Masque of Enchantment
Page 1
IN THE SCOTTISH BORDERLANDS, SHE WOVE A DESPERATE FICTION—ONLY TO DISCOVER HER HEART’S DEAREST DREAM!
Accused of murder, actress Alissa Ashford fled London for Scotland in the drab garb of a prim governess. Her employer, Jared Braxton, was supremely masculine and imperiously attractive, with a manner that sorely tested proud Alissa’s assumed meekness. Yet despite their clashes of will, they were one in their devotion to Jared’s little girl, whose soul was wounded by her mother’s shocking death … For the mahogany-maned beauty was not the only one with a secret within Hawkstone’s magnificent walls. Jared, too, kept his brooding counsel. Driven by the passion that burned between them, he seized on an unforeseen discovery and forced Alissa to become his wife. Still they denied the tenderness that charged their desire … until they were enmeshed in a deadly intrigue that threatened all they treasured!
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS, SHE FACED A DEVIL’S DILEMMA …
Alissa’s heart sang in her breast. He would allow her to remain safe at Hawkstone! “Mr. Braxton, how can I thank you?” she said in a rush, a smile lighting her eyes.
“Don’t thank me,” Jared said curtly. “Not until you’ve heard my terms.”
Alissa sobered. “What are the terms?”
Jared viewed her for a long moment. “We are to be married.”
“Married!” she cried, springing from her chair. “You must be … daft!”
Jared’s temper flared. “Agreed, I am daft!” he shouted, his eyes hard as moss-covered stone, “but the terms do not change. It’s the sheriff or me. Now choose, woman!”
This book is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents relating to non-historical figures are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of such non-historical incidents, places or figures to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 1990 by Charlene Cross
Cover art copyright © 1990 John Ennis
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-671-67699-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-4516-8277-9 (eBook)
First Pocket Books printing February 1990
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.
To my husband Ron:
Without you, all would be dark and silent. Thankfully, though, my life is aglow with the sweet strains of laughter. No one else could ever bring me such joy. I love you.
Thank you for purchasing this Pocket Books eBook.
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CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends …
—William Shakespeare
CHAPTER
One
England
April, 1840
A thick mist rose from the black waters of the Thames to slowly snake through the narrow maze of cobblestone and brick, enfolding all of London in its heavy embrace. Gaslights stood as lone sentinels along the deserted streets. Dim flames flickering in midair, they resembled a legion of lost spirits, lighting a pathway straight into hell. The entire city, now lifeless as a corpse, fell silent, entombed by the deepening fog.
Quickened footfalls broke the silent void as Alissa Ashford raced along the sidewalk, urgency driving her onward. Home, home, the word cadenced through her mind; a searing pain ripped through her side. An uneven rise in her path snagged her toe; a startled cry escaped her lips as her groping fingers snared the damp stone wall beside her, stopping her fall.
Thankful that the dense haze concealed her, Alissa leaned back against the cold, hard barrier, drawing a deep, fortifying breath to soothe her burning lungs, while quavering fingers massaged her tender side. She knew she should be on her way, but her feet refused to move. Her legs shook, then the trembling slowly crept upward. A violent shiver racked her entire body, as though a ghost had brushed her soul—the ghost of Charles Rhodes?
The frightening thought reestablished her need for haste, and Alissa pulled her black velvet cloak more securely around her, forcing her legs into action. She had to return to Mrs. Binnington’s and retrieve her possessions, for it was imperative she flee London before someone discovered what she had done.
A distorted rumble suddenly filtered through the murky haze, surging then subsiding, like the ebb and flow of an ocean’s tide. Alissa stopped and listened. Again, it loomed upward, only to be devoured by the dense fog. She peered through the mists, but the sound had no form. Uncertain of its origins, she pressed herself into the shadows.
Once more, it reverberated, rolling like distant thunder, growing louder, closer; it was accompanied by a ghoulish creak. Palpable fear rose to choke her as she imagined some supernatural entity stalking the deserted streets, searching for her. The ghost of Charles Rhodes! she thought again. And again, she shivered.
Muted hoofbeats broke through the precipice of her fear; iron scraped stone, and Alissa immediately realized it was a conveyance. With a quick scamper, she sought refuge in a narrow doorway and flattened herself into the corner. Then, as the clop, clop, clop of horses’ hooves drew closer, she pulled back, her breath held tightly in her lungs.
As the vehicle came alongside her, her acute eyes searched the fog, and she wondered if it was a coach. Or it might be a prison wagon, she thought frantically, dispatched from Bow Street on its way to Mrs. Binnington’s with a contingent of constables enlisted to escort her to Newgate, where she’d await trial for the murder of Charles Rhodes.
She shuddered as she imagined herself cast into the prison, left there to rot. Undoubtedly, all of London would decry her heinous crime—a crime she had good reason to commit. Yet, she knew her claim of self-defense would do little to persuade the throng of her innocence. No one would believe the word of an actress—an actress who had not yet gained the affection of the masses—that the viscount had tried to force himself on her. True, she bore the marks of his savage assault. Yet she was certain his father, the Earl of Creighton, would deny her accusations and testify she’d led poor Charles on, asserting that she’d bashed his son’s skull after young Rhodes had spurned her.
