by Archer, Kate
It was a modern-day crusade and he was its only and most powerful knight. He was veritas and lux—truth and light.
He must just tread carefully now. Though he was well-aware that he was not particularly talented at unraveling the nuances of other people, he was certain Miss Dell had tried to put him off when he spoke to her in Mrs. Herschel’s drawing room.
Why, though? She gave every appearance of being a lady who wished to discuss scientific discoveries and theories. And he had discussed them with her. What was there to oppose him? Certainly no other gentleman would humor her so.
And why had she been so obstinate as to suggest Grayson’s theory that there was a connection between John Hill and Veritas? He’d made his opinion on the matter very clear in Lady Milton’s drawing room. That avenue of inquiry was to be discounted. Why had she gone on with it?
Though he could not imagine that Lord Grayson held sway over the lady, she did not give up on his idea.
It was confounding.
Rather than spend hours trying to divine the incomprehensible, he decided he must just move forward in his plan. He did not think Miss Dell was in love with him. He guessed that she attempted to put him off because of that fact. He also knew it would be quite beyond his powers to transform himself into some dashing rake, leading women into corners to whisper frivolous compliments. As far as he could tell, women lost their reason over such fellows, had they much reason to lose.
No, a strategy such as that was doomed to fail. What might not fail, though, was family pressure. He would present himself to Lord Penderton. His credentials were convincing enough and it was likely that the lord would jump at the chance to marry off his bookish daughter. Lord Penderton would be only too aware that suitors would not be falling from the trees to secure the lady librarian. She might be comely, but what fellow would welcome being lectured to on all manner of subjects? She fancied herself an intellectual over some staring at flowers she’d done. Any man of sense would recoil from it.
The only obstacle, as far as he could see, would be if Lord Penderton had secret hopes of Grayson stepping forward. It would be delusional, everybody knew Grayson was an unrepentant flirt, but many a father had deluded themselves with high hopes.
He must just lay out the facts and appeal to Lord Penderton’s commonsense.
He stood and headed toward the library to find some paper in the desk. He would write to Lord Penderton and request an interview.
*
Giles felt as if the walls around him were closing in. He’d gone along so jolly these past years, with really not a care. He knew, of course, that people talked about his flirtations, but he’d felt it was all said in good humor.
Suddenly, in the past few days, the humor had seemed to fade. First Dalton had used his history against him by telling Miss Dell there were bets laid with her name on them. Now, he was in receipt of his mask for Lady Blakely’s ball.
The lady had always been rather amused by his way of going on, but it seemed her amusement had faded.
LaRue examined the mask. “You will look terrible,” he said, pulling at the curls.
The mask consisted of a tricorn hat, a black half-mask emblazoned with a white V on the forehead, and a flowing white curled wig.
“I will look worse than terrible,” Giles said. “Lady Blakeley writes: To our own Valmont and his dangerous liaisons.” He threw down the note and said, “Dalton is very lucky he escapes this year over some family thing he’s forced to attend. Why cannot I have a family thing? I cannot be painted as Valmont!”
LaRue succumbed to a rare fit of laughter. “Les Liaisons Dangereuses?” he cried. “You? As Vicomte de Valmont? I am amused.”
“Stop your amusement this instant. Do not you see? Last year I was a collector of hearts. Now, I am cast as the worst sort of seducer! I am not a seducer!”
“Naturallement,” LaRue said, looking over Giles’ person, “no lady would agree to it.”
Giles ignored his valet’s latest salvo. “If I stay away, I will be the talk of the evening, it is always so. The honor usually goes to Lady Montague, as Lady Blakeley always manages to send her a barb. But this year it will be me!”
“And so, you must go?”
“How can I go…wearing this?” Giles asked.
“You will not go?”
“I have to go,” Giles said.
“Très bien. You go.”
“But then I am sure Miss Dell will attend and for her to see me in this?”
“Not going again?”
“On the other hand, she would never have been exposed to Dangerous Liaisons. Nobody would have ever mentioned such a book in her presence. I doubt anybody would dare it this evening. Of course, that’s the case. No person in their right mind would discuss the subject of that tale with an unmarried lady. There will be those who know, and those who do not know. She will not know.”
“And finally, you are going.”
“I might come up with a different explanation, should she ask. I might say the V is for…valor?”
LaRue snorted.
Giles paced the room. “There must be something inoffensive that will have the ring of truth. Victory, valiant, vaunted, valuable—”
“Vacant?”
“Vanishing, vanquisher—”
“Vacillator?”
“Vicarious.”
“Vapid? Vain? Villain?”
Giles spun around. “That’s it!” he said, nearly at a shout.
LaRue crossed his arms. “Valmont was a worthy villain. You? No.”
“Not villain,” Giles said. “Vain. Everybody knows I take particular care with my dress. I can go as vain. Yes, that will do nicely.”
“And these fantastical white curls?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I am Louis XIV. The Sun King was known to be vain. Who cares? I have my answer.”
LaRue bowed. “You mean to say, you have my answer.”
*
The beginning of Lady Blakeley’s half-masque was always the most interesting part of the evening. Everyone would scan the crowd to see how others had come masked. Sometimes the masks were so obvious that one need not inquire who wore it or why. Other masques were more subtle and would inspire guesses and speculation.
