The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  “Well, hello, Mr. Marples, you scamp. And where have you been off to all day, you bad boy?” Cooing, Her Grace Nana bent over to pat the dog’s head. Its stubby tail wagged and it jumped up on her, nearly knocking the old woman to the floor. Yancey whipped an arm around the woman’s shoulders to steady her.

  “Thank you, Sarah Margaret,” she said. “Say hello to Mr. Marples. He’s a fine young man, despite what Alice and Mary and Jane say.” She tugged on Yancey’s bodice, pulling her down until Yancey’s ear was even with her mouth. She whispered, “Don’t listen to them. They’re the jealous sort, my dear.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Yancey whispered back, forced to assume the woman meant the cats.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Her Grace Nana repeated. “Mrs. Edgars has kept your rooms fresh and aired out for you, Sarah Margaret. We knew you would come. We just knew it.”

  Knew it—or hoped it? Were they in on the dowager’s secret letter-writing campaign? That was what Yancey wanted to know. But faced with such sweet innocence as Her Grace Nana exuded, she knew she would save the hard questions for someone more formidable. To the elderly woman, she replied, “Thank you. I’m sure the room is very lovely.”

  “The room is very lovely.” Then Her Grace Nana reached up a gnarled little hand and stroked Yancey’s cheek. “You’re very beautiful. I can’t imagine why Samuel didn’t bring you back with him. And why he doesn’t want you here. He’s not going to be happy to see you, dear.”

  Just as she’d feared. Yancey straightened up, releasing the richly dressed and stooped older woman. At that moment, her arm was grabbed and she was plucked right through the doorway and into the suite of rooms. Of course, Scotty had a hold of her. Yancey aimed a droll expression the giant’s way. “Scotty, you simply must stop handling me like this. You might break something vital.”

  Still with a viselike grip on her, with his free hand he made a sweeping gesture that indicated the room at large. “Yours.”

  Yancey had time only to gain a fleeting impression of a large, well-furnished lady’s sitting room before Mrs. Edgars very properly and formally said, “I hope you will be comfortable here, Your Grace. And will find everything to your liking.”

  She didn’t mean that. A sudden chill of certainty slipped over Yancey’s skin. The housekeeper’s tone of voice hadn’t matched her sentiments. She’d said it more like I hope you don’t fall into the vat of boiling oil we’ve placed in a pit under the carpet.

  “It’s very lovely. I’m sure I will,” Yancey said cautiously, eyeing the woman and thinking that she bore watching.

  Before she could do more than store that observation away, the young men who’d handled her trunks again filed past her and out of the room, each of them nodding his head, not quite meeting her gaze, and murmuring either “Your Grace” or “Duchess.”

  With a regal bob of her head, acting as if she’d been doing this all her life, Yancey acknowledged the servants’ show of respect. Only when they were gone could she follow Scotty’s impatient gesture and give the rooms their due attention. She’d intended to behave in an imperial manner, to appear judgmental and slightly bored in her perusal of her accommodations. But that notion fled when the dazzling splendor that met her gaze wrenched a delighted gasp out of her. Yancey stared in awe, a hand to her mouth. Why, this was a room meant for a fairy princess. Or a real duchess.

  Apparently satisfied with her response, Scotty released her arm. As if in a trance, Yancey stepped inside and slowly walked around, marveling at what she saw. This was unbelievable. Back in Chicago, she rented a room in a respectable and comfortable women’s boardinghouse. But a suite of rooms such as these? Why, she had only been able to envy such luxury—and that from the outside looking in. But now, here she was inside, and this was hers. Or actually the duchess’s … the real duchess’s. The dead duchess’s.

  Yancey put that thought aside until a later time when she could be alone with her thoughts. For now she wanted to concentrate on the rich display before her. Commanding this small room was a richly upholstered three-piece suite situated conversationally in front of a fireplace. Small tables with chairs arranged to either side reposed against the walls covered in a delicately rose-patterned wallpaper. Tall windows across the way let in the light. Feeling instantly at home in this room with its cozy feeling of intimacy, Yancey realized she was smiling as she crossed the sitting room and stood on the threshold of the bedroom itself.

