by Lynn Kerstan
He trailed behind her, hands clasped at his back. “I met your father once.”
Startled, she turned on her heel.
“It was in Turkey, although I’d forgotten until now. Beyond question, you have his eyes. We were introduced, nothing more, but I’d have cultivated his acquaintance had I known he harbored three lovely daughters. Did you never travel with your parents?”
She picked up a potted violet and pretended to study it. “I wanted to, but they roamed with the wind, which would have been impossible encumbered with baggage and children. And of course, they were concerned for our health. I believe fevers are rampant in primitive countries.”
“You don’t strike me as particularly frail. Still, most ladies prefer a soft bed and mutton on the table instead of a night spent on hard ground after a supper of fried termites.”
She set down the pot with a clunk. “Termites?”
“Quite tasty,” he assured her. “Not like warm goat’s blood, which I barely managed to tipple.”
Maggie shuddered. Clearly I lack the constitution of an adventurer. I’d rather starve than drink blood or eat a bug.”
“Travel requires considerable flexibility of mind and stomach, I fear. In many cultures, refusing hospitality invites a death sentence. I have praised everything from grilled jellyfish to monkey stew and burped with loud satisfaction—the host expects that, you know—before casting up my accounts in the nearest bush when the meal was done.”
She wanted to hear more, but encouraging him would only prolong this disturbing encounter. “On that lovely note I must take my leave of you, Keverne,” she said briskly. “Yvette asked me to help her select a gown for this evening.”
“Which explains why she disappeared in the direction of the maze some hours ago.” He plucked a yellow daisy and stuck it behind her ear. “If you’ve an eye for fashion, Lady Magdalen, you have not turned it on yourself. Scurry if you must, but don’t imagine you have discouraged me. I shall arrange to lead you into dinner.”
Her jaw squared. “As a matter of fact, I planned to have a tray sent to my room.”
“Coward.” He gave her a disappointed look. “I’d never have thought it of you. In future I shall give no warning of my intentions lest you bolt like a harried rabbit. For shame, Maggie.”
“You have no leave to call me that.”
“As you say. I apologize for the impertinence, Lady Magdalen, but cannot bear to think of you dining alone tonight. If you will join the festivities, I promise to be on my best behavior.”
She swallowed a laugh. “And what, I wonder, constitutes good behavior for a rake?”
He feigned puzzlement. “Devil if I know. To date I’ve made no study of the subject. But if it amuses you, I shall exert myself to be a model of propriety.”
Sweeping past him to the door, she paused with her hand on the latch and glanced over her shoulder. “How do I know you won’t create an awkward situation if I come downstairs tonight?”
He pinned her with a level stare. “I may be a scoundrel, but I have yet to break my word.”
“And you won’t go back to the music room now? Allegra and Nicholas have need of time alone.”
He waved a negligent hand. “I shall hie me to the library for a book of sermons and read myself into a saintly frame of mind. Scamper away, my dear. For this one night, the lovely Drewe sisters are perfectly safe.
***
To Maggie’s astonishment, the Earl of Keverne was as good as his word.
At dinner he sat to Vestavia’s right and never looked down the table, although Maggie could see him clearly. When the gentlemen mingled with the ladies after port and cigars, he wandered from group to group, making sure to spend a few minutes with the elderly women and the least-attractive young women, all of whom seemed to dote on him. Wherever he settled became the center of the room, and she began to envy those he favored with his company. They appeared to be having more fun than anyone else.
Only once did they come face to face, both reaching for cups of coffee over a pedestal table, and then he merely winked at her and moved away.
Soon Vestavia summoned everyone to the salon for Allegra’s concert. Maggie scowled when Keverne took up a position by the piano to turn the pages, but he was pleasantly attentive, nothing more. At the intermission he lingered only a few moments before moving to a chair beside the duke, and he was still there when Yvette insisted on speaking with Maggie privately.
The sisters went onto the terrace just as the concert resumed, and by the time they returned, the audience had broken up to enjoy casual entertainment. Some of the men took themselves off to the billiard room, and a lively game of charades erupted across the room.
