Unmasking the Hero, page 21
The glass didn’t break. Phineas shoved it away from him. “Rot. Nasty stories made up to account for your own ill behavior! You have not a shred of probability, let alone proof.”
“Actually, I have. The man you hired has been arrested by Bow Street Runners. I expect he’s already implicating you. And I doubt Mrs. Fitzwalter appreciates being used in such a way, either. She was terrified, you know.”
Phineas’s eyes had narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
“What, that a Runner has been protecting us since the night of fireworks?” Grace asked with contempt. “Actually, we don’t care whether you believe us or not. It’s true the evidence against you will come largely from a man of less than perfect character. But no matter. You are ruined and had best leave the country.”
Phineas’s gaping mouth shut with a snap. “You set all this up! Brought your tame duke and your righteous Arpingtons and your gossiping Effers… You lured me here to ruin me!”
“We do seem to have developed a taste for the theatrical,” Oliver allowed. “I think it was abducting Boothe and Rollo Darblay and staging their so friendly card party that inspired us to greater feats. You can go where you like, of course.” He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and passed it across the table. “But Europe might not be far enough, being full of British travelers since the end of the war. This ship is bound for Australia and sails tonight. Take it or not, but make no mistake, Phineas, there is nowhere in these islands for you to hide, and you can never come back.”
Oliver rose and held out his hand to Grace. She took it and rose.
“Ollie,” Phin said hoarsely. “I am your cousin. We are family, friends!”
Oliver stilled. Suddenly, a white line had formed around his lips. “Now, you remember that, Phin? Only now?”
Grace took his arm, urging him forward, and they left the garden together.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That can’t have been easy.”
His hand covered hers and squeezed convulsively. “No. Phineas has always been part of my life. And yet, it wasn’t as difficult as losing you.”
*
Phineas, his world in tatters, eventually rose stiffly from his solitary seat at the empty table. At some point, the music had stopped, and now there was no one left in the rose garden. He picked up his hat and his winnings, which no one had troubled to relieve him of, and walked out of the garden.
He was a pariah now. He had known he needed to act speedily before the Wennings started comparing notes, but he had never expected them to be quite so quick or quite so ruthless. Or to be this clever about it. There was nothing he could do to come back from this. Criminal charges he could have fought, and he had somewhat relied on Wenning refusing to allow the family name to dragged through criminal courts. But they had got around that, too, by besting him at his own game—lying.
As he walked blindly toward the main path, he glimpsed them at another table in the outdoor eatery by the fountain of Eros. Everyone, from Dearham to Maria Fitzwalter, sat with them. They no longer played cards, though they were laughing and chatting as if nothing had happened. As if Phineas’s life was not over.
Oliver had always had everything. More toys, ponies, clothes, money, the title, and the houses and lands that went with it. Women, sycophants, a beautiful, loving wife ready and willing to breed heirs and exclude him, Phineas, from the succession.
There would be no forgiveness now from the cousin he had once imagined to be so malleable. Perhaps he never had been. Or perhaps he had grown up.
Either way—damn him to hell—there had always been something about Oliver, some elusive charm, some velvet-covered steel, an instinct to strive despite all the advantages that had landed in his lap from birth. With Oliver’s title and fortune, Phineas would have been content, not chasing after diplomatic or political glory. Phineas had sought to use that against his cousin, too. And now he had nothing.
While Oliver still had everything. Including, apparently, the beautiful, loving wife. For some reason, that added insult to injury.
No one looked at him as he walked alone down the path to the front gates. No one in his world would so much as speak to him again.
In this last belief, it turned out he was wrong. In fact, Sir Nash Boothe spoke to him some three hours later.
Boothe arrived in his rooms as he was throwing things randomly into a trunk. Sir Nash didn’t trouble to knock, let alone have himself announced, merely sauntered in.
“What’s this I hear about you cheating at cards?” Boothe asked without preamble.
“I did not cheat at cards,” Phineas said between his teeth.
“You’d be a damned fool to do so in that company. One thing among a houseful of Captain Sharps at the Orange Tree. Quite another among gentlemen.”
“Do not,” Phineas snarled, “lecture me about gentlemen! My gentlemanly cousin set me up, staged the whole thing. Much as he did with you and your spectacular reconciliation with Rollo Darblay.”
“People find that hilarious,” Boothe observed. “Can’t say I’m laughing, though there’s nothing much I can do about it.” He shrugged. “At least I didn’t have to shoot the divine Grace’s brother.”
Phineas threw his hairbrushes and shaving set into the trunk and scowled. “Are you still pursuing that prey? She’s thick as thieves with Wenning again. He’ll never believe you touched her.”
“I didn’t,” Boothe said morosely.
A gleam of light shone in Phineas’s darkness. “No, but you might once she’s ruined in public, and he repudiates her. What do you have to lose?”
*
“Two nights in a row,” Oliver murmured as he held Grace’s chair for her at the dining table. “People will talk.”
Grace sat. “Two nights in a row that we have dined at home, alone?”