  Her breath left her. A large canopied bed with a thick mattress and many pillows commanded the room. Its coverlet, a wonderful sky-blue shot through with gold thread, appeared to be of a silky material. Yancey walked straight to it, put her handbag atop it, and then ran her hand over the fabric … so sleek and soft. She longed to lose herself in its comfort and sleep straight through until tomorrow. Impossible, though, it being not even teatime yet.

  She next turned her attention to the huge wardrobes and armoires that stood like sentinels on opposite walls. Her three trunks hunkered like whipped dogs next to the nearer wardrobe. Yancey quirked her mouth in embarrassment. Her painfully few dresses would get lost in even one of those smaller armoires. She next came to a delicately feminine dressing table carved from a light-colored wood. Decorative boxes and glass bottles and a silver-backed comb and brush set awaited her. She imagined herself sitting in front of this vanity and brushing her hair. A sigh for such simple luxury escaped her.

  She then moved past the washstand and came face to face with a closed door that stopped her. No doubt, it opened onto the dressing room that joined this bedroom to the duke’s room.

  A chill of foreboding chased through Yancey. How easy it would be for the duke to slip through that door and kill her in her sleep. And how ironic that Mr. Pinkerton had raised the specter of that happening to her if she remained in Chicago. So he’d sent her here to England for her own safety. Yet here—and going by what Her Grace Nana, who was obviously a family member of some standing, had said—she would not be welcomed by the duke. Especially not if he’d had a hand in his real wife’s death, if the other Sarah had indeed been his wife. And if she had and if he had, wouldn’t Yancey be a shock to him, then? She told herself she definitely needed the key to this door. She only just stopped short of looking around for a sturdy chair to angle under the doorknob. Let him come through that.

  Hearing herself, Yancey shook her head. She needed to remember to allow for simple explanations. For all she knew, the duke was a sweet little cherub of a man who never in his whole life had harbored a single hurtful thought. Or perhaps he was a painfully shy and ineffectual man who ran at the sight of his own shadow. Maybe he missed his wife terribly and didn’t know she was dead. If she was. After all, Yancey still had only hunches, no evidence. So what if he came rushing in happily, expecting his beloved wife, and found her, Yancey, standing here? How distraught he would be. And how cruel she would feel. Feeling sorry for this imaginary duke’s distress, Yancey moved away from the door.

  She stepped over to a writing desk and ran her fingers over the polished wood. Very pleasing. Positioned next to the desk was a lovely cheval glass, a full-length mirror for a lady to view her appearance in one exquisite gown after another. Yancey knew she wouldn’t be using the mirror for that purpose because she didn’t own a single ball gown. Not much call for them in her line of work. Well, except for now. But it was too late to worry about proper clothing. All she’d brought with her were the sensible, serviceable clothes she did own. Nothing of the frivolous lady resided in her trunks. How would she explain that? Well, maybe she didn’t look too bad.

  She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, and saw staring back at her a tired-looking, rain-dampened, and rumpled woman whose hair was frizzing and coming loose from its pins. Amused and mortified by her appearance, Yancey shook her head, pronouncing herself not fit for an introduction to a duke. Still, it was like a dream, seeing herself here in this room. She tried hard not to feel inadequate or like an interloper. Yet she knew the truth
—she was both of those things.

  Exhaling, she crossed the room to an enormous marbleframed fireplace where she traced with her fingers the intricate patterns of pink veins that ran throughout the cold stone. Adrift in her own world, forgetting she was attended by six persons and four domestic pets, Yancey turned to the tall windows adjacent to the fireplace. She went to the nearer of the two and, a hand on the heavy folds of sky-blue drapery, peered outside. Her breath caught.

