by Hazel Hunter
“I think it a tribute to the labors of Herakles, Vicar,” she told him. “He was set the task of stealing the sacred apples from the Hesperides. It required quite an effort on his part, as I recall.”
“Yes, in pursuit of his prize Atlas tricked him into holding up the world for him, at least until he duped the god into removing it from his shoulders.” Jeffrey Branwen removed his mask. “I am glad you recognized me, Miss Reed. I had hoped to speak to you again in less crowded company.”
“So, I have not deceived you, either,” she said as she tugged down her mask.
He chuckled. “Your costume is very good, but you did not conceal your hair. No one else in my parish possesses such a singular shade of red.”
Jennet already knew why he wished to talk to her. “Miss Tindall told me that William Gerard has returned to Renwick, or I should say, Baron Greystone. I believe he is to attend the masquerade tonight as well. That is why you followed me into this room, is it not?”
The vicar nodded. “I have no desire to pry, my dear girl, only to offer my consolation, if you have need of it. Or a willing ear. Often it is good to talk to someone when such unhappy situations arise.”
“Have you known me to be in such need of late?” Jennet asked.
“No,” Jeffrey admitted. “I am not satisfied that I did enough for you after William left. There has always lingered an uneasiness in me on that account.”
A week after Jennet had been abandoned by her betrothed, the vicar had called at Reed Park. A sensitive man, he had probably thought to give her time to get over the first, worst part of being jilted. She remembered sitting with him and Margaret, cradling a cup of tea until it went stone cold, and hardly saying a word to either of them. That tableau had been repeated several times.
“You were very attentive, and a great help to my mother,” she told him. “I am sorry I was so silent at the time. I fear I had nothing to say that would have been acceptable or even rational. Indeed, I spent the first week imagining how I might kill him if he ever returned.”
He nodded, completely unperturbed by her malevolent admission. “Knife in the back, or a bullet through the heart?”
“Poisoning,” Jennet said. “Much tidier, and I would not have to be there.”
“I have been pushed to such thoughts myself on one or two occasions.” Jeffrey glanced at Herakles before he said, “Often life demands of us heroic effort in the worst of circumstances. I think that is when we are most capable of it, and when we become the best versions of ourselves. That I learned from my dear sister, Lucetta, who is quite a hundred times the best of heroes.”
“You are fortunate.” She thought of the ugly scene she’d had with Charlotte Fletcher. “It is not always possible to be a hero and human. Sometimes we become the worst instead of the best.”
“Happily, there is almost always another chance to prove ourselves otherwise.” He offered her his arm. “May I escort you back to the ball?”
Chapter 7
When Jennet returned with the vicar to the reception room, she noticed an older woman wrapped in a colorful shawl sat on one side of a small, black-draped table by the hearth. An embroidered scarf tied back her frizzed hair from the face she had painted so heavily it looked like a crackled mask. A pair of wide-eyed young ladies, whom Jennet recognized as two of her neighbors’ youngest daughters, sat on the other side of the table. Between them and the older woman lay a battered deck of tarot cards.
“Alas, despite my best efforts there remains much enthusiasm for certain pagan practices,” Jeffrey said to her. “And my dear wife now looks ready to dance, or smack me with her crook. I should attend to the former before she resorts to the latter. Enjoy your evening, Miss Reed.” He bowed and then headed across the room.
Jennet remained where she stood to watch the fortune-teller. During the summers a band of Romany were permitted to encamp at Reed Park when hired to help with the sheep shearing, thanks to Jennet’s mother, who had a soft spot for the nomadic people. Every year Margaret would take her to the field where they kept their gaily-painted caravan wagons. There she would greet their ladies and assure they had all they needed for their families. From that long familiarity Jennet knew the travelers to be mannerly and quiet. They dressed in practical garments and kept to themselves.
If this florid fortune-teller had been born a Romany, Jennet would dine on her velvet domino.
