Lady Dearing's Masquerade (2 page)

The Turk’s loud voice boomed again. “I’ll see your face before the night’s done, you jade!”

Death steered her ever faster through the crowd, then pushed her gently against one of the pillars that lined the sides of the ballroom. Shielding her with his body, he pressed her head to his shoulder and draped his cloak around her.

Her heart galloped as his muscular form pressed against hers. First in fear, then, as he did nothing more, an old, familiar heat flowed through her, stoked by the sharp intake of his breath, the betrayal of his unmistakable masculine reaction to their closeness.

It was wonderful and terrifying.

And all he did was hold her. He made no attempt to kiss or fondle her, merely hiding her under his cloak, his body subtly vibrating with his restraint. Nothing more. He demanded nothing more.

Desire flushed her body, and she stiffened. She couldn’t allow this, didn’t want to feel anything like it again. But she didn’t wish to run away either. So they stood for long moments, pressed so close that she could barely distinguish his labored breathing from her own, while desire ebbed and flowed with her fears.

Then he shifted. “I think . . . he is gone,” he whispered.

She looked up at him, but it was too dark to see his face. His ragged breath spoke of arousal. The heat rose inside her again, like a madness. Recklessly, she stretched upward, on tiptoes and raised her face to him. Another tortured breath, and he lowered his face to hers.

His kiss was shockingly sweet: shy, hesitant, as he pressed his lips almost chastely against hers and stilled his body. As if he guessed what she wanted when she herself had not known. Dreamily, she succumbed to pleasure; she parted her lips and kissed him back, relishing the firm roundness of his lips, the taste of him, the merest hint of wine on his breath.

She gasped as the stranger’s tongue curled around hers. Shocked, she submitted to his slow, tentative exploration, sensing she had but to say the word and he would stop. But she didn’t wish to stop him. She lifted her arms to embrace him, ventured to flick her tongue against his. A shudder ran through his body; he let out a low groan, yet did nothing but kiss her.

Walter had never kissed her like this; she had not known that anyone
could
kiss so.

Then thoughts of Walter fled. The stranger deepened his kiss; she let out a little moan of pleasure. He pressed against her more closely and she tightened her embrace, whimpering, returning each flutter of his tongue. She felt safe yet lost, feasting yet hungry, helpless with longing for more.

A chill came over her. She froze, then pulled her face away.

She had vowed never to be helpless again.

“I cannot . . . I am sorry. Let me go,” she whispered.

For a moment Death continued to press her against the pillar, the rhythm of his breath harsh, his body hard.

“Please,” she begged, terror constricting her throat. “Let me go. I should never have come!”

Then he backed away, slowly releasing her. As she slid out from under his cloak, she nearly wept with relief. He was a gentleman after all.

“Forgive me,” he said in one shuddering breath. “Please don’t be frightened. I won’t touch you again if you don’t wish, but please let me—”

His eyes were dark, full of desire and remorse; his voice low and caressing. She was touched, but it was wrong to stay. It was terribly wrong of her to have encouraged him.

“I must go,” she interrupted before she changed her mind. “Please don’t follow me!”

Legs shaking, she ran along the side of the room, vaguely aware of curious glances as she dodged groups of people in garish costumes, bumping into some. She rushed into the sparsely filled entrance hall. Thank God! There was Charles, solid and reliable, coming forward and holding her dark blue evening cloak.

“Is someone causing you trouble, ma’am?” he asked worriedly.

“No, no, but I must leave now.” Frantically, she pulled on her cloak and lifted the hood over her head.

Then a mad indecision came over her. She glanced back toward the ballroom. Had the stranger followed her, to make sure she left safely?

“There you are! Promised myself I’d see your face, and more, before the night’s through!”

She began to tremble. The Turk was approaching. She’d forgotten him, but now there was no choice but to leave.

“You’ll not touch my mistress,” said Charles, interposing his formidable mass between Livvy and the oncoming man.

“Leave the lady be!” Death’s resonant voice rang through the entrance hall. Livvy peered around Charles and saw the Turk turn to face his antagonist.

“Who the devil are you and how are you going to stop me?” the Turk asked, with all the bravado of a drunkard.

