A Lord of Many Masks (Wycliffe Family Book 2)

by Jessica Scarlett

  “Scores of people have told me so,” came Mr. Cooper’s vain reply. “I am the best of entertainers.”

  That, I could agree with.

  After the disaster with Mr. Hayman, I had told Lady Prima I no longer wished to see a horse breeder. It complicated things, as Lady Prima still expected me to have difficult requirements. To appease her, I’d instructed her to make certain the next man was a man of poetry. Expecting someone like William, I had been optimistic. I was convinced no one could be as disastrous as Mr. Hayman. So when Lady Prima organized a party and introduced me to Mr. Cooper, a man who immediately collapsed into the euphoric spouting of his own compositions, I was unprepared for the theatrics and awful rhymes that had now assaulted me for the last hour.

  We were at Lady Prima’s again, only this time we were taking a turn about her gardens. They were nothing compared to Ambleside’s sprawling grandeur, but it was the most extensive piece of nature I’d seen in London (except Hyde Park), and I was grateful for the opportunity for some fresh air. Barren tree branches slashed the sky, their carob colors stark against the pale winter morning. Spring was still a week or two away, but bits of green grass had begun to sprout up from the earth, and birdcalls which had been absent for some months graced London’s ears once more. Even bundled up in a great coat, a swan down muff, layers of scarves, and a cape, I still shivered whenever a chilly breeze picked at my skirts.

  “Do tell Miss Wycliffe what you told me earlier.” Lady Prima tugged on Mr. Cooper’s arm before twisting him around and giving me a beaming, knowing look. I halted alongside them.

  Mr. Cooper’s face deepened to crimson. He rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling the base of his dark red hair. “I doubt Miss Wycliffe would appreciate such rapturous verses.”

  Lady Prima’s hand left the warmth of her fur muff to shake Mr. Cooper’s shoulder. “I declare she would, Mr. Cooper, for she finds you quite handsome, I’m sure!”

  My mouth dropped open. She only gave me a knowing giggle as one of her eyelids slyly closed in a wink.

  He shook his head and grinned in embarrassment. “Really, I couldn’t.”

  “But sir—”

  “Oh, all right, if you insist.” He sighed, but preened with pleasure. Despite my mortification at Lady Prima implying I’d formed an attachment to the man, I still had to suppress a smile. He smacked his lips then looked up, his face taking on a dream-like, marveling quality. “Trees, oh you tall things. What shade you always bring. Not now, because it’s winter—but soon it shall be spring. And then it will be different . . .” His hand reached out dramatically, grasping nothing but air.

  I waited for him to finish, but when his hand dropped and his shoulders relaxed I realized that was the end of the poem. He met my eyes, his open expression seeking praise. I was too busy swatting down the giggle bubbling up in my throat to formulate a false compliment.

  “Isn’t he marvelous, Miss Wycliffe?”

  “Indeed,” I finally managed with a happy wince.

  Lady Prima beamed, pleased with her candidate. She looked beyond my shoulder. “Wouldn’t you say so, Bentley?”

  William brought up the rear with Miss Nagel, a pretty woman who had been busy sending thick-lashed stares William’s way all afternoon. At the sight of him, a flame of apprehension reignited in my stomach.

  From the moment William breezed into Lady Prima’s residence, I’d been searching for a moment alone with him, but as of yet, hadn’t managed it. Miss Nagel had clung to his arm like ivy to a stone balustrade, preventing any private conversation. And any opportunity for confessing.

  “Indeed it was an excellent poem,” William said. But he was neither looking at Lady Prima nor Mr. Cooper. He was looking at me, a sarcastic quirk to his mouth. “Likely the best I’ve heard on the subject.”

  Again, he teased me in my pursuit of a husband, unaware that he was the real one I pursued. I frowned, sending him a warning with my eyes. There was no question of discontinuing a pursuit of Mr. Cooper, but I didn’t want things to end the way they had with Mr. Hayman. Surely there was a kinder way to do it.

  “You really think so?” Mr. Cooper leaned back, striking a pose by placing one hand on his hip and extending his cane with the other. “I have been asked to start my own collection—some have even compared me to Lord Byron. Miss Wycliffe was just telling me of the adoring throes it put her in.”

