by Ruth Axtell
There were several other Commedia dell’Arte characters. Pantaloon in his red hose and short tunic, wrapped about with a wide black cape. Harlequins scampered about in their bright blue, red, and gold costumes; the Doctor, the Captain, Scaramouche—all were male figures. Rees studied each one, but it was difficult to distinguish behind the grotesque half masks, wide ruffled collars, heavy capes, and large, floppy hats.
He studied their contours for any hint of femininity, especially those whose height matched Lady Wexham’s.
It took what seemed a long time, but finally his patient observation was rewarded. He fixed on a harlequin clown, following his progress through the crowd. It would be a perfect disguise, the body covered by a multicolored diamond-patterned tunic, the legs by colored hose. A puffy white cap with a floppy brim turned up in the front completely hid the clown’s hair. A black half mask hid the upper portion of the face. He strained forward as the clown turned his way. The chin and jaw could be Lady Wexham’s. The height and contours were also right.
As the crowd parted momentarily in front of the harlequin, Rees’s gaze drifted downward. He couldn’t help noticing the shapely legs and frowned. If it was indeed a female, she was wearing an indecently immodest garment. Although her body was fully covered—unlike some of the sheer gowns worn by those pretending to be the huntress Diana—it still revealed too much of her contours.
As he continued to observe her—for the more he did so, the more he was convinced the harlequin was a female—he grudgingly admired her audacity in how far she carried out the masquerade, to the extent of even asking a lady to dance!
It was a French gavotte, danced in a lively tempo. She danced the male part flawlessly, bowing and promenading and turning her female partner around. She was wise to have chosen a lady of slighter build and height, dressed as a shepherdess.
As was the custom, the couple danced two dances in a row before bowing and curtsying to each other and parting.
Rees’s gaze followed the harlequin, not wishing to lose her again in the crowd.
A few moments later, the musicians began to play the opening notes of a new piece. Dancers began to shift to form sets on the wide parquet floor.
On impulse, Rees quickened his step, making for the harlequin before she had a chance to ask another partner to dance.
He didn’t know quite what he intended.
He bit back an exclamation when a lady wearing a towering powdered wig and feathered half mask stepped in his path. Her panniered dress was so wide on each side that it barricaded him. Ignoring his obvious desire to walk around her, she waved her ostrich feather fan in front of her, blocking his view. “I’ll wager I know who you are.”
Those words got his attention. “I beg your pardon,” he said attempting to disguise his voice.
With a flick, she closed her fan and tapped it against his shoulder. “You are the Marquis de Lalande.”
He expelled a breath in relief and was able to smile at her triumphant tone. “You have guessed it, I fear.”
She took a step closer, her rouged lips parting in a smile. But he was once more in control and managed to bow and step aside. “If you will excuse me, madame, I must flee. I would have no one guess my identity.”
Without waiting for a reply, he walked away from her, scanning the crowd for his harlequin. Good, she was still standing there, surveying the crowd as if seeking someone to partner.
He reached her before the dance began. He could see it would be a cotillion by the squares still forming.
For a moment, he wavered, no longer sure if it was Lady Wexham. The half mask covered most of her face. It was ridged in grotesque false wrinkles over the forehead, the eye slits were so narrow, he could not see her eyes clearly.
“Monsieur?” The voice was low and inquiring, but there was something in the timbre that sounded familiar.
Standing directly in front of her, to prevent her moving elsewhere, he bowed. “May I have the honor of this dance?” He spoke to her in French, hoping his accent wouldn’t sound too British.
Her head moved back a fraction as if his request had startled her. But she rallied almost immediately, placing her hands on her hips and smiling. Those were her lips, he perceived with satisfaction. “I think you mistake me for a lady, Monsieur le Pirate.” Her colorful arm waved to the side. “There are plenty of fair damsels who would be flattered by your request.”
She spoke in French, still disguising her voice.
He knew he was taking a grave risk in revealing his knowledge of French. He didn’t understand what devilry possessed him; he didn’t take the time to question it. All he knew was that he wanted to dance with her this evening. There would never be another opportunity like this one. “Ah, but it is my desire to dance with Harlequin.”
She cocked her head, staring up at him. It was still difficult to discern the color of her irises. “People will think you very strange.”
Behind his mask Rees felt a boldness to continue this fantasy. No longer a butler or junior clerk, but a pirate, a lady’s protector—or abductor. It was a person he hardly knew but had no wish to stop. “A bal masqué brings out the strangest behavior in individuals. A lady in Harlequin’s disguise.”
Her breath caught. “You would not want to give away my secret, I hope.”
He held out a black-gloved hand. “Come, the music is beginning. No one will notice you in this crowd.”
Without another word, she placed her white-gloved hand in his, and he closed his own around it.
He led her onto the dance floor to where another couple stood, and they faced one another in the square.
Rees concentrated on the dance steps. He hadn’t danced since his last visit home. But Lady Wexham, as he had observed before, was an excellent dancer, moving through the figures and changes effortlessly.
