And the worst morning after, when she had wakened to a curt note and the news that he had gone to China after all, and she should journey on alone if she wished, or suit herself as to which of his houses she stayed in.

  Everyone had known, of course. She couldn’t bring herself to seek refuge at her husband’s country seat in Sussex just yet, and so she had bolted to her parents’ home in Hertfordshire for two weeks of bewildered tears and utter rage. And then she had gone to London to embrace the notorious reputation she had been left with by her husband’s sudden abandonment, and to prove she didn’t care.

  She was still proving it to everyone but Bridget and, possibly, Rollo.

  “Damn you,” she whispered to her absent husband. And recklessly clasped his gift to her wrist once more. Perhaps, this time, it would bring her luck.

  But mostly, it felt like protection.

  *

  Maida Gardens were located some distance north of fashionable London, almost in the country beyond the new Regent’s Canal, which added a picturesque approach. Like its more famous sisters at Vauxhall and Raneleigh, Maida’s heyday had passed, although its location—in the middle of nowhere as Rollo pointed out—had ensured it had never enjoyed quite the same popularity. In the previous century, the park had been called by other names after the people who had owned it. But it had been Maida Gardens for about ten years now.

  Squashed into the carriage with Rollo and his friends, bowling north along the Edgeware Road, Grace suddenly remembered going there before, though in broad daylight on a warm, spring day.

  “Fennie took us to the reopening,” she said. “When it became Maida Gardens. I must have been ten or eleven, for Hope was only little. It was a sunny day, and the gardens seemed like a fairytale place to me…”

  “Why Maida?” the ever-curious Grace had inquired of her governess, Miss Fenchurch. “It seems a very odd name to me.”

  “I suppose because it is a pretty name,” Miss Fenchurch had replied, “and also honors the Hero of Maida, Sir John Stuart, who has won a great battle and was made the Count of Maida by our grateful ally, the King of Naples.”

  Now Rollo let out a snort of derisive laughter. “There’s not much of the fairytale about it now!”

  “Different during the day, Rolls,” Mr. Meade reminded him.

  “Never been in daylight,” Rollo said without a great deal of interest.

  At first glance, the gardens still looked lush and cared for, but even from a distance, the scattering of buildings and follies gave off an air of decidedly faded splendor.

  Neither was the clientele drawn any longer from the wealthy aristocracy. The ton was not seen here—at least not beyond a few rakish young bucks on a spree—and to Grace, as soon as she walked through the gates, the place shrieked of vulgarity.

  This impression may have been due to the familiar way the girl who sold Rollo the tickets flirted with him at the same time. Or to the distant, somewhat salacious giggles emanating from the undergrowth to her left. Or even to the fact that Sir Nash Boothe, lounging beneath a lantern only yards from the gate, appeared to be besieged by young women in scandalously dampened gowns.

  Not that Grace had always been entirely innocent of this trick to make her gown cling alluringly to her figure. But at least she had actually worn the gowns in question. These ladies seemed to be half-undressed.

  Sir Nash was a handsome, elegant man with cropped fair hair and roguish blue eyes, his good looks marred only by his awareness of them. Grace, walking slightly ahead of the others, rather enjoyed his astonished expression when he caught sight of her.

  He sprang up from the bench, shedding the diaphanous maidens like a cloak that was suddenly too warm.

  “My lady!” he exclaimed. “I had almost given you up.”

  “So I see,” she drawled, not allowing her gaze to stray anywhere near his disappointed nymphs. “And yet I believe it is not yet ten o’clock.”

  He took her hand a little too familiarly, although at least he did not try to kiss it. “I misjudged your courage, clearly, in the cold, sober light of day.”

  “But not my good sense,” she said brightly. “Do you know my brother, Mr. Darblay? Also, Mr. Meade and Mr. Montague. Gentlemen, Sir Nash Boothe.”