Nausea overtook her as she remembered the drunken sot’s hands groping below the neckline of her gown, biting painfully into her tender flesh; bitter bile surged to her throat as she relived the feeling of his wet, thick lips slobbering across her own. Still able to taste the leavings of his whiskey-laden breath, stale with cigar smoke, Alissa felt cert
ain she’d vomit. Her nerves close to shattering, a scream rose within her. Willfully, she stifled it and erased the disgusting vision of her attacker from her mind.
Deathly silence met her ears, and as Alissa cautiously peeked from the edge of the doorway, she noticed the vehicle had stopped several yards beyond her hideaway. Fearing she had indeed let loose a bloodcurdling scream, she pressed herself into her corner, her ears finely tuned to every sound.
“Mr. Stanley,” a deep baritone voice called through an open coach window, “where in blazes are we?”
“Don’t know, gov’nor,” the driver answered. “Cain’t see a bloody thing in this here fog.”
“Pull ahead to the signpost.”
“Don’t know what good it’ll do. Ye know I cain’t read.”
“Just do it, Mr. Stanley,” came the terse reply.
The coach lurched forward; a vivid curse escaped its interior. Several yards ahead, it stopped equally as fast, and another expletive colored the air.
Finding her courage, Alissa braved another peek from her niche. The coach door swung open, and a man of tall stature alighted from the vehicle, brushing at his evening clothes as he stepped down. “Henceforth, Mr. Stanley,” he said with an edge to his voice, “you’d best keep those horses under control, or I’ll demote you to stable boy and hire myself a more capable driver.”
“Sorry, gov’nor. The reins slipped out’a me hand.”
“Most likely, it’s you who’s slipped. Keep a tight cap on that bottle in your pocket, sir. I might find it a handicap, since Her Majesty is so young,” he said, sarcastically, “but I’d hope to reach our destination sometime during Victoria’s reign!”
Alissa watched as he strode to the signpost, where his eyes searched the lettering. Then, without warning, he spun in her direction. In that same instant, the fog lifted from around him, and the glow from the gaslight caught his features in bright relief. A dark scowl crossed his handsome, angular face as his gaze riveted itself to the doorway where she hid. Afraid she’d somehow drawn his attention, she dared not move.
A black cat suddenly bounded from the doorway just beyond and scurried past her hideaway. Seeing it, the tall man relaxed. His deep laughter rumbled across the void, and in a whirl of cape, he strode back to the coach, his booted feet striking the cobblestones with a smart click. “Shouldn’t be too much farther, Mr. Stanley,” he said, swinging inside the coach. “Just keep to the street we’re presently on.” The door closed with a thump.
“Hie-yup!” the coachman shouted, and the large bays clopped off at a steady pace.
When the coach lanterns shrank into small specks in the undulating mists, Alissa fled her sanctuary and on light feet flew to the safety of Mrs. Binnington’s. Entering through the back door to escape detection should anyone still be in the front parlor, she turned the key behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. As her hood fell from her head, she brushed a loose strand of mahogany hair from her cheek; then the ties on her cloak came free while she rushed around the oak table, heading for the back stairs. Just as she reached their shadows, the connecting door to the hall swung wide; Alissa halted in her tracks.
“Alissa, dear, you gave me a start!” Mrs. Binnington’s age-spotted hand covered the jump of her heart. Then she smiled. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She headed toward the wash cupboard to place a soiled bundle of linen in the wicker basket. “I have some sad tidings to share,” she lamented from inside the closet. “Poor Miss Pembroke passed on earlier this evening. The undertaker just left. I need to contact her new employer, but I suppose it can wait until he arrives. ’Tis sad, indeed, but the poor woman was so weak. Such a frail thing.” She gathered some fresh bedding and retreated from the small room. “A shame she didn’t have any relatives to be at her side, but, praise the Lord, she went peacefully when her time came.”
Mrs. Binnington shut the door and turned to find Alissa clutching the back of a chair. All the blood had drained from the girl’s face. Then she noticed Alissa still wore her stage makeup. Her huge eyes looked like two shards of blue glass, staring from a white mask; slashes of rouge, redder than the devil’s suit itself, streaked her high cheekbones. Her trembling lips bore no color at all, and to Eudora Binnington, they seemed more pale than the late Miss Pembroke’s.
“Alissa, what’s wrong?” Eudora dropped the linens and rushed to her side. Fearful the girl might faint, she quickly helped her into the chair and patted the insides of Alissa’s wrists. “What is it, dear?”
Staring at her landlady’s gently lined face, yet not seeing her, Alissa remained mute. Death, she thought, it seemed to follow her everywhere. At the theater. At Mrs. Binnington’s. Her own mother’s, not six months before. Did it stalk her now in the form of a hangman’s noose?
The press of a cool cloth against her brow snapped her from her trance. She blinked and tried to smile, but it ended in a weak twitch of her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered as she took the cloth from Eudora. “I just felt a bit lightheaded. I’m quite fine now.”
