They all three went swiftly up the steps and were greeted by a sober-looking little man carrying a medicine bag. He looked at them and said, “You are his friends?”
“Yes,” she said. “How is he?”
“He has not long,” the doctor said sadly. “He should be dead at this moment. But somehow he has revived a little.”
Eric asked, “Can he be moved?”
The doctor shrugged. “It would be dangerous. I cannot say. I will come by again in the morning.”
He went on his way, and led by Betsy, the three filed into the softly lighted room. The candle on the bedside table showed a motionless Felix Black in bed, his face the same color as the white pillow. Apparently he heard them and opened his eyes.
“Well?” he asked in a low voice.
She had tears in her eyes as she took his hand and said, “Later. We can talk about it later.”
“Now!” he said in a firmer voice, and his eyes were fixed on her.
Briefly she told him. “They are both gone! Somewhere in the waters of the great sewer. The army broke in afterward but too late to come upon them.”
“Good!” Felix Black said. “My own little army completed the task.” His voice still terribly weak, he went on. “And it was proper that he was avenged. Avenged with his own sword!”
Eric spoke up. “You must not talk, sir. You are very ill!”
“I have been dying for a long time,” the old spy master said. “The time is close. But not yet. Tomorrow we begin our journey home. I wish to have the game end in Fetter Street. In England.”
Betsy asked, “Are you able to travel?”
The old man smiled bleakly. “I shall make the journey. And you, Kingston, sit with me a little. I dislike being alone tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” the actor said with emotion and drew a chair up by the master spy’s bed.
Felix Black closed his eyes. Betsy and Eric left the room silently. She turned to the man she loved and tearfully asked, “Will he manage it?”
Eric smiled sadly. “He will. Have you ever doubted him?”
“No,” she said huskily. “Nor you!” And she pressed close to him, and their lips met.
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 1980 by W.E. Dan Ross
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7285-2
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7285-2
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7286-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7286-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © istockphoto/iconogenic and istockphoto/javarman3
Masquerade
Clarissa Ross
Avon, Massachusetts
Contents
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Copyright
1
Lady Enid Blair, a young, sloe-eyed beauty with golden tresses and soft, creamy skin, understood that any shocking thing was possible in the city of Paris in 1789. But this wedding dinner a few short hours after her marriage to Lord Andrew Blair far exceeded anything she or any other good English virgin could have imagined. It was the climax of a series of unsettling events that had occurred ever since she had agreed to marry the dashing but dissolute young nobleman two months ago.
“La-di-da sort of fellow,” her father, Lord Alfred Henson, had commented weakly from his sickbed. Then his eyes—plum-colored like Enid’s—had met hers in a look of appeal. “Because of my illness and a slump in my business interests, we are nearly destitute. Lord Andrew has offered to extend unlimited credit to me, and your marriage to him would be provident, indeed.”
Enid had had no deep love for Andrew, but she had known that he moved in the highest social circles of London, was much admired by some for his reckless behavior, and was enormously wealthy. She had felt obliged to agree to the match for the sake of her parents, and when Andrew had made his proposal, she had accepted, but with a chill in her heart. She had sensed that even if she strove to be a good and faithful wife, the marriage was in some way doomed.
This had not been the best of circumstances in which to consent to become a bride, but worse had followed. Not only had Andrew insisted that Enid give up her religion for him, he had also demanded—as a firm provision of their agreement—that they be married in Paris at the chateau of his good friend Vicomte Claude Robert.
On the long journey to France, Enid had been chaperoned by her elderly nurse, Mrs. Giddings, but this morning, before the wedding ceremony, Lord Andrew had dismissed the kindly woman and sent her back to England.
Plump Mrs. Giddings had come to Enid’s chamber in tears. “I must leave you now, dear child,” she said. “May the good Lord watch over you!”
Enid had risen from her dressing table in astonishment. “He is sending you back before the wedding?”
Mrs. Giddings had nodded, her sallow face reflecting her misery. “It was always my hope to see you take your vows on your wedding day, but as things are, I’m just as well pleased not to be here. To see you married to the likes of him is too distressing!”
Enid had embraced her nurse, saying tearfully, “I shall miss you so, but you must not worry.”
“Worry, indeed!” Mrs. Giddings had declared indignantly. “What else can I do? That young rake is not marrying you out of affection but to suit his own convenience. Don’t you realize that?”
“Mrs. Giddings!”
“It’s true!” the woman had persisted. “You know the things that have been said about him in England. And now he’s the guest of his good friend the vicomte! Did you note their greeting when they met the other day? Kissed each other on the lips in full view of everyone!”
“The French have different ways,” Enid had murmured, though the incident had shocked her also.
“This Frenchman has different ways,” Mrs. Giddings had sniffed. “And so has your husband-to-be, if I may make so bold.”
“I’m sure it is not as you think,” Enid had protested.
