by Erica Vetsch
She grabbed a sheet of paper, wadded it up, and winged it at his head. “I’ll show you what’s too much for me.”
Laughing, he rounded the desk and took her wrists, drawing her up from the chair. “You really shouldn’t be throwing things at your husband, you know.”
“Perhaps my husband shouldn’t be quizzing me with such delight.” She sent him an arch look, tugging back from his effort to embrace her, but not too hard. Though she tried to hold her stern look, within seconds her mouth crumbled into laughter.
She allowed him to pull her into his arms, leaning against his chest, putting her arms about his waist under his coat. Contentment seeped through him as he rested his chin on her hair, inhaling her scent, relishing the feel of her.
“You’re doing a splendid job with the preparations, you know. And thank you for delegating some things to my mother. I know she can be as awkward as a toppled umbrella stand, but you’re handling her well.”
“I try to remember that she was in charge here for many years and that stepping aside would be difficult for anyone. She seems … if not happy, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen her happy … at least gratified to have charge of the decorations and menu for the masquerade ball. And Cilla is helping with the activities for the week. She’s planning a Venetian breakfast, an evening of charades, and my favorite, a whist tournament.”
“And you’re fine with having your parents on the guest list?”
“I’m sorry I put up such a fight about it to begin with. You’re right. They should be included. For propriety’s sake.”
“It isn’t for propriety’s sake.” He gave her a squeeze. “It’s for yours. I know your father hurt you with his duplicitous life and hard ways, but to continue to be angry with him, that’s just hurting yourself. You won’t be free of the resentment until you forgive him.”
Her hands tightened on his upper arms, and she ducked her head. “I know. You’re right. I’m trying. It’s just so hard. I hate the masks people wear, behaving one way to some people and a completely different way to others. Hypocrisy is shameful.”
Uneasiness wormed through him. He wasn’t being a hypocrite by not revealing to the world—or his wife—his work for the Crown. But would she see it that way? Yet another reason she must never know.
“I’m proud of you. How you’re dealing with your parents, how you’ve been so generous and caring about your sister, how you’re including Cilla and my mother in the party plans—I think I chose rather well, if also rather abruptly, in picking you for my bride.”
She pulled back to look at his face, and he couldn’t resist dropping a kiss onto her lips. She allowed the familiarity, but she ducked her chin right away, her cheeks going rosy.
Smiling, he turned her, took the chair for himself, and pulled her into his lap.
“Marcus, really. It’s broad daylight.”
“Who cares?” He buried his nose in her neck, tightening his hold on her waist. “We’re legally married. I have a paper that says so.”
She relaxed into him. “We really shouldn’t be wasting time with all we have to do.”
“But it’s such a pleasant way to waste a little time.” He was blurring the carefully constructed lines of boundary in his life. The physical side of their relationship had been confined mostly to the nighttime, in the privacy of their sleeping quarters. He really should get things back on that tidy footing. But as he kissed his wife in broad daylight, in his office no less, he found he didn’t care so much for those neat constraints he’d put in place.
Somewhere in the house, a door closed, and footsteps sounded in the hall. That was all it took to have her shooting off his lap, checking her hair and straightening her dress. He grinned at her even as he rued the noise that interrupted them.
“I should look in on Pippa.” She stacked the papers on the desk.
Her sister had been installed in a room on the top floor of the house, with her mother in attendance. Thus far they’d been able to keep her presence a secret from the dowager, which was just as well. While he admired his wife’s tender heart, Pippa’s presence at Haverly House could complicate matters.
“She still won’t tell you who harmed her?” He’d been up there himself seeking that information, but Pippa remained stubbornly silent.
“No, and I’ve stopped asking. It clearly upsets her. She needs rest to heal. I don’t know what Aunt Dolly said to convince her to come, and I don’t want to do or say anything that will make her flee. Perhaps if I give her time, she will see that I only want what’s best for her. I can’t force her to do anything she doesn’t want to. I can only offer help and prayer.” She glanced up. “Thank you for smoothing the way with your mother about having the other girls here. They’re settling into their new jobs, and the rest of the staff is being helpful and accommodating.”
It had been a monumental task to get the dowager to see reason, and his mother was still full of dire predictions, but in the end he’d appealed to her charitable side—and she did have one, if pressed to reveal it. Now she considered it her Christian duty to guide these ladies out of their “dark past.” It had become a bit of a personal crusade.
Charlotte left to check on her sister, but not before he managed one more kiss, and Marcus returned to the desk chair, steepling his fingers and studying the plasterwork ceiling. He felt like a street performer, juggling many balls, and no two could touch, and all must be kept in motion.
The library door opened, and Aunt Dolly slipped inside.
“How are the girls settling?” He rose, waiting until she took a seat before returning to his.
“They’re faring well. Better than I anticipated, actually. They’re wary around your mother and the housekeeper, but they’re learning valuable skills. May and the scullery maid are becoming fast friends.” She clasped her hands in her lap and then released them, only to lace her fingers again. “I find I’m restless without my knitting always to hand.”
“A break won’t do you any harm.”
