The Reckless One (21 page)

Tunbridge burst through Carr’s library door. “Carr! Great news! At last!”

Carr, in the process of searching through a pile of promissory notes, deeds, wills, letters, and the occasional confession, looked up sharply. “Pray shut the door, Tunbridge,” he said, and began stacking the papers.

He’d been looking for a particularly damning love letter but that could wait. It was more important that he must not seem overly concerned with the sheets on his desk. He mustn’t let Tunbridge know that he was seeing the source upon which hung Carr’s future power and prestige.

“Now,” Carr said, snipping off a length of twine and tying the papers into two separate bundles, “What is this wondrous news?”

“The king is dead! George is dead!” Tunbridge said. He braced his hands flat on the desk and leaned over it. “Do you hear me, Carr? George II died October 25. His grandson is now king.”

“Grandson?” Carr repeated. After all these years finally …

“Yes.” Tunbridge nodded vigorously. “And as all Hanovers hate their successors, George hated his grandson and the grandson returned the sentiment. This new king is young, Carr, malleable and eager.”

“He will rescind his grandfather’s edict concerning me?” Carr asked, careful not to reveal his anxiety.

“He wouldn’t even
know
about it.”

Carr surged forward, thrusting his face close to Tunbridge’s smirking visage. “Be careful, sir. I will not be disappointed in this.”

“I am certain of it!” Tunbridge avowed. “George spent so many of his last years abroad he barely knew the boy. The young king will have scant time for his grandfather’s personal enmities, I assure you.”

“Where did you hear this news?”

“From Lord Edgar, not an hour ago. I was leaving the castle as he arrived. He’d come directly from St. James’s Palace itself.”

“Where is he now?”

“In his chambers, asleep I should imagine. He’s exhausted. Rode straight through.”

Slowly, Carr straightened. “I see.”

Tunbridge took a deep breath and pushed himself upright from the desk. “I have served you well these many years, Carr.”

“Ay? Oh. Yes,” Carr acknowledged distractedly.

No more George. How very ironic. He’d intended to return to London this winter regardless of the old king’s banishment of him. He’d finally accrued enough “influences”—his fingertips caressed the stack of papers to his right—to defy the edict that had exiled him to Scotland.

Now, with that sentence finally reprieved he could … by God! He could marry again!

“Your Grace?”

Tunbridge broke through his thoughts. He was inclined to feel magnanimous toward the bearer of such wonderful news. “Yes?”

“You’ll want to alert your staff.”

“Good idea, Tunbridge. I shall set them to packing forthwith. I don’t suppose I can expect to leave before week’s end?”

“Sir?” Tunbridge blinked.

“Well, you don’t think I’d leave my treasures behind here? The place can burn for all I care but not before I divest it of its valuables.” Carr pulled his stack of correspondence toward him. “I’ll want all the silver and jewelry to come directly with me. The paintings and statuary should follow in wagons at the same time—art makes a fine investment and that’s as good a piece of financial advice as ever you’re likely to get.”

“Ah, yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Come, come, Tunbridge. Why do you look so confused?”

“I was speaking of alerting the staff to the matter of tonight’s masque.”

“What of the masque?” He would need to see about those tapestries, too. Hideous gloomy things but he’d been told they were worth a pretty penny.

“The king has died. The castle must go into mourning.”

Mourning,
when all he wanted to do was celebrate? Nonsense. Besides, with George’s death things between him and Janet had suddenly, drastically, changed. The thought brought with it a smile.

He was rushing his fences. First he needed to summon Janet to him and in order to do that he needed to see Favor Donne. Alone. It had been a task he’d yet to achieve; it would prove impossible if she followed what would become an exodus heading back to London for the king’s funeral.

“You say Edgar has retired to his chambers. Did he come with any others?”

“No.”

“Did he speak to anyone else?”

