One Forbidden Evening (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Jo Goodman

  “The very devil,” she repeated. There was no censure in her tone, only affection. She touched his cheek and smiled, perfectly content with this outcome. Turning to go, her ladyship paused when she glimpsed Wellsley standing at attention on the other side of the table. “And you, Mr. Wellsley, you are of an eligible age, are you not? Well past it, I should think. As is Ferrin. Do not squander your inheritance in one sitting at the card table with my son when there are so many young women in the next room willing to relieve you of it over the course of a lifetime.”

  Before Wellsley could make a reply, Lady Gardner presented her back to him and made a grand exit for the ballroom. Wellsley sunk back into his chair and looked up at Ferrin. “I need libation.”

  Ferrin nodded, waving over one of the footmen. He finished the last finger of whisky remaining in his tumbler and gave it over. “Two more of the same,” he said. “None of the punch from the fountain, please.” When the liveried servant was gone, Ferrin took measure of his friend. “Will you be all right? I cannot tell whether it is astonishment that put you back in your chair or relief.”

  “Both, I think.” Wellsley tossed his hat on the table and used four fingers to rake back his hair. The effect was to lend him more in the way of a disreputable air than the disheveled neckcloth. “She said she likes me well enough, so that is something, I suppose.”

  “Well, of course she likes you. Why wouldn’t she? You have £12,000 per annum, a townhouse in London, an estate in the North, a family with as few rascals as one can properly hope for, and a countenance that does not stop clocks. God’s truth, Wellsley, I can’t think why I haven’t proposed.”

  Wellsley’s staccato burst of laughter had heads turning in their direction again. He collected himself, straightening in his chair just as the drinks were brought to them. He raised the tumbler, saluted his friend, and drank deeply. “Dutch courage,” he said, setting the glass down. “Mayhap Miss Wynetta will take another turn on the floor with me.”

  “The queen of the Nile? You will have to cut through the throng to get to her. Will you take my cutlass?”

  “No. I do not think that will be necessary.” He returned his hat to his head and relied on Ferrin’s judgment to let him know when he’d achieved the proper roguish angle. With most of his bright-yellow hair covered, it was left to him to disguise his face. He withdrew a scarf from beneath the sleeve of his frock coat, folded it in a triangle, then used it to hide his nose, mouth, and squared-off chin. “Well?” he asked, getting to his feet. He removed the pistol and aimed it at Ferrin’s chest. “Stand and deliver.”

  “Convincing. You will not credit it, but I am quaking in my boots.”

  “Good. Now let us see who—” Wellsley stopped, his attention caught by the figure who had stepped forward and was now framed in the open doorway.

  Seeing his friend’s gaze fixed on the threshold of the card room, Ferrin thought his mother had returned. “Never say she has brought reinforcements to drag us out.”

  Wellsley merely shook his head.

  Seeing something akin to reverence in his friend’s eyes, Ferrin was forced to turn and see what manner of creature could inspire it. He was aware of a niggling hope that it was Netta.

  The queen standing at the threshold was not the woman-child Cleopatra, but she was immediately recognizable to him and every other man in the room. They were all staring at Boudicca come to life. The heavy mass of flame-red hair, the brightly dyed orange tunic and thick blue mantle, the twisted golden torc at her throat, and gold bracelets on her left wrist and arm proclaimed her as the fierce warrior queen of ancient Britain. Lest anyone doubt it, she carried a spear a head taller than she was.

  Wellsley started to take a step forward, but Ferrin managed to rise and insert himself directly in his friend’s path. “You do not even like redheads,” Wellsley whispered from behind.

  Over his shoulder, Ferrin said, “I am prepared to reevaluate. One must, you know, when presented with new evidence. It is in the nature of scientific inquiry. Do you know her?”

  “If I did, I would go to my grave with it.”