He took her hands in his and performed an allemande turn, her shoulders grazing him as they completed the movement.
As the dance progressed, he could understand how Cinderella must have felt at the ball. For these moments, he was an equal with Lady Wexham. Their movements were courtly and measured, yet with an undercurrent of something more primitive.
His gaze crossed hers. No mask could hide those burnished bronze irises.
“I don’t believe I have met you before,” she said when they drew together.
“That is true.” She had never met him like this.
“You are French?”
He hesitated a fraction. “The son of émigrés.”
She nodded. “That explains the accent.”
He said nothing.
“In that case, I must know you,” she persisted.
He bowed. “Perhaps.”
She studied him a moment. “There is something familiar.”
He made no reply but guided her in a turn.
When the dance ended, Céline curtsied to the tall pirate with the penetrating gaze and made to move away. It was too dangerous to continue dancing as a woman, no matter how much the pirate’s identity intrigued her. There was something about him that tickled the edges of her mind.
But the pirate stopped her with a touch on her elbow. “There is another dance.”
She was honor bound to acquiesce. In truth, she didn’t mind. It would give her a chance to ferret out his identity. She hadn’t recognized his voice, but the longer they spoke, the greater her sense of familiarity grew.
If only she could get a better glimpse of his eyes, but beneath the wide black brim of his hat and behind the black mask with its narrow eye slits, their color was hard to determine.
The cotillion had not given her the chance to study him more closely, but she recognized the next strains of music as a waltz. The French were more liberal in adopting the German dance than their British counterparts.
She smiled. The dance would give her the proximity to discover who her mysterious partner was. How she hoped he danced this new dance as well as he had the cotillion. As an émigré’s son, he undoubtedly knew the steps.
A
s she held out her hands, he halted, cocking an ear to the music. Slowly he turned to observe some of the other couples already on the floor. “It is a waltz.”
“Yes, do you not know it?”
“I have not danced it as yet.” The words were the first sign of hesitancy the mysterious pirate had displayed.
“It is quite simple,” she said, resting her hands on his broad shoulders. Slowly, his hands came to her waist. He was a tall, well-built man, although she knew a domino could hide a hideous face. “Surely you have seen it danced.”
“Yes.”
Before she could reassure him any more, he took a step in time to the music. Deliberate at first, his movements soon became more smooth.
She began to relax and enjoy the feel of the music. As he led her through the strains of the waltz, she fixed her attention on the part of his face she could see. His chin and jawline were strong, his lips well formed with just the right amount of fullness in the lower one. They reminded her of . . . MacKinnon.
As soon as the thought formed, she sought for the telltale sign.
Her breath caught as she made out the tiny scar on his chin. It was her butler! Her gaze shifted to his mask, which hid everything but his eyes. He was watching her with that same intensity as MacKinnon.
How could it be? His pupils were wide and black, but they didn’t completely hide the fact that his irises were gray.
It was too preposterous, so out of place.
It could not be a butler. Not this man, so dashing in pirate’s clothes. But then wasn’t MacKinnon elegant and masculine in his butler’s uniform?
But to dance the complicated steps of the cotillion so flawlessly. No butler would have such ballroom dancing skills. Who was he in real life? Could he possibly be a gentleman?
Her gaze drifted downward again, needing to convince herself once more. The tiny scar confirmed that her partner was indeed Mr. MacKinnon. No one else could have exactly the same scar in the same place.
But—MacKinnon didn’t speak French. This man spoke it fluently.
Her mind flitted to the past when he might have overheard her speaking French, but she took pains never to speak French to Valentine or Gaspard unless she was alone with them. But might he have overheard them speaking to each other? She would have to alert Valentine.
The next second she marveled at how MacKinnon had seen through her disguise that evening. She didn’t think anyone had guessed her identity, not even de la Roche.
She narrowed her eyes on MacKinnon, forgetting about her other enemy for the moment. Or, had MacKinnon guessed? Was it mere coincidence he had singled her out to dance? No, it couldn’t be.
But as the music continued and his steps became more sure, Céline found it hard to care what MacKinnon’s motives had been. She was too caught up in the magic of being held in his arms, circling the ballroom.
It was utterly reckless and foolhardy to be dancing with someone whose purpose was to betray her, and enjoy it so much. If not for her own sake, she must remember Valentine and Gaspard, and the others who depended on her.
Yet, she didn’t want this moment to end.
Her hands rested on MacKinnon’s broad shoulders, and suddenly, for the first time since Stéphane, she felt safe and secure. It was madness. He would no doubt turn her into the Home Office as soon as they returned to London.
A shiver scurried down her spine. What if he knew about the papers she carried tucked away in her bosom? What would he do, staunch, upright Englishman that she was certain hid behind the pirate’s mask? Around they danced, continuing to gaze into each others’ eyes as if they were the only two persons in the ballroom.
Was it the danger that heightened her enjoyment of the moment, or was it something deeper . . . some inexplicable, unreasonable sense that she could trust her very life to this man?
