A Companion in Joy

by Dorothy Mack

  The ball was in full swing when they arrived. The setting was definitely more impressive than Almack’s, Kate agreed, noting the classical statues in their high niches ranging around the walls between decorative pilasters. The large orchestra was placed on a dais at one end of the glittering room. Though most of the gentlemen were correctly attired in black and white evening dress, the female contingent ran the gamut of colours, fabrics, and fashions, with tastes ranging from opulence and display to those styles expressly designed to reveal as much of the female figure as decency and the law would allow. Kate’s diaphanous red muslin had seemed to fit into the latter category at home but was now shown to be on the modest side when compared with the costumes of some of the women. The jewels that glinted around the throats and at the bosoms of a number of these charmers would rival those of a duchess. Evidently their admirers were moved to reward them in a most lavish manner for their favours. Kate herself had worn no jewels that could later be identified with her.

  Roger had not overstated the case when he warned her not to expect the style of this gathering to resemble Almack’s select assemblies. Kate scarcely had time to assimilate the very free manners of some of the women and to accustom herself to their loud voices and immoderate laughter before she was besieged with would-be partners. Once again, Roger had proved correct. Her mask lent her a sense of mystery in an assemblage where female charms were only too obvious. In a sense, her popularity was a great asset in that she was able to parry her partner’s queries as to her identity in a light-hearted manner, knowing a new petitioner would rescue her from the importunities of the present one. She danced a great deal in that first hour, noting with inward amusement that three of her partners had been guests at her wedding that afternoon. One was the young lieutenant who had wanted to inspect the wedding gifts with her. Her heart moved into her throat when he muttered that he was certain they had met before. He asked probing questions and did not seem satisfied with her denials of previous encounters. Since he was slightly the worse for drink by this time, she turned with relief to a dark-visaged stranger who claimed her for the next dance.

  By the time she met up with Roger again, she had parried dozens of intimate questions, refused two offers of carte blanche from gentlemen who were anxious to set her up in a snug little house, and turned down several invitations to go on to private parties at the close of the ball. To all of these eager cavaliers Kate replied in her assumed accent that she already had a protector to whom she was devoted. It served quite well, though one or two gentlemen showed disturbing signs of interest in the identity of the absent lover.

  She had spotted her husband almost at once, and though convinced he would not be able to penetrate her disguise, she prudently kept as much distance as possible between them at all times. He seemed to be very well entertained by a succession of dashers including the notorious Harriette Wilson, who with her bright auburn hair and voluptuous figure was even more attractive at close range than she had appeared in her box at the Opera, when Lady Langston had pointed her out to her fascinated daughters.

  The darling of half the beau monde (the masculine half) seemed to find Nicholas highly amusing company for he kept her in a continuous ripple of laughter, and she playfully rapped his knuckles more than once with her fan. Kate was too preoccupied with her own evasive responses to a number of highly persistent escorts to spare much thought for her husband, however. Though buoyed up initially by an emotional recklessness totally foreign to her nature, the accumulated strains of a very eventful day were beginning to take their toll. She was tiring rapidly and had just made the surprising discovery that she was famished. Actually, it should not have been a surprise considering the fact that she had eaten nothing since her breakfast chocolate, save a morsel of something or other at the wedding reception. She had been too upset to eat later and had thrown her solitary dinner out of the window to some prowling cats, so reluctant had she been to provide any more evidence of a languishing bride such as an untouched plate would have been for the delectation of the servants.

  Whirling in the too tight embrace of an inebriated gallant, Kate cast her glance rapidly down the room, hoping to catch Roger’s eye, but her gaze met that of a dark, saturnine stranger who had partnered her earlier. His manner had been perfectly civil, but she hadn’t cared for the look in his eyes. For that matter, she hadn’t cared for the looks the majority of men present bent on her. It had certainly come home to her tonight that gentlemen even of the highest ranks of society (perhaps especially of the highest ranks of society) wore an entirely different face toward women who were not their social equals. She would have preferred another rescuer, but the dark man whose name she had not learned earlier was heading purposefully toward her as the music ended. He bowed politely and requested the pleasure of the next dance.

