Daring Masquerade

by Mary Balogh

  Somehow he did it. Money helped. She and her mother had accepted as a settlement a lesser sum than the earl had been willing to pay to buy her off. Now Clive offered the remainder if she would sign a paper, which he represented as a legal document, that she would never again communicate with her son or any of his English relatives.

  Gentle reasoning completed the argument. The parting would be painful for her, Clive said. Would it not add to her pain to see her son in the years to come, an English boy who would neither know her nor speak her language? And the earl might be angered if she made a claim on the boy when he had been generous enough to take upon himself all the expense and trouble of the child’s upbringing and education. He might decide to wash his hands of the boy. Would it not be better for her to make a clean break now?

  Annette signed the paper with her mother’s approval. Neither of them had deemed it necessary to seek outside advice. Clive had a confident yet sympathetic manner that invited trust. Five days after his arrival in Belleville, Clive left again with the two-and-a-half-month-old Nicholas Seyton and a wet nurse, hired for the journey until an Englishwoman could be engaged at Barton Abbey. He turned away when the time came for Annette to hand over her son. He was afraid he might weaken if he witnessed that scene.

  Clive had considered not taking the child. If he was willing to deceive the earl about the main issue, he could just as easily have pretended that the child was not Jonathan’s. But he was afraid that the disappointment might drive the earl to go to France himself to investigate. It seemed to him wiser to take the safer, though less satisfactory course of admitting the child’s paternity and taking him to his grandfather. And he knew he had done the right thing as soon as they returned. Clive had never seen the earl so affected by emotion as he was when he took the sleeping child from the arms of the nurse. He had not shed a tear on the death of his son or during the weeks that followed. Yet he wept when he saw the beautiful dark-haired baby of his son, though the child looked nothing like his father.

  Barton Abbey remained Clive’s nominal home for the next four and a half years, though he was away much of the time, first at university, then on his own Grand Tour, and finally in London or at one of the spas. He was Viscount Stoughton and heir to Barton. Though he was never a handsome man, with his short, rather stout figure, and his thin sandy hair, he was a very eligible bachelor and was able to choose his bride at some leisure. He eventually married the daughter of an untitled but prominent gentleman from the north of England and took her to live on a modest estate bestowed on them by his bride’s proud father. Although he frequently traveled south with her over the next eighteen years until her death, he never visited Barton Abbey.

  He could not bear to see Nicholas. At four years old, when he last saw him, the boy was already big for his age, very active, mischievous, and intelligent. And he was a beautiful child with the very dark hair he had inherited from his mother and the large blue eyes that were his father’s legacy. Yet the eyes were the only part of his father that he seemed to have inherited, except perhaps for his love of mischief. Already he showed signs of being a headstrong character, and he showed little fear of his grandfather. Of course, the earl treated him differently from the way he had treated his son. He doted on little Nicholas as he had never doted on anyone else in his life. Perhaps he was trying in some way to make up to the child for his illegitimacy. Perhaps he saw less reason for being strict with a bastard who would hold no important position in life.

  However it was, Clive grew to hate the child. He was still honest enough at heart to know the reason. He could not look at the boy without being consumed with guilt over what he had done. He could still rationalize his behavior, but in his heart he knew that he had done a dastardly thing. And the fear of discovery ate at him, especially when he was at Barton Abbey. He found himself constantly looking for those elusive marriage papers, even after he had searched and researched every likely and unlikely hiding place.

  In the end it was easier to stay away. His decision to marry when he was only five-and-twenty years old was made largely because marriage would give him the excuse and means to stay away from his uncle’s home. Even the choice of a bride from the North was in a semiconscious way deliberate. He could not be expected to travel into Dorset from such a distance.

  He hoped never to see Nicholas Seyton again.

  Chapter 3

  Early Summer, 1811

  The highwayman continued to grin as he gazed at the indignant and somewhat disheveled figure of his captive.

