by Sandra Dubay
"They were my mother's god-parents," Dyanna confirmed. "I've never even met them."
"You will, some day, no doubt," Justin predicted off-handedly, making a notation in his ledger.
"Some day? But Justin, they have invited me"
"I will make your excuses. I'm sure they will understand."
Dyanna drew a deep breath, hoping she had heard him wrong. "You sound as if I will not be attending this"
"You won't."
"But . . ." the crisp invitation trembled in her hand. "But, Justin, surely in this case . . ."
Sighing, he closed the book and replaced the lid on the inkwell. "Dyanna, we've been through this too many times. You must complete your year of mourning before"
"Sweet bloody hell!" she exploded, flinging the invitation to the floor. "You may be a hypocrite, my lord, but I am not!"
"And what does that mean, pray?"
"It means that I hardly knew my father. He left after my mother died, left me without a backward glance and, so far as I know, never spared me another thought. Even when my grandfather died and I was left alone, he could not tear himself away from his gambling and whoring long enough to see me. He had not seen me for twelve years when he died. He did not give a damn about me. But for himfor this strangerI am to closet myself away for a year and grieve? Can you truly imagine that anyone believes I mourn him?"
"It does not matter what anyone believes," Justin said calmly. "But your life until now has been anything but normal, Dyanna. This is a new beginning and it is time you started going about things in the proper way."
Dyanna forced herself to breathe deeply, trying to quell the growing rage inside her. Her hands curled into fists and her nails cut crescent gouges into her palms.
"It is not fair," she said tightly, shaking with the force of her scarcely repressed fury. "Since you brought me here, I have done as you wished, tried to behave as you wished me to behave."
"I have been quite pleased," he confirmed. "And, to be honest, not a little surprised."
"But what good has it done me? What have I gained?"
He held up a hand to silence her. "Do you mean to tell me that your behavior was merely a ploy to buy my permission to leave off mourning and enter society?"
"No. Well, yes. I thought if I did as you wished, then you might . . . Well, why not?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. "If I had known what all this meek obedience was about, Dyanna, I would have told you not to waste your time."
"You must let me go to this ball!" she cried.
"I said no."
"But you must! I will go!"
"You will not! And there's an end to it!"
Dyanna glared at him, her eyes burning with the blue-white fire of her fury. "You'll be sorry for this, my lord!" she snarled. "You'll rue the day you crossed swords with me."
He eyed her with lazy amusement as she whirled and stormed from the room. In the hall she snatched up her skirts and fled up to her room, where she threw herself across the bed and pounded the pillows with both fists, pretending they were her loathsome guardian.
"I hate him!" she screamed, flinging one pillow across the room. "I hate him! I hate him! I hate him! I'll show him he can't keep me a prisoner! I'll do as I please and be damned to the fine Lord DeVille!"
Chater Twelve
In the days that followed Justin's refusal to allow Dyanna to attend the Barkleighs' ball, Dyanna watched his engagement book carefully, looking for a day when he would be out for most of the afternoon. When at last she found one, she alerted Charlotte.
As soon as Justin's carriage had passed between the gateposts of DeVille House and into the street, she and her maid slipped out a small, seldom used door and made their way to Piccadilly.
"Are you sure no one saw us?" Dyanna asked, not daring to venture a glance over her shoulder for fear someone might be raising an alarm.
"I don't think anyone did," Charlotte assured her. "Where are we going?"
"Summersleigh House." Setting off with a determined step, Dyanna started up Piccadilly, making for the first side street that would take them toward Grosvenor Square. "The marquess will know how to help me!"
By the time they reached Grosvenor Square, Dyanna had forgotten her fear that someone from DeVille House would come bearing down on them at any moment. She found herself delighting in the mad hustle and bustle that was London at that time of year. The sun shone down on her as she skirted Berkley Square and entered Mount Street. As she walked along, gentlemen in carriages and on horseback glanced once, then again at the pretty girl in leaf green whose silvery curls bounced as she walked and shimmered in any stray sunbeam that managed to make its way beneath the broad brim of her befeathered straw hat.