His finger trailed across her nape in a caress that made her shiver. “Exactly.” He moved and took his place at the head of the table.
“We have an excellent excuse,” Grace said as the footmen brought in two soup tureens, plates of new bread, and a jug of cream. “We are making last-minute preparations for tomorrow’s ball. And, in fact, we have a dinner party before it, with my family and yours.”
“But not Phineas,” he said lightly.
“No, not Phineas. I have asked Mr. Meade instead, since he was so helpful about Rollo’s silly duel.” She waited until the footmen withdrew before she added, “I also invited Sir Ernest and Mrs. Caldwell—to dinner as well as to the ball. He has accepted the invitation to both. Mrs. Caldwell has said she’ll come to the ball, though I expect she will leave before the unmasking.”
She ladled a light, fragrant soup into his bowl. “I told them they should meet up abroad, and she should use her old name. She is a lady by birth, her name spoiled by youthful scandal—and by her subsequent career, but I doubt anyone would recognize the new Lady Leyton as Frances Caldwell.”
“Probably not if they carry it off with enough panache. Not sure panache is Leyton’s thing, however.”
“He just needs to dote. She is an actress, who can play her role in public and be exactly who she is in private.”
“Just like the rest of us, in fact.”
She cast him a quick glance over her soup spoon. “Are you thinking of Rudolf?”
“Are you?” he countered.
“I’m glad to be rid of all pretense,” she said. “Even before you came home, it was beginning to feel like an unbearable strain, as if I would snap. And then, when you came…”
“Old wagers, stolen bracelets, and masked men called Rudolf made it even worse.”
She sighed and nodded. “I couldn’t keep track of the deceits, even after I recognized Rudolf as you, and I had to work out what he could be assumed to know as distinct from what you would know. I wanted it all to stop.”
“I wanted to win you as Rudolf,” he admitted. “So that it would wipe away Oliver’s crimes in your mind.”
“I was sorely tempted,” she confessed.
“But it was another pretense, and a stupid one. I’m not sure how I planned to work that into my new honesty with you.”
Grace laid down her spoon. “The true dishonesty was Phineas’s. The rest was merely hiding for survival. I think we can forgive ourselves and each other for that. But between us, Oliver, no more hiding?”
He took her hand and kissed it. “No more,” he said fervently.
She smiled mischievously. “Apart from our masked ball, of course. More soup, my lord?”
“No, thank you.” He sat back and regarded her, while the footmen removed the used dishes. “I doubt a mere costume can hide us from each other now,” he said softly.
It would take time. They were still feeling their way toward each other inch by inch, but pleasure in his company, pride in his achievements, sheer love for him was seeping deeper into her bones with every passing hour.
“Are you needed in London over the next few weeks?” she asked.
“No, I am on extended leave for some months. Why?”
“I was wondering how you would feel about going into the country, to Harcourt? I was thinking about it before you came home, and now I feel more than ever that I would enjoy the peace.”
A rather wicked smile lit his eyes, causing a flush to rise up her neck to her face. “So would I,” he said softly. “Shall we make arrangements immediately after the ball?”
She nodded, smiling back with an odd, breathless shyness.
After dinner, they repaired together to the drawing room, still talking, although they sat close together on the sofa. This was what should have happened on their wedding journey, a gradual, growing knowledge of each other through talk and companionship. It was wonderful to be reminded of his humor, of his wide interest in the world, to learn his views on important matters and tell him of hers. To discuss large things and small, to discover more and more about China, and about his past.
As a result, the time flew by, and it was after midnight before they climbed the stairs together. Their voices had fallen silent at last. All Grace could hear was the beating of her own heart.
On the landing, he turned with her toward her own apartments. She had not imagined he would do otherwise, but it still made her smile and anticipate. But to her oversensitive nerves, the mood of his silence seemed to have changed from companionable to something else she couldn’t quite grasp.
When they came to her door, she turned to him impulsively, just as he leaned across her and opened the door. He took her hand from his arm and softly kissed her fingers and then her lips.
“Good night, my love,” he murmured. “Until tomorrow.”
And he turned and walked away.
It felt like being drenched by a bucket of cold water. Grace walked into her room in something of a daze and rang for Henley.
Why did he not stay with me? Has he tired of me already?
She had grown too used to sharing her bed and her love. But there was a reason why married couples kept their own apartments. To maintain privacy when they wanted it.
It hurt, that, but she could not deny he was entitled to privacy. While Henley helped prepare her for bed, worry whirled around her mind. She wondered if he was ill, if he needed time alone to come to terms with the day’s events. If he had simply had enough of Grace. If, now that he had got to know her better, his passion was already waning.
“That will be all, Henley,” she said at last as the maid began to brush her hair. “Good night.”
Obediently, Henley replaced the hairbrush on the dressing table. “Good night, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Grace said distractedly. She frowned at herself in the glass as Henley’s footsteps retreated along the passage to the servants’ stairs.
She and Oliver had promised each other honesty. No more hiding. She would rather die than intrude, and yet she needed to know. Should he not say, I need this time to myself? Or was she expecting too much? Anxiety soared. Her new confidence in herself plummeted.
