Once Upon a Masquerade

by Tamara Hughes

  With a tremulous smile, she smoothed her skirts once more. “I know.” Her mind worked feverishly for a new train to her thoughts and landed on the obvious. “Thank you once again for rescuing me.” Steeling herself, she raised her eyes to his. “I don’t know how you do it, but you somehow manage to be there when I need you.” She held his gaze as long as she could, then jerked it away to study the darkness beyond the window.

  “I’m glad I could be of service. I hope there’ll be no need for my aid in the future.”

  “As do I,” she whispered, wrapping her arms over her chest.

  “Are you cold?”

  His voice seemed closer, and she dared a glance, finding him leaning forward as if he would warm her if needed.

  “No.” She uncrossed her arms and sank back in her seat, the pull to this man too strong.

  Blessedly, he sat upright once more. “Hungry, then?” He gestured to the basket on the floor between them.

  She nodded, although food was the last thing on her mind. “Allow me.” She opened the basket and set out two plates, then withdrew slices of Camembert, rye bread, apples, and a bottle of Madeira. At least it was something to do on their journey to God knew where. Handing him a plate, she asked, “Where is your country estate?”

  He set the food aside and picked up the bottle, removing the wax from its neck. “I don’t have one. A good friend of mine, Spencer Henley, is having his annual post-season retreat. We’ll head there.”

  “Spencer Henley. The name sounds familiar,” she mused, locating two pewter goblets and a corkscrew.

  “I believe I saw you dancing with him at the Vanderbilt ball. You may remember him better as Hamlet.”

  “Of course.” She remembered him well. “Mr. Henley was a lively partner. Does he frequently entertain himself by acting the drunken prince?”

  “He does like to amuse himself any way he can.”

  Eager to avoid her own miserable thoughts, she pressed, “Have you been friends a long time?”

  “Since we were boys.” He uncorked and poured the aromatic wine, handing her a goblet. “One day my father and I were repairing the decking of The Fair Maiden when I spied Spence and his father walking down the pier nearby. His father had commissioned a new yacht and had stopped by to inspect the finished product.”

  With a smirk, he set down the bottle and sat back, taking a long sip. “At some point, while his father argued with the builder, Spence was off leaping from one dock post to another.” He chuckled, no doubt recalling the sight. “I thought for sure he was in for a bath. At first I didn’t think he noticed me, until he hopped by our ship and waved. Not much later, my father asked me to pick up more nails from a store a few blocks down. On my way there, I came across a gang of boys in an alley.”

  She drank from her goblet, mesmerized by the smooth timbre of Christopher’s voice as he told his tale.

  “They had Spence surrounded,” Christopher went on. “He’d been knocked to the ground and was bleeding from his nose. I wasn’t sure if they wanted his money or to teach the rich boy a lesson.”

  Oh, my. “What did you do?”

  “I picked up a board lying on the ground and charged in swinging.”

  He did what? “Did you fight them off?”

  “We tried. At least a few of them nursed injuries, but there were too many of them. We were both scuffed up when a policeman heard the yelling and chased the boys away.”

  She stared at him over the rim of her goblet, sipping her wine, trying to understand who this man was and how his mind worked. “What made you charge in and help him, knowing you were outnumbered?”

  He took another swallow from his glass. “If I hadn’t, I would’ve been no better than the boys who beat him.”

  Standing by and watching someone get hurt was as good as hurting them yourself. An interesting philosophy, one she’d been living for years now. How else could she explain all the times she’d saved her father from his mistakes?

  Christopher refilled their goblets, the stare he turned on her direct and purposeful. “What more do you know about these men your father owes?”

  Where had this question come from? Perhaps the story of one brutal group had recalled another? She shrunk back into her seat. “Truly, not much.”

  “If I’m going to help you and your father, you need to tell me everything,” he insisted, exasperation heavy in his tone.

  Tell him everything about her father’s troubles maybe. Her own mess could wait. The thought of confessing to all the lies about herself made her sick inside. She stared at the lapel of his black jacket, afraid to meet his eyes. He had offered to help her, to protect her, despite what had happened between them last night. She did owe him what information she could give.

