The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  He arched his dark eyebrows, his expression somewhere between amused and suspicious. “Then you’ve been standing there observing me?”

  The fierce heat of embarrassed guilt bloomed on Yancey’s cheeks. “Oh no, not long. Only a moment. Less than a moment.” She willed herself to be done with chattering, but failed. “Actually, I just arrived.”

  “I see.” He started toward her, striding confidently and gesturing to the breakfast repast spread for them. “Will you join me?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Excellent.” Standing at the table now, he placed his coffee cup in its saucer. “Please allow me to pull your chair out for you.”

  “Thank you.” A bit puzzled by his formality, Yancey suddenly realized that a certain amount of rigidity might be the only thing that was holding him together. She made a mental note to watch him for signs of fragility or shattering. They seemed odd, those two words applied to this hale and hardy specimen of manhood. But no one was immune, and he had received quite a shock this morning.

  Yancey smiled up politely at the duke as he seated her. She prepared to express her thanks, but the words never left her mouth. His nearness, as he hovered solicitously over her, enveloped her in the bay rum and the shaving cream and soap scents that were so much a part of him. When he picked up her napkin off the plate and placed it across her lap, Yancey fought wanting to close her eyes and inhale again out of sheer ecstasy. Only the fear that she would fall into a swoon and tumble right out of her chair kept her from indulging.

  If he was aware of his effect on her, he didn’t show it as he skirted the round white-cloth-covered table to take his seat opposite her. Employing a more offhand manner with himself, he plucked up his own napkin and draped it across his lap. Then he smiled at her, showing her his brilliantly white and even teeth. “See anything to your liking?”

  You. Yancey blinked, wide-eyed … but then realized she’d only thought the word and hadn’t spoken it aloud. Staring helplessly into his amazing gray eyes, she couldn’t get her mouth to work correctly. Suddenly her jaw and teeth and tongue were not familiar with the other’s workings.

  “The food, Yancey. Is anything to your liking?”

  Blessedly, she recovered the use of her faculties. “Oh. The food Yes. Of course.” In a tizzy of swirling sensations, she looked down at the breakfast offerings before her. Bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, potatoes, toast, scones, coffee, cream, sliced fruit, and an assortment of pastries. Her stomach growled rudely. Yancey clutched at it, her eyes wide as she met the amusement dancing in his gray eyes. “Well, allow me to second that, Your Grace. I am obviously hungry.”

  He chuckled, leaving Yancey to realize that she liked making him laugh. “Shall we serve ourselves?” he suggested. “We can talk as we eat.”

  Yancey nodded. “Certainly.”

  The next several minutes passed in relative quiet, broken only by the sound of silver striking china as they filled their plates and began eating. After a relatively companionable interlude, Sam broke into the silence between them. “Tell me, do you have any distinguishing marks in any intimate areas of your person that I as your husband would know about?”

  Unfortunately, his shocking question came at the same moment Yancey swallowed her bite of toast. It didn’t go down correctly. She choked and coughed and couldn’t speak, not even with the help of a generous gulp of water. Finally, she got it down—and stared wide-eyed at Sam through her tears.

  The very picture of innocence while holding his knife and fork, he rested his wrists against the table’s edge. “I’m so sorry. Did I embarrass you?”

  Her voice rasping and watery, Yancey replied, “You came closer to killing me, Sam Treyhorne.”

  “Again, I apologize. I was simply trying to think ahead to any situation in which we might find ourselves where such knowledge would be essential.”

  Yancey leaned across the table toward him. “An example being…?”

  He shrugged. “My cousin could ask.”

  Yancey abruptly sat back. “Your cousin? Good Lord, Sam, the obvious impertinence on his part aside, should he dare to ask something so personal, you are assuming that I have agreed to this latest pretense of being your wife, are you not?”

  “I am. And since you put it that way, you have yet to tell me why you came here using her name.”

  Yancey arched her eyebrows. “And you have yet to tell me why you allowed me to continue masquerading as the duchess.”

  “But I did. I told you quite plainly I did so because it pleased me.”

