Authors: Ruth Axtell
Tags: #FIC027050, #Aristocracy (Social class)—Fiction, #London (England)—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction, #FIC042030, #FIC042040, #Great Britain—History—George III (1760–1820)—Fiction
080072089X (R)
© 2013 by Ruth Axtell
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
Ebook edition created 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-4073-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.
“Intrigue, romance, a clandestine kiss . . . all cast in a Regency setting so magnificently detailed I could see the fabrics and feel the glow of another era. Secrets and past disappointments keep Céline and Rees apart, not to mention the largest chasm of all—class. A wonderfully romantic and memorable read!”
—Maureen Lang, author of
Bees in the Butterfly Garden
“The first paragraph drew me into the story, and the next twist held me there to the end.”
—Laurie Alice Eakes, author of
A Flight of Fancy
“
Moonlight Masquerade
is a wonderful romance, graced with expert detail of the Regency period, as well as with Ruth Axtell’s usual flair for intensely romantic situations between characters so real I couldn’t stop thinking about them.
Moonlight Masquerade
is an exciting romantic adventure of spies, forbidden love, and happily-ever-after that I thoroughly enjoyed.”
—Melanie Dickerson, two-time Christy Award finalist and author of
The Healer’s Apprentice
and
The Merchant’s Daughter
I’d like to thank my agent Chip MacGregor. He took me on during a transition time in my writing career and believed in my stories.
Thanks to my daughter, Adaja, and to my email friend, Patricia. They’re my first readers and gave me the thumbs-up on my opening scenes.
Contents
1
L
ONDON
, A
PRIL
1813
Rees had never seen so many female baubles in his life. Ropes of pearl, gold chains, jeweled tiaras, and bracelets of every description lay nested in their satin surroundings.
The Countess of Wexham’s jewelry box contained enough precious stones to feed half of London.
But he wasn’t interested in what her jewels would fetch on the market. He was searching for something else among the lady’s belongings. Something infinitely more precious—and damaging—if it were found.
Information.
Rees glanced quickly over his shoulder—having imagined the sound of footsteps behind him all evening—before lifting each article of jewelry to make sure nothing lay beneath. He replaced them one by one, endeavoring to leave everything as he had found it. Conscious that the seconds were ticking by, he was still not certain what he was looking for, only that he would recognize it when he saw it.
He lowered the lid and relocked it. Next, he slipped his skeleton key into the narrow drawer in the lower part of the jewelry box and opened it. Rows of amethyst, topaz, ruby, and emerald earrings and rings glinted back at him from the light of his candle.
He went through every item, probing the satin beneath. Nothing out of the ordinary . . . for a lady of the fashionable world of the London
ton
.
He slid the drawer closed and locked it, expelling a breath. He glanced at the brass clock beside the jewelry box. Ten precious minutes had passed since he’d entered the lady’s dressing room. He’d already searched her bedroom and found nothing. He calculated he had at least another hour before she or her maid returned for the evening.
He eyed the piece of furniture the jewelry box sat upon. A mahogany bowfront chest of drawers with brass lion’s head pull handles. Forcing himself to continue the disagreeable task of going through someone’s personal belongings, he grasped the top two handles and opened the first drawer. Stacks of handkerchiefs sat in neatly folded squares, of every texture and description from snowy white to pale cream and sheerest lawn edged in a wide swath of lace to heavy cambric, monogrammed in the corner, as plain as a man’s.
The latter were at odds with their owner, a lady of utmost femininity.
Rees went through each pile, feeling for any object, anything suspicious—a folded piece of paper, a scroll, something cylindrical into which a document could be slipped.
The scent of mahogany and lavender drifted to his nostrils. His fingers encountered a few sachets tied with satin ribbons. He examined each one but felt only the tiny lavender pellets beneath his fingertips.
He reached the bottom of the drawer and touched the paper lining, probing each corner, going so far as sliding his hand under the paper while holding the piles of handkerchiefs in place with the other.
He repeated this motion on each side of the drawer, left, front, rear, and right, then gave it a careful look to ascertain that its contents looked undisturbed before softly pushing the drawer closed.