Frederick’s mask, the empty chair, would be one that needed constant explanation and Kitty was certain he’d be at it all night. Frederick had folded Lady Blakeley’s note in his pocket as proof to the doubting, as he could not bear to think someone posited that he was as boring as an empty chair.
Kitty thought her own large and colorful eyes was one which might be interpreted any number of ways, though she did not mind as she did not think any of them particularly terrible.
She nearly forgot she wore a mask at all upon entering Lady Blakeley’s ballroom.
Lady Penderton had forewarned of Lady Blakeley’s original decorating. She’d even told Kitty there was an Egyptian sarcophagus in the drawing room and the dining room was such a riot of color that it made one dizzy.
The ballroom was as no other Kitty had ever seen, or even imagined possible. The walls and the ceiling, which one would expect to find white or cream or a light pastel, were painted the deepest indigo. Upon that interesting background had been etched the night sky on a clear summer evening. Very tiny pieces of polished silver and cut glass had been embedded into a constellation mosaic and they winked and blinked in the candlelight. The wood floors were in direct contrast to the dark walls, as they were pale and whitewashed.
Lady Penderton leaned close to her ear and said, “We are meant to feel as if we stand on the beach at Bolberry Down at midnight. Apparently, Lady Blakeley’s father used to take his children there to camp in the summer and she has fond memories of it.”
“It is extraordinary,” Kitty said.
“Miss Dell?”
Kitty turned and saw a tall man, broad shouldered. His mask was a somber one, showing a man standing on a hilltop and looking in the distance. She could not fathom what it meant, but she n
eed not wonder at the gentleman’s identity, as she recognized the voice well enough.
“Lord Burke,” she said.
He reached for her card. “May I? For supper, perhaps?”
Kitty nodded in acquiescence.
“Very large eyes, I see,” Lord Burke said. “May you reveal the meaning behind it?”
“I am afraid it will bore you,” Kitty said. “I spoke to Lady Blakeley about my research into Cornish eyebright.”
“Ah, I see. And there are the bright eyes.”
“Just so,” Kitty said.
Before she could inquire into Lord Burke’s own mask, another gentleman joined their circle.
Kitty perfectly well knew who it was. If her eyes did not perceive the well-cut coat, the particular way of standing, the smile always at the ready, her heart certainly saw it. It began its thump-thump, just as it always seemed to do upon the arrival of Lord Grayson.
“Miss Dell? I am certain that is you. Large eyes? In search of knowledge, perhaps?” Lord Grayson said.
“Something like it,” Kitty said.
“If you don’t mind,” Lord Grayson said, reaching his hand for her card.
Kitty allowed him to enter his name, though she was not certain she wished him to. No, that was not it. She wished him to, but she wished she did not wish him to. She knew well enough that Lord Grayson was dangerous. Both Penny and Lord Dalton had told her so and she ought to believe at least one of them. That her mind kept presenting ideas that might explain away what had been told her was confounding.
“I see Burke has knocked me out of the way for supper,” Lord Grayson said.
Kitty did not answer, there was absolutely nothing to say to a comment such as that. How she felt, however, was a different matter. There was a thrill in knowing that Lord Grayson would have wished to escort her to supper. A very wrong thrill, she was convinced.
“Good Lord, Grayson,” Burke said, eyeing his mask, “what is all this meant to represent?”
“Vanity,” Lord Grayson said. “I am vain, you see. Just as Louis the XIV.”
“Why is it marked the fifth though?” Burked asked. “There is only the V. Where are the other numbers?”
“It is not V for five, it is V for vanity. Do not trouble Miss Dell with your fanciful speculations,” Lord Grayson said hurriedly. “By the by, come with me. Lord Helmer is anxious to speak to you about a horse.”
Kitty could almost see Lord Burke’s brows knit underneath his mask, but he did not resist and allowed Lord Grayson to lead him away.
Her thoughts were taken elsewhere as a variety of gentleman approached. Most of the gentleman she had previously met, and she examined their masks with interest to guess if they said something good or bad about their wearers. She was not surprised to see one of them masked as all notes and coin—she knew from Frederick that Mr. Waverly was a determined gambler. On Sir James, she was surprised to see two pistols crossed and was very afraid that young man had recently found himself in a duel. It was the height of foolishness. The baroness, for all her easygoing affection for her children, had told Frederick if he ever engaged himself in that sort of nonsense, he would find himself staying with a great aunt in York for a twelvemonth. His most exciting activity there would be tea time.
Frederick’s friend, Mr. Jost, had become somewhat emboldened behind his mask and had put his name down on her card. His mask was a natural scene of rolling hills with fluffy clouds overhead. Kitty could not make heads or tails of it until Frederick reminded her that Jost was a painter and that he preferred pastoral scenes over portraits.
Lady Penderton had been right about Mr. Jost’s treatment—Lady Blakeley would not be so cruel as to tease a young man about his shyness.
The musicians began to tune and Kitty’s thoughts returned to Lord Grayson. He had taken the first.
