by Joan Smith
“But do you love her?”
“How can you love someone you don’t know? I like her well enough. She is an intelligent, agreeable lady. I don’t know how the world wags in Spain, but in England, I would be a fool not to have her if I could.”
“If it is only a seat in Parliament you want, perhaps—”
“That is not a paying position, Lady Helena. A man needs a few shekels to live. The honorarium of a free frank for his letters doesn’t go far.”
Helena thought of the expenses he had occurred on her behalf and felt guilty. “Of course, I shall reimburse you for the domino and the hire of the cab,” she said apologetically.
He patted her hand. “If I were a propertied gentleman, I would not permit it, but unless you want to walk back to Mrs. Stephen’s house, I fear this must be a dutch outing.”
“Poor Malvern,” she said, then fell silent. Her mind was busy thinking of ways to help him. Ways that did not involve his having to marry Marion.
Before long, they reached Orange Street, where a motley crew of costumed revelers in the street told them the ball was nearby. A hand-painted banner over a doorway led them to the spot. Music came from an open doorway. “This must be it,” she said. “Do you have the tickets?”
“I have the two dozen you bought from Juan,” he said, patting his pocket as he assisted her from the carriage.
Chapter Thirteen
They entered a dark doorway and were confronted with a narrow staircase. The music came from above. They joined the throng mounting the stairs, the music and voices growing louder as they drew closer to the source.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Malvern said, worried. “Damn, I don’t feel any too safe myself. Best put on your mask.” They both did so.
“Don’t be foolish. There is no danger. This is how the campesinos celebrate in Spain. Papa has often taken me to such affairs. Our grape pickers and field-workers had such parties at harvest time. The aristocracy have much duller parties.”
A man wearing a devil’s suit took their tickets and said, “Bienvenido, señor y señorita.”
They passed into the long, dim room. It was hung with garish orange, yellow, and green streamers. All manner of costume was there. There were ladies in Spanish gowns from the last century, accompanied by their cavaliers. There were shepherdesses and one balding, rotund man in the rig of Henry VIII, wearing a satin tunic and long silk stockings.
“I shall never recognize Mrs. Petrel-Jones!” Helena said.
“And how will she recognize you?”
“That is simple enough. I shall remove my mask,” she said, and took it off. “Don’t worry, Malvern. There will be no one from the ton here to recognize me. Let us circulate amid the throng and hope Moira sees us.”
Before she had gone three yards, a respectable-looking older gentleman in a plain black domino and mask accosted them. “Señorita Carlisle! Should you be here?” he asked in English.
“Mr. Gagehot! What a marvelous stroke of luck. I am looking for Moira. Oh, and this is my escort, Mr. Malvern.” Helena turned to Malvern. “This is Papa’s British agent for his sherry. He has often visited us in Spain.”
“But of course! You are looking for Moira,” Gagehot said.
“I have a carta amoroso, for her from Papa. Is she here?”
Mr. Gagehot did not look happy to hear of this carta amorosa. “She was here, but she found it rowdy and mentioned she would leave early. Perhaps she has already gone—”
“Oh, dear! Do you have her address?”
“Let me take the billet-doux to her, to save you bother.”
“Gracias, but I promised Papa I would deliver it by hand.”
A trilling voice screeched across the noisy hall. “Helena! Cara mía, it is you!”
“Moira!”
Helena ran to meet a lady wearing an elaborate gown from the reign of Louis XIV, with her reddish blond hair piled in a mound on top of her head. Malvern, ogling her, thought she resembled a slightly passé Rubens. She had that ripe, sensuous quality of his nudes: an expanse of full bosoms, white, dimpled arms, and a pretty but somewhat vacuous face with drooping eyelids. He felt that she would stand no chance of marrying a peer in England, though she stood a very good chance of being kept by one. Something in her suggested an easy availability. She was a trifle tipsy, for one thing.
Helena presented Malvern to her and then suggested, “Let us retire to a quieter corner to talk.”
