by Lyn Cote
At Bower’s masquerade, in an Elizabethan costume rented from Goldstein’s, Cecy was certain no one recognized her behind her mask and red wig. Tonight Cecy sought Mr. Wagstaff. He could find the truth about her mother. She just hoped the condition wasn’t something shameful that he might write up as news. But how could she recognize him? No dance cards. Identities remained secret until midnight when the masks came off.
A masked and hooded medieval monk took her hand and led her into a merry polka. “I did not know monks danced,” Cecy said in a husky version of her voice, trying to get the monk to speak and reveal his identity through his voice.
“My child, are you tempting me to break my vow of silence?” he demanded in a scratchy, false voice.
Cecy knew she’d danced with this man before. As she stepped and hopped to the bouncy music, she scanned the crowded ballroom. She glimpsed a Musketeer with a blue-plumed hat over blond hair that might be Mr. Wagstaff. The polka ended. She curtseyed her thank-you, then drifted away.
Auntie said her father had sent Cecilia away. Now that he was dead, why didn’t her mother want to come home so they could be together? A horrible new thought came—what if her mother suffered mental instability and that was why Auntie wouldn’t tell her.
“Your majesty, would you favor this poor Musketeer with a waltz?”
Cecy turned to the courtly Musketeer. Maybe she could figure out his identity as they danced. “I find you worthy, kind sir. Let us waltz.”
He swept her into his arms. She tried to decide if this blond Musketeer danced with her the same way Mr. Wagstaff had. No. Clarence Bower? Then nearby she heard Fleur’s distinctive trill laugh. So Fleur was Marie Antoinette. She caught her partner’s eye.
He winked.
Perhaps she could take the night off from competing with Fleur. She toyed with the idea of just enjoying the evening. But at midnight, the masks came off. Everyone would know Cecy had been Queen Elizabeth. So the English queen must triumph over the French.
A tall Little Bo Peep danced by with the monk. The monk leered at Cecy as he went by, reminding her of Hunt. Her partner stiffened. Why? Bo Peep reminded her of someone. She was tall enough to be Bower’s sister, but Cecy couldn’t be sure. If her partner was Bower, he’d dislike Bo Peep dancing with the monk whom might be Hunt.
If only she could find Mr. Wagstaff and arrange her first driving lesson. An open car would preclude the need of her aunt’s chaperonage yet give her the privacy she needed to discuss her mother with him. The waltz ended. Cecy regally swept away.
“Your Highness.” A Harlequin, a jester wearing a hat with tassels, stopped her. She wanted to ignore him, but he’d just partnered Marie Antoinette. Cecy swallowed her irritation, smiled, and let him lead her into the schottische. The Harlequin answered her with nods and smiles. But she’d smelled his spicy scent before. Mr. Wagstaff? But how could she ask him that before the masks were removed?
At the end of the dance, she turned to find the monk. He kissed her hand. The next dance, the galop, started. Cecy didn’t want to dance with the monk; she was certain it was Hunt. But she must not be seen standing alone without a partner.
The electric lights went out. The orchestra cut off in ragged peeps and screeches. Cecy’s own exclamation was cut off by a hand clamped over her mouth. Her assailant roughly dragged her through the French doors and out into the garden. In the cool night air, she struggled trying to free herself, trying to see who this was. But his strength overpowered her. The moonlight lit the garden, but her assailant had her clutched with her back to him.
“Help!” Cecy screamed silently into the hand. She clawed the arm that held her. The hand at her mouth lifted. She gasped, “Help!”
He struck her temple. Her senses swam. Suddenly released, she pitched forward, her head reeling. “Oh…oh…” She slumped onto the wet ground. There were sounds of a struggle. A man loomed over her.
Chapter 5
Linc lifted the limp Cecilia. He wanted to pursue the vanishing figure but couldn’t leave her unprotected. One, two, then more pinpoints of light shone from inside the French doors. With Cecilia secure in his arms, Linc shoved his way back inside. He tried to call the alarm, but the deafening hubbub inside swallowed his words. Who had doused the lights and tried to make away with Cecilia?
