A Beguiling Intrigue

by Jane Toombs

  What a vivid imagination the man had, Quentin thought, immediately going on to say, “A highwayman was my second choice, you understand. It so happens that Gerard Kinsdale has opted to appear as the gentleman I hold in highest esteem."

  "Mr. Benjamin Franklin, the American of many talents? I am surprised that he would be your first choice."

  Ah. It wasn't often, Quentin felt, that anyone succeeded in surprising Rodgers.

  "What of you, Rodgers? If you were to attend this costume ball, who would you choose to be?"

  Rodgers frowned in thought. “I hesitate to say for fear of sounding presumptuous, of having aspirations above and beyond my station, but I would appear as Mr. William Shakespeare of Stratford."

  "Ah, yes.” How like Rodgers. “And Miss Riggs,” Quentin asked as casually as he could, “what costume has Miss Riggs selected?"

  "If her choice were not already common knowledge among the ladies, I would have to refrain from revealing her choice. She insists on appearing as a character somewhat akin to your own. She intends to appear as none other than the legendary Robin Hood."

  Quentin raised his eyebrows, frowned, then laughed in delight, striking his palm with his fist. “My God, I admire her spirit. She refuses to turn back even though warned she may be drifting toward a waterfall as high as Niagara.” He walked to the window and glanced down at Justine. “I can almost hear her suggesting,” he said, more to himself than to Rodgers, “that Robin Hood might very well have been a woman."

  "A most unlikely possibility,” Rodgers interposed.

  "And,” Quentin went on, “speculating that if I were to come to the ball as the gentleman I most admired I would come as myself.” Again turning to Rodgers, he said, “Confound it, Rodgers, I could be completely mistaken, but now and again I have this strange feeling I can read her thoughts."

  "If one actually had the ability to know what our supposed friends thought of us, our discoveries would undoubtedly be both surprising and unsettling. And, as a result, the number of our friends would most likely decrease."

  "Also,” Quentin said, “if we knew what our servants really thought of us, the ranks of the unemployed would increase—” He broke off. “To the business at hand ... What information have you gleaned regarding Mr. Gavin Spencer?"

  "Surprisingly little, my lord, since the help at Prospect Hall proved to be remarkably close-mouthed on the subject, suspiciously so, although they all speak highly of the splendid Mr. Spencer but in the most general terms. Their reticence almost makes me wonder if they have something to hide."

  "You might have better results if a few pounds sterling were to change hands."

  "Perhaps, but I have my doubts.” Rodgers paused. “Have you ever heard of a widowed lady from London by the name of Mallory, my lord? Mrs. Alicia Mallory?"

  "The name means nothing to me. Who is this Alicia Mallory?"

  "That, it seems, is something of a puzzle. From what I gather, there is a certain pattern followed by this Mrs. Mallory and Mr. Spencer. Shortly after Mr. Spencer returns from one of his expeditions, Mrs. Mallory makes her appearance at Prospect Hall and takes up residence in spacious though remote quarters in the west wing of the house. What she does there is a mystery to one and all. She takes her meals in her rooms, behaves rather furtively and is seldom seen by any of the servants. Although Mr. Spencer visits her regularly and spends considerable time with her, there is no evidence of their having any sort of romantic involvement or even of their being friends. In truth, Mr. Spencer is said to resent the presence of Mrs. Mallory."

  "And yet Spencer spends time with her and continues to invite her to his home."

  "Exactly, my lord. A daft business, but one that may well have a simple explanation. I intend to persist in my inquiries while in London, both regarding this mysterious visitor to Prospect Hall and Mr. Spencer himself."

  "Capital,” Quentin said. Alicia Mallory. He repeated the name as he promised himself that he would do whatever he could to uncover her secret. “Both of us must do all in our power,” he told Rodgers, “to assist Mr. Kinsdale and Mrs. Baldwin in their search for an appropriate suitor for Miss Riggs."

  Rodgers inclined his head, then glanced toward the clock on the mantel.

  "I shall delay you no longer,” Quentin told him. “I wish you godspeed on your journey to London."