Beyond the reception room lively dancing music played. Jennet looked for Catherine, only to see her friend engaged by a handsome young man a short distance away. Before she could catch her eye Catherine took the man’s arm and walked with him in the direction of the music. She should follow them, she thought, but glanced again at the fortune-teller, who now had both of the young debutantes hanging on her every word.
Unlike the Romany, who were the cleanest people Jennet had ever encountered, this traveler had a line of grime under her chin, and black-rimmed fingernails.
Jennet seethed silently as she watched the reading progress. The woman’s exaggerated gestures and frequent leanings over the table seemed more suited to the stage than the telling of fortunes. The manner in which she dealt out the cards seemed highly suspect as well. When the fortune-teller took one of the girls’ hands in hers and leaned closer to whisper to her, Jennet recognized her game.
Oh, this would not do.
She watched until the fortune-teller finished the reading, and the giggling girls left the table. Only then did she approach. “Good evening, Madam.”
“Milady. I am Masilda,” she said in a stilted accent, and gestured toward one of the chairs. “Please, join me, and I will read the cards for you, for free.”
“I should pay you something for your trouble.” Jennet reached down as if to hand her a coin, and then reached into the fortune-teller’s wide sleeve. As the would-be Romany stiffened, she pulled out the bracelet she had seen her slip from the girl’s wrist. “Or perhaps not. You appear to be doing quite well for yourself.”
Masilda recoiled, and scowled. “That I have never seen.”
“Fortunately, I have.” She nodded in the direction of the two debutantes. “This bracelet belonged to that young lady’s grandmother, who left it to her after she passed away last year. She was quite proud to show it to me when last she wore it to church. She would be heartbroken to discover it stolen.”
“I stole nothing,” Masilda protested. “It must have fallen from her arm.”
“As I imagine many such baubles do in your presence.” Jennet looked into the thief’s eyes, and let her own go steely. “Mr. Pickering did not hire you to steal from his guests. I suggest you leave at once, or I will summon the footmen to escort you directly to the magistrate.”
The fortune-teller grabbed the tarot cards and shoved them into the front of her bodice as she got to her feet.
“You watch, me fine lady,” Masilda said in a harsh Cockney accent, her lips curling into a sneer. “Before this dance is done, you will see your own death.”
Jennet would have laughed as the fortune-teller scurried out of the reception room, but the thieving charlatan’s prediction gave her pause. Unlike the rest of the Reed family, she herself had never been reckless. Indeed, she now devoted herself to living a very quiet life free of heedless impulses. Her demise, eventual as it had to be, had never greatly concerned her. Jennet had imagined dying only at an advanced age, possibly of boredom, definitely alone.
Only she did not wish to die alone, or tonight at the ball. But why would Masilda predict such a ghastly thing? Had she hoped to scare her in retaliation for being exposed as a thief?
“How do you do, Miss Reed?” a man said from behind her.
Turning to behold a tall highwayman ably disguised by a grinning mask, Jennet dropped into a polite curtsey. Too scattered in thought to surmise his identity, she said, “You have guessed my name, sir. Are we acquainted?”
He bowed in return before he pulled up the mask, revealing his long, narrow face and placid brown eyes. “Arthur Pic
kering, at your service.”
She regarded his costume. “Were you not earlier dressed as a straw man, sir?”
“No, that was an old friend. I thought you might have guessed when I greeted you at the door.” He glanced at the fortune-teller’s table. “I fear there will be no more readings tonight. One of the footmen reported seeing the Romany lady fleeing the house.”
“That woman was as much a traveler as I am.” She showed him the bracelet as she related what the fortune-teller had done, and her own threat, adding, “I expect it was high-handed of me to order her to leave, but I did not wish to create a scene unpleasant to your guests. I daresay you would have done the same.”
“Indeed, and I thank you for your diligence.” Pickering’s expression grew sly. “You are rumored to be quite the diviner, Miss Reed.”
