A Lord of Many Masks (Wycliffe Family Book 2)

by Jessica Scarlett

  Whether or not I immediately recognized him, my mysterious suitor wouldn’t hide behind a mask of his own making, as William did.

  “What is your opinion of yourself, sir?” I was proud of the way I managed to make my voice sound teasing. But I felt a stirring within me, a need to know his response that went beyond mere curiosity.

  The cacophony of laughter and tinkling spoons on crystal died down as I waited for his answer. And what a long wait it was!

  A slow smile crept back onto his face as he caught on. “Too undeserving.” He didn’t care to elaborate further. As he looked away, I caught a small glint of steel in his eye. No matter how careless in its delivery, he had actually meant the words.

  “Miss Wycliffe,” Lady Iris said, materializing before us, “let us take a turn about the room.”

  I stood in indecision, craving to dig deeper into what William had meant. But Lady Iris tarried, and soon William dismissed himself from our company, leaving me with no choice but to accept her.

  Linking my arm through hers, we set about strolling along the perimeter of the parlor. Awkward silence ensued for the first several minutes, and I was positive Lady Iris did it on purpose, to intimidate me.

  It worked.

  “Miss Wycliffe, may I speak plainly?” she said at last. “In my mind, I have been articulating how to say what I need, but there is such tedium in putting things delicately.”

  From the corner of my eye, I eyed her. “I suppose so.” We kept meandering, passing so close in front of the blazing fireplace that its flames licked my dress.

  “I think you and I should be friends,” she said in a way that brooked no argument. “You neatly avoided it in front of so many people, and I find that very . . .” She stopped and turned to me. “. . . refreshing. There is something about you I decidedly like.”

  She was trying to become my ally again? Why? My eyebrows knitted together, inspecting the sincerity in Lady Iris’ face. Either there was none, or she was as skilled at hiding her emotions as William was. “And how much of this interest in me stems from an interest in Sir William Bentley?”

  Her face was blank for two beats, before understanding dawned and she tipped her head back and laughed, long and high. “Oh, dear girl! You think I have come to warn you away from him, do you? What an idea! Please, by all means, Miss Wycliffe, you may have him. I have no interest of that nature, I assure you.” She laughed again. “It is true there was a time when I favored William above all others, but . . . well, you know the story.”

  I tried to keep my face indifferent, tried to keep the curiosity from my eyes, but it was a lost cause from the start.

  “Oh,” she said, eyes slit in contemplation. “He has not told you, has he? By the way he defended you and pulled you to him, I had supposed . . . Well, I suppose not, then. It’s not so surprising. William always was a hard shell to crack.”

  Lady Iris ambled on and I quickly caught up, waiting for her to expound, eager to know more about William’s past. When she offered nothing, I probed, “Were the two of you in love?”

  She halted. Then she spun and knocked her head back, debating something. “Miss Wycliffe, I should like to know you better. And upon closer association, you will find something true about me: I do nothing for free.” We were by the refreshments, and the smell of peppermint and candied ginger assaulted my senses. Lady Iris continued to study me, until at last, she came to a decision.

  “I will make you a wager,” she said, “and if you lose, you and I must be friends. For I can see your reluctance, and I think it is the only way to convince you.”

  I hesitated. Perhaps in France it was different, but here, betting was an unseemly activity for young ladies, especially in such high social circles. “If I win?”

  “I will tell you the history between William and me, in all its fullness.”

  My stomach leapt. Oh, how I wanted—needed—to know the truth; and the likelihood of hearing the story from Lady Iris was much higher than trying to coax it out of William. “What is the wager?”

  Lady Iris smiled as if she had already won. “I will wager you . . .” She skimmed around the room until she’d found what she was looking for. “I will wager you that the Duke of Allerton will seek you out before the afternoon is through.”

  Startled, I followed her gaze to the opposite corner, where he was conversing with another man over some drinks, oblivious to our watchful eyes.

  “Duke Allerton?” I said dubiously. “He would not seek me out.”

