Nicki was forgotten, however, as she stepped into Satan's arms and found herself being whirled around in time to the sweeping music by a man who danced with the easy grace of someone who has waltzed a thousand times and more. Around and around they floated until Whitney couldn't stand the suspense any longer. "Did I really promise you a dance tonight?" she asked.
"No," be said.
His blunt answer made her laugh. "Who are you?" she asked conspiratorially.
A lazy grin swept across his tanned face. "A friend?" he offered in a voice rich and deep.
Whitney didn't recognize his voice at all. "No. You are an acquaintance, but not a friend."
"I will have to remedy that," he replied with absolute confidence that he could.
Whitney felt a perverse desire to shatter a little of his arrogant self-assurance. "I'm afraid that's impossible. I already have more friends than I know what to do with now, and they all vow their loyalty to me until death."
"In that case," he said, a smile lighting his gray eyes, "perhaps one of them will meet with an accident-with a little assistance from me."
Whitney was unable to stop her answering smile. His last words held no menace, she knew; he was merely playing verbal chess with her, and it was exhilarating to try to counter his moves. "It would be most unkind of you to hasten any of my friends to their demise. My friends are a disreputable lot, and their final destination may not have a pleasant climate."
"A warm one?" he teased.
With a sigh of mock regret, Whitney solemnly nodded. "I'm afraid so."
He laughed at her, a throaty, contagious laugh, and his eyes suddenly seemed to regard her with a bold, speculative gleam that Whitney found unsettling. She looked away, trying to decide who he was. Outside on the patio, he'd spoken in flawless French, yet here on the dance floor, his English was equally flawless and without a trace of an accent. His face, that part of it which wasn't covered by his black mask, had a healthy golden tan which he certainly couldn't have acquired in Paris this early in the spring. And not in England, either.
The task of trying to place him among the hundreds of men to whom she'd been introduced during the last two years was formidable, but Whitney tried anyway. Mentally, she reviewed the men of her acquaintance, discarding one after another as being either not tall enough or with eyes of a color other than his unusual gray. His height, easily two inches over six feet, was his most outstanding feature. She reviewed the clues but still could not identify him. Yet, he knew her well enough to recognize her even though she was wearing a demi-mask. When the strains of the waltz died, she was no closer to identifying him than she had been when the dance began.
Whitney stepped away from him, half turning toward Nicki who was standing near the edge of the dance floor, but her partner firmly claimed her hand, tucked it under his arm, and drew her in the opposite direction toward the doors opening off the south side of the house into the gardens.
Several steps from the doors, Whitney began to doubt the wisdom of letting herself be led into the night by a man whom she couldn't yet identify. She was on the verge of refusing to take another step when she saw that there were at least two dozen guests scattered about the brick paths that wound through the lantern-lit gardens, any one of whom would come to her aid if her escort failed to conduct himself as a gentleman. Not that Whitney actually doubted he was a gentleman, for the Armands were notoriously meticulous in choosing their guests. Outside, she reached behind her and untied the ribbons of her demi-mask, letting it dangle from her fingers as she breathed in the fragrance of the spring night scented with blossoms. They came to a white ornamental iron table and chairs, well within sight of the house and other guests, and her escort pulled out a chair for her. "No, I'd rather stand," Whitney said, reveling in the relative quiet and the beauty of the dappled moonlight.
"Well, Prosperina, how are we to manage our friendship if none of your present friends are likely to do me the favor of dying in the foreseeable future?"
Whitney smiled, pleased that at least one person at the ball didn't confuse her with Venus. "How did you know who I am?"
She was referring to her identity of Prosperina, but evidently, Satan misunderstood her, for he shrugged and said, "DuVille isn't wearing a mask and, since rumor has it that the two of you are inseparable, when I saw him, I realized who you were."
A frown marred Whitney's smooth forehead at the unwelcome news that she and Nicki were being linked together by the gossips.
"Since that answer seems to disturb you," he said drily, "perhaps I should have been more honest and told you that there are certain … attributes … of yours that made it easy for me to identify you even with your mask on and before DuVille arrived."
