Daring Masquerade

by Mary Balogh

  “Thank you, my lord,” Kate said. “May I ask what Josh’s sentence is to be?”

  “I have never been happy with his presence at the lodge, where visitors may see him,” Lord Barton said. “I have sent notice to the Pickerings that they are to leave Barton and find employment elsewhere by the end of the month. Again I have been merciful, taking into account the state of the son’s mind. I could have had him charged with assault. Good day, Mrs. Mannering.”

  “Good day, my lord,” Kate said, and let herself quietly out of the cabinet. She ran along to her own room, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Sir Harry was playing a game of billiards with Lord Stoughton. He had lingered longer than usual in the breakfast room in the hope of seeing Kate and assuring himself that she was recovering from her ordeal of the day before. He had also hoped for a private word with her in order to convince her that she must report to the earl what had happened. No lady, employed or otherwise, should have to live in terror of such assaults as Uppington had been guilty of in the last two weeks. But she had not put in an appearance.

  He had agreed with some reluctance to play billiards. Both the earl and the marquess were upstairs with Thelma, apparently. Probably making marriage arrangements. Poor girl. She was another reason Katherine should tell of her experiences. Nicholas did not have a great deal of love for Clive Seyton, but he bore the son and daughter no ill will. The girl lacked character, but she seemed good-natured enough. He would not wish to see her consigned to Uppington’s tender care for life. Of course, if the earl only made the expected trip to France, with the anticipated results, he supposed that Thelma would be saved from the marriage. Uppington, he gathered, was somewhat short of money and must marry a wealthy woman.

  Nicholas was not too worried as he played, however. Dalrymple and several of the servants had been alerted to watching Lord Barton’s movements, though it was very unlikely that he would leave for France before the house party came to an end. A certain footman who, being the same age as Nicholas, had always been something of a friend, had also been assigned the task only that morning of knowing the whereabouts of the Marquess of Uppington at all times. Not that that gentleman was likely to pose a problem today, Nicholas thought with grim satisfaction.

  “Tate, whatever happened to your hands?” Lord Stoughton asked curiously as Nicholas stretched one hand along the billiard cue.

  “Ah.” Sir Harry straightened up and held up both hands, the backs facing him. He sighed. “Most unbecoming, are they not, dear chap? I had hoped the lace of my cuffs would cover the damage, but I see my knuckles are red and raw for all to see. My manicurist would have an apoplexy. I had one of my sleepless nights and took myself off early this morning to examine that hermit’s cave again. I slipped on the way down and made the mistake of trying to save myself with my hands. It would have been better to sacrifice a pair of breeches, would it not? Careless of me, and quite mortifying to have to admit to, I must say. I had thought of making up some story, but usually the truth slips out.”

  He resumed the game, Lord Stoughton, Mr. Moreton, and Sir Peregrine Lacey having all commiserated on the bruised state of his hands. He wondered if any of them would eventually make the connection between Uppington’s face and his knuckles. And Katherine’s hands, for that matter.

  He had heard Uppington’s story already. Nicholas had told the marquess, of course, the previous night, when he left him semiconscious north of the house, that he might tell what story he wished to account for his appearance, since Sir Harry would not tell the truth. It was enough for him that punishment had been administered. No, not enough. He would have preferred to carry out his earlier threat to kill Uppington for what he had done, but that had been a rash threat. Of course he could not kill the man. He could never knowingly kill anyone. But a broken nose and probably a few broken ribs too was a marginally satisfying revenge.

  Uppington’s story had been quite absurd, though the other occupants of the breakfast room to whom he had been telling it when Sir Harry walked in had seemed to accept it. Nicholas had been hard put to it to contain his glee when he saw Uppington’s face in the light of day. His appearance certainly lent credence to his story. He had gone for a ride the previous night, he had said, after everyone retired. He had felt like some air before going to bed. He had ridden along the clifftop, then tethered his horse so that he could walk a little. Three thugs had suddenly set upon him. He had fought valiantly for perhaps a few minutes, but they had overpowered him and two of them had held him while the other beat him senseless. They had stolen a watch and a diamond pin. Fortunately he had no money on his person.

  Uppington had become something of a hero. The thugs must be part of the smuggler gang for whom the coast guard had been searching, everyone had agreed. They did not all approve of the marquess’s decision not to report the assault and theft. But what was the point? he had asked. It had been dark. He had not had a good look at any of his assailants. He would merely make a fool of himself if he tried to find them and bring them to justice.

  Sir Harry had drunk his coffee and contributed little to the conversation beyond remarking that a raw beefsteak might reduce the swelling in the worse eye, though it might be indistinguishable from the rest of the marquess’s face when applied.

  He had gone to Uppington’s room the night before after everyone had retired. He had not knocked on the door. He had told the upstairs maid that she might leave and find herself another bedfellow for the night, and waited for her to dress herself hastily and slip from the room. She had always been reasonably faithful to the second footman in the days when there were few visitors at the Abbey, he had mused. Then he had given Uppington the choice of having his cork drawn right there within the hearing of everyone in the house or of having it done outside where they could depend upon a little more privacy. Uppington had chosen the garden.

