by Mary Nichols
‘I am here.’ Caroline appeared, at the top of the stairs, regal as Queen Elizabeth, complete with red wig and a huge starched ruff. The family diamonds, with their hard white glitter, encircled a décolletage which was only just decent. She descended the stairs slowly, defying anyone to do anything but praise her, and although her father’s brows rose a little his only comment was, ‘A queen indeed.’
The press of carriages in the street outside Lady Markham’s home meant that they were kept waiting in line for several minutes before they could reach the door and alight, but at last they found themselves in a brilliantly lit foyer, where a footman took their cloaks. Then they made their way along a wide corridor to where Lord and Lady Markham stood at the entrance to the ballroom, receiving their guests. His lordship had declined to wear costume, but her ladyship was dressed as Nell Gwynn. She was short and plump, with a mischievous smile and laughing brown eyes. She kissed Mrs Ryfield on both cheeks, dropped an imperceptible curtsy to James and held out her hands to the girls. ‘How nice to see you. Now go on and enjoy yourselves; if you don’t get handsome offers before the night is out, I shall want to know why.’
Mark took Maryanne’s arm and they moved forward into the ballroom where they were just in time to join a cotillion. It was not until the dance had finished and he escorted her to a seat that she was able to look at her surroundings. The ballroom was enormous, with a high domed ceiling and long windows, draped with velvet curtains which were drawn back so that the light from hundreds of candelabra shone out on to a terrace and garden. An orchestra played on a dais at the end of the room and everywhere there were banks of flowers. The costumes delighted and amused her; kings, queens, Greek gods and goddesses, harlequins, coachmen and gypsy maidens abounded. And sprinkled among them were the scarlet, blue and green of dress uniforms.
In spite of their masks, Maryanne recognised many of the guests as people to whom she had already been introduced: young Lord Brandon in the full dress uniform of a captain of the Guards, plump, red-faced Lord Boscombe, and Caroline’s particular friends, the Misses Georgiana and Henrietta Halesworth.
‘Caroline is happy,’ Mark observed dryly, seeing his sister surrounded by an animated group of admirers. ‘And while she holds court I can have you all to myself.’
‘I am rather hot,’ she said, wondering why she found this declaration unnerving. Mark’s attentiveness had become more and more like serious courting since they had arrived in London and he was becoming a little possessive. ‘Would you fetch me a glass of cordial, please?’
‘Of course.’ He went off on his errand, leaving her to look round at the glittering assembly. The noise of conversation and laughter buzzed all around her, almost drowning out the orchestra as everyone greeted everyone else and commented on their costumes. It died away as the musicians began to play a waltz and the men searched out their partners.
‘Miss Paynter, may I present Mr Adam Saint-Pierre? He has asked particularly to meet you.’
Maryanne turned in surprise to find Lady Markham at her side, accompanied by another of her guests, who bowed low over her hand. Like Mark, he was dressed as a highwayman and was equally slim and dark-haired, but somewhat taller. She gave a gasp of astonishment when he lifted his head and she found herself looking into warm brown eyes flecked with gold. ‘Mr Daw!’
‘Mam’selle is mistaken,’ he said in a heavy French accent, though there was the light of laughter in his eyes which totally mesmerised her. ‘I am Adam Saint-Pierre. You geev me the plaisir of thees dance, non?’ Before she could answer him, he had taken her hand, raised her to her feet and whirled her away.
‘Mr Daw, I must protest...’ Her heart was thumping against her ribs, and she was thankful for her mask because she knew she was blushing to the roots of her hair.
He looked down into her upturned face and smiled. ‘How did you recognise me? I thought I was well disguised.’
‘Your eyes,’ she said. ‘And that little scar.’
He brushed away her unconscious reminder of a time he would rather forget and smiled at her. Memories of the bloodshed at Salamanca did not belong in a London ballroom. ‘Not my French accent?’
She laughed suddenly and allowed herself to relax. He danced well and she did not need to think about the steps as she followed his every move as if they were one being. ‘You have no accent, so why pretend you have?’