“No,” Tunbridge said thoughtfully. “The Highgates arrived with a large party as we spoke but poor Edgar was so exhausted he barely nodded before seeking his bed.”

“Then the Highgates know nothing of the king’s death.”

“That’s correct.”

Carr’s glance fell to the drawer that held his special elixirs. “Tunbridge, you will leave for London on the morrow. In the meantime keep to your room. That way no one can accuse you of keeping the sovereign’s death secret, nor me of hearing and then disregarding it.”

“You are risking a great deal,” Tunbridge said. “There are those who would call knowingly holding a revelry during a period of national mourning sedition. What if Edgar tells someone?”

“Edgar,” Carr said smoothly, “will not be waking anytime soon. His trip, which you already noted left him depleted, has turned into something more dire.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“But what of his servants?”

“I shall send them away. What with Edgar’s undiagnosed malady, I cannot risk the health of my guests by exposing them to possible contaminants.”

“They may already have told other servants.”

Carr sighed. He was fast tiring of Tunbridge’s fretfulness. Most unmanly. He’d been considering giving Tunbridge back the deed to his family manse. Now he saw that the fellow didn’t deserve such a gift.

“Let them,” Carr said. “There have been rumors of George’s death half a dozen times in as many years. Who is going to blame me for not listening to servants’ gossip?”

“You have, as always, accounted for every contingency,” Tunbridge said admiringly.

“Yes,” Carr said, “I have.”

“And soon you will reign once more in London, powerful, respected, feared, courted—”

“Yes, yes, yes. Out with it, Tunbridge before your tongue rots the leather of my new boots.”

The thin, pale man grew paler. Bloodless white outlined the flesh about his narrow lips.

“Well?”

“You’ve achieved your goal without having to threaten, blackmail, or coerce another man.”

“Yes,” Carr said, wondering a little at the dissatisfaction that suddenly crept over him. “So?”

“You don’t need me anymore.”

“I never did need you, Tunbridge. I found you convenient.” Carr smiled. “I still do.”

The heat was stultifying and the racket ear-splitting. The spectacle of three hundred people vying to be the brightest, the gaudiest, and the most outrageous hurt the eye and robbed breath from the lungs. Carr had declared this to be Wanton’s Blush’s Last Masque and since rumors had spread that Carr intended to quit Wanton’s Blush for London, his guests were rabidly determined to make the ball memorable.

Encased in bizarre costumes, burdened by towering headdresses and extravagant wigs, they strutted about with a formality belied by the open leer that was their universal expression, made prim by clothes stiff with gems, brilliants, and paste. Like grotesque hedgehogs in bejeweled armor, they circled the rooms in a stately waddle, undressing each other with their eyes.

And, truth be told, they’d not much undressing to do. Skirts dragged the floor under the weight of pearl and crystal and heavy gold trim. Coats crunched as gemstones grated against each other with the slightest movement. But other parts of their anatomy were bare—both men’s and women’s—displaying only salved and scented flesh. A great deal of flesh.

There was no risk. For who could tell who hid beneath Prospero’s black silk domino, or the feathered mask of the Swan Queen? And if the answer to that was “many,” few would admit it. For anonymity was the
raison d’être
of a masque. Tonight no one would know with whom they flirted and danced and dallied.

Except Carr. He knew every one of his guests’ identities. Later he would make certain they all knew it. At the moment, however, he cared little who groped whom. Only one woman concerned him. His little Scot.

He’d spotted her a few minutes earlier. He was still amazed by her audacity even though Miss Donne was one of the few women who had not contrived to bare at least one breast.

She’d found another way to excite the most jaded of interest.

She wore an
arisaid,
the traditional plaid scarf of the Highland Scotswoman, prohibited since 1747 in an act of Parliament. Or rather
they’d
dressed themselves in plaid. This could only be Janet’s unbiddable spirit at work.

The long rectangular piece of rough silk plaid veiled her black hair and hung over the lose sacque gown she wore. Not a particularly modish dress, being in vogue some twenty years earlier, but attractive on her.

