Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (15 page)

It had worked before, and would again, particularly since he would be distracted by the throes of passion.

That reminded her that she had better make sure the strings were knotted very tight. It wouldn’t do to have it come off when
she
was in the throes of passion.

Throes of passion. It was one of those phrases she didn’t entirely know the meaning of.

But she would.

Tomorrow night.

The next night, Elf traveled to Lady Yardley’s house in a stew of hot anticipation and chilly doubt. She was dressed as she had been at Vauxhall except for the domino. Tonight she wore a light, cream cloak. In fact, with her white hair and white half mask, she surely looked snowily demure.

What clear evidence that one should never judge by appearances! Virginal white merely disguised the “appalling” outfit Fort would surely recognize, and the wicked woman who hoped to be very unvirginal come morning.

“I’m surprised Chantal didn’t leave your service,” teased Amanda as the coach turned into Clarion Street. “She was almost in tears when you insisted on wearing that ensemble to a society affair. You do have dreadful taste, dear.”

Elf pulled a face at her. “It’s just that you all like to dress so dull. I weary of demure, pale shades.”

“They suit you.”

“I don’t think so.” As the coach drew to a halt, Elf flicked open the fan she’d had made especially for this
evening. One side was mother-of-pearl, and matched her outer self. The other was red, black, and gold lacquer, the colors of her other persona. “Tonight I am again Lisette Belhardi, mysterious French enchantress, and I can dress as I please.”

Amanda shook her head. “I still don’t know what you think to achieve by this mischief.”

Elf had come up with a story for Amanda, and now she repeated it. “I just want to meet Fort again on friendly terms.”

“I think there’s more to it than that.”

“More than having fun flirting with my enemy?”

“Remember, love, I know you. You’re up to something.”

“Perhaps,” Elf admitted as the coach came to a halt. She let the fan slither shut and descended, assisted by the waiting footman.

Mounting the steps to the brightly lit house, Elf chose the right moment to prepare Amanda. Once they were surrounded by other guests and attendant maids, she murmured to her friend, “Yes, I’m up to something, Amanda. If I slip away with Walgrave, don’t try to stop me.”

“Slip away!” Amanda exclaimed, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Elf, do but think!”

Cloak gone, Elf flicked open her fan, colored side out. “Oh, I’ve thought. Believe me.”

It hung in the balance, but then Amanda rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s a completely eligible
parti,
my dear. If you want to conduct your wooing in this outlandish way, I daresay no great harm will come of it.”

She sounded almost smug, which drove Elf to protest. “Amanda, I have absolutely no notion of
marrying
the man.”

Her friend just shook her head with a maddening smile and led the way up to the ball.

Really, thought Elf, climbing the flower-decked stairs, it was infuriating. Amanda seemed to think she and Fort
were
lovebirds
! Lovebirds did not peck at one another until the blood ran.

She’d be hard pressed, however, to say what they
were
.

Lady Yardley’s ballroom was of moderate size, but well lit and heavily gilded. The glittering chamber swarmed with costumes and masks, both beautiful and macabre, and a wave of chatter and music hit Elf as she walked in.

Here, in a private home, more people had chosen costumes over dominoes or had merely added a loo mask to their regular evening wear. This should have made a black-clad Earl of Walgrave easier to spot, but Elf searched the room without success.

Stuff and bother. She’d hoped Fort would attend much as he had at Vauxhall, in ordinary clothes with just that narrow mask. If he were wearing a domino or one of the more cunning costumes, detecting him could be a challenge.

What if he wasn’t here, and didn’t come?

That possibility had plagued her ever since she’d hatched the plan. She’d even considered sending him a cryptic note from Lisette in order to draw him here. The risks to that were too great, however, and surely he must at least put in an appearance at his aunt’s one grand entertainment of the year.

Still, she couldn’t see him or anyone who might be him.

She shrugged and made herself calm. If he was here, he would surely spot her. He couldn’t have forgotten this outfit.

