by Allegra Gray
“You said you wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. I thought, if ye couldna find me…”
Finally Graeme understood. “Ah, Nate.” He pulled the lad in close.
“Don’t go, Uncle Graeme,” his nephew said against his shirt.
Graeme pulled back, gazed down at his puppy-eyed, pleading little nephew and truly did have second thoughts. But he’d made his decision—and a Maxwell never went back on a decision. If there was one thing he’d learned in the years since his father’s death, it was that an estate the size of the Maxwell holdings did not run itself. There was always someone who needed his attention, or something that needed to be done. A proud job, but a demanding one. And often a lonely one. He longed for the softness of a woman in his bed, someone to converse with at the end of the day, someone to share the delight of simple pleasures and to hold in times of sorrow. If he waited until all the other demands of life settled down, though, he might very well die a bachelor.
“Come on.” Rising, he took the lad’s hand and started walking, still trying to decide how to respond.
“Nate,” he said, “I know you don’t see it now, but this trip will benefit us both. I can provide more for you by going than by staying here. When I come back, I’ll be bringing a wife. She’ll love you, Nate, I know she will.”
“Maybe.” Nate trudged toward Leventhal House, its looming mass emphasizing just how small his nephew was.
Graeme sighed. “Of course she will.” Never mind that he hadn’t yet met this woman, or even identified a likely candidate. “We’ll build a family. Turn this old pile of rubble into a home again. And someday you’ll have playmates.”
Nate cocked his head, considering. “I’ll be too old for them.”
“Nay. You’ll be the one to teach them the very best games.”
“Oh.” The boy tried to hide his smile, but Graeme could tell he liked the idea.
“Be good while I’m gone, promise? You’ll be the man of the house. I’m counting on you to look after Nana.”
“Nana thinks I’m you,” Nate protested.
Graeme tweaked his nose. “All the more reason to look after her.” His mother spent so much time living in the past she didn’t always distinguish between son and grandson, but that didn’t diminish her fondness for both.
“I mean it, Nate,” Graeme admonished, bringing the boy’s focus back. “No more adventures at the quarry?”
“What if ye don’t come back, Uncle Graeme?” Nathan asked, avoiding Graeme’s question with one of his own—one obviously bothering him. “What if something bad happens?”
Graeme blinked. The lad had seen too much for his six years. He’d already lost both parents. It was pointless to assure him such things couldn’t, or wouldn’t, happen. But at the moment, the distressed look in the boy’s eyes, the way his little brows knit together, told Graeme he needed comfort more than logic.
He sighed, then bent down and swung his nephew up onto his shoulders for the rest of the distance to the house.
“I’ll come back, lad. I promise.”
London, 2 weeks later
Lady Priscilla Medford, Miss Charity Medford’s mother, had expressly forbidden her youngest daughter to attend the annual masquerade held by Lord Madrigal—the rakish young lord otherwise known as “the Wicked Baron.”
Charity, of course, was going anyway.
Where else but a masquerade could she pretend, if only for a night, that she was someone—anyone—else? Someone who didn’t attract stares and whispered speculation everywhere she went. Some of the gossip was innocent enough—the usual wonderings about the exact size of her dowry, for example. But others…others suspected, at least, her connection to the capture of the French spies last year. Though her family had done its best to keep her name out of the papers, one intrepid reporter from the Tattler had noted her presence on several visits to the British Foreign Office. No further details had leaked, but even that tidbit was enough to spark the curiosity of the ton, whose members’ appetite for scandal knew no bounds.
Yes, Charity longed for escape. The only impact of her mother’s decree regarding the masquerade was to make her choose her disguise, and her exit plan, more carefully.
It wasn’t that Charity didn’t love her mother—it was just that she didn’t see a reason to heed her. Family was family. But everyone in London knew her dowry had been provided by the Duke of Beaufort, her older sister Elizabeth’s husband, since her own father had died with naught to his name but a mountain of debt. Even her mother’s home had been paid for by the duke, allowing the family to maintain a modicum of dignity. If Lady Medford couldn’t even manage her own life, why should she manage her daughter’s?