‘The ladies usually like it.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Dancing with the most beautiful girl in the room.’
‘You know I didn’t mean that. And why invent that ridiculous name?’
‘Saint-Pierre or Jack Daw? They are both names by which I am known.’
‘Why do you need more than one? Have you something to hide?’
He smiled. ‘Do we not all have something to hide? Have you no secrets?’
‘No.’
‘Liar!’ he whispered. ‘You have told no one of our meetings; is that not a secret?’
‘How do you know I haven’t?’ She was acutely aware of the staid matrons and chaperons sitting on the sidelines watching them with more than passing interest.
‘You would be surprised what I know, mam’selle.’
‘What do you know?’ She should not have asked; it would only encourage him and he frightened her a little. Or was it herself she was afraid of? Was she afraid of her own emotions, afraid of where they might lead her?
‘I know you are beautiful, that you have eyes like a summer sky, a clear, honest blue, that your lips are irresistibly inviting and just now. . .’
‘Mr Saint-Pierre, I beg you, no!’
‘No, I won’t do it, not in front of all these people.’
‘I am relieved to hear it.’ Her voice was cool, but there was such a fire raging inside her that she thought everyone must be able to see it.
‘No, you are too delightfully good to be the subject of gossip, too. . .’ He stopped speaking suddenly, then went on softly, ‘I should not have asked you to dance.’
‘Why not? Do I dance so badly?’
‘You waltz like an angel, on wings, nothing so ordinary as feet,’ he said. ‘I was thinking of what others might think.’
‘Pooh to that,’ she said, making him laugh. ‘We are masked and there is more than one highwayman.’
‘Indeed, yes, the Honourable Mark is similarly dressed. Could we be mistaken, do you suppose?’
‘You are very alike, it is almost uncanny. One would almost think you were related, though his eyes are grey and yours are brown, and I do believe you are slightly taller. Your voice is very different, though, and as for your behaviour...’ She laughed suddenly. ‘He would never behave so disgracefully towards a lady.’
‘Disgracefully? You mean because I stole a kiss?’
‘And your familiar manner.’ Why was it so difficult to be serious when she was talking to him? ‘But you have still not said why you are here in London; the last time I saw you, you said you were in Beckford looking for a past. Did you find it?’
‘Partly.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘There are more important things to talk about. Are you going to marry Mark Danbury?’
‘Mark?’ She was shocked into stumbling. He caught her in his arms and whirled her round so that her feet hardly touched the floor. Breathlessly she said, ‘Such a thing never entered my head and I am sure it has not occurred to him.’
‘Forgive me if I disagree. He has the look of a man determined to keep you to himself, and if marriage is not on his mind he is a greater rogue than I took him for...’
‘Rogue? How can you say such a thing? Mark is a very kind man; he has been good to me ever since...’
‘Kind? No more than that?’ Why had he insisted on Beth Markham introducing him? Why had he come to the ball in the first place? Was it so that he could observe Lord Danbury and Mark at close quarters? Would it help him to make up his mind what to do? Or was it because of the girl he was dancing with? Oh, why di
d she have to be a Danbury? He was in danger of being diverted from his purpose. His annoyance was directed at himself, for his weakness, not her, who could know nothing of what he had been through. He found himself wanting to tell her, to try to explain, but then he pulled himself together; she was simply a girl who had fallen into his arms, nothing more, and it was unfair to involve her. But she was involved, and if she was going to marry Mark Danbury she had a right to know the truth.
‘I must see you alone,’ he whispered against her ear. ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘Tell me now.’
‘No, not here. We must meet later.’ His hand, gripping hers, tightened. ‘Or are you afraid to be alone with me?’
‘You know I am not. But it would not be proper. People will talk.’
He grinned at her. ‘Then it is as well they know nothing of our other meetings, don’t you think?’
‘They were accidental.’
‘This could be accidental too. I must see you. I need to ask you something.’
