A Bride Unveiled

by Jillian Hunter

  But then again she was drifting about in a mansion that was owned by a member of the infamous Boscastle family. Her maid had warned her that the blood running in their veins must have been brewed from a love potion, and that their influence was contagious.

  She stood in hesitation for a moment before instinct drove her back into a dark alcove. The swordsman paused, pivoting to study her with an intensity that made her grateful she could not see his face through the mask.

  “I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I?” she whispered.

  He shook his head gallantly. “It’s those treacherous feathers. They try to waylay me every time I go by here.”

  She sighed, burying the sword in her skirts. There was no point in hoping he hadn’t seen it. “I feel ridiculous.”

  “Not at all,” he said slowly, lowering his foil. “We have an escaped heir on our hands. It’s a situation that tends to bring out one’s protective instincts.”

  She felt a pleasant sting of familiarity jolt her. His voice held a sultry ring that infiltrated her awareness. Whether he was acting or not, his sense of mischief was contagious. In fact, he might seem dangerous if he hadn’t engaged her so easily. “In that case you’re going in the wrong direction. The heir went up the stairs. I assume this was his sword.”

  He stared down at the wooden sword she had lifted into the light. “One of them. I hope he didn’t attack you with it.”

  She smiled. “He was in such a rush, I don’t think he even saw me.”

  “Small boys can be dangerous.”

  “Yes, I know.” She handed him the sword. “Good luck in your quest.”

  He laughed, gave her a courtly bow, and reversed course. “Merci, mademoiselle. Forgive me if I startled you. And please forgive any unseemly giggles and shrieks of horror that you may hear when I find the culprit.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, her gaze following his supple form as he climbed to the landing.

  Something in his playful manner appealed to her. Her upbringing urged her to ignore him. But an unusual impulse overrode that cautious voice. It had been ages since she had been involved in lighthearted intrigue. It had been longer still since she had felt the least bit unrestrained. She couldn’t picture Godfrey chasing a disobedient son during a party unless it was to discipline him.

  Come to think of it, she could not picture Godfrey’s children at all—a disconcerting thought, as she wanted a family, with all the warmth and noise and bother that children would bring. She had always wanted to be a mother, but why she should think of such a thing now, in the presence of a stranger, was perplexing.

  The swordsman stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned. She felt him staring back at her through his mask. Of course, she had been staring at him, too. It wasn’t every evening that one encountered a strong-limbed swordsman chasing the heir to a marquessate through a West End mansion. Still, for all Violet knew such events were commonplace in aristocratic homes.

  “Are you lost?” the man on the landing inquired politely. “I didn’t think to ask when I burst out onto the scene like Punchinello.”

  Violet retreated farther into the protective darkness of the alcove. She knew she ought to make an excuse and leave, but his courtly charm beguiled her. Even if it was part of a show, it was an enjoyable one. The stairs drew attention to his height and the width of his shoulders, to his lean torso and long, muscular legs. The mask lent him a mysterious appeal, and perhaps it also gave his voice that seductive pitch. The lowness of it enthralled her. “I think I have taken a wrong turn,” she confessed.

  “Where did you want to go? Not that I’m an expert on this house.”

  For a moment she was embarrassed that she couldn’t remember. “I was supposed to be finding seats for the performance,” she answered after a pause he was polite enough not to comment upon.

  He dropped down a step. From the short distance between them he radiated a danger that sent an arrow of warning straight to her heart. She shivered involuntarily as he let a long silence build before he spoke to her again.

  “In that case,” he said, “I will look for you from the stage. And when I ask for help from the audience, I hope that you’ll volunteer. There is a seat in the second row, the first one from the center aisle, that will be reserved for you. Shall I show you the way?”

  Violet shook her head and tried to gather herself. What had come over her? A stranger holding her spellbound. “I’m not an actress.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so for a moment.”

  “I’m hopeless at learning lines. I—”

  He slipped down another three steps with an agility that appeared to be instinctual. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “But to stand up in front of the entire house? With everyone staring at—” She stopped. No one would be staring at an ordinary miss like her. He was one of the attractions tonight, and looking at him, she didn’t wonder why. “I don’t have the confidence,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t be able to repeat my own name.”

  “You don’t have to.” He gave a careless shrug. “All you have to do is stand up when I appear in the aisle and let me rescue you.”

  “From what?” she asked in the amused curiosity that her aunt had often predicted would get her in trouble.

  “From marrying a villain.”

  “Ah,” she said softly, as if she believed a word he said. “And how will you do that?”

  “I’ll swoop you up onto my horse while you are standing at the altar.” He leaned back against the rosewood staircase railing. “Then all you have to remember is to put your arms around me and hold on tight.”

  “Put my arms around you?” she said with an incredulous laugh. “In front of the whole of Mayfair?”

  “Well, it is for charity.”

  “And I suppose you are going to ask me to rehearse in private?”

  It was his turn to laugh. “I wasn’t. But if we had the time, I would be more than happy to oblige.”

  “That is terribly generous of you.”

  “It’s no trouble at all.”

  “Perhaps not to you,” she retorted, shaking her head.