“Penny, come help me dress,” Charity called to her maid. “I cannot manage my evening costume alone.”
“Of course, Miss Medford.” Penny bustled toward her. “Where are you off to this eve, miss?”
“Almack’s.”
“Oh!” the maid began brightly, then stopped in her tracks as she saw the folds of cloth Charity held out.
Clearly, Penny knew what any qualified ladies’ maid should know: unmarried females did not attend Almack’s dressed as sultry Indian princesses.
Charity gave Penny her most brilliant smile, dumped the beaded silk into the maid’s hands, and slipped out of her shift. Her costume had been ordered weeks ago, and even then she’d had to part with an outrageous portion of her allowance to convince the modiste to complete it in time. The daring designs of Madame Bleu were sought after by proper ladies and the demimondaine alike. It was debatable whether the jade and turquoise confection made to accentuate every nuance of the female body—Charity’s body, to be precise—had come from the design pages meant for the proper clients or the not-so-proper ones. But as long as no one knew who she was, the costume was perfect.
The problem was the mask. A tiny confection of jade-colored silk with holes for her eyes, it would fool no one. That would never do. Anonymity was essential to her plan. Not to mention that life would be infinitely easier if reports of her whereabouts that night did not get back to her mother.
Penny gulped, then smiled in return and began expertly draping the folds as though she wrapped her mistress in a sari every day.
Charity smiled in anticipation. The Wicked Baron’s parties were legendary. He spared no expense, it was said, to entertain his guests in exotic, tantalizing fashion. The guests themselves sought pleasure above all else. Few unmarried young ladies received invitations to the baron’s masquerade—and among those, almost none were expected to attend.
It probably wasn’t worth dwelling upon the fact that since she had received an invitation, her reputation might not be as pristine as it ought to be. She lifted her arms as Penny pinned the tiny bodice she wore beneath the costume, leaving tempting glimpses of exposed skin above the curve of her hip.
Then again, she no longer counted herself among the innocents. She might not be married, but she’d left her childhood behind the previous June as surely as though a door had slammed on her girlish dreams.
Standing before her looking glass, Charity dipped a finger into a tiny pot and patted the cream beneath her eyes while Penny worked. She frowned. The circles were getting darker. It had been so very long since she’d had a restful night’s sleep.
The doctor had told her the best thing was to forget. Well, she’d tried to forget…God help her, she’d tried. She just couldn’t. During waking hours she could keep busy enough to keep her mind off the horrible memories, but every time she closed her eyes, it all came rushing back.
When what her family referred vaguely to as “the incident” had first happened, the doctor had given her several doses of sleeping draughts. For months, he’d prescribed more—until Charity, fearing he would deem her incurable, had lied about her recovery and told him to stop coming. Those sweet little vials of mercy were long since gone, and she’d had nary a restful night since. She’d been too ashamed to ask for more.
What was wro
ng with her, her well-meaning family would ask. She was alive, she was whole. Disaster averted. She should be happy.
Except they hadn’t seen—or felt, rather, since her underground prison had been utterly dark—what she had. Even Alex and Philippe, who’d rescued her, had not lingered in that awful space long enough to examine the contents of its deepest corners. Nor had they heard the whispered French as her captor slipped her a single, tiny vial before locking her away. She’d flung it away in disgust, but how many more hours would she have lasted before crawling on hands and knees through the utter dark, searching it out with fingertips already bloodied from clawing at the door?
She shuddered, the movement causing Penny’s carefully-aimed pin to poke her in the ribs. “Ouch!”
“Ooh. Sorry, miss.”
“My fault,” Charity told her. Was she such a terrible person, then, to seek this single night’s release from the invisible prison that had held her for so long?
Penny adjusted the draping at Charity’s shoulder once more, then nodded in satisfaction. “Lovely, miss. The gentlemen at Almack’s won’t be able to take their eyes off you.”