  “Then you have nothing to lose.” Lady Iris shrugged innocently—and it was her innocence that made me think she knew something I did not. But the duke would never pursue my company. I was sure of it.

  “Very well, I accept.”

  Her smile widened. “Excellent.” She said nothing more and departed.

  It was now or never.

  Lady Prima had been surrounded by admirers and revel-seekers since the moment I’d arrived, preventing me from speaking to her privately. Even when she moved nearer the fire the crowd followed her, like bees to honey, craving the gaiety she enforced on any circumstance. Eventually, though, the feast before her became depleted, and while the throng continued to gossip and banter, Lady Prima announced, “I generally do not enjoy food, but I find these delicacies particularly tasty! I must have more!” Then, as she began to shuffle to the sideboard without any stragglers, I saw my opening and approached her.

  “It is a lovely party, Lady Prima,” I said.

  She turned to find me at her elbow. “Ah, Miss Wycliffe! I am glad to hear it.” She began dishing up portions of sweets and trifles, then craned her neck around me. “Where did Bentley run off to? Handsome devil. This here might be a feast for the stomach, but I daresay Bentley is a feast for the eyes.” The way her eyebrows waggled at me was comical.

  I stuffed down a laugh. “Actually, Lady Prima, that is why I am here. I am hoping to find a husband.”

  “In Bentley?”

  My skin tingled. “Heavens no! That is I meant to say, I heard your matchmaking skills are unparalleled.”

  “Indeed they are, dear girl.” Some syrupy-looking liquid sloshed off the dishing spoon as it travelled from the dish to Lady Prima’s plate. With an extended pinky she swiped up the blob from the tablecloth and licked it off her finger. “I’ve paired many a favorable match. My heart takes pity on the poor girls who can’t procure an advantageous marriage by themselves.”

  Even as she spooned dessert onto her plate Lady Prima took periodic bites from it, as if she found it too small and wished to make room. She moved down the table, and on its other side I moved down with her. “Lady Prima . . . I was hoping I could beg your assistance for myself.”

  Her fork, heaped with apple cream stopped mid-way to her open mouth. She set the fork down, face shocked. “Why Miss Wycliffe, I am all agog! I am flattered to be sure, but what need have you for a matchmaker? You are young, pretty, rich, well-connected. There is nothing I could do to improve your chances, for you are not much elevated by my association.”

  I couldn’t tell her that I wasn’t rich. Or rather, that I was, but wouldn’t be for much longer. And though it was true she did not improve my chances, I had no doubt her expansive reach of acquaintances and knowledge of their histories would prove useful.

  Perhaps if I changed strategies, she would be more amenable.

  “You think me too simple a case, Lady Prima? I can assure you, my requirements wouldn’t be easy.”

  She chuckled. “Dear me, I could not possibly!” But her eyes narrowed, intrigued. “What sort of requirements?”

  I shrugged, thinking fast. If this was the only way for her to agree, it was better than not having her help at all. “I think I should like someone who breeds horses.”

  “Breeds horses?” she giggled. “What an odd request! But why horses, Miss Wycliffe?”

  “I find I—”

  “There are so many options! I shall have to make a list. Oh, but not too long—I shan’t want to o
verwhelm you. We shall simply start with two or three . . .”

  I smiled. She was going to help me then. There was only one more small matter to discuss. “Lady Prima? You are an expert matchmaker, so doubtless this isn’t even worth mentioning, but—I trust you will keep this matter discreet?”

  She halted. “Why of course, Miss Wycliffe! You of all people should know I am not prone to gossip!”

  Given what I’d seen of her, the comment was less than reassuring—but I doubted I would get more of a promise out of her, or that her promise would make a whit of difference.

  “Lady Prima,” Duke Allerton said, emerging suddenly with a glass of brandy in hand. We both turned. “Lady Iris begs your company.”