In the glass, her shoulders had slumped. For a moment, she stared at her reflection, then straightened. No. I will not allow that distance again.
With sudden decision, she rose and picked up the candle from the table by the door. She wore only her night rail as she hurried along the passage and crossed the landing, but by now, the servants were all in bed, and she had to act quickly before her courage failed.
She had been in her husband’s bedchamber only twice in her life and never in his company. The first time when she had first arrived at Wenning House and inspected every room. The second, to make sure it was aired and ready to receive him when he came home from China. On neither occasion had she lingered. In fact, on the second occasion, she had barely stepped inside.
Now, she was relieved to see a light still shone beneath the door. Before her determination could wane, she rapped the door and stalked in without waiting for a reply. She strode across the empty sitting room and into his bedchamber where she found him sprawled, bare-chested against the pillows, a book open on the covers. His lips parted in astonishment as she came to an almost military halt beside the bed and set down her candle.
Part of her could not help acknowledging his sheer, male beauty as he gazed up at her in the pale light of a solitary lamp and one flickering candle. But she refused to be distracted from what she had to say.
“Excuse the intrusion,” she began loudly, more like a declaration than a request. “I shall go in one moment, for I understand the importance of privacy. But please tell me the truth. Are you tired? Hurt? Or do you need time away from me? I need to know—”
He loomed out of the bed, depriving her of words and even breath. Stark naked, he wrapped her in his arms.
“I have yearned for you in this room with me,” he whispered.
“Then why did you not say so?”
Even now, he held her loosely, his face buried in her hair. “I don’t know. Awareness that I owe you consideration, that I should not pester you constantly.”
Pester? She slid her arms around his waist, loving the feel of his warm, smooth skin over hard muscle. Anxiety began to drain away. “And?” she prompted, for she knew there was more.
He swallowed, and with something like awe, she realized that this big, confident man, her husband, whom she had imagined never at a loss, was struggling for words.
“Phineas,” he said with difficulty. “We made fun of each other since we were boys. In some ways, I never took him seriously, but I… I looked on him as the brother I never had. And now I cannot even mourn him for he isn’t dead, just not… He hated me.”
“Not always.” In compassion, she pressed closer. “He was just eaten up with envy.”
“I took him for granted. I never want to do that with you, of all people.”
Revelation washed over her. There was more here than Phineas’s betrayal. She was not the only one who suffered anxieties and uncertainties. Her husband was, stunningly, unsure. Of himself, of his attraction. Of her lasting love, perhaps, and certainly of his worthiness of that love.
And somehow, in that vulnerability, she loved him all the more.
She swept one arm up his back, feeling the muscles undulate beneath her fingers, and extracted her head from under his chin. She brushed her lips across his, a soft butterfly caress. “May I lie beside you?”
For the space of a heartbeat, he stared down at her. “You may do anything you wish with me.”
She let the smile curve her lips as she kissed him again, this time with long, aching tenderness. At the same time, she swept her hand down over his hips and buttocks and pressed closer to feel the wonder of his growing hardness. He let out a groan, and his mouth bore down on hers. She moved her body, rubbing against him from breasts to thigh in deliberate, wicked seduction that most certainly aroused her, whatever its effect on him.
But she was left in no doubt of that either. “You are a very naughty temptress,” he murmured breathlessly against her lips and turned her so that her back was to the bed. She tugged him with her, falling backward, and when she landed on the bed, somehow her nightgown was gone, and they were skin to skin, the weight of him sweet and welcome.
“I love you,” she whispered, gazing up at him.
“And I love you.”
His hand caressed the length of her body, but she pushed, rolling him over beneath her, and because he needed it, and she wanted it, she made long, languorous love to him.
Chapter Twenty
The day of the ball was a flurry of last-minute preparations.
“I take it we will achieve shocking squeeze status, and therefore the accolade of the Season?” Oliver said, discovering Grace in the ballroom around midday.
She turned from the silk awning created before Tamar’s painted wall to look like a tent from which ladies might watch a joust. She was always still surprised and delighted to see her husband.
“No one has declined the invitation, so far as I can recall. So yes, I imagine it will be quite a squeeze! But I believe the weather is with us, and we can spill out onto the terrace. Both terraces if need be.”
There was a large terrace accessed from French doors opposite the mural. And a smaller one through a single door to the right. Grace had held a ball here last Season and kept the single door open only for air, with a curtain over it, for the small terrace’s view over an outbuilding was not inspiring. The bigger terrace looked over a pleasant patch of lawn and the kitchen garden to the left. It had not been well used on the last occasion, for the weather had been wet and cold—there had been precious little summer that year. This year was very different, and already Grace had lanterns placed around the terrace and two pitch-soaked torches in sconces to keep the medieval theme.
“For intrigue and cigarillo smoking,” Oliver approved, looking around. “You have made it all very beautiful.”
“Well, Tamar made the difference. I wonder how we will cover it up for our next theme?”