  It was just as well, Ferrin decided. She was Boudicca, and more than that he didn’t need to know. Like the torc at her throat, the brooch that held her mantle closed, and the bracelets on her wrist and arm, the mask that covered her upper face was hammered gold. Gold threads were woven into her tunic, and her bodice shimmered in the candlelight as she drew in a deep breath. Ferrin had the odd notion that she was steeling herself for battle. She had yet to hold the glance of any one man, but she had paused long enough on the threshold to examine all of them.

  He stepped forward and closed the distance between them. “My queen,” he said, making a courtly bow. “There is someone in particular you are seeking? A pirate, perhaps?”

  She did not smile or incline her head to acknowledge the overture. Her posture was unyielding: shoulders back, head high, feet planted slightly apart so she would not be moved. “A shepherdess,” she said.

  Ferrin indicated the occupants of the card room with a wave of his hand, encouraging Boudicca to take a second look. “Knights Templar. Roman centurions. King Arthur. A highwayman. Two Harlequins. A king’s executioner. Sir Francis Drake. A cardinal and a friar. Not a single shepherdess. Tell me, does she have ribbons on her crook?”

  “Yes.”

  “Their color?”

  “Green.”

  “I have only seen pink, blue, and yellow.”

  “That is what I have observed also.”

  “May I escort you through the squeeze in the ballroom? Mayhap with two pairs of eyes making the search, we shall find her.” From behind her mask, Ferrin could make out the faint narrowing of her gaze. She was regarding him skeptically, her attention riveted on the black silk patch covering his right eye. “Three eyes are not as good as four,” he said, “but they’re half again as good as two.”

  She smiled a little then, not enough to show her teeth or brighten her eyes, but enough that he was encouraged.

  “Will you take my arm?” he asked. When he saw her hesitate, he added, “We will make but one circle of the ballroom, and I will release you.”

  She raised her weapon slightly. “I am carrying a spear. Of course you will release me.”

  “Point taken.”

  “No, not yet you haven’t,” she said. “But I won’t hesitate to see that you do.”

  Ferrin gave a shout of laughter, unwittingly making him the envy of every one of his guests within hearing of it. He saw she did not startle. Rather she held her ground and gripped her spear more tightly as if she might have use of it sooner than she’d thought. He held out his arm and waited patiently for her to accept it. “As pirates go, I am not considered a particularly ruthless one.”

  “Like Blackbeard.”

  “Far and away more ruthless than I.”

  “And Bluebeard?”

  “I have yet to take a wife, let alone murder one.” She took his arm and allowed him to lead her back into the ballroom. “Do you think I would be afraid if you had?”

  He did not have to pause to think on his answer. “No. There is the spear, after all.”

  “Just so.”

  As soon as they stepped beyond the threshold they were swallowed in the crush inside the ballroom. Ferrin had the advantage of height and he immediately spied two crooks with pink streamers near the stringed orchestra. He steered Boudicca in the opposite direction, weaving her in and out of the conversational clutches that formed near the refreshment table and beside the fountain of cider punch. They skirted the drooping fronds of the potted plants that made a veritable jungle of one corner of the ballroom and drifted among the dancers as though they were taking a set themselves. Ferrin was quick to notice that their passage around the room was made easier because the guests parted for her, not him. The novelty of it amused him.

  She was not the amazon that Queen Boudicca was alleged to have been, but she was taller than many women present, taller certainly than all o
f the shepherdesses he had seen thus far. Her bearing was in every way regal. She moved with a certain fluid grace among the guests but somehow remained apart from them. He wished he might know the shape of her nose better, but the mask defined it, not flesh and bone. The arch of her cheeks was also hidden and he could not quite make out the color of her eyes. Candlelight from the chandeliers and wall sconces glanced off the hammered gold and defied his best efforts to determine whether they were gray or green or even blue. Her mouth was the feature most openly revealed to him, and when she was engaged in looking over the crowd, he took the opportunity to mark the shape of it, noting the full bottom curve and the way her upper lip curled slightly each time she caught him out.