  Lady Prima giggled. “Does she? I daresay the Frenchie can scarce stand to be without me more than a few moments! La, what can I do but oblige her?” With an extravagant twirl of her wrist Lady Prima departed, joining Lady Iris on the sofa. Beyond the duke’s shoulder I glimpsed Lady Iris’s sly grin. She had sent Allerton over here, and effectively ridded us of Lady Prima in the process.

  She had won the blasted wager.

  I was brought back by the sound of His Grace clearing his throat. “May I say how lovely you look, Miss Wycliffe?”

  I curtsied. “Thank you, Your Grace. I recall you saying you were unlikely to attend today. Whatever changed your mind?”

  A flush came to his face. “I . . . could not deny I was eager to reacquaint myself with certain people. You among them.” A reserved smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

  Before I could think of the best response, a surprised, “Oh,” escaped my lips.

  He blinked. “’Oh’?”

  I shook my head, palm cupping my reddening cheek. Laughing in embarrassment I said, “Oh! You must stop paying me compliments, Your Grace—for I am not skilled at accepting them.”

  He chuckled. It was deep, and throaty, and sounded as if he didn’t use it often. The thought made me feel privileged. “The new opera is coming to town in a fortnight,” he said, changing topics. “Are you to attend opening night?”

  “I confess, I had not given it any thought.”

  “All the important people will be there.”

  I chuckled. “I doubt I classify as being among the ‘important people.’”

  “But you do, Miss Wycliffe. At least to me.” That warm candidness spread over his face again. “I should very much like to see you there. Perhaps we could even arrange our boxes together . . .?”

  Before I could answer, a voice startled me from behind, saying, “Splendid idea!” Lady Iris sauntered forward, linking her arm through mine. “Why don’t we all sit together? There shall be room enough, I think. What say you, Bentley?”

  I noticed then that William had emerged from his corner, and must’ve been listening to our conversation for some time. He joined us, face unreadable. “It shouldn’t be too much trouble—so long as Eliza wishes to go.”

  Truth be told, I was enamored of the idea. I adored music and suspense and romance, and it was an opportunity to perhaps further acquaint myself with Allerton. Not to mention that the duke’s face, hopeful and expectant, prevented me from refusing. For the oddest reason, I didn’t want to disappoint him. “I would love to.”

  The duke smiled in relief. “Brilliant.”

  “How I love a night at the opera!” Lady Iris said, giving my arm a squeeze. “Dear Eliza, we must take the opportunity to spy for Lady Prima.”

  A reluctant smile met my lips. A smile, because Lady Prima would love the gossip such an event would produce. Reluctant, because Lady Iris was exercising her new title of ‘friend’ by calling me by name. It was an audacious move which didn’t sit well with me. I peeked at William to see what he would make of the exchange.

  He was frowning—both at Lady Iris and the duke—but said nothing more.

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday morning I found a key under my door.

  The length of my forefinger, the bronze key was simple in design, with three intertwining circles at its head and two prongs on its tail. It wasn’t elaborate enough to be mistaken as the key to a mansion or treasure chest, but neither was it basic enough for a cupboard or secret closet.

  It belonged, in fact, to my poetry box. I dressed as quickly as I could. Then, clutching the cold key in my hand, rushed downstairs into the foyer.

  It started out as purely educational. William had detested poetry until that day at Ambleside, and thus had been sorely lacking literary exposure. I started scouring the library for my favorite poems, mailing one to William each week. Over time, he began sending me his own discoveries.

  Then, one day when William came to visit, he brought a wrapped package bearing my name. It was a dark mahogany chest only as tall as my hand, engraved with leaves and crawling vines along its edges. Inside sat a single poem—one William had penned himself. They were silly verses, but they were something William had created. For me.

  In the privacy of my room, I had hugged the case to my chest, pining for him to give me another piece of himself. It gave me an idea.

  The next day I wrote my own limerick and tucked it away in the box, setting it in the foyer at Ambleside. Then I wrote William a note with the key inside, and stuffed it under his door. That whole day I had waited in trepidation, wondering if he had gotten my message, if he’d seen my poem, or if he thought me too forward.

