A Notorious Proposition

by Adele Ashworth

  But how this remarkable…coincidence had occurred she couldn’t quite fathom. There was more to this event this evening than she understood, more than a night of hoping to learn how the house, and the residents of the town, related to her brother and the missing Martello diamonds.

  At last she came upon Penelope and Catherine Mossley as they stood by the tall, north windows, each now slightly ajar, the fresh, cold breeze reviving her as she realized she’d need the air in any exchange she might have with Mrs. Bennington-Jones.

  Catherine noticed her first and offered a smile and a light curtsy. Penelope curtsied as well, though the look in her eyes, even behind her mask, suggested both suspicion and a degree of annoyance at the interruption.

  “Are you enjoying yourselves this evening?” she asked both ladies at once.

  “Certainly, we are, Lady Ivy,” Catherine Mossley said politely. “The house is exactly as I remember it.”

  “Indeed,” Penelope agreed as she attempted to straighten her mask. “Though we’ve never been to the Winter Masquerade without the owner and host being present to receive us.”

  Ivy had to wonder if her comment directly reflected her disappointment in not meeting the marquess upon arrival or if she truly missed the excitement of having Lord Rothebury at her side in rapt attention. It didn’t matter, unless the woman wanted to introduce her eligible daughters to a higher-ranking member of the gentry than those already in attendance. She decided that had to be the case, since the only possible way for Penelope Bennington-Jones to regain any kind of social standing in the community would be if Hermione or Viola married better than Desdemona had—a hope that at this point didn’t seem at all likely.

  “Are you expecting the marquess anytime soon?” Penelope asked, cutting into her thoughts.

  She gave the woman a satisfactory smile. “Let’s hope so, Mrs. Bennington-Jones.”

  Penelope’s lips tightened to a flat line of annoyance from that nonanswer. Ivy carried on as if completely unaware of the woman’s displeasure. “By the way, where is Hermione? She won’t want to miss Lord Rye when he arrives.”

  Penelope’s brows rose as she straightened her shoulders. “I’m certain she went to the ladies’ withdrawing room with Elizabeth to freshen herself before the event. Hopefully, it won’t be too long now.”

  Mrs. Mossley interjected, “You’re certain he’s coming, Lady Ivy?”

  She lifted a shoulder negligibly. “He said so in his last correspondence with me, and I don’t suppose he’d authorize such a wonderful party and not attend himself.”

  She watched Penelope smile genuinely for the first time. Obviously, such a fact had not occurred to her.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Penelope fairly blurted. She turned to her youngest daughter, who stood with her back to her mother, conversing openly with a rather handsome young gentleman. “Viola, go and freshen yourself before Lord Rye arrives.”

  Viola twirled around at the sharp intrusion, her laughter fading as she quickly nodded and replied softly, “Yes, of course. Where is Hermione?”

  Sternly, Penelope replied, “Probably doing what you should be doing. Now go, and make sure every hair is in place.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she muttered, offering a meek curtsy to Lady Ivy before brushing past them.

  Penelope cleared her throat and straightened, interlocking her fingers in front of her enormous skirt. “Has Mr. Burke arrived?”

  Ivy warmed inside from just the mention of his name. “He has. I’m sure he’ll be in the ballroom momentarily.”

  “Perhaps he’ll dance with Hermione,” Catherine intimated, her eyes wide as she glanced from one to the other. “They are already acquainted, after all.”

  Penelope tipped her head down a fraction, giving the woman a hard stare. “I’m sure Elizabeth is better suited to dance with the likes of Mr. Burke.”

  Mrs. Mossley blinked. “Of course, you’re right.”

  Evidently, Mrs. Bennington-Jones had decided no man without a proper title or sufficient income would do for her daughters, and Ivy had to bite her tongue on a rude retort, most notably that Mr. Burke needed no dancing partner but her. Thankfully, she was saved by the perfectly timed arrival of Hermione and Catherine Mossley’s granddaughter, Elizabeth, who both appeared from within the crowd and sauntered to their sides.

  “Viola said Lord Rye will be here soon,” Elizabeth cut in excitedly, rudely failing to acknowledge their hostess.