“I suppose. My mother used to say, ‘No one ever died of tired.’ But I can think of a few examples. For now, I have some news for you. I went back to King’s Place to check on Belinda and the house. She’s had a couple of new women come through, and they are in much the same shape as Pippa was. Badly beaten and very frightened.”
He straightened. “Do you think it the work of the same man?”
“I do. Neither of these women knew the man’s name, but they gave the same description. Tall, big, educated and well dressed, silver-streaked hair. And angry. One of the girls told us he said he’d lost his best King’s Place prostitute, that he couldn’t find her, and that he wouldn’t stop until he had her back.”
“Did he say who that was?” Marcus feared he knew.
“Not by name, but no one else is missing from the houses on King’s Place but Pippa.”
“I’m glad you and Charlotte brought her here. If only she would tell us who she’s hiding from, we could help her.”
“He must have some hold over her that prevents her from telling. Or she’s convinced we can’t protect her.”
He yanked loose the tie holding his hair back and shook his head. Threading his fingers through his hair, he clubbed it together once more. “She knows I work for the Crown. I do have some resources that I can bring to bear.”
“Speaking of which, have you told Charlotte what it is you really do?” Aunt Dolly’s shrewd eyes bored into him. “She’s much too intelligent not to tumble to it eventually. How is she going to feel if it doesn’t come from you?”
He shook his head. “No I haven’t told her, and she won’t find out. Not if I’m careful. None of my family has even suspected it, and they’ve known me for years. She’s just now coming to terms with her father’s double life. If she learns of mine …”
Aunt Dolly shook her head. “Those are not the same thing. Her father was lying to cover his sin. You’ve kept quiet to guard state secrets and protect the realm.”
“I
doubt she would see it that way.” And what kind of agent would he be if he told his wife? He must be doubly circumspect, keeping his private and his public and his secret lives apart.
“You act as if your wife is a simpleton or self-consumed like your mother. Charlotte is intelligent—she might just be the most intelligent person I know.” Aunt Dolly glanced at him, no doubt to see if her shaft had hit true. “She will appreciate the difference between a philanderer’s lies and your situation. What she won’t appreciate is being kept in the dark because you don’t trust her with the truth.”
“It isn’t that I don’t trust her.” He paused. He did trust his wife, didn’t he? Not telling her was for her protection, and because he wasn’t in the habit of letting people into that portion of his life.
For now he would pass along the information about the man preying on prostitutes to the Bow Street Runners. It was more their jurisdiction than his. He needed to prepare himself for the arrival of their guests on the morrow and gather as much information as he could. Perhaps the mastermind of the assassination attempt on the Prince Regent would sleep under his roof this coming week.
CHAPTER 13
“YOU’VE DONE WELL, for the most part.” The word came grudgingly, and not without the caveat at the end. Still, Charlotte would take what she could get from her mother-in-law.
“Thank you, madam.” The week had been both grueling and exhilarating. Best of all, Marcus had been there throughout, at her side, complimenting her, helping her, entertaining her and their guests. Each event had gone well, the guests seemed pleased, and each morning the dowager had even dared to peek at the newspaper to see what the society page had to say about the previous day’s adventure.
Cilla’s Venetian breakfast had gone particularly well. And interesting friendships had formed throughout the week. Lord Trelawney and her father spent much of their time together, a development she hadn’t anticipated. She had never seen her father in the context of having friendships. Business colleagues, yes. Acquaintances, plenty. But friendships? Never.
“You’ll be down soon? Guests will be arriving for the ball.” The dowager took a moment to adjust Charlotte’s sleeve. “Don’t forget your mask.” And she was gone in a swirl of purple satin and black beads. Charlotte hadn’t been best pleased when the dowager had entered her dressing room unbidden. The purpose of a masquerade ball was to keep your identity secret until the midnight reveal, and now her mother-in-law would know her by her dress.
Charlotte checked her reflection in the standing mirror, turning slightly. The green dress with gold lace was one of her favorites, and she’d been saving it for a special occasion. Miss Franny at Antoinette’s had outdone herself. She had been able to fashion a Venetian-style mask to match the gown, and Charlotte picked up the green-and-gold confection, putting it in place and tying the green ribbon. She felt exotic and mysterious with most of her face concealed.
Glancing at the clock, she decided she had time for a quick trip to the attic before she needed to be downstairs. There wouldn’t be a traditional receiving line of guests, but there would be a promenade, which she couldn’t miss.
Pippa sat in a chair before the small fireplace, dressed in a concealing night rail and slippers, her glossy hair tumbling over her shoulders. She turned toward the door when Charlotte knocked and entered. Her bruises were fading toward yellow and green now, and the swelling had disappeared. Aunt Dolly had removed the stitches along her hairline, and the wound appeared to be healing well.
A wistful look crossed Pippa’s face as she took in Charlotte’s dress and party mask, but it was quickly quelled. She replaced it with an expression of ennui. “I’ll be leaving in the morning. I’m much better, and I feel like a prisoner, caged up here. Like being stuck in the Tower of London.”
Charlotte held on to the doorknob. “Where will you go? Will it be safe for you? Please say you’ll stay awhile longer.”
