Brenda Hiatt (2 page)

“Eh there, me beauty! Might ye care to dance?” inquired a poor imitation of Henry VIII at her elbow.

Abruptly, she remembered her sister’s objections when Nessa had first mentioned this masquerade to her, about cits and other vulgar sorts attending. In her excitement and determination to attend she’d shrugged it off, but now the evidence was before her.

“Ah, not just yet, thank you,” she replied nervously, taking a step away from the man, who reeked of spirits. Somehow, she hadn’t really thought about what she’d do
at
the masquerade. She’d focused all her energies on simply getting here.

The man stepped closer. “’Ere now, you’re not refusing to dance with yer monarch, are ye?” he prodded with a leer. “Royal privilege and all that.”

Nessa swallowed. “No, it’s not that. It’s only—”

“She has a prior obligation, to confess her sins,” interrupted a tall, brown-robed monk. “Even Your Majesty must admit to the superior claims of the Church in such
matters.” The monk’s accent was cultured, reassuring Nessa that this, at least, was a man of her own class.

The drunkard appeared disposed to argue, but a tilt of the monk’s head and an ominous glitter of brilliant blue eyes from behind his mask dissuaded him. Muttering something about more wine, King Henry moved away.

“Thank you, sir,” said Nessa, relieved. “He really was becoming most persistent.”

“One can hardly blame him.” The monk looked her over with a most unclerical gleam in his eye. “What do you here alone? Or is your protector busy procuring you a glass of iced champagne?”

“My—?” Nessa glanced down at her costume again and flushed. Perhaps it was a trifle
too
realistic. “No, I assure you I am here alone—but I do not intend to stay long. No more than an hour.”

The monk smiled, and Nessa realized how very handsome he was, even with a mask obscuring much of his face. “Then pray, allow me to act as your escort for the brief time you mean to grace this gathering with your presence.”

Nessa frowned, wondering if perhaps she had tumbled from the frying pan into the fire. “I, ah—”

“Surely you cannot feel less than safe with a man of the cloth?” he prompted. “Besides, our costumes complement each other so well.”

That forced a chuckle from Nessa, making her instantly more comfortable. Surely a man with a sense of humor could not be too evil. Though why she should
think that, she did not know. Neither her father nor her husband had ever shown the slightest hint of whimsy, and both had been regarded by the world as the most upright and estimable of men.

“Very well, Friar, I place myself under the protection of the Church for the present.”

The tall, handsome monk took Nessa on a tour of the rooms, pointing out their shortcomings. “Makes one wonder what everyone sees in the place, doesn’t it?” he asked. “But during the Season, ladies have been known to pine away or even leave Town in disgrace for being denied admittance to Almack’s of a Wednesday night.”

“I take it, then, that you are a regular attendee yourself, Friar?” asked Nessa, hoping to discover a bit more about him.

“Me? Hardly!” His laugh was almost a snort. “Not that I’ve attempted it, of course, especially since—Ah, here comes a tray of champagne! Would you care for some, milady?”

Nessa wondered what he’d been about to say. “No, thank you. Is there lemonade, perhaps?” She suspected her judgment was impaired enough this evening without adding spirits to the mix.

The monk spoke to the servant, who returned in a moment with the required beverage. With a flourish, he presented it to her. “In my present guise, I suppose I dare not request a kiss in return for such gallantry. But allow me to tell you your eyes are most haunting, even through that remarkable mask.”

“You flatter me, sir.” More than ever, Nessa sus
pected her escort’s costume was decidedly at odds with the man underneath. He might be the greatest rake in all London, for aught she knew. She cast about for some way to discover his name—not that it was likely to mean anything to her, as unfamiliar as she was with London Society.

Apparently she was not alone in her curiosity. “Since you do not intend to remain for the unmasking at midnight, might I know the name of the lady I have taken under my protection?”

Though he was but mimicking her earlier words, his phrasing still caused Nessa a thrill of alarm. Surely he did not truly believe her to be as she dressed tonight, a woman of easy virtue? Considering what her life had been until now, the idea was both outrageous and highly amusing. More than ever, she knew she must guard her identity at all costs.

“You may call me Monique,” she informed him. It was a name she’d always liked, and sufficiently French to fit her present role.

His well-shaped lips curved into a smile. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips—then cut off such thoughts, shocked at herself. Clearly, she was taking her masquerade role far too seriously!

“Might I request this dance, Monique?” A waltz was just beginning.

“First might I know
your
name, Friar?” she asked boldly.

“In return for the dance, you may call me Brother
Eligius,” he said loftily, taking her hand to lead her to the floor.

Nessa hung back. “One might ask what it is you are worthy of, Brother Eligius.”