  He would do his utmost, Quentin told himself as he watched Rodgers leave, to make certain Justine was suitably wed. His concern for her welfare, he told himself with a certain satisfaction, was completely unselfish. She might be a perverse and combative young lady, she might be naïve and poorly tutored in feminine skills, but despite all of these deficiencies he nevertheless felt a gentleman's obligation to look after her.

  His feeling for her was akin to the concern of a brother for a sister, a younger sister. Yes, that was the truth of the matter—Justine Riggs was an unfortunate, dowerless orphan who needed the protection and help of an older man, his protection and his help. She required the guidance of a man of the world and who was better qualified than himself to provide that guidance? There were more than a few rakes and rogues in the ton who would not hesitate to employ deceit and trickery to take advantage of an attractive young girl from the country.

  The predatory Lord Alton, for one, who was all the more dangerous for coming wrapped, as the saying went, in clean sheets. He must, Quentin warned himself, be careful not to underestimate Alton; the man not only considered himself irresistible to the ladies, he would go to almost any lengths to have his way with them, particularly if in so doing he could discomfit Quentin Fletcher.

  Quentin returned to the window once more and looked down at Justine. To his surprise, his heart lurched at the sight of her. How tremendously appealing he found the dark sheen of her curling hair, the bloom in her cheeks, the tilt of her nose and the soft curves of her body. All at once he sensed, without knowing why but with great certainty, that she and Prudence—Daphne was no longer with them—were talking about him. If only he were close enough to overhear them. Alas, he was not.

  * * * *

  "I was amazed when Lord Devon accepted the invitation to the Spencer masquerade,” Prudence was saying, “since he will now have to remain at the Manor another fortnight. He rarely stays more than a few days at a house party before becoming frightfully bored."

  Justine nodded but made no reply.

  "At times, Justine,” Prudence went on, “you appear to detest Lord Devon to such a degree that I wonder whether you might secretly favor him."

  "I never encountered anyone quite like him before,” Justine admitted. “I suppose I find myself fascinated by him just as someone else might be fascinated by a zebra or a giraffe on exhibit in a menagerie."

  "To my way of thinking,” Prudence said, “Lord Devon more closely resembles a tawny lion, the king of beasts, rather than a zebra or giraffe. And Gavin Spencer, what animal does he remind one of? A magnificent stag, perhaps. But why are we comparing gentlemen to animals?"

  "Could it be because so many of them perceive us as their prey, as weak and docile victims to be pursued, captured by means of traps and ruses and then carried home where we become their prisoners for life?"

  "Do you actually believe our plight is so dire?” Prudence wanted to know. “Surely not."

  Justine sighed and shook her head. “No,” she conceded, “but what I do believe, or have come to believe, is that women should value our senses over sensibilities. Not all women—how can I speak for so many others?—but myself. I should begin listening to my head rather than my heart."

  Prudence stared at her. “Has something happened in the last few days?” she asked at last. “You seem so different to me."

  "I admit I have changed.” Justine looked down the slope of the lawn to the gazebo and beyond to where the shadows of the clouds drifted across the folds of the hills and valleys. “When I first came to London I believed I should follow my heart, that I would somehow instinctively know what was the right thing to do.” She sho
ok her head. “I no longer believe I know."

  "In choosing a husband, at least,” Prudence said, “the heart can prove to be a treacherous guide."

  "I agree. The decision is too important to be left to the vagaries of our emotions. Suitability, compatibility, and amiability are much more important than the fact that a man's look or smile or touch is able to make your heart beat a trifle faster than it ever did before."

  "Leopold Nannini,” Prudence said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I spoke without thinking.” Prudence smiled wistfully. “Louis Nannini was a gentleman I once knew, a gentleman I haven't thought of in years and years. No, I fear I exaggerate, he has crossed my mind now and again. I often wonder what ever became of Leopold Nannini."

  "An Italian gentleman?” Justine asked, intrigued. She had always assumed there had been but one man in Prudence's life. The revered Eustace.

  Prudence nodded. “I was considered quite pretty when I was young, being petite with blond hair and, as you can see, blue eyes."

  "Sometimes they seem a dark, dark blue, at other times light as a cornflower."

