by Edith Layton
Lucian looked down at Maggie at his side. He could see her pink lips parting as she breathed in the atmosphere of the place. “Would you care for some punch, or wine?” he asked her, “or something to eat? As Mr. Cor…as Spanish Will here said, they do give value for their money.”
She turned her head up toward him, and then looked up at Will. The runner nodded, and so then, did she, because she was too surprised to speak at once.
“Then, come along,” Lucian said, offering her his arm.
She hesitated. He thought it was because she was unsure of him. But it was because with all she’d done in her short hard life, she’d never taken a gentleman’s arm. Or been offered one. Did a lady grasp or grip, did her hand go under or over, it was such a simple thing, and so easy to get wrong. She faltered. She’d rather seem cold than stupid. A half-forgotten memory of her mother’s lessons saved her. She remembered. She inclined her head, put one small hand lightly on his arm, and feeling like a gawk and a queen at the same time, went with him to one of the long buffet tables. Spanish Will looked after them, bemused.
No man had ever served her before either. That was more delicious to her than the taste of the little lobster patties, the shaved cuts of ham and beef, and the other tidbits Lucian put on her plate that she nibbled without tasting. He got her a glass of wine, and then another, and they ate and drank in silence, watching the kaleidoscope pattern of the revelers swirling around them, on the stage, in the aisles, in the boxes, mezzanines and seats.
“I dislike disputing your acumen, Mystery,” Lucian finally commented in his false deep voice, “but I can’t see how you’d recognize your own mother if she was here tonight.”
“Be a miracle of some sort, if she were,” Maggie sighed, “and a blessing to me, with her being gone these ten years and more. I thought that if you watched and listened, you could see something. But you may be right. See, the dragoons over there, the ones Spanish Will’s with? I thought I recognized one of them as Lady Louisa’s lieutenant, there—the weedy looking one, the one that’s staggering. But that would be a costume, wouldn’t it?”
“It might be the ardent lieutenant, at that,” Lucian said, his eyes narrowing, “since it would be a crime to impersonate an officer, I’d think, even at a masquerade. This is wartime, after all. And since most military men are peacocks who’d rather die in battle than give up their uniforms, especially when there are so many females about. It could be. At least the usually astute Mr. Corby seems to be listening at his lips like a robin at a worm’s hole.”
“Speaking of listening…I know I’m nervous tonight,” she said in a soft whisper, “but it seems like we’re being watched too. Only I can’t exactly say by who.”
He glanced down at her. He’d noticed many men in the room doing the same. “By everyone,” he said. “But who wouldn’t watch you?” It was only truth. It wasn’t just her clever costume. It was what it almost revealed. That was a neat little figure the netting barely covered. “Come to think on,” he added, “do you think that little chap there is one of Mr. Corby’s league of lurking boys, in disguise?” He gestured to a small man got up as the Emperor Napoleon himself. “Or is he a French spy wondering if he dares ask you how to circumnavigate the Channel? He’s been staring at you with his tongue half out since you swam into his field of vision, little Mermaid.”
She laughed. But so she was a dainty morsel, he mused. The long black wig made her look exotic, different, decidedly delicious. And this delectable little mermaid smelled of roses, not fish.
He didn’t think he could recognize a soul in the crowd, and the longer he stayed, the less he wanted to. Who’d want to recognize his own valet or footman? He doubted anyone of birth would be here, no matter what the runner said. The murderer of his uncle had never seemed farther away, and the fact of it too. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t get something out of this strange evening.
“Would you care to dance?” he asked her. “It’s a waltz. I’m tolerably good at that.”
She turned her head and stared up at him. After a moment, she spoke, her voice low, embarrassed. “I can’t dance,” she said.
“Ah, but I can teach,’ he said, and took her hand and led her toward the grand stage where dancers were twirling to the music.
“We’re supposed to be looking…” she said, glancing back to see Spanish Will looking after them.
