Unmasking the Hero, page 5
Blinking back the foolish tears, she released the note and dropped the bracelet into her reticule. Then, after glancing behind her once more for any unwelcome company, she unfolded the paper.
Yours, I believe.
There is something else you should know. If you are curious, come to the next masked ball this Saturday.
Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
From death to life, thou mightst him yet recover.
She frowned. It was not signed. She could not even be sure it came from the stranger. He could have been simply the messenger. Either way, he had found the bracelet and returned it to her.
She rose, rereading the note as she followed his trail to the path. He had not used the bracelet to entice her. But still, he asked. Did he, too, feel that tug of forbidden attraction? Or was there really something important he wanted her to know? About what? Was someone dying? The lines at the end seemed to suggest so, and yet they read like poetry and made no other kind of sense.
Was he deep in some melancholy and needed her help? There was no doubt she owed him a debt for the return of the bracelet, and she would not willingly see another human being so low. He had not seemed blue-devilled, just very much in control, which could have hidden anything.
Well, she didn’t have to make any such decision right now. Though she doubted her chances of persuading Rollo to escort her a second time.
She had the waiting hackney drop her at Bridget’s house in Brook Street, since they had planned to spend the morning together at a newly fashionable modiste. And as soon as she was alone with Bridget, she showed her the bracelet.
Bridget exclaimed with gratifying delight. “Where did you find it? Was it in the house all along?”
“No, at Maida Gardens. Someone found it there.”
“And did not steal it? Either they didn’t recognize its worth, or the place is not as bad as its reputation.”
Grace eyed her speculatively. “Would you consider going on Saturday night? For the masquerade ball? Incognito, of course. Would Arpington escort us?”
“He might,” Bridget replied, shifting uneasily in her chair. “But Grace, Lord Wenning will be home by then, and you really should not put his back up with any of your mad starts.”
“I have no interest whatever in the position of his back. I shall not let his return make one whit of difference to my plans.”
“But I thought you were going to the country?”
“I still might. But I refuse to look as if I’m running away from Wenning. And I have a notion to go to Maida again when I can be relaxed enough to enjoy it, without worrying about silly wagers and avoiding people like Nash Boothe.”
“I should think the masked balls are full of people considerably less manageable than Nash Boothe.”
“Which is why it would be more comfortable to have Lord Arpington with us. But in truth, although the affair was a lot less formal than we are used to, I saw nothing exceptionable there. Not inside the ballroom, at any rate. And, of course, we would leave before the unmasking. Unless…we could get up a large party for the occasion. With lots of our friends. A daring expedition! And there is always safety in numbers.”
Bridget laughed. “You are mad! Let us leave aside the large party for now! But I’ll agree to the smaller if Arpington does. Providing Wenning does not put the hems on it, of course.”
“Wenning is in no position to control anything I do.”
“He is your husband, Grace.”
“If he does not remember that, I see no reason why I should.”
Bridget bit her lip as though unsure whether to laugh or try to talk sense into her. In the end, she changed the subject, though only slightly.
“Do you go to Lady Trewthorpe’s soiree tomorrow evening? Do you suppose Wenning will be there?”
“I have no idea.”
“Then he is not home yet?”
Grace shrugged. “I don’t know. I believe they are only expected in Southampton today, and I left early for Maida Gardens.”
“Perhaps you should go home and see.”
“I would rather go to the dressmaker’s. If I like her, I might order a new riding habit in that adorable green velvet I bought at the Pantheon Bazaar.”
Bridget nodded and stood up. “Very well, let us go. But Grace?”
Grace glanced at her, brows raised.
“Be careful what games you play,” Bridget begged. “He may deserve a metaphorical smack, but never forget that he holds the power.”
*
Grace had never forgotten where the power lay, not once in the two years they had been apart.
Perhaps that was why, on Friday afternoon, her heart seemed to be jammed in her throat as she returned to her Mount Street home. She had just attended a Venetian breakfast in Lady Mary’s garden, which had been pleasantly distracting. But now, unpleasant reality, in the shape of her returning husband, intruded with a vengeance.
She didn’t expect him to show any interest in her, but if he did, she had a thousand and one ways of keeping him at arm’s length—learned from managing her occasionally turbulent and rakish court.
It was an effort, as she stepped down from the carriage and ascended the steps to the front door, to retain her attitude of careless calm, but she tried her best.
Of course, the footmen did not declare, “He’s home!” Or “We’re still waiting for him!” She wished they would, just so that she would know. Even breathing was painful as she entered the house.
And saw at once that he was home.
Trunks and bags were piled in the front hall. Some of them she even recognized from their abandoned wedding journey, which hadn’t got further than Worthing. She paused, eyeing the baggage without favor.
“Has someone come to stay?” she inquired of Herries, the butler, who was making his stately way across the hall.
“His lordship has returned, my lady,” he said, beaming.
“Then be so good as to have his bags taken at once to his rooms. It cannot be a happy return to find his servants have grown lax in his absence.”