Like any well-bred girl, Dyanna appeared not to notice the attention she was attracting, but secretly she reveled in it. How delightful it was to venture out from behind the suffocating walls of DeVille House in something beside dull black mourning. How wonderful to feel the sun on one's cheeks rather than the tickling scratchiness of a concealing black veil. And how wicked and unnatural Justin was to deny her all of this!
"Here we are, Charlotte," she said as she turned into the short street that ran between Mount Street and Grosvenor Square. "It won't be long now."
And, in fact, it was only moments later that Dyanna was ushered into the delighted presence of the Marquess of Summersleigh.
"I do beg your pardon, Uncle Horatio," she said, casting a curious glance toward the room's third occupant. "The butler did not tell me you had company."
"I'm glad he did not, m'dear," the old marquess boomed. "I want you two to meet. Damme if that DeVille don't keep you shut up closer than some Newgate bird. Here now, say hello to Phoebe, Lady Hayward. Phoebe? Dyanna McBride. Granddaughter to my old friend, Lord Lincoln."
Dyanna dropped a shallow curtsy. "Lady Hayward," she acknowledged softly, her blue eyes skimming hastily over Lord Summersleigh's friend.
Phoebe, Lady Hayward, was a beautiful woman of, Dyanna guessed, thirty-five or forty. Her hair was a rich, gleaming sable brown and her eyes dark, luminous, and coquettishly uptilting at the corners. A purple riding habit was molded to her deep-bosomed, tiny waisted figure. There was about her, Dyanna thought, an air of worldliness, sophistication, and invitation.
"Miss McBride," Lady Hayward replied. "I have heard so much about you from Horatio and, of course, from Geoffrey. But to be honest, I found it difficult to believe such a paragon could exist."
"I am no paragon of any virtue," Dyanna assured her. "I am afraid Uncle Horatio and Geoffrey are prejudiced in my favor."
"As well we should be," the marquess asserted. "Now, m'dear, tell me how it is you have managed to come visiting sans guardian at long last."
"He does not know I am here," Dyanna admitted. "Charlotte and I slipped away from the house after he had gone to his afternoon engagements."
"And what brought on this sudden desire to slip away, after so many weeks of immurement?"
Dyanna hesitated, drawing off her gloves with more fuss than was necessary while deciding how much she wished to reveal in front of Lady Hayward.
"Perhaps I should take my leave," the perceptive lady suggested.
Dyanna threw her a look of gratitude, but the marquess clamped a restraining hand on the lady's arm, preventing her from rising.
"Nonsense, dear Phoebe, stay where you are. I am certain Dyanna doesn't mind speaking plainly before you. Do you, m'dear?"
"Of course not," Dyanna murmured, resigned. She wished she could have been alone with the marquess but now, knowing it would be insulting to Lady Hayward to refuse to speak before her, she plunged on:
"I was invited to the Barkleighs' masked ball."
"It is going to be a splendid affair," Phoebe Hayward predicted. "The Barkleighs are superb hosts."
"They were also the god-parents of Dyanna's mother," the marquess informed her. He smiled at Dyanna. "They will be delighted to see how very like dear Elizabeth you are."
"Forbidden!" the marquess blustered. "But why?"
"He says I must live in seclusion for a yeara year of mourning for my father."
"A father you never knew! A father not worthy of the title!"
"I do so long to go, Uncle Horatio. I am being driven mad at DeVille House. It is nearly as bad as it was at the Academy. Worse, perhaps, because at school I had lessons, loathsome as they may have been, to keep me
occupied. At DeVille House there is nothing. Justin is out all day, every day. Nearly every night.''
"Lord DeVille does seem to be cutting a considerable swath through the ranks of fashionable London," Lady Hayward observed.
"While I sit at home, mourning," Dyanna sighed. "Oh, Uncle, it is not as if I wish to become this year's sensation"
"You could be," Lady Hayward cut in. "You are very lovely."
Dyanna spared her a smile, then went on:
"I merely wish to attend one ball."
"I think you should," Phoebe Hayward decided.
"So do I," the marquess agreed. "It is settled, child. You shall go."
