Unmasking the Hero, page 23
Remembering Grace’s warnings, Hope smiled noncommittally.
“Pass this message to our hostess, the Queen of Scots,” he murmured, drawing her hand onto his arm. Beneath her fingers was a small, folded piece of paper. “And I’m sure we will be allowed to meet again.”
She blinked at him in some surprise, but he only gave her a flashing smile, released her, and vanished into the milling throng.
Disconcerted, Hope retained the folded paper hidden in her hand. Someone using her to get to Grace seemed both rude and underhanded. Now she felt the opposite of flattered, for she did not believe for a moment that the note to Grace was a civil request to call upon Hope.
In all, she was glad Grace had warned her and thought she might retreat now to the gallery to watch rather than participate. Fortunately, Grace was bustling toward her, sweeping her up and into a silk-curtained alcove.
Unfortunately, the alcove was not empty. A togaed Roman sat there, holding the hand of Queen Elizabeth, who snatched her hand free as soon as they appeared. Grace didn’t seem to notice they had company until she let the curtain fall back, saying urgently, “Hope, did that pirate—” She broke off. “Oh. Sorry.” She peered at the Roman. “Sir Ernest?”
The Roman pushed up his mask and let it fall again.
As though relieved, Grace turned back to Hope. “They are friends. Is everything well with you?”
“He—that pirate—gave me this for you.” Hope handed over the paper, and definite anger flushed over Grace’s face.
“Why, the absolute scoundrel! How dare he!” She tore open the note, scanning it furiously. Her lips thinned, and she read it aloud. “I do not speak of debt but of love. If there is no other fate for me, at least allow me to say goodbye. On the small terrace, when the third dance has begun.”
“Send Oliver,” Sir Ernest the Roman advised.
“But I don’t want anyone eating their own teeth at my ball,” Grace said. “Besides, what the devil is he about? He knows he is persona non grata. I could hardly disinvite him since it would cause talk. But he should know better than even to be here.”
Sir Ernest scowled, causing his mask to twitch. “He’ll have someone else bringing Oliver, and no doubt half the ballroom, to find you on the terrace in a compromising position. It wouldn’t matter if you were forced. Your reputation would still be tarnished. But he is probably hoping for your estrangement from your husband.”
“He is an absolute blackguard,” Grace said shortly. “Why did I ever even tolerate him?”
“Boredom,” Hope said, and Grace laughed and hugged her. “Exactly. Well, I hope he enjoys his solitary half-hour on the terrace.”
“I don’t see why he should be left there in peace,” Queen Elizabeth said unexpectedly.
Grace cocked her head to one side, “What do you mean?”
“We could punish him a little…”
*
Sir Nash Boothe was not vindictive by nature. He had never regarded himself as a bad man. But he did have a right to pursue what he wanted, and Grace Wenning had become, with increasing obsession, exactly what he wanted. The trouble was, the more obsessed he grew, the cooler she became, and the time he had already devoted to the pursuit of her, surely, justified a little…manipulation.
Especially after her husband’s brutal trick to stop his duel with young Darblay. Not that shooting Grace’s brother would have put him in terribly good order with her, of course, but he had never heard that they were close. Despite his escorting her to Maida Gardens on the evening of their wager.
The truth was, he loved Grace in his own way. If she had been free, he would have married her, even though everyone knew the Darblays didn’t have a feather to fly with. But her damned husband had the ill-manners to come home from the wilds, and Boothe’s chances grew increasingly dim.
Phineas Harlaw had been right. Boothe really had invested so much time and effort on Grace that he was entitled to win her. And to use somewhat…underhand methods to do so.
And so, as he stepped through the single, open door onto a small, romantically dark terrace, he felt perfectly justified—and excited that he would win her at last. She might well be angry at his methods if she ever realized he had brought about her ruin, but by then, they would be lovers, and she would forgive him anything.