“Cara mía, there are no quiet corners to be had here.” Mrs. Petrel-Jones laughed. “All is madness and gaiety. I adore it. I could think I am back in Spain. How is your papa?”
Helena drew out the letter. “He wanted me to give you this, Moira. It will explain what he wants to say. May I call on you?”
This struck her as a happier notion than that of asking Moira to call at Belgrave Square. She had grown accustomed to Moira’s style in Spain, but in England, her manner seemed somehow unsuitable. Perhaps it was that revealing costume.... She felt in her bones that Severn would despise her, and she did not want to subject Papa’s friend to a snub.
Moira snatched eagerly at the letter and stuffed it unopened into her bosom. “This is not for your eyes, Lester,” she said, with a flirtatious glance at Gagehot.
Once again Helena was smitten with the lady’s free manner. Even the word vulgar came to mind. Surely she had not behaved like this in the old days? She said nervously, “I really must run along. I am due at a party.”
“You are at a party, cara mía,” Mrs. Petrel-Jones said, stiffening up. “Or are your old friends not good enough for you, now that you are moving in higher society?”
“Don’t be absurd!” Helena said, chagrined. “My chaperon does not know I am here, so I must leave at once.”
“Juan Ortega was speaking to me of you,” Moira said. “He hoped to have a word with you tonight. Something about finding him some employment, poor fellow.”
“I should like to speak with him,” Helena said doubtfully. She was by no means sure this was the time to do it.
“We’ll order wine and send someone to find him,” Moira said, and led the party to a table. While ordering the wine, she asked the waiter to send Juan to them.
“Well, Mr. Malvern,” Mrs. Petrel-Jones said, turning a sharp eye on him, “are you Helena’s beau?”
“Mr. Malvern is a friend,” Helena said dampingly.
“He’s handsome,” Moira said, with a coy smile. When the wine arrived, she filled a glass and drank it in one swallow. “It is so hot in here,” she scolded, and filled her glass again.
Helena realized the lady had been drinking heavily. That accounted for her manner, so noticeably cruder than it had been in Spain.
Malvern drank his wine up rather quickly, too. “We really should be getting back, Lady Helena.”
Moira looked up and said, “Ah, here is Juan. You cannot leave yet. He will be performing a jota for us. You always adored the jota, Helena.”
“Yes, indeed.” Juan wore a red satin suit with black braid work on the jacket. A white lace jabot was worn in lieu of a cravat. The rich color and texture suited his dark, Spanish looks. His lithe, young body showed to perfection. He might have been a prince of the royal blood from the last century.
She greeted Juan, then turned to Malvern. “The jota is a folk dance of Spain. It is danced by a man and a woman.”
“Very romantic.” Moira sighed, with another of those coy looks. “You should give your gent a chance to see it, Helena.”
“Another time, perhaps,” Helena said, rising.
“My, aren’t we snobby!” Moira said in a carrying voice. “You didn’t stand so high on your dignity in Spain. Many’s the time I’ve seen you perform the jota yourself, miss, with all the flirting tricks of a common wench. I told Juan you would partner him.”
“I performed it only at Papa’s harvest party,” Helena reminded her. “This is different.”
“Let us ask the party if they would like to see it,” Moira said, and rose
. In Spanish, she announced that Lady Helena Carlisle, daughter of Lord Aylesbury of the Viñedo Paraíso, was with them. Would they like to see her perform the jota? A loud chorus rose, accompanied by glasses thumping on the table.
Lady Helena rose angrily. “Moira, how could you! This is most improper. You know I shouldn’t even be here. If Lord Severn found out ... Let us leave at once, Malvern.”
He was happy to escape. He rose immediately and took her arm. But when they tried to leave, a crowd formed around them, hollering, “Jota, jota, jota.”
Juan smiled apologetically. In Spanish he said, “It will be easiest to oblige the crowd, señorita. I am sorry. Pray do not let this influence you against me.”
“I know this is not your doing, Juan.”
The music had already begun. Juan took her arm, and the crowd fell back. Someone handed her a red, fringed scarf, and Juan arranged it around her shoulders. They moved to the center of the room. Juan moved back a step and began clapping his hands in time with the beat of the music. The crowd took up the beat, clapping and stamping their feet.
