Dangerous Masquerade

by Peta Lee Rose

  “I’m sorry.”

  Molly crouched on the bed and watched as he got up and straightened his clothing. “No, lover, I’m sorry. She’s very lucky, whoever she is.”

  Ignoring her statement, he placed a handful of notes on the dresser, saying, “Something extra for you.”

  She avidly looked at the money, then gave a broad smile—it was more than she’d normally make in a couple of months.

  As he went to leave, he hesitated, then turned back to her, “If you ever want to go into a different type of business, come and see me.”

  Then he sheepishly went downstairs, hoping to slip out the back, but was seen by Raven. That considerate and understanding friend groaned and said, “Damn! That wasn’t long enough. You can’t have even tried!” He added hopefully, “Perhaps if you go back up?”

  Luc looked daggers at him and walked out the door. Hearing a familiar laugh, he turned back in time to see a smiling Devon being handed a bundle of notes by a glum Raven.After tossing a few choice words in their direction, he proceeded to drown his sorrows in a nearby inn. Alone.

  The knock on the front door reverberated through his alcohol-soaked brain. Luc groaned and sank his head in his hands.

  He had a strong feeling it would be his mother. Though he’d been back in London a week, she hadn’t yet visited, an almost-unheard-of event. She didn’t normally pass up an opportunity to extract money from him.

  He hoped it was someone else because he very definitely was not in the mood to deal with her.

  From his study, he heard his butler’s footsteps, the door opening, and then the light, dulcet tones of his mother.

  He ran his hand through his hair and stood up from the desk just as his butler appeared in the doorway, Beatrice behind him.

  Brushing past the butler, she swept into the room, saying, “Don’t be silly, Evans. I’m his mother. You don’t need to introduce me.” Hands outstretched, she greeted him. “My darling son.”

  “Beatrice.”

  She looked at him searchingly. “You don’t look well.”

  “I am fine, thank you,” he politely said, ignoring the dull ache in his head.

  “Overindulged last night, perhaps?”

  Luc remained silent.

  Without waiting for a reply, Beatrice looked around the study and then wandered over to the bookcase. She browsed the book titles, her fingers trailing over the spines. Then she picked up a china figurine.

  He resumed his seat behind the desk and waited.

  Finally she gave a nervous little laugh, put the figurine down, and came back to the desk.

  He gestured to the chair in front, and Beatrice swept her skirts aside and sat down. He looked at her, waiting for her to speak. She gave another titter and said, “I am afraid I find myself in somewhat of a predicament.”

  “Financial?”

  She nodded.

  “I paid off the creditors you sent me. Are there others?”

  Beatrice fiddled with the lace on her dress, not looking at him. “I was playing loo the night before last. It was late, and, well, I got carried away and…”

  He rubbed his brow. “How much, Mother?”

  “You must understand it wasn’t intentional. It… well…”

  “How much?”

  She told him.

  He stared at her, his headache for the moment forgotten. “You wagered that much?”

  Beatrice nodded.

  Speechless, he continued to stare at her.

  Brushing off her skirts, Beatrice stood up and began to pace the room. “You know how it is. Sometimes you lose, and sometimes you win. It was just unfortunate.”

  When he remained silent, she tossed her head, “You needn’t look at me like that. You probably bet more than that in a night’s play. I won’t believe you don’t game deeply.”

  As he continued to merely look at her, she added, “How are you any different from me?”

  “I don’t gamble or spend more than I can lose.” Damn, but he wasn’t in the mood for this.

  “Blame your stingy father for that.”

  “You have a very generous allowance,” he said roughly. “Learn to live within your means.”

  “Why should I? Your father was as rich as Croesus, and so are you. I should get some compensation for marrying someone who not only didn’t love me but didn’t like me. We didn’t share the same interests, had nothing in common. At first I tried, but…” Beatrice shrugged. “In the end I gave up and found affection, pleasure, and satisfaction from other things.”