She could enjoy herself if she wished it. She must only be careful. There would be plenty of wagging tongues at this ball. If what Lord Dalton told her was true, her name had been bandied about in the clubs as Lord Grayson’s latest flirtation…no, worse, her name had been wagered upon, it would be wise not to call attention to it.
She was grateful that Lord Burke had taken supper. A dance was a small thing, and nobody could say much about it. But, had she been seen at supper with Lord Grayson again, it would only fuel whatever rumors there were.
To think! If there were gentlemen who wagered that Miss Dell was too clever to succumb to Lord Grayson’s charms, then there were also bets that she would. It was humiliating!
It was also a shame. There was so much to like about Lord Grayson. He was not an intellectual by any means, at least, not in the way she thought of it. She supposed she could not discount how well he knew Shakespeare, though it would not be her particular interest. And then he had claimed he would join in the search for Veritas and that must be something. He was always engaging, particularly since he’d dropped his habit of launching compliments in every direction. He measured up well when one compared him to the grim Sir John. And Lord Grayson’s person was, well, it was wonderful. There was no point in denying that.
If only his standards were better. As it was, his moral compass would not exceed that of a tadpole. And that made him a dangerous tadpole.
It was quite the conundrum. How did she allow herself to enjoy dancing with the gentleman, but at the same time protect herself from him? How did she ensure that her feelings remained in check?
*
Giles had pulled Burke into a room just off the ballroom. It was blessedly empty.
“Nobody wants to talk to me about a horse, do they?” Burke said.
“Of course not,” Giles said. “I had to think of something to stop your wonderment over my mask.”
Burke folded his arms. “Why?”
“Well, because…it is not the sort of thing to discuss in front of an unmarried lady.”
Burke peered closer at Giles’ mask. “What is it, though? What does the V really stand for?”
Giles felt his face grow hot. He had hoped he would not be relaying the truth of the mask to anybody. Yet, Burke was taking Miss Dell into supper. He must be certain his friend did not entertain any more speculations over it in her presence.
“The V is for Valmont,” he said sullenly.
“Valmont? Comte de Valmont? From the book?” Burke said.
“Yes, that one,” Giles admitted. “Deuced unfair of Lady Blakeley is all I say.”
Burke sat down on a broad leather chair. “Is that all you say?”
“What else is there to say? One moment Lady Blakeley thinks me amusing, the next she thinks me a scoundrel.”
“You have always been a scoundrel, whether Lady Blakeley has ever mentioned it or not.”
“I would not go so far as that…”
“I would,” Burke said resolutely. “Every year it is the same thing. Grayson runs after a lady, then abruptly disappears from view. Every year some lady is left red-faced for her foolishness. You have used your position as bait to dangle in front of ambitious females.”
“It was all in good fun. In any case, why should this year be any different?” Giles asked. “Lady Blakeley has always been perfectly aware of my infatuations.”
“Because you toy with Miss Dell. She is a good sort of girl, I think. Not quite as…hardened as some others you have run after.”
“She is not just a good sort of girl, she is the best sort of girl!” Giles said heatedly.
“Then why, for God’s sake, would you wish to damage her?” Lord Burke said. “Why would you wish to drag her into your stupid little games? Why would you choose her as one of your victims?”
“Victims!” Giles nearly shouted.
Lord Burke stood up. “Yes, Grayson. Victims. You are a shallow fellow not worthy of her. You ought to leave her alone.”
“I will not,” Giles said stubbornly.
“Why not? What can it mean to you? Really, Grayson, think of someone other than yourself for once in your life.”
&nb
sp; Lord Burke turned on his heel and strode out the door, slamming it behind him.
Giles stood in the middle of the floor, shocked at the dressing-down he’d just received. Among his friends, Burke had always been a bit of a scruples magistrate, reminding them all when they went too far. Dalton once called him old aunt Bess after being scolded about something or other.
But never had Burke been so…insulting.
Burke was wrong though, was he not? After all, he only…what did he do exactly? Giles could not deny that this year’s flirtation was different from season’s past. There was no battle of witty phrases or batting eyelashes or a scheming mama dropping leaden hints. And, he could not ignore that he’d read a pile of papers from the Royal Society, sent letters all over Europe, and spied on Sir John’s house. Those things were rather beyond what he’d ever done for any lady in the past. In truth, he’d never done anything for a lady beyond flattering words and unsigned posies.
He slowly sat down. Burke said Miss Dell was a good sort of girl. That was not even close to what she was. She was a marvelous sort of girl.
Burke was right on one point, though. She was a different sort of girl. She had not the wiles and tricks of his other flirtations. Those ladies had been as armored as himself and could handily come out of battle unscathed. Miss Dell was a different sort.
He ought to let her go.
Giles slowly sank down into the chair so recently vacated by his friend. A truth that had lingered in his mind, just below his conscious thoughts, began to make its way forward.
As the fog fell away from that truth, he felt a near overwhelming tension. It was very like the few moments before a battle began, those moments when all life teetered on the balance and nobody breathed.
The outer shell of his heart, that shell he had so relied on always, began to crack and crumble. He felt it almost collapsing into itself and despair rushed over him.
He was in love with Miss Dell.