“His lordship—”
“Now, Herries, if you please,” she said pleasantly. It was possible he was leaving again immediately or was unsure of his welcome until he had spoken to her. Or wondered which room to have them taken to. “I cannot be falling over these all day. I’m assuming you remember where his lordship’s rooms are?”
“Yes, my lady,” Herries said warily as she stepped delicately between trunks and made for the stairs.
“Er… Where is his lordship?” she inquired casually.
“He has gone out, my lady.”
Of course he had. She didn’t know if she felt more relieved or furious. Having worked herself up to meet him, he had put off the inevitable, and she must suffer more hours of purgatory.
There was only one thing to do in the circumstances. Invite herself to dine with her parents.
Chapter Five
“So, Wenning is home,” her father, Viscount Darblay, said, frowning over his wine glass at her. It was as close as he came to looking disapproving.
“Well, his bags are home,” Grace said, “I can only assume he is somewhere close by.”
Her little sister, Hope, all of fifteen years old, giggled, and Grace allowed herself a quick, subtle wink in her direction.
“But Grace, don’t you feel you should dine at home on his first day back?” her mother said anxiously.
Grace picked up her fork. “Why? I doubt he does. I’m sure we shall meet in the fullness of time.”
“I will meet with him,” her father promised. “Very soon. Dashed insulting way to behave. I was very angry at the time.” He took a sip of wine and made a discovery. “Still angry.”
“Feel free to call tomorrow,” Grace invited. “Talk vaguely about annulments and lawsuits.”
“I could only talk vaguely,” her father assured her. “The settlements were all on his side, and I can’t give most of ’em back. But we’re not no one. The Darblay family is older than his, and he has no business scampering off to enjoy himself when he should have been escorting you on your wedding trip. Downright offensive.”
“Well, it was a very flattering position he had been offered,” her mother put in, always anxious to keep the peace. “And so young. I’m sure he thought it was for the best, for both of them. And you do like being the Countess of Wenning, don’t you, my dear?”
“The title has a certain cachet and opens many doors,” Grace said lazily.
“And offers certain protections for behaving badly,” her father put in unexpectedly.
“I never behave badly,” Grace said. “I am merely on the fast side of fashionable.”
“Hmm,” her father said, eyeing her with unusual fatherly interest. “See much of your brother?”
“Lord, no. Though he did oblige me with an escort the other evening.”
“Wouldn’t let him too often. Going to the devil, is Rollo.”
“Only according to some,” Grace soothed. According to others, he was merely following in his father’s hedonistic footsteps. “What have you been doing since you came to town, Hope?”
“Shopping,” Hope said gloomily.
“She keeps growing,” their mother sighed. “But she has no interest in clothing.”
“There are excellent book shops,” Grace offered. “I’ll take you to a coupletomorrow if you wish.”
Hope’s face lit up. “Really? What about the British Museum?”
“Maybe the day after. I have a social flibbertigibbet reputation to keep up, you know. I can’t have the word spread that I am a secret bluestocking.”
Hope snorted, and their mother beamed. “Especially not now your husband is home to enjoy the social whirl with you.”
*
On leaving her parents, Grace knew a cowardly urge to slope back home and hide from her husband until she felt stronger. But since she had no guarantees that he would not be there expecting to see her, and she had already promised herself and anyone else who would listen that she would not change her plans for him…
She took a deep breath and directed her coachman to Lady Trewthorpe’s residence in Barclay Square.
Lady Trewthorpe was Wenning’s eldest sister, so Grace felt quite justified in dispensing with the conventional male escort and arrived alone. Such boldness tended to draw all eyes, and for once, this suited her perfectly.
She had dressed for the evening with a care she would admit to no one. Her glossy black locks shone, highlighted by the diamonds winking in her hair. She wore an evening gown of sheer, deep-red muslin net over a cream silk underdress. The decolletage was not as low as some, but she liked the way the bodice clung to her shape. A necklace of tiny rubies was wound around her throat, with matching drops in her ears. But she did not wear the recently retrieved bracelet, though it actually went very well with the whole ensemble.
With her head held high and a faint smile on her lips, she walked unhurriedly upstairs to the salons. Here, she found Lord and Lady Trewthorpe welcoming their guests. And if her ladyship’s smile slipped very slightly when she caught sight of Grace—well, that could easily have been Grace’s unkind imagination.
“Grace, how delightful! I was not sure you would come.”
“Honoria,” Grace returned, not even bothering to kiss the air above her sister-in-law’s cheek, as Honoria did to hers. “How could I not?” She turned to her host. “My lord, you look well.”
“And you are ravishing as always,” Trewthorpe assured her, causing his wife an instant of clear irritation.
Grace smiled beatifically and passed into the first salon, where, it seemed, all eyes were avidly awaiting her. Under normal circumstances, she would be quickly surrounded by male admirers, and tonight, several men, including Sir Nash Boothe, did smile and bow to her. But came no closer.
Then he is here.
She was glad of the moment’s warning. From the first salon, doors at either end of the room led to others. Since she had already turned left to receive a glass of wine from the liveried footman, she kept walking in that direction. She meant to pause and talk to friends who were beckoning to her, but without warning, a gentleman appeared in the doorway, and her breath stopped.