  Kate watched her present partner weave his unsteady and reluctant way across the floor. Roger was nowhere to be seen.

  “You are very kind, sir, but I would be most grateful if you would conduct me into supper instead. I missed my dinner and am monstrous hungry.”

  He responded to her supplicating smile with a slight widening of a thin but well-shaped mouth and offered his arm. “I have never yet been accused of allowing a lovely lady to starve in my company.” His deep voice was pleasant enough, but something about him had sent off warning bells in Kate’s head on their first encounter and they were still clanging. She would hate to be the woman he wanted if she did not want him, she decided with a slight shiver as she permitted him to seat her at an empty table in the almost deserted supper room. She hoped Roger had noted her exit from the ballroom and would soon follow. Meanwhile, her escort was inquiring her preferences before giving an order to a hovering waiter. This accomplished, he joined her at the table, keeping his chair at a reasonable distance from hers and bending toward her attentively.

  “Do you realize that you have created something of a sensation tonight, Mademoiselle?” Kate remembered her accent, nervously aware that she had allowed it to slip earlier, hoping it had escaped his notice.

  “A sensation, Monsieur, among so many so beautiful women? You are — how do you say — flattering me, non?”

  “No, indeed. They are calling you La Belle Inconnue. There is intense speculation as to your identity and place of origin. You are a woman of mystery.”

  Kate chuckled richly in genuine amusement. “Mais, non, Monsieur, there is no mystery. My name is Desirée St. Germain, and I am born in Paris. This is my first visit to London, but I ’ave lived in England for ten years and I speak very well the English.”

  “You do, indeed.”

  Kate pretended to accept the ironic compliment at face value. When her inquisitor switched to fairly creditable French for a few remarks, she had cause to be grateful to the martinet of a French governess who had presided over the Harmon schoolroom for a dozen years. Since her French was better than his, she felt safe from discovery. If he was disappointed in the results of his little test, nothing of the kind was allowed to manifest itself in his expression, which remained tolerantly amused.

  “And how are you called, Monsieur?” she asked with wide-eyed innocence, having decided that attack was the best form of defence.

  “I am Ralston,” he answered carelessly.

  Kate hoped the shock that rippled through her on learning the identity of her companion was not reflected on her face. A French girl recently come to London would not be expected to know of the reputation of Henry Bond, Marquess of Ralston, but even girls as sheltered as Kate and Deborah knew that his lordship had caused so many scandals dating back to his youth that he was no longer received by respectable hostesses. Well into his forties now, he showed no signs of abandoning his dissolute lifestyle.

  “Enchantée, Monsieur Ralston,” she murmured, keeping to her role, but now she was hoping Roger would not put in an appearance. According to gossip, the marquess had twice killed his man in duels over women.

  “It’s Lord Ralston, actually, but no matter
,” he replied. “Tell me, my dear, who is your protector?”

  “I am sorry, milord, but he wishes to remain an … anon … er … unknown.”

  “Oh? I gather then that he is not present tonight, since there are no masked gentlemen amongst the company. He must trust you implicitly, my dear. Quite a compliment to you.”

  Too late Kate realized that she had been backed into a corner, but she hotly resented his suave implications and had no intention of allowing him to think her unescorted.

  “Malheureusement, non, he was unable to be present, but he entrusted me to the care of a friend.”

  “Now that is a true test of loyalty,” the marquess said affably. “A man who can be entrusted with the safety of a beautiful woman. And who is this devoted friend, my dear?”

  “I doubt you are acquainted, milord.” Kate preserved her calm demeanour, refusing to let Lord Ralston’s hypnotic regard unnerve her, but she greeted the arrival of their waiter at that moment with as much relief as pleasure.