  “You are staring,” she said, not bothering to look at him this time. “We have not met before, my lord, so you should not apply yourself to divining my identity.”

  “But you know mine?”

  “I would be a very shabby guest if I did not know the name of my host.”

  “Perhaps, but are you certain I am he?”

  “You were pointed out to me earlier.”

  Ferrin wondered that he had not seen her before. He had obviously been too eager to quit the ballroom, though he was reminded now of all his reasons for wanting to be gone from it.

  The room, in spite of being quite large, was too warm. The energy of the dancers, the milling of the onlookers, the occasional heated discussion, bursts of laughter, smoldering glances, and all of the incessant gossip combined to raise the temperature five degrees above what was comfortable. Guests spilled into the adjoining rooms so that revelers now occupied a drawing room, the gallery, and Ferrin’s library. All of this was in addition to room he’d gladly given over to card play at the outset of the evening.

  As they passed the refreshment table, Ferrin managed to lift two glasses of lemonade, though it meant releasing Boudicca’s arm. She thanked him for the refreshment, but of necessity both hands were now occupied, one with her drink, the other with the spear. She hadn’t an arm for him as they proceeded, a turn of events Ferrin regretted.

  “Perhaps the library,” he said. “Your shepherdess might have slipped inside in want of a good book.”

  “Unlikely.”

  He made to turn her away from the entrance to that room, but she shook her head and indicated they should look anyway. “You are thinking that there might be some other reason the shepherdess would be interested in the library? A tryst, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Ferrin wondered if he would know this shepherdess. Boudicca was not forthcoming, and he suspected it was because she did not want him to be able to identify her through her friend. He decided not to press. In truth, he was disappointed that she knew him. He would have liked to have remained a pirate to her this evening, not her host, certainly not the Earl of Ferrin.

  He stepped to one side of the pocket doors and gestured to Boudicca to proceed. When she passed him his senses were teased by the light fragrance of lavender. A favorite scent of hers? he wondered. Or something she wore for this evening only, like the rest of her costume?

  Ferrin followed her into the library and saw quickly that she would not find what she sought there. The musketeer on the chaise longue gave up trying to kiss his lady-in-waiting and eased his arms from around her shoulders. Ferrin’s lips twitched. It seemed she would be a lady-in-waiting a bit longer.

  “Something amuses?” Boudicca asked.

  “Always.” When she did not ask him to explain himself, he had the impression she was drawing her own conclusion. “Your friend does not appear to be here, either.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Shall we try the gallery?”

  “You do not mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  Ferrin pointed in the direction of the door that would lead them through to the gallery. Not many guests had stumbled upon this room, though the evening was hours yet from being at an end. Several couples were touring the room, some unattached females were exchanging the latest on-dit. There was not a single shepherdess.

  He thought Boudicca would want to leave immediately, but she turned her attention to the paintings. “Would you like to view them?” he asked.

  “I would.”

  He took her empty glass and set it on the entry table with his own, then he offered his arm again. She accepted his escort without pause this time, and he drew her toward the full length portrait of his great-grandfather. “This is George Howard Hollings,” he told her. “The third Hollings to hold the title. Intimidating, is he not?”

  “Impressive, I was thinking. You have his eyes.”

  “One of them.”

  She smiled again, this time more easily than before, then pointed to the painting to the right. “His father?” she asked.

  “His grandfather. The first earl.”

  “He looks vaguely disreputable.”

  “You are putting it too mildly. He was wholly disreputable.”

  “How did he acquire the title?”

  “A letter of mark. He preyed on Spanish galleons in the Americas. It was quite lucrative.”

  “Then he was a pirate…as you are.”

  “A privateer, I believe, is the proper term. A pirate has no letter of mark from his queen. He served the interests of the Crown and he was rewarded with a title and lands.”

  “And considerable fortune.”

  “That is my understanding, yes.”

  “How was he called?”