While the servants brought in candelabras and lit more and more candles, the would-be kidnapper had gotten away. Linc’s jaw clenched. Cecilia stirred in his arms. She was so frail, so young. He wanted to chase down the culprit, punish him. Leaning close to her ear, he said, “Cecilia, who was it?”
“I couldn’t see him.” She gasped, struggling with tears.
As candlelight quelled the darkness, the festive mood around them bubbled up again. Through the dimness, Linc finally located a sofa and set Cecilia on it. She wouldn’t let go of his shoulders. “Don’t leave me.”
“Cecilia,” her aunt snapped, drawing close to them. “Release Mr. Wagstaff at once,” she hissed, “before anyone sees you.”
Linc straightened, withdrawing reluctantly from Cecilia’s hold. But she clung to one of his hands. Linc leaned closer to the aunt. “A man tried to abduct her. The police must be summoned—”
“No!” The older woman flared up. “You’re mistaken.”
Cecilia sobbed. “He dragged me outside, Auntie. I couldn’t get away—”
“Hush!” The aunt leaned closer. “Think of the scandal.”
Linc touched the older woman’s arm. “Some man tried to carry away your niece. Doesn’t that concern—”
“Not another word.” She glared at him, then lowered her voice. “Just a prank. High spirits at a masked ball.”
Linc longed to shake the woman. Cecilia was in danger. Father, what should I do? Wrestling his outrage under control, Linc bowed. “May I be of further assistance?”
Cecilia sat up. “Don’t leave me.”
Her piteous tone squeezed his heart.
“You’re indisposed, Cecilia. We’re going home.” Miss Higginbottom snapped. “Mr. Wagstaff, will you escort us to our carriage?”
“Yes, I will, and I’ll follow you home, too,” he insisted.
Widespread, loud laughter drowned out his last words.
The aunt smiled sourly. “Thank you, but you must speak to no one about this prank. I should have known better than to attend a masquerade.”
Linc bowed once more. He wouldn’t say anything now, but this wasn’t over. Thank heaven, he’d been at hand.
Linc led Cecilia down the rear steps toward her carriage house. Both of them wore auto coats, long buff-colored dusters. The cool breeze played with the veil of Cecilia’s large hat, flaring and lifting its ends. Even in the drab driving garb, she was beautiful.
Linc hated keeping his true concerns hidden. The danger Cecilia had been exposed to the other night still made him seethe, but her foolish aunt had tied his hands. He’d finally decided that it most likely was Hunt who’d tried to kidnap Cecilia. He’d probably decided to compromise this innocent’s reputation and then the families would cover it up as an elopement. But how could he persuade Cecilia or more to the point convince her unwise aunt? Setting these worries aside, he walked around the gleaming, dark green runabout. “Electric?”
“Auntie said I couldn’t possibly crank the starter—”
“She’s right. There’s always the danger of a backfiring engine and a broken arm.” Or being abducted. He looked at her unable to hide his concern any longer. “Are you recovered from your shock?”
“What shock?”
He hardened his tone. “The shock at end of the masked ball.” With the open car between them, he watched her. Anxiety tightened his midsection. Would she be honest with him?
“Oh, that.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Auntie said it was just due to high spirits.” Cecy pointed to the car. “Now what do I do first?”
Take what happened at the masquerade seriously. “You don’t have a chauffeur?”
Her voice stiffened. “I intend
to drive myself.”
Linc tamped down his agitation. “If you don’t intend on employing a chauffeur, does that mean you will maintain the car yourself?”
“Maintain it?”
“This morning did you check your brake rods, steering connections, springs, and tires?”
She stared at him.
“They must be checked every time you plan to go out for a drive or you might as well stay home—unless you’re in the mood for a hike.”
“No need to use sarcasm.” Lifting her chin, she moved closer to him at the front of the vehicle.
Intensely aware of her light floral fragrance, he opened the hood and began pointing to the parts and naming them. Perhaps truth would open her eyes. “Hunt was dressed as a monk at the ball. A little out of character, don’t you think?” He caught a flash of fear in her eye.
“Clarence was the musketeer, right?” she asked, ignoring his question.
