When Shaldon came shortly after supper to claim his promised dance with Helen, there was a slight constraint in his manner at first. Finding a reserve, too, on her part — which he wrongly attributed to this present attitude of his — he quickly threw it aside and did his best to resume their former friendly relationship. After all, why should not a pretty girl flirt a little?
And she was undeniably pretty — those gold-flecked eyes, now serious, now laughing; the fine-boned, mobile face framed in honey brown hair; the warm, soft lips. No, pretty was too tame a word to describe her fresh, unstudied charm. She had a regal look at times tonight, in her elegant gown of white silk; yet he preferred his memory of her in the wood at Alvington, dishevelled and breathless, her hair tumbled about her face. She had been more approachable then.
He exerted himself to break through her reserve, but without success. She kept up a ready enough flow of polite small talk, but her manner towards him bordered on formality, as though he had been a newly introduced partner. The dance was nearly over when he decided to tax her directly with this treatment.
“I collect,” he said, as he took her hand when they came together again after one of the movements, “that you’ve still not forgiven me for adopting too brotherly a concern towards you when we encountered each other in Piccadilly some three weeks since.”
She opened her eyes wide, an ingenuous expression in them. “Why, pray what can you mean, Lord Shaldon?”
“It’s of no use to try and gammon me, ma’am. The very air surrounding you is frosty. I wish I had thought to bring my overcoat.”
She laughed at this, relaxing a little. “I am sorry if you find anything lacking in my conduct.”
“Not a whit. I seldom danced with a better conducted young lady. But I was looking for more than politeness from you, Miss Somerby. I had hoped for the friendship we seemed to have renewed at Alvington.”
“It is still yours, if you desire it,” she flashed at him quickly, as they parted momentarily again.
As he mechanically performed the movements of the dance apart from her, he pondered over what exactly this could mean. And then he suddenly recalled the evening at the Opera, saw in his mind’s eye her hand raised in a friendly greeting and the way in which Lady Chetwode had leaned forward to restrain her. He cursed softly. So that was it. Her chaperone, though doubtless reluctant to enter upon such a subject with a young girl, must have offered Helen a sufficient explanation to give her a disgust of him.
She could not know, and he could not tell her, that the sight of her sitting in the opposite box had quite ruined that evening for him. Why he did not know, but from that moment he had taken no further pleasure in the society of his Cyprian companions. Moreover, since then, there had been no more assignations with the bewitching Harriette Wilson. Perhaps the reason might be that he had always regarded Helen Somerby as a sister, and a man would not wish his sister to see him in such company. But what was to be done? The subject was taboo; he could not venture one word to her on it. And yet the one thing he most wished for now was to regain her good opinion.
When they came together again, he was silent for a while. She looked up at him enquiringly.
“You may perhaps recall,” he said presently, breaking the silence, “giving me a warning about something Durrant had said to you?”
He could not have hit upon a more successful way of combating her reserve, and perhaps it was not entirely chance that suggested it.
“Why, yes,” she replied, quickly, in a more friendly manner. “Only you laughed at me and thought me fanciful!”
“True, and I beg your pardon, for I’ve come to think better of that; or at least, to wonder if there may not be something in it. Lord Lydney seemed to be hinting at something amiss when I dined with him. He recommended me to make my peace with my father, and used some deuced odd words — said he feared the outcome for us both, if I did not.”
“Oh!”
Helen almost stopped dancing, so intrigued was she by this communication.
“Did you not ask him exactly what he meant?”
He guided her onwards. “Of course, but he shut up like a clam. Told me to ask my father, which I was unable to do, in the event. When I went down to Alvington on the following day, the old gentleman had left for Bath.”
“And did you not follow him there?” she demanded eagerly.
“To Bath? Of all places, the one I most detest! Besides, he’ll return in a few weeks, and I can ask him then. I daresay it’s all a hum,” he added, carelessly.
“Oh, but no! I don’t think so! If Lord Lydney said so much, he must feel that the matter is serious. I believe you were mistaken in not going at once to Bath,” said Helen, vehemently.
He smiled at her earnestness. “You do, do you? Well, madam, perhaps I should have consulted you in the matter before this.”
She reddened slightly. “Of course, I don’t mean to interfere. It’s no concern of mine—”
“That’s a whisker! Confess, now — you are all agog to get to the bottom of this little mystery. Well, so you shall, for when I’ve seen my father, I promise to acquaint you with the whole. There, will that do?”
She said that it would, and they finished the dance on much better terms than when they had begun.
But Helen could not help feeling that he was taking the matter too lightly. Somewhere at the back of her mind a sense of uneasiness sprang once more to life, a foreboding of trouble in store for Viscount Shaldon.
CHAPTER XXVI
Bertram Durrant found it difficult to concentrate on his work nowadays. He was in a mood of uncertainty. Sometimes the future looked bright for him, with all his plans dovetailing neatly into place; at others, it seemed that he had built only a structure of cards that would collapse at a touch.