  “Captain Hollings, I imagine.” He could not quite temper his amusement when Boudicca’s splendid mouth flattened. So his queen did not suffer fools, either. It was a mark in her favor, though he kept his own counsel. He was quite certain she did not care for his opinion, good or otherwise. “He was called Christopher Charles Hollings.”

  “As you are.”

  “I am Christopher Andrew, but I think I see where you are going with your inquiry. If I lent him my patch we might be mistaken for twins. You are aware, I collect, that I am also disreputable.”

  “Wholly?”

  “I never do anything in half measures, so yes, wholly disreputable. You should probably not be alone with me.”

  She purposefully looked to the fireplace where a Roman senator and a Greek goddess were admiring the large landscape hanging above the mantel. “We are hardly alone.” Her chin lifted to indicate the clutch of young women still gathered in the center of the gallery. “Although I wish our chaperones were less inclined to titter.”

  “You do not titter?”

  “No.”

  Another mark in her favor, Ferrin thought. “My sisters titter. All of them. My mother also.”

  “That must be a considerable cross to bear.”

  It was her dry-as-dust tone that raised one corner of his mouth. He answered in like accents. “You cannot imagine.”

  Boudicca returned to her study of the first earl. Ferrin could not summon the same interest in it. The resemblance was so profound it was rather like regarding his own face in a mirror, and he did little enough of that. What was the point, after all? Nothing could be changed. His brow would stand as high; his eyes would retain their peculiar heavy-lidded cast. A scar might draw attention away from the cut of his cheekbones and chin, but only a collision with a stone wall or a fist would flatten the aquiline shape of his nose. He had no particular desire to acquire either as pain was a consequence of both.

  His mouth twitched slightly as Boudicca turned from the portrait to make the same study of his profile. “I am unused to such scrutiny. Most people remark on the likeness and have done with it.”

  “I beg your pardon. I fear I have been unconscionably rude. I did not mean to give you discomfort.”

  “Do I strike you as one so easily discomfited? It is more in the way of diverting.” He paused a beat. “And curious. I am wondering if your study would be so open if you were not wearing the mask and the raiment of a queen. As Boudicca, you may say or do as you please.”

  Boudicca gla
nced at the spear she carried. “It does give one pause, I suppose.”

  “It certainly gives me pause.” He glimpsed her faint smile again, this time recognizing the reluctance of that mien as it crossed her features. She did not want to be amused, or at least she did not want to be amused by him. The possibility that her disinclination was in some way personal intrigued Ferrin more than put him off. “Shall we go on?” he asked, indicating the next portrait. “Or have you seen enough? There is still the matter of your shepherdess.”

  “She will not leave me. I’d like to see more, but you are perfectly welcome to attend to your other guests. I can manage to navigate this room, indeed all of the rooms, on my own.”

  “I have already observed that is the case. Only Moses might be more effective at parting the sea of guests. However, you will be doing me a very great favor by allowing me to escort you. I am discharging my responsibilities as host and no longer in danger of expiring from boredom. Until you stood on the threshold of the card room, I wasn’t at all hopeful that I could do the former without succumbing to the latter.” Ferrin saw that she did not seem to be moved by his request. The damnable mask was not all that was keeping her expression shuttered from him. He suspected that she was as adept at confining her emotions as she was at confining her thoughts. “I understand that you have no reason to grant me such a kindness,” he said rather stiffly. “All the benefits are undoubtedly mine.”

  “What a foolish thing to say.”

  Ferrin’s dark brows lifted. “I beg your pardon.”

  “You tempt me to prick you with this, you know.” She tilted her chin, indicating the spear. “It is you who have done me the favor. I am quite glad of your escort, but it is passing strange to me that you have invited so many guests and express so little interest in them.”

  “The invitation list is not my doing. That detail was left to my sister and my mother.”

  “But this is your residence. Surely they—”

  He stopped her with a shake of his head. “They surely did not. Do not misunderstand. I gave them permission to act on my behalf, so I accept responsibility, but playing host at affairs of this nature is far and away more about duty than personal choice.”