by Mary Balogh
Lady Farraday’s ball had become the most anticipated entertainment of the Season.
* * *
* * *
Mary was the only one who needed a heavy disguise, for she was quite a distinctive figure to those who knew her—and presumably Manley and his wife as well as their son had seen her a time or two. She rather fancied the nun’s costume that was presented for her review among a few other possibilities. It would cover all but her face from eyebrows to chin and would enable her to hide her bad arm.
“Hmm,” Jessica said when Mary tried it on. “Your face is still recognizable, Mary. We must add a mask—just a half one. Full masks are horrid things. It becomes hard to breathe, especially in a stuffy ballroom. Black, I think.” She added the mask to Mary’s disguise and took a step back.
“The bandit nun,” Gabriel said, and Mary laughed merrily.
“The bandit nun,” she said. “I like it. May I choose this costume, Jessica?”
Surprisingly—very surprisingly—her face had lit up with delight when Gabriel had asked if she had ever wanted to go to a masquerade. And when he had explained to her what the plans were for Lady Farraday’s ball, she had first looked very serious, and then had lit back up and looked like an excited child in anticipation of a treat, seated as she had been in that chair, which was many sizes too large for her. Her feet did not even reach the floor.
“Provided I will not have anything to do except sit and watch—until after midnight,” she had said, “I will do it. Will I be able to wear a costume?”
“It is imperative that you do,” Gabriel had told her, and she had smiled from him to Jessica and looked very pleased indeed with the world. “You will be quite safe, Mary. I will see to it.”
“I know you will,” she had said. “What an adventure I am having. Did I tell you that Ned and his elder son are staying at my cottage to look after my animals until I return? They are very kind. So is Ned’s dear wife for allowing him to do it.”
“Do you wonder that I love her, Jessie?” Gabriel asked that night when they lay in bed, relaxing after making love. Perhaps it was not the wisest thing to say of another woman to one’s brand-new wife.
“I do not,” she told him. “I think, Gabriel, she must be an angel. And what a foolish thing to say. How embarrassing.” She laughed. “But she must be.”
He turned onto his side and kissed her. Hard. And for perhaps the first time since returning to England he was consciously glad he had come. Even with all the challenges ahead, he was glad.
Gabriel chose a black domino for his costume, with a black half mask. It was neither an imaginative nor a very effective disguise, but that would not matter. He did not care if everyone recognized him—as everyone surely would—as long as Manford and his wife did not until midnight. He did not even care if he was pointed out to them as Gabriel Thorne. It was unlikely that after thirteen years they would know him just from the lower half of his face.
“Oh,” Mary, the little bandit nun, said when she saw him on the evening of the masquerade, “you do look splendidly handsome, Gabriel. Does he not, Jessica?”
“Be still, my heart,” Jessica said, smiling brightly at him and fairly rocking him back on his heels. She herself had already been looking disturbingly gorgeous in her deep pink domino and matching mask even before she added the smile.
“Mine could not grow stiller if it tried,” he said, his eyes fully upon her. “It has already stopped.”
Mary clapped her hands and laughed with glee.
“And as for you,” he said, “you look very fierce, Mary. Who has ever heard of a nun with a mask? She can only intend mischief. You must stop smiling, however, if you hope to frighten everyone.”
She did stop smiling. Suddenly, so did all of them. For this was it. The confrontation they had planned with such meticulous care together with Jessica’s family, who had insisted, against his better judgment, upon being involved. The most carefully thought-out plans, of course, often went awry. Everything depended upon Manley’s being there tonight. They had all done their part to see that he would be. There was nothing else they could do on that front but wait and see.
There was a knock on the sitting room door and Horbath reported almost immediately that her ladyship, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, awaited Miss Beck in her carriage outside the hotel doors.
