by Isobel Carr
Gathered in the large supper box the earl had rented were most of her friends. Each of them easy for her to identify, even hidden behind their dominos and masks. They were gathered in a knot: tense, wary, ready.
All except Dauntry.
Alienated or not, she’d expected him to be present. The same part of her that was searching the crowd for the highwayman was tense with the hunt for Dauntry as well.
George claimed her seat and then the earl called for their supper. While they all consumed the paper-thin wafers of ham and tiny roasted chickens that Vauxhall was so rightly famous for, George could feel her body becoming more and more tense, back rigid, shoulders hard, legs shaking with the need to move, to fight, to run away. With the need to act.
The small pistol Brimstone had bought her lay cold and solid against her leg. A reassuringly hard reality cloaked by petticoats.
A man in a puce domino stopped just a few feet from them and bowed, leg extended, eyes glittering in the light thrown by the lanterns. George forced herself to smile, to nod her head flirtatiously. To behave normally. Every man who looked at her, who paused, who bowed, who smiled, or eyed her through his quizzing glass was suspect.
When their meal was finished, and everyone was picking at the last of the biscuits and cheese cakes, St Audley stood, swept George a profound leg, and held out his hand. ‘Come along then, dance with me.’
Taking his hand, she allowed him to help her up and to lead her into the rotunda, where the dancing was taking place. Scores of couples were already assembled in the large ballroom, and as the next set got underway, George quickly found herself parted from St Audley. She gave herself over to trying to guess the identities of the other dancers. Some of them she recognized. Others were harder to place. She was almost convinced that the lady in the brown domino was Lady Jersey, and the man in crimson Baron Ott, but she couldn’t be sure. Sometimes a man’s hair, or a woman’s laugh, or some other distinct characteristic—such as St Audley’s black brows and red hair—would give them away, but mostly the masqueraders who cared to do so did a fairly good job of disguising themselves. And at a semi-public masquerade such as this, a large number of the guests were simply unknown to her.
Circling back through the set, George could see St Audley only a few partners away. This meant the first set was almost through, and they could either stay for another, or retire to the box.
George was parched, and the room was hot and stuffy for all that the night was cold. On the side-lines stood Brimstone, Bennett, Morpeth, and Alençon. All of them watching, waiting, as tense as she was.
The music ended and they made their way back to the nearly deserted box. St Audley caught their waiter and ordered punch. He took a seat beside her and they sat and simply watched the crowd mill about on the lawn between the rotunda and the pavilion.
As they’d made their way out of the rotunda, she’d spotted Dauntry, standing quietly off to one side, his attention riveted to her. She’d known the moment he’d appeared. Even now she could feel his gaze, like moth wings fluttering against her skin.
He’d worn all black, with a silvery, mouse-grey domino draped over his head and shoulders. She swallowed with difficulty, throat tight. Rejected, he was here nonetheless.
It was St Audley’s job to entertain her, Brimstone’s to take her out and then seemingly disappear, chasing after some temping Paphian. Lord knew there were plenty of them about. At this very moment, two of them were sauntering right towards Dauntry, dominos artfully draped to expose their wares, nipples rouged and rosy in the candlelight.
She couldn’t concentrate on who else might be watching her when she knew Dauntry was. Nothing else was able to invade her senses. Hell, nothing else even seemed to matter.
George drained her cup, letting the warmth quiet the shaking of her hands as the alcohol settled her stomach. St Audley sipped his drink, eyes flitting over the crowd. The first vivid burst of fireworks exploded overhead and Brimstone appeared at the edge of the box as if conjured by the flashes of light.
As the crowd oohed and aahed, clapped and cheered, he slid his hand around her waist. ‘Come along, Georgie, let’s go for a walk. Crowd’s too thick for me.’
George swivelled her head around and looked up at him. She extended her hand. This was it. From this moment it on it was all for show, all for deception; one dangerous gamble.
