“For this!” Vivienne’s hand fluttered over the shimmering tulle of her skirt. “While I was in London, living the life that should have been yours, you were stuck at Edgeleaf, sneaking extra potatoes onto Portia’s plate and trying to squeeze a shilling out of two halfpennies. I stole Aunt Marietta’s affection. I stole your debut. I stole all of the pretty gowns and slippers Mama had made for you. Why, if you’d have gone to London in my place, the viscount might be proposing to you tonight!”
For a painful instant Caroline couldn’t breathe, much less respond. “There now, dear,” she finally managed to murmur. “You needn’t trouble your pretty head about any of that right now.”
Vivienne rested that head against Caroline’s shoulder, her voice fading to a slurred singsong. “Dear, sweet Caroline. I hope you know that there will always be a place for you in my heart and my home.” Falling back among the pillows, she smothered a yawn behind her hand. “Once we’re wed, perhaps Lord Trevelyan can even find a husband for you.” Her eyes fluttered shut. “Some lonely widower with two or…three…children…who…need…a…” She trailed off, a delicate snore escaping her parted lips.
With the golden fans of her lashes resting flush against her cheeks and a drowsy half smile curving her lips, she was once more an enchanted princess, perfectly content to slumber until awakened by her prince’s kiss.
“Sleep, darling,” Caroline whispered, pressing a kiss to her sister’s brow even as she gently plucked the white rose from behind her ear and tugged the cameo’s chain over her head. “Dream.”
The ton loved nothing more than a masquerade. For one magical night they were free to cast off the rigid roles forced on them by society and become anyone—or anything—they wanted to be. Once they donned their elaborate masks, they could be virgin or Viking, lamb or lion, peasant or prince. As they milled through the crush of the castle’s great hall, their bawdy good cheer harkened back to the pagan Midsummer Night festivals of old when every man was a pirate and no woman’s virtue was safe.
Their host watched from the balcony, his broad fingers curved around the delicate bowl of a champagne flute, as a masked shepherd girl darted through the crowd, pursued by a leering centaur. She shrieked with laughter as he caught her by the crook and dragged her into his arms. Bending her over his arm, he ravished her mouth with a long, deep kiss. The crowd sent up an approving cheer, prompting him to straighten and take a bow while the blushing shepherdess collapsed in a mock swoon. Adrian took a sip of his champagne, envying them their carefree love play.
Aside from a row of chairs that lined the south wall, every stick of furniture had been removed from the great hall, restoring the cavernous chamber to its austere medieval splendor. In accordance with his command, the footmen had rolled up and carted away the heavy Turkish rugs, clearing the flagstone floor for dancing. A full orchestra garbed as Benedictine monks, complete with homespun robes and tonsures, sat on a raised dais in the corner, the exuberant notes of a Mozart concerto wafting from their instruments.
The gentle glow of the Argand lamps had been replaced by pitch-coated torches in iron sconces. Shadows gathered beneath the towering beams of the vaulted ceiling, their roiling masses only adding to the aura of mystery and menace that cloaked the hall.
Adrian searched each mask, each face, for any hint of his prey. The erratic flickering of shadow and torchlight seemed to transform every sparkle of the eye into a predatory gleam, every grin into a sinister leer, every man into a potential monster.
“Oh, dear. I forgot this was supposed to be a masquerade,” Julian quipped as he approached. He spread his flowing black cape and did an unsteady turn for Adrian, baring a pair of ivory fangs obviously fashioned from wax.
“I am not amused,” Adrian bit off, a simple black domino mask his only concession to the occasion. He had defied convention, eschewing the usual jewel-toned coat and buff trousers to wear a black cutaway tailcoat, black lawn shirt, and black trousers, all deliberately designed to help him slip through the shadows without being detected.
As a footman strolled past, Julian swept a brimming champagne flute off of his tray. “And what costume would you have suggested for me? A winged cherub perhaps? The archangel Gabriel?”
