by Jo Goodman
Cybelline rested her head back against the plump leather squabs and closed her eyes. She had been but halfway home from the masquerade when she realized she’d left the spear behind. She considered returning for it, but she’d already changed into the shepherdess costume in the event that Lady Rivendale was waiting up for her. More important in her decision was her fear that Ferrin would not allow her to leave so easily a second time. He would find out easily enough that she had never been properly introduced to his sister Imogene, nor had she made the acquaintance of his mother. She had been careful to excuse herself from any group of guests that lingered on the subject of identifying one another. Her conversational contributions were small; she did not offer an opinion except when she was asked directly. To refuse on such occasions would have caused more comment than a simple response.
What would Lord Ferrin do with the spear? she wondered. It occurred to Cybelline that he would want to return it. It was hardly the sort of thing one kept as a memento of a lover’s tryst, and the earl seemed oddly honorable in spite of the fact that he often flouted the rules and mores of the ton. She had not expected to find him…well, to find him likable. That he was, in point of fact, so damnably congenial had almost caused her to abandon her plan.
She feared complications from a man who dismissed polite society but embraced a civil manner.
How hard would he try to find the owner of the spear? In the stairwell he made her a promise without knowing what she was asking of him. She hadn’t been able to finish her sentence because she hadn’t been able to complete the thought. She hardly knew what she was asking him herself. Not to speak of their encounter? Not to search for her? Not to remember what words had been exchanged?
And if he found the widow Caldwell, would he know he’d found Boudicca?
Cybelline could barely suppress the involuntary moan that came to her lips. She pressed a knuckle to her mouth and held it there. The ridge of her upper teeth marked her skin. She glanced at Nanny Baker. The woman remained slumped and sleeping, insensible to her distress. Anna’s tiny bow mouth was parted around a dewy bubble that came and went with each soft breath.
“Anna.” It was little more than a whisper from Cybelline, but Anna burrowed against her mother and both of them were comforted.
The card room in Ferrin’s home was arranged for twelve players. Three tables were set equidistant from one another, like the points of a triangle. For those attending the supper and entertainment who did not wish to play at cards, two chairs and an upholstered bench had been added to the room’s complement of furniture.
Wynetta played the pianoforte, though not with such resonance that it distracted those who were drawn to the cards and conversation. Ian’s wife sat on the bench beside her and turned the sheets of music. Ian and Imogene were partners at one of the tables, playing opposite the Allworthy cousins. Ferrin had already warned his brother and sister that the Allworthys might get up to more tricks than were strictly available for the taking. The twins understood immediately and were prepared to make short work of the cousins. Sir Geoffrey and Lady Gardner sat at a second table, but in the interest of preserving a happy marriage they were not partners at whist. Lady Gardner partnered her longtime friend, Mrs. Samuel Franklin, while Sir Geoffrey sat across the table from Mr. Gordon Sawyer.
Ferrin had carefully selected his guests and maneuvered the choosing of partners so that he might at the very least sit at the same table as Lady Rivendale. He was pleased that it had all come about as he’d hoped, even better, since the countess was his partner, not merely one at the table. Restell and Porter Wellsley had the remaining seats. Wellsley, Ferrin noted, was frequently guilty of looking more often in Wynetta’s direction than at his own cards. His play was not up to his usual thoughtfulness and Restell, always a fierce competitor, was not enjoying being trounced.
“That would be my trick,” Lady Rivendale said. She laid her hand gently over Wellsley’s when he would have moved to sweep the cards off the table for his side. “My diamond. That’s trump this round.”
The tips of Wellsley’s ears reddened, and he begged her pardon while studiously avoiding Restell’s glare. “So it is. You are good to remind me.”
“I reminded you,” Restell said, “twice.”
“Yes, but you were mean.”
Ferrin chuckled when his brother’s mouth snapped shut. Sometimes Wellsley hit a thing so squarely that no reply was possible. Ferrin saw that Lady Rivendale was also amused. He waited for her and Wellsley to make their plays, then followed suit. After Restell tossed his card on the table, the countess once again gathered the cards to her side.