  To make her point, she took Rollo’s arm. Her brother scowled by way of greeting Sir Nash and strode off up one of the lantern-lit paths with Grace all but trotting beside him. She would have objected to the speed, except she rather liked the idea of Sir Nash relegated to the company of Rollo’s youthful and inarticulate friends.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Rollo said austerely. “Not suitable at all,”

  “But it is for you?” she asked wryly.

  “Nobody cares what I do. You can’t hang around a place like this with that man and his floozies.”

  “To be fair, I doubt he ever meant them to join us.”

  “No, he didn’t think you would turn up at all. Which you shouldn’t have. How long do you have to stay to win the dashed wager?”

  “Until midnight, I think. Just before the ritual unmasking.”

  “Oh well, that’s not so bad. We’ll all stand up with you, bite of supper, and then off. We should brush through—so long as you don’t dance with strangers and we don’t meet anyone else you know.”

  By now, they were approaching a pavilion which was, apparently, where the twice-weekly balls took place. The sight of several masked people spilling out of the door reminded Grace to don her mask.

  Rollo regarded her critically, adjusted it, and made to go inside.

  “Mask, old fellow,” Sir Nash reminded him with some amusement. He was already masked but very clearly himself.

  “Never brought one,” Rollo said, heedlessly giving away the fact that he had been dragooned into escort duty at the last minute.

  “Sell you a mask here, sir,” offered a young girl, also masked, standing with a basket to one side of the door. “Only two shillings each.”

  “Better give me three,” Rollo fumed, no doubt seeing his drinking money being frittered away.

  While Rollo bought and distributed the masks to his friends, Boothe moved smoothly to Grace’s side, offering his arm. She took it but dug in her heels to wait for the others. He seemed both amused and irritated by this, but she pretended not to notice and walked blithely inside with the crowd.

  Chapter Two

  Grace was used to attention whenever she entered a ballroom. Ladies looked to her for sartorial hints, and she always had a string of gentlemen admirers, which kept her both safe and fashionable.

  At the Maida ballroom, however, attention was much more blatant and much more intense. More than her mask, clearly, made her a stranger here, and therefore all the more interesting.

  Sir Nash acted as their host, graciously including Rollo and his friends for whom he ordered wine and brandy. While he was engaged with this process, Grace turned to her brother with another anxiety.

  “You are known here. What if people recognize me because I am with you?”

  “They won’t. Wouldn’t bring my sister here.”

  She laughed and resolved to enjoy her novel masquerade. All the dances appeared to be waltzes, which the orchestra played with considerable verve. Mr. Meade got in his invitation to dance first, which seemed to amuse Boothe, though when Montague stood to ask her as soon as she returned, Sir Nash’s amusement clearly turned to irritation.

  Rollo smiled at him amiably.

  “Your turn next, is it?” Boothe asked with a curl of his lip. “Unless you find it too unfashionable to dance with your own sister.”

  “Not a fashionable man,” Rollo retorted, sitting back and smiling at a girl at the next table.

  Beyond that table, Grace noticed a tall man lounging against a pillar. He wore a black and silver-grey mask with a matching domino cloak. And she rather thought he was watching her.

  The fact did not trouble her. She had grown used to the stares and the fact that whenever a stranger approached the table, they retreated when Rollo glared at them.

  “I’m sorry for spoiling your evening,” she told Mr. Montague as she had already told Mr. Meade. “I know you had other plans.”

  “Not spoiled in the slightest,” Mr. Montague assured her. “Very pleasant evening! Always happy to help Rolls’s sister.”

  “You’re very kind,” Grace assured him with genuine gratitude. “Tell me, sir—I can see this place is perhaps not quite the thing, but what gives it such a bad reputation?”

  “It’s usually not that bad. Though you have to watch out for cutpurses and pickpockets. Most people are just out to enjoy themselves.”

  “Which isn’t so different from more fashionable ballrooms,” Grace agreed.

  A couple swished past them, and she glanced idly in their direction. Jolted, she blurted, “Oh no! Is that not Sir Ernest Leyton?”

  “Shouldn’t think so,” Mr. Montague said at once.

