A Noble Masquerade

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  Six months ago he wouldn’t have cared if the ton accepted him back into the fold. He ran a thumb over the invitation. It was amazing how quickly things changed.

  It was smaller than he remembered, though with seven windows facing the street from the first floor it was still considerably larger than most of the other terraced town homes in Mayfair. The simple three-story facade surrounded the street-level covered and columned entrance, setting it apart from the ornate buildings on either side of it.

  It had been a long time since Ryland had laid eyes on Montgomery House. Through considerable effort Ryland had managed to avoid most of Mayfair for the past nine years. His trusted estate manager kept him abreast of important news.

  Jeffreys clapped a hand on Ryland’s shoulder. “If we stand here much longer, someone is going to recognize you. You haven’t changed that much in appearance.”

  In appearance, no. But in everything else . . .

  “Of course.” Ryland cleared his throat and waited for a stately coach-and-four to drive by before crossing the street.

  The two men slipped down the stairs to the servant entrance below street level. Entering the workroom was like walking down memory lane. Nurses, soldiers, and even a few reformed criminals welcomed him with smiles and cheery hellos.

  Breakfast trays were being readied on one table, and after a brief round of handshakes and hugs, everyone returned to their work. Such a large house required that everyone work diligently to keep it running, even with the enormous number of staff he had hired.

  His stomach rumbled as one of the maids, a former battlefield nurse, carried a tray of eggs and kippers toward the stairs.

  “Mattie,” Ryland called to the French woman stabbing a spatula at the stove, “would it be possible to have one of those trays brought up to my room? I think I need a little kip before I tackle the social scene tonight.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” The tall woman softened her thick French accent with a saucy wink as one of the kitchen maids began setting out the makings of another tray.

  “Thank you. Send it up when you’ve finished with the others. No need to delay theirs and make them wonder.” Ryland led Jeffreys to the side staircase where the breakfast tray had disappeared moments before. He paused with his foot on the bottom stair. “My room is free, isn’t it?”

  Cecil, a footman who had been a sly pickpocket and leader of a street gang in his former life, puffed his chest out in evident pride. “Yes, Yer Grace. ’E tried to take it over a time or two but none of us would wait on him while ’e was in there. Wouldn’t see to hisself, so didn’t take more than a day to boot him back to his old quarters.”

  “Thank you, Cecil, and to the rest of you. It’s good to be home.” His glance managed to meet the eyes of everyone in the room before he turned and climbed the steps.

  Emotion, surprising and a bit unwelcome, clogged his throat, making him glad Jeffreys was two steps behind him. That was his legacy, why he’d continued on year after year. He hadn’t realized it until that moment, seeing them all together in one room. The good he’d seen in those people and others like them was why he’d taken the risk to fight quietly in the shadows.

  The servant stairs hid them for only a while. In order to reach the master’s rooms, they would have to pass his aunt’s room. The unpleasant task of greeting his relatives could wait. He wanted to bask in the feeling that he’d done some good in the past ten years. With a war on, that was sometimes easy to forget.

  Jeffreys had barely shut the door behind them before another servant entered with a pitcher of hot water. Ryland cleaned up and slipped into one of the new silk dressing gowns he’d ordered.

  For three months Jeffreys had been slipping clothes and other personal items into the house so that it would be ready for his arrival. There were times when experience at subterfuge came in handy.

  The silk felt good. The bed felt even better. The scent wafting from the quickly delivered breakfast tray was almost heavenly. Maybe it wouldn’t take as long as he’d feared to adjust back to the life of a duke.

  “How do I look?”

  Miranda rolled her eyes behind the protection of her blue jeweled and feathered demi mask. It covered her forehead completely and slid just over the bridge of her nose. It was the fifth time Georgina had asked that question since they had climbed into the carriage twenty minutes prior. While Mother rushed to assure her youngest daughter that she looked exquisite in her angel garb, Miranda took the time to adjust a feather that was determined to tickle her nose.

