by Darcy Burke
Suddenly, the thought of it repulsed him. His steps slowed when they neared the brothel’s door. As Anthony went up the steps, Marcus lagged behind.
The door swung open, and the wide footman, Barclay, greeted them by name. Anthony disappeared inside while Marcus stood with his foot perched on the bottom step.
“Coming in, Lord Ripley?” Barclay asked.
“Yes.” Because he needed information and was expected for dinner. He was many things, but rude was not one of them.
Barclay turned and spoke to another footman, who inclined his head, then hurried away. “I’ve informed Mrs. Alban that you’re here. Go on to her private sitting room.”
Anthony was already on his way upstairs, and he didn’t look back. Marcus steeled himself for what he hoped wouldn’t be an uncomfortable evening. It shouldn’t be, and yet now Anthony had him wondering if Mrs. Alban had developed a tendre for him. And how the hell hadn’t he noticed?
Maybe he could continue in his ignorance. Surely she would have said something if she wished to pursue a liaison. She hadn’t risen to her position of wealth and independence without confidence, grace, and steel.
Yes, he would pretend he hadn’t heard a word Anthony had said. It was entirely possible Anthony was wrong anyway.
Marcus moved into her sitting room only to find it empty. She kept him waiting sometimes, and that was fine.
A few minutes later, she swept in, her indigo skirts brushing the doorframe. Her ink-black hair was piled high atop her head in an elegant style dotted with sparkling jewels. She wore cosmetics, but never to excess and always to advantage, highlighting the delicate arch of her cheekbones and lush curve of her lips. “Good evening, Ripley. How delicious you look.” She said the same thing every time they met.
And he repeated his part of their ritual, taking her hand and presenting a perfect leg. “Good evening, Mrs. Alban. You are far more delectable than I.”
She gave him a saucy smile. “Indeed I am. Come, let us enjoy a feast that pales in comparison to us both.”
He offered her his arm and escorted her into her private dining room. Once they were settled and he’d sampled the excellent madeira, he wasted no time broaching the topic uppermost in his mind.
“I wonder if you might be able to help me find someone. I’m looking for Archibald Drobbit, my cousin. He frequents this area—in gaming hells mostly.” Where he preyed on gentlemen who were down on their luck and eager to recoup their losses by making a risky investment.
“I don’t know of him, but I will see what I can discover. Anything to help you.” She lifted her wineglass in a silent toast.
He returned the gesture, then took another sip. Setting the glass down, he continued, “I’m also looking for his associate, Mr. Osborne.”
“That name sounds familiar. Isn’t he exceptionally tall? Carries a walking stick with a raven’s head?”
“Yes, that’s him precisely. If you can find him, he should be able to direct me to Drobbit.”
A footman served turtle soup. “And why are you in search of your cousin?”
Marcus didn’t wish to explain the specifics. If Drobbit thought he was telling everyone about his misdeeds, he’d likely stay hidden. “A delicate family matter.”
“I see. Well, as I said, I am glad to be of service.” Her eyes glimmered briefly before she picked up her spoon to try the soup. Was that the light Anthony had spoken of?
Marcus ate a bit of the soup, then, disregarding his earlier plan to continue in ignorance, set his spoon down. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
She looked over at him, her lids flickering in slight surprise at his question. “Certainly. Why would you ask?”
“Some—many, probably, say men and women can’t be friends. I think they can. We are.”
“I agree. Though I suppose it is quite novel.”
“Have you no other male friends?”
She shrugged. “One or two. Have you other female friends?”
“Until recently, no.” Hell, why had he answered truthfully? His relationship was no one’s business, least of all Mrs. Alban’s.
But she was clearly intrigued by his answer. “Oh, do tell. If you don’t mind,” she added demurely.
The footman removed the soup and delivered a course of salad and ham.
“There’s nothing to tell, really.”