“I am nothing of the sort.” Still, she had chased off his would-be fortune-teller, and Jennet felt some obligation for that. “However, if you will bring to me playing cards, I will stand in for your entertainment and provide some readings for your guests.”
He beamed as he reached into his cloak, and withdrew a boxed deck. “I have anticipated your generosity.”
Greystone took up a stance at one side of the reception hall where he could watch every entrance and exit while keeping his back to the curved wall. The chandeliers shed pooled light, allowing him to stand in a pocket of shadow. That position also gave him the perfect vantage point to watch Jennet Reed as she sat down by the hearth. She had seemed genuinely surprised to discover Pickering behind the highwayman’s idiotic mask, which gratified and annoyed him.
Staring at her as much as he wished made him want a dark, empty room and that long, lovely throat clasped between his hands.
To shut out the sight of her, Greystone closed his eyes, which proved a grave mistake. From the locked and chained trunks of his memory escaped an image of a meadow filled with daisies and dandelions just beyond the gardens surrounding his family’s country home. That afternoon had been one of the best of his life.
In the center of the fragrant, colorful profusion of blooms Jennet sat on a blue and green plaid, patiently watching as he finished unpacking the picnic hamper. He had been talking of the improvements he wished to make to the lodge, and a hot house he meant to build. When they married, he had explained, he wished Jennet to have the strawberries she loved whenever she liked. Then he had looked up to see her frown, her face flushed and her green eyes sparkling as if with temper.
You think it too frivolous, Miss Reed?
Strawberries are very nice. Jennet reached for his hand, and boldly twined her fingers through his. What I want most is you, Mr. Gerard.
That shameless confession had proved his undoing. He had pulled her into his arms and kissed her, and the taste of her lips had made him even wilder. She had not protested or struggled; she returned his passion with an equal measure of her own, just as she had under the kissing bough at Christmas. If the baroness had not walked down from the lodge to join them a few moments later, Greystone would have surely taken her right there in the flower-speckled grass, under the bright July sun. He remembered how his mother had laughed as they quickly ended the heated embrace.
That can wait until the two of you are wed, my lad.
He forced his attention back to the other guests, all of whom he easily identified despite their masks. He saw childhood friends now grown into adults, many paired off as couples. They seemed to him so blissfully unaware of anything beyond their modest scope. Greystone also realized that life had gone on in Renwick without him, which gave him a curiously empty feeling. None of Pickering’s guests would ever know what William Gerard had become, or why, and that was as it should be. Still, for a moment he wished he could truly unmask himself in every sense of the word. It would horrify them to know the truth, but it would change their perception of the woman he had so ruthlessly abandoned.
She would be congratulated instead of pitied.
Prudence Hardiwick arrived with a large group of her giggling friends, all of whom had dressed as various members of royalty. After helping themselves to the wine most of them hurried off to the ballroom, obviously eager to dance. Prudence stayed behind to approach Jennet.
“Are you telling fortunes tonight?” she asked. “If you are you should have a crystal ball, you know. It is just the thing now.”
Jennet shuffled the deck effortlessly as she looked up at Prudence. “I find the cards a more reliable source. Would you care for a reading?”
Greystone felt amused as he watched Prudence sit down and his former betrothed select cards at random and lay them out on the table. Jennet had some skill in cartomancy; she had demonstrated it to him and his parents on more than one occasion. Yet the lady’s real gift came from her keen observations of others.
“Six of spades,” Jennet said to Prudence, tapping the first card she put down between them. “This means that you long for an alteration in your situation.”
That provoked a giggle. “Oh, yes, ever since my last season in London.”
Jennet nodded and placed another card on the table. “The jack of clubs. You have a young admirer who has taken an interest in your future.”
“That would be Peter Mason, poor dear. He is so awfully amusing, and only four years younger than me.” Prudence sighed. “I wish we could spend more time together, but since his sister has been widowed … ” She shook her head.