  Nicholas had not expected it to be so easy. It had been almost disappointing, in fact. The large frame of the marquess hid a soft, pampered, and unfit body. He himself had sustained no injury beyond one cut on the inside of his lip and painfully raw knuckles from prolonged contact with Uppington’s body, notably his face. Fortunately the man had been too stupid or too proud or too dazed to go down easily. Even when the woman one loved had been cut with a whip and sexually threatened, it was difficult to overcome one’s sense of honor and continue to pound a man once he had measured his length on the ground, Nicholas felt. On the other hand, he had no compunctions about making meat of that arrogant face as long as it was above the level of his own shoulders, even after he realized that the sense had gone from the puffed-up eyes. He had felt quite regretful when Uppington’s legs had finally done him the favor of buckling under him.

  The punishment was not sufficient, of course. He would have liked to order Uppington from the house before morning. Unfortunately it could not be done. Although he finally had hopes that one day he would be master of Barton, at present he had no power there whatsoever. And unless Katherine chose to make a complaint, he had no right to make public what had happened earlier in the day. He did not think Uppington would tell the true story. It seemed almost unimaginable that the marquess would stay after sustaining a beating whose effects could not very well be concealed. But Nicholas had not been surprised that he had chosen to stay. Lady Thelma was at the present a very lucrative prize.

  So nothing essential was changed that morning, Nicholas thought, straightening up and relinquishing to Stoughton his place at the billiard table. Beyond knowing that his opponent of the night before had been serious when he had told him to stay away from Katherine, Uppington was still largely free to pursue his desires. Nicholas even doubted if the man really still desired Kate. It was far more likely that his pride demanded that he possess her at least once. There was certainly no guarantee that he would now stay away from her.

  And so, Nicholas thought, he must continue to keep an eye on the marquess during the idle, frustrating days while he waited for Barton to make his move.
And that probably would not be until all the guests had left. He would be forced to move back to Evans’ cottage and rely on the efficiency of his spies. But the earl would not delay much longer than that. He believed that Nicholas was going to France himself within a month of writing the letter to Dalrymple.

  Sir Harry sauntered back to the table and considered his next shot with half-closed eyes and languid manner. Then a vivid mental image of the soft white skin of Kate’s palms scored across with red lines sent him to bending over the table, his teeth firmly clamped together.

  Lady Thelma sought out Kate in her dressing room after luncheon. Kate had gone downstairs for that meal, but she had been careful to sit between Sir Peregrine and Lord Toucher and to retreat to her room as soon as luncheon was over.

  “Kate,” Lady Thelma said earnestly, rushing across the dressing room to hug her companion, “I do believe you, you know. I do not for a moment believe the story told by Lord Uppington. Please tell me what really happened.”

  Kate smiled wearily. “Thank you,” she said. “No, of course his story is not true. The marquess has been trying to seduce me ever since he arrived here. By yesterday he had become somewhat impatient and tried to frighten me with his riding whip. Josh Pickering came along when I screamed, but I somehow succeeded in catching the whip across my hands.”

  Lady Thelma’s eyes were wide with horror. “Oh,” she said. “Why did you not tell Papa, Kate? He would have Lord Uppington thrown out of here and perhaps even have had him sent to jail.”

  “I am afraid you do not understand the ways of the world,” Kate said. “The truth would not be accepted, you know, even if I bothered to state it. It just is not done to believe evil of a peer of the realm. One might believe him guilty of excesses of gambling or womanizing or such, but not of anything openly vicious or criminal. Lesser persons become liars when they suggest such a thing.” She did not add that a father trying to negotiate an advantageous match for his daughter would be even less likely to believe an unsavory truth about his future son-in-law.

  “About your dismissal, Kate,” Lady Thelma said, seating herself sideways on the chair before the desk. “I cannot do anything to prevent it, you know. But it does not matter. Sidney and I are going to elope during the night of the ball. It seems the best time. We will not be missed until at least noon on the following day. There will be so much confusion and we will not be expected to rise much before then. You will come with us. I am afraid that we may not be able to continue paying your salary, Kate dear, as we will not have much money to live on without my dowry. But you may have a home with us for as long as you wish. Sidney agrees with me on that. And we will both give you a reference when you try to find other employment.”

  “I truly wish you would not,” Kate said. “Elope, I mean. But the decision must be yours. And of course I will come with you to add some measure of respectability until you are married. But only until then, Lady Thelma. I am not destitute. I have a family who are fond of me and will gladly take me in.”

  Lady Thelma wanted Kate to join a group of the young people on a drive to the harbor, but Kate declined. She no longer felt bound by her employment, and she was sure that Thelma stood in no danger from Lord Uppington, especially when they would be part of a larger group. She used as an excuse her unwillingness to be in company with the marquess, who was, surprisingly, to be one of the party. Kate had not thought he would wish to show his face beyond the confines of the house.