The last conscious thought Helena had was that she was glad Severn was not there to see her make a fool of herself. Then the music seized her, and she began the ritualistic steps of the dance. It was a reenactment of the courting rites, and Juan was a perfect paradigm of Spanish male beauty.
The man entreated and the woman withdrew, not without casting an encouraging flash of eyes over her shoulder. He advanced; she showed disdain by a snap of her fingers and a toss of her curls. For several bars Juan pursued, Helena retreated. Rational thought had left her. The throbbing music dictated what her body would do. For the moments of the dance, she ceased being Lady Helena and became a Spanish girl, hot-blooded, passionate, thinking of nothing but her black-eyed, eager suitor.
The tempo of the music increased, and their feet moved faster. Their eyes were locked now in a battle of wills, giving an undertone of tense passion to the performance. The crowd watched with bated breath as the couple performed the time-honored ritual. The man inched slowly closer, as she first withdrew, then slowly edged closer, until they were within touching distance.
When his hands encircled her waist, she gave him one last, boldly proud look. Then her head lowered a moment, and when it rose again, she was smiling. She writhed temptingly, half encouraging, half disdaining. The end of the crimson shawl was raised to cover her face in a simulation of shyness.
Juan ripped it impatiently from her fingers. The shawl fell to the ground in a silken puddle as the music reached a crescendo. Juan’s feet beat a ferocious tattoo as Helena fell perfectly still, overcome by his machismo. His arms reached for her. She glided forward into them, as if mesmerized. His arms closed around her, holding her close now. He tilted her body backward, his head inches from hers. They hung suspended as the music died. Then they rose and exchanged a smile. Juan bowed punctiliously and lifted her hand to his lips.
“Formidable, señorita,” he whispered to her. White teeth flashed in his swarthy face, which gleamed with perspiration.
“Gracias, señor.”
He lifted her hand in a salute to the crowd, which applauded wildly. Helena performed a few curtsies and looked into the crowd to find Malvern. They must escape before someone demanded an encore. He was not with Moira and Mr. Gagehot, who had moved close to the front of the crowd. Where could he be? Her eyes moved along past the throng hovering at the doorway, then stopped and widened in horror. It couldn’t be! It was an illusion, or a nightmare. There, white and rigid with disapproval, was Lord Severn.
Chapter Fourteen
Helena’s first instinct was to flee, but Severn was already advancing, stiff-legged, but making very good time. She stood motionless as a trapped rabbit, unable to move for the wild beating of her heart, He took her arm in a firm grip and led her away without a word. How had he found her? How had he known where to come so quickly?
It had not seemed so quick to Severn. He suspected nothing amiss until he stood up with Marion. It was she who said, “Mr. Malvern is a wonderful dancer. I was sorry it was only a country dance we shared.” Her intention was not to harm Helena, but to alert Severn that he had competition for her own hand.
“Is he here?” Severn grumbled.
“Yes, standing up with Helena, I expect.” They glanced around the floor. Within minutes, they knew that Malvern had disappeared. Marion was sent up to the ladies’ room and discovered Helena’s absence. A query to the butler told them neither party had left, not by the front door, at least.
“I can soon tell you if Mr. Malvern is gone, your lordship, for he had a case put away that he meant to take with him when he left,” the butler told them.
He led them to the small parlor, where they discovered that the case was gone. As the side door had been left ajar in their haste, it was not long before the worst was suspected.
“A bolt for the border, by God,” Severn said in a hollow voice. He was too shocked to be angry yet.
Marion would not hear of such a thing. “Impossible. Mr. Malvern is calling on me tomorrow afternoon. She has talked him into some folly. You may be sure it has to do with her precious Spaniards. There were posters at El Cafeto advertising a ball. A baile mascarado, or something of the sort. The picture showed a masked couple. Perhaps it is being held tonight.”
Severn listened closely. “That would explain Malvern’s case—a change of outfits. She arranged this behind my back.”