  The nice thing about masquerades, particularly masquerades during a girl’s fourth Season, was that pastels were not required. The bright blue of Miranda’s gown did wonders for her complexion, which she then, of course, had to cover up with a mask. Life wasn’t fair sometimes.

  “What are you again?” Georgina ran a hand over the gauzy skirts of Miranda’s gown.

  “The sky.”

  Mother turned her attention to Miranda. “I thought you said you were a bird.”

  Lord Blackstone laughed from his corner of the carriage. “Told me she was the ocean.”

  Miranda grinned. “I guess I shall be a woman of mystery, then. Mother, the door is open.”

  Mother spun her head around to see the footman was indeed waiting for her to exit the conveyance.

  Miranda looked up at the house as she followed her mother. The entrance was lit like day, while the rest of the front remained shrouded in darkness. The effect was very dramatic. With a final adjustment to her mask, she trailed her family up the steps and into the home, passing four footmen holding aloft enormous candelabras.

  Lady Yensworth greeted them enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you returned to town in time for my little gathering.”

  Miranda managed to restrain an incredulous laugh. From the looks of things, everyone had returned to town for the little gathering. It was sure to be a crush inside. She greeted her hostess with a bow and entered the room, eager to see what kind of decorations lined the interior.

  The starkness of the exterior was not mirrored on the interior. Swaths of sheer fabric flowed from the high ceilings, giving the rooms an exotic softness. The second-floor ballroom was exquisite. More candelabras lined the room, these being held by tall stands instead of footmen. Strings of crystal beads hung from them, catching the candlelight and sprinkling spots of sparkle across the room. Lady Yensworth was certainly setting a high standard for the rest of the Season’s balls to live up to.

  Georgina’s pure white gown stood out among the colored dresses most of the women had chosen for the occasion. It wouldn’t be long before men were fetching her punch or asking her for a dance. Miranda whipped out her fan and sent her irritating feathers fluttering.

  She spied Amelia’s pink costume across the room, her arm linked with that of her tall husband, who had donned only a domino mask in addition to his normal evening attire. Anthony might be reformed and completely converted, but certain habits from his jaded, rakish past remained. The couple was in close discussion with two other couples. Rather the women were talking intently while the men gave each other bored half smiles.

  Miranda snapped her fan shut and worked her way across the room, the first genuine smile of the evening on her face. Whatever the women were discussing had to be more interesting than watching her sister. There was nothing she could do for Georgina now anyway. It was in God’s hands. He would either answer her prayers to protect her younger sister from heartbreak, or He wouldn’t.

  “Good evening, Amelia. Lady Granton. Mrs. Reeding.” She nodded to each of the women who’d chosen masks so minuscule they hardly deserved the name before curtsying to the men.

  The men bowed in return.

  “If you would excuse us,” Anthony said, patting his wife’s hand. “There is a card game in the east drawing room.”

  “Sure to be vastly more entertaining than this commotion. A bunch of fuss over nothing, if you ask me. Probably portly and disfigured.” Lord Granton ran a hand over h
is own ample midsection. “That’s why he chose a masquerade.”

  The men bowed to the ladies once more. Lord Granton and Mr. Reeding departed at once. Anthony leaned in to peck his wife on the cheek first.

  “I’ll come dance with you later.”

  Amelia grinned. “A scandalous number of times, no doubt.”

  “But of course.” Anthony nodded to the other ladies and left the party.

  It was unusual for any husband to accompany his wife on the dance floor, but Miranda had a feeling that the newlyweds would not care about social convention.

  Miranda waited expectantly for the ladies to fill her in on the topic of Lord Granton’s grumblings. Trepidation began to climb up her spine as Amelia glanced at her sideways and then refused to meet her eyes.

  “Have you heard? It’s the most exciting thing. Sure to be the talk of the entire Season!” Mrs. Reeding fluttered her fan to cool her flushed cheeks.