“I think there is. You asked me about friendship between men and women and admitted that I’ve been your only woman friend. I suspect your newfound friendship is causing consternation. Is it yours or someone else’s? The consternation, that is,” she clarified with a sly smile.
It was causing him frustration. Because he wanted more. “Truly, it’s nothing. She’s a friend, and I’ve no problem with it.”
“She’s a lady, isn’t she? A member of your haute ton.”
He wasn’t sure she was, not anymore. “She’s a friend. Let us leave it at that.”
“I think she’s more than a friend, but I will leave it. Since you asked. You can always come to me—for help with finding someone, for advice with women, for anything you desire.”
He wanted to understand her expectations. If she felt something for him, he owed it to her to set her straight. “Is that a specific invitation?”
She smiled briefly, and it was tinged with sadness. “It probably shouldn’t be. Forget I said anything. I don’t like competition, and I think your lady friend is more than you admit. I’m glad for you.”
“She’s not. At all. Don’t you agree that moving beyond friendship would ruin the friendship?”
“I do, actually, which is why I ask you to forget my brief indiscretion.” She took a bite of ham. “Oh, this is divine.”
And that, Marcus knew, was the end of the conversation. He breathed an inward sigh of relief. Yes, moving beyond friendship would be awkward. Especially when things ended, as they would inevitably do.
Which was why he couldn’t ever think of Phoebe as more than a friend. He’d be grateful for their flirtation and nothing more.
Chapter 7
“This is an absolute crush,” Graham said with a tone of disbelief.
Marcus grinned at the throng of people in the ballroom. They spilled out through the doors leading to the brick patio and the garden beyond, where large torches flamed at intervals. Not that everything was brightly lit—Marcus had ensured there were plenty of places for private interludes. “Of course it is. Everyone wanted to come to Brixton Park.” He recognized people here whom he hadn’t seen socially in years.
The only problem with so many attendees was that Marcus had yet to find Phoebe. She’d taken their wager quite seriously, so he’d expected difficulty. Except he was also beginning to grow frustrated.
“Thank you,” Graham said. “Arabella is absolutely delighted. This was an exceptional gift.”
“It’s my pleasure. Your ancestor designed this estate to be enjoyed, so it should be, especially with you as the host. Someday, you’re going to buy it back from me.”
Graham chuckled. “Yes, and for a reasonable sum, not the ridiculously low price you offered it to me for.”
Marcus shrugged. “The offer stands. When are you heading to the country?”
“Thursday. We will take a meandering journey to Huntwell.”
“As you should. Enjoy your newly wedded bliss.”
“I intend to.” Graham grinned, and his gaze found his bride. Adorned with a swan mask, she was easy to spot, which Marcus had done all night in the hope that Phoebe would speak with her. However, no one Arabella had spoken with had resembled his quarry.
Suddenly, a brunette walked up to the duchess. Marcus’s pulse quickened, then tempered. She was perhaps a little too short.
“Ripley?”
Marcus realized Graham was speaking to him, and he’d missed it entirely. “Sorry, what was that?” He didn’t entirely pull his attention from Graham’s wife and the mystery woman she was talking to.
“I wondered if you’d made any progress with
Drobbit.”
“Sadly, no. It’s a growing frustration. I’ve enlisted additional help in searching for him, however. Hopefully, something will turn up this week.” Marcus thought of Mrs. Alban and their dinner the other night. After their brief period of uncomfortable conversation, the evening had progressed as it normally did, with humor and camaraderie.
With one marked difference: Marcus kept finding himself comparing her to Phoebe and the time he spent with her. While he enjoyed Mrs. Alban’s company, he didn’t think about when he would see her next. He certainly didn’t pine for that moment. Which was precisely what he was doing now. He was positively consumed with finding Phoebe, and it wasn’t just so he could win the bloody wager.
The woman with the dark hair speaking with Arabella pivoted, and Marcus could finally see that she wasn’t Phoebe. Blast.
Her hair. She must have changed her hair after what he’d told her. He should perhaps look for a blonde woman.