  “From other people.”

  “Don’t look so disapproving. Look at you—you have mistresses, spend as much on coats as Brummel, gamble. How are you any different from me?”

  “To begin with, I’m not married.” He wished his head would stop pounding.

  “I’m no longer married. I am a widow.”

  “Even when you were, it made no difference to your behavior.”

  “So if you were married, would it make any difference to yours?”

  He stared at her, dumbfounded not so much by her question but by what he suspected was the answer.

  “You will marry one day—unless you want that popinjay Albert to inherit, which I doubt.” Standing by his desk, Beatrice tapped her lips thoughtfully. “For the sake of argument, let’s say you marry… hmmmm… who is a typical candidate on the marriage mart at the moment? I know. Edith Brinkley. She is from a good family, modest means but well bred. Eminently suitable. What do you think your marriage would be like?”

  He vaguely knew the girl his mother was talking about. She was pleasant. Pleasant appearance, pleasant manners, typical of what was usually found at Almack’s. He suspected they would have a pleasant, boring marriage. The pounding in his head intensified.

  His mother sat down opposite him and resumed speaking, her voice very low. “I was in Edith’s position once. On, as she is, the marriage mart. Your father’s offer was joyously accepted by my parents, and I had no say in the matter. He was rich, he had a title, and that was all that counted. Once we married, his life didn’t change.”

  Beatrice’s tone became bitter. “Mine, on the other hand, changed enormously, with my main duty being to provide an heir, just as your wife will be expected to.”

  She eyed him across the desk. “You love expensive clothing, indulging in sporting pursuits, gambling, having a mistress, and doing what you please when you please. So I repeat—when you marry, will your life change?”

  As he sat there, stunned by what she was saying, Beatrice gave a broken laugh and answered her own question. “Of course not. You will continue to live your life just as it is, which is not so very different from mine. Not surprising when you, my darling son, are a male version of me.”

  At the look on his face, she exclaimed, “Had you not realized that? How delightful. Surely, you didn’t think you took after your dull, boorish sire, did you? Heaven forbid.”

  He had heard enough. Resting his hands on his desk, he pushed back his chair and stood. Focusing on an earlier statement of hers, he roughly told her, “Father must have deeply cared for you. He was jealous enough of your lovers to embarrass himself in public.”

  Beatrice shook her head in rebuttal. “Oh, my darling, deluded son. He was not jealous. I was his possession. He owned me, just like he owned his horses and his dogs. But unlike them, I was not obedient. He couldn’t tolerate that. I was the one possession in his life he could not control.”

  He stared sightlessly out the window. A heavy blanket of silence descended on the room. Finally, without responding to her comments, he turned, rubbed his brow, and said quietly, “I will cover your debt.”

  After a long pause, Beatrice said, equally quietly, “Thank you.” For once she seemed genuine.

  His mother walked to the door, but then hesitated. She turned and looked at him. “I called you Lucifer to annoy your father. He was away when I gave birth, so I convinced our solicitor to complete the birth certificate. He had to bribe a few people
to get it accepted.” Softly she added, “I never really considered how it might affect you. I am sorry.”

  “Did it work?”

  Beatrice tilted her head to one side in query.

  “Did you annoy him?”

  Her face lit up with a wide smile. “Immensely.”

  He laughed. “I’m glad.”

  For the first time in his life, Luc and his mother exchanged genuine smiles.

  After she’d left, he strode to the mahogany table on the other side of the window. He picked up a brandy bottle, poured himself a glass, then tossed back the spirits in the hopes that a little hair of the dog would help dull his almighty headache and clear his thoughts.

  Staring at the brandy bottle, he realized, amazingly, his mother was right about a great many things.

  All this time, he had been afraid of becoming like his father. Someone who, he thought, had been insanely jealous if his wife so much as looked at another man. From a child’s perspective, that was what it had looked like. But now he saw it had not been obsession that drove his father but possession. An altogether different emotion.