“She will be kind,” Gabriel assured Mary before escorting her downstairs. “She can be a bit intimidating, but she admires your courage. She told Jessie so.” He worried about poor Mary, who had lived most of her life as a hermit, her companions almost exclusively of the animal kingdom. She was to sit for most of the evening between the dowager and her sister.
“But of course she will be kind,” Mary said, not looking nearly as nervous as Gabriel felt and Jessica looked. “She is Jessica’s grandmama, is she not?”
She had not yet seen Jessica at her aristocratic best. She probably would later tonight. But Mary would not be intimidated anyway, he suddenly realized. Her eyes would look past every barrier to the good that lay within any person she met.
Except when there was no goodness to be seen.
* * *
* * *
Manley Rochford was dressed as King Arthur, complete with a golden crown encrusted with paste jewels and a black mask. His wife—unfortunately, considering her rather plain, matronly looks, a number of guests remarked behind their hands or fans—appeared as Guinevere, also with a mask. Several people did not know them, but since most had come in the hope of catching a glimpse of them and perhaps making themselves known to them so that they would be the more assured of receiving invitations to the grand celebrations they were said to be planning, they were soon pointed out to everyone by those who did know.
Anthony Rochford was unmistakable in a billowing, all-enveloping domino and a mask that covered three-quarters of his face, for the entire costume was a glittering gold embellished with sequins. And who, anyway, could mistake that smile even though it proceeded from almost the only part of his body that was not covered?
Masquerades were always amusing, Jessica thought, for of course very few people went unknown to everyone else. The few exceptions were almost always those people whom almost no one knew anyway. She recognized friends and acquaintances wherever she looked. And family members, of course. And they were all here—except Harry, who had returned home to the country yesterday. Even Grandmama and Great-aunt Edith and Miss Boniface had come, partly because wild horses could not keep them away on this particular occasion, Grandmama had told her, and partly because they had undertaken the important task of looking after Mary until she was needed later, which might or might not happen. Mary sat now, resembling a mischievous elfin blackbird, between Boadicea—Grandmama—on her left and someone who was either a dragon or a giant robin—Great-aunt Edith—on her right. Miss Boniface, like many of the other guests clad in a domino and mask, hovered behind them.
Some members of Jessica’s old court found her out—it was not difficult—and swore to broken hearts and other silly things like the determination to challenge Gabriel to pistols at dawn. A few of them danced with her.
One thrilling moment came when the golden domino bowed before her, solicited her hand for a dance, congratulated her on her recent marriage, and proceeded to look tragic while they danced. In other words, his smile was not in evidence except when he looked at other women, which he did a number of times. He smiled with dazzling intensity at Estelle, who was partnered with Adrian Sawyer, Viscount Dirkson’s son. He smiled without ceasing when he danced the next set with Estelle and then swept her off in a flourish of gold to introduce her to King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.
A marquess’s daughter would do quite nicely, it seemed, when a duke’s was no longer available. The father was making much of Estelle, who made a very pretty mermaid, with feet that peeked discreetly from beneath her multicolored tail. Her mask matched it.<
br />
“I am crushed,” Jessica told Avery and Anna between sets.
She waltzed with Gabriel not long before midnight. He was tense and grim faced, she could see, though he did not miss a step. She was feeling the fluttering of nerves in her stomach too.
“One could almost believe,” he said, “that he is expecting to inherit a king’s title.”
“I suppose,” she said, “he has been something of a nobody for most of his life, Gabriel. And he had almost no expectation either until recent years. Both you and your cousin, not to mention your uncle, stood between him and the title—and fortune. Does he have money of his own?”
“I think not,” he said. “He was always eager to live upon the hospitality of my uncle and aunt at Brierley.”
“The unmasking is to happen after this set,” she told him, as though he was not well aware of that fact for himself.
“Yes,” he said. “It may all come to nothing, you know, Jessie. It may be a massive anticlimax.”
“But only we will know,” she said. And all the Westcotts and those with family connections to them.