My God! Did his gaze actually wander over her body, or was it only her imagination? When he leaned back and casually perched his hip on the wrought iron table, Whitney felt suddenly uneasy. "Who are you?" she demanded firmly.
"A friend."
"Absolutely not! I can't recall anyone of my acquaintance with your height or eyes, or with such outrageously bold manners, especially for an Englishman." She paused and studied him uncertainly. "Are you English?"
He gazed down into her searching green eyes and chuckled. "How remiss of me," he mocked lightly. "I should have said 'what ho' and 'egad' and 'quite so'-so that you would know I am."
His humor was infectious, and Whitney could not stop her answering smile. "Very well, now that you've admitted you're English, tell me who you are."
"Who would you like for me to be, little one?" he asked. "Women always admire noble titles-would you like it if I told you I am a duke?"
Whitney burst out laughing. "You may be a highwayman, or even a pirate." She twinkled at him. "But you are no more a duke than I am."
The amusement vanished from his smile, replaced by a quizzical puzzlement. "May I ask why you are so certain that I am not?"
Thinking back to the only duke she'd ever seen, Whitney impudently surveyed him from head to foot, deliberately repaying him for the lingering glance he'd subjected her to. "Beginning with the most obvious, if you were a duke you would have a quizzing glass."
"But how would I use a quizzing glass with a mask?" he countered curiously.
"A duke does not use a quizzing glass to see-it is merely an affectation. He raises it to his eye and peers at all the ladies in the room. But there are other reasons you cannot possibly be a duke," she continued irrepressibly. "You don't walk with a cane, you don't wheeze and snort, and in all honesty, I doubt you could claim even a mild case of gout to your credit."
"Gout!" he choked, laughing.
Whitney nodded. "Without the cane, the gout, and the wheezing and snorting, you cannot possibly hope to convince anyone that you are a duke. Couldn't you choose some other title to which to aspire? You might be able to pass yourself off as an Earl if you had a bit of a squint and a clubfoot."
He threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter, then he shook his head and regarded her with a thoughtful, almost tender expression. "Miss Stone," he asked with amused gravity, "hasn't anyone taught you that noble titles are to be revered, not laughed at?"
"They did try," Whitney admitted, with a laughing look.
"And?"
"And, as you can see, they failed."
For a long moment, his gaze lingered on the elegant perfection of her glowing face, then settled on her entrancing green eyes. "But the initial clue that I am not a duke is the absence of a quizzing glass?" he said rather absently.
Whitney toyed with the ribbons of her mask and smiled as she nodded. "You would have ft with you at all times."
"Even riding to a hunt?" he persisted.
She shrugged lightly. "If you were a duke, you'd be too stout to ride."
In a deceptively casual move, he captured her wrists, drawing her forward so that her hip pressed against his hard thigh. "Even in bed?" he asked softly.
Whitney, who had been paralyzed into inaction by his unexpected move, flung
off both his hands and fixed him with an icy stare while a dozen scathing remarks tumbled to be first from her lips.
Just as she opened her mouth, he stood up, looming over her. "May I get you a glass of champagne?" he offered soothingly.
"You may go straight to-" Swallowing her outrage in deference to his daunting height and powerful shoulders, Whitney nodded. "Please," she choked.
He stood there for a moment, his imperturbable gray gaze studying Whitney's stormy green eyes, then he turned, striding off toward the house for her champagne.
The moment he walked through the archway, Whitney's breath came out in a long rush of relief. Whirling around, she hurried across the lawn, entering the ballroom on the opposite side.
From that point on, her evening declined. She was tense and jumpy, half expecting the black-cloaked figure she would always think of as "Satan" to accost her in the ballroom, even though he remained well away from her, surrounded by a small group of people who were talking and laughing with him.