“I am fortunate, indeed,” Ferrin said, “to have you as my partner this evening.”
“I hope you will acquit me of being immodest when I say that you certainly are. I am having a good run with the cards.”
“Then I regret even more that you were unable to attend the masquerade. I played several hands with a highwayman whose concern for the fold of his neckcloth was nearly our undoing.”
“Oh, that is too bad,” Lady Rivendale said. “Good card play requires one’s full attention, at least I find it so. Tell me, Lord Ferrin, was the highwayman Mr. Gardner on my right or Mr. Wellsley on my left?”
Restell answered as he idly rearranged his cards. “I was a Viking warrior, my lady.”
She cast a sideways glance at Wellsley. “Pray, Mr. Wellsley, what was wrong with your neckcloth?”
“Wasn’t properly disheveled,” he said.
“Yes, that would be a bother.” She laid another card down and watched their plays carefully before taking the trick. “What about you, Lord Ferrin? A highwayman also?”
“High seas. I was a pirate.”
“Always a good choice.”
“And what personage did we miss when you did not attend? Queen Titania?”
“A very nice compliment,” she said. “Shakespeare was my inspiration, but I was drawn to Lady Macbeth.”
Ferrin grinned. “An excellent selection. She most certainly was not present that night. Cordelia. Ophelia. Juliet and Viola. They were all accounted for, but no Lady Macbeth.”
“It is gratifying to hear that one of my ideas was an original.” In deference to Imogene, who had been a shepherdess, albeit with blue ribbons, Lady Rivendale’s voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “I was disappointed to learn there were seven shepherdesses, my dear niece among them.”
Ferrin affected mild interest. “Your niece? I do not remember making her acquaintance, or perhaps it is only she did not remark on the connection.”
Restell took the last trick of the hand and recorded the score. “Don’t you recall, Ferrin? Mother mentioned that Mrs. Caldwell was there.”
Restraining the urge to kick Restell, as it would serve nothing except to make him yelp like a wounded puppy, Ferrin pretended to think about a conversation he had, in fact, not been able to put out of his mind. “Mrs. Caldwell. Yes. Yes, of course. I remember. Mother said she had green ribbons.”
Lady Rivendale smiled, satisfied that her creation had been unique in at least one regard. “She informed me that she was in very good company, your sister being among the flock.”
“Indeed,” Ferrin said. He picked up the deck and began to shuffle. “Do you know, I believe I met a friend of Mrs. Caldwell’s.”
“Oh?”
Ferrin had hoped for something more than this polite inquiry. “I cannot say beyond doubt that she was a friend, just that she engaged me in looking for Mrs. Caldwell—or rather a shepherdess with green ribbons—and I assumed they were friends.”
“Perhaps they were.” Lady Rivendale looked pointedly at the cards in Ferrin’s hands. “You mean to deal, do you not?”
He smiled. “Forgive me.” He slid the deck to Wellsley to make the cut, then began to distribute the cards.
Wellsley picked up his cards as they were dealt. “Are you speaking of Queen Boudicca, Ferrin?”
Before Ferrin could answer, Restell said, “Neve
r say you did not acquire the fair Boudicca’s name?”
“I did not say that.”
Restell grinned impishly. “But you didn’t, did you? She wouldn’t tell you.”
Ferrin no longer desired to kick his brother. He was once again contemplating the murder of a family member. “It was a masquerade,” he said calmly. “Anonymity is part of its charm.”
Lady Rivendale quickly struck at the heart of the matter. “If you wish me to identify her, you will have to offer something more…and you will have to finish the deal.”
Ferrin realized he was holding what was left of the deck as if he intended to shuffle it again. He quickly dealt the remaining cards and concentrated on the hand he had given himself. He had hoped to be less transparent in his desire to learn Boudicca’s name. Wellsley and Restell clearly could not be counted on for subtlety.
After the bidding, Restell led. Ferrin restrained himself from being the first to mention Boudicca again. He did not think he would have to wait overlong.