The music came to an end. Had that last waltz of the set been shorter than the others? It did not matter. It was over, and Lady Farraday, assisted by her husband’s hand, was climbing to the orchestra dais and raising her arms for silence. She got it after a few moments of excited murmurings and hushing sounds from everyone else. She looked around the ballroom, clearly enjoying the drama of the moment, and slowly removed her own mask. The obligatory gasp of surprise was followed by the equally obligatory round of applause.
“Yes,” she said when it had died down. “It is I. And this is the moment when I get to discover if I have been entertaining a roomful of total strangers and impostors all evening.” She waited for the laughter to subside. “My lords and ladies and gentlemen, it is time to remove your masks and reveal your identities.”
There was a great deal of noise and laughter as everyone complied and looked around at one another and pretended astonishment at discovering acquaintances they had not identified until that precise moment.
Manley Rochford, as they had hoped, aroused particular interest now that everyone could admit to knowing who he was. And he was standing, conveniently enough, almost in the center of the ballroom. Well-wishers gathered about him to shake his hand or to curtsy. He smiled graciously upon them all, a rather handsome King Arthur without his mask. His son, still glittering even without his mask, stood smiling at his right hand while his wife hovered at his left.
Gabriel looked steadily at Jessica and offered his arm. They approached that most dense group of guests together and a pathway opened before them, perhaps because the space had been occupied by Avery and Anna, Elizabeth and Colin, Alexander and Wren, Boris and Bertrand, and Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers.
Manley Rochford looked graciously upon the two of them, prepared to receive their homage.
“Hello, Manley,” Gabriel said.
Twenty
Manley looked somewhat startled at being so familiarly addressed. His smile faltered for a moment, but he nodded graciously at them both.
“Mr. Thorne, Papa,” Anthony Rochford said. “I have told you about him. And Mrs. Thorne—Lady Jessica Thorne.”
“Ah, yes.” Manley’s eyes rested upon Jessica. “I understand congratulations are in order. And Mr. Thorne.” He made them a slight bow.
“Gabriel Thorne,” Gabriel said. “How are you, Manley?”
Manley frowned in puzzlement. “Do I know you?” he asked—and Gabriel saw the beginnings of unease in the man.
“A long time ago,” he said. “Thirteen years ago and more.”
He was very aware of Jessica’s hand on his arm. He knew, though he did not turn his head to look, that since removing her mask she had become the cool, poised, aristocratic Lady Jessica. He was aware too that the loud sounds of merriment that had succeeded the unmasking were dying down slightly in their immediate vicinity.
Manley’s handsome face, framed by becomingly graying hair upon which sat a jeweled crown, had paled. His jaws had clamped together—to prevent him from gaping, perhaps.
A definite quiet had fallen upon the crowd around them now, and Gabriel sensed that other people were drawing closer to see what was happening.
“It cannot be.” The words barely passed Manley’s lips. “No.”
“But yes,” Gabriel said. “It can be. And it is.”
Manley’s wife set a hand on his arm. Gabriel could not for the life of him remember her name. She had always been a shadowy figure, along with Philip’s wife. And his aunt too. Women were not highly regarded by most of the Rochford men.
“Manley,” she said, her voice noticeably shaking. “He is Gabriel.”
Manley shook off her arm with open impatience. His nostrils flared. His eyes blazed. “You are dead. This man is an impostor.” He pointed a finger at Gabriel and took one wild look about the crowd, as though searching for an ally. “Marjorie, we are leaving.”
Marjorie. That was her name.
“Papa?” Anthony Rochford said. “This is Mr. Thorne. The man from America I told you about. Mama?”
“Actually,” Gabriel said without taking his eyes off Manley, and he knew now that he had a rather large and avidly listening audience of the cream of society, “I was born with the name Rochford. Gabriel Rochford. I kept that name until I sailed for America thirteen years ago.”