As she waited with her aunt and uncle to take leave of their host and hostess, Whitney surreptitiously watched Satan's tall figure moving along the line of departing guests in front of them. His head was bent low as be listened attentively to the blond woman who was smiling up at him. He laughed at something she said, and Whitney flushed as she recalled the way he had laughed with her in the garden. Irritably, she wondered who the blond woman with him was. His mistress, she decided uncharitably, for he'd never waste a moment's time with any female unless she was willing to {day that role, at feast for one night!
Without warning he turned, and for the second time that evening, Whitney was caught in the act of staring at him. His gaze captured hers, and Whitney raised her chin, trying to stare him out of countenance. A strange, unfathomable smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he slowly inclined Us head toward her. Angrily, Whitney jerked her gaze away. Arrogant, conceited-she couldn't think of enough terrible things to call him in her mind.
"What in the world is the matter, darling?" Aunt Anne whispered beside her.
Whitney started nervously, then cautiously tipped her head in the direction of the front door where Satan was now placing an elegant cape around the blonde's shoulders. "Do you know who he is, Aunt Anne?"
Her aunt studied the couple for a moment, started to shake her head in the negative, then stopped abruptly as the blonde reached up and swept off her demi-mask. "That's Marie St Allermain-the famous singer," Anne whispered. "I'm certain of it." Whitney saw an odd, awed expression cross her aunt's face as she scrutinized the dark-haired man in the Mack cape. "And if she is St. Allermain, then he would have to be. .. my God! It is!"
Anne's gaze swung sharply to her niece, but Whitney was watching Satan move his hand in a tight caress over the blonde's back as he guided her out the front door. She remembered how those same hands had drawn her to him and flushed with outraged shame.
"Why do you ask?" Anne said tightly.
The last thing Whitney wanted to do was admit to anyone that she'd been foolish enough to go into the garden with a man whom she was now certain she'd never met before.
"I-I thought he was someone I know, but I realize now he isn't," Whitney answered and was greatly relieved when her aunt seemed willing to drop the subject.
As a matter of fact, Anne was delighted to drop the subject. She had planned and dreamed too long to see Whitney become just another conquest of the Duke of Claymore. Marie St. Allermain had been his mistress for nearly a year, and rumor had it that he had even accompanied her to Spain when she sang in a command performance before the king and queen two months ago.
For years, gossip had linked the man with every beautiful female of suitable lineage in Europe, but marriage was not among the things he offered. Behind that handsome nobleman there was a trail of young women's broken hearts and shattered marital aspirations that would make any sensible woman with an unmarried female relation shudder! He was the last man on the continent in whom Anne wanted Whitney to show any interest.
The last man in the entire world!
Chapter Seven
EXACTLY FOUR WEEKS AFTER THE ARMANDS' MASQUERADE, Matthew Bennett left his office and stepped into a splendid burgundy-lacquered coach with the Westmoreland ducal crest emblazoned in gold on the door panel. He placed his deerskin case containing the reports on Miss Whitney Allison Stone on the seat beside him, then stretched his long legs out in the duke's luxurious coach.
For nearly a century, Matthew's forebears had been entrusted with the private legal affairs of the Westmoreland family, but since Clayton Westmoreland's principal residences were in England, it was Matthew's father in the London office of the firm who was personally acquainted with the duke. Until now, Matthew's only contact with the current Duke of Claymore had been in writing, and Matthew was especially anxious to make a good impression today.
The coach had been climbing steadily, winding gently around green sloping hills splashed with wildflowers, when the French country house of the duke finally came into view. Matthew gazed at it in wonder. Situated atop the verdant hills, the sweeping two-story stone-and-glass structure was surrounded by terraces overlooking the panorama that stretched below in every direction.
At the front of the house, the coach drew to a stop, and Matthew picked up his case and walked slowly up the terraced stone steps. He presented his card to the liveried butler and was shown into a spacious library lined with books which were recessed into shallow alcoves in the walls.
Alone for the moment, Matthew looked with awe at the priceless artifacts reposing on gleaming rosewood tables. A magnificent Rembrandt hung above the marble fireplace, and part of one wall was covered with a glorious collection of Rembrandt's etchings. One long wall was entirely constructed of huge panes of glass with French doors opening out onto a broad stone terrace that afforded a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside.