Where would he hide something if he were a fashionable lady? His narrowed gaze roamed the dainty dressing room, taking in its furnishings—two large wardrobes along one wall, the chest of drawers he
stood in front of, a dresser with a mirror, two comfortable armchairs flanking it, a large, plush carpet in shades of rose and green covering most of the floor. A faint scent of perfume permeated the air, nothing cloying, but light, reminding him of a Sussex village in high summer when the roses festooned the hedgerows, casting out their fragrance when one brushed by them.
He turned back to face the chest of drawers. No help for it but to go methodically through every drawer, every item, just as he’d done in the bedroom.
He hated this aspect of the job—snooping through a lady’s private things. A bloody naval battle, crossing swords on the deck of a frigate, was preferable.
The ticking clock reminded him again that he’d better get to it or he’d end up discovered before his first week was up.
Steeling himself for the task, he slid open the next drawer. Thank goodness everything in the lady’s terrace house was new and well maintained. He needn’t fear any sticking drawers or squeaking hinges. He knew from her dossier that Lady Wexham had only moved here after her widowhood three years ago.
He eyed the drawer’s contents in dismay. Silk and lawn undergarments.
Without meaning to, he envisioned the lady they belonged to.
A beautiful woman, dark of hair and eye, more elegant and well-bred than any woman of Rees’s acquaintance. And, for the foreseeable future, his employer.
And very possibly a spy against Great Britain.
It was his task to find out.
He stared at the lacy chemises and silk stockings, curling his fingers into his palms.
He reached out, knowing each minute was precious. He must finish his search, no matter how distasteful, and leave the room before anyone chanced by.
Focusing on the task at hand, Rees plunged his hands into the
drawer, going through every item as he had in the drawer above, feeling to the bottom for anything tucked beneath the paper lining.
Halfway down the length of the drawer, reaching a pile of stays and corsets, he heard the door click open in the next room.
He froze, this time his ears not deceiving him. It couldn’t be Valentine, the lady’s maid. He had heard her tell the cook that she was going out. As for Lady Wexham, she never returned before midnight, and it was scarcely ten o’clock.
But the soft sound of footsteps like a lady’s evening slippers on the floorboards was unmistakable. Rees snuffed out his candle even as his glance darted about the four corners of the dressing room, memorizing the placement of the furniture before being plunged into darkness.
His only hope was one of the armoires. He crossed the room in a few long strides and reached for the second one, the farthest one from the door to the bedroom, calculating it would be the least likely to be opened if the person entered the dressing room. He opened one of its doors, thankful for its well-oiled hinges. In another second, he had the other side opened and was crouching down, feeling for the bottom shelf. It was wide and deep, at least two feet in height. Shoving aside the clothes, he hunched into it, barely able to squeeze his six-foot frame into its confines.
Hearing further movement in the next room, he hugged the candle to his chest, stifling an exclamation as hot wax spilled onto his hand. Quickly, he shoved some of the garments over himself and drew the two doors closed from within. Would the person smell the scent of burning wax from a recently doused candle?
He wasn’t able to latch the doors from where he lay on the bottom. The best he could do was grip the second door with his fingertips, praying no one would come into the dressing room or notice that one door was slightly ajar.
His spine pressed against the rear of the armoire, his knees were drawn almost to his chest, the toes of his shoes touched one end of the
armoire, the crown of his head the other. Closing his eyes, he strained to hear, praying he wouldn’t be discovered.
Who could have come into the lady’s bedroom? It couldn’t be Lady Wexham herself. As for her maid, he had seen her leave the house as soon as her mistress departed in her carriage. A Frenchwoman, she was scornful of the other servants except for the French cook, treating the British ones as beneath her notice.
For a long time there was only silence in the stuffy space. Perspiration broke out on his forehead and neck. The scent of walnut mingled with rose and starch of whatever article of clothing he held against himself. He loosened his hold on the candle and rubbed the edge of the garment between thumb and forefinger to distract himself from his uncomfortable position. Silk.
In the scant week he’d been employed in the Countess of Wexham’s household, he’d seen her wear a dozen different outfits, changing at least three times in a day. Morning gowns, riding habits, calling outfits, evening gowns. He compared her to his younger sister, Megan, who always looked pretty but who didn’t own a fraction of the gowns of his employer. Megan’s were simple cotton gowns, copied from a fashion magazine and made at home. But Megan lived in the country and never aspired to the heights of Lady Wexham.