‘Lead on, Bottom,’ she commanded. ‘I’ve half a mind to fall in love with you tonight.’
‘Not Bottom. Surely you’re not so cruel. Let me be Puck! Let me be Orsino. Let me be Petruchio.’
‘I’m afraid the role of Petruchio is already taken.’
Brimstone snorted and led her down the dark Lovers’ Walk, the two of them weaving their way past other couples bent on more romantic assignations.
‘What about Romeo?’
‘Dead.’
‘Hamlet?’
‘The lady’s dead in that one. Go back to comedies.’
They stopped at the grotto and George stood staring at the water cascading down into the small pool, lost in thought. Brimstone paused beside her, his hand squeezing hers.
Was the highwayman here? Had he taken the bait? Or was all their playacting for naught?
A pretty little fille de joie sidled by, stopping momentarily—as she’d been paid to do—and giving Brimstone a saucy, come-hither smile. This was it, the moment of truth…
‘How about Ariel?’ Brimstone said.
‘Ariel? I think Bottom was correct after all, off with you.’ She gave him a nudge and laughed when he swept her a deep, courtly bow before hurrying off after the girl’s disappearing form.
George turned back to the water. Gabe wouldn’t go far, and the rest of the boys were out there too, lurking in the dark paths.
This was it. Her knees trembled and she tensed the muscles of her thighs to stop them shaking. All she could do was wait. Wait and hope her highwayman was desperate enough to have followed her.
Ivo stood on the dark path that led to the grotto, cloaked in the embrace of evergreens, and watched the theatrics play out. George’s gown rustled in the silence between fireworks, Brimstone’s shoes ground the gravel of the walk audibly as he stepped around her.
Their banter flowed easily, edged with the wit that was always a game among certain sets. It felt genuine, right down to George’s exasperated expression and her bulldog’s slightly drunken walk.
Ivo ran the palm over the pommel of his dress sword, the cold metal reassuring even through the leather of his gloves, the sharp, deadly reality that rode his hip oddly calming.
The Cyprian toddled away, mincing along one of the many paths that converged in the grotto. The improbable gauze flounces of her gown beckoned in the breeze of her passing. She must be freezing out here. Brimstone staggered after her, disappearing in the twists of the path; the paste buckles of his breeches and shoes sparked in the darkness even after he’d merged with the shadows, then winked out.
George turned back to the waterfall, slid the hood of her domino off to settle about her shoulders. The column of her neck held him frozen in place. Pale, delicate, naked from the bone at its base to the nape of her neck. The coloured light thrown by the lantern caressed her skin, turning it blue and pink and yellow. It refracted a riot of colour in her hair, highlighting every strand that had escaped the powder.
He stole up to her, lost in the curls that twisted at her nape, the sweep of her shoulders, the angle of her head. He wanted to touch her. Needed to. Couldn’t control the desire to press a kiss between her shoulders, a sensual landscape of subtle hills and valleys.
He stepped close, caught her round the waist, and pulled her back to him. He pressed his lips to the spot that had been taunting him. ‘Petruchio’s taken, is it? What about Oberon?’
George stiffened then went slack as he spoke, sagging back against him. ‘Damn you, Dauntry. I thought you were him.’
‘Sorry to disappoint, love.’
‘You’re ruining everything. Go
away.’
He was. And he didn’t give a damn. Suddenly he didn’t care so much for their scheme, for leaving George unprotected for even a moment. Anyone who wanted to get to her was going to have to go through him first. That was the way it ought to be. The way it would be.
He ducked his head, nose to the soft, bare patch of skin behind her ear. Jasmine filled his nostrils, flooded his senses, curled around him and held him as securely as a chain.
She was his, whether she was ready to admit it or not.
His.
The moment his grip relaxed she broke away and darted off, sparing him no more than a chastising glance. Ivo raced after her, chased her through the twists and turns of the path, nearly losing her in the dark. Only the occasional glint of the gold trimmings of her gown gave her away.