  Penelope sighed through her teeth. “Let us hope so,” she directed to Lady Ivy.

  Elizabeth, a tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed, ordinary-looking woman, so thin she seemed almost hidden inside the folds of her bright red ball gown, suddenly seemed to realize she stood among them.

  “You’re the famous seer,” she said with seemingly sincere interest, her thick eyebrows raised so high they became obscured by her mask. “I’ve read of your pursuits in the London newspapers—”

  “Ladies do not read newspapers,” Penelope chided in a low breath of impatience.

  Elizabeth, either from experience with Mrs. Bennington-Jones’s nature or ignorance of the rebuke, ignored the comment altogether. Cocking her head to the side, she bluntly asked, “Did you ever find the famous Martello diamonds?”

  That question rendered her speechless.

  “The Martello diamonds?” Penelope repeated. “What are those?”

  “She reads the London newspapers, Mother,” Hermione cut in, her features controlled even as her voice remained cool.

  Ivy couldn’t decide if Hermione intended to denigrate her mother in front of others or side with her in belittling Elizabeth for pursuing something cultured ladies would never do. Hermione was indeed very clever, she decided at that moment, and frankly she found the interaction almost as fascinating as the new topic.

  “The Martello diamonds were stolen two years ago, Mrs. Bennington-Jones,” she asserted at last. “I was asked to help investigate their disappearance.”

  Penelope snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Ivy stifled her irritation again by smiling, then replied, “The Home Office didn’t think so.” She paused for effect, then added softly, “And neither did Lord Rye.”

  “Lord Rye?” That from Viola.

  She nodded once to the girl. “He is the legal owner of the Martello diamonds.”

  “Good gracious,” Catherine Mossley spat out in a fluster.

  Penelope’s mouth dropped open an inch, as did Viola’s.

  “That wasn’t in the papers,” Elizabeth muttered.

  Ivy took note of every reaction, then gave an exaggerated sigh. “They were part of his grandmother’s dowry when she married into his family. She was an Italian princess.”

  Viola whispered, “They must be priceless…”

  Clasping her hands in front of her, she said, “Indeed, they’re large blue diamonds, surrounded by rubies, set in a golden tiara.”

  Suddenly Penelope grinned in delight she couldn’t hide, probably, Ivy mused, because she stood there proudly envisioning one of her daughters wearing the priceless diamond-and-ruby-covered tiara at her grand wedding to the marquess.

  “No wonder they asked a seer to help,” Catherine said as she shook her head in wonder.

  “But it didn’t work,” Hermione countered seconds later, her voice low and thoughtful. “You never found the diamonds, did you, Lady Ivy?”

  Startled by the directness of the question, Ivy looked at her, sensing more than a trace of malice from the girl, who now stared at her through narrowed eyes. With a shrug, she said forthrightly, “I suppose if one reads the London newspapers, Miss Bennington-Jones, one would know that’s true.”

  Penelope gasped at the mere suggestion of one of her daughters doing such a thing. Ivy ignored the older woman as she gazed at Hermione closely, noting that she never flinched, though one corner of her mouth twitched very slightly into a near smile, as if acknowledging the fact that she’d met her match.

  “I wonder what it must
be like to wear such a tiara,” Viola said wistfully.

  “You feel exactly like a princess,” came a voice from the crowd. “An English princess.”

  Ivy glanced over her shoulder to see Lady Margaret standing directly behind her, unnoticed until she spoke.

  Margaret waited until she knew she had everyone’s attention, then smiled with a deep satisfaction, and declared, “I’ve actually worn the Martello diamonds.”

  Everyone gaped at her. Ivy turned to study the woman squarely, as it became clear to her like a slap to the face that Margaret Dartmouth of Brighton knew something about the theft. Ian, Benedict Sharon, and the Martello diamonds, all remained missing, and Lady Margaret, who admitted to once wearing the precious jewels, presented herself here in Winter Garden tonight. Margaret didn’t have the tiara, or the diamonds, or she wouldn’t be here now. But the woman knew something, and it had to do with Ian and his involvement in informing Lord Rye of Benedict’s plan to steal the diamonds. She felt the connection, the cold deception, to the core.

