The Maiden At Midnight (3 page)

Mama would not care if
Isabella asked to leave early. All she had to do was find her and
they could up gather their cloaks and leave. There was a sense of
anticipation in the air, as couples vied to find just the right
person to unmask. Isabella had no desire to have her domino removed
by some stray man. Her experience with most men, since coming to
London had been that stray men were a very impertinent breed. They
seemed to think that a girl in need of a husband was prepared to go
to
any
lengths and
that she would not do, no matter how dire the situation. At least,
she sincerely hoped she would not.

She glanced upwards again and saw that the
fair-haired gentleman was also gone. The balcony was deserted.
Perhaps, like herself, he had had enough and had decided to go
home…

She left her position by the wall, slipping
through the squeeze of bodies deftly. She had left her mother and
her sister in conversation with a group of old tabbies some twenty
minutes before, having been whisked off to enjoy yet another dance.
By rights, her sister should have been dancing herself but at only
seventeen and being far more reserved than Isabella, she liked to
remain close to Mama. She was still too bruised by the past year to
stray far beyond her reassuring presence. Millie, at fourteen, had
remained at home for she would not be presented for another three
years. She could have remained back in Wiltshire but Mama had been
reluctant to be parted from any of them for any length of time so
they had travelled up to London together.

‘Alora, where have you been!’

The strident voice brought
Isabella up short, despite the fact that she was most
definitely
not
Alora. Turning her head, she saw a large female dressed in
orange standing a little way away. Isabella had noticed her earlier
– in that dress, who had not? – but she had no idea who the lady
was. She wore a particularly garish green mask elaborately adorned
with feathers but the fleshy face beneath did not look
promising.

Surely the woman had not been speaking to
Isabella? But she was certainly looking directly at her.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I have been looking for you
everywhere.’

‘I do not think you have. I don’t believe we
are acquainted.’

There must have been something in her voice
that brought the woman up short. ‘Alora?’

‘No, ma’am. I am not Alora.’ Whoever she may
be. Poor creature, she was probably avoiding the unappealing woman
before her. There was something in her tone that Isabella could not
like.

‘Oh! Pray forgive me, I thought you were my
niece.’

Isabella dropped a curtsey and continued on
her way. It had not been the first time tonight that somebody had
mistaken her for somebody else, a circumstance that was inevitable
at a masquerade where part of the fun was guessing at the identity
of others. It was difficult to tell one person from the other,
especially in a domino that covered more than a mask. All that
could be seen of Isabella Hathaway was her mouth and the pale curls
that spilled beneath the concealing outline of her disguise. Apart
from that she was just a girl in a blue dress… nothing special at
all.

It had all been most satisfactory.

The men that had asked her to dance had not
known who she was. They had talked and laughed and she had
responded in kind, but carefully, for it would not do to give too
much away. Still, her tongue had been a lot easier than it usually
was.

‘Psst!’

Isabella’s steps faltered
once more.
Psst
?
Looking around, she saw a tall figure in a doorway that led into a
hallway. The door was ajar but a man filled the gap. A fair-haired
man wearing a black mask.

‘Yes?’

‘Can you come over here a moment?’

‘I don’t believe I can. I do not know
you.’

‘Oh, please. I am in a little trouble and I
was hoping you would help me.’

Did he indeed? What kind of
trouble could the man be in? Isabella hesitated, eyeing him
cautiously. He certainly did not
look
dangerous, although a mask could
hide a great deal of wickedness behind a disguise. Even so, he
looked rather nice with his curly fair hair, several shades darker
than her own, falling over his forehead and she could see a pair of
earnest blue eyes through the holes of the black satin mask. Still,
he was a stranger and while she might not know much, she knew
enough to understand that being alone with a gentleman one did not
know was not the thing. As if sensing her uncertainty, a wheedling
note came into the young man’s voice.

‘Honestly, I will not keep you long. It is
just that my friend is in trouble. I was hoping that you could
assist me. Just for a moment, you understand.’