  "Leopold Nannini thought they were the loveliest eyes he had ever seen, or so he told me.” Prudence blushed slightly. “It was all very romantic. He was a northern Italian, from a small town in Tuscany, very dark and very handsome and extremely charming. He told me he loved me and, for a time, I was convinced I loved him."

  "I never heard you speak of him before."

  "It all came to naught, of course, since he was only a riding instructor, a man without money who lived mainly by his wits. When my mother found one of his letters—he wrote the most wonderfully amorous letters—my father sent me away for a long visit with my aunt Elizabeth near Paisley in Scotland. When I my father finally allowed me to return to London, I discovered that Mr. Nannini had married in secret. Not more than six months later, I married Eustace Baldwin. I often wonder what became of Leopold Nannini."

  How sad, was Justine's initial reaction. On reflection, she realized that Prudence's situation was, in some respects, akin to her own. “You may not have thought so at the time, but you were fortunate to have been sent away. Otherwise you might never have met Eustace, and I know how devoted to him you were."

  Prudence stood and walked to the stone wall at the edge of the terrace where she stood staring into the far distance, almost as though she was able to look into the past.

  "Fortunate?” Prudence repeated. “At the time, of course, I was heartbroken. I cried all the way to Scotland. I often wonder what would have happened if I had possessed more courage—” She stopped and Justine thought she heard her sigh softly. “Yes,” Prudence said, “as you say, I was fortunate."

  She dabbed at her face with a lace handkerchief, but when she turned to Justine there were no signs of tears on her face. “I did love Eustace. Over the years I learned to appreciate his kindness and his patience."

  "Everyone has told me how devastated you were by his death."

  Prudence frowned. “It never occurred to me before this moment, but now I wonder if, after Eustace died, I tried to give him all the love I might have withheld while he lived.” She shook her head. “No, what a strange notion. I loved Eustace dearly and always will. I was fortunate to have him, so very fortunate, I should count my blessings."

  "Just as I should count mine.” Justine reminded herself she had been blessed in many ways. She had found a friend and protector in Prudence Baldwin, the woman who had given her a new life in London. She had realized the folly of her infatuation with Quentin before it was too late. There was the excitement of the costume ball to look forward to, and the likelihood that she would become better acquainted with Gavin Spencer, a man well worth any young lady's interest.

  Why, then, she wondered, when she had so much to be thankful for, did she feel this unease, this sense of wrongness?

  CHAPTER 13

  The carriage stopped, Justine stepped down to the walkway and paused to look up at the twin columns framing the entrance to the Spencer country house, the windows ablaze with lights.

  "Prospect Hall!” Daphne murmured from behind her.

  The night of the costume ball had arrived at last. A new page was being turned in her life; this was the start of another chapter.

  Gavin Spencer, tall, poised and imposing in the flowing white burnoose of an Arab sheik, greeted them in a reception room between the entryway of Prospect Hall and the grand ballroom, telling them that his mother was, unfortunately, slightly indisposed but hoped to join them later. He bowed over the hands of Daphne, a veiled Cleopatra whose tight-fitting patterned tunic had straps that barely succeeded in covering her breasts, and Prudence, who had at the last minute decided to come as Caesar's wife, her costume a stola, the long draped robe favored by Roman women.

  Justine was unsure whether Prudence had selected the Roman costume so she could serve as a sedate foil for Cleopatra, the temptress, or whether thinking about her long lost love, Leopold Nannini, had given her the idea of dressing as someone who might have been one of his remote ancestors. When Gavin Spencer, who wore no mask, welcomed Justine to his home, he raised her hand to his lips and then, rather than releasing it at once, allowed his grasp to linger. As his gaze also lingered, his eyes roaming in evident admiration from her close-cropped black curls beneath a forest-green feathered hat, to her domino mask, to her long green tunic with its jagged hemline, to the quiver of feather-tipped arrows slung on her back, and finally down to her form-fitting green leggings.

  "I do like your costume,” he said, releasing her hand. “I find it demure and yet so very provocative. I especially admire a woman who dares to dress as a man."