"I told you, DeVille has forbidden it. He is going. If I were to so much as show my face at Barkleigh House, he would bundle me into the nearest carriage and take me home." She grimaced, adding, "And probably give me a good spanking for my trouble."
"He wouldn't dare!" the marquess roared.
Dyanna simply shrugged, unwilling to reveal either to the scandalized marquess or the beautiful Lady Hayward that she had already felt the flat of Justin's hand across her backside.
"I fear he would dare," she disagreed. "He would dare that, and more. He takes his position as guardian most seriously."
"Who would have thought it?" Lady Hayward asked. "I knew Justin DeVille once. Oh, long ago. Just after his father was declared dead and Justin assumed the title. It seemed to me then that the last thing he wanted was responsibility for, or to, anyone. He went to sea as a privateer to restore the fortune several generations of dissolute, reckless Lords DeVille had dissipated. Ah, well. People change. Perhaps he's had enough of careless wandering and now relishes playing the foster papa."
"I might welcome him as such," Dyanna told her, "if I were eight or nine. But I resent it now."
"And so you should." The marquess's jaw was set stubbornly. "Phoebe is right. You should go. And you must."
"But how?"
"I will help you," Lady Hayward offered. "If you would let me."
"How?" Dyanna repeated. "It would be impossible."
"Nonsense. It would be the simplest thing in the world."
Bewildered, Dyanna looked from the marquess to the lady in purple and back again.
"Forgive me," she said, "but I don't see how it can possibly be as simple as you both seem to think."
"Consider, Dyanna," Lady Hayward said, "the nature of this affair. It is a masked ball.
The object is to conceal one's identity. No one is supposed to know who anyone else is. We have merely to design a costume for you and decide how best to smuggle you out of DeVille House and get you to Barkleigh House. And back, of course, before your guardian misses you."
"But the Barkleighs will know. Surely one must present one's invitation, identify oneself"
"Simplest thing in the world," the marquess repeated. "I'll have a word with William or Louise Barkleigh. I'll get you an invitation in some other name. That's the ticket! An alias."
"French," Phoebe said. "We can put it about that she speaks little English. That way people won't keep trying to draw her into conversation."
"A widow, perhaps," the marquess suggested. "That way there won't be a question of husbands or escorts or chaperones."
"LaBrecque," Phoebe pronounced. "Madame LaBrecque. The widow of the Maréchal LaBrecque."
"Is there truly a Maréchal LaBrecque?" Dyanna asked.
"Oh, I doubt it. But it doesn't matter. After that night the lovely Madame LaBrecque will vanish. No one will investigate."
Despite her earlier reservations, Dyanna felt herself being caught up in their excitement. As the marquess and Lady Hayward made their plans, Dyanna found herself believing that she would, with their help, attend the masked ball whether Justin liked it or not.
"Tudor!" Lady Hayward cried. "You shall go as a lady of Henry VIII's court."
"Why Henry VIII in particular?" Dyanna wanted to know.
"The hoods, my dear. French hoods. They were all the fashion then. They covered the hair and would be much more comfortable than a wig or powder. And a mask could be attached to one so easily." Phoebe pressed a finger to her lips and smiled sheepishly at Dyanna.
"Forgive me," she said softly. "I'm getting carried away. I never even asked if you would like my advice on your costume."
"Oh, but I would," Dyanna assured her. "I hadn't decided on a costume. I didn't dare hope I would really be able to go!"
"Well, if we have anything to do with it, you will," the marquess promised. "And from experience, I can tell you that when Phoebe decides she wants something, she usually gets her way."
Phoebe laughed, slapping the marquess's wrinkled hand playfully. "Horatio, really! You make me sound like a scheming woman. But I will do anything I can to help you, Dyanna. I think it is a crime for a lovely young woman like yourself to be shut away, supposedly mourning a father you never even knew. Now, shall we get down to our planning? I know a perfectly wonderful dressmaker, talented and discreet, whom we can trust to carry out our designs. Horatio? Order some paper and a pen, if you please. We are going to design a beautiful gown for our lovely Dyanna."