  During supper, which Kate enjoyed immensely, devouring lobster patties and creamy crabs and chicken with the gusto of a dainty gourmande, the talk remained light and impersonal. The marquess drank several glasses of champagne and ate little, seeming to regard the sight of a young woman enjoying her food with the same slightly cynical air of detached amusement that had set her hackles rising earlier. She did not allow it to disturb her while she was repairing the ravages of an exhausting day, however. With luck they would never meet again, and she had every intention of terminating their tête-à-tête at the first opportunity. Consequently, when she had polished off a delectable orange ice, she raised her untouched wine glass with a slight gesture in her companion’s direction.

  “Mille mercies, milord, for providing me with a most delicious supper. I am most grateful. Shall we return maintenant to the ballroom?”

  “Not quite yet, my dear,” the marquess interposed smoothly, raising his glass to her. “I should like to drink to a most charming dinner companion.” He proceeded to toss off the rest of his glass in one gulp, but when Kate started to rise from her chair he put out a restraining hand. “I would beg a small favour of you first, Mademoiselle, in return for the supper.”

  A tickle of alarm squirmed its way down Kate’s spine. “And what might that be, milord?” she inquired with a coolness she was far from feeling.

  “I have an overwhelming desire to gaze upon La Belle Inconnue without her mask.”

  “No! Je regrette mais c’est impossible! I ’ave promised.” She rose abruptly, intending to lead the way out of the supper room, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “You won’t be breaking your promise if I do the unmasking, my dear,” he replied with sinister softness. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  Kate jerked her head back in alarm as his hand reached for the strings of the lace mask.

  “And I must insist that you respect the lady’s wishes in this matter.”

  The cold voice that slashed between the pair caused Kate to jump visibly, but though her antagonist slowly lowered his arm, his slightly bored expression did not alter. He did, however, glance quickly around, noting a half-dozen newcomers to the supper room who were looking curiously at the trio before he replied in his smooth, slightly acidic voice, “Your timing is so perfect, my dear Torvil, one might almost suspect you of waiting in the wings as it were. Would I be redundant in offering to present you to the lady? Perhaps you are already acquainted with Mademoiselle St. Germain?”

  “I have not had that pleasure.”

  “Then pray allow me to repair the omission. Mademoiselle Desirée St. Germain, Viscount Torvil, who was just married today and has chosen a most original way of celebrating his nuptials.”

  Kate emerged from her stupor long enough to breathe a soft reply in French. Nicholas sent a glance of pure dislike at the marquess, who continued to display a sneering little smile on his lined countenance, before he bowed and expressed his pleasure at the introduction.

  “May I have the honour of the next dance, Mademoiselle?”

  Kate’s brain, which had stalled dead at the shock of coming face to face with her husband, was functioning again and bent on arranging an escape. She bestowed a brilliant smile on him.

  “I am so very sorry, milord, but it grows late and I must not keep my friend waiting. Au ’voir, gentlemen.” A brief impersonal smile for both and she slipped away before either man could react.

  “Mademoiselle, wait —”

  She ignored their protests and attained the doorway, dodging around a couple entering the supper room. She was safe for the moment but dared not waste an instant in locating her brother. Both of the men she had left behind were quite capable of pursuing her, and she did not want them to see her with Roger. Although she thought herself undetected by Nicholas, his face gave nothing away. Flight was imperative, but where was Roger? She dared not remain any longer in the ballroom.

  Evading the approach of a gentleman bent on detaining her, she edged toward the hall leading to the cloak rooms and slipped outside. Thank heavens, it was deserted. She would wait five minutes then slip back into the ballroom for a few moments to search again for Roger. There was no possibility of going home alone; she had not thought to provide herself with the money to pay for a hackney cab. Her thoughts kept pace with her nervous movements up and down the hall. It was certainly true that young women of her station were raised to be helpless. They never left home without a male escort or a servant to arrange the mundane matter of transportation. One might as well be an imbecile for all the control a grown woman had over her own movements, she raged silently. Were the five minutes up? Dare she go back into the ballroom? It was a moot point which of her late companions she most dreaded to meet again. An encounter with Nicholas would result in a lively quarrel if he recognized her, but she was not so naive that she failed to sense the danger in even a minimal association with Lord Ralston. The fact that he might embarrass her by disclosing her identity would not weigh with such a self-indulgent type if curiosity about her piqued him enough. Such a man would admit no interests save his own.