  “I take it that you mean to disclaim your identity, Thelma,” he said. “That is as may be, my dear, but I am who I say I am nonetheless. I thought perhaps you would be somewhat reassured to know that your captor is a member of your own family.”

  “No part of my family, sir,” Kate said, her chin rising, “I thank the good Lord. And no part of my employer’s family either, if my guess is correct. Merely a common highwayman, doubtless. And if your idea is to ransom me to the Earl of Barton for a large sum, then you are doomed to great disappointment. He will, I believe, offer a small sum for me, for he is a kind man to his servants. But you can forget about making your fortune from this night’s work, I am delighted to inform you.”

  The highwayman crossed his arms and leaned back against the door. He looked quite relaxed and amused, Kate noticed indignantly. “I can scarce believe you to be the daughter of my scoundrel cousin, Mr. Clive Seyton,” he said. “But I suppose that like you he must have a measure of courage if he has carried through his imposture for so many years. And of course you share his ability to pretend to be what you are not. You are a servant, are you, my dear? My cousin must be a generous employer if you can afford to dress so richly. I suppose the poor drab little gray creature who was so busy having the vapors outside your carriage was Lady Thelma?” His face was amused, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “Precisely!” Kate said, smiling arctically. “Our ruse worked even better than I had expected it to.”

  “Ah,” he said. “So some uncanny sixth sense told you that I would be lying in wait for you during your journey, did it? And you very cleverly exchanged clothes with my cousin?”

  “Lady Thelma Seyton has an unnatural fear of rogues like you,” Kate said. “We are in the habit of exchanging clothes during every journey. I have always done it merely to humor her and set her mind more at ease. Now I am very pleased that I have done so. I should hate to see you benefit from so cowardly an attack.”

  “Cowardly?” he said. “You do not know what you say, my dear. You have no idea how much courage it takes to face the unknown peril of a strange carriage at night.”

  “Coward!” Kate repeated. “You knew that Lord Barton was already at the Abbey and that only his children would be in that carriage.”

  “So the gentleman was the son, was he?” the highwayman asked. “He was not a groom or a valet disguised as a gentleman? That was not Lord Stoughton sitting on the box holding the ribbons? I am amazed your ruse did not stretch so far.”

  Kate glared at him.

  “You know,” he said, his eyes lazily roaming over her person, “if you are not Lady Thelma, you should be in great fear and trembling. If I am not to expect a great fortune from your ransom, is it not consistent with my character and calling that I will compensate myself for the loss with the enjoyment of your person? I believe you might prove to be compensation worth taking.”

  Kate had been almost blind with the terror of such a possibility since rashly admitting to the rogue that she was not Lady Thelma Seyton. “You will not lay one lascivious finger on me, sir,” she said slowly and very distinctly. “Or you will be sorry.”

  His eyes looked amused. “I begin to shake with fear,” he said. “And what will be my ghastly fate if I do, my dear?”

  “You would not find me a docile victim,” she replied, tossing her head in the air and then wishing she had not done so. The gesture felt falsely theatrical. “I am stronger than I look, and I have had some experienc
e at fighting.”

  His grin spread to set his teeth flashing and his eyes dancing with merriment. His voice was unexpectedly gentle when he spoke. “Come, Thelma,” he said, “you have nothing to fear from me. You need not deny your identity or try to frighten me off with threats. I would not attack you even if what you say is true. I do not take that sort of advantage of the helplessness of females. And even if it were true, I could not bring myself to harm a lady of such great courage. I admire you greatly, I do assure you. All you will suffer at my hands is a possible night of confinement. I am sure your papa will not withstand my demands for longer than that, especially as I ask so little of him. Come and eat now. You must be hungry.”

  “You may go to the devil, sir,” Kate said. “And my name, if you must use it, is Mannering. Mrs. Kate Mannering.”

  She held up her left hand, palm inward, when he continued to smile, to reveal the gold wedding band that she still wore. For the first time he seemed less than confident. He looked searchingly into her face, the grin not quite as amused. He pushed his shoulders away from the door and crossed the room to stand in front of her.