“She disappeared before I returned from the wine cellar,” Restell said.
“Who?” Wellsley said.
“God’s truth, Wellsley, you cannot follow the conversation tonight any better than you can follow the cards. What is it that keeps drawing your attention?” He glanced over his shoulder and saw Wynetta and his sister-in-law at the piano. He winced as his sister stumbled badly over a passage. Leaning forward and indicating that Wellsley should do the same, Restell whispered, “She has been practicing that piece all of a week now and still does not have the fingering mastered. Still, we must encourage her efforts, not stare at her as if we’d like to steal her sheet music.” Having said his piece, Restell straightened and fanned open his cards. “Now, we were speaking of Boudicca.”
Ferrin decided his brother was a blockhead but refrained from telling him so. He noticed, too, that the countess was smiling to herself, evidently thinking much the same thing. For Wellsley’s part, that poor worthy looked as if the tips of his ears might burst into flame. Concentrating on his cards, Restell was supremely unaware that he had missed the forest for the trees.
“Boudicca, yes,” Wellsley said weakly. “She left while you were in the wine cellar. Why should that arouse comment?”
“It did not arouse comment. Or rather it was only my comment.”
Wellsley rallied, trying to get a little of his own back. “I should think that hiding out in the wine cellar would have aroused comment.”
Lady Rivendale folded her cards and sharply tapped the table, drawing attention to her at once. “Have done,” she said pleasantly. “Give me the particulars so that this matter might be laid to rest. What manner of costume was she wearing?”
“A blue cloak, I think,” Wellsley said.
“An orange shift,” Restell said. “Though it might have been red. Like her hair. Splendid hair, really. Was it a wig, I wonder? What say you, Ferrin? You seemed to have spent the most time in her company.”
“I couldn’t say about her hair.” He lied without compunction. It was surprisingly easy to recall the silky texture of it between his fingertips. “It was the spear that intrigued me. I wondered how she came by it, though she would not tell me that, either. I thought it might be an artifact.”
“Genuine, you mean?” Lady Rivendale asked, one eyebrow lifting skeptically. “Are you saying the spear might have been from Boudicca’s time?”
“I doubt it was from ancient times,” Ferrin said. Determined to give nothing away, he carefully schooled his features and watched the countess for any sign that would hint that she knew something. “But to my eyes, at least, it appeared to be quite old.”
“It strikes me as an unusual accoutrement.”
“I was carrying a pistol,” Wellsley said. “Not primed, naturally. And Ferrin had a sword.”
Not to be outdone, Restell pointed to his head and added, “One Viking helmet. Two dangerous horns.”
Lady Rivendale laughed. “So there were weapons in abundance.”
Restell nodded. “Every Cavalier, Musketeer, and Hospitalier.”
“Goodness.” She fanned herself with her cards. “The guests might have laid siege to your castle.”
“I feared the shepherdesses most,” Ferrin said. “The crooks, you know.”
The countess smiled. “Oh, yes. They were most fierce, I am sure.” She opened and closed her cards, thumbing them with her nail. “I do not think I shall be able to help you. I cannot recall that my niece mentioned any one of her friends attending the masque as Boudicca.”
“Perhaps if you told her about the jewelry,” Wellsley said to Ferrin. “I recall a golden torc and some unusual bracelets.”
Restell nodded. “The mask looked as if it was made of hammered gold.”
“Gold leaf,” Ferrin said. “I could not say what sort of metal it covered.”
Lady Rivendale’s head tilted as she regarded Ferrin with interest. “Are you a collector, my lord? I was not aware.”
“Not a collector. Not a serious collector. I have an interest but not a passion.”
“I see. Then it is not your intention to acquire some of the pieces Boudicca was wearing? Or that spear, perhaps? I was beginning to think it might be otherwise.”
Ferrin pretended to be caught out. “Am I so easily read? I find that maddening, you know. One is allowed so few secrets these days, I fear I have surrendered another one. You are quite right, my lady. I have been entertaining the notion of making Boudicca an offer.”