  “Ah. I do recall you saying that. And the other? Why you now wish me to portray your wife in earnest?”

  His expression was every bit as arch as hers. “Because, for one thing, everyone here and in the village already believes you to be my wife. Therefore, it will be simpler to have you continue in that role for now than it would be to tell them all otherwise. We’ve not the time. And for another, I wish to throw Roderick off the scent. I want to see how he’ll respond to seeing you obviously alive and well. And to see what he’ll do next, like go home if there’s nothing to be gained by staying.”

  “Good enough. But your poor mother? What will she think? Are we to lie to her, also?”

  “It can’t be helped at the moment.”

  “I don’t like it, Sam.”

  “I don’t ask you to like it. I ask you simply to play along just while Roderick is here. When he’s gone, we’ll tell everyone the truth. Of course, you’ll have to tell them your portion of it as I don’t yet know it.”

  Well, he certainly had her there. And she intended to ignore that he did. “So we’re having a bit of sport with Roderick?”

  “I’d hardly call it sport.”

  “Then what, Sam? You really must give me something to go on.”

  Sam sighed as if irritated by all her questions. “Yancey, Roderick is a very dangerous man politically. I’ll have him knowing nothing of my private affairs that he could make public and ruin me and therefore my mother.”

  “While I can respect that, it is no kind of answer.” Now Yancey was irritated. “If I’m to be a part of this scheme, then I must insist on a straightforward answer. What exactly could he find out? What do you not want him to know?”

  His expression stony, Sam glared into her eyes. “I can’t tell you. I won’t. Except to say I don’t believe there is any physical danger to you, or I wouldn’t be asking you to cooperate. Beyond that, I implore you to trust me and to help me, Yancey. I don’t ask lightly. And I don’t ask you to do anything that you haven’t already been doing.”

  She didn’t know quite what to say to that. Yet she suspected that with the arrival of Roderick Harcourt and Sam’s response to him, she was now very close to the truth of the mystery that had sent her here in the first place. So she nodded, giving in for now. “All right, Sam. I’ll do as you ask. But only because I wish to see how you explain me to your mother in the face of her having apparent proof that I—I’m sorry—that your wife is … please forgive me … dead.”

  Sam shook his head. “I’ve seen no proof. And my wife is alive and well.”

  “You mean me?”

  Sam hesitated for a moment longer than an innocent person might. “Yes.”

  Yancey’s mouth dried. “Sam, do you think that your wife is actually still alive?”

  He sat back. “What an odd question. Of course I do.”

  “Then where is she?” Yancey’s agitation—and barely admitted jealousy—had her leaning forward. “Why isn’t she here?”

  “She can’t be. Now, please, Yancey, we don’t have a lot of time to put our masquerade together. Roderick or my mother could awaken much sooner than I think they will. So please answer my question.”

  She blinked. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten what it was.”

  “Have you any distinguishing marks hidden about your person?” he repeated, clearly impatient with her.

  Yancey put a hand to her cheek and stared at the man. “Again, Sam,
I find it hard to believe that this cousin of yours would have occasion or the nerve to ask you such a personal thing about your wife.”

  Sam glanced at her, put down his fork, and picked up his coffee cup. He surprised her by shooting her a teasing grin. “You’re right, of course. I just thought it was worth a try.”

  More titillated than offended, Yancey cried out. “Why, you scoundrel!”

  Sam chuckled. “I never said otherwise.”

  “Well, what about you, sir? Any scars or moles I should know about?”

  She refused to dwell on the fact that his real wife would already know. His very much alive wife. A sinking feeling in Yancey’s stomach revealed more than she wanted to know about her own emotions where this man was concerned.

  Sam eyed her over the rim of his cup as he took a swallow. He set the cup down and then his knife. “As a matter of fact, on my right thigh is a scar from a childhood run-in with an angry sow whose piglet I had the misfortune to be holding and making squeal.”

  “Dear God, you could have been killed.”

  “Exactly what my father said—right before he tanned my britches with a switch.”