Cynthia was lost to him. At Alvington he had at least seen her occasionally, whenever it had pleased her to look in on him at his work in the book room of Askett House. He had realised quite well at that time that this had been only because she lacked other, more interesting diversions. Here in London, all that was changed. She was seldom at home for more than a few hours at a stretch, and then there was a constant stream of callers for her — mostly eligible young men, he reflected bitterly. She was for ever dashing off to some entertainment or another; balls, routs, the play, Almack’s, musical soirées, excursions to well-known beauty spots, riding or driving in the Park, with one or other of the young men of the ton who had rapidly formed a court around her. It was small consolation to him to observe that Shaldon was not often in her company. He had been aware for long enough that both the Earl of Alvington and Baron Lydney were firmly decided on a family alliance, and could not doubt that eventually both Cynthia and Shaldon would fall in with the arrangement. He lived in daily expectation of hearing their engagement announced, and could not quite fathom what Shaldon’s game was in not coming to the point at once. All the better for his own plans if no formal betrothal existed, though; Baron Lydney would certainly wish to hedge off once Shaldon was no longer heir to the title and estate, and it might be more difficult for him to do so if the pair had already become betrothed. As for Cynthia, it was simple to understand why she did not trouble to bring matters to a head between herself and Shaldon. Obsessed as he was by her, Durrant suffered from no illusions. She was making the most of her first season, revelling in the heady delights of being the centre of a crowd of adoring suitors. To be engaged would spoil all this, and restrict her to the attentions of one man alone. He wondered if that would ever satisfy her; and swore to himself that, if he were the man, he would make sure that it did.
She would have been surprised, not to say amused, to discover how much he knew of her comings and goings. As most of the family correspondence passed through his hands, he was often required to answer cards of invitation on her behalf, so was naturally well informed about her social engagements. When the family dined at home alone, which was seldom, he had an insignificant place at table and could glean further informatio
n from the conversation. Apart from these sources, he relied a good deal on Cynthia’s personal maid, Pinker, an elderly female who had a secret admiration for the handsome secretary and was always ready to chat with him about her mistress’s concerns. He often told himself that Pinker might come in even more useful to him some day.
He had a certain amount of free time from his secretarial duties, and would often pass this in frequenting the neighbourhood of houses where Cynthia was bound on one or other of her engagements. He had often watched her from a safe distance riding or driving in the Park; or sometimes he had joined the crowd standing about in the street to watch the arrivals at some brilliant function to which she had accepted an invitation. His heart would lift as he saw her, exquisitely gowned, alight from her carriage to mount the carpeted steps where the flunkeys were waiting to admit her. He was always very careful never to be observed on these occasions. It was folly, he knew; but it was like some powerful drug on which he had come to depend.
On the night of Cynthia’s come-out ball, he had intended to leave the house and seek consolation in a tavern; but in the end, he could not bring himself to go. Instead, he settled down with a book of travels in his own apartments, a sitting room and bedchamber removed by a short flight of stairs from the family bedchambers.
He attempted to concentrate on his book, which concerned a subject usually of interest to him; but even at this distance he could hear faint strains of music wafting up from the ballroom, and the thought of Cynthia floating round the floor with some other man came between him and the text. After a while, he could stand it no longer. Thrusting the book away from him with an oath, he left his room and made his way cautiously downstairs, using the servants’ staircase.
There was a small gallery attached to the ballroom for the use of the musicians, and this was approached by a short flight of steps behind the service door. There were no servants about in the passage as he reached the foot of the staircase, so he quietly mounted the steps to the gallery. One or two of the musicians looked up as he made his appearance there; but he waved his hand in a gesture indicating that he had no wish to interrupt, so they ignored him and continued to play.
Telling himself that, if noticed by his employer, he could always claim that he was anxious to see if everything was going smoothly with the arrangements, he walked over to the edge of the balcony and looked down.
His questing eyes soon found Cynthia. She was whirling round the room with a swish of silken draperies, tightly clasped in Shaldon’s left arm, with her one hand on his shoulder and the other locked palm to palm with his free hand. They were dancing the waltz! Even as his shocked gaze took in this fact, she raised her dark eyes to her partner’s with the provocative look that Durrant knew so well.
With a muttered imprecation, he turned on his heel and left the balcony. So fierce was his anger at what he had seen that he remained stock still at the top of the balcony steps, scarcely aware of his surroundings.
Presently he realised dimly that the music had ceased and there was a shuffling of feet in the gallery behind him. It must be an interval. In another moment the musicians would be pushing past him down the stairs, in quest of some quick refreshment before their next performance. Not wanting to be noticed by them, he quickly descended the steps and started on his way back to his apartment. But now he went slowly, nursing his sense of outrage.
Cynthia, his Cynthia, the girl he worshipped and longed for, to be clasped in another man’s arms, and that man Shaldon! To be dancing the scandalous waltz with him in the sight of all those people! It was not to be endured. He could not endure it. But what was to be done?
His mind was still confused as he reached the top of the servants’ staircase and walked slowly along the passage. Without knowing it, he passed his own door and went on towards the family bedchambers. And as he loitered along, he almost bumped into the one person who had so disordered his normally orderly mind.