Adrian plucked the glass from his hand and returned it to the tray, his glower dark enough to send the footman scurrying for the stairs. “Just in case Duvalier should show up tonight, you might wish to have all your wits about you. Luring him here is only half the battle. We still have to capture him.”
“Not to worry. I’ve been told by the ladies that I’m exceptionally witty after imbibing a bottle of champagne…or two.” Julian joined him at the balcony railing, surveying the crush below through heavy-lidded eyes. “I doubt we’ll have to worry about Duvalier making an appearance. Without Vivienne to coax him out of hiding, he’ll probably go crawling right back into the hell that spawned him.” He slanted Adrian a glance, a glimmer of hope shining through his cynicism despite his best efforts to disguise it. “I can’t help but notice that the Cabot sisters haven’t yet fled our nefarious clutches. Do you think there might still be a chance that your Miss Cabot would allow Vivienne to help us?”
“I haven’t heard a whisper from her all day,” Adrian replied, the champagne tasting exceptionally bitter on his tongue. “And she’s not my Miss Cabot. After last night she most likely never will be.”
“I am sorry for that,” Julian said, his glib tone softening on an earnest note.
“Why should you be sorry? I have only myself to blame.” Adrian lifted his glass to Julian in a mocking toast. “Even as a vampire, you’re a better man than I am. You’ve managed to rein in your appetites, while I allowed my hunger for one sharp-tongued, gray-eyed girl to endanger everything I’ve been trying to save for the past five years—including my own brother’s soul.”
“Ah, but what value is a man’s soul when compared to the incomparable riches of a woman’s heart?” Stealing the glass from Adrian’s hand, Julian tipped it to his lips and drained it dry.
Adrian snorted. “Spoken like a true romantic. You really should stop reading so much bloody Byron. It’s rotting your brain.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Julian murmured, his gaze suddenly transfixed by the double doors at the far end of the great hall, where Wilbury had been given the task of announcing new arrivals. “Wasn’t it Byron who wrote:
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
Adrian followed his brother’s gaze to the doors where a slender vision in a gold loo mask and rose tulle, with a white rose tucked behind her ear, was waiting patiently for Wilbury to shuffle over to her side.
Adrian could only be thankful he was no longer holding the champagne glass because he would have doubtlessly pulverized its fragile stem into powder. His hands curled around the balustrade, gripping it like the rail of a sinking ship.
“What’s wrong, brother dear?” Julian asked, amusement rippling through his voice. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
But that was precisely the problem. Adrian could have never mistaken the woman in the doorway for some tragic shade from his past. She hadn’t come to haunt him, but to taunt him with a future he could never have. She might be wearing a dead woman’s dress, but life resonated through every inch of her exquisite flesh, from her low-heeled slippers to the proud set of her shoulders to the determined tilt of her chin. She surveyed the room with the regal grace of a young queen, her gray eyes slanting like a cat’s behind the golden shield of her mask.
He and Julian weren’t the only ones who had noted the arrival of the enchanting creature. A low murmur had begun to rise from the guests, eclipsing even the last triumphant notes of the concerto.
Due to the roaring in his own ears, it took Adrian a moment to realize his brother was laughing. Laughing with an unrestrained mirth Adrian hadn’t heard in
over five years.
Nearly livid with fury, Adrian rounded on him. “What in the devil are you chortling about?”
Julian wiped his streaming eyes. “Don’t you see what the clever little chit has done? You never once looked at Vivienne the way you’re looking at her.”
“As if I’d like to throttle her?” Adrian growled.
Julian sobered before saying softly, “As if you’d like to take her into your arms and never let her go as long as there was a single breath left in your body.”
Adrian wanted to deny his brother’s words, but he couldn’t.
“Don’t you see?” Julian asked. “Duvalier only wants to destroy what you love. If he’s within fifty leagues of this place, he’s not going to be able to resist showing himself once he hears about this. Simply by appearing at the ball, Caroline just doubled our chances of capturing him.”
