by Lavinia Kent
“Before you go, tell me, is there anything you need? I could write you a reference or get Mrs. Wattington to. Or funds? Do you need more money?”
“Now you are prepared to offer these things? Why not before?”
“I should have, but I did not. Do the whys matter now?”
She nibbled at her lower lip. “No, I suppose they do not. And no, I do not need anything from you.”
“What if you are already with child?”
Her face froze. He could see that she had not considered the possibility. “I will let you know. In those circumstance I might need aid and I would not be too proud to ask.”
“Is it pride that stops you now? I cannot bear to think you might need me and I might be unable to help.”
“There may be some pride, but truly my problems cannot be solved by you.”
“Do you have a place to go, people who will care for you?”
He could tell she did not want to answer.
“Yes,” she said at last. “I have found an old friend who has offered to help.”
“And this friend can help you, solve your problems?” He could only hope the friend was not a man.
“No, my problems are beyond help.”
“What are these problems that you think a duke cannot solve?” He felt affronted that she did not consider him capable.
“They do not matter between us.”
“Are they part of why you leave—is it not just me, my inability to make you happy?” Gad, he sounded an insecure fool.
She walked toward the door, placed her hand upon the handle, easing it open. The light from the hall lit her like an angel, reminding him of their first encounter weeks ago. She had not donned her mask. Lifting the silver confection, she stared at it a moment and then looked out into the hall. Then she fitted it over her head, the blond wig covering her red-gold curls. It felt as if she removed herself from him with that simple gesture.
She stepped out the door and he thought it was over.
Then she stopped, turned back to him, her lips stiff beneath the mask. “Do you remember that ride in your carriage, that first hour, when you bargained with me to be your mistress?”
“Of course.”
“Do you remember offering to protect me from anything?”
“I meant it. I still would.”
“Only that wasn’t all you said.”
“I—I don’t recall.”
“You said that you, the duke, Strattington, could protect me from anything, that you would protect me from anything—because it wasn’t like I’d killed a man.”
“I remember.”
“Well, that is the problem.”
“I am lost again.”
She looked him straight in the eyes, the bright candles of the hall lighting her blue eyes despite the shadow of the mask. “My problem is just that—I did kill a man.”
She shut the door with a decisive click, leaving him to the twilight of the conservatory.
She wanted to lean back against the door and collect herself, but she dared not. She had told Mark her secret, seeking to offer his bleakness some comfort—if her confessing murder could be considered comfort. For the first time she had seen Mark and the duke as one man, and she had given him the only gift she could.
It would take him a moment to recover from his shock, but then he would be after her, wanting to know more, wanting to see if he could be all-powerful, if he could solve this problem too. No, she needed to be gone, to lock her dreams deep in her heart and keep them there.
She would be happy in the country with Annie’s children to care for. It might be that she would never have her own, but at least she would not have to pretend to have all she wanted as Mark left her bed to head home to his wife.
She walked swiftly down the hall, head bowed as she let her thoughts run free. If she took the small corridor to the left she could sneak up the servants’ stair and hide herself safely above.
She gasped when strong fingers reached out and grabbed her arm. Turning, she found herself staring at Caesar’s robes. Why was everyone fascinated with the classical world this evening?
Caesar was tall, with thick dark curls standing out about a hard face hidden only by the smallest of masks. “You’re heading the wrong way, my lady. I suggest you join our guests in the ballroom. You would not want anyone to wonder about where you had been.”
“But I am not—”
“Don’t bother with the different voice, Georgiana. I’ve observed your compatriots and it is very clear they are not you. Now go, before I decide to see just who is still waiting in the conservatory. I do not wish a scene—not the night before the coronation, not when the king could arrive at any moment.”
Caesar stared down at her coldly, his eyes drawn to her kiss-swollen lips. He was clearly Lord Richard, Annie’s husband. She was about to clarify that she was not Annie when she stopped, considered. If he knew the other two Graces were not Annie, and she denied it also, then what would he think? She lowered her head, staring at his sandals. “Yes, my lord,” she answered softly.
“See that you do that, then. We will talk later.” He turned and left, the leather of his soles slapping against the floor.
She was about to give a soft sigh and make a dash for the servants’ stair when another voice spoke, a low, harsh whisper. “You’d think a man would know his own wife, wouldn’t you, Miss Masters? I don’t see a resemblance between you and Lady Richard, but then I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
She started to turn, but a hand came down on her shoulder, stopping her. “No, don’t turn. I’ve had my agent talk to you before this, but I think it is time I made myself clear. I want the letters you took from Foxworthy and I will not wait much longer. I do not care what you need to do to get them. You have shown yourself most ingenious. I am sure you will find a way. You were given until the day after tomorrow and you had best meet the deadline. If I fear that you will run again—and I will know—I will take no time before spreading word of your deeds to all of London.”
“I am still not sure which letters you mean.” Did he hear the desperation in her voice?