  “They said someone was willing to pay six hundred dollars for your death,” he prompted.

  The reminder stole her breath. “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea at all who might offer such a reward?”

  Lifting a trembling hand, she rubbed her forehead, feeling a mite dizzy. “I wish I did.”

  She began to pack away the largely untouched fare, the wine going straight to her head.

  Christopher watched her complete the task, his silence almost worse than his questions. “Why didn’t you sell the comb?” he finally asked, his voice a mere whisper.

  She closed the lid of the basket, her mind beginning to numb. “What?”

  “If you needed the money, why not sell the emerald comb you wore to the Vanderbilt ball?”

  She sidled closer to the carriage wall and leaned against it, the alcohol seeping into her bones, relaxing them to jelly. This much of the truth she could explain. “I’m embarrassed to say the gems aren’t real.”

  Christopher shook his head. “I can assure you they are very real.”

  Odd. “Why would you say that?” She stifled a yawn with one hand.

  “I’ve been transporting jewelry for years. I’ve learned how to tell the difference between paste and the real thing.”

  “In this case, you must be mistaken.” Mary had lent her the comb. The jewels couldn’t be real.

  Her eyelids heavy, she closed her eyes and relaxed into the seat, her mind already drifting. “Why are you helping me?” she asked, the question floating into her head.

  “You’re a woman alone, and in need.”

  Her brows knitted, but her eyes remained closed, sleep beckoning. “Is that all?”

  Christopher hesitated a long moment before answering, “Isn’t that enough?”

  Something about the soft way he said the words prodded her. Her eyelids lifted a crack. “Tell me.”

  He blew out a sigh. “I suppose I’ve grown too fond of you for my own good.”

  “You’d best remedy that,” she murmured, her lids closing once more, although the sentiment made her heart flitter.

  “I wish I could.” Several moments passed, the rock of the carriage lulling her so close to sleep, she almost missed Christopher’s next words, carried on a bare whisper. “From the moment I met you, I haven’t been able to think of anyone else.”

  Her lips curved in a fleeting smile as pleasant dreams carried her away from the carriage and all her worries. Dreams filled with possibility and promise.

  …

  Rebecca’s breathing slowed, and she adjusted her position against the jarring of the coach. Taking pity, Christopher eased next to her and shifted her limp form into his arms, her head on his shoulder. She snuggled closer and relaxed into him, her long lashes fanned over her pale skin. Deep pleasure shot through his limbs when her softness pressed against his side. He debated a hasty retreat, but couldn’t bring himself to move. The scent of cloves teased his senses while the faint sound of her deep breaths tortured him. He’d never met a more tempting woman. Her very nearness triggered visions of her naked body glowing in the lamplight, beckoning his touch.

  Forcing the image away, he studied the shape of her ear, the slant of her nose, the soft sweep of her lips. His luc
ky coin glowed dimly at the base of her neck. Sympathy surged within him. She was alone. Her mother long dead, her father nowhere to be found, and no brother to speak of. She had to survive on her own. And survive she did. She’d proven herself to be clever and strong against those men, a fighter. Which should only raise his suspicions regarding her guilt in Nathan’s death. And yet, she didn’t seem ruthless enough, hard enough, to take a man’s life. Or maybe he’d already gotten too close, letting his attraction blind him to her true nature.

  One thing was certain—protecting her had become his primary goal, for Nathan. No, not just for him. In truth, he’d been so damned thankful she’d escaped those men, he’d been beside himself. He would let no one get that close to harming her again.

  Still, for both their sakes, he would forget what had happened in his cabin. Nothing could come of it. Even if she was found innocent in Nathan’s death, Nathan had loved her beyond all else. Besides, a relationship built on lies would never last.

  They arrived at the Henley estate late in the night. Rebecca awoke so groggy she probably didn’t even realize he’d held her while she slept.