Parting from Graham, Marcus went on a meticulous circuit of the room, taking his time to look closely at every woman with light hair that he encountered, including those wearing powdered wigs, of which there were several. People studied him, clearly trying to determine his identity and finding it difficult. Good, that meant his elaborate golden eagle mask, which he’d designed to cover as much of his head as possible, was effective.
Anthony stood near the doorway to the gaming room, a glass of wine in his hand. From the dilation of his eyes and his too-easy laugh, Marcus deduced he was already drunk.
Marcus paused in his search and sidled close to his friend. “Having a good time, I see.”
“That is you. I wasn’t sure. And yes, I’m having a marvelous time,” Anthony said. “It’s a hell of a party.”
“Just remember this isn’t our usual venue. Try to behave.” Marcus clapped Anthony’s shoulder before catching sight of pale blonde hair.
Moving after the woman, Marcus increased his pace. He caught up to her near the doors to the patio where she turned. A simple ivory mask decorated with pink and orange flowers adorned her face. He knew from the mask and the young woman’s mouth that it was Miss Jane Pemberton. He quashed his disappointment.
On the other hand, perhaps there was no reason to be dismayed. Miss Pemberton was, in fact, Phoebe’s closest friend…
“Good evening, Miss Pemberton.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
He heard the uncertainty in her voice and suffered a moment’s conflict. If he told her who he was, she could, and likely would, tell Phoebe. “If I tell you who I am, do you promise to keep it secret?”
She hesitated. “Lord Ripley?”
He exhaled. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. It was purely a guess, though your size and breadth match his, even if your head is almost entirely covered with that mask. It’s stunning.”
“Thank you. I’m still shocked you guessed correctly. You’re the first this evening.”
“To be fair, I had a bit of help. I knew you were trying to disguise yourself beyond recognition.”
“Miss Lennox told you.” Which meant Miss Pemberton was aware of their wager. What else did she know?
She nodded. “You’re the only two people who are taking this masquerade so seriously.”
He laughed. “Wagers are serious business.”
“Indeed they are, and Phoebe plans to win. Don’t bother asking me how she’s disguised.”
He exhaled again. “I suppose that was too much to hope for.”
“Don’t give up, my lord,” she said encouragingly.
“Oh, I shan’t. That she hasn’t yet found me out gives me great hope.”
“How do you know she hasn’t?” Miss Pemberton asked slyly. “Perhaps she’s waiting for the right moment to strike.”
Diabolical. He loved it. “Do you know that for certain?”
“Not at all. I just know that’s what I would do. In all honesty, I haven’t spoken with her this evening. She’s been very careful to keep herself from people she knows.”
Very diabolical. Marcus hadn’t been so careful. He’d spoken to Graham, of course, and then briefly to Anthony. If Phoebe had been watching, she likely already knew he was the golden eagle.
“I’m glad you’ve become friends,” Miss Pemberton said, drawing his curiosity.
“Why is that?”
“I think you’re good for her esteem.” Her mouth pulled for a brief moment. “Forget I said that.”
He wouldn’t. “Is it too much to ask that you don’t tell her how I’m dressed?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. Since she’s avoiding me, you needn’t be concerned.” She smiled, and Marcus bowed before taking his leave.
A table of refreshments stood near the door to the patio. Marcus swiped a glass of wine and took a sip before stepping out into the warm spring night. They’d been most fortunate with the weather. The hide-and-seek in the maze and the fireworks would be well attended.
He looked out over the torchlit garden. It wasn’t as crowded as the ballroom, but there were a great many people strolling along the paths. To the left lay the maze. Surrounded with torches, the outer reaches were illuminated, while the center was rather dark. The perfect place for a tryst, especially given the number of slim nooks built into the shrubbery. Marcus had memorized the layout—it was good to be prepared.
Not that it seemed to matter, for he was without anyone to take into the maze. Oh, he could likely find any number of women who would be willing, but he wanted only one.