Ask her something; surely he wasn’t going to propose without even offering for her in the proper manner? Whatever would she do? She could not possibly entertain the idea. ‘I cannot meet you alone, you know that, and you should not have asked. I have heard that Frenchmen can be very forward but you are in England now, Mr Saint-Pierre, and in this country...’
He laughed, drawing a click of disapproval from the matrons on the sidelines. ‘It is no different from any other, except there’s a deal more hypocrisy.’
They were dancing near the open French window and a cool breeze fanned her hot face. She wished she could go out into the cool darkness and be alone to think. It was so hot and noisy in the ballroom. ‘It is out of the question,’ she said.
‘I could dance you straight out on to the terrace here and now.’
She looked up at him in alarm. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Try me.’
‘Is it really important?’
‘I think so.’
‘But how can I possibly manage it? Where and when and how can it be an accident?’ It was unthinkable that she should even consider it and yet her questions implied that she would.
‘At suppertime, when everyone is moving from room to room. Make some excuse and come to the garden-room. I’ll meet you in there.’
‘I don’t know...’
The music was drawing to a close and they were back at their starting place, where Mark stood with the glass of lemon cordial he had fetched for her. His dark brows were drawn down in a deep frown.
‘Merci, mam’selle,’ Adam said, releasing her to her official escort. ‘Perhaps you will do me the honour again?’
‘She will not,’ Mark said abruptly. ‘Her dances are all taken, even the one you stole...’
Adam laughed. ‘If that is all I have stolen, then I am no thief, for the lady came willingly.’
‘Please,’ Maryanne begged. ‘Please don’t quarrel over it.’ She took the glass from Mark and sipped the cool drink appreciatively. ‘Thank you, Mark.’ She pretended not to see Adam leave, but she knew he had gone from behind her; his going left a kind of emptiness inside her. How could he have that effect on her, a stranger with two names and apparently two characters to go with them? And why had he and Mark taken such a dislike to each other? She needed to know and the only way to find out was to meet him as he asked. But that, she decided, she could not do.
She moved off on Mark’s arm in a dream, hardly listening to what he was saying. Later they went into the supper-room, pushing their way through the crush to the laden tables. A servant carried their two plates of food to a table where Caroline and Mrs Ryfield sat, and she could do nothing but sit down with them and pretend to eat. In spite of her resolve not to do as Adam asked, she was preoccupied trying to think of a way of leaving the company without raising suspicions. She was mad, she told herself, completely off her head, to make assignations with a man she hardly knew. And she did not have to go; she could stay by Mark’s side all evening and, though the gossips might have a good crack at that, as least it would not be considered beyond the pale.
‘I saw you dancing with that mysterious Frenchman,’ Caroline said, and made it sound like an accusation. ‘Who is he? You seemed to be getting on remarkably well together.’
‘Mysterious Frenchman?’ Maryanne repeated, hardly hearing her. ‘Do you mean Monsieur Saint-Pierre?’
‘So that’s his name! I had heard that he was handsome and prodigiously rich. He is certainly good to look at; I wonder if the other is true too.’
‘I am sure I do not know,’ Maryanne murmured, wishing Caroline would talk about something else; she was sure her flushed cheeks would give her away.
‘I wonder if he is married?’ Caroline went on. ‘Maryanne, did you find out?’
‘No, of course not. I should not ask such a personal question on so slight an acquaintance.’
‘It didn’t look slight to me,’ Mark said, taking a good gulp from his wine glass. He had already had quite a lot to drink and Maryanne was afraid he was getting rather tipsy. One thing she was certain of; it had now become much too late to tell him, or anyone else, of her earlier meetings with the Frenchman.
‘Why did you call him mysterious?’ she asked Caroline, pretending she had not heard Mark’s comment.
The other girl shrugged. ‘That’s what everyone is saying; he turned up out of nowhere as soon as the armistice was agreed, and no one knows a thing about his family.’ She turned to Lady Markham, who had come to see if they had all they wanted. ‘Do you know his background, my lady?’
‘Whose?’
‘Why, the Frenchman. Maryanne danced with him, though how she could do so I cannot imagine.’