Right. Almack’s. Charity dragged her mind back to the present. “Mary Summers is acting as chaperone to her younger sister tonight. She hopes Bess’s impeccable deportment will convince the patronesses to grant her permission to dance the waltz.” She turned to meet Penny’s eye, satisfied by the maid’s quick nod that—though they both knew Charity wouldn’t be anywhere near Mary or her younger sister that night—Penny knew how to respond if questioned about her mistress’s whereabouts.
That took care of one part of the evening’s escapade. As to being recognized…she eyed a discarded blue scarf dangling precariously over the edge of her dressing table as an idea began to take shape.
“Penny, one more thing?” She explained what she had in mind, pulling the blue scarf from the table and grabbing a similarly-hued one from the drawer underneath. “If you help me pull this off, the scarves are yours at the end of the night,” Charity promised.
The maid’s eyes widened and she ran a caressing finger across the silk. Such finery would either make her the envy of all the other maids or fetch a pretty penny at a resale shop. Any uneasiness the poor girl had felt at being party to such illicit behavior had, Charity suspected, just vanished.
Penny pinned the last veil into place, and Charity breathed a sigh of relief. Between the jade-colored mask and the scarves, nearly her whole face was covered.
Now, she just had to give the slip to the men who constantly shadowed her, protected her. One would certainly be waiting downstairs, or in front of the townhouse, ready to follow wherever she went. Guilt pricked her, but she shook it off. Tonight she would be surrounded by throngs of merrymakers, not stupidly sneaking around alone. She’d learned that lesson. Disguised as she was, she was safe enough. For the next few hours, she could dance and drink champagne to her heart’s content.
She slipped out the side entrance, unseen. Lords Edwards and Blythe, two young rakes, and Miss Allison Hart, an heiress with a wild streak, were her chosen companions thus far this Season. They had two advantages over Charity’s previous, more staid group of friends—first, they knew how to cavort from one soiree to another until they dropped from sheer exhaustion, and second, they rarely asked questions. For tonight, they’d already promised to have a carriage waiting down the block.
Chapter 2:
The best laid plans…
Charity entered the Wicked Baron’s ballroom surrounded by a Roman gladiator, a Grecian goddess, and an aspiring Lancelot. No one announced their arrival. No line of guests waited to greet their host, either, the Wicked Baron not being one to stand on ceremony—or perhaps the baron was simply astute enough to realize a good portion of his guests would not appreciate having their names announced.
She took a deep breath and firmly quashed the little niggle of unease that rose at the unprecedented lack of decorum. It wasn’t as though she’d planned to give her real name, anyway. She’d promised herself one night free from worry, and nothing was going to stop her.
A few steps further, and they entered the ballroom, where Charity took in a scene that spoke of far more than a mere lack of decorum…it spoke of decadence, pure and unbridled.
Instead of the pristine flower arrangements and brilliantly-lit chandeliers found at a typical ton event, the baron’s ballroom was filled with softly-glowing, colored lanterns and swaths of exotic fabric not too unlike Charity’s own costume.
The effect was seductive, multiplied tenfold by an informal stage at the end of the room where two scantily-clad young women swayed and jiggled their hips in a manner that had the male occupants gawking and crowding closer.
Charity, too, found it difficult to tear her eyes away. This masquerade undoubtedly qualified as the most risqué event she'd attended. Not that she would allow anyone else see her shock. The swath of veils arranged artfully over her hair and face were proving useful at hiding more than just her identity.
If this was how the ton behaved when they thought no one was watching, then all those girlhood lessons in propriety were a sham. Dancing the waltz too soon? Or favoring a particular partner with a second or—gasp—even third dance? Heavens. How about dancing half-naked and plastered to one’s partner, as a good number of the women in this ballroom seemed to be doing? Clearly, this masquerade was not for the faint of heart.
Someone handed her a glass of wine. She adjusted her veil and sipped, then frowned. Sniffed. She caught the spicy aroma of cloves, and beneath it, something more.