“And so we shall,” Lucian said calmly, steering her with one hand at her back, “but first, we should establish ourselves as fellow revelers, don’t you think?”
They didn’t speak. He felt no need to, she was afraid to. She learned the steps quickly, and was soon moving in concert with him, buoyed by the music and her own daring. Once upon a time she’d loved to dance. Or so she thought; it had been so long ago she no longer knew if she’d dreamed the desire. She’d never danced with Bernard, of course. It had been seven years since she’d even been held by a man. It had been a lifetime since a strong fit male had held her.
Then, she’d been sixteen, and it had been Tom, and he’d been nothing like this. He’d clutched her close and taken hot open-mouthed kisses. The viscount didn’t hold her close, or even look as though he wanted to kiss her. But he did. She knew by the way he bent his head to observe her, the way his shadowed eyes studied her, by the tensile strength in the steady hand at her waist, she could almost touch the feeling he emanated, and it moved her more than she’d have believed it could.
She was right. He was intent and interested. She moved with him. He saw the way her eyes glittered and felt the way she swayed toward him, and thought, well then, an unexpected reward from this night’s work, and wondered what freckles tasted like, and thought he might know before too long.
It was no trouble at all to dance her toward a flowery arbor. He’d glanced over the top of her head and seen other men doing the same with their willing partners. And no trouble at all to stop there, behind it, in a sheltering glade, his hand still at the neat little tuck in her curved waist. He let go of her hand and swept his domino up on top of his head. His face was suavely amused and smooth as ever, but his eyes were no longer cool, they were gentled and considering as he studied her face.
He brushed the back of one hand against her flushed cheek. It was warm and silken to the touch. Her eyes never left his. So sweet, so plaint, so willing now? He was enchanted.
“Well, then,” he said.
“Well then,” she echoed on a shaky breath. And as he began to lower his head, she said more stiffly, “Well, then, I think this won’t get us anywhere, My—Milo. At least, anywhere but somewhere neither of us really want to be. I’m about as different from you as the mermaid I’m supposed to be.”
“Difference is what this is all about,” he said silkily.
“Oh, to be sure,” she said. “And I’m sure all your friends marry fishwives, do they?”
That got the desired response. His head snapped back. She almost laughed. “Marry” was the word all right, it would sober any man of any class, and chase all thoughts of lechery. And coming from a fishwife? To a nobleman? It certainly chased all thoughts of nonsense from her own head. And his. His eyes narrowed.
“Not that I’d want to marry you, nor any man,” she admitted, being completely honest with him. “That’s the thing. I like being free, but not in the way you might take it to mean. For I won’t bed a man I’m not wed to, nor will I marry any man. I’m done with that. And bedding is what comes from caresses, at least so I should think.”
Or so at least so her mind had been running, she thought, marveling that she should have felt something she hadn’t for so many years, shaking off the luxurious spell the dancing and his touch had caused. His cool veneer was only that, and it made a woman wonder how much heat he concealed. He’d almost showed her. He was immaculate, slender but sinewy strong, fragrant with good soap and expensive barbering, compelling and devastatingly attractive because of and in spite of his distant air. And about as real to her real life as any of the phantoms dancing
around them, she reminded herself just in time.
“I ought to have come here tonight as a nun,” she told him earnestly, “because that’s how I live, you see. No man’s wife, nor any man’s mistress. And since there isn’t any other thing I can be to you than your helper in this matter of your uncle, unless you want to be certain of a supply of fresh fish, I think we should stay with that, don’t you?”
He was silent, then she heard him chuckle. He shook his head. She was as different as he’d imagined she’d be, if in a different fashion than the one he’d been hoping for. But he was a grown man and used to disappointment in matters beyond his control. Or at least, used to dealing with it. It had been a momentary fancy, after all. And she was only right. Clever chit. She hadn’t acted affronted or insulted, or flattered either. She done it with just the right touch. He thought more of her, and no less of himself.
He took a step back. “Too right, Mystery,” he said, grinning. “A pity. For me, that is. Still, yes, we’ve enough complications as it is. You are unusual though, you know.”