  Icy fingers of fear covered Miranda’s shoulders. She didn’t know what she was afraid of, only that it felt like this news was going to have a great impact on her future.

  Lady Granton leaned in and glanced around. “I heard him over by the punch bowl. He introduced himself to Lord Trent.”

  “Trent is here?” Miranda looked around for her other brother.

  Amelia snagged Miranda’s arm, pulling her attention back to the circle. “It could be someone pretending to be him. It’s been known to happen.”

  Lady Granton shook her head, making her mask slide from side to side across her nose. “I saw the ring. That signet ring is certainly authentic. No one would dare to copy it. Not even his cousin.”

  Miranda was losing interest in the whole intrigue. Obviously her sense of doom was wrapped up in the drama of the story. “Who?”

  Mrs. Reeding leaned in. “The Duke of Marshington is here.”

  Chapter 17

  Miranda had never imagined a person could actually feel themselves turn pale. Her skin felt thin and icy even while her pulse pounded through her ears. The rhythmic roar drowned out the next few words of her companions, and she was grateful for the protection the mask offered. Her face was surely the picture of shock and fear.

  Distantly, she heard Amelia making an excuse about needing fresh air. In moments the welcome breeze on the terrace drew Miranda from her stupor.

  “Did he not tell you that he would be in London this Season?” Amelia gripped Miranda’s elbows. Compassion was evident in her deep brown eyes despite the shadows created by the purple silk mask.

  Miranda shook her head. “I haven’t heard from him since my birthday. The last letter from him was rather cryptic, and there’s been nothing since.”

  “Do you want to leave? Shall I fetch Trent or Griffith?”

  “No. No, I shall feel quite the thing in a moment. It was merely surprise that caused such a severe reaction.” Several moments and a few deep breaths later, Miranda felt that she could enter the ballroom once more. As appealing as the terrace was, she couldn’t stay out much longer and protect her reputation.

  Amelia left her to find some punch, and Miranda skirted the edge of the dance floor, seeking clues to identify the men. Each time she couldn’t name the man with certainty, she wondered if she was looking at the duke.

  A flash of white caught her eye, and her attention was drawn to her sister. Georgina’s feet flew through the steps of the lively cotillion. In addition to matchless beauty and incredible charm, the blessed girl had been born with natural grace. Her dancing instructors had declared her their easiest pupil ever.

  Miranda followed her sister’s shadowed gaze and charming smile over to the young girl’s partner. He was unlike any other man in the room. Most of the male occupants were dressed as kings or Roman conquerors if they had bothered to dress with any imagination at all. Many wandered the room in their normal attire, only a mask to mark the occasion as Anthony had done.

  Georgina’s dance partner, however, had gone an entirely different direction in his choice of clothing. He looked more like a century-old French courtier than anything else. The jacket stretched across his broad shoulders was made from a burnt-orange brocade with white ruffles spilling from the sleeves. Brown breeches topped white stockings and heeled shoes. That he was even managing the dance in the ridiculous footwear was intriguing.

  The man was large. Perhaps as tall as her brother Griffith—though she couldn’t tell for sure considering distance and the elevated shoes. He wasn’t as broad in the shoulder though. His brown hair was cropped very short and his mask covered his face from mid-forehead to the top of his jaw. It was even molded over his nose.

  She inched forward, trying to see more of him, and got her shoulder grazed by another couple dancing by. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks, and she was once again grateful for the protection the mask provided. Could the man with her sister be the mysterious duke? Through his letters she knew he was unlikely to conform to society simply because he’d decided to reenter it, but would he be willing to stand out that much?

  There was something familiar about the man, though Miranda couldn’t think of anyone who wore his hair so closely cropped. Was it the way he moved? The tilt of his head as he led Georgina off the dance floor? Whatever it was, Miranda felt drawn to him. Stepping out with that many layers of lace marching down his chest required a considerable amount of confidence. Confidence that Miranda found herself admiring and envying at the same time.