Mrs. Giddings had eyed her with great concern. “You have always been my girl, a good Christian lady. You are doing this for your father and mother, I know it all too well. But I pray you will not be crushed by this atmosphere of sinfulness—that you will rise above it. I pray you will!”
Enid had embraced the woman again. “Thank you, dear Mrs. Giddings. Your words give me comfort and cheer. I wish you a safe and pleasant voyage home. And when you see my parents, please give them my love and say I shall write them each day.”
With Mrs. Giddings gone, Enid had felt miserably alone. The French maids assigned to her were attentive enough, but she could not understand all that they said; besides, she had had the uneasy feeling that at times they were making fun of her. After completing her toilette, she had donned a pale blue gown and gone downstairs for luncheon.
The vicomte, who was to be best man at the wedding, the Duchess d’Orleans, whom the vicomte had selected as Enid’s matron of honor, and Lord Andrew had been standing together at the foot of the stairs, indulging in a rather excited conversation when she joined them. The vicomte, a young, effeminate man in a white wig and a dark blue velvet jacket,
was good-looking in a fine-featured sort of way. He had kissed Enid’s hand and introduced her to the duchess, a somewhat mannish woman in looks and gestures, but who spoke in a soft, deep-throated voice.
“What a lovely bride you will make,” the duchess had remarked, studying Enid through a jewel-studded lorgnette.
Andrew had given the vicomte a smiling glance from his dark, hooded eyes and added, “And how kind of Claude to allow us the use of his private chapel!”
This statement had surprised Enid. “I had no idea … I assumed we would be married in some lovely cathedral.”
The vicomte had laughed softly. “You will find our family chapel as impressive as any church in Paris. Petite perhaps, but in excellent taste.”
“And so appropriate, since the wedding is to be an intimate one,” the duchess had commented.
“I’m sure Enid will be delighted with the wisdom of your choice,” Andrew had said. “Is that not so, my dear?”
“As you’ve made all the other arrangements, I must leave this to your judgment as well,” she had replied.
Claude had been quick to reassure her. “You will not be let down, dear lady. The personal confessor to our family, Cardinal Léger, has consented to perform the ceremony. He will arrive in the late afternoon.”
So she had sat down to luncheon in a small anteroom adjacent to the dining salon, which was being prepared for the elaborate wedding dinner. Much of the time the others had spoken in French, in which Enid was not too proficient. She could follow only part of what was being said, and thus she could not help but feel left out of the conversation. Her companions had paid her scant attention as they laughed and talked among themselves. Enid had comforted herself with the thought that later, when they were alone, Andrew would lavish all his love on her.
Nothing had happened at the luncheon to upset her, but shortly afterward an incident had occurred that had sent Enid into a flurry of doubts about the advisability of this marriage to which she had agreed.
She had decided to question Andrew further about the details of the wedding ceremony, and had been making her way from her bedchamber along the wide, shadowed corridor when she had suddenly come upon the Duchess d’Orleans, some twenty feet away. The duchess had been standing at one of the many full-length mirrors that adorned the corridor walls, carefully studying her tall frame. While Enid had watched from the protecting shadows, the woman had reached up and removed her wig, revealing the head of a man with short-cropped hair. Enid had almost cried out her shock at this unbelievable sight. Then the duchess had replaced the wig, and Enid had again seen the image of a titled noblewoman. But there had been no doubt in her mind that for some unaccountable reason this person was a man posing as a woman—a woman who would be her matron of honor!
The duchess had walked away and entered a room that apparently was hers. Enid had waited a moment, then, with her heart pounding, had sped to Andrew’s chamber and knocked on the door.
A young valet had answered, eyeing her impudently. Andrew, who had been standing before a pier glass powdering his wig, had come forward to greet her, his handsome face breaking out in a welcoming smile.
“Andrew, I must speak to you alone,” Enid had whispered in a quavering voice.
He had nodded to the valet, who departed immediately. After she had entered, Andrew had closed the door and taken her in his arms. She could smell his perfume and powder. He had kissed her gently and murmured, “Why is my tiny sparrow trembling so?”
Close to tears, she had replied, “I do not like any of it—being so far from home, having my wedding here rather than in a church. And I do not like your friend Claude—he always seems to be mocking me!”
“That is ridiculous! I’m afraid you are being childish, my sweet.”
“There is something else,” she added. “The duchess is a man! I saw her remove her wig, and I’m certain she is a man!”
Andrew had frowned for a moment and then laughed good-humoredly. “You have discovered a secret, it is true. But not the one you think. The duchess is simply one of those unfortunate women who are afflicted with baldness. She cut her hair short as a remedy and in the meanwhile wears the best of wigs.”
Enid had realized he might be telling the truth, though she had still entertained doubts. “There are other things about the duchess which suggest she is a male … her voice and her mannerisms.”
Andrew had begun to lose some of his cheerfulness. “This is not the time or place to discuss the poor woman. We are to be wed within the hour. It would be more seemly if you devoted your time to readying yourself for the ceremony.”