14
It was long past midnight and Rees had almost begun to believe Lady Wexham merely meant to be having a lark by pretending to be a slim young gentleman dressed as Harlequin. After he bowed over her hand a final time, she continued dancing and wending her way through the crowd like any other partygoer.
Rees continued to watch her from the recess of the potted palms. He regretted having asked her to dance. Why had he yielded to the impulse? Foolish, foolish man. He could not berate himself enough. Had she seen through his disguise?
There had been something unsettling in the smile playing about her full lips during the waltz.
Unsettling! Unsettling had been the feeling of holding her in his arms and having to keep himself from crushing her to him and giving all away. All he’d been able to do was pray for strength and self-control.
Dear Lord, You said You would not give us more than we could bear, but would with the temptation provide a way of escape. Where is my way of escape? I have kept myself from sinning with a woman all these years. He thought of his years at sea as a young man when the ship would be in port and all the other sailors would head to the taverns to drink and carouse with the wenches available. He would stay away, seeking a church mission or library, a quiet place to read and while away the hours in edifying pursuits.
To come now to the ripe old age of one-and-thirty and be bowled over by a lady not only so far above him socially—but a traitor to the country he’d been willing to give his life for!
Yet, as he watched her pretend to be a gentleman, bowing over a young lady’s hand then leading her in a dance, all he could think of was the feel of her in his arms. He clenched his hands, willing himself to forget.
His one and only purpose here was to discover what information Lady Wexham was sending back to France. He must never forget their two countries were at war. They were enemies.
Repeating the facts did nothing to strengthen his commitment. It only filled his soul with a bleak desolation as he watched her perform the steps of a minuet.
The hour was growing late, and he wanted only to leave and seek the solace of sleep—dreamless sleep—when Lady Wexham neared one of the arched doorways and gave a quick look about her.
His shoulders stiffened, every sense immediately on alert.
He straightened from the wall to weave once more around the dance floor, his heart pumping from fear of losing his quarry.
He exited the ballroom, peering rapidly every way, no longer seeing the bright blue, red, and gold outfit.
There—disappearing down the wide marble staircase.
Stifling his frustration at the numerous people still milling about the long gallery, he wended his way around them, hoping he wouldn’t be too late to see where Lady Wexham was headed.
At the top of the wide stairs, he peered over the balustrade. She reached the ground floor and turned toward the west wing.
He descended the stairs, careful not to arrive at the bottom until she was already well down the corridor.
Where was she going? An assignation? A rendezvous?
Cursing the heavy boots he wore, he had to walk slowly to diminish their sound. Abruptly, she swung around a corner. He reached it, paused, then hearing a door open, he ventured to peer around just in time to see it closing.
Quickly he reached it, about halfway down on the right, and placed his ear to the panels. He thought he heard the click of a door or a latch. Holding his breath, he waited a few more seconds then carefully turned the knob of one of the doors. The room was dimly illuminated from the torchlights outside.
A lacy curtain moved, a breeze blowing it. Abruptly it fell back into place.
He hurried toward it and pushed it aside a fraction. Lady Wexham’s dark figure crossed the yard below.
Rees waited only long enough to see in which direction she headed. Away from the terrace and straight ahead toward the formal gardens. She disappeared behind the shrubbery.
The next moment, something moved to his right. He held still. A figure stepped forward from the terrace and followed her.
Wasting no more time, Rees stepped through the casement window, which had been left ajar. He jumped
the few feet to the ground and landed on the grass with a soft thud.
He broke into a trot across the lawn, reaching the screen of shrubbery before pausing a few precious seconds to debate.
He couldn’t risk being seen. Making a snap decision, he made an abrupt turn left. Gambling that Lady Wexham was heading back to the temple of Apollo, he would circle around and overtake her before the hill leading to it.
He jogged over the soft grass, dodging the trees and weaving around the hedges, arriving winded at the path that led up the slope to the temple. He searched both ways but saw and heard nothing, hoping that neither one had arrived yet.
The next second, he heard a soft footfall along the path. Quickly, he stepped to the side. In the dim moonlight, he saw enough color to know it was indeed a harlequin figure.
Just as Lady Wexham drew near, he stepped into her path, his heartbeat thudding.
She halted with a gasp, almost bumping into him.
He bent toward her, grasping her lightly by the shoulders to steady her. “We meet again, Harlequin,” he said in a low tone.
“So we do, Pirate.” Her breath came rapidly, as if she, too, had hurried. She made no move to disengage herself from him.
“What game are you about?”
She cocked her head, peering up at him through her mask. “I play no games.”
“Then perhaps you are not aware that someone is following you?” he whispered, drawing his face closer to hers.
She drew in a breath, twisting her head around to search the path.
“You needn’t bother to look. He will not show himself . . . unless you are expecting him.”
She shook her head, turning her attention back to him. “Are you my guardian angel?” she asked, matching his low tone.
He stared down into her face, unable to see her expression, the question taking him aback. “Perhaps,” he ventured, realizing his only thought in running to intercept her was to warn her of the one following her.
“Are you sure he is following me? There are many about tonight.”
“He followed you from the house.”