  If the window could be thought of as a frame, then this view could be a painting of a country scene of exquisite beauty. Green and rolling hills. Lush meadows wherein fine horseflesh grazed contentedly. In the distance a large herd of cattle milled about, also grazing. Closer to the house, formal gardens of geometric beauty caught the eye. And colorful flowerbeds showed a loving hand in their creation—

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Gasping in surprise, Yancey whipped around, all but tangling herself in the folds of the draperies. She pulled free of them only to see, standing framed in the bedroom’s doorway, the tall and commanding figure of a man in his full prime—and no one else. A thrill of fright coursed through Yancey, leaving her feeling overly hot, yet cold as stone. Tumbling thoughts and instant impressions tussled about in her mind. Where is Mrs. Edgars? Her Grace Nana? And Scotty? And the young men who carried my trunks up? And the cats, the dog? When did they leave?

  Leave? They hadn’t merely left. They’d been dismissed by this man. Since then, he’d been watching her. She knew that as surely as she knew that her hair was red and her eyes were green. Yancey inhaled deeply yet discreetly as she fought to compose herself and meet the challenge in the level stare of the dark-haired man dressed in a white open-necked shirt and buff-colored riding breeches tucked into Hessians.

  He offered no further conversation, not even an apology for being alone with her in what was essentially her bedroom. Such a circumstance, even by itself, compromised an unmarried woman. Yancey knew she had every right to demand that he leave. But under the circumstances—her being here under false pretenses—she thought not. Too, she’d sooner be damned than protest and appear to be the squeamish little miss. All the better because, at the moment, she couldn’t be entirely sure that she was physically capable of speech.

  The man was absolutely stunning. Even as she tried desperately to convince herself that this was her objective opinion as an experienced observer, as well as a usually calm and rational woman, she failed miserably. Virility rolled off him in waves that threatened to sweep her away. And how could this be … this soul-deep certainty in Yancey’s heart that his hands already knew her body? That his mouth had already hungrily claimed hers on some wild, dark night in a long-ago time? Insane, yes, but the improbability nevertheless held for her the ironclad weight of a factual reality.

  Rationally, Yancey knew she had never seen him before. But rationality held no sway here. Instead, her heart insisted that it knew this man. Fear teamed with anticipation to dry Yancey’s mouth. Such confidence, such daring, he exuded. And such arrogance. No introduction was necessary. This, then, was the duke who lolled languidly against the bedroom door’s frame, unmoving and soberly staring back at her … waiting.

  Finally, but in actual time what was really no more than a passing moment from question to answer, Yancey replied, “Yes. It is very beautiful.”

  He nodded … slowly. “Imagine how happy I am that you agree.”

  Yancey flinched. He couldn’t care less what she thought. Normally that would have rankled her, but this time, with this man, and wisely, she said nothing. She watched him now as he watched her.

  With no more than a shrug, he pulled away from the door’s frame and strode across the room with a lazy yet powerful grace that had Yancey surreptitiously clutching handfuls of her skirt’s material. She called herself a coward. And the closer he came to her, the more she steeled herself to stand her ground. As he drew even with her, Yancey judged him to be tall, about six feet. His coal-black hair was worn a bit longer than was fashionable. And his eyes were a very cool gray. His face boasted high cheekbones, a firm jaw, and full, sensual lips.

  Yancey tensed at his nearness, but he ignored her, walking right past her. Immensely relieved, her heart racing, she exhaled as discreetly as she could manage and let go of her skirt. Her next breath, however, was nearly her undoing. Because the air she took into her lungs proved to be redolent with the unique scent of this man, mingled with a remembrance of hay and cigar smoke and cleansing rain. Intoxicating.

  And dangerous. That bee sting of a realization brought Yancey sharply back to earth. This man certainly was not the milksop duke she’d imagined. What he was, then, was no one to trifle with. As she turned around to keep him in sight, and with her skirt swishing around her ankles, she knew she must keep her wits about her and remember that he was very probably the enemy here.

  With an eye to that, and while his back was to her as he stared out the same window he’d caught her facing, Yancey raked her gaze over him, from his broad, muscled shoulders, down his tapering back to his narrow waist and tight buttocks. His long legs, with their perfect musculature, defined the breeches, giving them shape … and elevated her pulse in ways that could all too easily make her forget the threat he was to her.

  Suddenly, the duke pivoted his shoulders and turned his head as if he meant to speak to her over his shoulder. Yancey tensed, waiting. He didn’t look directly at her, yet she figured that he could see her out of the corner of his eye and was aware of every move she made, every breath she took.