  He was silent for a moment. “I think you have the wrong impression. I don’t ask just any lady I meet to take part in my act.”

  “Well, then, thank you for the honor.”

  “You still don’t believe me.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I think it might. I think I’ve just been insulted.”

  “Some ladies might consider your offer insulting.”

  “Only if it was the kind of offer that you think it was. Which it wasn’t.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “How do I know that?”

  “I’ll pay you fifty pounds if you can find another lady in the house who can honestly claim that I offered her that chair.”

  “As if I can go about asking! And don’t you have to find the missing heir?”

  “I know where he is. He’s waiting for me to pretend I’m in a panic.”

  Violet released a sigh, fighting the inexplicable urge to carry on the conversation. For all his banter, the man looked untamed and prone to stirring up trouble. He had certainly stirred up something inside Violet that she should have resisted.

  She forced herself to turn. She was in no position to match wits with a stranger, no matter how attractive he might seem. “If you’ll excuse me—”

  “May I look for you later in the evening?”

  What a persistent rogue. “It’s probably not a good idea,” she replied over her shoulder.

  “I’m going to anyway,” he said as she lifted her skirts to walk away. “Just remember—it’s all for charity.”

  She wavered. There was something in his manner that tempted her to take another look.

  Was she so vulnerable that she would fall prey to the first scoundrel who approached her at a party? She couldn’t even see his face, and yet she felt as if she knew him. Well, he was performing with her fiancé. Godfrey might even have made f
riends with the rascal at the fencing academy; not that Godfrey enjoyed much of a social life outside his emporium.

  “Miss Knowlton!” a feminine voice called from the end of the corridor. “I have been searching for you all over.”

  Violet spun around. Her hostess, Jane, the honey-haired Marchioness of Sedgecroft, beckoned to her from a gilt-paneled door. “Your aunt felt a little unwell.”

  Violet hurried toward her, relieved that the attractive stranger on the stairs had taken his cue to disappear before Jane could spot him. “What happened?” she asked the marchioness in concern.

  “I was talking with her, and suddenly she complained of feeling light-headed.” The marchioness took her hand, staring past Violet for a moment before she resumed her explanation. “Our physician has already examined her and given her a mild sedative. He couldn’t find anything wrong, but with your permission he will visit her later, in a week or so.”

  “Perhaps I should take her home.”

  “I suggested that and she became very upset. Why don’t you let her rest a few hours? I have the finest physician in London here tonight. I didn’t want to alarm you. But I thought you ought to know.”

  She followed the marchioness up another private flight of stairs to an interior drawing room where two under footmen flanked the door. Her aunt rested on a chaise. She looked so pale and delicate that Violet’s heart stopped for a moment.

  “Aunt Francesca?”

  Francesca’s eyes fluttered open. She regarded Violet with a frown. “Oh, dear. I think I’ve caused a fuss. You haven’t missed Godfrey’s performance, have you? He’s worked dreadfully hard to impress everyone.”

  “There will be other times for Godfrey to impress us,” Violet said firmly, sitting on the chair that the marchioness’s under footman had brought for her.

  “Your niece is right,” the marchioness said. “The sword fighting display is marvelous, but it does not have a calming effect upon the senses. My son has been attacking the staff ever since he watched his fencing master rehearse last week.”

  “Swordplay, when done properly, is very romantic,” Aunt Francesca said with a wistful smile. “Violet’s uncle was wearing a sword when I first met him. Did I ever tell you that, Violet?”

  “I don’t think so,” Violet said.

  “There are many things I kept from you, Violet. But only because I meant to protect you.”

  “You have protected me. What is this fuss about?”

  Aunt Francesca nodded tiredly. “You shouldn’t be here with me. You have a new guardian now. He’ll be looking for you in the audience. Go, and applaud him. And, Jane, see to your duties. You have a party to give. I shall not spoil everyone’s fun.”

  Jane laughed. “I’ve had more fun in my day than a lady is allowed. Anyway, you and your niece will be back for other parties. I never met your husband, madam, but he was kind to my father when he was ill and by himself in Falmouth.”

  “Henry had a good heart,” Francesca agreed. “Now enjoy the evening, please, or I shall feel dreadful about it.”

  “I like your niece,” Jane said with a smile. “I might borrow her to take her shopping while she’s in London.”

  “Please do,” Francesca said. “She needs to be around someone young and full of life.”

  “I have to warn you of one thing,” Jane said as she motioned Violet to the door. “I am known to be a little wicked at times, although I’ve quieted down somewhat since marrying the marquess.”

  Violet was shocked at her aunt’s reply.

  “I have made her a little too quiet for her own good.”

  Jane laughed again. “I can remedy that.”

  Chapter 4

  Kit’s assistant Kenneth spotted his master the moment he mounted the backstage stairs. “There you are!” He cut a swath at sword point through the pandemonium of fencing students, servants, and actors before his master could be claimed by another distraction. “How nice of you to join us, sir. We have twelve minutes left until the opening act. Lord Mont-place has developed stage fright and is cowering in the curtains. Mr. Dawson has forgotten his lines, and I cannot find the dagger for Hamlet—”

  He broke off to draw a breath.

