The Masked Heart (Sweet Deception Regency #2) (23 page)

"I have brought you ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, Lady Yates," he said as he extended the champagne glass.

"How sweet of you, General Treadwell." She accepted the glass and raised it to her lips. "I will admit that I was growing quite parched."

"I shall drink to the glory of your eyes," he said, leering at her across the rim of his glass.

"Couldn't we drink instead to your illustrious campaigns?"

Blaine hoped her question might discourage General Treadwell from anything more energetic than a discussion of war. His wife had died several years earlier and since then he had become a terror in the drawing rooms of London. She knew his reputation and had been careful to steer clear of his gleaming eye and pinching fingers.

"What a delightful woman you are to speak of my battles. It is well known that many of my tactics have been studied in this present campaign against that upstart Corsican."

Blaine's eyes widened in apprehension as the general finished the champagne in one gulp and threw his glass over his shoulder. Quickly she burst into speech. "In what arena have you won the most victories, general?"

"In the bedroom, my little sweetheart," he said as he lunged for her.

With a squeal of dismay, Blaine jumped to her feet, hurling her champagne, glass and all into the nearest bush. She ignored the old man as he scrambled to keep his balance, debating what she should do. Although she knew she could outrun him, she could not race off and risk having someone see the slow-moving Lady Yates galloping through the garden. If she couldn't fend off his attack with her wits, she would have no other recourse than to trounce the man.

The general, wheezing from his unaccustomed exertion, dropped down on the stone bench and patted the area beside him. "Come and sit down, my dear."

"I dare not, sir, while you are thus overheated. Give a care for your health and at the same time for my reputation," she said, voice icy with hauteur.

"At our age, sweet lady, one need no longer be bound by society's conventions. As long as the body is intact one should grasp all the pleasure one can," he said.

Ye gods! Blaine muttered. Aloud she said, "Hush, General Treadwell. I heard something and I am sure it is Lord Farrington returning."

"Never fear, little lady, we shall not be interrupted. Lord Farrington received an urgent message and asked me if I would do the honors."

Blaine promised herself that she would somehow do bodily injury to Drew for placing her in such a predicament. Her hands closed around the knob of her stick and she considered the damage it would do on Lord Farrington's very thick skull. She was brought out of her reverie by a sharp pinch on her backside and she screeched as she slapped the general's hand away.

"Behave yourself, General Treadwell, or I shall be forced to more painful actions," Blaine snapped.

"You are such a little armful that I cannot keep my hands to myself. We might as well enjoy ourselves. There is little enough else to do for amusement," he finished unflatteringly.

 Blaine cocked her head as she noted the querulous tone in his voice and squinted her eyes in the darkness at the drooping figure on the bench. The old general might not be a lecherous old fool. If her suspicions were correct, the poor man was lonesome. She could see he was preparing for another assault and she quickly thought of a new approach. She called on her acting skills to deter him before he made a perfect cake of himself.

"Oh, please, forgive me, sir, but I cannot encourage you, knowing that it would break the heart of a bosom bow of mine."

"What's that?" the old man rasped.

"What a talebearer I would be, if I told you. Now don't be cross. I can only tell you that there is one who looks on you with great fondness." Blaine fluttered her eyelashes coyly as she thought of such a romantic situation.

"Fondness, you say?"

"Well, perhaps fondness is not quite a warm enough word to describe this lady's feelings. Oh, but I mustn't go on, General Treadwell. After all I was told in strictest confidence." Blaine bowed her head and wrung her hands in agitation.

"Come, come, Lady Yates. There is no need to upset yourself." He patted the seat once more. "We shall sit quietly and talk. Just like old friends."

Examining his face, Blaine knew it was safe and, with a slight simper, she sat down beside the old man. "I hope, General Treadwell, that you do not think any less of me for letting my little secret slip out."

"Of course not, my dear." The general's laugh was affable but she could tell he was consumed by curiosity. His watery eyes took on the crafty glint of an old campaigner. "I would never ask you to break a confidence. Besides, I already know of whom you speak."

