Unmasking Deception, page 2
Concerned, she took a step closer, but before she could speak, he raised her hand to his lips and softly kissed her fingers. And then he was gone, swallowed in the people milling on and off the dance floor.
Viola blinked as though breaking a spell. As she walked back to the table beneath the trees, she could not help feeling slightly piqued that he had not even asked to accompany her. For once, she might have let him, although she had no idea why.
But perhaps he was not well.
Perhaps he was drunk, though she had smelled no wine or spirits on his breath.
Her friend Amelia and Amelia’s husband’s cousins had returned to the table just ahead of her and were chatting intensely.
“Oh, there you are, Viola!” Amelia exclaimed in relief. “Have you seen the Watch swarming all over the place? Apparently, some convict has escaped Newgate and bolted into the gardens. How deliciously terrifying!”
Viola couldn’t help laughing, although Mr. King said severely, “You won’t be so flippant about it if this fellow goes on the rampage, fighting, shooting—”
“Don’t be daft,” Mr. Givens said disparagingly. “He is already injured and helpless. They’ll find him in no time.”
“Injured how?” Viola asked in quick sympathy.
Givens shrugged. “Shot during pursuit, according to the Watchman I spoke to. At any rate, he’s hardly a threat to us.”
“I believe,” Mr. King said portentously, “that we should depart. With this felon loose in the gardens, Cousin Matthew would expect us to take care of his wife and Miss Dove.”
“Nonsense, Josh,” Mr. Givens interrupted with some amusement. “The fellow may have wandered in here, but he’s not some dangerous gutter filth. He’s only an aristo, some marquess’s son avoiding transportation. He’s no threat.”
“Oh, him,” Amelia exclaimed, wide-eyed. “Lord Sedgemoor’s son? It was all over the scandal sheets a few weeks ago. He killed his enemy in a duel over a lady.”
“Hardly a lady,” Mr. King snapped. “And it wasn’t a duel. He knifed the fellow for his cash.”
“And then left it at his front door?” Mr. Givens mocked. “No one could be that stupid!”
“You could if you were drunk,” Mr. King insisted. “Which, by all accounts, they both were! In any case, one isn’t sentenced to transportation for being a well-behaved gentleman.”
“That at least is true,” Amelia allowed. “Though I admit I have a soft spot for badly behaved gentlemen! And poor Lord Sedgemoor is bound to upset if his son has been killed! Did you know him, Viola?”
Viola shrugged. “Not that I can recall. There was some gossip, but I suspect it was all hushed up.”
“I still think we should leave,” Mr. King said stubbornly. “We cannot allow the ladies to remain in danger.”
“There is no danger,” Mr. Givens scoffed. “Wine, ladies? Or may we fetch you some supper?”
Viola glanced toward the pavilion, where the supper room was located on the upper floor. The watchmen seemed to have finished searching the building, leaving only one man to watch those going in and out. The main search now seemed to be outside, with some men blundering among the guests, peering at everyone.
“Perhaps we should all go to the supper room,” Viola said with a sigh. Escaped convicts, even if they were marquess’s sons, might have been exciting, but the stolid presence of law officers certainly ruined the fairy tale illusions.
So, they collected their things and moved around the dancing couples toward the pavilion. Since many other people seemed to have the same idea, it was a bit of a crush. Viola, who disliked close crowds, slipped toward the edge and glanced regretfully around at the lantern-lit grounds.
Despite the disruption, couples still seemed to be taking advantage of the quieter paths. And surely, staggering against a tree, was a man in a dark green cloak.
She halted, stupidly upset to think her last partner was ill and alone. Hadn’t she seen pain in his eyes in those last moments when he had almost lost his balance?
People bumped into her, and panic propelled her out of the crowd’s path, farther away from the pavilion and her friends. With sudden decision, she kept going, hurrying along the path where she had glimpsed the green cloak.
To her right, she could hear one watchman, or whatever he was, calling to another among the undergrowth. But the path was empty. There was no sign of the stranger in the green cloak at the tree where she had last seen him. But a narrower stone path led past a little pond she had not seen.
The gardens were full off Bow Street Runners and the Watch. There could be no possible danger in walking past the pond and down a slope, where she was suddenly greeted by the bizarre sight of a miniature Grecian temple. Unsure if she was intrigued by the amusing edifice or by the possibility of finding her erstwhile dance partner, she hurried down to the little building, which was smaller than the tiny family chapel at her cousin Wenning’s estate.
It was lit from above by several lanterns, and there was no door, though she glimpsed another light inside. Her heartbeat quickened as she mounted the two steps and into the room beyond.
By the far corner, in a little vignette lit by the glowing lantern, one man sat with his back against some kind of altar table, while another crouched beside him. Both heads had turned to face her, perfectly still.
“Why, it’s my waltz partner,” said the amused voice she recognized with some relief. “Dare I hope that you missed me?”
Without a word, the second man rose to his feet and strode toward her. Only with difficulty did she refrain from bolting back outside, but he did not even brush past her as he took the quickest way down the two steps.