  Kit bent as a second assistant removed his mask and threw a black silk cape around his shoulders. “Then there will be a change in the last act.” He motioned to the two gentlemen in cockaded hats who stood in the opposite wing, awaiting the stage director. “Mr. Jenner, practice passing your left foot again. No, no. Your other left. Do not expose your shoulder like that. Oh, for the love of—”

  “The last act, sir,” Kenneth prompted him. “Are you referring to Pierce’s performance or the one in which you pick Tilly out of the audience and rescue her from the baron who killed her family?”

  Kit frowned. “Leave that seat empty. It’s only fair that I select a random guest from the audience to bring onstage.”

  “Does this random damsel have a name, sir?”

  “I assume so.” Why hadn’t he asked her? Why had he practically walked her into the wall and warned her not to trust the feathers? She’d been too easy to tease.

  “What do I tell Tilly, sir?”

  “Promise her the pearl earbobs that she saw on Ludgate Hill.”

  “Master Fenton! Master Fenton! Pierce is going on and we don’t have the dagger!”

  “Damn it,” he said softly. “I saw it a moment ago when I—”

  “Here it is, sir!” his dresser interrupted, vaulting between the stage pulleys.

  Someone bustled through the curtains from the stage, revealing the scenery of a Roman temple. As far as props went, Kit thought it convincing enough, except for the street vendor’s wheelbarrow that sat between the two false pillars.

  “Did they sell hot cross buns in ancient Rome?” he asked with a scowl.

  “Well, I can’t imagine why not,” Kenneth said; then, “Ah, here comes Mr. Carroll now. And in costume. That’s one disaster averted.”

  Kit stared down into the theater. Most of the seats had already been filled, except for a few in back—and the first one in the second row off the center aisle. Footmen hovered about offering the guests champagne and wine. That was good. A slightly foxed audience was easier to entertain. Too much alcohol, however, and there would be the inevitable fool jumping onstage in the middle of a sword fight.

  Kit drew back. There was no sign of the mystery lady he’d met in the hall. He should have thought to remove his mask to get a better look at her. All he could remember was that she had dark hair and a reproachful smile and wore a lilac-gray gown that wrapped around her enticing curves like twilight.

  It wasn’t that he dallied with every pretty woman he met. God knew he’d almost been late to the performance, and he wasn’t sure why he had stopped to tease her. Something about her had caught him by surprise. He didn’t happen upon a lady whisking a wooden sword at the wall every evening. Especially not one with a tempting silhouette and dark eyes that sparkled with secrets and a mouth that he wanted to make smile and to kiss at the same time.

  She reminded him . . . of whom? He searched his mind.

  Damnation. She hadn’t been one of the maidservants who made a fuss over him whenever he visited the house for lessons. He didn’t think she was one of the young ladies who took tea with the marchioness from time to time and watched him fence with Master Rowan.

  But he felt as if he knew her.

  Which, of course, he didn’t.

  If she had a desire to meet him again, she had only to pick up a program to find his name. It wasn’t as if he would be hiding in the wings all night.

  The audience clapped and stood as the curtains closed on a scene from Hamlet. The master of ceremonies appeared onstage and promised over the uproar that more swashbuckling acts would follow after a brief intermission, and that any subscriptions bought tonight from Master Fenton’s academy would be donated to charity.

  Pierce Carroll, the academy’s newest pupil, was still taking a bow when Kit vanished
backstage and hurried into the retiring room. For a moment he expected to see his mentor and adoptive father, Captain Charles Fenton, hunched over a stool, criticizing and praising Kit in turns. He’d been dead four months now. But it didn’t seem that long ago that he’d bought Kit’s indenture, and Kit had thought it was the end of him. Instead, it had been the beginning.

  There wasn’t any doubt that he and Fenton had found each other at a low point in their lives. Fenton was a bastard when he drank, and Kit gave him hell in return. But he thought about Fenton all the time.

  Tonight he swore he could feel his presence. He swore he could hear his father’s voice. Live with passion. Fight with honor. And look over your shoulder every now and then.

  Look over his shoulder?

  Was that meant to be a warning?

  His father didn’t answer.

  Another voice intruded on his thoughts.

  “They love you, sir.” Pierce slipped inside the room, his face lean and clean shaven. “Did I do well enough?”

  Kit grabbed one of the damp towels on the dressing table and rubbed it over his jaw. “You know you did.”

  Kenneth poked his head in the door. “Sir Godfrey is on next!”

  Kit buckled on the sword belt that his valet had thrown at him. “Remind him that the light in Pierce’s lantern is alive. He is not to fling his cloak anywhere near the curtains. Encourage the audience to hiss when Pierce sneaks on the stage and to applaud when Sir Godfrey wins the duel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And . . . have any messages been sent to me in the past hour?”

  “Messages? Oh, yes, sir. The senior footman of the house has sent word that the marchioness thanks you for finding the young master for her.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “And some other guests are inquiring about the availability of private lessons through July. A member of Parliament wishes to take up the sword again, at his wife’s encouragement. Seems your swordplay lit a dying spark, sir.”