“This is the card of jealousy,” Jennet said as she put a five of hearts next to the jack. “Someone resents this change in your life.”
“Not Mama, certainly,” Prudence said, and then her expression shifted into a scowl. “Peter’s sister has been unbearably proper since our introduction. She will not permit us to sit together alone whenever I call. She even told him he could not come to the ball with me.”
“Two of clubs.” Jennet watched the other woman’s face. “Your future happiness depends on how you deal with the obstacle that comes between you and your heart’s desire.”
Prudence frowned. “I cannot remove his sister.”
“The card does not represent a person, but a problem.” Picking up the cards, Jennet returned them to the deck. “Something you enjoy indulging in now should be made absent from your situation.”
The other woman drew back. “Surely not attending balls and assemblies. I should die of dreariness.” She thought for a moment. “There is ever so much talk about me.”
“Is this talk kind?” Jennet asked, and then when Prudence grimaced she said, “Then you have named your obstacle.”
“I must go and speak with Morwena. She is the worst gossip, and always telling tales about me,” the Hardiwick girl said, and hurried off.
Greystone almost laughed out loud. While she had displayed the cards, Jennet’s interpretations of them came more from the Hardiwick girl’s reactions. She still possessed the uncanny ability to judge people by their expressions, which she demonstrated just as admirably with the next four guests who sat down for a reading.
“She is a marvel, your girl,” Arthur Pickering murmured as he joined him. “I believe I will ask her to marry me again before we return to London tonight.”
“She is not my girl, and you are wed to your work.” Greystone considered clouting his companion on the ear, and then realized what he had said. “I am riding with you now?”
“London sent word. They intercepted a message that contains a mention of Renwick and the Raven,” Pickering said in a lower voice. “I expect the French have already sent hunters to search for the black bird. Perhaps even that bastard Ruban himself.”
The most infamous criminal in England, Ruban had never been seen by any man still breathing. Those who encountered the Frenchman in person had been murdered before they could identify him. Others in pursuit of him had suddenly gone missing without a trace, including one of Greystone’s oldest allies, now presumed dead.
“I should very much like to stay,” Greystone said through his teeth, “that I might greet hi
m in the flesh.”
Pickering made a tsking sound. “There you go, thinking only of yourself and your wonts, you selfish prig. You forget that I am but the messenger. I will need you to watch my back.”
“Very well.” His gaze went back to the women at the table. “I will do as you say. Only leave Miss Reed alone.”
“How intriguing. I recall you saying she is nothing to you.” Through his mask Pickering’s placid brown eyes turned as sharp and clever as a fox’s. “After all this time and distance, the flame of true love yet burns.” He laughed.
Greystone saw Jennet turn her head toward the sound to regard them both. “You’ve made her notice us.”
His partner in crime elbowed him neatly. “You did that when she arrived and you nearly devoured her hand, you idiot. Jennet Reed can never be yours. Remember that, and your purpose.” He strode toward an older couple. “Lord Kellworth, quite delighted to see you. Might I steal your lovely wife for the next dance?”
Pickering’s warning of Jennet Reed, can never be yours, blurred into Lady Greystone’s soft voice saying Remember your choice.
Greystone met Jennet’s gaze, which had not wavered from him. He realized that he had somehow stepped out of the shadows without being aware of his own movement, and now he was walking to her. Her brows arched as he approached, but otherwise she remained still and watchful. He took the chair across from her, and gestured toward the cards in her hands.
She took in a quick breath and then scowled. “I have no need to deal the cards for you, sir,” she said crisply. “You are as transparent as water to me.”
Greystone barely heard her, entranced to be close enough to touch her again. He could smell the sweetness of rose water and almond oil from her skin, and beneath that her own intoxicating scent. The glow from the hearth made her hair look like banked embers coming to life again. Her eyes shone with the cool green of priceless jade and the growing heat of anger. By God, she was all fire and beauty, as alluring as if their years apart had dwindled to as many days.