‘What kind of trouble?’ Isabella demanded
curiously, coming a few steps closer.

‘He has passed out in the hallway. It’s a
little awkward, really. Too much liquor, I’m sorry to say. But I
was hoping that you could keep an eye on him while I go and get a
cloth of some kind.’

‘A cloth?’ Isabella repeated, bewildered.
Really, this was the most inexplicable conversation.

‘He has hit his head. There is rather a lot
of blood.’

That brought her to the door fast enough.
She remembered when Marcus had cut his head open on a rock when he
had been larking around and had fallen off the wall around the
vegetable garden. It had bled quite profusely but then, head wounds
did that.

‘Where is he?’ she demanded, coming into the
corridor. There was nothing and nobody in the corridor, she could
see that quite clearly for sconces of candles burned intermittently
along its length. ‘I cannot see – oh!’

Suddenly everything went dark as something
was slipped over her head. A pair of strong arms came around her
from behind, lifting her off her feet. Isabella opened her mouth
and screamed. She heard a curse and a large hand came up to clamp
over her mouth. She bit it, and there came another curse, a great
deal more enthusiastic than the first. She was set on her feet once
again but her captor had not given up. Instead, she was spun about
and hefted upwards over a shoulder. With her hands pinned beneath
whatever it was that had been placed over her head, Isabella could
only give voice to her displeasure.

To no avail. Within a short space of time
she felt cold night air on whatever exposed skin she had.

Somehow or the other, she realized with
mingled fear and fury, her night had gone horribly, dreadfully
wrong!

Chapter Two

Harry woke up to a fuzzy head, a thick
tongue and a desperate need for fluids.

Preferably of the non-alcoholic kind.

He lay in bed for some time without moving,
wishing that he and Joss had not broached that last bottle of
claret. Or the brandy. He suspected that the brandy had also been a
mistake. Not that he had anybody but himself to blame. His usual
good sense had deserted him the night before and now he had cause
to regret it.

A door opened softly and he felt, rather
than heard, his valet Wattage cross to the room to stand beside the
bed. He came bearing coffee; the unmistakable aroma of it filled
the room. Harry’s stomach roiled uneasily. Much as he enjoyed his
morning coffee he suspected it would remain untouched today.

‘What time is it?’ The croak in his voice
would have made a frog proud.

‘Eight-thirty, sir.’

That cracked an eye open. He glared at his
valet indignantly, although Wattage had not actually woken him,
merely poured combustible fluids on the already smoldering fire of
unhappiness. ‘What the devil do you mean, coming in at this
hour?’

Wattage was not in the least perturbed by
this; he’d been dealing with the after effects of inebriated
gentlemen for years. Instead he stood calmly, a white envelope in
hand. ‘A letter arrived for you this morning, sir. The boy who
brought it wanted me to tell you that it was urgent and that I was
to give it to you immediately.’

‘A
boy
told you? What boy?’

‘I could not tell you. But he was most
insistent.’

Harry grimaced and closed his eyes again.
The scent of the coffee was actually making him increasingly
nauseous. He could not imagine who would be sending urgent notes
around at this time of the morning but it seemed to him to be
highly uncivilized. A sudden thought occurred. Perhaps – and this
was a happy thought – ancient Uncle Percival had finally given up
the ghost. Would that prompt a missive? It seemed likely, as he was
the old sticks nearest and dearest.

With a sigh, Harry pushed
himself into a sitting position and tried to ignore the pounding
that thundered through his head. He held out a hand and Wattage
place the envelope in it. Harry glanced at the front, an eyebrow
rising when he saw his name scrawled across it in a familiar
hand.
Joss?

Opening it, he read the single piece of
paper inside. It was brief and to the point.

Come at once to the Crown on the old London
Rd. Most urgent. S.

‘What the hell is he up to now?’ Harry
wondered, scrubbing a hand through his tousled dark hair. ‘Who
brought this around? Did you recognize them?’

‘No sir. It appeared to be a stable boy. He
did not wait.’