“For a female, or for a fishwife?”
“Both, I think,” he said, “but as you say, I wouldn’t know. I don’t know any other…females who deal in fish.”
“Now that was nicely said,” she said, and laughed.
“Would you care to go back and mingle with the other guests as Spanish Will suggested?” he asked, as he dropped his mask down again. “Or at least, before he thinks…?”
Her shoulders leaped, “Oh, yes!” she said, thinking of what the runner might be thinking.
They emerged from the greenery and stepped to the side of the great stage. They stood in companionable silence, each thinking of the narrow escape they’d just had, each regretting it just a little, watching the antics of the crowd. But after a while, when their eyes were less dazzled, and their regrets faded, they began to actually see the crowd. They were increasingly able to note those revelers who before seemed only to fill up space between the more outrageously costumed ones.
Maggie was the only mermaid there, and Lucian was the only one wearing an abbreviated domino. But he wasn’t the only man wearing no costume but a mask. There were other gentlemen, or men dressed as gentlemen, wearing only eye masks as disguise. Some stood together in groups apart from the others, only watching, which made Lucian believe they might be gentlemen, after all. Some were negotiating with the obvious whores, and they were the ones Maggie took for real gentlemen. But neither saw anyone who looked remotely familiar, except for the dragoon across the vast room who was bending Spanish Will’s ear.
They watched the crowd, wondering what to do next.
“I think we might as well merely eat, drink and be merry,” Lucian finally commented, giving up his sepulchral voice for his usual deep rich tones, “because I don’t think we can recognize anyone here. If you can find Louisa in this maelstrom, I’ll eat my own domino, my dear.”
She was about to agree.
“Maldon?” an astonished voice intruded. “Is that really your voice? I thought I recognized that antique moth-eaten domino. You wore it at Lady Fellow’s masked ball last year and I wondered why you hadn’t thrown it away years ago even then, and told you so, remember? But you, here?”
Lucian snapped to attention. “Arthur?” he asked incredulously, staring at the man who’d spoken. “You, here?”
Maggie almost giggled. She couldn’t tell which of the two was more shocked. The one who’d spoken to Lord Maldon was a slight, boyish-looking young man, much younger than the viscount. She could see that much at least, because he only wore an eye mask. He was also well dressed, but not very well mannered, because he stood frankly gawking at the viscount.
“As you see,” Lucian said, almost visibly recovering himself. Then he slowly looked Arthur up and down, and drawled, “And I see you are here as well. I suppose this means that your intense grief has quite turned your head, poor boy. A pretty place for a man in mourning, this. I salute your taste in mortuaries.”
Maggie could see the other man’s smooth cheeks grow a ruddy flush. “I got tired of sitting and wondering about it,” he said, “sick, and tired. Not just about why it happened, but why he led me to believe he cared about me, and my future, when he obviously didn’t give a rap.”
“About that—I was going to tell you,” Lucian said quickly, “I’ve no intention of keeping the house. I’ve no need for it, and it would suit you perfectly. I think he meant it for you all along. But the old fool was such a monster of propriety he couldn’t change. Then too, he was going to marry and was looking toward a future neither of us could foresee.”
They’d forgotten her, Maggie realized, feeling like a child listening to her parents quarrel, not saying a word lest they stop and she miss something that might be important to her.
“I don’t want the house, damn you,” Arthur said peevishly. “I don’t want anything to do with anything he had. And how am I to support it if you do play Lord Bountiful? He didn’t leave me enough to hire on even his meager staff. And no, I don’t want your money, neither. I don’t take charity, Brother. If you knew me better you’d know that. I liked Uncle, whatever you’re thinking, but I can be disappointed in him, can’t I? I’m only human, unlike you. You never turned a hair when he died. You didn’t feel a moment’s regret for your neglect of him even after you found out you’d inherited it all, did you? Yes, I’m supposed to be in mourning, but I’m out tonight, and I’m having a good time,” he said, waving his glass of wine defiantly, “because I couldn’t sit and think about it anymore.”