“I can’t. I’ve stayed too long as it is. If I don’t get back soon, the madam will give away my place. I’ll lose my clients.”
Charlotte knew she needed to go carefully, that Pippa would lash out if she felt she was being judged. “The decision is yours, of course, but I want you to know there will always be a place for you here. You don’t have to go back to that life.”
“Maybe ‘that life’ is where I am meant to be. We might both be daughters of an earl, but only one of us reaps the benefits.” Pippa sounded weary, for once not combative but open and raw. “I appreciate the refuge, but I know my worth. There is one thing you can do for me though.”
“What? Anything.”
“Let my mother stay here when I leave. Give her some of that training and find a place for her to live and work.”
Amelia had come with Pippa, and now that her daughter didn’t need such close nursing, she’d begun helping in the kitchen, discovering a flair for making desserts.
“I’ll see that she is taken care of. I promise you. I do hope you’ll reconsider. You deserve better. Your worth isn’t determined by the manner of category of your birth or by your past.” Your worth comes from the God who created you and the people who love you. Though Pippa had been at Haverly House for nearly a fortnight, Charlotte hadn’t gotten to know her much better. If she left now, Charlotte felt she’d be lost to her forever.
How Charlotte wished her sister would be willing to accept her love … and God’s love. God’s love was unconditional, a truth she had learned early to rely on. She clung to the fact now. Even if she and Marcus never attained true love in their relationship, God loved her.
If Pippa could realize God’s love, would she also realize she didn’t need to sell herself to men?
Thoughts of her sister sobered her as she descended the three fights to the first floor. Marcus had hired an orchestra for the evening, and music swelled out of the ballroom. Guests entered the hall downstairs, and the staff took their wraps. Charlotte went down the last flight to the ground floor, searching the masked guests, wondering which was which, though some she knew right away. General Eddington couldn’t possibly hide those whiskers, and the fluttering hands were an instant clue as to her mother’s identity.
Charlotte melded into a group of people, listening more than talking so as not to give herself away. Where was Marcus? He’d kept his costume and mask secret from her, as she had from him.
But she was confident she would know him from the way he moved, from his touch, should they dance together at some point tonight.
The orchestra conductor had been deputized as the master of ceremonies for the evening, and he stood at the head of the stairs and tapped his baton on the banister. “My Lords and Ladies, and ladies and gentlemen, if you would please form two lines, ladies on the left, gentlemen on the right of the hall, we will now have our promenade. Pair up as you reach the bottom of the steps, ascend, and then make one circuit of the ballroom together before parting to stand along the sides.”
Charlotte hoped everyone understood the directions, before remembering the dowager had insisted upon putting those directions into writing in the invitations, along with instructions for when identities would be revealed.
As she took the arm of the masked gentleman opposite her, she admitted to studying him, comparing him to the guest list. When they reached the ballroom and she found her place along the perimeter, she watched every man. Some were easily ruled out as too short, too round, too gray haired to be Marcus. As part of the concealment, the chandeliers had not been lit, using only the wall sconces for illumination, and the atmosphere in the ballroom bordered on spooky.
She loved it. Just as she’d imagined. The intrigue, the curiosity. Their guests laughed and chattered, and many smiled broadly. She could tell people were disguising their voices somewhat to avoid detection. Should she attempt that? Or perhaps it would be best for her not to speak at all?
A laugh climbed her throat. If her mother could hear her thoughts now. Actually contemplating saying nothing at a social gathering.
; Speaking of her mother, the woman with the fluttering hands had entered the room, and that was Charlotte’s father with her. He wore a pale-blue satin coat and breeches and a silver mask that matched his hair. Silver buckles on his shoes winked in the faint candlelight. As always, his willingness to spend money when on display in public knew no bounds. Even mother’s gown was more up to date than usual.
The conductor went to his music stand, replacing the musician who had stood in for him, and took over.
The first dance was a quadrille, and Charlotte took her place, studying the others in her formation, careful to keep time, a pleasant smile on her face. There were enough dancers to form four full lines. The dowager must be thrilled and already writing in her mind the bits of praise she would submit to the dailies tomorrow.
“You look most fetching tonight, Lady Rigdon,” one tall man said as their hands met and they turned a slow circle.
She gave him what she hoped was a mysterious smile and nodded, feeling the waft and weight of the ostrich feathers that decorated one side of her mask. He thought she was Lady Rigdon? Her disguise was working well.
Where was Marcus amongst the guests? As the evening wore on, she moved through the ballroom, the refreshment room, the card room, and the retiring room. So many people, all bent on concealing their identities, playing little games with one another. But not her husband? Surely he couldn’t be eluding her, or so well-disguised that she couldn’t pick him out. She would know him by his hair alone. She continued on, determined to find him and enjoying herself immensely.
When she spied her father drawing a lady she knew wasn’t her mother into an alcove, whispering into her ear, her stomach tightened. It was too real, seeing him in that mask, pretending to be one thing when he was really another.
Her appetite for the masquerade dimmed. She turned away.
Don’t be silly. It’s a party. Don’t let him steal your joy. You are building something good with Marcus, and your father doesn’t come into it. He is responsible for his own actions, just as you are for yours.