“Ah, a lady who knows her Latin! Worthy of this dance, of course—and anything else you might see fit to bestow upon me,” he added with a lascivious wink. She might have been alarmed were it not clear he was teasing—and if his words didn’t send her thoughts down most improper channels.

She stood her ground. “I see. Perhaps I shall bestow the next dance upon you, then. This one is nearly over.” That was not quite true, but she could not bring herself to admit that she had never learned to waltz. Given her parents’, and later her husband’s, views on the dance, she had never even dared to ask.

To her relief, the monk did not press the issue, but stood trading quips with her about both of their pseudonyms until the orchestra struck up a country dance. The dance was lively, allowing little opportunity for conversation, and by its conclusion Nessa’s hour was nearly up.

The two of them had drawn many curious stares, and as they left the dance floor a lanky man dressed as a harlequin approached them.

“What a sight this is!” he exclaimed. “Have you persuaded your partner to join you in a life of virtue, J—er, Friar?” A quick motion by the monk had prevented him from uttering the monk’s name, to Nessa’s frustration.

“Indeed, for her I believe it won’t be so much of a stretch, despite appearances,” he replied, making her wonder how on earth he had guessed that. “Am I not right, milady Monique?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” she replied, stung that her attempt to throw off propriety had been such a failure. With sudden recklessness, she swooped up onto her tiptoes to plant a swift kiss square on the monk’s mouth. Then, more shocked at her own boldness than he could possibly be, she turned quickly away.

“I really must be going, now,” she said breathlessly, not meeting his eye. “I wish you success in your conversions, Brother Eligius.” Before he could respond or even react, Nessa fled the scene of the most daring thing she’d ever done in her whole sheltered life.

The hackney was waiting when she stepped outdoors, and as she rode home, Nessa’s brief elation ebbed. She should be pleased, she knew, that there was virtually no chance that she would ever again encounter the mysterious monk, as he’d likely identify her if she did. But somehow that reflection brought less than complete satisfaction.

Arriving back at her sister’s, she again paid the driver and reentered the house as quietly as she’d left it. Her brief taste of freedom was over, with none the wiser.

Jack watched the enigmatic woman in white as she hurried from the ballroom, his lips still tingling pleasurably from that surprising kiss. Surely there’d been no hidden meaning in her parting words. She couldn’t know about the real conversion he was attempting—his own.

“So much for that costume reminding you of your new mission, Jack,” commented Lord Peter, the bells on his harlequin headpiece jingling as he nodded sagely. “Still running after the demimonde, I see.”

Jack shot his friend a sardonic glance. “I shouldn’t make remarks about appropriate costumes if I were you, Peter. But that lady…I’m not certain—”

“What possessed you to let that pretty piece escape, Jack?” Harry Thatcher, clad in a simple black domino that effectively hid his injury, came up to join them just then. “If you didn’t want her, with your newfound virtue, you should have sent her my way. I can still appreciate a toothsome wench—and pleasure one, too. Loss of an arm hasn’t slowed me down in
that
department. God preserve me from a title, though!”

Jack regarded his wartime crony with a mixture of sympathy and envy. “As
your
uncle has three sons already, I shouldn’t think there’s much chance of your being saddled with such a curse.” Harry’s father, like Jack’s, was second son to a peer, in this case the Earl of Balfour. “Had I known Uncle Luther was both sickly and childless, I might have stayed on the Continent. But now I’m stuck with it.”

Both of his friends laughed, though they doubtless knew there was more than a grain of truth in Jack’s words. He was finding this “conversion” to respectability damnably tedious—and difficult. Much as he hated to admit it, if it weren’t for the money his grandfather held over his head, he’d have abandoned the idea already.

“This”—he waved his arm about to indicate the glittering throng—“was to be my final fling, as it were. As of tomorrow, I don the sober mantle of Marquis of Foxhaven, and all that goes with it. God help me.” With mock piety, he made the sign of the cross, causing his companions to chuckle anew.

Peter sobered quickly, however. “It ain’t going to be easy setting yourself up as a paragon after the reputation you’ve built over the years, Jack. Too many people know the real you.”

“Precisely what I’ve come to realize. That is why I need your help, both of you.”

Harry snorted. “That’s well enough for Pete here. Always eager to be the voice of conscience anyway. But you can count me out. I think the whole idea is daft. You’ve got position, you’ve got money—more than
you ever dreamed. Here you are, with everything you need to have the best time of your life, and you get morality or some such rot.” He shook his head. “Never thought I’d live to see it. Makes a man wonder what the point is.”

Jack glared at his friend, who only voiced what he himself had felt more than once since reading his grandfather’s letter two nights since. “The point is living up to my potential,” he said tersely, willing himself to believe it. “Now that I’m Foxhaven, I have a family name to uphold. Besides, as I told you, I
don’t
have the money. At least, not enough to continue as I’ve done and maintain the estates both. Not unless I follow through on this thing.”