Favor was speaking to her doughy and doughty old aunt, a pudding in unstructured puce draperies with a serpent perched atop her cap and a semitransparent veil pinned over her mouth. ’Sblood, the woman was portraying Cleopatra.

Carr hailed a footman carrying a tray of punch-filled cups. It was time to address the problem posed by his dead—yet still amazingly obstinate—wife. He withdrew the vial containing Pala’s elixir and emptied it into a cup and then, careful not to spill any, wove his way through the crowd.

“Mrs. Douglas,” he greeted the old lady when he’d reached them. He inclined his head toward Favor. “Miss Donne.”

She’d seen him coming. The mask she wore over her eyes did not conceal the way her full lower lip tightened with aversion. Before daylight, he swore, he would chew on that provocative lip and she would sigh with pleasure for it.

“Lord Carr!” The aunt giggled into her plump, glove-clad hand. “Such an extravagant
soirée!
I’ve never seen the like.”

“Nor hope to again,” Favor said sweetly, and then, in answer to her chaperone’s gasp, “How could I? How could anything compare to … this?” She waved toward a satyr chasing Lucrezia Borgia. “I would never dare to imagine I could experience another like it.”

Carr smiled. “You might experience its like and more, Miss Donne, if you continue to honor me with your presence.”

“But that’s most unlikely, isn’t it?” the aunt interjected mournfully. “However much my dear niece might desire it otherwise.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Douglas?”

“You’ll be going to London soon, or so ’tis rumored, and we, perforce, will retire to Thomas’s manor. We couldn’t possibly venture to London without Thomas and heaven alone knows how long the dear boy will be gone. It may be months or years before he’s back.”

“I see.” He stared into Favor’s shadowed eyes. “Perhaps I can yet find some way to enjoy Miss Donne’s company.”

He heard the aunt’s sharp inhalation, a response he’d hoped to draw from Favor. The girl must know he was implying marriage. And even if she had currently found his person distressing, shouldn’t Janet be supplanting the girl’s reaction with her own rapturous response to the hinted promise?

Instead Favor had frozen. Frowning, Carr sought an answer. Happily, one was not long in coming. She simply didn’t dare believe that she’d understood him correctly. She was stunned by the honor he bestowed on her.

Given that, he would forgive her lack of enthusiasm.

“Miss Donne, I don’t believe I’ve mentioned how delightful you look. I saw you across the room and remarked it immediately. But that”—he motioned toward the heathenish
arisaid
—“looks rather warm. So I’ve brought you a punch to cool you.”

He held out the cup of punch.

“Thank you,” Favor answered, and began reaching for the cup but suddenly changed her mind and withdrew her hand. Her smile became shy. She backed up a step, leaving him standing there with cup still extended.

“A minute, sir, before I accept your kind offer. Tell me”—she placed her hand on her hips, striking a winsome pose—“can you tell who I am?”

Damn the chit. He just wanted her to take the damn cup of punch and drain it down.

“No,” he said as pleasantly as possible. “I can’t. Here.” He thrust the cup at her. She ignored it.

“Oh,
do
guess!” she pleaded, unexpectedly playful.

Her aunt, her gaze fixed on her niece, nodded slowly. “She’s a child still,” she said, “and will have her games as all children must. Pray indulge her, Lord Carr.”

“I don’t know,” he exclaimed in exasperation. She was, indeed, frolicsome and girlish. He’d always found both qualities tiresome. “Queen Boadicea?”

“No …” She waggled her finger playfully.

“Enough,” he snapped. “Who are you, then?”

“Janet McClairen. Your dead wife.”

The cup fell from his hand and hit the floor; any sound it might have made swallowed by the surrounding din.

“What did you say?” He stepped toward her, crushing the cup beneath his foot.
“How came you by the idea to dress as my wife?”