  “You didn’t even look,” Grace accused.

  “Best not to,” he said apologetically.

  Which intrigued Grace immeasurably. Sir Ernest Leyton was one of her husband’s oldest friends, a pillar of propriety who occasionally escorted her to parties, probably keeping an eye on her for Wenning’s sake. Did even he have a secret life, a secret mistress whom he met here, far from the unforgiving eyes of the ton?

  Or… Her stomach lurched. Had he somehow found out about her wager with Sir Nash? Was he here to watch her? Look after her? Or simply report her transgressions to Wenning? Who would, presumably, seek to divorce her or, more likely, find a reason for separation whenever he came home. Well, they had been separated for two years. His eventual homecoming from China could make no real difference to her life.

  In desperation, she thrust the thoughts away, smiled dazzlingly at Mr. Montague, and cast occasional surreptitious glances in Sir Ernest’s direction to be sure he was not observing her. She never caught him looking. The lady he danced with was pretty and elegant and smiled up into his eyes. No stranger, she was sure. Sir Ernest had an intrigue, and he was not remotely interested in Grace’s presence.

  When the dance ended, Mr. Montague conducted her solicitously back to the table, where Sir Nash and Rollo seemed to be playing some kind of drinking game. If it was Boothe’s intention to drink her brother under the table, he would have a hard night of it. But perhaps they had simply reached an understanding, for while Grace took her seat once more and sipped some cooling lemonade, Sir Nash asked her to dance. And Rollo made no objection.

  Not that she would have listened to him if he had, for she had already decided she would dance with Boothe. Whatever his ultimate intentions, he could hardly carry them out on the dance floor.

  The ornate wall clock told her it was nearly eleven o’clock. One hour until they would have to leave, before the unmasking at midnight. It was nearly over. And then she could go to the country and find something else to interest her, something that did not involve juggling entitled and lecherous men for the incomprehensible sake of fashion.

  “I have to concede victory,” Sir Nash said as he took her in his arms for the dance. “I am outplayed, and my sapphire pin is yours.”

  She nodded gracefully. “Thank you.”

  “I confess I thought I would win whatever happened. Either you would not come, and I would win your bracelet as a token. Or you would come, and I would win you. I never thought of you bringing your rakehell brother and his amusing friends as chaperones.”

  “I aim to surprise and astonish,” she said flippantly.

  “And having achieved that, and even put me in my place…” He lowered his voice. “How long do you mean to keep me at arm’s length?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Forever.”

  He blinked, then laughed. “Overambitious, my dear.”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  A frown flickered and smoothed again on his brow. “But you would surely be a little hurt if I turned instead to another lady?”

  “I suspect you already have.”

  Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Then that is why you play me this trick? Because you imagine I look at Mrs. Fitzwalter?”

  “You have a very odd idea of my imagination.” She allowed genuine boredom to creep into her voice, and something very like anxiety flickered across his face.

  “Grace, you must know I adore you. Only you. No more tricks, now. Come, walk with me in the gardens, away from prying eyes.”

  She stared at him. “No.”

  “Why not?” he urged.

  “Because at this moment, it is tedious even to be dancing with you.”

  His eyelids dropped down, veiling his eyes, which she guessed would show mostly anger. She felt it in the rigidity of his arms. And then, as though forcing himself, he relaxed. “You are cruel. But since you insist, I will make small talk instead. Do you go to Lady Trewthorpe’s soiree on Friday?”

  Grace almost shuddered. Since she was Lady Trewthorpe’s sister-in-law, she was always invited and needed a good excuse not to attend. “Probably,” she said, and for the rest of the dance made slightly strained small talk, which neither of them pretended to enjoy.

  However, if she hoped she had thus lost an admirer, she was doomed to disappointment, for as the dance ended, he said urgently, “Please, Grace, let’s talk. Just five minutes where we cannot be overheard or interrupted by your dratted brother.”