For the next two hours, Dyanna watched in rapt fascination as Lady Hayward sketched variations on the Tudoresque costume she had in mind for Dyanna's dazzling, if incognito, debut in London society. Her dream was coming true before her eyes as Phoebe Hayward showed her sketch after sketch inviting her opinions on skirts, sleeves, necklines, hoods, even golden ornaments that would hang from a jeweled chain encircling her waist.
"It looks very expensive," Dyanna worried, holding a sketch of the final result, a gown of scarlet and gold brocade, the over-skirt open in front to show an under-kirtle of black satin. The wide, hanging oversleeves were lined with cloth of gold and the puffed under-sleeves, of black satin, were caught at the wrists into wide cuffs stiffened with embroidery and studded with pearls that matched the trimming banding the low, square neckline. The French hood was to be of gold tissue gathered into a pearl-encrusted gold coronet.
"No more expensive than anyone else's costume," Lady Hayward assured her. "These are sumptuous affairs, dear child."
"Hang the expense!" the marquess cried. "Tell the dressmaker to send the bills to me."
"Uncle Horatio, you couldn't!" Dyanna protested.
"I can and I will," he vowed. "I'll not have you trying to wheedle funds out of that skinflint guardian of yours in order to pay for something he should have given you freely."
Dyanna opened her mouth to protest that Justin had never begrudged her anything in the way of material comfort since the day he'd taken her to DeVille House, but she bit back the words. It was mean of him to deny her a small pleasure such as this ball. Mean and selfish!
She allowed Phoebe to whisk her away to an upstairs bedroom where she stood in her chemise while she was measured for her costume. She could not, after all, expect to make her way to the dressmaker's shop for extensive fittings. The costume would simply have to be made to fit her measurements and they would have to hope for the best.
Dressed again, she was descending the stairs when the clock in the hall struck the hour. Dyanna gasped. "I had no idea it was so late!" she told Phoebe. "I must be going."
"What, so soon?" the marquess said from the foot of the stairs. "It seems you just arrived."
"I have to be back before Justin returns. I could not bear for him to suspect a thing. He has a way of finding things out, you know. He told me once he has a cr
ystal ball."
"Humph! A little demon to whisper in his ear, more like," the marquess muttered.
"Perhaps he inherited it from his father, the sorcerer," Lady Hayward speculated, smiling angelically as the marquess's pleased, malicious laughter filled the room.
Such talk made Dyanna more than a little uneasy, and she quickly took her leave of the marquess and his pretty companion.
Charlotte was summoned and, amidst profuse thanks, Dyanna tucked a copy of Phoebe Hayward's sketch in her sleeve. With her maid at her heels, she left Summersleigh House and hurried back in the direction of Piccadilly. As she went, she said a little prayer that she would manage to slip back into the house as discreetly as she had slipped out.
Chater Thirteen
"Has he gone?" Dyanna asked as Charlotte let herself into Dyanna's sitting room.
"Just now," the maid replied. "He said that since you had retired, the servants were dismissed for the night. That should make it easier for us."
"It should," Dyanna agreed. Nerves made her stomach flutter. She was torn between excitement at the thought of attending a grand ball in a beautiful costume and fear that it was all madness, a foolhardy charade that would deceive no one. "How did Lord DeVille look?"
"I didn't see him. I thought it best to stay out of sight. I hid behind a door so I could hear what he said before he left."
"I wonder if I will recognize him at the ball," Dyanna mused. "With everyone masked"
"You'll know him at a glance," the maid predicted.
Dyanna nodded, resigned. "I suppose I will," she murmured, thinking there was no one like Justin. She could pick him out in a room with a hundred other men all dressed exactly alike.
"It is time you were leaving. My lord Summersleigh said he would have the carriage waiting at nine."
Dyanna glanced at the clock. It was three minutes past the appointed time. "All right. Fetch my pelisse. We'll go now."
A few minutes later, having slipped out of the silent house, Dyanna and Charlotte were in the marquess's closed carriage being driven to Summersleigh House, where Dyanna would dress, assuming the identity of Madame LaBrecque, beautiful young widow of the late Maréchal LaBrecque.