Maggie retreated to a corner with the Merpole sisters, keeping up her end of a desultory conversation while secretly observing the charades. When Keverne took his turn, she guessed immediately that he was acting out The Taming of the Shrew, but his team was laughing so hard at his antics they could scarcely throw out conjectures.
Later, he joined a troupe of young men in a fierce game of whist. They were clearly flattered to be in the company of a nonpareil, and she nearly choked at the admiring looks they cast in his direction. Lord Mumblethorpe took pains to emulate Keverne’s languid slouch, and all seemed to hang on his every word.
It was the longest, most stressful evening she’d ever experienced. Only when she was alone in her bedchamber, brushing out her hair, did Maggie realize she’d been acutely aware of him at every moment. She’d traced his slightest move, alert to the tiniest expression on his mobile face, worrying all the while that he was setting himself to pounce.
She chuckled grimly. Without once speaking to her or casting a deliberate look in her direction, he’d utterly mesmerized her. No doubt that was his intention from the beginning. Propriety and virtue indeed. The Earl of Keverne was a devious, scheming master of any game he played. By neglecting her, he’d cast a baited line, hooked his quarry, and reeled her in.
With mingled admiration and pique she put out the lamps and crawled into bed. From this night on, she’d be alert to his trickery. She would make a point of ignoring him and keep a wary eye on her sisters. Neither understood that beneath a veneer of charm, he was a dangerous man.
On a whim, the Earl of Keverne could charm a rabbit from its warren right onto the roasting spit.
***
Maggie grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. “I cannot do this,” she said with a moan.
“Of course you can.” Yvette wrapped her sister’s numb fingers around a silver bow. “Artemis the Hunter would never be such a chicken-heart.”
Behind her, Allegra straightened the quiver of delicate arrows at her shoulder.
“What an absurd costume.” Maggie tugged at her hair, painfully entangled in the notched tips of the arrows. “Good heavens, I can’t go out in public like this. What will everyone think?”
“Piffle! We are goddesses, above reproach unless one of us refuses to join in the fun.” Yvette flashed a sly smile. “I told the duchess what we planned, and by now she has spread the word. Your failure to appear can only shame us all.”
Maggie regarded her sister with considerable ire. “Why could we not be cloaked in dominos? However much she would like to forget it, Allegra is a married woman, while I am firmly on the shelf. Wearing these flimsy gowns, we appear to be advertising our wares.”
“In my case,” Yvette pointed out, “that is perfectly true. Why else did we come to this fashionable house party?”
Maggie wagged her finger. “Immodest attire attracts rakes and wastrels, not suitable husbands.”
“We must be noticed to attract anyone at all. Think on it, Maggie. How can Nicholas fail to be swept off his stubborn feet by the divine Aphrodite?”
“Nicholas doesn’t care for masquerades,” Allegra said crossly. “He has no intention of appearing at this ball.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” Maggie frowned at Yvette. “You see? Without her husband to protect h
er, Allegra will be accosted by lechers like the Earl of Keverne. And I feel a perfect buffoon with my hair down to my waist and a ridiculous quiver of arrows on my shoulder. Where in blazes did you find these disreputable costumes?”
“In the attic, of course.” Yvette grinned unrepentantly. “At Falconthorpe, masquerades and amateur theatricals are regular fare. Vestavia has trunks filled with all sorts of things, and you should glad I rummaged through every one of them instead of settling on the first dresses I liked. Or would you have preferred to be an Opera Dancer, Maggie? At least now we are Greek deities, and you can fend off advances with your bow and arrows. Hold still for a minute.”
She pinned a braided wreath of leaves and silvery crescent moons over Maggie’s hair before stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect. You are positively splendiferous.”
“Don’t be a peewit. I look different, that’s all, and it will be remarked upon. For pity’s sake, child, spare me this ordeal.”
“A masquerade ball is not the Spanish Inquisition, Maggie, and don’t think to hide yourself in the corner with the Merpole sisters. For once in your life, do try and have some fun. When the gentlemen see you, there will be a veritable stampede—”
“In the opposite direction. I am quite put out with you, Yvette. When did you become a tenacious little baggage?”