  My eyes widened at the grievous overstatement, and at what such a declaration would imply. “I don’t think I said—”

  “Oh, indeed?” A playful glint sparked in William’s eyes. “Then by all means, Mr. Cooper, you must continue to impress her with these poems of yours. I daresay women have been wooed into marriage by less.” Hot blood rushed to my face. Mr. Cooper’s chest thrust out at the flattery. Before I could think of an adequate retort that would effectively tell William to stop insisting on torturing me, he went on.

  “Was the poem impromptu?”

  Mr. Cooper shook his head. “No, no. One cannot simply create a masterpiece spontaneously. It takes weeks of thought and preparation to conjure the proper rhythm, terminology, and rhyme. These things cannot be conceived by an amateur.”

  “I see.” William snapped a twig off a low-hanging branch. “You wouldn’t mind if I attempted one?”

  Mr. Cooper’s boisterous laugh intermingled with Lady Prima’s rang out. “Sir, you may try! But I feel to warn the company to not expect the same standards as the one I produced. ‘Twas the result of nine days at least!”

  When Mr. Cooper wasn’t looking, William flashed me a wink. “Same topic?”

  Don’t you dare.

  Mr. Cooper laughed harder. “I fear you may be setting yourself up for failure, Sir William—but by all means,” he bowed, long and low, “attempt it.” Mr. Cooper seemed nearly giddy at the thought of William humiliating himself.

  William tapped his topper with the stick he held. “Let me think. Trees . . .” He gave a show of pondering, but I could tell he already knew what he would say. He cleared his throat. “What wonders trees can tell us, like the stillness of the park. Like what the birds are singing while they perch upon their bark. They sing of spring, of sky, of wing, of warmer days ahead—and the trees sigh at the message, glad to cease from standing dead.”

  Lady Prima yearningly exhaled.

  Miss Nagel squeezed William’s arm tighter, snuggling closer and saying, “How romantic! I did not know you were a poet.”

  Mr. Cooper coughed into his fist. “Yes, well . . . erm . . . I do not give the compliment often, but you are nearly to my level, Bentley.”

  “You are everything I aspire to,” William said, but his eyes were glued to mine, and his mouth tipped into a wicked grin.

  It was clear that he was doing this on purpose—trying to foil my attempts at getting a husband by making the candidates appear even sillier than they were. He had done it with Mr. Hayman, and now he did it with Mr. Cooper. The idea of actually accepting Mr. Cooper was out of the question—but I had asked Lady Prima to bring me eligible men, and it was unkind of William to mock them into oblivion for no other reason than to prove a point.

  And from the way he tipped his topper at me, he very well knew it.

  I shot William a berating glare before deliberately stepping up and taking Mr. Cooper’s arm. William’s smile dropped. Mr. Cooper turned to me in surprise before straightening up, ego sufficiently repaired.

  “It is rather chilly out here, is it not? Perhaps we should venture inside, Mr. Cooper.”

  “Yes, splendid idea,” declared Lady Prima. “The rest of the guests should be arriving soon.” Lady Prima wagged her brows at me as she turned back to the house. The rest of the guests? She must have more than one suitor for me to meet today.

  The realization made chills run down my back. Until I had the security of a proposal I would have to meet with anyone Lady Prima put before me, regardless of my unease. But as soon as I confessed to William, I would speak to Lady Prima and tell her that her services were no
longer required.

  If I ever had the chance to confess.

  I clung to Mr. Cooper’s arm as he led me back across snow-covered paths and icy trails. Twice, I nearly slipped. The second time caught me off-guard as I hadn’t detected the ice. Mr. Cooper wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me back to my feet, holding on to steady me.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cooper,” I said.

  “My pleasure, Miss Wycliffe.” His voice sounded breathy and elated.

  The moment struck me as wrong in a laughable way. Slipping on the ice only to be caught by a gentleman standing near was a most romantic notion—one I’d often daydreamed of. But here, in Mr. Cooper’s arms, the moment was anything but; it was humorous and ridiculous. It didn’t matter how romantic the situation if I was in the wrong man’s arms.