In two swift strides, Death closed the distance between them; in another heartbeat, his fist swung into the Turk’s jaw, knocking him to the floor.

A woman screamed. Several persons started toward them.

“We must go, my lady!” said Charles.

Death stood over the Turk’s rolling and cursing form, eyes blazing grimly through the holes in his mask.

The Turk staggered to his feet. “Damn you, you doxy!” he shouted, staring at Livvy, then at Charles, then back to Livvy. “I’ve a notion who you are, and once—”

He lunged toward Death, only to be knocked neatly to the floor again. More screams echoed. A crowd began to form.

“We must go,” insisted Charles. Putting an impersonal arm around Livvy, he half-led, half-dragged her away.

She stumbled along, not daring to look back. Death was more than a match for the Turk. There was no need to worry about him, or even to think about him ever again. They’d shared a few dances. A kiss. Anything more was unthinkable. Impossible. And it always would be.

She choked back a sob as Charles helped her into the carriage. This was just a temporary madness. She would laugh about it tomorrow. But as she watched the Pantheon recede through the window, it was all Livvy could do not to cry.

* * *

The Morning Intelligencer,
March 10, 1809

The Author of this column thought himself inured to the Licentious Behavior commonly displayed by Persons attending those most Iniquitous of Entertainments, Masked Balls at the Pantheon Theatre. However, at Yesterday’s Ball, even this Author was shocked by the behavior of a certain Lady D— of Kent, a Widow, who was seen sporting with Lord A—, a Nobleman known for his Promiscuous Inclinations. It is this Author’s regretful conviction that Lady D— will continue to welcome Solace for her Loneliness from such Gentlemen who prefer Beauty and a Liberal Character to Modesty and Virtue.

Chapter 1

April 15, 1812

”Promise me you won’t do anything hasty!”

Sir Jeremy Fairhill frowned, listening to Lord Bromhurst’s warning as they strode along the plain but scrupulously clean halls of the Foundling Hospital. How could he convey to his friend the sense of urgency he’d felt ever since he’d spoken to the matron?

“I know it seems sudden,” he replied. “I said nothing to Mrs. Hill yet, but as soon as she told me about the child I knew it was meant to be.”

“Have you thought how it will look?” Bromhurst scowled and came to a halt. Almost as tall as Jeremy and much stouter, with grizzled hair and fierce eyebrows over steely gray eyes, he could seem intimidating to anyone who did not know he bore one of the kindest hearts in England.

“Some people may misconstrue the situation, but—”

“You don’t know the half of it! As President of the Board of Governors, I have over four hundred souls to think of—and perhaps more in the future, God willing! I owe it to them to maintain the good name of our institution.”

“I understand,” said Jeremy soothingly. “But will you at least allow me to broach the matter to the General Committee?”

Bromhurst continued to frown. “I would rather you took some time to think it over. Better yet, sleep on it.”

“I shall not change my mind. I owe this to Cecilia, to her memory.”

Finally, an opportunity to make things right.

“Oh very well then, we’re already late. Talk to the Committee. We’ll see what they think.”

“Thank you!”

Bromhurst made a harrumphing sound and stomped off. Jeremy followed him. A minute later they entered the Committee Room, simply furnished but graced by the famous painting of
The March to Finchley
that Hogarth himself had donated to the Hospital half a century before. A dozen or so heads turned as Jeremy and his friend entered and made their apologies, then the next hour or so was spent on routine Hospital business. Jeremy forced himself to attend, though the information he’d just learned from Mrs. Hill, the matron, dominated his thoughts.

He’d never felt so sure of fate playing a hand in his life.

Looking about the long table, his heart warmed. Unlike the majority of the hundreds of Governors, who contented themselves with making donations, this group undertook the day-to-day administration of the charity. Consisting of lords, clergy, merchants and professional men, it was one of the most generous and forward-thinking group of men anywhere. They were his friends. They would support him.

The twinkle of a large diamond drew Jeremy’s eye to the elaborately tied cravat of Sir Digby Pettleworth, the newest member of the Committee. Well, most of them were his friends.

“Sir Jeremy,” said Bromhurst, recalling his attention. “Please present the status for the branch hospital project.”

His was the last item on the agenda.