‘What the devil is he up to now?’ Harry
muttered uneasily. He remembered – more or less – the conversation
the night before. He could not imagine what had happened between
then and now that would constitute an emergency. But he decided he
had better find out before too much more time passed.

‘Lay out some clothing, Wattage. I think I
need to get up.’

‘Very good, sir.’

With the best will in the world, Harry did
not arrive at the Crown, a small, unexceptional public house that
was decidedly out of the way, until an hour later. Dressing and a
sparse breakfast (very sparse as his stomach was not up for much)
had taken up a goodly part of the time. He handed the reigns of his
black to a stable-hand, then hurried inside.

The landlord met him with an unctuous smile.
‘Good morning, sir! Would you care for some breakfast?’

‘A friend of mine is staying here. Tall,
fair-haired fellow?’ Best not to give Joss’s name out, lest others
were interested in his whereabouts. Harry could not help but
remember the shyster that was chasing his friend’s debts. The more
he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that was the reason
his friend was holed up here.

The landlord nodded immediately. He was an
oily chap but then, this was an oily establishment. ‘Yessuh. Mr.
Beadle. Took rooms on the first floor.’ He jerked his thumb upwards
for emphasis.

‘Well be so good as to show me the way. And
as for breakfast – I’ll take you up on that.’ A ride in the fresh
air had revived Harry enough to give him an appetite he had been
lacking an hour before.

‘Very well, sir.’

‘Be sure to bring up a decent one. Has Mr. –
uh – Beadle eaten yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Make it for two, then.’

‘And the young lady? She has not dined
either, I believe.’

Harry paused. He stared at the landlord who
stared right back at him, a knowing look in his pale blue eyes.
‘Young lady?’

‘Yessuh.’

What the devil had Joss
done??
‘For three, then,’ Harry snapped, to
disguise the sinking feeling in his stomach. ‘Lead on!’

After the landlord had guided him to the
correct door, Harry shooed him back downstairs to get on with the
food, although he sensed his appetite was again going to desert
him. It was best not to have any witnesses, however. Disaster was
on the wind, he could sense it. Clearly Joss had gone ahead with
his mad scheme and had taken the Piedmont chit after all. The
question was, what had interrupted the finale of the grand plan? By
rights they should still be on their way to the Scottish border by
now.

He gave a cursory knock then opened the
door. Joss, who had been sitting in a chair by the window, rose to
his feet, face tense with strain. His expression changed to one of
relief when he saw who it was and he gave his friend a smile but it
wasn’t the kind of smile that made Harry feel one whit better. Nor
was Joss’s’ appearance reassuring for his clothes were a mess,
neckcloth awry, waistcoat unbuttoned while his fair hair, usually
arranged with loving care, appeared to have suffered the indignity
of having had fingers running through it on a fairly constant
basis. His face was pale, his blue eyes were strained and he
looked, to put it mildly, all done in.

‘Good Lord, Joss. You look like hell!’

‘I feel like hell. Thank God you came.’

Harry arched an eyebrow and took a quick
look around the room. It appeared to be empty. ‘The landlord said
something about a young lady…?’ he enquired delicately.

Joss groaned. ‘Keep your voice down. She’s
asleep in the next room.’

Harry paused and looked at his friend for a
long moment. ‘You’ve gone mad,’ he decided, after a long, assessing
look.

‘I feel mad,’ Joss admitted, ‘although not
for the reasons you think. I am in a bit of a bind, Harry.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know, I know! It was a crazy plan. I have
no excuses to offer but for desperation and a great deal of alcohol
but… the thing is, I don’t quite know what to do.’

‘You don’t have much choice,’ Harry said
frankly. ‘Do what you originally intended. Take the girl to Gretna
and tie the knot. Unless,’ he added uneasily, ‘she’s set against
it? Will she not have you? Is that it? I told you a female likes a
ceremony.’

Joss groaned and attacked his poor hair
again, thrusting both hands through it in an agony of frustration.
‘You don’t understand. Come with me. But for God’s sake, be quiet!
I don’t want to wake her. Not until I have to.’