They both gave a start. Cynthia recovered first.
“Why, Mr. Durrant!” she exclaimed. “Did I not catch sight of you a little while ago, in the musicians’ gallery?”
He gabbled an incoherent assent. She looked at him coyly.
“Was it you who directed them to take an interval? If so, it was a great deal too bad of you, for I was enjoying myself prodigiously!”
He had some control of himself now.
“So I observed,” he said, woodenly. “But no, I did not order them to cease playing. I fancy it was all arranged beforehand.”
“Then why were you there?”
“To watch for a moment.”
“Ah, what a pity!” She laid a hand on his arm, looking up at him with mocking compassion. “Do you feel very like Cinderella in the fairy tale? Would you, too, have liked to be on the floor, whirling some young lady around in your arms?”
“Yes,” he said, hoarsely, “indeed I would.”
“Poor man,” she murmured. “And who is she, the young lady whom you would desire as a partner? Will you perhaps be taking her some evening to a ball where you may dance with her to your heart’s content?”
In the subdued lighting of the passage, her eyes appeared darker, more inviting than ever. He clenched his hands at his sides to prevent himself from springing forward to seize her in his arms.
“No.” His voice was harsh now. “No, I may never dance with her. There’s no hope for such as me—”
“Oh, dear, a hopeless passion! And you told me once that you were not romantical! I would give much to know who this fair cruelty is, so that I might give her a piece of my mind.”
He shook his head, unable to answer.
“Well, I see you don’t mean to confide in me, so I won’t press you. But she must be very stupid not to return your feelings. Who could wish for a more personable young man—”
He was unable to contain himself at this.
“For God’s sake, don’t patronise me!”
The cry was almost one of physical pain. She removed her hand from his arm, looking up at him with an expression first of surprise, then of satisfaction.
“Well, if she won’t dance with you, perhaps I will. There, would that do?”
“You — you don’t mean it — you — couldn’t,” he stammered, thrown completely off balance.
“Could I not?” she responded to the implicit challenge. “We’ll see that.”
At the start of their conversation she had intended to bait Bertram Durrant as usual for sport. He so patently admired her, and the social inhibitions which prevented him from in any way showing his admiration only added spice to the game. But now some unknown, unexpected element had crept in, something which aroused the hidden devilment in her own nature and prompted her to outrageous behaviour.
“I’m to attend a masquerade the day after tomorrow,” she whispered, “at Lady Plummet’s in Richmond. She’s young, a thought wild, and not at all stuffy. Guests are to keep secret their identity until midnight, when masks will be removed. There’s to be no announcing of names at the door; one simply shows one’s card to gain admittance. You may go, and leave before midnight with none the wiser, if you wear a mask and domino like the rest. And then you may dance with me — if you can recognise me, that is, in my disguise! — or with anyone else who takes your fancy, for that matter.”
She reached forward and placed a finger momentarily on his lips.
“Say no more. I’ll procure you a card — in an assumed name, of course — and leave it on your desk tomorrow. And now I must return to the ballroom.”
She flitted away before he could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to make any reply.
He spent the rest of that evening shut up in his room in a state of confusion unlike anything he had ever known. At times he wondered if he could have been delirious and conjured up the whole incident out of a fevered imagination. But when on the following afternoon he returned to his desk, after a short interval for nuncheon, to find a gilt-edged invitation card lying there requesting the pleas
ure — of Mr. D. Bertram’s company at Lady Plummet’s Moonlight Masquerade, he knew that this was no dream.
D. Bertram. That had been a clever notion, to transpose his names, he thought; his Cynthia was a lady of resource, as well as being the most desirable creature in the world. He saw that the masquerade was due to begin at half past nine — a Moonlight Masquerade, so the card stated. It sounded vastly romantic, and by God! he would make it so. He found his confusion vanishing, to be replaced by a mood of wild elation which could not entirely obscure his cooler, more calculating side. There were plans to be made if this escapade were to be brought off safely. It would not do to depart in a vehicle from Berkeley Street at the same hour as the daughter of the house; better take a room for the night at an inn in the City and take a post chaise from there. It would be expensive, but what did he care for that when his reward would be so great? Besides, he could always charge the amount to the expense account to be submitted to the Earl of Alvington for outgoings in connection with his affairs. He thought with a bitter smile what a nice touch of irony it would be that the Earl should foot the bill for his private investigator’s assignation with Shaldon’s bride elect.
There was not the slightest hitch in his plans. When he arrived at the mansion in Richmond on the appointed evening, he was one of a crowd of masked ladies and gentlemen all anxious to preserve their anonymity for the present. They were led to the ballroom, where an illusion of moonlight had been created by a large yellow disk suspended from the ceiling, from which only a faint glow emerged. The only other light in the vast, dim room came from a few coloured lanterns hung along the walls at infrequent intervals. Even the musicians, who required a good light to read their scores, were screened off so that only the faintest gleams were visible at their end of the room.
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