  “I don’t wonder. What in the world possessed you to do such a thing?”

  “Say, you’re very good at this. That is exactly what my mother said when she came to dry my tears. You see, my brother and I did it on a dare. The bet was who would stand there the longest, holding an unhappy piglet while the sow charged.”

  Yancey could only shake her head in disbelief. “Did you at least win?”

  “Of course. And like I said, I have the scar to prove it.”

  “Of course. Silly of me to doubt you. How old were you?”

  “All of eight. Geoff was ten. Both of us old enough to know better. But ever since then, the only time I care to see a pig is in the cured form.” As if for emphasis, he picked up and chomped down on a piece of bacon, then waved the remaining portion at her. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “All right, Your Grace.” Yancey weighed what she should say and then decided it was high time to come clean. Besides, the shock of her story would serve him right for asking. “I have a fresh scar on my right upper arm that I got in a whorehouse fight when one of the ladies of ill repute shot at me as I was running away after I killed a man in her room.”

  Her honest confession had the desired effect. Sam choked on the bacon. Really choked. His face was red, his eyes teared up, and he was wheezing. Alarmed, Yancey jumped up, sending her napkin to the floor as she raced around to Sam’s side of the table. She jerked his arm up over his head, shaking it as she pounded repeatedly on his back, which was what her mother used to do to her. He waved her off with his free hand and gasped in a huge breath. Yancey let go of his arm and stepped back. Coughing, he reached for his water and took a big gulp. And everything went down fine.

  Relieved, a hand over her heart, and proud of herself for her successful intervention, Yancey swaggered back to her chair, sat down, and then leaned over to retrieve her napkin. She straightened up to see the duke, still teary-eyed, glaring at her. Placing the napkin across her skirt, she rounded her eyes to a look of innocence. “I’m sorry. Did I embarrass you?”

  “What the hell”—his voice was rather raspy—“kind of story was that?”

  “The God’s honest truth.”

  He coughed hoarsely, still sounding wheezy. “You’re telling me you’re a whore?”

  Yancey stiffened with offense. “I most certainly am not.”

  “Then what were you doing in a … a whorehouse?”

  She took a deep breath. “I was working undercover.” She saw him arch his eyebrows and realized that her wording was unfortunate. “Not under the covers in the way you’re thinking. Not like the ladies of the house.”

  With his elbows on the table, and his color approaching his normal ruddy tan, the duke folded his hands together and stared unhappily at her. “I’m afraid the subtlety is lost on me, Yancey.”

  “Oh, all right. I’m a Pinkerton agent.” There. She’d said it. She crossed her arms under her bosom and waited.

  “And I, dear lady, am the King of Prussia.”

  “So pleased to meet you, Your Highness. At any rate, the whore was the lady friend, shall we say, of a train robber. And I was in disguise as an elderly Christian woman come there to save her soul … and to question her about her man.”

  “You’re starting to scare me.”

  “I scare many people. But it explains the gun—why I would carry one, and how I know how to use it—doesn’t it?”

  His changing expression, a begrudging, fatalistic one that involved lowered eyebrows and a decided frown, said he agreed that it did. “You’re actually a Pinkerton agent?”

  “I am actually a Pinkerton agent.”

  He shook his head. “So you say. However, I remain unconvinced.”

  “And pompous in your attitude.”

  He nodded. “A shortcoming of the breed, I’m afraid. But say you are a Pinkerton—”

  “I say nothing. I am. And a darned good one, too … when I have more to do than pose as a duchess and make forays into villages to buy gowns I have no need of.”

  “Expensive gowns, I’ll add. Now, I’m willing to concede the point for the moment that you’re a Pinkerton because I know the man employs women. Still—forgive me, I cannot get past the very idea—what the devil are you doing here?”

  “I told you. Your mother begged me to come.”

  He smacked his palm on the tabletop, causing the dishes and Yancey to jump. “I’ll not listen to that. You’re trying to get me to believe that my mother involved the famous American detective agency in an investigation of … what exactly?”