She glanced again at the exotic, Eastern flavor of the décor, considering. The laudanum that had first aided her sleep, she’d learned, was a product of the Orient. A sister to opium. And opium, she knew, could be added to wine. Given the apparent theme of tonight’s event, it seemed unlikely Lord Madrigal had stopped with mere decorations.
She hesitated, then gulped it down. Just this once. If nothing else, the liquor would give her the courage to see this evening through. If her suspicions proved correct and the wine had been spiked, she might even sleep well when it was over, free of the nightmares that so often plagued her. She feared how easily it could become a habit, but she’d endured so many restless nights that the mere thought of a few peaceful, uninterrupted hours brought tears of relief to her eyes. She blinked them back.
Beside her, Miss Hart eyed the dancers, whose raised arms and undulating hips seemed to hold a promise that extended beyond the stage. “Do you suppose,” she asked in a fascinated whisper, “they are…ahem…birds of paradise?”
“Do they sell their favors?” Charity mused over the question, swallowing the last of the spiced wine. The dance ended, and one of the performers sidled up to a man in a black domino. She couldn’t hear their exchange, but the man’s raised eyebrow and brief jerk of his head toward the door that led to the private rooms of the house—followed by the woman’s satisfied smile—told her all she needed to know.
“I should say,” she answered slowly, “that if they do not exactly sell their favors, they are certainly forthcoming with them.”
Miss Hart fanned herself vigorously. “I’ve seen members of the demimondaine before, at the theater and such, but never have I actually mingled with them.” She giggled. “I daresay this shall be a most educational evening.”
“Most,” Charity agreed, though she couldn’t claim to share the heiress’s goals when it came to that sort of “education.” She desired nothing more than an evening free of the scrutiny that normally accompanied her every move, making the past impossible to forget.
The opening strain of a familiar waltz sounded from the small orchestra. Lord Edwards, her companion in the gladiator costume, turned and bowed gallantly, flinging out one arm—causing a waiter bearing a tray of glasses a momentary look of sheer terror. Fortunately, the servant executed a neat sidestep, and his usual polite mask fell back into place.
“A dance, princess?” Lord Edwards asked.
&nbs
p; Charity nodded. This, she could handle. The stuffy patronesses of Almack’s might consider waltzing too amorous for some, but compared to the dancing she’d just observed, the waltz was as dry as unbuttered toast. She set her glass aside and followed the young lord as other couples paired off and streamed onto the dance floor around them.
As the waltz began in earnest, Lord Edwards yanked her against him. Charity gasped as her breasts brushed his chest. How dare he be so forward!
But a quick glance around confirmed that her partner had acted no more forward than any other in the ballroom. She should have expected as much. If only she were attracted to Lord Edwards, she might not even mind. But she knew the young nobleman well enough to know his attentions were fleeting at best.
She pressed her lips together as his hand drifted lower on her back, drawing her hips against his. Astute enough to recognize the hardness she felt there, Charity quickly revised her opinion about how much waltz she could handle.
She’d knowingly attended this masquerade—had plotted and schemed her way here. How foolish and naïve would she seem now if she acted outraged by a mere dance? She sighed. Causing a scene would only make matters worse.
They whirled past another couple, and she realized that, intentional or not, she was drawing curiosity. She dared another look, and this time locked eyes with the male of the couple she’d just whirled past.
Clad in a domino the shade of rich burgundy wine, he made the gladiator against whom she was pinned seem more gaudy than gallant. His half-mask gave way to a firm jaw, and the domino did little to conceal his massive build. A wide chest and strong arms tapered to a trim waist. Strong thighs. Heavens. She was staring at his thighs. She quickly averted her gaze.
The stranger quirked a brow. Appraising her, in turn. At least he danced like a gentleman, she noted, his partner a respectable arm’s distance away. Why couldn’t she be partnered with him? Who was he? The baron himself? As yet, none of her companions had been able to identify their host.