  Sinking back into his chair, he stared at the portrait of his father hanging on the opposite wall. Perhaps he had assumed he was like his father because they shared the same eyes, hair color, and build.

  He saw the signs had been there all along. His father had tried to control every facet of his wife’s and son’s lives. He just had never realized because his father died when he was very young.

  He stared again at the portrait. He remembered when it had been painted. It must have taken three times as long as it should because his father kept checking on the painter’s work, directing every little detail. It was all there in the painting if one had the courage to look. One of his father’s hands was on his wife’s shoulder, the other on his son’s. His father was the central figure, much larger than both his wife and son because the proportions were wrong.

  He had never really thought about his parents’ marriage from his mother’s point of view. His father and mother had been sadly mismatched. Would she have been different if she had married someone else?

  Did he want her life? He had the estates and worked damned hard managing them, but other than that, he and his mother weren’t so very different. Did he want to flit from one Cyprian to another, gamble, and have nothing to fill the void but trivial frivolities? Did he want to be that selfish?

  If he didn’t, how could he prevent it?

  Rising from his desk, he sought out his butler and gave him instructions. The first of which was to instruct his valet to pack, the second to get rid of that damn painting.

  As his carriage neared St. James Manor, Luc tried not to remember the look on Ria’s face when he confronted her about the masquerade. She had truly appeared heartbroken.

  He shifted restlessly on the seat. Despite what he’d said when he found out she was Persephone, he’d wanted her to deny everything. To say it was all a mistake. That she hadn’t been at the masked ball.

  But most of all, he had wanted her to say she wouldn’t have been intimate with anyone else. That she had been swept away by their passion.

  Luc rubbed his hand over his face. He knew he was being an irrational ass, but that was what he’d wanted.

  He deeply regretted his behavior in Devon’s study—his stomach knotted just thinking about it. He’d been cruel. He should have let her explain. As Devon had said, there must be an explanation.

  Ever since he’d returned the papers she’d left him, he’d wondered what was in them. Obviously, she’d thought they would vindicate her actions, but how could they? It must have something to do with Geoffrey and his attempts to kill her.

  Luc gave a heavy sigh. He hadn’t yet found out if his suspicions about the will and its wording was correct. Apparently some confusion in the clerk’s office was causing the delay.

  Feeling stiff, he shifted his position and stretched out his legs as much as the cramped confines of the carriage would allow.

  Part of him wanted there to be a good reason for her behavior. Another part of him no longer cared. That part of him, growing stronger every day, wanted her no matter what she had done. It was the same part of him that had pursued Persephone. The urge was back. Why?

  Because on some level he knew she was his?

  Knew that she was Honey, the little girl who adored him. The girl who he in return adored, though he’d hidden that emotion deep inside himself, so deep he himself had trouble unearthing it.

  Because he knew she was what he needed? He didn’t want to be like his mother any more than he wanted to be like his father, and if he surrendered to his feelings for Ria that wouldn’t happen.

  Devon was right. He did love her. He loved Ria, Persephone, and Honey.

  Why hadn’t he recognized her? She’d grown up, but her essence was the same. It’s what had always drawn him to her. So much so that as a boy he’d been so frightened by the intensity of his emotions, so worried he was like his father in his fixation, that he’d deliberately hurt her and driven her away. And despite repeated invitations from Devon, he had never returned to Little Bridgeton.

  As the manor came into view in a gap between the oak trees that lined the drive, his breath quickened.

  The carriage came to a halt at the manor, and Luc thrust open and door and jumped down, much to the surprise of a footman who’d just been about to open the door.

  He strode briskly into the large entry hall, and Flowerday, waiting near the entrance, bowed. “May I take your hat and coat, Lord Arden?”

  Luc handed him the items, then the butler said, “If you will follow me, please, Mrs. St. James has left something for you.”