“Sadly, you will have to go,” the man in the green cloak informed her without rising. His hood had fallen back to reveal a shock of golden blond hair spilling over his mask. “Think of your reputation if you are found here with me.”
“Are you ill?” Viola asked bluntly. Without meaning to, she was walking toward him.
“Oh, just a little the worse for drink.”
“And yet you don’t sound it,” Viola retorted, crouching at his side. “Or smell it. What is wrong?”
He tried to smile. “Nothing when you are near.”
His hand was clamped across his side, inside the cloak. Without thinking, she took hold of his wrist and tugged. His hand came away, red running across his fingers.
She looked up and met his gaze. “You are the marquess’s convict son.”
Chapter Two
When had she guessed it? When Mr. Givens had mentioned the escaped convict being a marquess’s son? When he had melted away after their dance? Or even before, when he had tapped his mask to explain why the public ball was a good place to hide?
“You see?” he said now. “Please go.”
“Show me,” she commanded, still holding his wrist to keep him from hiding the wound. With her free hand, she pulled aside the cloak, and an open coat and waistcoat, to see the bloodstained shirt beneath. Apart from leaning his head back against the table, he did not move, just watched as she carefully lifted the shirt.
“The dressing slipped,” a voice said behind her, making her jump. “But the ball only nicked him. It isn’t inside him.”
Viola swallowed. “How do you know?”
“I used to assist a surgeon in the army. If there’s one thing I know, it’s gunshot injuries. We need clean water, brandy, a needle and thread, and bandages.”
“Well, we won’t get them here with Runners crawling all over the gardens,” the wounded man pronounced, brushing Viola’s hands aside and trying to rise. Both Viola and the other man pressed down on his shoulders to keep him where he was.
“We can’t stay here,” he said impatiently.
“Can’t leave either,” his friend argued. “Not with said Runners at the gates.”
“And it’s only a matter of time until one of them stumbles over us here,” the wounded man pointed out.
“Where would you go?” Viola asked him.
“Buckinghamshire,” he replied.
“You have a house there?”
“No, I have a friend there who might know what really happened the night I’m supposed to have robbed and killed someone.”
Viola gazed at him thoughtfully.
His friend snorted. “Yes, but you could die of infection before you get out of this place, let alone make it to Buckinghamshire.”
“There is a hackney stand at the gate,” Viola offered.
“If you can get past the Runners guarding it,” said the surgeon’s assistant. “Besides, the hackney drivers will only go back into London.”
“Which surely no one will expect you to do,” Viola pointed out.
The marquess’s son regarded her. “You have a point. Though it doesn’t take care of the guards at the gate.”
An insane idea was growing in Viola’s head. She tried to talk herself out of it. After all, he was a convicted murderer, desperate enough to have escaped from prison, and just because he spoke like a gentleman did not make him one.
“I can’t take him to my place,” the surgeon’s assistant said. “They’ll know I helped him escape, and they’ll be crawling all over it.”
“You’re not a prisoner, too?” Viola asked with surprise.
“Nope. I was his lordship’s guard.”
Viola closed her mouth before it gaped.
“He ain’t guilty,” the guard said defiantly. “Anyone can see that.”
It was true that Viola had never encountered the flim-flam men who could, rumor said, persuade you to do anything. So she had no experience to compare with the efforts of these two. However, right now, she did not much care if they were tricking her or not. A man was dying in front of her, and she could save him.
“Are you married, my lord?” she asked.
He blinked. “Are you planning to propose?”
“Yes. You are married now. To a very, very, unhappy wife.”
*
Between them, Viola and the prison guard, whose name was apparently Napper, bound up his lordship’s wound with his waistcoat and her shawl and hauled him to his feet.
“Damned useful these cloaks,” Napper muttered. “Begging your pardon, Miss.”
“Did you steal them?” she asked out of curiosity.
“And the masks.”
“We can give them back when it’s all over,” Viola said comfortingly. She slipped down the steps ahead of the two men to make sure the way was clear. “Perhaps you could manage a song, my lord?”
A breath of laughter escaped him. “Close your ears,” he said.
Although weakness made his voice wavery, he managed to force a drunk’s enthusiasm while Napper held him up, occasionally joining in the highly questionable song, in between apologies flung at Viola, who marched furiously ahead and turned only to deliver bitter scolds.
They were already in full swing by the time they reached the main path to the gate, and some late arrivals were clearly amused by the scene.
“You give him what-for, missus!” one lad advised with clear delight. “A man should be able to hold his drink!”
“He’s holding far too much of it!” Viola raged. “For God’s sake, stand upright, George! I wish I’d listened to my mother! I should never have married you!”
“Sweet, sweet wife,” his lordship intoned with a fatuous smile. “Ish-she…isn’t she the besht wife in the world, my friend? Whoever you are.”
“It’s me,” Napper retorted. “Your friend since childhood. And you’d better be grateful, for it’s getting above and beyond, lugging you home in your cups! Especially with your missus in toe.”