She spun around a corner and he lost her entirely as an amorous, giggling couple blundered into him, knocking him back.
Damnation!
By the time he rounded the corner she had disappeared entirely. The path forked around a large tree, gravel scattered all around its roots. Ivo dove down the right path, praying he was right, that George would have chosen the darker of the two, the one without lanterns bobbing welcomingly along it.
A startled exclamation—clearly feminine—sent him racing, heedless of branches, pebbles, roots. His domino snagged and he threw it off, leaving it hanging in his wake.
George stared wide-eyed at the man in the peacock blue domino who blocked her way. Her breath caught in her throat, choking her. Her eyes burnt with the need to blink, but she couldn’t look away.
Moonlight wove its way through the canopy, glinted off polished metal, outlining the deadly curves of the pistol gripped in his right hand. As long as she held his gaze he wouldn’t shoot. She was sure of it. He was savouring the moment. He’d make it last for as long as she allowed him to.
He wanted more than just her death. That much had been obvious all along.
After a moment his pistol wavered, dipping slightly, but not falling away. The lanterns high in the trees threw a strange crimson light over them both, casting shadows in odd places, making it impossible to see what little of his face was bare below his Venetian-style mask. His lips and jaw were eerily missing, but she knew those eyes.
Why couldn’t she place them?
Why was it so much more frightening to know she knew the man trying to kill her? She felt suddenly damp inside her clothes. Her shift clung to her legs, the night air turned her dewy skin to ice.
‘Time to go, my lady.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm as his tongue wrapped around the title and spat it out.
‘Go?’
He didn’t respond except to indicate with the pistol that she should move. George swallowed as the world around her refused to return to life. Like a clockwork toy that had wound down, it was stuck, motionless.
She took a step back, willing the world to continue. Her hands began to tingle. Her heart was clawing its way up her throat. Where were the boys? Where was Dauntry? He’d been right behind her…and here she was, the bait on the end of the hook, with the fish caught and ready to be reeled in.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, monsieur. I think you must have the wrong lady.’
He smiled at that, just a quick flash of teeth that glinted in the light. ‘I don’t think so. I have exactly the right whore, and I have her exactly where I want her. Or I will in just a few moments. There’s a carriage out the side gate, waiting just for you.’ He gestured again with the gun, stepped closer, anger radiating from him like heat from a forge.
George lifted her chin and placed one hand on her hip. All she had to do was reach into her petticoats, down into the pocket that rode against her hip. Her own pistol waited there, loaded, deadly. ‘You force me to repeat myself, sir. I do not know you. You have the wrong lady.’
He closed the space between them with swift angry strides, lowering his gun as he took hold of her arm with his free hand, exactly as she’d hoped he would. Delay. Delay. Delay. Dauntry couldn’t have been that far behind her. Gabe wouldn’t have wandered off too far. At least one of them would arrive at any moment.
‘You know me and you knew my father. Or have you caused the death of so many men that you can no longer remember them all?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Vous savez!’ His grip tightened, fingers digging into her, pressing down on the bone. She held her breath to keep from wincing. ‘Paris. Six years ago. You clipped your leash to his collar and led him around like a pet monkey. Right under your husband’s nose, and then another of your lovers killed him in a jealous rage.’
George went cold. This was about Blanchot? Why did everything in her life seem to spiral back to that night?
‘I don’t—’
He dropped her arm and backhanded her across the face hard enough to send her flying. Her head cracked against the unforgiving marble knee of Aphrodite. Her vision blurred, went black, then swam sickingly as the lights danced overhead.
She landed in a sprawl on her back in the undergrowth, feet and arms tangled, hair and gown snagging, trapped like a wild thing in a snare.
Her face burnt, inflamed beyond the heat of a blush. The hot, coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She swallowed it down, struggling to get her arms free, to get her hand through layers of petticoats and into her pocket.
She’d had next to nothing to do with Blanchot’s death, but she was more than willing to be responsible for this one. If he touched her again, she’d rip that mask from his head and claw his eyes out.