The gentleman, and she was sure he was one, gave a soft sigh. “That is why I have come to address you myself. You must give me everything that you retrieved. I can find what I seek.”
“But it is all junk. If you told me what I was looking for I could be more sure of having it for you.”
Could you feel debate and consideration? The man’s hand twitched upon her shoulder and her gaze dropped down to his long, lean fingers, a heavy ring, a fringe of lace with plum-colored edging.
“Bring it all. This is the last warning you will get. I have been far too generous already.”
“And if I do not bring it?”
“Then I will make sure that everyone knows what you have done. Do not think Strattington will protect you then. He will cut you from his life in the blink of an eye. I will make sure the authorities take you and that you hang.”
Before she could even ask, “What authorities?” his fingers squeezed even tighter.
“And do not try to run again, Miss Masters. I am getting very tired of chasing.”
“Where do I bring the papers? I cannot just walk around with them at all times.”
“I will let you know—you can be sure I will find you. I seem to have a talent for it. And now, Miss Masters, I suggest you head down that hall, as you so desire, and flee upstairs to your room. Do not look back. It would so complicate matters.”
She thought she’d killed someone. Mark was sure she hadn’t actually done it. Bella could barely bring herself to swat a fly. He couldn’t imagine the circumstances that would bring her to commit murder. He’d killed men in the war and could remember each one of them. Necessity could force actions that one would otherwise not take, but he could not imagine Bella—no, not Bella. . .
He had to find her. If she told him what had happened, he could help her, then she could stop running.
He
might not be able to marry her, but this he could do. He’d set his investigators to proving her innocence—if there was anything to prove. He still couldn’t picture a circumstance that would lead his Bella to end a life.
He grabbed his mask and toy sword, staring at the latter with distaste and then dropping it back on the floor. Pulling the mask over his face, he followed her. She would not escape him. He needed to be sure she was safe, not running forever.
He yanked open the door—and stopped.
Caesar stood without.
“Lord Richard, can I help you in some way?” he asked. Damn it, he didn’t have time to greet his host, not now. He had to find her or she’d be gone. If she was back in the ballroom with the other Graces would he ever find her? He’d sensed her before, but would he really be able to tell?
Lord Richard spoke, each word ice. “I do not know who you are and I do not care to know. I would, however, suggest you leave my home immediately or I will have you tossed out like the refuse that you are.”
“Now, hold on—”
“I have been informed that the king is on his way here—anonymously, of course. If it were not for his arrival you can be sure I would not leave you unbloodied.” Lord Richard turned and was about to walk away.
“Stop, this is no way to treat—”
“I have said I do not wish to know you, sir. Please be gone.”
“But I need to find—”
“Do you not listen?” Lord Richard looked like he would spit. “I do not care what or who you need to find. If it is my wife you are looking for, then I would suggest you think again, unless you wish to meet at dawn.”
“But I don’t know your wife. I’ve seen her, of course, but I do not believe we’ve ever had a proper introduction.”
Lord Richard glanced past Mark into the dark of the conservatory.
“Apparently some things do not require an introduction. And if you truly do not know whom you just—just fucked, then I suggest you be more careful in choosing your companion for the evening. Not all husbands would be as understanding of their wives’ lovers. Now, be gone.”
Isabella stood there shaking. Her hand shook. Her legs shook. Even her toes were quivering. It was all too much for one night. First Mark, then Lord Richard, and now the man with the purple lace. He was different from any of her previous pursuers. This man knew exactly what it was he wanted. And when he’d threatened her she’d had no doubt that he meant it. He had spoken with absolute authority. He clearly was the mysterious employer, and whoever he was, he was used to power. The memory tweaked at her mind. There had been something familiar about him, but what?
Her feet moved forward a step. She had to move. It would not do if Mark found her. She could not involve him in this mess, not if there was someone with power who cared about Foxworthy. Mark cared so much about becoming the perfect duke. He was willing to give up anything to achieve it. She would not ruin it by involving him in scandal.
“Isabella. Isabella, is that you?” The soft voice spoke from the direction of the ballroom.
She’d wondered what else could happen. Now she knew.
Could she run? Physically run away? She’d never seen her sister move at anything faster than a saunter; perhaps she could escape. No. There was nowhere to go. If she went in the opposite direction, she’d run into Mark—or the man who’d just threatened her. She couldn’t push past Violet, not with her husband, Lord Peter St. Johns, behind her. Besides, if she left Annie’s home and ran from her sister, she truly would be out of options.
Slowly she turned. She could still bluff, pretend.
One look at Violet’s face told her otherwise. There was no doubt, no question, only joy.
“Isabella, it is you. Don’t even try to pretend. Nobody walks like you do when you’re nervous, landing high on the toe and then lowering yourself slowly to the floor. You’ve done it since you were a child. And your hair is showing beneath your wig. You should have taken more care.” The angel wings of Violet’s costume flitted lightly as she stepped forward.
Isabella looked past Violet. Lord Peter stood just behind her, the look in his eye informing Isabella that she had better not disappoint his wife.