"Has Felicia spoken of her feelings?" Blaine gasped and quickly covered her mouth with her hands, peeking at the general over the tips of her fingers.

"Felicia Amberley?" he asked in surprise.

"Oh, you are a sly one," she said, giggling into her mittened fingers. "Is it any wonder that you were so successful in battle. You have quite torn the secret from me when I had given my word that I would never breath a word to a soul."

"Did the woman actually say that she has a care for me?"

Since her whole life was a pack of lies, Blaine did not know why she caviled at one more but she was unable to build up the man's hopes too strongly. She sighed and then admitted, "She did not tell me in so many words. It was more that I sensed her feelings."

"I cannot believe Felicia holds any fondness for me since she spends so much time with those young artists," he snapped.

"I think it is because she is pining for attention," Blaine said, wondering if in fact that might not be the case. The few times she had met the woman she had noted a look of unhappiness in her mournful eyes. "Her husband died about four years ago and it was then that she became interested in supporting the arts."

"She is not a bad looking woman, I suppose," the old man grumbled much to Blaine's amusement. "Ought to dress her age. A woman of maturity, when gowned correctly, has a serenity that is pleasing to the eye."

"I never met your wife, General Treadwell. Did she have the calm look of a dowager?"

"Elizabeth was a most amiable woman, Lady Yates. We used to sit for hours and discuss my campaign strategies and the strange customs of other lands. She dressed in a fashion that was most becoming. She favored purple, madam." In the moonlight, Blaine could see the twinkle in his eyes as he glanced at her dress. "Perhaps that is why I was most anxious to become better acquainted with you. I understand your husband was a soldier."

Carefully choosing her words, she said, "Neddy Yates was a fine man. I think you would have approved of him."

There was silence in the arbor for several moments but it was a comfortable time for both Blaine and the general. Finally he struggled to his feet and turned to face his companion.

"Perhaps I ought to call on Lady Amberley tomorrow," he said.

"An excellent plan, sir. I think she would enjoy your company. It might take some little time to get to know her but I think the effort will be worthwhile. Perhaps she is not fully aware of her feelings."

After a long considering look, the old man saluted her smartly.

"You are an exceptional woman, Lady Yates," he said as he shuffled down the path toward the ballroom.

From his hiding place deep in the shadows, Drew Farrington had to agree with the old man's assessment. She had treated the man with a finesse and kindness that was most impressive. He felt rather ashamed that he had seen only the foolish side of the general, not looking beyond for the loneliness that Blaine had so clearly discerned. She had handled the affair with no embarrassment to the old man and had possibly hit on a solution to combat two people's loneliness. Drew could learn much from her about dealing with people.

In a short time he heard the rustle of Blaine's skirts and he stepped off the path as she came nearer. She was deep in her role of Lady Yates and leaned heavily on her stick on her return to the ballroom.

Watching her with new knowledge, it was hard to believe there was a youthful body inside the slow-moving figure. She was perfect in her role as Lady Yates. There was such assurance in the movements and gestures of an old woman that he did not feel quite so stupid for not recognizing her. She played Lady Yates with the same skill that she brought to her stage performances. He wanted to applaud but contented himself with a smile of pleasure as he followed her with his eyes.

Tomorrow he would call on the lady and, after he had unmasked her, he would ask her to marry him. He could not even consider the fact that she might turn him down. He loved her desperately and he suspected that she loved him too. In any case, he would accept no refusal. He knew that they belonged together.

Chapter Thirteen

"I swear by me sainted mother, that nobody in the 'ole bleedin' place knows anythin', guv." Jasper Pickles hung his head at the shame of it all.

Talbott Stoddard glared at the ragtag creature who shifted from foot to foot as if uncomfortable in the handsomely paneled library. He had to keep himself in hand not to shout at the shuffling figure but his patience was sorely tried.