“No one wishes for my absence more than me!” Viola declared, beginning to enjoy herself, despite the Bow Street Runner glaring at them from the gate. She glared back. “What are you looking at?” she demanded of him. “My sorry excuse for a husband? You’re welcome to him. Take him away and lock him up until he’s sober! If that day ever comes! Hand him over, Mr. Hale.”
“I do not deal with drunks,” the Runner said superciliously. “I’m here to catch real villains, not pick jug-bitten fools off the floor because their families can’t keep them in order. Move along there,” he ordered. “You’re blocking my view.”
Viola uttered a noise of fury and stamped through the gate. His lordship mumbled some comment about the brave redbreasts, then lifted his voice in song once more.
“Shut your cakehole,” Napper advised.
“Jusht a shong,” his lordship insisted. “Got to shing—sing—when I’m happy.”
Viola stomped back to the gate box as though to give a mouthful to the amused girl selling the tickets and the frankly grinning young man beside her. Surreptitiously, she pushed a coin into the box. “Find my friend, Mrs. Hornchurch, in the supper room. Tell her I’ve had to take my miserable husband home and not to worry. Tell her she needs to be discreet. Thanks!”
With that, she marched in her supposed husband’s wake, sailing straight past him while uttering dire threats about the special place in hell reserved for bosky husbands.
“Have at him!” encouraged the young man from the gate.
There was only one hackney at the stand, for it was still well before midnight and too early for people to be leaving the gardens. Which also meant there was no queue.
The driver, however, looked askance at Viola’s companions. “They ain’t with you, are they? Don’t want them casting up their accounts all over my cab.”
“I’m sober as a judge,” Napper objected. “And don’t worry about him. I’ll hold his head out the window.”
“Push him out of the window,” Viola raged, wrenching open the cab door. Napper half lifted the wounded man inside. “Bernard Street Mews,” she flung at the driver. “Just in case we still have our positions!”
“I’d sack the lot of you,” the driver said frankly, while Viola climbed up and slammed the door before collapsing into the facing seat.
His lordship had stopped singing by now. More worryingly, he had started to shake, and as the carriage jolted forward, Viola dropped onto her knees between the benches.
“Sir, what is it?” she demanded in fright, brushing the fallen hair back off his pale face—which was creased in silent, uncontrollable laughter.
“You are wonderful,” he gasped at last. “It’s almost worth being shot and going in the wrong direction, just to witness such an artist.”
Viola sat back on her heels, unsure whether she was laughing, too, or crying. “You’re not such a bad actor either.”
“Memory, my dear, not acting. Though I’ve never had a nagging wife to take me in hand before.”
“Just wait until I get you home,” she said shakily.
“Promises, promises,” his lordship said, closing his eyes.
Slowly, Viola hauled herself back up onto the front-facing bench.
“Where are you really planning to drop us?” Napper asked.
“Wherever you wish,” Viola said in surprise. She frowned. “He looks awfully pale, does he not? Is he asleep?”
“He’s had a busy day,” Napper said sardonically. “Escaping from jail, getting shot, dancing at masked balls. He’s done in.”
His lordship’s lips twitched, suggesting he was not asleep at all.
“Where could you hide where he could also get help?” Viola asked.
“Nowhere,” Napper said bluntly. “He don’t exactly blend in, and no one’s going to take a chance on either of us.”
“You’re in as much trouble as he is now, aren’t you?”
“Except I’m not shot.”
Viola stared at him, dropped her gaze to the wounded man, and wondered if she was actually insane to be considering this.
She could not put her family and their servants in danger. The men in the carriage with her might seem harmless, helpless, and amusing, but her instinct to trust them could be entirely wrong, and she could not risk them in her family home.
But no one need go into the cellar.
There was no entrance from the cellar into the house without crossing the back yard to the kitchen door. If she locked them in and kept the key…
“I can hide you,” she blurted. “Just until he is fit to travel.”
Napper regarded her unblinkingly. “Why would you do that?”
Viola shifted on the bench. “I don’t know. Because I’m mad. Or bored. Or because I believe him for some reason, and so do you, because you gave up your livelihood to help him prove it.”
Napper transferred his sharp gaze to the wounded man as though willing him to open his eyes and help with the decision.
“You don’t trust me either,” Viola observed with surprise. “I suppose I could lock you in and summon the watch.”
“You could,” Napper said. “And you could have handed us over to any number of them already. You don’t need to be in the hackney with us at all. If you can give us what I need to sew him up and make him well, we’ll take your hiding place for tonight.”
*
The hackney coachman dropped them at the entrance to the mews lane behind Bernard Street, just off Russell Square. His lordship exerted himself to make a snoring noise as they hauled him out of the carriage and stumbled toward the lane with his arms around both their shoulders. The hackney took off immediately.
The lane was quiet at this hour, between the times carriages were most often required. In the fresh air, his lordship revived somewhat and walked leaning only on Napper’s arm, leaving Viola free to quietly open the gate from the lane into the modest back garden of her mother’s house and then rummage in her reticule for the chain of keys. In the absence of a housekeeper, which they could not afford, Viola kept the keys and took them with her since Arabella and Susan had a bad habit of disappearing into the cellar whenever it was bedtime. Having to find them made their mother cross.