  “How on earth were you so fortunate?” Elizabeth asked bluntly, eyeing the woman up and down.

  Margaret smirked. “I am the Marquess of Rye’s betrothed.”

  Catherine and Elizabeth said nothing to that remarkable news, apparently shocked into silence, though Viola sank into her stays with obvious disappointment, and Hermione chuckled lightly with a hand to her mouth. Penelope threw a quick, hard glare at her elder daughter, then turned eyes of pure distaste on Margaret.

  “If you are the Marquess of Rye’s betrothed,” she articulated carefully, “then why is he not escorting you this evening?”

  Margaret’s shrewd eyes narrowed, and her lips thinned as if she had to control the desire to reveal an enormous secret. Suddenly Ivy wanted to applaud Penelope for her gauche breach of decorum in asking such a frank question.

  “Lady Ivy, may I have a word?” Madeleine said, striding gracefully to her side, her husband following closely behind.

  Ivy couldn’t have been more grateful for the interruption. Brightly, she replied, “Of course, Lady Eastleigh. Please excuse me, ladies.”

  Without waiting for acknowledgment, she turned her back to the others as Madeleine drew to her side.

  “He’s here,” she murmured, her mood more solemn than excited.

  Ivy felt her heart began to race. “You saw him? Or were you introduced?”

  Madeleine studied her for several seconds, then whispered, “Stay next to me. He’ll come to us.”

  And then, very slowly, they all grew aware of a hush that enveloped the ballroom as the music came to a halt in midrefrain. Seconds later a low buzz of simultaneous conversation began as it became apparent to all that something spectacular was about to take place. The Marquess of Rye had arrived.

  Her nerves sparked even as a cloud of uncertainty permeated her thoughts. Until this moment, she’d not given his physical appearance much thought, but now her curiosity left her nearly beside herself with wonder and anticipation. Only the countess’s somewhat pensive demeanor gave her the slightest concern, but she tried to ignore the bit of apprehension that continued to nag her.

  “Where’s Garrett?” she whispered.

  Madeleine had no time to answer. At just that moment, a footman at the top of the stairs banged a staff three times, drawing an immediate silence from the audience, who now stood staring at the staircase in rapt expectation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed, “I present you Paul…Garrett…Faringdon-Burke, Baron Audley, Viscount Dunwich, Earl of Saulsbury, Marquess of Rye!”

  Ivy stilled as a powerful wave of incredulity washed over her.

  Paul Garrett Faringdon-Burke…

  Paul Garrett Faringdon-Burke…Marquess of Rye…

  His footsteps echoed on the foyer’s marble floor as he came forward. And then he appeared, stopping at the top of the large staircase, his face covered by his black silk mask as his eyes scanned the crowd, his arms to his sides, his regal bearing exuding a marvelous physical strength, authority, and a grandeur likely never before witnessed in Winter Garden.

  Paul Garrett Faringdon-Burke…Marquess of Rye…

  “No…” she breathed, feeling the blood slowly drain from her face.

  Madeleine grasped her hand and whispered, “Don’t—move.”

  For a timeless moment nothing happened. And then he spotted her, their gazes locked, and a cold realization of a long and calculated deceit began to dawn.

  She started trembling, shaking inside, and Madeleine squeezed her hand once in silent warning.

  Shoulders rigid, he clasped his hands behind his back and slowly began to descend the steps, one by one, his gaze focused solely on her as his mere presence forced the gathering to part when he reached the ballroom floor.

  A low murmur began to rise as he walked past bowing gentlemen and curtsying ladies, the confusion, the chatter from the crowd growing ever louder as he closed in on Ivy near the back, northern windows.

  She heard a gasp from behind, then one of the ladies said, “Holy Mother of God, it’s Mr. Burke…”

  She couldn’t speak.

  No, he’s Paul Garrett Faringdon-Burke…Marquess of Rye…

  “And you didn’t tell us, Lady Ivy?” someone else mumbled.