Her assailant bent to grab hold of her again. His domino slid, revealing the sleeve of his coat. A very distinctive sleeve: pale pink leopard-spotted velvet. Only one man would ever wear such a hideous coat, and he’d been running tame in her house for more than six months.
George scrabbled back, lashed out with one foot, missing her target entirely, sending her shoe flying off into the dark. The Comte de Valy grabbed her ankle and pulled. George pulled her knee up to kick, but her foot met empty as he was hauled off her and sent flying himself.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tonight all of London is poised to witness the ridiculous display Lord F— is making of his imported mistress. Oh, to be deaf…
Tête-à-Tête, 13 February 1789
George was down on the ground, a man in a blue domino bent over her, struggling to get a grip on her. Ivo grabbed the man and unceremoniously tossed him away from her. The man stumbled, dropped something, and began to curse vehemently in French. The metallic scrape as Ivo drew his sword stopped the man cold. Made him straighten and turn.
George continued to flail in the undergrowth. She was all right. Scratched and shaken, but alive. The expression on her face—fury combined with deadly intent—told him everything he needed to know.
Ivo’s breath shuddered out of him, relief flooding through him. The man in the blue domino wasn’t going to be able to say the same for long. Ivo was going to kill him. Rend him limb from limb. And he was going to enjoy every unchristian and uncivilized bit of it.
He stood steady on his feet, waiting for the man to rise, to draw his own sword…waiting for the moment when the clash of steel would bring them close enough for him to taste the other man’s fear.
The man brought got shakily to his feet, one arm up, a gun clutched in his hand.
Ivo ground his teeth. Anger flushed through him, blood rushing past his ears, pumped by his furiously beating heart. He flexed his hands, set his jaw, teeth clenched to the breaking point. One shot. That’s all the villain had. One shot, and then Ivo was going to kill him.
The man’s arm straightened, the gun steadied, then the crack of the shot broke the silence. Ivo braced himself even as fireworks exploded overhead. The man in peacock blue crumpled without a sound, simply folding in upon himself, the loose fabric of his domino fluttering out, settling around him like a shroud.
Ivo turned to where George lay, skirts hiked up and tangled about her legs, one shoe mis
sing, one stocking down around her ankle, a smoking pistol in her hand. Men burst in from all sides: her bulldogs, Bennett, Morpeth, a very frazzled-looking Alençon, wig askew and full of leaves.
Pandemonium ruled, but every nuance flooded through him, as though each moment took an eternity. George met his gaze, her mischievous dimple briefly flashing in her cheek.
Unharmed and undaunted. That was his love.
Ivo took a breath, afraid he was going to embarrass himself and vomit. His body felt oddly weak. Two steps and he was pulling George up, ripping her loose from the undergrowth, dragging her free. His mouth met hers. Hot. Insistent. Impatient.
She sagged against him, hands limp on his chest. She broke the kiss and dropped her head to his shoulder. He was vaguely aware that their friends were circling, that they were speaking amongst themselves in low tones, voices crashing over one another, setting plans in motion.
He dropped his head, resting his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the scented powder that coated her hair. ‘I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you.’
She pulled back, pushing hard with her arms. Her eyes were wet. Shimmering. One spilt over and the tear raced down her cheek, leaving a pink track of exposed skin as it washed away the powder. She opened her lips, but nothing came out.
‘George?’ His grip slackened and his eyes searched hers. Panic flood her face. Mysterious and inexplicable. Why, just this once, couldn’t she be more like other women? She loved him. He knew she did. Why was it so hard—so impossible—for her to admit it?
She wrenched herself out of his arms, took a step away from him, and began looking about for something. She plucked shoe from the low shrubbery and worked her foot into it. Once shod, she took a step back from him, then another. Time collapsed as she retreated. St Audley stepped between them, blocked him out. The viscount glared over his shoulder as he tugged her out of the glen.