Before Harry could repeat his thanks for escaping such a fate, Peter spoke up. “Well
I
think it’s an admirable attitude, Jack, money or no, and I’ll support you however I can. As I said, though, it won’t be easy. What you need is some sort of shortcut to respectability.” He furrowed his brow, pondering.

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Jack. “Would an irreproachable wife turn the trick, do you think?”

Both of his friends gaped at him, clearly dumbstruck.

“Someone whose reputation is lily-white, beyond question,” he continued. “Surely some of that should rub off, in the eyes of Society.”

Peter was the first to find his voice. “By George, Jack, I didn’t think you were serious, but…yes. I think that just might be the ticket.”

“And where are you going to find such a paragon of virtue?” asked Harry cynically, belatedly recovering from his own shock. “Never tell me you’re acquainted with a woman fitting that description!”

Jack shook his head ruefully. “Any woman willing to admit to an acquaintance with me wouldn’t qualify, on that ground alone. But if the three of us do a bit of research, surely we can discover a woman of that caliber somewhere—perhaps even here in London. I hereby commission you both to help me to find her—the perfect wife. One who can polish up my tarnished reputation and thereby secure the balance of my fortune.”

“You look a bit hagged this morning, Nessa. Did your headache keep you from sleeping?” asked Lady Creamcroft as her sister entered the brightly sunlit breakfast parlor. The torrential downpours earlier in the week had given way to unseasonably lovely weather for a London autumn.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Nessa manufactured a yawn. “I’m feeling much better today, however.” Lying to her sister was completely out of character and made her feel far guiltier than she’d expected. Still, last night had been worth it. She was almost certain of it.

“I did come up and knock an hour or so after you’d retired, and assumed you were sleeping when you failed to answer.”

Nessa paused in the act of filling her plate from the sideboard. “I, ah, may well have been asleep at that
time. ’Twas later in the night that I awoke and had trouble nodding off again. I came down to the kitchen for some warm milk, and that helped.” That was the excuse she’d given to the scullery maid who’d discovered her sneaking through the lower levels upon her return from the masquerade. Luckily, her cloak and her wrapper were the same color—black—and there’d been too little light for her attire to give her away.

“Nessa! It is not at all the thing for you to be wandering about the house on your own after we were all abed. Why did you not ring for a servant?”

“I didn’t wish to wake anyone.”

Prudence, like their parents, was an absolute stickler for propriety, Nessa reflected. If the idea of her venturing to the kitchens alone upset her, she didn’t like to think what she’d do if she discovered where her sister had really gone last night. Doubtless she’d have Prudence’s prostration from apoplexy on her conscience as well.

“That’s what servants are for, my dear,” her sister assured her. “Things are more lax in the country, I know, but you are in Town now, and must learn to abide by Town customs.”

Nessa laughed. “Lax? Not in Lord Haughton’s house, I assure you, Prudence. His standards were every bit as high as any you’ll find in London—probably higher.”

“I was thinking more of how you went on after his passing.” Prudence frowned. “I wish I could have had you with me sooner, but with Lord Creamcroft traveling
back and forth from Herefordshire to Town all the summer…”

“You did invite me to accompany you, if you recall,” Nessa reminded her sister. “I preferred to wait till my period of mourning was up, or nearly so, so as not to interfere with your engagements.”

She’d also needed time to adjust to the idea of being her own mistress for the first time in her life. Married at eighteen to a man of her father’s generation, temperament, and choosing, she’d never known anything but rigid adherence to the rules as laid out by the men in authority over her.

Suddenly finding herself without their firm guidance, she’d been at somewhat of a loss. Had her parents still been alive, she might have returned home to Worcestershire during the early months of her widowhood, simply to have her decisions made for her, as they’d always been. Living under the thumb of her Cousin Filmore held no appeal, however, so she had remained at Haughton until her late husband’s nephew and heir was due to arrive.

Gradually, tentatively, she had taken up the reins of the house and estate, showing an unexpected flair for both business and domestic organization. By the time she’d left, on the arrival of the new Lord Haughton a fortnight ago, even the dour, efficient housekeeper, Mrs. Cobb, frequently sought her direction.

Nessa settled herself across from her sister with a plate of eggs and creamed sole and thoughtfully sipped her coffee. She had mourned her husband’s passing, of
course, just as she had her father’s two years earlier. But, like her father, her husband had been so distant that she had been unable to develop more than the mildest affection for him—an affection tainted by more than a hint of bitterness. It would not be true to say she’d felt relief at finding herself on her own, but it would be equally untrue to say she was prostrated by grief.

Now that she’d finally made the adjustment, she felt ready and more than ready to taste her newfound freedom. Last night had been a promising start.