Linc nodded. “Bower told me someone cut the electric wires into his house.”
Turning away, she pointed to the engine. “What is that part again?”
“The steering connection.” Why did she keep changing the subject? He had to make her realize the flirtation she encouraged was much more complex than she guessed. What would Cecilia say if he told her Hunt still flirted with Clarissa when he thought no one was looking, that he probably had gone farther than hold hands with Clarissa Bower? But one didn’t discuss such lurid topics with an innocent like Cecilia. But then how could he warn her? Frustration tightened Linc’s jaw.
“Can we drive now?” she asked abruptly.
He nodded, then opened the driver’s door and helped her in. Taking his seat beside her, he slid his goggles into place.
Cecilia positioned her oversized goggles, then tied her large off-white veil over her face, a study of intense concentration. It tugged at his heart: Cecilia, so young, so intense, so lost. Father, how do I help protect her?
He rested his hand on the tiller, which jutted out from the red leather dash between them. “Do you understand how this tiller works?”
“Not really.”
“Just lightly move it in the opposite direction you want to go.” He’d been feeling as though an unseen hand had been turning him from his purpose in moving to San Francisco. He’d tried to go forward establishing his weekly newspaper. But he kept getting steered back toward this beautiful young redhead. She slipped into his thoughts all too often, worrying him. While Bower was beginning a promising law career, Hunt was a gambler who spent time in the brothels of Chinatown. Many Barbary Coast bartenders told Linc he was a mean drunk. The story about Hunt’s father insisting his son marry Clarissa was true. The older Hunt thought marriage would settle his wild son down. Linc didn’t agree. It would just make for an unhappy wife tied to a profligate husband.
She obeyed his instructions. “Oh, I see.”
Her perilous campaign to be the most sought-after deb had interfered with his plan to show her photos of ragged four-year-olds working barefoot in Louisiana shrimp processing plants, eight-year-old miners with blackened, desolate faces. But she needed his maturity, his guidance, since flirting with social disaster seemed to be her favorite past-time. Or was it her aunt’s imprudence?
At Linc’s okay, she flipped the switch on the dash. The vehicle moved forward. “Oh!” She trod hard on the brake. Both of them lurched forward.
“I’m sorry.” She blushed with obvious embarrassment.
He wished she was always so open to instruction. “I did the same the first time I stepped on my brakes. Now just ease up a little on the brake pedal.”
She cautiously obeyed. The car rolled forward.
“Now push the tiller gently, very gently toward your left and we’ll drive around in a circle a few times before we venture out on the road.”
They made several wide circles in the large open area of the stable yard. “You might as well drive out onto the street now.” After she’d driven tensely several blocks, she smiled. “I knew it this would be fun.”
“Always remember: be aware of the vehicles, horses, and people around you, you could hurt someone and yourself seriously.”
For once she didn’t argue but nodded soberly. Maybe he could bring her to her senses about leading on Hunt and Bower any further.
Linc cleared his throat. “Are we still headed for that auto race this afternoon at Golden Gate Park?”
“Yes.”
He let a few minutes of silence pass. “Your aunt was wise about your driving an electric auto. It runs so quietly it won’t startle horses nearby.”
She nodded, intent on the tiller.
He drew a deep breath. “I wish your aunt was as concerned about your safety at the masked ball. No one can convince me you weren’t nearly abducted two nights ago.”
“But Auntie—”
Linc couldn’t hold back. “Your aunt shows poor judgment about the true danger you stand in.”
Cecy made herself show no reaction. Auntie had told her to refuse to discuss the incident with Mr. Wagstaff. But Cecy couldn’t free herself from remembering those awful moments of fear and helplessness. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “What danger do I stand in?”
“I’ve thought of two motives for someone kidnapping you—”
“I could think of only one, ransom. What other reason could there be?” Her pulse beat a quick tempo.
“Have you thought someone might want to compromise your reputation, so you would have to have marry him?”
“I—I don’t understand.” His words buzzed in her mind. Stopping, she let a startled pedestrian cross in front of them.
“You would disappear for a night. In the morning, your reputation would be in tatters.”