Since everyone was supposed to be incognito, there was no question of greeting their hostess, so Elf and Amanda blended with the crowd to enjoy some anonymous fun. Immediately, a slender Tudor gentleman in tights and puff breeches bowed and begged Elf’s hand for the dance. Though he certainly wasn’t Fort, Elf happily complied. She spent the time plying him with
questions to try to establish his identity, and he did the same with her.

Since it was the custom to act in part at these events, she spoke in French and he did too, though rather clumsily. They parted unenlightened, and Elf suspected he was a member of one of the embassies, probably from Spain.

Next, Elf accepted the company of a pirate of a century ago. She recognized Sir Cronan Darby, always a jolly fellow. His French was appalling, but his gaudy yellow shirt and lace-frilled breeches appealed to her, and when he teased her into a corner and stole a kiss, she didn’t object.

Not as good a kiss as Fort’s, she thought as he squeezed her close. Then she sighed over the fact that Fort had become her standard—her unreachable standard.

Sir Cronan invited her to find a more secluded corner. Elf playfully refused and returned to the ballroom so as to be visible. Though she hoped Fort would spot her, she didn’t stop searching the crowd for tall men of the right build. As she danced with a domino’d gentleman too short to be her quarry, she continued to assess the men around. A number were the right type, but she felt strangely certain that none of them was Fort Ware.

When the set ended, she glanced at a clock, alarmed by how fast time was flying. It still lacked half an hour to eleven, but at midnight masks would come off as everyone went to enjoy supper. She had to identify Fort and leave with him before then.

Perhaps he hadn’t come after all.

A sickening sense of disappointment settled into her stomach and it had nothing to do with rounding up the Scots.

Then she spotted a tall man in a brown domino. She supposed Fort might not wear black, particularly if he were trying to disguise himself. With a hasty excuse to her partner, she pursued the man into the small antechamber where drinks were set out.

As he accepted a glass of wine from a servant, Elf bumped him lightly so a few drops spilled.

“Oh, monsieur!”
she exclaimed.
“Je vous demande pardon!”

He wiped his hand with the cloth hastily presented by the footman and responded in excellent French. “No harm done, my dear. May I command you some wine of your own?”

It wasn’t Fort. Elf made herself smile. “Oh yes, sir, if you please.”

Now, she had to waste precious minutes talking to the man in brown. Reentering the ballroom, Elf encountered Lord Ferron in a toga and laurel wreath. He was one of her longtime suitors, but clearly didn’t recognize her. Elf accepted his invitation to dance, thinking it would be a useful test of her disguise.

Dancing with him turned out to be a mistake, however. He didn’t recognize her, but had great difficulty managing both toga and partner. At one point, the cloth slipped, baring his chest, and Elf noticed with surprise how narrow it was.

She’d always thought Ferron a well-set-up young man, but clearly he owed most of his charms to his tailor. His hair, she now noted, was thin and receding. No wonder he always wore a wig.

Really, she thought, as they danced down the line, it was completely unfair that men could keep themselves so modestly shrouded! A woman had to at least bare her chest and part of her arms, which inevitably told something of her form. A man, on the other hand, could hide everything but his face and hands.

He had to show his legs, she supposed.

She glanced sideways and saw, as she’d expected from his chest, that Ferron’s naked calves were decidedly spindly and he must normally wear padded stockings. Of course, a spindleshanks with thinning hair could be a wonderful person, but a lady should know what hid beneath the covers.

Perhaps she would start a movement for greater exposure of the male form!

Executing a turn made awkward by the toga’s drapery, a hooded monk caught her wandering eye. The long, black robe hid this man’s form entirely, and yet something in the way he moved as he walked down the room suggested a naked body she remembered only too well.

If it was Fort, had he spotted her? Surely her flaming scarlet couldn’t be missed.

If he had, he was not seeking her out. He was heading toward the door in the same autocratic manner as when he’d parted the crowds at Vauxhall.

He was leaving!

Elf excused herself to Ferron with a few mumbled words about a pinched toe, and dashed after the monk, silently cursing the chaos of the merry crowd. As she ran, gasping, onto the landing, she saw him already descending the stairs toward the hall and the door.

Running down and past him, she barred his way at the bottom of the sweeping curve of steps.

