Daring Masquerade

by Mary Balogh

  Sir Harry walked to the lowest point of the clearing, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called for Mr. Moreton and Lady Thelma. Kate followed close behind him. She had not imagined that he could ever summon enough energy to call so loudly. But there were no answering cries.

  “I shall take you down, ma’am,” Sir Harry said, turning to her with an expression that was both cynical and unsympathetic. “It would be quite a dreadful disaster if we missed our tea after all this exertion, would it not?”

  “Yes,” Kate said, taking his offered arm almost eagerly.

  They walked downhill in silence for the first minute. Then, instead of continuing the descent, Sir Harry guided her across the slope, parallel to the valley.

  “I believe we should risk missing our tea and delay our return by a few minutes,” he said. “Your flushed cheeks and bright eyes are more suited to a boudoir than to an afternoon picnic, Mrs. Mannering. Did I interrupt a very interesting tête-á-tête?”

  “You interrupted nothing, sir,” Kate said, bristling. “I am merely flushed and somewhat disheveled from the climb.”

  “Nonsense!” he said. “I suggest that you are setting up a cozy future for yourself, ma’am. Is it to be a menage à trois when Uppington and Lady Thelma wed?”

  Kate pulled her arm from his and rounded on him. “What a filthy insinuation!” she hissed. “You are despicable, sir. Do you think that when a woman is molested she is secretly delighted? Do you think that she deliberately invites such treatment? I hate you and your male arrogance and your sneering contempt for women.”

  His eyes had narrowed. “Did he touch you?” he asked. There was menace in his voice. The drawl had disappeared for the moment.

  “Oh, no!” Kate said, sawing at the air with one hand and raising her eyes to the sky. “I pulled my hair loose from its knot and dragged my dress askew merely because I thought such behavior would arouse ardor in such a slowtop. Had you arrived a short while later, sir, I should probably have progressed to baring my shoulders and kicking off my shoes. You gentlemen seem to find it so difficult to take a hint.”

  “By ‘touch’ I meant ‘ravish,’” Sir Harry said quietly. Kate calmed down immediately. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “But for a few minutes I was not sure that I would escape. Shall we go down now? I am rather tired of the doings of this afternoon.”

  And to her utter mortification she gave a loud hiccup of a sob and burst into tears. Good heavens, and the encounter had not even been that dreadful! She clapped her hands over her face. There was silence beyond her own world of choked-off sobs and gurgles and wet sniffs. She wondered if he had gone away, and hoped he had. How terribly humiliating! How would she ever raise her head and look him in the eye? The terribly cynical and bored Sir Harry Tate of all people! A hand pulled one of hers away from her face eventually and a large linen handkerchief was placed in it.

  “Dear me!” the familiar languid drawl said. “And I thought Mrs. Kate Mannering scorned to be one of the weaker sex. Do dry your eyes, ma’am, and stop your sniffling. One thing I cannot abide is a bawling female.”

  “G-go away then!” Kate said crossly on a shuddering inward breath. “I am not looking for your sympathy. And I would not be crying now, sir, but that I had a sleepless night and have not been feeling quite the thing today. I never cry.” She blew her nose loudly in the handkerchief and glared at him out of reddened eyes.

  “Hm,” he said. “Quite disgusting. Your nose and your eyes vie over which are the redder. I do believe the nose wins because it also shines.”

  “Oh!” Kate stamped her foot crossly. “I might have known you would not have an ounce of gallantry for a poor female in trouble.”

  “Now, think a moment, Mrs. Mannering,” he said on a sigh. “If I had taken you in my arms and held your head against my shoulder and crooned soothing inanities into your ear, do you not think you would still be bawling? As it is, your emotion has been converted to anger, and your chin and cheeks have perhaps been saved from the same fate as your eyes and nose.”

  They started walking again side by side, still not descending. He was right. Kate did not want to be treated like a weak woman. She wanted to be in charge of her own life. It was clearly her sleepless night and her discovery of the perfidy of Nicholas Seyton that had set her to crying and that had led her to wishing that she would indeed be drawn into the comforting arms of her savior. Sir Harry Tate! She had actually wanted to hide her face against the shoulder of Sir Harry Tate? She must be mad. She could scarcely imagine a man who repelled her more, unless it was the Marquess of Uppington. Though she had to admit to herself that it was only Sir Harry’s character that repelled. That character was admittedly housed in a remarkably handsome package.