  At this point in her mental gyrations, a hand descended on her shoulder. She froze for an instant while her heart zoomed to her throat; then she forced herself to turn slowly, still unsure which man represented more trouble. Her guarded eyes met the angry grey orbs of her husband.

  “You wish to speak to me, Monsieur?”

  “I don’t trust myself to speak to you at the moment,” he replied grimly. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

  Kate still hesitated, unsure whether or not Nicholas knew her. He took her arm and propelled her impatiently toward the cloakroom.

  “If it will set your mind at rest, I have known your identity since before you blithely accepted the escort of the most notorious rake in London. Lord, I thought I’d never shake off my partner so I might follow you in there, and it was none too soon, either.”

  Kate stopped dead and faced her husband. “How did you recognize me? I made sure my disguise was perfect.”

  “Oh, it was very good, but you cannot entirely disguise your profile even with a mask. Come on; the sooner we get out of here the better.”

  “What about Roger? I must let him know I am leaving.”

  “He knows.” If possible, his manner became even more forbidding. “I’ll have something more to say to your idiot of a brother when next we meet.”

  After this caustic threat, there was no conversation exchanged while Nicholas retrieved Kate’s cloak and escorted her outside where their carriage awaited. Nor did he have anything to say to her during the entire length of the drive to Albemarle Street. If he wished to quarrel, Kate was more than willing to oblige him but she had no intention of initiating the battle. Still under the influence of the cold rage that had overtaken her at what she considered her husband’s treachery at humiliating her in front of the servants, she was totally unrepentant. Though well aware that no female who could lay claim to even a modi
cum of delicacy of principle or who valued her reputation would have dreamed of doing something so crassly vulgar as must sink her quite beneath reproach should it be discovered, she would not hesitate to repeat her masquerade given the same conditions. Submerged in this mood of defiance, she was totally unprepared when the carriage pulled up in front of the door.

  Nicholas, looking at her for the first time in her corner, said coldly, “Unless it is your intention to set the household on its ear, I suggest you remove that ridiculous mask before we go in.”

  A hot flame of rage licked through her body. How dare he accuse her of setting the servants talking after what he had done! Her trembling fingers ripped off the mask, sadly disarranging the smooth hairstyle. Nicholas was momentarily nonplussed at the incendiary quality of the glance returned by his cool, emotionless bride, but whatever enlightening and undoubtedly blazing retort trembled on her lips, it was forestalled by the appearance at the open door of the omnipresent Mudgrave, and by the time the bridal pair had made their way up the stairs to Kate’s suite in palpitating silence, she had herself well in hand.

  At the door she wished him an abrupt goodnight and entered her sitting room, but if in a moment of cowardice she thought thus to avoid a confrontation, she had seriously misjudged her man. Nicholas was beside her, closing the door gently behind him before she had taken two steps into the room. There was a faint but genuine smile of amusement on his hard-featured face.

  “Whoa there! You and I have some unfinished business before we say goodnight. Sit down.” He gestured toward an inviting bronze green fauteuil.

  Kate, already regretting her momentary lapse, was once more carefully expressionless as she ignored the chair he indicated and seated herself on an armless chair with a cane seat and back. She smoothed the red muslin skirt with deliberation and directed a calm stare at her husband. His anger was well controlled, but she knew he was seething behind that stern civility. For a moment, blinded by her own rage, she had forgotten that her most effective weapon against him was that determined imperturbability she had so assiduously cultivated during their engagement. She was remembering it now.