  Kate watched the party leave from the drawing-room window. She wanted to be very sure that Lord Uppington was with them. She wondered about his face. Was it Sir Harry who had done it? It must be. No one else had known of her misfortune except Josh. Assuming, of course, that the punishment the marquess had taken was on her account. It must be, though. Why else would he have invented such vengeful lies that morning? She had been interested to note at luncheon that the official explanation of his pummeled appearance was somewhat different from the one he had given Lord Barton and Lady Thelma.

  Would Sir Harry have done such a thing for her? Thinking of him as he usually appeared-bored, indolent, cynical—made such an idea seem ludicrous. But it must be so. She had seen startling evidence during the boating party that he was concerned for her safety and even prepared to defend her if necessary. And to comfort her! And yesterday afternoon, now that she could look back on it without the cloud of pain and exhaustion through which she had viewed events at the time, he had been quite different from his normal self.

  “Where have you been?” he had asked as he hurried toward her across the terrace. As if he had been hurrying in search of her. And perhaps it really was so. He had said later, had he not, that the others had not returned from the walk to the hill? But he had been part of that group. And so had Lord Uppington.

  Sir Harry had shown definite concern for her. He had looked at her hands. He had unbuttoned her dress—embarrassing memory—and looked at her back. And there had been almost none of his customary drawling and sneering except at the end. He had said something that had almost got her bristling—she could not remember what. He had been incredibly gentle. Audrey, later, had hurt her considerably when straightening out her fingers to tend her palms. Sir Harry had not. And good heavens, he had kissed her. Very briefly and dispassionately, it was true. But tenderly, almost as if he cared!

  And he did care, she told herself with a frown of puzzlement. Perhaps he was a man who disliked to see his inferiors mistreated. She would not have expected it of such a seemingly toplofty man, but perhaps it was true. He had spoken to Josh as if he knew him. And Josh had grinned and nodded at him as if they were friends. She would have expected Sir Harry Tate to look upon Josh as he would an insect beneath his boot.

  It was all very puzzling. Either she had misjudged the man dreadfully at the start or she was being misled now. But if he really had given Lord Uppington that beating, he must care. Good heavens, any man would have to be almost beside himself with fury to do that to another man’s face. She would not have thought Sir Harry capable of the energy to do half that damage. The strength, yes. Her early impression that he was a pampered aristocrat had been reversed some time ago. She had been against that body more than once, and there was nothing soft about its muscles, from broad shoulders to muscled thighs.

  What a mystery the man was. Kate knew one thing about him, though. She had discovered it when his lips had met hers for the briefest of moments the day before, despite the confusion of her mind. She loved him. She was not in love with him. Not in the way she had fallen in love with Nicholas Seyton such a short time before. That had been all starry-eyed excitement and physical aching. She loved Sir Harry. And she was not quite sure what she meant by that. There was a great deal about him that infuriated her. And there was more that mystified her. But there was a strain of gentleness and honor and trustworthiness beneath all those obnoxious qualities. She could sense it. She was sure she was not wrong.

  She was in love with him as well, of course. It seemed thoroughly fickle to fall in love with a man a mere two weeks after doing the same thing with someone else. But it had happened, for all that, and for all that she still felt a hurt kind of love for Nicholas. She wanted to go to bed with Sir Harry. Making love had been wonderful with Nicholas, with whom she had only been in love. She wanted to discover how much more glorious it would be with Sir Harry, whom she loved. And it would be good. She found his body and his touch every bit as exciting as she had found Nicholas’. In fact, physically, she found it somewhat difficult to distinguish the two men in her mind.

  Kate sighed. How foolish she was! She liked to think of herself as a strong person and yet she seemed to have a gift for bringing pain upon herself. She had agreed to marry Giles, thinking that life with a dashing gentleman farmer would bring her independence and respect. She had found herself shackled to a self-indulgent spendthrift to whom she had not been a person at all. She had fallen in love with Nicholas Seyton, expecting adventure and a close physical relationship. He had abandon
ed her the day after she had allowed him to take possession of her body. And now she loved Sir Harry Tate, expecting . . . nothing really. There was nothing to expect. He had tried to protect her from seduction. He had fought for her honor. And he had a taste for docile, feminine, dark-haired beauties.

  How disgusted he would be if he knew that his kindness to her had made her dream of a life in his arms and with his stimulating, if not always comforting, company. She must not love him. Life was painful enough at present without adding the hopelessness of an unrequited love. She was still recovering from Nicholas’ defection. She was still facing dismissal from her employment and the necessity of following a misguided girl to Scotland for a marriage over the anvil. There was all the uncertainty of the future, in which she would have to seek employment with only a recommendation from an eighteen-year-old girl to help her. And was she to carry with her too the memory of a man of so many dimensions that one felt one would never quite know him? Yes, unfortunately she was.

  Kate realized suddenly that she had been staring down an empty driveway for several minutes. If she were going to accomplish the errand she had set herself for that afternoon, it would be as well to get busy. She had realized that morning, when she had recovered somewhat from her shock and pulled out again the letter from Lord Lindstrom, that trying to find out more definite information before communicating what she knew to Nicholas was almost impossible from where she was. The fact that she must leave within the next week made it quite impossible. The best she could do was to send him that letter and let him pursue the matter himself if he so chose.