Enid had been party to his bad humors before and knew that nothing would be gained by further argument. She could only hope that he had told her the truth and all would be well.
He had kissed her again and smiled as he saw her to the door. “Try to look happier. After all, this is to be the most important day in your life.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so far from home and my parents.”
“Your father is bedridden and your mother is his nurse,” her husband-to-be reminded her. “They could not have attended any public ceremony had we been married in London.”
“We could just as well have been married in my father’s house in Surrey as here in the house of the vicomte!”
“To be married in the chapel of a vicomte’s house, and by a cardinal, is an honor. You must not show yourself to be ungrateful.”
“I have no wish to be, but I’m very confused by all I find around me.”
Andrew had laughed softly. “That is the proper state of mind for any young bride-to-be. Off to your room and dress, now!”
She had obeyed him. The two chittering little French maids had dressed her in a gown of bridal-white satin adorned with a flowing lace veil. Just before she had left the room the duchess had appeared, wearing a formal gown of purple silk with a lavish diamond pendant at her throat. In that strange voice the duchess had trilled, “Such a dear bride! I’m so delighted!”
The noblewoman had escorted Enid downstairs and then to a distant wing in which the chapel was located. The chapel was small, but, as the vicomte had promised, it was very beautifully decorated. The stained-glass windows behind the rosewood altar depicted scenes of Christ’s journeyings. The highly polished oaken communion table was intricately sculptured with a fine eye to detail. Tiny candles flickered in several niches, their light bathing the sanctuary in a warm glow.
After a few moments the cadaverous-looking cardinal had appeared, clad in heavy crimson robes. He had bowed to them and taken his place before the altar. Then Andrew and Claude had arrived, Andrew in a handsome gold velvet waistcoat embroidered in white and matching breeches, and the vicomte in a red brocade waistcoat, also embroidered in white, and dark red breeches.
Andrew had stood beside Enid and whispered, “How lovely you look, dearest.”
She had given him a tiny smile, thinking wistfully of her parents and Mrs. Giddings. Then the ceremony had begun, and within a short period of time they had been proclaimed husband and wife. The cardinal had remained only long enough to bow gravely to each of them and shake their hands.
“Lady Blair!” In his mocking fashion the vicomte had addressed Enid by her new title. “What a stunning pair you and Andrew make!”
“Thank you,” she had said. And to the duchess, “I appreciate your part in the ceremony.”
The duchess had purred her pleasure. “This is my first experience as a matron of honor, and I shall treasure it.”
“And now for the high point of it all,” Claude had announced with simpering smugness. “The wedding dinner, to which I have given my greatest attention.”
Andrew had cast a knowing glance at him. “I’m sure we all shall be delighted by it! It is bound to be an unusual surprise for my new wife.”
“What a divine notion!” the duchess had exclaimed with matronly approval.
“So let us proceed to the dining hall!” The vicomte and the duchess had
led the way, and Enid had followed on Andrew’s arm. For a brief while she had felt that perhaps the marriage would turn out better than she had expected. Andrew appeared to show a sincere affection for her, and even though his friends were strange, they had gone to a great deal of trouble to make the wedding a success. So it would be on to the wedding dinner and then to that blissful wedding night when she and Andrew would be one. Afterward, she would be closer to him than anyone, and she would sway him from his gambling, his drinking, and his odd choice of friends.
The dining hall was large, high-ceilinged, and almost completely draped in green velvet curtains. The table for their wedding feast had been set for four, with Enid and Andrew at opposite ends of the white damask tablecloth. The gleaming silver, sparkling cut-glass crystal, and gold plate almost took Enid’s breath away. She had rarely seen such opulence. The silver candelabra with its lighted white tapers offered the only illumination.
“It is magnificent!” she had found herself exclaiming.
The vicomte, seated to her right, but midway down the length of the table, had smiled and assured her, “It is only the start, Lady Blair!”
“I’m sure the food and wine will equal the splendor of our surroundings,” the duchess had proclaimed.
“I have no fear of that,” Andrew had chuckled, apparently enjoying a private joke with Claude and the duchess. “I have sampled Claude’s hospitality before.”
“I trust this dinner will not disappoint you,” the vicomte had said with a smile for both Enid and Andrew. He had seemed so very pleasant she had reproved herself for having been suspicious of him.
He had rung a bell placed beside his wine glass, the signal that eventually caused Enid to allow that any shocking event was now possible in Paris. The bell signaled the entrance of a Nubian bearing a silver pitcher of amber wine. The huge black man came directly to her side and poured the liquid into her wine glass.
It was not his actions that startled her but his lurid appearance. Except for the golden cloth turban wound about his head and a gold chain at his neck, the man was completely naked. Despite her modesty, she could not ignore the fact that he was more than adequately endowed. Enid was a twenty-year-old virgin who had never seen a naked man before, and the sight of the giant black servant whose body was so totally exposed caused her cheeks to burn and her breath to come out in little gasps. From the others at the table she heard unsympathetic titters.
Vintage Love Page 31