‘I introduced them,’ Lady Markham said. ‘So you may blame me.’
‘Is he an aristo?’ Caroline persisted. ‘Does he have a title?’
‘That I cannot say,’ her ladyship said with perfect truth. ‘He was brought up in France, though he speaks English well, and he is as forthright as most of his race, and used to having his own way. You would think that would deter the young ladies, but if anything the competition is fiercer.’
‘I am not afraid of competition,’ Caroline said. ‘Will you introduce him?’
‘If I can find him,’ her ladyship said, looking round the crowded room. ‘He seems to have disappeared.’
‘You are surely not thinking of setting your cap at him?’ Mrs Ryfield said, tapping Caroline’s arm with her fan. ‘He doesn’t sound at all suitable to me.’
That was just it, Maryanne thought; he would not be considered suitable and the manner in which she had first met him made it even more impossible. She would not go to him; whatever he had to ask her would have to go unasked. She forced herself to concentrate on the conversation, thankful that the subject had moved on and the Frenchman was no longer the talking point.
Supper was over and she and Mark were strolling back to the ballroom when a servant came to tell Mark he was wanted by his father in the gaming room. He excused himself and left her to return to the ballroom with Caroline and Mrs Ryfield, who were walking a few paces in front. Maryanne hesitated; she would never have a better opportunity. She turned and walked back along the corridor and slipped into the garden room, telling herself that he would not have waited and if he had she would tell him exactly what she thought of his manners, and then leave.
She shivered involuntarily as she crept forward. The room was made almost entirely of glass and was lit only by the light showing through from the ballroom windows. She almost stumbled over a couple sitting on a low bench with their arms entwined. The young man muttered an oath and the girl hid her face in her hands, as Maryanne hurried past them, eyes averted. Was that what Adam expected from her? How foolish she had been! Almost in panic, she turned to go back. Someone reached out from beside a huge tropical plant and pulled her behind it. She opened her mouth to shriek but it was immediately covered by a large hand.
‘Be quiet, you
little silly. It’s only me.’ He took his hand from her mouth.
‘Let me go back,’ she whispered. ‘I wish I hadn’t come. If anyone sees us I’ll be ruined.’
‘Why did you come, then, if you are so careful of your reputation? Intrigued, were you? Curious? I told you about curiosity killing the cat, didn’t I?’
‘I...I don’t know. I didn’t mean to, I just found myself here...’
‘Found yourself here!’ He laughed harshly. ‘You are no different from the others, after all. You tantalise a man, lead him on and then your courage deserts you...’
‘That’s not fair! You said you had something to ask me. What is it? Ask it and let me go back to my friends.’
‘Friends, are they? I wonder.’ He shrugged, then smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose they are more your style than an unknown Frenchman without a name.’
‘You seem to have two names,’ she snapped. ‘Though I wonder if either of them is real?’
He looked at her sharply. ‘I was wrong, I should not have asked you to meet me. I am sorry. Let me take you back.’
‘I would rather go alone.’
‘Yes, of course. Adieu, ma petite.’ He bent over her and his lips, brushing her hand, sent a shiver through her. ‘I doubt we will meet again.’
‘No,’ she agreed. Why did the prospect of never seeing him again fill her with such despair? She didn’t want to leave him but she knew if she stayed there would be no repairing her tattered reputation. And he had changed; his voice and manner were rough, as if he could not keep up the pretence of being a gentleman any longer and must revert to his roots. What were his roots? She turned back towards him. ‘Mr Saint-Pierre...’
He saw the bleak look in her eyes, felt her sway towards him and caught her in his arms. Sacre Dieu! What had possessed him even to think of confiding in her? She deserved her comfortable little corner in the life of the Danburys, might even be happy as Mark’s wife. If only he could be sure of that, he would go back to France and leave well alone. Now he realised the only way he could retrieve the situation was to make light of it, pretend to a flippancy he was far from feeling, make her think he had wanted her alone only to flirt with her. ‘I shall be as my lady wishes,’ he said. ‘But first I intend to claim recompense...’