  “But then I would miss the start of the next dance.” Suddenly, she just wanted to be away from him and all his ilk, from herself even, or at least what she had made herself into. And the nearby passage to the ladies’ cloakroom provided a brief respite. But before she could take even a step toward it, a man paused just in front of it, scanning the floor as if he had lost someone.

  Sir Ernest Leyton. Was he looking for her? If she walked right past him to the cloakroom, he would surely see and recognize her as easily as she had seen through his mask.

  “Lesser of two evils, Grace?” Sir Nash drawled. “Or is it least of three? Bring yourself to Leyton’s attention? Dance with your own brother? No, on the whole, I think you know you had better come with me.”

  He was smiling, and there was certainly a hint of lechery in his eyes that she did not like. But it was the gleam of triumph that compelled her to act. If he thought she could be intimidated into leaving this room just to be mauled behind a tree, he could think again.

  There were any number of men standing and milling about, searching out their next dance partner. Many of them were eagerly watching her, as though waiting only for her to separate from her current partner. She could take her pick.

  But because she had noticed him already—and he was again observing her from a different pillar this time—she chose the lounging stranger in the black and silver domino. Spinning away from Boothe, she took one step toward him and smiled her most dazzling smile.

  “There you are. This is our dance, is it not?”

  The stranger straightened, and, too late, she saw that his eyes were hard as agates and that he was, probably, the one man in the ballroom she could not manipulate or bend to her will. Those eyes bored into hers, then shifted, briefly, to Sir Nash.

  His lips curved below the line of the mask, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “Far be it from me to argue with a lady.” His voice was low, a little husky, his accent very subtly foreign. He bowed and offered his arm. “It will be my pleasure.”

  “Your brother won’t like it,” Sir Nash warned, clearly chagrined that she had chosen a stranger over him.

  Grace only laughed and walked away on the stranger’s arm. The orchestra began the introduction to yet another waltz, and the stranger took her hand, placing his other at her back. Although he was tall and indefinably imposing, his hold was light, and, to her relief, his gaze did not ogle, merely regarded her with impersonal curiosity.

  Perhaps she had chosen well after all.

  “Lovers’ tiff?” the stranger asked sardonically.

  “Lord, no. Merely an exchange of views.”

  “Won’t he take his congé like a gentleman?”

  “There is no congé, merely a lost wager. But I thank you for your… I shan’t call it protection…for your shade.”

  A glimmer of amusement might have broken through the hard eyes. “Am I shading you from ruin?”

  “Hardly. Merely recognition. One should never make wagers after three glasses of champagne.”

  “A universal truth to be taught to all one’s children.”

  She laughed. “Well, there are worse things one could teach them. Do you have children, sir?”

  “Mercifully not.”

  “Why mercifully?”

  “I don’t believe I care to answer on such short acquaintance.”

  “It is certainly none of my business,” she agreed. “Then allow me to ask a less personal question. What goes on in the gardens outside the ballroom?”

  Although she couldn’t read his expression, she was sure she had surprised him. Certainly, he took a moment to answer. “You wish to know what fate you escaped by dancing with me rather than walking with him?”

  “Exactly,” she replied.

  “Not knowing the gentleman in question, I could not say.” His glance flickered to the bracelet which graced her forearm. “But I suppose you could have had your jewelry stolen or your person ravished. Or both.”

  She sighed. “Decidedly no more wagers. Sir, I thank you again for your shade, but if we could just dance a few feet toward the left, I shall impose upon you no further.”

  “You will not stay until the end of the dance and the unmasking?”

  “No, alas, I must leave before midnight.”

  “Why? Is there some enchantment upon you?”

  “More like a curse,” she said ruefully. “My own nature.”

  “Alternately bold and fearful?”

  “Not fearful,” she said at once, although she had been fearful of being recognized by Sir Ernest, and it would have been madness to go anywhere alone with Nash Boothe. “Let us say sensible, as a sop to my pride, if nothing else.”

  “By all means,” he agreed. She appeared to have amused him. “So boldness propelled you here—”

 

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