Oliver Harlaw, fifth Earl of Wenning, was everything she remembered and more. Tall, handsome in an angular kind of way, his black hair cropped fashionably short. She knew formidable intelligence and sharp observation lurked behind the deceptively amiable dark eyes. There had never been anything soft about Lord Wenning, except, she had once foolishly imagined his feelings for her.
All of that, she remembered as if he had never been away. But she couldn’t recall him being quite such a powerful presence. Surely, his shoulders had filled out further, and something had changed in his posture. A casual yet commanding poise that suddenly made nonsense of all her petty revenge plans.
But the world was watching. Even the chatter in the room had stilled to little above a murmur as all avid eyes turned toward this meeting, which would, she knew, be gossiped about and analyzed for days.
And so, she only smiled and nodded at her friends and passed on toward the door. For his part, her husband—husband, dear God!—strolled into the room. They were on a collision course, and she had no hope of avoiding him.
She had never intended to. As they drew nearer each other, she almost heard the room’s collective intake of breath. His gaze locked with hers, and it felt like a blow to the chest. She could read nothing in his expression. Neither pleasure nor regret, let alone annoyance or even recognition. But he had seen her, had recognized her. Somehow, she knew that much.
About two yards away, he came to a halt and bowed. His face was darker, bronzed by foreign sun and weeks spent at sea.
She halted, too, and curtseyed. “My lord. Welcome home,” she said amiably and passed on to the door without another word or backward glance.
*
She was, the Earl of Wenning had to admit, magnificent. She had put him in his place firmly and publicly and with perfect courtesy. Part of him might have wished she had whitened, dropped her glass, and crumpled into his arms in grateful joy. But by now, he knew that would not happen. He had been sure she would keep her dignity, but he hadn’t expected her to outplay him at his own game.
He might have deserved it, but he didn’t have to like it. He was left looking, he suspected, like a callow boy who had just had the impertinence to accost, without introduction, an accredited beauty who also happened to be a lady of the first rank and importance.
He allowed himself to watch her graceful back only for an instant before he turned and walked on. The noise started up again, since the show, for now, was over. He hoped Honoria appreciated how much he and Grace had done for her attendance numbers.
His gaze fell on a familiar and much missed figure just entering the room, and he swerved toward him, smiling. “Ern!” He thrust out his hand to his old friend, Sir Ernest Leyton, and they shook warmly. “I hoped I would see you here.”
“Likewise, although after such a journey, I half-expected you to sleep for a week.”
“Nothing to do on journeys but sleep! Thank you for your letters. They kept me sane.”
“Thank you for yours. At least I could tell your wife you were not dead.”
“Not here, Leyton,” Wenning murmured, keeping the smile fixed to his face.
“Nor anywhere, I suppose. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how ill you behaved.”
“You already have,” Wenning pointed out. “Without hearing all my reasons.”
“Tell them to your wife first.”
“Stop it,” Wenning said. “Or I’ll change my mind and tell Honoria I shall sing this evening.”
Leyton gave one of his reluctant laughs. “God preserve us all from that fate. What’s happening through there?”
“Some sprig declaiming bad verse. But I believe we are about to begin the main event. Honoria claims to have found a tenor to die for.”
As word got around, even before Honoria’s announcement, guests began to drift in from the other two salons to hear the promised singer. Wenning was greeted by lots of other people, all apparently delighted to see him back and promising themselves to hear all his stories about the east in the very near future.
As the tenor approached the pianoforte, Wenning had reached the outskirts of the avid audience and saw a carelessly dressed young man amble in from the left-hand door. He had to look twice before he recognized Rollo Darblay, who had still been at Oxford when Wenning had married his sister. He now looked to be a very rakish young man about town. Until the tenor began to sing, and an expression of outrage crossed Rollo’s face as he made a quick escape into the passage.
Wenning moved on his leisurely way, reflecting that the tenor did indeed have a wonderful voice. On any other evening, he might have sat down to enjoy it to the full. On this evening, he had a more pressing desire.
At the door of the left-hand salon, he saw that the room was quiet. Two ladies and a young man talked quietly near the fireplace. At the middle of three tall window, his wife stood perfectly still, gazing out at the night. In profile, she was elegant, poised, breathtaking.
God, she was beautiful. He remembered her slender, elegant neck, the way her naked body had arched when he had kissed her nape. The memory fed his sudden, flaring desire and the old, familiar ache in his heart.
But he had run away long enough. He walked into the room.
*
“Good God,” Grace had murmured, coming across Rollo in the second salon, where a poet was holding forth with great drama. “You look very like my brother.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have come,” Rollo said, casting a look of disgust at the poet. “Thing is, I heard Wenning would be here, and thought I should warn you. In case you didn’t know already.”
“Why, Rollo, that was kind,” Grace said, impressed and touched.
“I thought so, but this is devilish, Grace. I don’t know how you can stand such stuff. I was keeping my eye on Wenning, but I don’t see him now.”
“He’s in the other room,” Grace said calmly, although the fingers holding her untouched glass of wine had a tendency to shake. “We said good evening.”