  “I believe it would be best if you went straight back to the Abbey,” Sir Harry was saying. “The cook is a remarkably genial soul, as I discovered this morning. I am sure she will give you your tea if you ask. I would accompany you, ma’am, but our lengthy absence together might be remarked upon. And I shudder at the thought of gaining a reputation as a womanizer.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “It would be too much to expect that my reputation would concern a man of your character.”

  He took her by the elbow and turned her to the left so that they were going downward again. He kept a very firm hold on her. Strange, Kate thought, that such a very indolent man should give the impression by his touch of steadiness and strength. She drew away as soon as they reached the valley a short distance from the rotunda. She had no wish to feel any attraction to Sir Henry Tate. Not when she despised the man so much.

  “You would do well to avoid situations in which Uppington can maneuver you into a tête-à-tête,” Sir Harry said now. “Stay close to Lady Thelma, ma’am, whenever you can. I shall set myself to watch out for your safety whenever I may. But I am quite sure that after a day or two I shall find my self-imposed task a dreadful bore.”

  Kate bristled again. “You have come to my aid twice in the last few days, sir,” she said, “and for that I must be grateful, though your intervention was quite accidental on both occasions. I certainly do not ask or expect that you set yourself to guard my virtue. Good heavens, you are not my brother or my guardian or my husband, sir. I can look after myself quite well enough, thank you very much. And when I need your advice, sir, I shall be sure to ask you for it. On bended knee!”

  She moved away from him so that she could keep straight on toward the house instead of turning to join the other members of the party at the rotunda. Nicholas watched her go, her head held high, her long strides almost manly. A smile of admiration played about his lips for a moment before he raised his quizzing glass to his eye to survey the picnickers and strolled lazily toward them.

  He was Sir Harry Tate again.

  “Thank you, Kate,” Lady Thelma was saying more than an hour later. She was sitting on the edge of the chair before the Chippendale desk in Kate’s dressing room. Her face was unusually animated. “You did it deliberately, did you not? Oh, I know it was Lord Uppington’s suggestion that you go with him and I with Mr. Moreton. But I think it was really your doing. And I am most grateful.”

  Kate smiled as she sewed up the hem of a gown her employer had brought her for mending. “Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” she asked. “And did you see the cave?”

  The girl flushed. “No, we did not,” she said, “though we did hear Sir Harry call. I can see the cave anytime, Kate. But marriage proposals do not come every day.”

  “Marriage proposals?” Kate paused, her hand holding the needle suspended in midair.

  Thelma smiled and looked quite pretty for the moment, Kate thought. “Sidney is going to speak to Papa tonight,” she said. “I am the happiest of mortals, dear Kate. I loved him when I first met him, you know. I remember he came to the house in London to see Adam the very day after we arrived. They were at university together, you see. And I loved him then.”

  “He is a very quiet young man,” Kate said. “
I walked with him for awhile this afternoon and had scarcely a sentence from him, though I tried several times to engage him in conversation.”

  “Yes,” Thelma agreed, “he is quiet and shy, Kate. And I know that he is not handsome or charming in company-though he appears to be both to me. But I feel comfortable with him, you see. I am shy myself and I know I am no beauty and have no vibrancy of manner. But the strange thing is that Sidney and I can talk and talk to each other with never a thought that the other one will be bored or contemptuous. Wish me happy, Kate.”

  Kate cut the thread from the completed repair and looked up, a rather troubled look on her face. “Are you sure that your papa will approve the match?” she asked.

  “Why should he not?” Thelma asked. “Sidney is not heir to a title or to a vast estate or any great wealth, but he is the elder son of a perfectly respectable gentleman who has land and income sufficient for an independence.”

  “And you are an earl’s daughter,” Kate pointed out gently.