Adrian swung back around to the balcony, his anger tinged with swelling panic. If Julian was right, his love could very well cost Caroline her life. Just as it had cost Eloisa hers. He had finally been successful in setting his trap, only to find that its steely jaws had clamped down neatly on his own heart.
He turned on his heel and started down the steps at a brisk clip.
“Where are you going?” Julian called after him.
“To get her out of that damned dress.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Julian muttered, beckoning to a footman with a full tray of champagne flutes.
“Your name?” Wilbury barked, his scarlet livery and moldering wig making him look as if he’d just recently escaped the guillotine.
“Miss Vivienne Cabot,” Caroline replied, staring straight ahead.
Wilbury edged closer, peering into the eyeholes of her mask. “Are you certain about that? I’d almost swear you had the shifty air of an imposter about you.”
Caroline turned to glare at him. “Don’t you think I know my own name, sir?”
His only response was a skeptical harrumph.
When she continued to glare at him, he cleared his throat in a near approximation of a death rattle, snapped to attention and croaked, “Miss Vivienne Cabot!”
Caroline lifted her chin to endure the crowd’s avid scrutiny, wishing she felt as cool and composed as she looked. She couldn’t help but wonder if Duvalier might not already be among them, his baleful intent masked by some clever disguise. But as she scanned the curious faces, her gaze was caught and held by an all too familiar pair of toffee-brown eyes.
She was confident her costume was convincing enough to fool those who had made her sister’s casual acquaintance in London, but she had forgotten that there was one man who would not be so easily duped. Constable Larkin’s eyes narrowed, the bewilderment in them hardening into suspicion as he excused himself from his companions and began to wend his way through the crowd.
Caroline darted into the crush, thinking only of escape. As she dodged a gypsy fortuneteller and ducked past a woman carrying Marie Antoinette’s head beneath her arm, a stray peacock feather tickled her nose, forcing her to pause long enough to pinch back a sneeze.
Before she could lurch back into motion, Larkin’s hand closed around her wrist with the relentless bite of a cold iron manacle.
He tugged her around to face him, his narrow face no less forbidding for being unmasked. “What do you think you’re doing, Miss Cabot? What in the devil have you done with your sister?”
“I haven’t done anything with her,” Caroline insisted, trying not to stammer with guilt. “She simply wasn’t feeling well enough to attend the ball.”
“Dear God,” he whispered, lowering his gaze from the rose in her hair to her gown. “I know this dress…this necklace…” He reached out to stroke the cameo, his fingers visibly trembling. “Eloisa was wearing this dress the night we first met her at Almack’s. And Adrian gave her the cameo for her eighteenth birthday. She was wearing it the last time I saw her. She never took it off. She swore she would wear it over her heart until the day she…” His gaze returned to her face. “How did you get these things? Did he give them to you?”
“I can assure you that you’re making far too much of an old gown and a handful of trinkets my sister found in the attic.”
“Am I also making too much of the way he caressed your cheek the night Vivienne fell ill? The way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching?” Larkin jerked her closer, the steely resolve in his eyes chilling her to the bone. “If you’ve been in league with Kane all this time and are plotting to do some harm to Vivienne, I swear I’ll see you both rotting in Newgate before this is done.”
Painfully aware of the rapt interest their little drama was generating, Caroline smiled through gritted teeth. “There’s no need to manhandle me, sir. If you wish to dance, you have only to say so.”
“Dance?” Larkin hissed. “Have you lost your wits, woman?”
Caroline was fighting to ease her wrist from his implacable grasp when a forbidding shadow fell between them.
“Pardon me, mate,” Adrian growled. “I do believe the lady promised this dance to me.”
Chapter Eighteen
A few soaring notes of a Viennese waltz, a dizzying twirl, and Caroline was swept back into the one place she had feared she would never be again—Adrian’s arms. From the corner of her eye she saw Larkin shake his head in disgust before turning and stalking away, his long-limbed stride cutting a broad swath through the crowd.
Her relief was short-lived. When she tipped back her head to meet Adrian’s gaze, the look in his eye made the threat of Newgate look like a weekend at a Bath resort.
