Duke and Duchess of Gordon, a Scottish couple where the duchess was known to be overbearing. The costume suggested she wore the “breeches” in the relationship.

By the time the ersatz Duke and Duchess appeared, the King’s Theatre faced competition. Carlisle House in Soho Square and the Pantheon on Oxford Street emerged as rivals, drawing patrons away. To retain elite patronage, the King’s Theatre lowered prices and hosted Venetian-themed events. However, by the end of the century, tastes changed. Visual displays of status lost their allure as the nobility felt their social ‘inferiors’ were infiltrating their spaces.

During the Victorian period, masquerades retreated into townhouses and evolved into fancy dress balls. The aristocracy lost interest, seeking entertainment elsewhere. The once glamorous Georgian masquerade faded to the periphery, but its legacy remains. Recognition, fashion, and display are still prominent in celebrity culture. The masquerade continues to captivate imaginations in novels and movies. Its ability to reflect and challenge power structures, mixed with its reputation for extravagance, makes it as relevant in the 21st century as the evening Elizabeth Chudleigh walked into the King’s Theatre and caused a sensation.

Meghan Kobza is a historian of leisure, culture, costume, and commercialization in the 18th and 19th centuries. Her book The Masquerade: A History of Extravagance and Intrigue was published by Yale in May.