  Justine nodded to acknowledge the compliment. If this had been Quentin greeting her, she would have made a spirited answer, challenging him in some manner. In a perverse way, she felt disappointed at not having the opportunity.

  Gavin bowed to Gerard, dressed as the American, Benjamin Franklin, and to Ogden, who had stubbornly refused to appear as anyone but himself.

  When she entered the ballroom, Justine frowned in surprise. She had expected the unusual from Gavin Spencer who was, after all, a world-traveler, an adventurer, a man who reveled in taking enormous risks. The ballroom, however, was perfectly ordinary if a ballroom in a great English country house could ever be considered ordinary. The spacious room was lit by candles in circled tiers on two chandeliers, its walls festooned with fresh roses, the dancers reflected from a large gilt-framed mirror above the marble fireplace.

  As they made their way through the crush at the side of the dance floor, Justine glanced about her, smiling at the sight of kings cavorting with courtesans, Crusaders dancing with Greek goddesses, gypsies beguiling military heroes—she counted at least three General Wellingtons—and a queen talking earnestly to a red Indian wearing a feathered war bonnet.

  Quentin, as best she could tell, was not in the room. After dancing a country set with John Willoughby—"I expected to be the only Iron Duke,” he told her in a tone of resigned disgust—she was sitting chatting with Daphne and Ogden when she noticed Lord Alton, costumed as the German general Blucher—a generous moustache added to his upper lip, a medal-laden red ribbon sweeping diagonally across his chest and a sword at his side—threading between dancers.

  "How handsome he is!” Daphne murmured. “How virile! He reminds me of a proud young god come from Valhalla to walk the earth."

  "Lord Alton?” Justine asked in surprise.

  "No, no, certainly not. Mr. Gavin Spencer.” She sighed. “Ah, if only I were a few years younger."

  Justine turned in the direction of Daphne's glance to find Gavin striding toward them, his white robes flowing behind.

  Ogden scarcely had time to utter a disparaging harrumph before Gavin joined them. “Miss Riggs,” he said, bowing over her hand, “may I have the pleasure of your company?"

  Justine, pleased and flattered, conscious of the envious glances of the other women, nodded. Rising, she took h
is arm, feeling petite beside him. She expected him to lead her to the dance floor where another set was forming, but instead he asked, “Would you enjoy seeing a bit more of Prospect Hall? I find this constant nattering quite exhausting."

  When she nodded, he led her away from the dancers to an alcove at the far end of the ballroom. Opening a small unobtrusive door, he ushered her through an anteroom into a corridor lit by candles in sconces along both walls.

  "Despite the chatter,” he said, “I so enjoy masked balls. All of us wear masks of one sort or another during every day of our lives, trying to pretend we're something other than we actually are. At least at a masquerade we can be honest about our deception."

  "All of us wear masks?” she asked. “I never thought I attempted to hide my true self.” Did she? Justine wondered.

  "Possibly not. But, if so, you are a most unusual young woman. Most of us have secrets either large or small that we wish to conceal from the world, secrets concealed by veils that we shed only reluctantly. How dull and prosaic we would be without our secrets."

  She started to protest, to inform him that she had no secrets either large or small, but she suddenly realized she would be telling an untruth. Her deep feeling for Quentin, even though now a thing of the past, was a secret, her never-to-be-revealed secret.

  "Another reason I enjoy masquerades,” Gavin said, “is the opportunity they give me to discover some of the more lurid fantasies of my guests. The timid gentlemen, for instance, who dream of being kings or generals, the sedate women who picture themselves as seductive temptresses."

  "And what of you, Mr. Spencer, who chose to be a sheik."

  "Call me Gavin, please,” he said, smiling down at her. “Will you, Justine?"

  Her nod was rewarded with another warming smile. “To me,” he said as he led her along the corridor, “a sheik, that rider of the desert sands, is a man free of the constraints of stodgy, so-called civilized countries such as England. A sheik, at least this one, rides where he chooses when he chooses, associating with whomever he wishes with none of the scandal-mongers of the ton watching and weighing his every move in hopes of witnessing a misstep that will allow them to call down the wrath of society on his head."