“Just where is your sister?” he demanded. “Knocked out and tied up in an armoire somewhere?”
“Bite your tongue! I would never stoop to such base treachery.” She hesitated a minute before blurting out, “If you must know, I drugged her.”
Adrian threw back his head with a bark of laughter, garnering startled stares from a Turkish sultan and a harem girl swirling past them in the waltz. “My darling Miss Cabot, remind me to never underestimate your ruthlessness once you finally decide to cast aside your overzealous scruples and have your own way.”
“I’m sure it can’t compare to your own, my lord,” she replied sweetly. “Duvalier may already be watching us, you know,” she pointed out as he guided her through another intricate turn of the dance, his powerful hand splayed over the delicate arch of her back. “You should be looking at me as if you want to make love to me, not strangle me.”
“What if I want to do both?” he retorted, his resolute words sending a heated shiver down her spine.
His natural grace served him as well in the dance as when he had disposed of the ruffians at Vauxhall. Even with her hand resting ever so lightly on his shoulder, Caroline could feel the fluid shift of his muscles beneath the kerseymere fabric of his coat.
He scowled down at the spray of golden curls sprouting from the top of the rose satin demi-turban she’d wound around her head. “That’s not your hair.”
Caroline sniffed primly. “My sister has an abundance of curls. I didn’t think she’d mind if I borrowed a few.”
His gaze drifted lower, boldly surveying the generous décolletage revealed by the gown’s plunging neckline. “And those aren’t your—”
“They most certainly are!” Caroline dared an outraged look downward. “You’d be amazed at what can be accomplished simply by asking the maid to tighten up your corset strings. And besides, it wasn’t as if I had any choice,” she sheepishly admitted. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m rather lacking in that area when compared to my sisters.”
“I’ve done more than notice,” he murmured, his possessive gaze reminding her that only last night he had curled his warm fingers around her naked breast, claiming it for his own. “And I can assure you that the only thing you’re lacking is a healthy dose of common sense. If you had any, you wouldn’t have attempted this dangerous little charade.”
“Isn’t that the point of a masquerade? To co
me as someone you’re not?” She returned his challenging gaze with one of her own. “I could be Vivienne or Eloisa for you tonight. Who would you prefer to have in your arms? Who would you prefer to make love to if you believed Duvalier was watching us this very moment?”
Without missing a single step of the dance, Adrian leaned close to her ear and whispered, “You.”
As Larkin’s determined strides carried him out of the great hall and up the stairs, the notes of the waltz faded to a ghostly echo. He was still shaken by the sight of Caroline wearing Eloisa’s cameo. He had never quite forgotten how Eloisa’s lovely face had lit up on the night of her eighteenth birthday when Adrian had presented it to her. Watching Adrian fasten the chain around her graceful neck, Larkin had slipped his own gift—a well-worn volume of Blake’s sonnets—back into the pocket of his coat.
His resolve faltered just outside the door of Vivienne and Portia’s sitting room. Now that he’d arrived at his destination, he realized just how improper it was for him to be lurking around the door of a young lady’s bedchamber with nary a chaperone or maid in sight.
Clearing his throat awkwardly, he gave the door a forceful rap. “Miss Vivienne?” he called out. “Miss Portia? It’s Constable Larkin. I’d like to have a word with you if I may.”
Silence greeted his request.
He glanced both ways down the corridor, then tested the knob. The door swung open easily beneath his touch.
The sitting room was deserted, the hearth cold. The door to Portia’s bedchamber was closed, but Vivienne’s door was cracked open. Unable to resist such a blatant invitation to investigate, Larkin crossed the sitting room and eased the door open a few more inches. Although a candle was still burning on the vanity, an air of abandonment clung to the room.
Larkin knew he had no right to snoop, but the temptation was nearly overpowering. The delicate lilac of Vivienne’s perfume lured him into the room like the most potent of aphrodisiacs. Judging from the urgent response of his body, he might have been sneaking into the forbidden realms of a sultan’s harem.
After Midnight Page 19