“Here, take a sip of brandy, dear,” Eudora offered after she’d retrieved the bottle from the oak hutch, pouring two fingers’ worth into a glass. “It will put some life back into you.”
Alissa obeyed and grimaced as the fiery liquid scorched its way to her stomach. Almost immediately, a soothing warmth spread through her veins, thawing the icy chill from her bones. She sipped the amber liquid again.
Carefully studying the girl, Eudora knew that something horrible must have happened to her. It had nothing to do with Agatha Pembroke’s death, either, for Alissa barely knew the woman. As she scanned Alissa’s petite form, Eudora noticed that, besides her makeup, she still wore her Grecian costume. The gossamer bodice, peeking through the edges of her cloak, was torn; purple streaked the top of her youthful breast. On closer inspection, Eudora discovered it was a bruise.
Determined to have the truth, she sat facing Alissa. “Tell me what’s happened,” she said softly, nodding toward the torn gown. “I know you’re in some sort of trouble, and I won’t let you carry this burden alone. Your mother would never have forgiven me if I didn’t do everything in my power to help you.” Her warm hands covered Alissa’s cold, tightly gripped fingers, resting atop the table. Then Eudora’s hazel eyes beseeched as she coaxed, “Please tell me, child.”
Alissa fought the tears glazing her blue eyes and looked at Mrs. Binnington. Tall and statuesque, her dark hair streaked with silver, Eudora was very precious to Alissa. The woman was all she had, the only person she could rely on.
“Alissa,” Eudora coaxed again. “Tell me.”
“I bashed Charles Rhodes’s skull in,” Alissa stated and braced herself, awaiting Eudora’s reproving gasp. It never came.
“The fiend deserved no less,” Eudora replied without emotion, squeezing Alissa’s hand. “The Young Turk has bothered you long enough. You should have done it sooner.”
Alissa’s voice was throaty, yet even, as she looked directly into the elder woman’s eyes. “He’s dead.”
Eudora never batted an eye, she simply nodded. But, though she seemed calm on the outside, her mind raced as she tried to think of a way to protect Alissa, for she was well aware of the Earl of Creighton’s reputation in seeking revenge, even when he’d not actually been wronged. The man was a tyrant; Alissa would never stand a chance against him. Certainly the sweet child had suffered enough distress since her mother’s death. Suddenly an idea sprang into Eudora’s head, and she rose from her seat. “Come, we must get you out of London before the earl learns of his son’s death. I believe I have a way to do it.”
With a curious look on her face, Alissa followed her landlady up the steps. They passed rapidly down the hallway to the front of the house and stopped at Mrs. Binnington’s quarters.
“Go inside, dear,” Eudora instructed, “and take off your costume. Cleanse your face, too. Use the creams on my dressing table.” She gently patted Alissa’s arm. “Lock the door after you. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Stepping into the rose and cream-colored room, Alissa secured the door behind her. As always, she stood in amazement. Her landlady’s quarters looked like a shrine: one wall decorated with painted woodcuts, tint-stenciled posters, playbills, and other memorabilia from her past life on the stage. Alissa wished she had time to peruse the collection again, but she knew time was the one thing she could least afford to spare.
She dropped her black velvet cloak over a chair’s back, then removed her costume and threw it onto the wool carpet. Feeling chilled in her undergarments, she donned Eudora’s heavy velvet robe, then sat at the dressing table, where she gazed into the mirror and gasped at her reflection. She looked a total fright!
Her wealth of heavy, mahogany hair fell, tangled. Her once perfectly applied makeup was smeared, her eyes and cheeks now grotesquely streaked. Beneath the paint, her complexion was pale, wan. Horrified, Alissa compared her appearance to that of an aged streetwalker more than twice her own nineteen years.
Uncapping a jar, she quickly creamed her face, wiping the ugly mask away, then went to the basin and, using a clean facecloth and lavender-scented soap, scrubbed her skin until it glowed. Next, she removed the remaining pins from her long hair and, returning to the vanity, combed her fingers through it, freeing the tangles. As she did so she wondered what she would have done without her beloved landlady’s help.
Once an acclaimed actress, Eudora had been a friend of Alissa’s mother, who’d also been an actress. While Rachel Ashford had remained on the stage, even after Alissa’s birth, Eudora had given up the profession when she married. The union had produced no children, and when George Binnington had passed on suddenly a year back, leaving some debts, Eudora opened her home to boarders.
She catered mostly to stage professionals, for her brick and stone house was ideally located not overly far from Covent Garden and the Drury Lane Theatre. Alissa also suspected Eudora enjoyed the company of her peers. Perhaps it was because the woman longed for the days of her lost youth plus the excitement that seemed to radiate from those in the theater. Indeed, everyone here spoke Eudora’s language. But, whatever her reason for opening her home, Alissa felt it was a godsend. For after her mother’s death from a lung ailment, six months past, she found the small house they’d leased was far too expensive for her meager salary alone, so she’d moved to Mrs. Binnington’s. Since then, the older woman had become surrogate mother to Alissa, the daughter Eudora had never had.