  “You make an almost convincing little liar,” he said looking so directly into her eyes that Kate could feel herself blush. His eyes beneath the mask were a very decided shade of blue. “And where is Mr. Mannering, my dear?”

  “In a churchyard in Sussex,” she said. “He is dead.”

  “I am almost inclined to believe you,” he said, talking more to himself than to her. “If you were Thelma it would be in your own interest to admit as much. You are in far greater danger here with me as a mere Mrs. Mannering. Are you telling the truth?”

  “I am not in the habit of lying,” Kate said, all dignity. “I did so earlier only to protect my employer. She is a timid soul, I am afraid. She needs protection.”

  “You did this out of the greatness of your soul and not because you were ordered to do so?” he asked, smiling. “I salute you, Mrs. Mannering. Katherine, did you say?”

  “I said Kate,” she replied. “I have never been called by my full name. But it is ‘Mrs. Mannering’ to you, sir.”

  He lifted one long bronzed finger and flicked it across her cheek. “You are well-named, Katherine,” he said. “William Shakespeare had one not unlike you, I believe. I regret that my name is not Petruchio. Not that I would wish to tame your spirit. But is it true, my dear? Are you really not my cousin Thelma? What a bungling job I have made of tonight. And I will never have another chance, I dare swear. Her father has been thoroughly alerted to the danger. And having told you my identity, I do not know what I am to do with you. If I set you free, you will blab the truth all over Dorset within a day.”

  “I certainly shall,” Kate declared rashly. “And within that day, I believe you will be under lock and key until a rope can be prepared for your neck.”

  “What a ghastly thought!” he exclaimed, shuddering in a violent manner that Kate viewed with suspicion. “I suppose I shall have to keep you here for the rest of your life. I do hope you are older than you look, Katherine. Your captivity might prove to be a long one.”

  “Feeding me for the next fifty years will probably prove a deal more costly than ransoming me for a small sum now,” Kate said with a carelessness she was far from feeling. She was so determined not to say anything to this man that could be construed as groveling that she had really said some very unwise words. In reality she was thoroughly alarmed. The alternative to long captivity, if he felt he could not let her go, was appallingly obvious to her. How would he do it? she wondered. Stabbing? Strangulation? Suffocation? None of the possibilities offered her any degree of comfort.

  “Well,” he said in a brisk voice as if he had come to some decision, “I may be falling for a clever lie, but I am inclined to believe your story. The sniveling behavior of that little gray lady is much more what I would expect of Clive Seyton’s daughter. And you, Katherine Mannering, I should be very angry with. You have thwarted plans that I have made with great care over the past week. Now I have to think of something different. And I fear that might prove difficult. My cousin will not be an easy man to outwit, I believe.”

  “Why do you persist in calling the Earl of Barton your cousin?” Kate asked. “I think he would not be flattered by the connection to a highwayman.”

  “Because he is my cousin,” the highwayman answered. “At least, he was my father’s cousin. His father and my grandfather were brothers, you see. Have you not heard of the skeleton in the closet of the Seyton family, Katherine? Have you not heard of the bastard?”

  “The what?” Kate asked, faintly shocked.

  “ ‘Bastard’ was the word I used,” he said. “Should I have been more delicate? ‘Illegitimate offspring,’ perhaps? ‘By-blow’? But I see you have not heard of such a creature. I flattered myself, perhaps, to believe that I would be openly talked about. My father was the only son of the earl who recently died. ‘Viscount Stoughton’ was his title—that now held by the angry gentleman who shared your coach tonight. He was not married to my mother. At least, that is the story that my grandfather always accepted. But I was brought up at the Abbey nonetheless. He was a stern and rather lonely, man, I believe. He treated me most of the time as if I were a legitimate grandson. And indeed, I believe that I am.”