Isabella glanced about. She could not be found by Mark now. Trying to remember the layout of the house, she chose a door and opened.
“Come, sister. Let us talk.” She held the door wide for Violet and Lord Peter.
Mark sat in his carriage across from the house. She had to leave sometime. The clock had rung three a while ago and still Bella had not emerged from the front door. He’d seen one of the other Graces leave, slipping out as if hiding, but he had known instantly it was not Bella. Bella was at least an inch shorter, not quite as full of figure—and, well, he didn’t know how else he’d been sure, but he had known deep it his gut. It was not Bella.
No, Bella had not left yet—unless she’d been under a heavy cloak and domino. He’d seen several people leave so attired, and short of accosting each one he’d had no choice but to let them go.
Where was she?
What if she truly was Lord Richard’s wife? No, that was nonsense. Lady Richard was not a nursery maid, even a well-educated one, and while she had been gone from London for years she had returned long before Isabella.
So who was she? He’d forced himself not to wonder since their first conversation in the carriage. She’d agreed to be his mistress and in return he promised not to pursue further inquiries. He’d assumed that the men searching for her were from her family. Now it seemed more likely that they were involved in the “murder” she claimed to have committed.
Before he could consider further there was a knock on the door and Douglas climbed in.
“What are you doing here?” Mark felt no need to be polite.
Douglas reached behind the carriage’s cushions and pulled out a flask. He took a good swig. “It’s going on four in the morning and you have not returned home. You were not quite yourself when you left this morning. I merely thought to see if you needed a second. Are you dueling in the morning? My life could use the excitement.”
Mark grabbed the flask from Douglas and took his own swallow. “I was almost called out, but managed to avoid such unpleasantness. Divers would have been most displeased if I got blood on my clothing.”
Douglas snorted. “You will not convince me that you’d care if you got blood on the finest of your brocades, not to mention that thing.” He gestured at Mark’s costume. “Sandals. A duke in sandals, is that the impression you really want to leave?”
“No one recognized me—well, Bella did, but that hardly counts.”
“Bella was there? At a society ball?”
Running his fingers through his hair, Mark answered, “I haven’t figured that out either, but yes, she was there. And there is more to the story. I think I know what she was running from, why those men were pursuing her.”
Douglas leaned back, taking the flask with him. “And does this explain why you are sitting in the dark of night in your cold carriage instead of home in your warm bed—or in hers?”
“I am waiting for her.”
“And she’s keeping you waiting? At what time exactly did you plan to meet?”
A sigh could not begin to express his feelings. “She doesn’t know I am waiting. She ran off on me again. She left after telling me she’d killed someone. She tells me something like that and then expects me to ignore it.”
Douglas leaned forward and stared out the window toward the Tenants’ house. “Perhaps she doesn’t expect you to ignore it. Perhaps this is her way of asking for help.”
“I had not considered that. It is odd that she would say it and run, although she does seem to like to run. I gather she always runs from her problems.”
“You’ll need to work on that. It’s hard to solve a problem if you can’t find it. Are you sure she hasn’t left?”
“As sure as I can be. It will be hours yet before the party ends and I fear I am doomed to sit here for all of them.
”
“I can wait instead of you. With the coronation tomorrow you had best get home and get some rest.”
He had not even thought about the coronation. Mark had watched the flurry of activity as the king slipped out anonymously with only three or four carriages of followers, but he’d not considered the next day. “Damnation. I know you are right, but I fear that you’ll miss her. She’s dressed in costume—as is everybody else.” He gestured out the window at what he thought was a shepherd.
“I can get considerably closer than the carriage can. Plus nobody will notice me.” Douglas looked down at his dull pants and scuffed boots.
Mark didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. It was, however, the logical thing. “If you see her come out, follow her. I must know exactly where she goes.”
Chapter 26
Isabella stared about her old bedroom. She had never imagined being in it again, the dainty, sprigged curtains and the tall windows overlooking the back garden, the high narrow bed in which she’d dreamed of a perfect future. It was not her childhood bed. The room had been hers for only the occasional visit to London and for the brief months of her season before everything had gone wrong.
Still, it was more her room than any room she’d ever had, besides the nursery back in Dorset. But that room had always seemed to belong to all the children who had come before her. This room had been hers.
Masters had allowed her to choose the furnishings and even to choose which room of the house she desired for herself. The spreading tree that stood outside the window and the smell of summer roses had made the choice an easy one.
If she opened the window it would smell of roses now.
Still, she did not do so.
It was enough that she was here, in her brother’s home.
She flopped onto the bed, falling back across the mattress.
Masters was not yet home, but he would be at any moment. Isabella was not sure she was ready for him.
Violet had sent a messenger to him at first light the morning after the masquerade, despite Isabella’s pleas that she not do so. Violet was convinced that the two of them must talk, must work out their differences. She swore that Masters had changed since his marriage. She had begged Isabella to do this one thing for her, to try and reconcile with their brother.