The reaction was worthy of any melodrama. There was a gasp followed by loud murmurings followed in turn by frantic shushing noises.
“Papa?” Anthony Rochford sounded close to panic now.
Manley ignored him. He was having a bit of an onslaught of panic of his own, Gabriel guessed. But he mastered his emotions with a visible effort. He thrust back his shoulders and continued to point a now shaking finger at Gabriel. He looked rather magnificent, actually, with his crown glinting in the candlelight from the chandelier overhead. All he needed to complete the picture was Excalibur clutched in his hand.
“This man,” he said, addressing the crowd, which must have swelled to consist of almost every guest at the ball. “This man, who changed his name and hid away in America, as well he ought, for thirteen years, has now been driven by ambition to consider it worth the risk of returning at the last possible moment to claim his birthright. I am here to stop him in the name of justice.”
“You may try, Manley,” Gabriel said. He was surprised by how little hate he felt for his cousin, who would have sent him to the gallows thirteen years ago and would do it again now. He felt only contempt.
“This man,” Manley said. “This Gabriel Rochford is a murderer.”
There was another wave of sound. Manley waited for it to subside, as it soon did. No one wanted to miss a word. He took a step forward, leaving his wife and son slightly behind him. He knew how to play to an audience, Gabriel thought appreciatively.
“This man,” Manley continued, “ravished the young and innocent daughter of a neighbor of the Earl of Lyndale, his uncle, and left her in disgrace and with child. When confronted by the young lady’s brother and my dear friend, Gabriel Rochford murdered him. He shot him in the back. I witnessed him doing so, though I was too far away, alas, to stop him. Is there a worse or more cowardly crime than to shoot an unarmed man in the back?”
The cream of society obviously did not think so. The murmur this time was uglier. Equally ugly glances were being directed Gabriel’s way.
“He escaped,” Manley said, “before my cousin, the earl, could have him apprehended. A sure admission of guilt.”
“Perhaps we can take this discussion elsewhere,” the loud, overcheerful voice of Lady Farraday said. “Perhaps—”
Manley ignored her. So did everyone else.
“This man should be seized now,” he said, “before he can escape again. Gabriel Rochford is a dangerous man and worthy only of
a dark prison cell until he can hang by the neck until he is dead.”
The murmurings were becoming a little louder and a little uglier. The situation was about to turn downright nasty. At any moment now, Gabriel thought, he was going to be tackled and brought down on the ballroom floor, his arms pinioned behind his back. Perhaps it was only social etiquette and the presence of ladies—several of whom looked just as outraged as their men, however—that had prevented its happening already.
“I find it a little strange, Manley,” Gabriel said, and the need to hear what he had to say outweighed the urge to prevent him from fleeing. Silence fell almost immediately. “I find it strange that you saw me shoot Mr. Orson Ginsberg, my friend, in the back. Of course, by your own admission you were some distance away and were perhaps mistaken about the identity of the murderer. You were the only witness, were you?”
“I was not,” Manley said. “My cousin was with me. Your cousin too. Mr. Philip Rochford.”
“Ah,” Gabriel said. “The late Philip Rochford, that would be.”
“He reported what he saw,” Manley said, “to a number of people, including the earl, his father, and representatives of the law. You made a grave mistake in coming back to England, Gabriel Rochford. If you believe your prospects will protect you—”
“I find it strange,” Gabriel said, cutting him off, “because I know of two other witnesses who are willing to swear, in a court of law if necessary, that I was nowhere near the scene of the murder at the time it was committed.”
“Oh yes?” Manley said. He was sneering now and looking about him to encourage his audience to sneer with him. “Produce them, Gabriel Rochford.”
Gabriel felt someone step up behind him and tug lightly on his domino. Jessica looked back and released her hold of his arm in order to step to one side and draw Mary into the gap between them with one arm about her shoulders. The little bareheaded nun had removed her wimple as well as her mask. She looked steadily and reproachfully at Manley.