“When I popped from the womb. And put that back! No credible goddess drapes a Norwich shawl over her tunic.”
Knowing she looked cowardly, Maggie closed the drawer with a snap. “Very well. I shall make a spectacle of myself tonight, but only if you promise to behave. And that includes you, Allegra.”
Allegra blinked. “I’m the mother of a six-year-old son, wed to a hot-tempered man proficient with saber and pistol. Most likely I’ll be the one to spend this evening cozing with the Merpoles.”
“See that you do. Vestavia is a certified eccentric, and there is no accounting for her taste in houseguests. Anything can happen when they are wearing disguises, so never forget that your behavior reflects on Yvette. Our only purpose in coming here was to find her a husband of distinction, and the reputation of our parents precedes us. We must do nothing shameful to add to it.”
Allegra planted her hands on her hips. “Are you quite done with the ritual lecture, Magdalen? I assure you, we’ll not tryst with every rogue in fancy dress.”
Maggie stole one more glance at herself in the mirror. The pale, silvery green of her gown reminded her of olive leaves rippling in the breeze. She had never seen an olive tree, but she’d read about them.
Oh, to wander the hills of Greece like the goddess she pretended to be this night, free of conventions and responsibilities. To be Artemis, unfettered by the chains that bound earthly creatures.
But she was only Maggie Rhodes, spinster chaperone, with nothing more exciting in her future than making sure her young charges stayed out of trouble.
Just once, she’d have liked to be in trouble herself.
***
“One would think she’d littered us,” Maggie complained as the duchess, with a grand flourish, waved them into the ballroom. “How dare she put us on exhibit like hunting dogs marked for sale?”
Vestavia, Duchess of Falconthorpe, had elevated herself to Queen Elizabeth and was enthroned on a dais by the entrance to receive homage from her guests. Her majesty, in alt when the three goddesses made their curtsey, detained them by her side for an excruciating half-hour.
“The duchess hopes to announce a betrothal at this houseparty,” Allegra explained as they wove their way through the crowd. “She is eager to pull off a social coup and took special care to make sure the eligible gentlemen noticed Yvette.”
“Ogled her, you mean, and the two of us in the bargain. I have never been so mortified in my life. At least there is no reason to keep wearing this irritating mask.”
Maggie untied the strings and deposited the offending item in a tub of water lilies. “By now, everyone knows exactly who we are.”
Allegra and Yvette were immediately besieged by Robin Hoods, Harlequins, and Macaronis vying for a dance. In the hubbub, Maggie slipped away, pretending not to notice the Cavalier trailing after her and spouting pledges of love with metaphors cribbed from an assortment of bad poets.
Every inhibition, she decided, was thrown to the winds at a masquerade ball. “Languish in a bed of roses,” indeed! Whirling around, she consigned her lothario to the devil, not bothering to be polite about it. Unperturbed, he vented his odes on a passing shepherdess while Maggie edged along the wall in search of the Merpole sisters.
To her dismay, even they had chosen to wear ludicrous costumes. Beatrice’s plump figure was draped in yards of white satin, which made her look something like a tent with a head poking out the top. Esther’s stick-like body, wrapped in green silk, put Maggie forcibly in mind of a praying mantis.
No telling what they were meant to be, and she was afraid to ask. They had saved a chair for her in a corner nearly concealed by a potted tree, and she propped the gaudy silver bow against the trunk before sitting down. Arrows poked annoyingly at her nape. With a muttered oath, she slid forward on the chair and adjusted the quiver.
Though uncomfortable, she had an excellent view of the ballroom. The Merpoles were experts at picking the best spot to see everything without being seen, a skill doubtless acquired as spinster hangers-on and one she ought to cultivate in herself for the bleak years ahead.
What a lovely costume, and so flattering,” Esther crooned. “When you made your curtsey to the duchess, I scarcely recognized you.”
Beatrice snorted. “Tact was never my sister’s long suit, Magdalen. You look splendid tonight and must not hide your light behind two old bushels like us.”