“She would hardly expect you to connive at it,” Marion pointed out. There was disapproval in her tone, though he had expected complete support. “We had best go after them, Severn.”
“No need for you to come. I shall bring her back.”
“But you don’t know where El Cafeto is.”
“On Orange Street, off Haymarket, I believe.”
“How did you know that?” she asked.
“Don’t mention to your mama or anyone that she is gone” was Severn’s reply. “I’ll have her back before she is missed.”
“Be sure you bring Malvern back, too,” Marion said, with a faintly ironic smile. “I shall ring a peal over him.”
Severn suffered a few pangs as he rattled along toward Orange Street. What if he was wrong? What if she had darted to Gretna Green with Malvern? That case the fellow was carrying looked bad. But Helena had carried no case. She would not leave without her beautiful gowns. In his mind, it was not her white deb’s gowns he envisaged, but the flamboyant colors of her first days.
Perhaps he had been too severe on her for that visit to El Cafeto. If he had not made so much of it, she might have asked him to take her to this masquerade ball. Naturally she was lonesome for something familiar to her. There could be no harm in a Spanish ball. She had assured him propriety was strictly enforced in Spain. Except that Malvern was hardly a proper duena. He gave the drawstring two sharp jerks to encourage his driver to go faster.
As he entered the somewhat dilapidated Orange Street and saw the revelers weaving along, drunk as lords, half of them, he feared this baile mascarado was no polite affair. The hand-painted sign directed him to the proper doorway. He leapt out and told John Groom to keep the carriage standing by. As he took the stairs two at a time, he had some reviving hope that the party was not totally abandoned. The only sound was the swirling Spanish music, with an underbeat of clapping. There was no drunken brawling or coarse shouting, at least.
When he paid his admission and entered the hall, he saw the crowd around the edge of the room and realized some performance was going forth—dancers performing to the music. He looked around the throng. They ignored him completely; every eye was on the performers. He continued on his way, wondering what sort of outfits Helena and Malvern were wearing. Simple dominoes and masks, very likely. At least no one would recognize her.
As he passed behind a clutch of seated older ladies, he was able to get a glimpse of the performance. Juan’s red suit, trimmed with black, caught his eye first. A fine figure of a man, but it was the lady i
n white who lent fire to the performance. Her back was to Severn, and he saw first her sinuous body, with arms raised gracefully. He watched, entranced, as she shifted away from the pursuing Juan. His heart beat faster as Juan masterfully overcame the woman’s scruples and she surrendered herself to him with supple compliance. The theme of the dance was easily comprehensible. As Juan drew the woman, unresisting now, into his arms and lowered her to the floor, something stirred deep within Severn.
One could not say the dance was obscene, for it was done with exquisite grace and skill, but it was certainly erotic. Really, it hardly seemed a proper performance for mixed company. He disliked to think of Helena watching it. Actually, the danseuse looked a little like her. He gazed on as Juan lifted the dancer back on her feet and they both made their bows. Really, she looked remarkably like—no! It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t dare! But it was she. His heart slowed to a heavy thud; his hands bunched to fists and he edged past the seated ladies on to the floor.
Helena was gasping from the dance and from an unpleasant combination of anger and fear. As he seized her wrist and led her to the door, she managed to gasp, “My reticule.”
“Where is it?”
“There.” She pointed to the table, to which Gagehot and Moira were just returning. Thank God Malvern was not with them. He must have slipped away when he recognized Severn. Severn glared at Gagehot and Moira. “I’ll get it,” Helena said, for she didn’t want to present Severn to Moira in her present state.
Gagehot, still sober and respectable, rose and said, “Good evening” to Severn, whose only reply was a filthy glare.
“This is my father’s wine agent, Mr. Gagehot,” Helena said. “And Mrs. Petrel-Jones,” she added perforce. “May I present Lord Severn.”
Severn did not bow, offer his hand, or even say, “Good evening.” “We must leave at once,” he said in icy accents. Then he snatched up Helena’s reticule and handed it to her.