It was three days since he had seen La Solitaire at the Rose and Trellis but in all that time he had not been able to discover the present location of the beautiful actress. She had not returned to the Green Mews Theatre and according to John Tibbles, she had sent a note saying she was ill. The only bright spot in all of this, was the fact that he had seen Drew Farrington and, by the surly look of the man, he did not know where La Solitaire was either.

"What about the little abigail that you said offered such promise?" Stoddard snarled across the desk at Pickles.

"She was ripe for a tumble, is all," he said.

Shuddering at the gap-toothed smile of the man, Stoddard prodded, "Did you even question the slut?"

" 'Course I did. And she tol' me that aside from the little blond, the brat and the ol' lady, there was no one else in the 'ouse than there oughta be."

Pickles voice had the nasally whine that Stoddard associated with the more deplorable members of the servant class. He was sorry now that he'd paid the little weasel to get information, but the rogue had demanded payment before he would take on the task. Despite that, or maybe because of it, the man had produced practically nothing.

"And you are quite positive that you have told me everything?"

"On me word, guv." Pickles raised his hand as though testifying before a magistrate. "Nobody saw nobody in the 'ouse what shouldn't have been there. At first, I thought it might o' been the sister but me fluff tol' me she ain't ever been there."

"Sister? Whose sister?" Stoddard asked irritably. He hated to prolong the interview with the odious man but he couldn't believe that his three day watch of the Portman Square house hadn't turned up a single clue to La Solitaire's whereabouts.

"The little blonde’s sister," Pickles said. By the sudden tension in the figure across the desk, he suspected that he finally had reported something the nobleman didn't know. He smiled triumphantly as he announced, "The sister's name is Blaine Meriweather."

"Where does she live?" Stoddard asked, sitting forward in his chair.

"Dunno," Pickles answered. At the flash of anger in the nobleman's eye, he hurriedly continued. "Ellen said no one knew where this Blaine was. She'd only 'eard the little blond talking about 'er. Do you want me to go back and see if I can pick up anything else?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Pickles," Stoddard said. "You've been of inestimable help."

After Stoddard had waved the man out of the library, he leaned back in his chair and considered the nuggets of information he had. He had seen La Solitaire entering the Portman Square house. Obviously she had slipped out sometime that night or the following morning before Jasper Pickles had arrived to watch the place. The only significant piece of information his informant had come up with was the fact that Fleur Meriweather had a sister.

Was it possible that Fleur's sister was La Solitaire?

On the face of it, the idea was clearly ridiculous. The more he thought of it however, the more the ridiculous theory seemed to fit. For one thing, it would explain the lack of information on Maggie Mason's background. He had never considered the fact that the actress might be from a respectable family. If true, he could understand why no one knew where she had come from or where she lived. It was, at the least, worth pursuing because as it stood he had absolutely no other avenues to follow.

A smile touched Stoddard's face but it did not reach his eyes. Perhaps he ought to have a little chat with Fleur Meriweather. He suspected once he pointed out to her the magnitude of the scandal, if the identity of her sister became known, the girl would cooperate. For the price of La Solitaire's address, she could purchase his silence.

"Give over, Fleur. You know Timour the Tartar was far more fearsome than Bluebeard," Val cried as he burst in the room behind his sister.

"I hated both of them!" she declared. She shuddered for emphasis as she blew Blaine a kiss and untied her bonnet.

"Softly, children, softly." Blaine put down the book she had been reading. "Kindly close the door, Val, and then come tell me all about Astley's. I take it that the outing was a success."

"Rather!," the boy said, drawing out the syllables of the word. He quickly closed the door then raced to the chaise longue so he could fill his sister in on all of the details. Fleur pulled up a chair, sharing a smile with Blaine at Val's enthusiasm.

"It was absolutely wizard! I can't wait until tomorrow when I meet with Jamie. I have ever so much to tell him. He'll be positively green!" His eyes sparkled in anticipation of having such a choice morsel to pass on. "There were hundreds of horses and the tricks they could perform quite put my Fatima in the shade."

"Please remember when you return home, dear, that your pony is moving into her gracious matronly years," Blaine cautioned. "You would not wish to do her an injury."