Well, he was drunk and so that was his excuse, Maggie thought. But why did the viscount put up with such rudeness?
He didn’t. His voice grew chilly. “I’d meet any other man, with his choice of weapons, for only one of the things you’ve just said to me. But I’ve no wish to play Cain to your Abel, even if this is a masquerade. I do wish you’d stop playing Bacchus, though. What say we go somewhere else and discuss all this?”
“But,” Arthur said, weaving now, and squinting close at Maggie, “what about the lovely lady?” he leered. “You inviting me to share?”
“And she’d skewer any man for saying that,” Lucian said quickly, seeing Maggie’s skin growing red under all her pearly powder, “but as she is a lady, although I can’t divulge her name, she will refrain from having her husband call you out, for my sake. Won’t you, my dear?”
Maggie inclined her head. This was the viscount’s world, she had to leave it to him now. His brother was studying her closely. She remained silent, only giving a slight nod of agreement.
“Thank you,” Lucian said, taking her hand and bowing over it. “And so, my dear, I regretfully bid you adieu. Give my regards to your husband. I hope to see you both again soon. Come along, Arthur, let’s be shut of this place; it’s never as amusing as I thought it would be.” Without another word to Maggie, he draped an arm around his brother’s shoulders and steered him off into the crowd. Leaving Maggie standing staring after them, completely alone.
The viscount and his brother vanished into the throng. Maggie craned her neck but couldn’t see Spanish Will anywhere. She wasn’t on the stage anymore and didn’t have the height to look over the heads of other people to see if he was still at the opera house at all.
The viscount had abandoned her. But she couldn’t see how he could have done otherwise. He couldn’t introduce her to his brother. And if the niggling thought came that he might have done, it went just as fast. She was a fishwife, he was a viscount, this was only a masquerade, in so many ways. He likely didn’t want his family to know he was pursuing the hunt for his uncle’s killer in the company of the very woman whose doorstep he’d been found dead on. It only made sense. They were banded together for both their sakes, and that was all. She told herself to ignore the little hurt she felt, because that was as foolish as any of the other illusions she might have indulged in.
She was seven and twenty, after all, and mistress of her own fate. And here she was, s
he told herself, dressed to the teeth, looking like her every dream, standing in the middle of a madly gay masquerade party in the heart of London. Alone. And deserted, and not knowing what to do.
He’d probably left the hired coach for her to use. She could turn tail and run home right now. Or stay, and try to do what she was here to do.
Maggie took a breath, raised her head, and looked around. One last time, she’d look for Lady Louisa, or whatever else she could see. Whatever the viscount had said about why she was being watched, the back of her neck had itched with more than the thought of being admired or desired. The moment she’d arrived she’d the eeriest feeling the murderer was here tonight. Well, but half of London was. Or at least the half she’d never seen. The viscount might have thought it was for the rabble, but she knew rabble, and no one in her neighborhood looked like this.
She stood tall as she could, and put a slight smile on her lips, as though she was just waiting for her escort to return to her. After all, the music was playing, and it was heavenly. There were flowers and candles, light and laughter. This was a world she might never see again. She might never have such a chance again—and not just to hunt for a criminal. She wouldn’t waste it.
Chapter Ten
Maggie gaped.
“Oh Mistress fine, thou art divine, I only wish that thou wert mine!” the Harlequin crooned to her, both hands on his heart.
He was a scrawny fellow; his tightly fitted costume couldn’t hide that. He wore classic checkered motley, tunic over tights. A white eye mask covered his upper face, a fitted hood covered all his hair. He capered as he danced to her side. Maggie had never seen a grown man actually caper before and was as shocked at that as by his skin-tight attire. But he was the essence of grace.
“I spy the Mermaid fair, she with moonbeams in her hair,” he sang in a sweet voice. “Ah! Do I dare…ask her?”