“I have sent about a half-dozen more letters of solicitation, and received two new pledges this past week,” he reported. “If all continues well, we may be in a position to begin the search for a suitable tract of land next year.”

 “Excellent,” said Bromhurst with a hearty smile, echoed by nods and smiles around the room.

They would understand his latest resolve, too.

“I have one other matter to bring forward,” said Jeremy, raising his voice slightly.

The group silenced, waiting for him to speak again.

“Earlier today I had occasion to speak to Mrs. Hill. After our business was complete, she reminisced about my wife’s visits to the Hospital, and let fall that Lady Fairhill used to take great pleasure in playing with a certain girl. Mary Simms.”

He glanced around, noticing arrested expressions on some of the faces around the table.

“On her deathbed,” he continued, “my wife begged me to care for someone named Mary, but she did not mention a surname. Her father suggested that she referred to a childhood friend who was in indigent circumstances. Although I helped the young lady toward a good marriage, I never felt satisfied that I fulfilled my wife’s wish. But as soon as Mrs. Hill mentioned her, I felt certain that it was Mary Simms she spoke of.”

“What did Mrs. Hill say? Is the girl of an age to enter domestic service?” asked the Archbishop.

Jeremy shook his head. “It is of no consequence. I am convinced my wife wanted me to raise Mary as a daughter. As the child we never had.”

“That is unheard of,” drawled Sir Digby Pettleworth, an unpleasant sneer on his sallow face. “No one takes these children to raise as their own.”

Jeremy saw a worried frown cross Bromhurst’s face.

“Besides,” continued Sir Digby, “everyone would say Mary must be your child. How would it look?”

“Malicious individuals might make that construction,” said Jeremy, carefully masking his annoyance. “However, if it is made known that I am taking Mary in to fulfill my wife’s deathbed wish, I believe no one will be surprised.”

A number of the other Governors nodded kindly. Jeremy suppressed a pang at the near-legendary status his marriage to Cecilia held in everyone’s minds. At least it would serve him well now, to aid him in fulfilling her last request.

“I’m afraid there is a problem,” said Bromhurst, rubbing the side of his nose.

“What is it?” Jeremy asked when Bromhurst hesitated.

“Mrs. Hill did not tell you that Mary is no longer at the Hospital?”

“No, I had not the time to question her. You cannot mean Mary has been apprenticed out already?”

“No, she is not old enough.”

Jeremy leaned forward, confused by Bromhurst’s reluctance to continue. “Then where is she?”

“At Rosemead Park,” said Bromhurst finally.

“Gad! Lady Dearing’s home?” Sir Digby exclaimed. “You don’t say so! What would one of the foundlings be doing
there
?”

Jeremy flashed a questioning look at Bromhurst.

“It happened several years ago, before you joined the Committee,” Bromhurst explained. “Lady Dearing is a widow, and having no children of her own, she wished to take one of the girls to raise. An unusual request, but her friends, Viscount Debenham and his wife, assured me of her character. The matter was discussed by the members of the Committee, and we decided to grant her request.”

“You could not have had any idea of the woman’s reputation!” said Sir Digby, somehow managing to sound shocked and delighted at once.

The fop had a damned unmanly predilection for gossip.

“What do you mean?” Jeremy asked bluntly.

“I realize that most of you gentlemen do not move in fashionable circles,” said Sir Digby, with a patronizing look about the room. “But I would have thought Lord Bromhurst and Sir Jeremy might have known.”

“I am not conversant with the latest on-dits, but I cannot believe that Lord Bromhurst would allow an improper person to take charge of any of our children,” Jeremy said, and turned his gaze back to his friend.

“Of course not!” Bromhurst scowled. “There
was
some damaging gossip published about the lady some years ago, but I am certain the children are perfectly well in her care.”

“The children?” Jeremy lifted an eyebrow. “How many of our children are at Rosemead Park?”

“Four in total. After the first case, I decided to exercise my discretion as President and allow her to take in three more.”

Some of the other Governors looked surprised.

“I for one am not easy with the situation,” said the Archbishop querulously. “I cannot help wondering if she is merely amusing herself by overindulging them. This might be a good opportunity for Sir Jeremy to conduct an investigation.”