He stopped.

She looked up and saw her instincts had been right. The narrow black mask did not prevent her recognizing Fort.

“Madam?”

Standing two steps above her, he was painfully high. Elf moved up a step, even though it took her closer.
“Monsieur Le Comte.”

“You require something?” he asked in French, but as if speaking to a total stranger.

Well, he certainly hadn’t spent sleepless nights longing for his lost Lisette!

Elf shook out her scarlet-striped skirts. “You promised me lessons in taste, my lord.”

“I think you are mistaken.” He stepped to the side to pass her.

Elf grabbed the rope around his waist. “I think not. A lady is allowed to change her mind.”

He swung to face her, then gripped her arm and
hustled her into a small anteroom off the hall. “Are you completely mad?” he snapped as he shut the door.

Furious again. Just his ordinary, charming self. He released her arm, and Elf let go of his cord. “Why do you say that, my lord?”

He pushed his cowl back, revealing unpowdered hair curling loose on his shoulders. It made him look . . . untamed. It reminded her of him naked in a bedroom except that now he was angry.

A ripple of fear passed through her—an awareness that she might have stirred up more than she’d planned—but she placed an unsteady hand on his chest. “I’m truly sorry for running away like that the other night, my lord. But it was all such a shock. When I had time to think about it—”

He covered her hand. Captured it. “You realized the advantages?” He studied her so closely that she feared he would have to recognize Elf Malloren despite mask, powder, and foreign tongue. “I can’t even be sure you are the same woman. You could be one of your relatives in the same outfit.”

Elf was surprisingly upset that he held nothing in his memory of her except her dress. Which he thought appalling, the horrid man.

“Of course,” he said, “I might recognize the taste of you.”

Oh, the rogue! But Elf’s feelings were soothed by this beginning of seduction. He was not indifferent after all.

She pretended to be coy. “I’m a little nervous at the thought of kissing a religious man, my lord.”

He raised her chin. “I give you absolution before we sin.”

His kiss was as thorough as last time, but in some subtle way mechanical. When he raised his head, she wanted to scrub at her lips. “That didn’t feel very sinful, my lord.”

“If you want to sin, Lisette, I’ll show you the way to hell before the night is out.” His voice contained no
trace of seductive warmth. “Now, tell me the purpose for this.”

So, even if he accepted her as Lisette, he was the man Elf knew too well—watchful, wary, and cynical. Perhaps the other night had been an aberration after all. What did this mean for her plans?

She had to at least accompany him out onto the street to draw out the Scots. But a night of seductive passion seemed unlikely.

She fought a betraying tremble in her lips, hiding them behind her fan. “I just wanted to see you again, my lord.”

“Why? Having had the ingenuity to escape, I’d have thought you wiser than that.”

She turned away coyly. “I’m sorry, my lord. I was just nervous. I thought, no matter what you said, you’d ravish me eventually.”

“The chance of me ravishing you eventually is increasing by the moment. You’re not making sense, Lisette. Who’s behind this?”

“No one!”

Strongly tempted to hit him over the head with something, Elf turned to see that he’d moved to lean against the back of a sofa, arms folded. For some reason the pose sent shivers down her spine, and they weren’t of fear.

“How did you get in?” he demanded. “I doubt Lady Yardley sent you an invitation.”

“Well really! My cousin received one. She is titled.”

“Is she?” He paused to consider it. “And your hostess is here?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Who is she?”

“Why should I tell you that?”

“Still trying to preserve your anonymity?” He smiled cynically. “So, the lady is as loose in her control of you as usual, and will not create a stir if I carry you off. We’ll let that pass for the moment while you tell me just what you have planned. And be quick about it.”

Elf took refuge in fanning herself. Why couldn’t the wretch play his part and try to seduce her again, so she would merely have to put up weak resistance? Instead, it appeared
she
would have to seduce
him
.

“I . . . I just wanted to say that I was sorry, my lord. I was afraid I’d hurt your feelings.”

He laughed. “Be at ease. I never gave it a thought other than to worry that you might have ended up in the gutter with your throat slit. I’d like my pistol back, though.”