Lord Wenning, who had abandoned her on their wedding night, was clearly a slow top and a laggard in the bedchamber, too. No, he, Boothe, would give her what she had never had…
He leaned against the low wall, watching the shadows dance against the house. Like the gentle glow of light, the shadows came from the lanterns around the corner, on the larger terrace. His heart was beating fast because he didn’t doubt that she would come. He had seen the girl talking to her, and he had struck just the right note with his message.
He wasn’t sure who the girl was that he’d been dancing with. But he had seen the way Grace followed her with her eyes and knew it was someone she was responsible for. So he had used the girl as a messenger, even though it would have been easier to simply slip Grace the note.
As for the rest of his plan, that was masterful. A lesser man than Boothe would simply have used the embarrassingly obvious Maria Fitzwalter, who pursued Wenning like a lovelorn puppy. Boothe was wiser than that.
He had to acknowledge he had a talent for intrigue. In a romantic, devoted kind of way, of course. Grace would be his. Hewould be the one to finally win her, and in the full glare of…well, everyone. Especially the damned husband who had abducted him and poured brandy down his throat and set him up as Rollo Darblay’s best friend.
Later, Boothe and Grace would probably laugh about that because it had actually been quite funny. But two could play those games, and Boothe would prove the ultimate master.
The curtain covering the open door swished, and he turned to see Mary, Queen of Scots enter the terrace in her rather fetching red wig and tartan sash. Her mask was made from the same cloth as the sash, which was a perfect touch. Grace had a certain style, a certain panache, whatever she did.
She stood before him, quite still and silent.
Boothe smiled. “I knew you would come.” He strode the few steps between them and seized her in his arms.
*
Oliver was enjoying himself. In the last two years, he had become a master of social events in many different countries and cultures, watching his smile and his words and actions, making sure they were all appropriate for the occasion and perfectly natural. He was good at such things, which was why he had been picked for the embassy to China in the first place. And in truth, he enjoyed them. He liked making friends, for himself and for his country.
But this, dressing up like a boy, among a whole ballroom full of other adult children, was exactly what he needed to relax. Of course, beneath his sense of fun lurked a much more mature hum of happiness, anticipation, contentment. Because Grace was here. Even when he strolled through the card room, exchanging jokes with an amusing array of historical figures all gaming and bantering, he was aware of her presence. He didn’t need to see her all the time—although he wouldn’t mind—to rejoice in her presence.
Because finally, amazingly, they were one. Had always been, if only they had known it.
And she was more, so much more than he remembered or deserved.
This masquerade was a delightful, public end to the beginning of their reconciliation. His whole body and soul looked forward to the next stages of knowing her, loving her, in the peace of the country, side-by-side. They would always be together now, and that brought its own fierce contentment.
“Oliver.” A formidable Roman matron confronted him as soon as he stepped from the cardroom into the main ballroom.
“Honoria.” It wasn’t difficult to recognize his eldest sister. Her voice alone would have told him.
She drew him aside, leaning closer to speak quietly and urgently. “You have to stop your wife behaving with such public recklessness. Go at once to the small terrace and bring her back inside!”
Oliver blinked, half-amused, half-irritated—a common enough reaction to his sister. “Why?”
“Because someone told me quite blatantly that he had an assignation with Mary, Queen of Scots. I just saw her go out there less than five minutes after him. And dear God, the curtain is half-open! Everyone will see…”
Abruptly, Queen Elizabeth, crowned and ruffled, threaded her arm through his. “Come.”
It was a regal command, issued with apparent seriousness but all the underlying fun he had always associated with her. He did not hesitate but smiled at Honoria and walked off with his wife. Why had she changed costumes?
Unexpectedly, Honoria followed them, brisk and determined. So did Sir Ernest Leyton, and, as they drew nearer the same terrace Honoria had been going on about, several other people who were not dancing seemed to be intrigued enough to follow the procession.
Through the half-open door, he glimpsed a woman clutched in a pirate’s close embrace.
He slowed, frowning suddenly. “No. Take everyone back to—”
Grace resisted. “Trust me, Oliver.”