  “I have no interest in listening to such nonsense,” Kate said, turning to cling suddenly with one hand to the windowsill behind her. She felt faint from standing so long on the same spot.

  Her captor reached out and took her firmly by the upper arms. “You must sit down,” he said. “This evening’s events have been a strain on your nerves. You must have been traveling all day. And have not eaten since luncheon time, at a guess. Come, Katherine. I will not allow this stubbornness any longer, though I clearly recognize your need to defy my wishes. You will sit down and drink a cup of tea. It will still be hot and probably strong too, having been in the pot for some time. No, don’t fight me. If you will not walk, I shall pick you up and carry you to the table.”

  Kate walked in some haste and made no verbal protest when he picked up the teapot and poured the dark liquid into her cup. She reached for the sugar bowl.

  “Are you going to admit to a burning curiosity to hear the rest of my story?” the highwayman asked, seating himself at an adjacent side of the table and picking up a slice of cheese. His voice sounded mocking, but whether he mocked himself or her, Kate could not tell.

  Kate picked up her cup, sipped the tea, found it not too hot to drink and took a larger mouthful. The tea was rather stronger than she liked, but she found it calming nonetheless. “I am your captive sir,” she said. “If you wish to talk, I have little choice but to listen.”

  “Your interest in my life is overwhelming,” he said with a mock bow. “But I shall tell you anyway, Katherine. I am almost five-and-twenty years old, and I have lived most of my life believing the story that I am a bastard and that my mother was a sorry creature, long dead. It is amazing how one learns to live with unpleasant realities. My illegitimacy never made me actively unhappy.”

  “And what makes you think now that you are legitimate?” Kate asked. When he smiled she could have bitten out her tongue for showing so much interest. She was becoming annoyed by that grin. Beneath the mask he was probably as handsome as his physique was magnificent. And he was doubtless well aware of the fact, and of the effect his smile must have on females. She was spitefully glad he was a bastard and therefore unable to secure the interest of anyone of rank.

  “My grandfather was ill for only a short time before his death,” the highwayman said. “Indeed he was not an old man. But when he was ill, I sat by his bedside for hours at a time. And he reminisced about my father, something he had rarely done through my life. Perhaps he had always thought that I would not wish to know a great deal about the man who had done me the great disservice of begetting me out of wedlock. One afternoon he told me about my father’s death. I had heard the story before, but not the events that followed i
t. Katherine, will you please eat? You have seen me do so. Surely I have convinced you that the dishes are not poisoned.”

  “‘Mrs. Mannering’ to you,” Kate said as a token of her fading defiance. She really was ravenously hungry. She picked up a piece of wafer-thin bread and butter and took a dainty bite before setting it on the plate in front of her.

  “I had always assumed,” he continued, “indeed, I do believe that I was actually told as a child, that my mother had died soon after my birth and after making arrangements to have me sent to my father. Yet my grandfather told me when he was dying that he had had a letter from my mother more than a month after my father’s death. She had written it to my father and claimed in it that he was her husband.”

  Kate’s eyes were wide with interest despite herself. “And was he?” she asked.

  “Apparently not,” the highwayman said. “A messenger was sent to France and came back with me and the news that my mother was not married to my father but that I was undoubtedly his son. This despite the fact that I looked nothing like him. My father was fair.”

  Kate glanced at the long blond hair of her captor and frowned slightly. “So you are not legitimate?” she asked. She was surprised to hear her voice sounding almost disappointed.

  “So I concluded,” he agreed. “But I was intrigued and excited to learn that my mother was French, not English, as I had assumed, and that there had never been any notice of her death. She may still be alive, Katherine. In fact, she very possibly is. She was probably young when she had me. My father was only in his early twenties when he died. I wanted to find her. Correction. I want to find her. But my grandfather no longer had that letter she had sent. He could remember only that her name was Annette. He could not remember where she lived, only that it was a place he had never heard of before. France is a large country to search for a lady called Annette.”