  I got my response the next day in the little bronze key under my door. When I checked the box, my poem had disappeared, with a new one from William in its place. That was how the tradition started.

  Every now and again, over the past year, I found the key waiting for me when I woke up and a new poem in the box. After a few days, I would write new verses and mail the key to William. My excitement would be twofold—not only could I expect an answering note, but in order to return the key back under my door, it meant he would visit Ambleside soon.

  And he did. He always came soon after.

  Since then, I had been to town several times. Each time I had brought the little chest along, setting it in its twin setting at our townhouse, where William would have access to it. He had used it several times.

  I approached the end table where the box sat, before sliding the key into the hole and giving it a twist. The lid of the box popped up and I peeked inside. Sure enough, a small square of paper sat within, folded and sealed with red wax. I smiled at it a moment before retrieving it. I shut the lid and broke the seal, too eager to know its contents to wait until I was somewhere more private.

  The Ton

  Whispers of women

  Whispers of men

  Whispers of someone caught kissing again

  Tales of the rich

  Tales of the poor

  Tales of a person who’s drab and a bore

  Secrets to shock you

  Secrets to sigh

  Secrets on secrets to fill the whole sky

  Take this deception

  Mix it with tea

  And you’ll have a ton of hypocrisy

  I chuckled. Along with his natural knack for humor, William had a way of seeing through people. The combination was entertaining, if not a bit cynical. Still, it felt good to have some lightheartedness with the weight of Mama’s illness hanging over the house lately.

  Just then, Mama swept into the entryway in a gingerbread-colored pelisse trimmed with black velvet. It hung on her frame, which was much thinner than it had been six months ago. Though she did her best to hide it, it was obvious her condition had worsened, even in the few days since I had learned of its seriousness. Her appearance reminded me—yet again—of my promise to secure a match. I had given it some thought since Lady Prima’s tea party, but still hadn’t decided on one man.

  Perhaps she was right. I should pursue the Duke of Allerton. After all, if it would make her happy, how could he be a terrible choice?

  Mama spied me and smiled. “What are you doing up so early?”

  I made a quick glance out the window. “
It is not so early.”

  “It is barely past nine.”

  I’d forgotten that in town, ladies weren’t expected to rise before ten—though noon was more preferable. “You are up, too,” I pointed out, and immediately regretted it. Mama was always awake, probably trying to fit whatever she could into the few days she had left. I shoved the thought from my mind and gave a halfhearted shrug before adding, “I suppose I am still too used to the country.”

  Mama looked down at a letter she fingered in her hands. “William writes to inquire after my health. I must ask you if he suspects anything?”

  My chest squeezed a little. “I am certain he doesn’t.”

  She sighed and nodded. “Good. It should remain that way. William also said to expect him today—says he plans to take you on a ride through the park. If you are amenable to the idea, that is.”

  I concentrated on the letter in Mama’s hand. From a distance I could read the address penned on the surface—but it did not say ‘Aunt Rebecca’ as it would if it were from William. It said, ‘Mama.’

  I cleared my throat and clasped William’s poem behind me, making my voice sound as gentle as I could. “Have you heard from Peter?”

  Her response wasn’t immediate. “Yes, actually,” she said. She waved the letter in the air. “He writes to say the roads are absolutely horrendous this time of year and will make traveling a difficult business, but he misses his family and is determined to see them. He is leaving London to visit Lily and little Matthew.” Lily’s baby boy, named after my brother, was only a few months old when Peter had left for the parliamentary session. Recuperating from the birth, Lily had chosen to stay behind, but it was doubtless hard for Peter to leave them. He must miss them terribly.

  Still, I blinked fast, frame drooping. “But we are his family too—and he has not yet been to see us in the few weeks we’ve been in town.”

  We were going to stay in London for the rest of my Season. If Peter left now, it could be months before he returned. And by then . . .