  I wonder how I would’ve felt if William had been the one to catch me? Would I be as breathless as Mr. Cooper was now? The irony of it all made a chuckle escape my lips.

  My chuckle faltered when I caught sight of William, only three steps behind. He watched us steadily, taking in Mr. Cooper’s grip still about my waist. To anyone else William appeared amiable, amused. But the daggered smile he wore was anything but pleasant.

  He was angry, and very intent upon getting something.

  The second man, no matter how impossible it seemed, was even more ridiculous. Like Mr. Cooper, Mr. King was a man of poetry—only his verses failed to rhyme.

  “Oh, Miss Wycliffe!” he said as he sat to my right on the chaise lounge. “Your beauty brings to mind a heavenly stanza.”

  To my left, Mr. Cooper smothered a scoff.

  “Do let us hear it,” Lady Prima said, clapping to herself from her chair.

  Miss Nagel had made her excuses and departed. Much to my surprise, along with Mr. King, Allerton had arrived on Lady Prima’s doorstep. I didn’t know if that meant Lady Prima was considering him as a candidate, or if she simply enjoyed the company. Either way, now he stood near the window, perusing a book and glancing over with a smile every so often.

  William sat alone on the settee across from us. Busy arranging some tiles on the little table before him, he did not look up—but I knew he was listening intently. Planning something. Plotting. I could see it in the loose way he moved his fingers.

  “Of course. I shall oblige you.” Mr. King’s hands made the tiniest of circling motions in the air as he said, “A moonbeam glows down upon the world. Searching, searching, for a little insect—”

  Insect?

  “—She hides in the bushes, in the dirt of the path. But moonbeams find the little cricket at last. How smooth she is, so black and springing. True perfection seen only by moonlight’s light . . .” He finished with an exuberant nod of his head.

  My mouth fell open. Was that supposed to be me? Was I the insect?

  “How divine, it is a metaphor!” Lady Prima said after gulping down some lemonade. “But whatever can it mean?”

  “My dear Lady Prima,” Mr. Cooper said, flicking his red hair back, “you cannot expect to divine the meaning behind true works of art in only a few moments.” He put a hand to his chest. “It takes the dedicated, thoughtful pondering of a fellow artist to illuminate such mysteries.”

  “Pray tell us, Mr. Cooper!”

  Mr. Cooper cleared his throat. “The little cricket is Miss Wycliffe—and the bushes and dirt she hides in, the rest of society. Her smoothness represents her genteel qualities, while the ‘blackness’ Mr. King referred to is obviously her hair.”

  From his position, I saw Allerton lower his head to cover a smile. He was intelligent enough to have caught on to the poetic absurdity.

  “And what of the moonlight?” Lady Prima asked.

  Mr. Cooper faltered. “That, I haven’t yet been able to fathom. Ever the student, you know.”

  “It is those who would see her.” Everyone turned to the window where Allerton looked on, book closed, smile gone. He flushed at the sudden attention, eyes darting to me, but went on. “It is those who would stop to notice her chirping song rather than pass by without a glance. The moonlight could be any one of us.” His gaze strayed to William before it settled on me. “Any one of us,” he repeated, a little softer. A few butterflies flitted around in my stomach.

  “At any rate,” William said dryly, swapping one tile out for the other, “I think we can all agree that a finer poem was never uttered.”

  Mr. Cooper gave a little harrumph before sitting back and crossing his arms. Under his breath he said, “I daresay it could still be improved upon.”

  William finally looked up. “And I think, Mr. King, you could not have found a better muse. The cricket is the noblest of insects. Women just love being compared to them.” He turned a thoughtful eye on me. “And now that you mention it, I can see where you obtained your inspiration. A creature that hops from one thing to another, who is incessantly loud at the most inconvenient times.”

  Though he said it to the whole group, his eyes were only for me. In a quick move, they flicked down to the tiles on the table, then back up. He wanted me to look at them.

  I did. Facing me were the tiles P-I-R-N-C-E-?, in that order. I glanced up, finding his watchful, simmering gaze.

  Those six little letters mocked me to scorn, echoing all of William’s arguments over the years.