Even as she spoke, he realized the embrace on the terrace was one-sided. The woman, in a flash of tartan, was boxing the ears of her supposed cavalier, shoving him away from her.
A scandal was hardly what they wished their ball to be remembered for, but he could not allow such a blatant assault on a lady. He strode onto the terrace, Leyton at his heels.
“Unwelcome attentions, sir, are not tolerated,” Oliver snapped.
The assaulted Mary, Queen of Scots, clutched Leyton’s arm and, Oliver, with unusual sluggishness, finally caught on.
The pirate, undisturbed by discovery, even triumphant, judging by his curving lips, bowed elaborately. And then, abruptly, his smile vanished.
For Grace stepped elegantly forward, removing her mask. The pirate—surely the unspeakable Boothe?—met her gaze with something like horror. For two heartbeats, there was total silence.
The pirate’s Adam’s apple wobbled as he swallowed convulsively. His gaze flickered to Oliver. “I assure you my attentions were quite welcome a moment ago. No one likes to be discovered.”
“No one likes such ungentlemanly conduct. You are, sir, only pretending to piracy. I must bid you good evening.” Grace turned, showing all the avid watchers exactly who she was.
Honoria’s jaw dropped.
“Our apologies for the ill-mannered display.” Grace put her arms around the unknown Mary, Queen of Scots. “Come with me, my dear.”
A couple of footmen loomed around the corner from the larger terrace, advancing on Boothe, and Oliver almost laughed. He wanted to hug his wife in front of everyone, for she really was magnificent.
*
“Grace.”
The voice stayed her in the hallway, beyond the ballroom as she hurried the alternative Queen Mary away. Grace turned and saw Honoria, Lady Trewthorpe, pulling off her mask as though it irritated her.
“Might I have a word?” Honoria said stiffly.
Since Oliver and Sir Ernest were following in her wake, Grace stepped aside. She raised one quick, humorous eyebrow to her husband as she walked back to Honoria.
“Do you wish to be more comfortable?” Grace asked, “We can go upstairs.”
“There is no need. I won’t keep you beyond a moment.” Honoria swallowed uncomfortably. “I want to say, I am sorry. For doubting you.”
“Thank you,” Grace said in surprise.
“I always did, you know,” Honoria said in a rush. “I thought the Darblays too volatile, and you too…lightweight for Oliver, or for the position of countess. And then, when you returned alone after the wedding, I knew that Oliver had discovered I was right, that there was some skeleton in your cupboard that even he, in all his gentlemanly infatuation, could not overlook. And my cousin Phineas told me…”
Perhaps she saw the flash in Grace’s eye, for she broke off and swallowed again. She tilted her chin, though more as if seeking courage than looking down her nose at Grace.
“Oliver told me about Phineas,” Honoria said, clearly mortified. “I have never been so astonished, so disgusted in my life. It is natural to believe family over… But that is an excuse. You are my family. I apologize, and if you love Oliver, I wish you well.”
Honoria spun on her heels, taking Grace by surprise once more.
“I do love him,” Grace called after her. Honoria’s foot paused in midair. “I always did.”
Honoria glanced back over her shoulder. “Then I’m doubly sorry for what Phineas did to you.”
From Honoria, that was a handsome apology. This was, it seemed, an evening of surprises.
Grace walked on to the salon where, not so long ago, Oliver had held his apparent all-night card party. There, she swapped masks with Frances Caldwell once more, received back her tartan sash, and returned the crown to Frances.
Oliver was smiling as he stepped around to retie her sash for her. Sir Ernest was helping pin the crown to Frances’s wig.
“That was rather well done,” Oliver said admiringly. “Whose idea was it?”
“Frances,” Sir Ernest said proudly. “She happened to be there when her ladyship received the note. And I have to say, once they swapped masks and so on, Frances almost became Lady Wenning. Her every movement, every gesture could have been your wife.”
“I am an actress,” Frances said dryly.