“Oh!” Prudence broke into her musings. “Mention of your mourning period reminds me that I have received an invitation which includes you.”

Nessa blinked in surprise. “An invitation? Will it be proper for me to go anywhere just yet?” she asked innocently. “I’ll not be out of my weeds for more than two weeks, you know.”

“Yes, I know, and I consulted Lord Creamcroft on that very point. He seems to think me overscrupulous in this—as in a few other matters.” She primmed her lips. “But in this particular case, I believe he may be right. Lady Mountheath is hostessing a musicale three days hence, and ’tis she who issued the invitation. She knows of your circumstances and surely would not have invited you had she thought your attendance ineligible.”

“A musicale. So there will be no dancing?”

Prudence looked stricken. “Heavens no! There could be no question of your attending then, of course.
But a quiet evening in company, listening to a few noted performers, seems a very proper way to ease you back into Society.”

Not that she’d ever been in Society to begin with, thought Nessa sourly. A three-day visit to London for her presentation at Court a few weeks after her wedding scarcely counted. Idly, she wondered whether any of those who’d attended last night’s masquerade were likely to be present—especially one in particular. Given what she’d heard of Lady Mountheath, it seemed unlikely.

Still, she found herself looking forward to the musicale. It would be the next step, albeit a small one, toward her new life of freedom.

A somber trio gathered before the library fire at Foxhaven House the following night. At least, Jack felt weighed down by doom and depression at the idea of marriage, whatever his companions might feel. If their spirits were higher than his own, they were discreet enough not to show it.

“We may as well compare notes,” he suggested heavily as he passed the brandy decanter around for the second time. The thought of walking willfully into parson’s mousetrap set his teeth on edge, but he really had no choice. Just that afternoon he’d received a note from Havershaw informing him that the roof of the west wing at Fox Manor required repairs that would eat up the remainder of his quarter’s allowance.

Lord Peter pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket
with a flourish. “Have my list right here, old boy,” he said, waving away the spirits.

Harry took the bottle and poured himself a generous measure to compensate for Peter’s forbearance. “You actually wrote ’em down? Egad, but you’re taking this project seriously. Must have been an amusing sight, you quizzing all the biddies and taking notes the while.”

“I didn’t jot down the names until later, when I was back at my lodgings,” Peter assured him. “Wouldn’t have been at all the thing to let on what I was about. That would queer the whole deal.”

Harry laughed heartily. “Jack might thank you for that, judging by his face. You look like you’ve downed a quart of spoilt milk, old boy,” he advised his friend.

Jack only scowled more fiercely. “If you’re not going to help, you may as well remain silent, Harry—or take your leave.”

“While the bottle’s still half full? Heaven forfend! But I have had my ear to the ground, as it happens, though I may not be as organized in my approach as Pete here.” He chuckled again. “Two or three names cropped up in Boodle’s betting book as those least likely to disgrace themselves this winter. Starched up, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-their-mouths misses, just as you’re wanting.”

Wanting?
Hardly that, Jack thought. “Let’s have them.”

“There were two chits listed there—can’t say as I’ve ever met either of them, not that that’s surprising. Lucinda Melks, Lord Jeller’s daughter, and Lady Beat
rice Bagford, daughter to the Earl of Sherbourne.”

Jack nodded gloomily. “I’ve been introduced, briefly, to both of them. Just out of the schoolroom, I believe.”

Harry shrugged. “Easier to train that way, I should think.” He studied Jack’s morose expression. “Antidotes, are they?”

“No, no, not really. Miss Melks’ nose is a bit long, but otherwise she’s quite handsome. And Lady Beatrice is tall, blond, and nobly formed, as I recall.” And brainless, as well. Jack had not the least desire to wed either, even if one of them would have him. “What of your list, Peter?”

His friend peered down at the sheet in his hand. “Lady Beatrice is on mine as well, but I left off Miss Melks because of a rumor that her maternal grandfather had dabbled in trade. Other contenders include Miss Varens, though she’s been out nearly two years, and Lady Constance Throckwaite, Claridge’s daughter. Both fairly attractive and eminently respectable.”

Peter paused, then said, “I hear Mrs. Dempsey has called here twice in the last week, and you were seen in Covent Garden with Selena Riverton. If you’re at all serious about this, Jack, you’ll have to give up your paramours, at least until you’ve been safely wed for awhile.”

“Your sources are appallingly thorough, Peter! Miranda Dempsey has just returned from Paris, but I’ve carefully been ‘not at home’ to her, if you must know, and Selena accosted me by chance as I was passing the
theater where she performs. Can I help it that women find me irresistible?” He grinned, his mood momentarily lightening. “Have you anyone else on your list?”

“There were a few others, but—of the debutantes—those I have already named were mentioned most often.”

“Of the debutantes?” echoed Jack. “What else is there?”