  There you go again—dreaming of true love and all that nonsense.

  Prince?

  Are you trying to find your prince among the rabble?

  Mr. Hayman, Mr. Cooper, Mr. King—the single word pitted them against each other in a battle for my heart. That single word derisively asked if the likes of these three suitors was really the best I could do. It asked if any of them were my “mysterious suitor,” though William well knew the answer.

  In short, William believed my endeavors were an enormous waste of time, and wanted to remind me of it, yet again.

  My lips thinned into a line. There was nothing keeping him here. If he detested the company so much, why then did he stay?

  Mr. King beamed at the compliment, not picking up on the drollness in William’s voice. “Thank you, Sir William. I have only just formed the poem this moment!”

  Mr. Cooper snorted. “Such a poem would have taken me no less than seven days.” Apparently, Mr. Cooper thought greater time spent was the only factor in deciding a poem’s quality.

  I held my face like a statue, refusing to let my lips so much as twitch, though they wished to. After levelling William with a determined stare, I leaned forward and began arranging my own tiles. His eyes never left my face as I worked. I could feel them burning holes in my skin. Spotting a V, I grabbed it and placed it next to the A.

  I spun the tiles around so William could read them better, before my gaze rose to meet his. Something passed between us. Something tense, like an arrow strung so far back the bow trembled. At last he looked down.

  L-E-A-V-E

  I hadn’t even bothered to rearrange the letters. There was little chance in getting him alone with two suitors vying for my attention, dashing any hopes toward confessing. So if he was only going to be cruel, I’d rather he not be here at all.

  My message couldn’t be clearer. But William didn’t glare or frown—he laughed. The sound made everyone in the room drop their conversations and turn to him in surprise.

  “I say, Bentley,” said Lady Prima, “what are you sniggering about? Oh, you must tell me the joke, for you know how I love to laugh.”

  William composed himself, but his foxish smirk flashed, causing every one of my limbs to tense.

  “The joke is nothing the current company would find humorous, I’m afraid,” he said. His eyes settled on me, a devilish glint in them. It might’ve been charming if it wasn’t followed by his next words. “Miss Wycliffe merely sent me a pleading message on the table. It would appear she is bored out of her wits.”

  All glanced down at the table to read the word that rested there, even as my stomach dropped into my feet. The little scoundrel. I’d told him to
leave, not begged him for an exit! And it was evident in every contour of his expression that he was well aware of that fact.

  My mouth fell open, and upon seeing it, William’s smirk broadened. How dare he!

  “But how could she be bored out of her wits,” Mr. Cooper smoothed back a lock of orange hair, “when my poems are so elegant?”

  William turned his smile on Mr. Cooper. “Grace her with your verses, your literary curses, and she shall feign to praise them, while her ears beg to rephrase them.”

  Lady Prima giggled.

  “I never!” Mr. Cooper jumped to his feet. Mr. King wrung his hands together over and over.

  A servant entered and announced Lady Iris, just before she swept into the room.

  “Iris, you’ve come at last,” Lady Prima said, eyes still crinkled from her merriment.

  Iris looked at each occupant, no doubt noting the strain in the air. “Have I come at a bad time?”

  “Not at all, not at all!” Lady Prima downed the last of her lemonade, a chuckle reverberating in her throat. “We were just about to get to the good bit.”

  “Ah. And I’d wager the ‘good bit’ has to do with Miss Wycliffe.” Iris looked at the table, at the tiles, emitting a thoughtful, “Hm,” before turning to me. I felt my insides shrink back. “Have you given any more thought towards a confession, Eliza?”

  The blood drained from my face. Surely she would not spill my secret here, in front of so many people. Rallying my courage, I said, “I have. And now is neither the time nor place.”

  Her brows lifted high as if she were amused. Lady Prima asked, “Confession? What sort of confession? I do love a secret! You must tell us, Miss Wycliffe.”

  “Perhaps another time.” We all turned to face Allerton.

  Lady Iris blinked as if she hadn’t detected his presence in the corner until now.

  “I can see Miss Wycliffe is rather flushed,” Allerton said. “Best leave the matter alone.”