At the opposite end of the room, angled toward the windows, was a massive oak desk, intricately carved around the edges with leaves and vines. Mentally, Matthew placed the desk as late sixteenth century and, judging from the splendid craftsmanship, it had probably graced a royal palace. Walking across the thick Persian carpet, Matthew sat down in one of the high-backed leather chairs facing the desk, and placed the deerskin case on the floor beside him.
The library doors opened, and Matthew came swiftly to his feet, stealing a quick, appraising look at the dark-haired man upon whom his future depended. Clayton Westmoreland was in his early thirties, uncommonly tall, and decidedly handsome. There was a vigorous purposefulness in his long, quick strides that bespoke an active, athletic life, rather than the indolence and overindulgence that Matthew normally ascribed to wealthy gentlemen of the peerage. An aura of carefully restrained power, of forcefulness, emanated from him.
A pair of penetrating gray eyes leveled on him, and Matthew swallowed a little nervously as the duke came around behind the desk and took his seat. The duke nodded at the chair across the desk, inviting Matthew to be seated, and said with calm authority, "Shall we begin, Mr. Bennett?"
"Certainly," Matthew said. He cleared his throat. "As you instructed, your grace, we have made inquiries into the young woman's family and background. Miss Stone is the daughter of Susan Stone-who died when Miss Stone was five years old-and Martin Albert Stone, who is still living. She was born on June thirtieth, eighteen hundred, at the family home near the village of Morsham, approximately seven hours from London.
"The Stone estate is small but productive, and Martin Stone has lived in the usual style of the landed gentry. However, about four years ago, his financial situation altered drastically. If you recall, that was when part of England was deluged with weeks of rainfall. Estates such as Stone's which did not have adequate drainage facilities suffered badly, and Stone apparently suffered more than most because there was no alternate means of supporting the estate, such as livestock.
"Our reports indicate that Stone then made some extremely large and unwise inve
stments in a variety of risky ventures and, when those failed, he doubled and tripled his investments in more ventures of a similar nature-apparently in the hope of recouping his losses. These ventures were all disastrous, and two years ago, he mortgaged his estate to gain enough capital to make the last-and largest-of the ventures. He invested all the funds in a colonial shipping company. Unfortunately, that failed as well.
"At this time, he is heavily mortgaged and deeply in debt, not only to the cent-per-centers in London, but to the local shopkeepers as well. The estate is quickly falling into disrepair, and there is only a skeleton staff of servants left on the place."
Reaching into the deerskin case, Matthew extracted a sheaf of papers. "This is an itemized list of his creditors, although there are bound to be more that we didn't discover in the brief period of time we had to make our investigation." He slid the papers across the surface of the ornate desk, then waited for some reaction from the duke.
Leaning back in his chair, Clayton Westmoreland scanned the lists, his face impassive. "How bad?" he asked when he finished reading the last page.
"Altogether, I'd say he's about Ј100,000 in debt."
The staggering sum made no apparent impression on the duke, who handed the papers back to Matthew and abruptly switched the subject. "What were you able to learn about the girl?"
Who, Matthew wondered as he extracted the file marked "W. Stone," should know more about the girl than the man whose mistress she was about to become? Although the duke had not actually said it, Matthew had already guessed that Claymore intended to take the young woman under discussion as his mistress, providing her with a comfortable establishment and an income of her own. He interpreted the duke's interest in the girl's family as curiosity over what kind of opposition, if any, he might expect from them.
To Matthew's legal mind, Stone's appalling financial situation already made the outcome of the matter a foregone conclusion: Martin Stone would have to accept this chance to turn over the responsibility for his daughter's support to Clayton Westmoreland. What choice had he? He could hardly continue to clothe her and keep her amid the Quality for much longer. If Stone's concern was for the girl's reputation, his own was in far more jeopardy than hers. Once his creditors discovered his dire circumstances, as they would at any time now, he would be facing not only disgrace, but an unpleasant stay in debtor's prison.
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