He finished his wine and gave it to a footman on the patio, then walked down onto the main path. He looked for fair-haired women, but those he saw were not Phoebe. He began to despair of finding her. They hadn’t planned for not coming into contact with each other at all. He hadn’t even contemplated such a travesty. To think he could go this entire splendid night without seeing her carved a hollow of disappointment in his chest.
The majordomo came out onto the patio and announced that it was time for hide-and-seek in the maze. As the hosts, Graham and Arabella would find as many people as they could in fifteen minutes. Guests had ten minutes to enter the maze and find their spot. When the bell rang, they had to stop where they were, whether they were hidden or not. People who moved would be disqualified. The last guest to be found would win the honor of being the Master or Mistress of the Masquerade.
People flowed out from the ballroom. Some walked straight for the maze, while others, most of them, actually, lingered on the patio to watch.
Marcus swore silently. He should have found her by now. He’d hoped they might hide together. Now there was no reason to even bother playing the game.
“Aren’t you going to hide, my lord?”
His blood went cold, then instantly heated as a shiver of desire danced across his neck. He knew that voice.
He turned to see a woman gliding quickly away, her sparkling dark green skirts swirling over the path. Her pale blonde hair caught the light, as did the peacock feathers attached to her mask.
A bloody peacock. He wasn’t surprised that she’d dressed as the male of a species. She wasn’t content with her lot as a woman, and by damn if that wasn’t one of the most attractive things about her.
Marcus took off after her, nearly running to catch up to her. She dashed into the maze, and he just caught her veering to the right. Good, that was the way toward the center. Toward darkness and privacy.
In his haste, he ran into another woman. She wavered on her feet, and Marcus steadied her.
“Oh my.” She giggled, looking up at him from behind a small red silk domino. Some people had no imagination, no sense of fancy. Or, perhaps more accurately, no wager with another guest. “Thank you.”
“Excuse me,” he murmured, hurrying past her. Damn it, he’d lost Phoebe.
He continued toward the center, looking every which way. He came upon the first nook and looked inside. “This is taken,” came a deep voice.
Marcus put his hand out to the right, fee
ling along the narrow passageway of leaves until he found the next opening. That alcove was also occupied.
Fearing he might not find her, he searched three more nooks, two of which were occupied and one of which was empty. Now he was in the darkest part of the maze. Faint light helped him make out the shape of the walls around him and figures up ahead, but nothing that would identify them. He paused, and a hand clasped his, pulling him around a corner.
“Looking for me?”
Phoebe’s heart beat fast and hard in her chest, both from her hurrying to the center of the maze and the anticipation of Marcus following her. She’d lost sight of him and worried he wasn’t coming. And now she was worried she’d grabbed the wrong man.
Except he smelled like Marcus, that arousing spice-and-sandalwood scent that identified him as precisely the man she was looking for. Still, she’d lowered her voice to disguise herself in case it wasn’t him. Not that some random gentleman would recognize her voice, she realized.
He tipped his head up just enough that she saw his golden eagle mask. Yes, it was him. She grinned to herself.
“I am looking for someone.” He didn’t sound as though he knew who she was.
Oh, this was too wonderful. She kept her voice low. “Who?”
“Maybe you. I’m not sure. Who do you think I am?”
They were playing a game. Excitement curled in her belly and spread lower, igniting a delicious sensation. “The man I’m going to kiss in this maze.”
He steered her into a narrow space tucked behind the hedge wall. “Unfortunately, the woman I’m looking for doesn’t like kissing.”
“That’s too bad. Do you like kissing?”
“Immensely. I think I would like kissing her most of all.”
Phoebe’s breath caught. Tucked into the small space, she pressed against his chest. He swept his mask off, and she could just barely make out his features when his head was tipped up.
“Does this mean I win?” she asked, pulling up her own mask to expose her face. If she removed it entirely, she might dislodge her wig.