Restell frowned. “I cannot say I like hearing it this way. Didn’t know you were in the market for some old baubles. I know someone who can—”
Ferrin’s raised eyebrows stopped his brother from speaking another word. “It is the spear, Restell. I was frankly intrigued and wanted to know more about its provenance. Boudicca was not inclined to answer my questions.”
“She might not have known the answers,” Lady Rivendale said. “If none of the pieces were her own, say, then it is unlikely she would have been familiar with their history.”
“Borrowed the lot of it?” Restell asked. “Is that what you mean?”
“Precisely.” Lady Rivendale studied her cards and chose one to lead, placing it at the center of the table. “Perhaps a generous friend allowed her to borrow all the appropriate accessories for this one evening.”
“Most generous,” Ferrin said. After Wellsley made his play, he followed. “Is Mrs. Caldwell so generous?”
“Generous, not foolish. Not that it matters a whit. My niece has no redheaded friends nor jewelry as you have described. She certainly is not in possession of this spear that has piqued your interest.”
Ferrin knew this last statement was true. The spear remained safely hidden in his study. “So Mrs. Caldwell could not have lent these items. That is unfortunate. I have nowhere else to turn.”
Lady Rivendale shrugged as she took in another trick. “Have you considered placing a notice in the Gazette of your interest? You never know, it might lead to a response from Boudicca.”
“An excellent suggestion.” Ferrin smiled warmly at her. “I will do precisely that on the morrow. I wonder, though, if you will inquire of Mrs. Caldwell for me in the event she might know some detail that will be helpful.”
“Certainly,” the countess said, her own smile firmly in place. “I regret to inform you that it will require some time. My niece is no longer in town.”
“Oh?”
“She’s gone to the country. I shall have to write to her. You must not be in expectation of a reply before a fortnight has passed.” She selected another card to play, laying it down carefully.
“There is no urgency to the matter,” Ferrin said. “It is entirely possible I will have that spear in my possession long before your correspondence reaches her.” He grimaced slightly as he was forced to trump his partner’s trick. “Her country home is to the north?”
“She has no country home of her own. Her brother is at Granville, but she is not going there. I’ve offer
ed her use of one of my homes. Are you familiar with Penwyckham?”
“No.”
Wellsley’s eyebrows lifted. “In Suffolk?”
Ferrin did not miss Lady Rivendale’s quickly shuttered surprise. He was certain she had offered the name of the place thinking it would be unknown to him or anyone at the table. He watched her bring her cards protectively toward her bosom and hold them there. She hardly seemed cognizant of how she appeared to be shielding herself. He had been aware almost from the outset that she was not sharing everything she knew. If there was nothing to hide, surely she would have mentioned that Mrs. Caldwell’s husband had made a study of the type of artifacts they were discussing. That she had not was as telling as holding her cards close to her chest.
Ferrin was cautious about demonstrating too much curiosity. In somewhat bored accents, he asked, “How is it you know the place, Wellsley?”
“My grandmother’s family is from Suffolk.”
From beneath his hooded glance, Ferrin observed that Lady Rivendale was interested in spite of her best efforts not to be. He waited to see if she would take the bait Wellsley had unknowingly dangled. It was not in any way a test of his patience.
“Is that right, Mr. Wellsley? Who is your grandmother?”
“The Viscountess Bellingham.”
“Lady Clarice Bellingham? Why is this the first time I am hearing of it? Can the world really be so small? You are the scapegrace, then.”
Wellsley glanced at Lady Gardner across the way and saw she was looking directly at him. He had no doubt she had overheard the countess’s comment. Though her mouth was hidden by her fan of cards, he was sure she was smiling smugly behind it. “So I have been given to understand,” he said. His eyes narrowed warningly on Restell when it seemed as if he might contribute to the conversation. “You did not realize her family hailed from Suffolk?”
“No, indeed not. It is quite possible your grandmother knew of my aunt, though Penwyckham is small enough to escape notice. I shall have to inquire.”