  “Who are you?”

  His deep growl, as much as his abrupt question, rumbled through Yancey’s chest, taking her breath. She wanted to believe that she had no idea what was wrong with her, or why he had this effect on her. But she couldn’t lie, not to herself. She knew, all too well, that this was a hungry need, a fierce and unexplainable attraction to him that she was experiencing. So be it. She was no virgin, no stranger to those emotions.

  But the rest of it … the way she wanted to run, to cry, to get away from him so she could breathe, the feeling of being naked before him, of being overwhelmed and vulnerable … she couldn’t define or explain. And because she couldn’t, she was afraid. Yancey struggled for control. Resist his pull, she told herself. Remember why you’re here. You have a part to play, a murder to solve before you’re the next victim. She need only remind herself that she was an experienced Pinkerton undercover operative, she concluded. A smart woman. The Fox. And this game was hers.

  Yancey knew all this. But still, she imagined that right now, here in the enthralling presence of the Duke of Somerset, that she couldn’t feel less afraid if, instead of him, she had suddenly found herself face to face with a winged angel. A dark and terrible angel.

  Chapter Four

  No doubt motivated by her silence, the tall and imposing duke turned away from the window to face Yancey. Against the weight of his unrelenting stare and his physical nearness, she felt very small and unprotected. The duke looked down his patrician nose at her and held her gaze. “Cat got your tongue? Surely you know who you are.”

  That stung her into speaking. “Of course I know. As do you.” Relief swept over her that her voice could sound so calm.

  “As do I?” His slanting expression was pointed, sharp, like teeth … or fangs.

  Swallowing hard, Yancey reminded herself to keep her wits about her. “Yes, you do. I feel certain that whatever servant announced my presence to you informed you of my name, since I did give it.”

  “Quite so, my little American. And yet I would like to hear you speak it.”

  He’d picked up on her accent and had issued a dare. Even as much as she hated saying her detested name, Yancey was determined to do so without any hesitation in her speech. “Very well. I am Miss Sarah Margaret Calhoun.”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Not Treyhorne? Not the American Duchess of Somerset? I was told that you presented yourself as such. Which is why you were put in these particular ro
oms … next to mine.”

  Guilt, as well as heated images of bedrooms and lovers, brought a flush to Yancey’s cheeks. She thought it best if she didn’t reply.

  “I’m waiting,” he said. “And let me warn you … I am in no mood to be trifled with.”

  Yancey believed him. She’d thought the same thing about him only moments ago. “I assure you it’s not my intention to be trifling. I apologize for the confusion, but I am indeed Sarah Margaret Calhoun.” When that got no response from him, Yancey came up with a glib lie. “What I had done, you see, was ask if your mother, the Duchess of Somerset, was at home.”

  He cocked his head at a disbelieving angle. “I see. A simple misunderstanding. But one you did nothing to correct.”

  Thanking her six years of working undercover that had made her a good actress, Yancey maintained a straight face and an injured air. “Your staff gave me no opportunity. I was swept up by them and carried along, much as if I had fallen into a swift current.”

  The duke continued to regard her in an assessing manner. Then his lips curved upward. On anyone else, Yancey would have called the expression a smile. “Have it your way, Miss Calhoun,” he drawled. “Allow me, then, to answer your inquiry. The duchess is not at home.”

  How well she knew that. The woman was most likely dead and buried back in Chicago. Still acting, Yancey feigned distress. “Oh. I see.”

  “Do you? What exactly do you see?”

  “That there’s been a mistake.”

  “Apparently.”

  Refusing to succumb to her heart-pounding fear born of his unyielding manner, Yancey assumed the actions and mannerisms of someone whose embarrassment compelled her to be industrious. She set off across the room—away from him. “Well, then, as my trunks are not yet unpacked and as it turns out that I’ve made a grievous mistake in coming here”—she headed for her handbag on the bed—“and I have obviously upset your household, for which I apologize, perhaps if you would be so kind as to summon your men to help me with my belongings? And if you can see it in your heart to arrange for a hired conveyance for me, I’ll take myself away from here and relieve you of the burden of my presence—”