  She still looked dazed when she entered the manor, her maid following close behind. Spence spoke softly to a servant, who then led Mary away. “It’s been far too long, my friend,” he joked, joining them in the foyer as the butler relieved them of their coats. “Miss Bailey, a pleasure to see you again. No longer a maid, I see.”

  Rebecca’s lips parted for an instant before her eyes lit up. “And you, sir Hamlet, have given up your prose?”

  “I would gladly wax poetic if it would please you.”

  In the light of the gas lamps, Rebecca’s face glowed pink. Christopher wasn’t sure if the flush from sleep stained her cheeks or if Spence’s flirtations caused the blush. The idea annoyed him. “Isn’t it a bit late to be spouting verse?”

  Spence gave Rebecca a wink and goaded Christopher as he always did. “My friend here has a plentiful lack of wit.” Rebecca smiled as he looped her arm through his. “Join me for a drink before bed?”

  Christopher agreed. “A fine idea. Lead the way.”

  Spence escorted them down the hall to the parlor. The heat of the crackling fire welcomed them at the door.

  “Sherry?” Spence asked Rebecca, steering her toward a chair near the warmth of the hearth.

  “No, I’m fine,” she insisted, relaxing into the plush chair with a yawn.

  Spence crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of brandy. “I expected you earlier.”

  “I was detained by Bryce.” When he’d stopped by to report what he knew, the Police Chief had held him at the station for hours. He’d thought the questions would never end. Christopher accepted a snifter, the brandy’s rich fruity smell soothing.

  Both men took seats across from Rebecca. Spence flipped open the humidor perched on the table at his side. “What did the old man have to say?” he asked.

  Sipping the brandy, Christopher studied her. She’d slumped lower in her chair, her lids so heavy her eyes blinked slowly. Bryce had agreed that she had to be somehow linked to the case. She was now officially their prime suspect.

  “Come now. You can tell me.” Spence lifted a thick cigar from the box. “Would you like one?”

  “No thanks.” He inclined his head toward Rebecca. The last thing he needed was for her to overhear.

  With a sideways glance and a smile, Spence closed the lid and clipped a cigar tip. “Miss Bailey, forgive me. You look exhausted. Would you like to be shown to your room?”

  She mumbled a reply before her head lolled forward in sleep, the late hour getting the best of her. And proof that they could speak freely.

  Spence let out a chuckle. “Apparently, she’d like to stay.” He struck a match and puffed the cigar to life. Blowing a cloud of aromatic smoke, he nodded to Rebecca. “Regardless of what dear Bryce thinks, I’m pleased you’ve brought her along. I suspect she’s just what you need.”

  “Even if that’s true, she was Nathan’s.” That fact had scorched a whole in his chest, creating an ache he couldn’t dispel.

  “Was being the operable word,” Spence pointed out. “Nathan is long gone, and the rest of us poor fools have to live on.”

  True, although Spence’s blessing did little to ease the ache. Christopher sat forward in his chair and stared at the snifter he held. He tilted its edge from one side to the other, watching the amber liquid flow with his movements. “Someone wants Rebecca dead.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Three men tried to do the job last night.” He tossed back the rest of his brandy, feeling the slight burn down his throat. “She almost didn’t escape.”

  “Ah, intrigue,” Spence proclaimed in typical dramatic fashion as he rolled the cigar in his fingers. “Are you expecting more trouble?”

  With a long exhale, Christopher set aside his empty cup. “No, I don’t anticipate we’ve been followed. Even so, I’m not taking any chances.” He usually enjoyed Spence’s devil-may-care attitude. Spence had been the only one who could loosen Christopher’s sometimes overly serious nature. Tonight the subject cut too close. He could see nothing lighthearted when it came to Rebecca’s safety, even though she sat here before him, unharmed.

  A comforting hand came to rest on his shoulder, and his friend’s next words were oddly serious. “You look tired. Get some rest. Between the two of us, we’ll keep her safe.”

  Christopher rose from his chair, ready to retire and put this long day behind him. “Did you receive the message I sent before we left?”

  “I did, and just as you requested, your room will be across from hers. Go to the west wing. Hers is the last door on the left.”