  “Of nothing. We focus mainly on protecting the concerns of the various railroads.”

  Sam narrowed his eyes. “Did my mother have a sudden concern for the state of the railroads in England, then?”

  “Dear God.” Sighing, Yancey rubbed at her forehead. “She did not hire me, Sam. But I am a Pinkerton, and I did come here to help.”

  “Why? Why are you here at Stonebridge?”

  Yancey thought of the ongoing review of her past cases that Mr. Pinkerton had initiated and of how she could be found negligent. “I have many reasons, some of them personal and to do with my employment back in Chicago. But to answer your question, I am here at your mother’s bidding, mistaken though she was in her choice of correspondents.”

  “And what does all that mean, pray tell?”

  “She wrote to the wrong woman. Me.”

  “Ah. The famous letters.”

  “Yes, the famous letters. I have no idea how she got my address. But she did, and she wrote to me several times. At any rate, my having the same name as your wife, and pretending to be her, got me inside your house. And then, very early this morning, you asked me to help you.”

  Sam’s doubting expression remained unchanged.

  Yancey leaned forward over the table, pushing her plate out of the way. “Less than an hour ago you asked for my help—before you knew I was a trained detective. And now that you do know, you hesitate? Sam, I can handle myself. But how the devil you expect me to help you unless you trust me and give me something to go on, I just can’t say. And yes, only a few minutes ago I said you could keep your secrets, but now that you know who I am, I’ve quite changed my mind.”

  She sat back, making her point by stabbing a finger on the tabletop. “To be honest, it’s a bit muddled from where I’m sitting, Sam. And I mean what exactly is going on here. So I’d be damned foolhardy to proceed from here—from this very table—without being better informed.” She paused, staring levelly at him. “So what’s it going to be? Do you want my help or not?”

  He sat back, a stunned expression on his face. “Good God, you are a Pinkerton.”

  Pleased, Yancey gave a nonchalant shrug. “I told you so.”

  He looked at her differently, as if seeing her with new eyes. His delighted and curious gaze roved over her face, muc
h as if he’d sighted a celebrated person of myth. “I understand you Pinkertons have code names.”

  “We do. And no, I’m not telling you mine. Now, I meant what I said. I won’t help without first knowing everything that you know. Start with your brother.”

  Sam’s expression fell. “Very well.” He paused, exhaled, and then launched into his story. “Geoffrey was first-born and the heir. He was a good man, basically, and very well suited to the title. Or so I thought. As it turns out, he had gambling debts I didn’t know about until recently. And I only found them out when the markers were turned in by the men he owed. The total sum is staggering, but one he could have well afforded to pay. They would have had no need to kill him over it. But add to that his penchant for other men’s wives, and you begin to see a broader picture.”

  “Indeed. And I understand he died almost a year ago?”

  “Yes.” He looked taken aback. “How did you know that?”

  “Scotland Yard.”

  “Scotland Yard? What the devil? Why would they be involved? I’ve told no one that I think his death is suspicious.”

  “They’re not involved, but they have heard rumors. And more than one of them called your brother’s death suspicious. At any rate, I went there first on some Pinkerton business unrelated to this. And men like to talk to a pretty face.” Yancey grinned and batted her eyelashes at him. His eyes widened and he sat back. Yancey proceeded. “How did he die, your brother?”

  “In his sleep, actually. I wasn’t here then. I was still in America. But he passed away at our London residence. And Mother said the doctors believed he had succumbed from natural causes.”

  “But you have no faith in their assessment?”

  “No. He was only thirty-three at the time. Two years older than me. Mother said he appeared troubled in his last days. She also said he was pale and dropping weight.”

  Yancey raised her eyebrows. “Gambling debts weighing heavily?”

  “Perhaps. Though it sounds like an illness of some sort.”

  “Could have been. So why do you suspect your cousin of foul play?”

  “Do you know, I really can’t say. But I have from the very moment I received Mother’s letter informing me of his death. The instant I read that her sister and Roderick were visiting them when Geoff took ill and died, I have had my suspicions.”