  Through a growing blur of unreality, Ivy detected more whispers around her, Hermione snickering faintly, Lady Margaret’s rustle of skirts, Viola and Penelope circling ever nearer, Madeleine clinging to her hand to keep her from running. But she never looked away from his large, approaching figure.

  How could I not know?

  Seconds later he stood before her, gazing down to her own masked face, his features unreadable beneath the black silk of his, and suddenly she felt a rising fury within like nothing she’d experienced before.

  “Lady Ivy?” he acknowledged with a slight tip of his head.

  The familiar sound of his resonant, baritone voice brought forth a rush of clarity, overpowering her with the fierce urge to slap him hard across the mouth as she stared into his eyes, to deliver a blow of humiliating pain like the one he’d inflicted upon her these last two years. As he inflicted even at this moment.

  But they all stared at her—the best of Winter Garden society—and as a gently bred lady, the sister of the Earl of Stamford, and the hostess of this masquerade ball, she would never purposely give any of them the gossip of the ages. That was beneath her.

  Drawing a shaky breath, forcing back tears of anguish and rage, and her own immeasurable confusion over each lie, each hidden truth, she pulled her hand from Madeleine’s grasp and—inch by inch—raised it in elegant greeting.

  She felt no hesitation from him as he reached for her, his warm, strong fingers that had stroked her so intimately now surrounding hers as a stranger of magnificent power. Then lifting her knuckles to his mouth and offering her an appropriate bow, she lowered her lashes and curtsied deeply, a shiver of heat pulsing through her as his lips lingered.

  “My lord Rye,” she murmured with a delicate air, “it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  She remained humbled before him for seconds, until at last he gently drew her to her feet.

  Immediately, as if on cue, a cacophony stirred the mood as the orchestra began another waltz, as the noise of conversation grew louder still with the shuffling of bodies and a flurry of color, as servants returned to their duties and the champagne once more began to flow.

  Ivy pulled her hand away just as Lady Margaret positioned herself between them.

  “My lord, how nice to see you again,” she said with a quick curtsy.

  “Lady Margaret,” he returned coldly, clasping his hands behind him once more as he looked her up and down. “What a surprise to find you at my Winter Masquerade.”

  Margaret didn’t even flinch as her eyes remained sharply focused. “I thought perhaps we could share a word, my lord.”

  He looked at the woman who had once been his betrothed, his features hard. “I’m certain a discuss
ion between us will be quite revealing. You can be certain I’ll find you later.” He turned his attention back to Ivy. “But for now, I’d like to dance with the most beautiful lady at the ball this night. Would you honor me with a waltz?”

  Margaret sucked in a sharp breath; Penelope groaned, probably because she hadn’t even been given an introduction.

  She scanned the immediate crowd, feeling disoriented, enraged, helpless.

  “Lady Ivy?” he repeated, stepping closer to her.

  She looked back into his eyes. He spoke with an authority she’d never heard from him before, as a high-ranking member of the nobility in full command, and were it not for the great shock of learning his true identity, she’d have been startled by his utterly majestic composure. To refuse him now would cause an embarrassment beyond decent protocol, for both of them. And he knew it.

  “I’d be delighted, my lord,” she said flatly, her wits returning, her courage finally reaching the level of her anger.

  His lips twitched minutely, then he lifted his elbow, and she placed her gloved palm on his forearm as he led her to the center of the floor.

  He took her quickly into his arms as he fell in time to the music. She followed his lead, both remaining silent for a moment, knowing every single eye in the ballroom was upon them.

  “You’re a marvelous dancer,” she declared with only the slightest trace of sarcasm.

  “As are you,” he replied.

  “You are also artfully deceitful, my lord,” she whispered, keeping her focus on his chest.

  He slowed their pace a little, and she could feel his gaze on her masked face.

  With a yielding tenderness, he countered, “Only about my title, Ivy, nothing else.”

  She stiffened in his arms as he pulled her closer, and she glanced around to note that thankfully the party had resumed. They were scrutinized from afar, certainly, but they were only one of several dancing couples on the floor, and nobody could hear what they said to each other. That knowledge gave her fortitude.