  “The proximity of our rooms may cause a stir with your guests.”

  The usual mischievous glimmer returned to Spence’s eyes. “Good. You know how I relish a tasty scandal. My guests have come to expect nothing less.”

  Christopher stopped just in front of Rebecca’s chair. He loved watching her sleep. Her head rested to the side as if her cheek perched on her shoulder. Even in this awkward position, she looked peaceful, content.

  He lifted her in his arms, and she didn’t so much as flinch. Her heavenly spicy scent filled his nostrils, and heat shot through his veins, jarring the memory of last night when he’d carried her to his bed. He muttered a curse and tamped back the visions of her creamy skin, her full breasts.

  Leaving the parlor behind, he climbed the staircase to the west wing. Her shapely lips parted with a sigh, and he fought the urge to lower his mouth to hers.

  By the time he reached the end of the long hallway, his arms shook, not from exertion but from the battle raging within himself.

  He opened her door and hurried to the bed, spying her maid, Mary, asleep on the cot at its foot. A taper on the mantle cast a dancing glow throughout the room. Gently, he laid Rebecca on the mattress and stepped back, eager to leave.

  Her whimper stopped him cold.

  When a slight frown marred her lips and her body tensed, he returned to her side. Easing onto the bed next to her, he smoothed his palm over her forehead, brushing back the curls that lay there. His hand repeated the motion, and she relaxed once more.

  “What spell have you cast over me?” he whispered, now touching her more for himself than to ease her discomfort.

  His fingers wandered further back and grazed a hair pin. He tugged it from her coiffure. Sifting through the soft strands, he found what he could until her hair became a mess of long drooping tresses and half-pinned curls. With a frustrated growl, he eased her to her side and searched for more until her hair hung loose and flowing. Pleased, he stroked her long locks.

  She rolled to her back as if to ward off his touch. Her bodice stretched taut over her chest, and she adjusted her position with a frown. He unbuttoned the thick fabric to ease the constriction, and brushed past her stiff corset in the process. He groaned and raised his eyes heavenward. No doubt the contraption was the true so
urce of her discomfort.

  Lord, are you punishing me?

  As Christopher unhooked the corset, the swell of her breasts beneath her chemise tortured him. The last clasp released, he bolted from the bed and stood back. He debated awakening Mary. Instead, impatient to be away, he grabbed for a quilt at the end of the bed and draped it over Rebecca’s body.

  He strode from the room, shut the door, and leaned back against the hard wood, rubbing his face with a trembling hand. Rebecca’s presence beyond the door drove him mad. Even in sleep she haunted him. Of its own will, his mind conjured her image, her eyes glassy with desire, her long hair tumbled around her. He groaned and crossed to his room, already dreading the long night ahead.

  Chapter Ten

  REBECCA AWAKENED SLOWLY, A soft mattress cradling her body. She snuggled deeper under the downy quilt and wiggled her toes within the stiff confines of her boots. Her boots?

  Both eyes closed, she swept a hand along her body. She still wore her dress and evidently her petticoats. Her hand brushed over her exposed chemise, and Rebecca’s eyes sprang wide. She lifted the quilt. Her bodice gaped open, and her corset had been unclasped.

  The last she remembered, she’d been ushered into Mr. Henley’s parlor and sat down in a comfortable chair. Had she stumbled to bed half-asleep? How odd. She relaxed back into the mattress and let the troublesome thought float away.

  For the first time in years, she allowed herself to enjoy the peace and comfort of bed. Her gaze wandered about the elegant room. The yellow décor warmed the space, like the early morning rays of the sun bathing the landscape with its golden glow. Light blue accents on the drapes, bedding, and pillows added just the right touch of contrast.

  Not quite ready to leave her pleasant cocoon, she stretched out, detecting, with a heated blush, a slight soreness between her thighs. She didn’t mourn the loss of her innocence. Right or wrong, her actions had been born out of affection. Perhaps even love. Love. That fiendish emotion just might become her downfall. Still, she would enjoy Christopher’s company while it lasted. Life was too short to hold back.