  Luc frowned. “Where is Mrs. St. James?”

  “She is not here, my lord.”

  Unsure if Flowerday was telling the truth, or what he really meant was that Ria was not seeing visitors, he looked closely at the butler. His face was expressionless.

  Having expected to see Ria and eagerly anticipating the encounter, her absence left him feeling hollow. “When is Mrs. St. James due to return?”

  “Not for some time. She has gone away.”

  He drew in his breath at the news. Swiftly he asked, “Where has she gone?”

  “Up north, my lord. And the ladies are in Little Bridgeton.”

  He frowned. Where the hell was she? Did her absence mean she had given up? Had his refusal to listen turned her against him? He’d assumed she would be here at the manor, waiting for him, but she wasn’t. What did that mean?

  Flowerday interrupted his torturous thoughts by repeating his earlier request. “If you will follow me, Lord Arden.”

  He replied, “I’ll wait here—you can bring it to me.”

  Flowerday’s face was impassive as he firmly said, “I’m sorry. I am under strict instructions to ensure you collect it yourself.”

  Without waiting for any response the butler, head held high, sedately led him to a small sitting room. At the doorway, he gestured to a rosewood desk. “The items are there, my lord.”

  When Flowerday made no move to enter the room, Luc raised his eyebrow in query. Solemnly, Flowerday gazed back at him but still made no move to go in.

  As he neared the desk, he turned to ask Flowerday why he had been shown into the sitting room, but the butler had disappeared.

  Why had Flowerday been so insistent that Luc collect the items himself? He stood still for a moment and looked around. Seeing nothing untoward, he strode over to the desk.

  The box containing the ring he’d given Ria sat on top of some papers. Looking down at it, he remembered the day he had given it to her and the look of delight on her face.

  He’d lately assumed she was mercenary, but the ring was not particularly valuable and she would surely have known that. When he’d offered to purchase her a new ring she had declined, saying she loved this one both because it was pretty and because it obviously meant something to him.

  He had also offered to buy her an engageme
nt gift, but she’d said the ring was enough.

  Then there was what she had told him about putting the estate into a trust. If that was true…

  Shrugging, he reached for the familiar blue box. He then looked at the papers on the desk. Presumably if he read them he’d know everything. But did he want to? Did he need to? He realized it didn’t matter what they said. He’d want Ria regardless.

  As he looked at them, they slipped from the desk to the floor. He bent, picked them up, and placed them back on the desk.

  Just as he went to turn, the sheets of paper once again fell to the floor, this time scattering as they landed.

  He frowned, then looked over at the windows on the far wall. None were open, so there was no explanation for the papers falling. He picked them up again, opened one of the desk drawers, put the papers inside and closed it.

  As he turned to leave, he heard a thud. Turning, he saw the desk drawer now on the floor and the papers lying around it.

  He remembered the day in the entry hall when the vase of flowers had fallen for no apparent reason. While the butler had said it was the wind, the footman seemed to believe it was a ghost.

  Now that he thought about it, Ria had said nothing to him. While Flowerday had brushed off the worst of the flowers, she had looked around the hall as though searching for something—or someone.

  He contemplated the papers for a moment, then, leaving them on the floor, he walked to the open library door. As he neared it, the door slammed shut. Turning the handle, he attempted to open it. It opened slightly but then closed. It was definitely unlocked. He tried once more but couldn’t open it. He gave up and knocked loudly. No one came.

  Thoughtfully he looked back at the papers on the floor. Walking back to the desk, he gazed down at them. After glancing around, then shaking his head, he bent over and once again picked them up, putting the empty drawer back in the desk as he did so. After taking the documents over to the chair by the fire, he sat down.

  Picking up the first paper, he saw it was a legal document advising Ria that Geoffrey Danielson was contesting his uncle’s will on the grounds the marriage had not been consummated. So his outlandish theory wasn’t so bizarre after all. He’d been right.