  “But only very recently,” Thelma said. “We did not have a grand home or a large fortune until Great-Uncle died. We have not changed just because of that event, Kate.”

  “I do wish you well,” Kate said, rising to her feet and shaking out the folds of the light dress. “Indeed I do. And I hope for your sake that your father will accede to your wishes.”

  “Oh, he will,” the girl said, taking the dress from Kate and twirling exuberantly around with it. “‘Mrs. Sidney Moreton.’ Does it not sound lovely, Kate? We are going to have an autumn wedding. Oh, it seems an eternity away. Two months or more.”

  Kate watched the girl leave, and frowned at the closed door. She was not nearly as confident as Thelma that Lord Barton would approve her betrothal to Mr. Moreton. Indeed, she would be very surprised if he did. The death of the old Earl of Barton might not have changed Thelma, but it had clearly changed the new earl considerably. He would be very unlikely to accept a mere mister of small fortune for his daughter when it was very much within his power to secure a marquess and future duke for her.

  Poor girl, Kate thought, destined to be denied the man she loved and to be mated with a selfish rake who cared not a fig for her.

  It was almost a relief, Kate found, to be able to focus her mind on the problems of someone else and to forget her own for a short while.

  Chapter 13

  The Earl of Barton, sitting at his ease in the music room with half an ear on the song with which Lady Emma Worth was entertaining the company, was feeling well content. He was almost at his ease again. It had, after all, been a good idea of his to set Charles Dalrymple to finding Nicholas Seyton. He had known very well—had felt it in his bones—that that young man was lurking somewhere in the area. Seyton must have learned that two guests at the Abbey knew him, and had decided that matters were just too hot for him to stay. It would have been more satisfactory in one way, Barton supposed, to have the man under lock and key, charged with highway robbery and kidnapping. But perhaps not. Some uncomfortable facts might come to light at a public trial.

  It was gratifying to know that the one man who could threaten his position had taken himself off and admitted defeat. It was doubly gratifying to know that Charles and Tate had actually seen the young man leave. Barton did not believe he would have trusted a purely hearsay report. He still could not relax thoroughly in the certainty that Seyton had gone to Shropshire, of course. But it seemed likely that he had. And the letter Lord Barton had sent there that very day would soon bring back an answer. Once he knew that Nicholas was on his property, his mind could be at ease, he felt. It would then be very unlikely that Nicholas would make any further investigations about his mother.

  Lord Barton was pleased too that he seemed to have his own compulsive need to search for Jonathan’s marriage papers under control. He seemed finally to be convincing himself of how ridiculous such a search was more than twenty years after the fact. He still intended to look in the library, but only because the books needed a thorough cleaning and reorganization anyway. Mrs. Mannering had already done a small but satisfactory portion of that job. He had commended her work and listened to her suggestion for organizing the volumes according to topic. He would leave the whole task to her. It really did not matter if it took her all winter to accomplish it. A woman who was merely a lady’s companion really did not do a great deal to earn her salary.

  The earl rose to his feet, applauding politely as Lady Emma’s song came to an end. He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips.

  “Splendid, splendid, my dear Lady Emma,” he said. “You are a credit to the superiority of your singing master.”

  “Papa is never willing to employ anyone but the best,” she said, inclining her head in gracious acceptance of his compliments.

  “I overheard Miss Lacey the other evening saying that she plays the harp,” Charles Dalrymple said, smiling at that quiet young lady. “Do you think you can persuade her to share her talent with us, Clive?”

  Angela Lacey blushed and protested, but her mother assured her that yes, indeed, she was good enough to perform in such an informal setting. The girl seated herself at the instrument, positioned it against her shoulder, rested her hands against the strings, and glanced anxiously at her mother for reassurance. But none of her nervousness showed when she began to play. Her audience was soon listening in delight to a medley of folk songs, both English and Welsh. Lady Emma seated herself beside Lord Barton and proceeded to fan herself languidly.