Flushing hotly, Maggie lifted her chin. “What a foolish thing to say. There is no one whose company I prefer, and no place I would rather be. Indeed, I am relying on you to identify the people concealed behind these masks.”
“Especially the men who dance with your sisters,” Beatrice clarified brusquely.
“As you say. I am here only to watch out for Allegra and Yvette.” She leaned forward. “You know everyone, and more about them than they would care to admit. May I impose on you to give me your opinion of their intentions?”
Beatrice scowled. “You would do better mingle with the guests and find out for yourself.”
“Hush!” Esther scolded. “Why should Lady Magdalen not benefit from our experience?
Quick to seize the opening, Maggie took hold of Esther’s thin hand. “Who is that friar leaning over Yvette as if he’d like to have her for supper?”
“The Baron of Ipswitch, I believe. Hiding his paunch under a swath of brown homespun.”
“Miss Yvette will have enough sense to turn him away,” Beatrice declared, “if only for the stench of claret on his breath. And have no fear of the young Centurion signing her card. Lord Mumblethorpe is ever a gentleman, although his fortune is not great.”
Maggie frowned. After a little manipulation, Yvette’s dowry was adequate, but perhaps she ought to filter more of her own meager competence into the fund. “Is he hanging out for an heiress?”
“Like all men, Lord Mumblethorpe hopes to find a beautiful, wealthy, docile wife. But I suspect he’ll not wed until he is toes over heels in love.”
When the music began, Yvette chose the unprepossessing Lord Merefield as her first partner while Allegra was surrounded by a covey of admirers. With both sisters out of harm’s way for the moment, Maggie permitted herself to relax and enjoy the spectacle of a gargoyle, momentarily blinded by his towering headpiece, tottering dizzily across the dance floor. At the main entrance, another drama was underway as footmen struggled to push Vestavia’s throned dais, with the duchess aboard, into the ballroom.
Now and again the Merpoles pointed out someone of note, and her eyes narrowed when Bryce Farron made his appearance just as the dance was ending. Good looks, no money and a bad reputation. Fancied himself a poet, Yvette had told her,
laughing. Amateur rhymes and metaphors would never turn Yvette’s practical head.
“Oh, my,” Esther breathed, her skinny forefinger pointing across the room. “Oh, my.”
Maggie followed he gesture and saw Allegra smiling at a tall man whose mask was no disguise at all.
“Magnificent,” said Beatrice in a hushed undertone.
“Glorious,” murmured Esther, echoing her sister’s awe.
“Outrageous!” Maggie’s fingers closed around her bow as the fiend kissed Allegra’s hand with explicit intimacy. “How dare he?”
The Earl of Keverne held every eye. A hush fell over the room for a long moment, followed by whispers, titters, and a swell of gossip that moved from incredulous wonder to sheer admiration.
As if his startling entrance gave the signal, the orchestra began to play. Keverne led Allegra past the Viking who extended his arm for the minuet he’d already claimed, and for a time, the dazzling pair, god and goddess, were alone on the waxed parquet floor. Other couples followed hesitantly, as if reluctant to spoil the tableau.
Maggie could not believe her eyes. The man was practically naked!
His scanty white tunic reached only to midthigh, revealing long, muscular legs. He wore gilt sandals with gold thongs that wrapped around his calves like vines. They matched the heavy belt at his slim waist and an elaborate cluster of golden grapes that clasped the tunic at one shoulder. His arms were bare, as were most of his chest and back. A wreath of golden ivy leaves shone in his hair.
Light from the chandeliers caught him in a halo. At once athletic and fluid, he moved through the figures of the dance while everyone watched him, his own gaze fixed on his partner as if no one else existed.
Suddenly aware her mouth was hanging open, Maggie snapped it closed and bit her tongue. Shameless. Scandalous. She could scarcely hold herself in the chair when every instinct screamed for her to rush to Allegra’s defense.
Except that her sister looked blithely content. No, she sparkled under Keverne’s flattering regard as he swung her around, relinquished her to another partner, and reclaimed her again with an ardent smile on his face. If Allegra had ever contemplated an adulterous liaison with the scoundrel, she was clearly persuaded now.