Sir Ernest smiled fondly. “And I have never been prouder of your talents. No wonder Boothe was fooled.”
“Actually, there was an instant when I was fooled,” Oliver confessed. “And I knew Grace was beside me! Although I was reprehensibly slow in working out what was going on.”
“I didn’t have time to tell you,” Grace said, “But I could not let him ruin the trust we have only just won…” Aware she had said too much before Sir Ernest and Frances, she broke off with a glance of apology.
But to her surprise, Oliver caught her chin between his finger and thumb, forcing her gaze back to his. “That would never have happened,” he said deliberately. “Never.”
With something approaching wonder, she read the truth in his intense, serious eyes, and could not help smiling as he deliberately kissed her lips.
“What’s more, our ball is not ruined,” Oliver added, his voice a caress. “And I was about to ask my wife for the supper waltz.”
“If nothing else,” Sir Ernest murmured. “It will give the gossips something else to talk about.”
Reluctantly, it seemed, Oliver released her and turned to Frances with a graceful bow. “Mrs. Caldwell, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. Thank you for your assistance.”
The actress, suddenly diffident once more, gave an uncertain smile as she shyly laid her hand in his. “There is no need of thanks. Lady Wenning has been kind to me and given Sir Ernest and me sound advice.”
“Which we mean to follow,” Sir Ernest added.
“I am glad,” Oliver said warmly, releasing her, “and wish you all the best. And now, my lady, shall we dance?”
*
Instead of leaving a nasty taste behind, the contretemps on the small terrace seemed to vanish into the fun of the ball. Even dancing with her husband was only remarked because no one was quite sure anymore exactly who Mary, Queen of Scots was behind the mask. Grace did not really care. She had waltzed with “Rudolf,” of course, but it was more than two years since she had waltzed with her husband as the earl. And it was both achingly familiar and intriguingly different.
A deep sense of comfort was growing beneath the pleasure and excitement of the ball. She knew she smiled a great deal during the dance, yet they spoke little.
When the dance ended, it was Herries, the butler, who gravely declared the unmasking. Grace and her earl gravely untied each other’s masks.
“No more hiding,” he murmured in her ear.
“No more,” she agreed, smiling.
There was a moment when their eyes met in silent communication, and then they were parted by the laughing throng, who couldn’t understand how or why she kept swapping from Queen Mary to Elizabeth and back but found it a great joke.
Laughing, she finally found her husband’s arm once more, and they walked into supper and a new life without secrets and full of hope, excitement, and love.
Epilogue
Late September 1817
The harvest was in, and the days were turning cooler. But in a wink of late afternoon sunlight, Grace ordered tea set up on the terrace. There would only be herself and her husband, and possibly Rollo, although sometimes he stayed out in the fields all day. She would say this for her brother—he did everything with enthusiasm. He looked better for his stay at Harcourt, too. The outdoor life, with earlier nights and less drinking, was definitely good for him, although there was no guarantee he would stick to such a life when he left them.
Oliver slipped onto the chair beside her, and she smiled because she knew it was him without looking.
“Tea, my lord?”
“Thank you, my lady.” Casually, he threw a letter on the table. She recognized it as the one that had come from London that morning.
“A summons?” she asked lightly, passing him his tea.
He helped himself to a sandwich. “The warning of one. Castlereagh wants me to lead a special mission to the Ottoman Empire. And if I succeed even partially, I should then have my pick of posts at home or abroad. Including a cabinet position if I want it.”
She blinked. “Do you?”
“I don’t know. Yet. If I take the Ottoman posting, it will mean setting off in the spring and being away for at least six months.”
Her stomach twisted. They had grown so close, lived so happily here, but she had always known it could not last. And yet she found it ridiculously hard to ask the question: Do you want me with you?
“I thought,” Oliver said, caressing the handle of his teacup, “that, if you were willing, we could, perhaps, depart ahead of time. Leave here in early November and enjoy a belated wedding trip through Europe before we end in Constantinople. Would you like that?”