Cecy tightened her hold on the tiller and herself. Primitive fear made it difficult for her to breathe. “Everyone would know he took me against my will.”
Linc shook his head. “Miss Jackson, unfortunately the world would prefer the man marry you quietly and cover his sin and scandal. Once a young woman’s reputation is tarnished, she is shunned. It isn’t fair, but that’s the way of the world.”
Cecy clenched her jaw, reliving those terrifying moments in Bower’s garden…Her hand shook.
Mr. Wagstaff put his hand over hers. “I’m sorry to have to upset you like this, but I’m worried about you.”
Many young men had touched her hand in the past month. Not one had touched her the comforting way this man did. His calm, sure strength flowed from his hand to hers, making the contrast between his confidence and her own uncertainty clear.
If she could only confide in him, she’d reveal that she wasn’t interested in either of the gentlemen, just a way to reunite with her mother. But she knew only this man’s family connections and his career. He was a stranger, after all, a question mark.
She willed herself to relax. “I’ll be fine. No more masked balls for me and I’m going nowhere without my aunt. And you’re coming to my opera party tonight?”
He nodded.
“I’m planning a surprise treat for my guests.” She forced a lighter tone. “Now let’s get to the race. Won’t everyone stare to see me drive up?” She cast him a tremulous smile, laced with bravado.
Driving had benefits more than show. The sanitarium was within the range of her electric car. In a few days, she’d just invite Mr. Wagstaff out for a spin and they’d merely drive to the sanitarium. She’d speak to her mother privately and her doctors. Mr. Wagstaff wouldn’t need to know the particulars. Since everyone already knew her mother was in a sanatorium, he’d have no new gossip.
She drove through Golden Gate Park where mothers and nannies strolled with buggies and children. A fashionable crowd had gathered along at a small lake in the park. Cecy waved her free hand.
“Miss Jackson! Is that you?” Many young ladies and gentlemen greeted her, their attention a balm to her ragged spirits. In his calm, no-nonsense way, Mr. Wagstaff instructed her how to park the auto. She drew back her
veil, pulled off her goggles and driving gloves and tossed them onto the car seat.
“I am quite impressed.” Fleur smiled at her.
Cecy looked away, searching the crowd. “Are the racers here yet?”
“I’m here.” Bower appeared at her elbow in a driving coat.
She wanted to draw back from him. This was Mr. Wagstaff’s fault. Whoever had tried to kidnap her had either been a stranger seeking ransom or a young man merely carried away by the rowdiness of the masked ball as Auntie said. Mr. Wagstaff’s idea of social ruin and a forced marriage was too farfetched.
“Mr. Bower.” Cecy smiled, gazing at him from under lowered eyelashes. “I’ve been waiting for today—my first driving lesson, this race, then my opera-company party. Three exciting events on one date.”
Bower kissed her hand. “The daring Miss Jackson.”
She savored this name society columnists had given her. She’d be known as a modern woman, a woman who’d been courted by many, but who had disdained marriage.
“Miss Jackson.” Hunt appeared and shockingly kissed her cheek.
So unexpected, Hunt’s kiss stunned her. Then she boiled with indignation. How dare Hunt try to mark her publicly as his? Everyone around her looked shocked. Except for Clarissa who paled. Cecy wouldn’t let Hunt show her disrespect. “Sir, you’ve overstepped—”
Bower pushed in front of her. “Hunt, you’ve gone too far—”
Hunt took a step forward. “Who asked for your interference—”
“There are ladies present.” Linc raised his voice.
His words shut both men’s mouths. A few tense moments passed in silence.
“Ready to start, Bower?” Hunt sneered the words.
Glaring at Hunt, Cecy took Bower’s arm.
Bower placed his hand over hers. “I’m ready to best you, Hunt.”
The two angry men strode to their autos—Hunt’s REO and Bower’s Pierce Arrow. Linc stood near the front of their vehicles, waiting for the assistants to crank the starters. Bower and Hunt donned their goggles and driving gloves. The Pierce Arrow surged to life. Then the REO engine caught. The assistants leaped out of the way. Linc raised the white flag.