  The earl’s mind wandered again. It really had not been totally wrong to take the title by somewhat shady means. Nicholas Seyton, after all, was a young man quite capable of making his own fortune. He had no ties, no responsibilities. Lord Barton, on the other hand, had a son and a daughter to establish in life. And what a difference his new position had made already to Thelma’s prospects. Even a father’s fondness could not blind him to his daughter’s lack of good looks and charm. Yet he had received two offers for her that very evening. It was most gratifying.

  The second, of course, could be dismissed as quite unimportant. Indeed, he did not know quite how Moreton could have had the effrontery to come to him with his request to pay his addresses to Thelma. Did he seriously believe that the Earl of Barton, one of the wealthiest men in the land, owner of one of the most splendid properties in England, would give his only daughter to a nobody? The earl had dismissed the young man on short order, though of course he had had to treat him with civility, since Moreton was a guest in his house. Even so, it was gratifying to be able to deny the suit of a young man on the grounds that he was beneath the notice of the Earl of Barton.

  The first offer had come before dinner. The earl had not been surprised by it. There had already been something of an understanding between the Duke of Oakleigh and himself that an alliance between their children would be a desirable event. And Uppington himself had appeared from the start of his visit to have accepted his father’s wish. He was a thoroughly good catch for Thelma. He was ten years older than she, a good age difference, distinguished in appearance and bearing, well-bred, moderately wealthy, though not as much so as Barton himself. Thelma’s wealth in exchange for Uppington’s title and future prospects was quite an acceptable state of affairs. An autumn wedding—in London, of course—had been agreed upon in the very satisfactory interview before dinner.

  Yes, Lord Barton thought, the pangs of guilt that he could still not quite quell were worth the discomfort. Life as a wealthy earl was far superior to life as a viscount of only moderate means. And he would not even have been a viscount if he had not made the great sacrifice of his conscience a quarter of a century before. A mere untitled gentleman he would have been, with his father’s competence his only source of income and respect.

  The marquess had not spoken to Thelma. The girl did not yet know what great honor was in store for her. A duchess in the not-too-distant future, in all probability. Oakleigh must be close to sixty at least.

  Lord Barton joined the applause fo
r Angela’s harp recital and nodded his head graciously in her direction. He did not rise to his feet. Charles had done that and was leading the dear girl back to her seat.

  Sir Harry Tate kept a languid eye on the proceedings around him. He had decided that he probably did not enjoy music, though Nicholas Seyton assuredly did. The folk music produced by Miss Lacey on the harp was particularly haunting, but Sir Harry allowed himself one discreet yawn behind his hand in the middle of the recital. It happened when he felt Kate’s eyes on him and it would appear ill-mannered to yawn outright. She look suitably contemptuous, he noted with satisfaction.

  Nicholas Seyton’s mind was busy sifting through the events of the day. He was not nearly as certain as he had been earlier that it was the best thing for his peace of mind to have sent himself into Shropshire on the stage. Katherine Mannering was looking damnably pretty in the soft dove-gray silk dress she had worn on the first evening. Her hair was severely drawn back as usual, of course, but she had a face that would appear perfectly lovely even if she were quite bald. And even the unflattering hairstyle could not disguise the glorious silver blond of her hair.

  The trouble was, he thought, shifting his position in some discomfort and heaving a languid but silent sigh, he now knew what she looked like beneath that dress and what her hair was like loosened from that knot. And even more bothersome was the fact that he knew what she felt like: her skin warm and petal-smooth, her mouth soft and inviting. Think no further, he told himself sternly as Miss Lacey resumed her seat next to her mother—he must remember, by the way, to tease Dalrymple on his preference for the girl today—and Lord Stoughton proceeded to tune his violin. Sir Harry toyed with the ribbon of his quizzing glass and finally raised the glass to his eye the better to view the face of Miss Barr-Smythe, who accompanied the viscount on the pianoforte.

  His affair with Katherine was far better at an end. And he deserved the discomfort of his own frustrations. If he had not lost his sense and his control the night before, he would not now have to suffer the memories of her eager and warm beneath him on the sand of their smugglers’ cave. Damnation! And he had doomed Sir Harry to the task of arousing her hatred. He was succeeding admirably. And he could not blame her at all. He would be sorely tempted to draw the cork of any other man who rode so roughshod over her feelings.