  Perhaps she wasn’t trusting the Lord as much as she’d thought. Her first outing back in town and she was adding another name to the list of men she couldn’t stop thinking about. First Ryland Marlow the valet, and then the Duke of Marshington, and now the mysterious Lord Brocade. Her desire for a family was drawing her to any man that seemed to be out of the normal mold.

  She rose to her toes and craned her neck to follow the couple’s progress, but she soon lost them in the crowd. Georgina resurfaced on the dance floor a few minutes later, but with a different partner. A quick glance revealed that Lord Brocade was not among the couples now squaring off for a quadrille.

  “Lemonade. Suddenly I’m feeling quite parched.” Miranda’s voice was a bit louder than she intended, but none of the surrounding bucks jumped to retrieve her a glass. A woman with a tall powdered wig and wide skirt informed her that the refreshment table was at the other end of the ballroom.

  With a sigh, Miranda began working her way through the crowd. She knew the lemonade was on the other side of the room. It was why she decided to get some. She could peruse the crowd while she traveled. The fact that she hadn’t wanted anyone to get the lemonade for her did not take the sting out of the fact that three unattached gentlemen had been nearby and none of them had offered.

  No orange brocade along this side of the dance floor. She sipped at her lemonade as she worked her way toward the other side.

  “You have quite a reputation.”

  Miranda spun around at the deep voice. Lord Brocade had found her. “I beg your pardon!”

  “Amongst the gentlemen fawning over your sister instead of you. You have quite a reputation. I thought you might like to know.” A small smile tilted one side of his mouth up.

  There was something familiar about the smile. Did she know him? His eyes were hidden by the mask, shadowed too much for her to make out their color. Who was he?

  “That is terribly ungentlemanly of you to point out my, er, lack of popularity.”

  He shrugged. “You said it, not I.”

  Miranda’s mouth dropped open. This man had crashed the party! There was no other explanation for it. No one of her acquaintance would be this rude, even with the protection of semi-anonymity. She opened her mouth to give him the cut direct, but he spoke again before she could formulate an actual sentence.

  “Then again, you also said you were only passably pretty, and unless that mask is hiding a disfigurement, I believe you might have a misconception there as well.”

  She might not be able to see his eyes, but she could certain
ly feel them. They bored into her. He didn’t look to the side or down at his feet. His gaze remained unnervingly constant on her face.

  “Who are you?” she finally whispered.

  “My apologies. I thought my statements made that obvious.” He reached forward and grasped her hand from where it hung limply at her side. A large gold ring caught the glint of candlelight as he raised her hand to his lips. “I am the Duke of Marshington, Marsh to some of my friends.”

  Miranda’s first thought was that if her blood kept rushing around her body like this, she was going to have to see a surgeon. Surely it couldn’t be healthy. Her second thought was relief that it was only two men filling her attention instead of the three she imagined a few moments earlier. Finally full realization that she was standing in front of the Duke of Marshington set in, and she considered the merits of fainting for the first time in her life.

  “Would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me?”

  “Oh! I . . . of course.”

  The slight smile graced his face once more. “I shall look forward to it.”

  He kissed her hand once more before melting back into the crowd, leaving her wondering if the encounter had actually occurred.

  Ryland slid behind one of the sheer drapings in a darkened corner, keeping his gaze trained on Miranda. When he’d revealed his identity as the Duke of Marshington, her beautiful green eyes had widened under her mask until they were all that was visible through the cutaways. Every move he had made thus far was carefully calculated. That would all end once he stepped onto the dance floor with her. He would have to improvise based on her reactions.

  He counted to ten before she moved, jerking her head back and forth, seeking him in the crowd. These few minutes before the next dance were important. They would give her time to adjust and come to terms with being face-to-face with the man she had been writing to for years.

  As the quadrille ended, Miranda remained still. People flowed on either side of her. One or two people even stopped to talk to her. If she answered, Ryland couldn’t see it. It was clear that she was trying to wrap her mind around the idea that he was actually in the same room as she was.