How she missed dancing, she thought. The lift and fall of the music as she swayed in her partner’s arms to a scandalous waltz, the rush and exuberance of a country reel—it had been two years since she’d danced but, in some ways, it felt like a lifetime. It was one of the many things she had set aside, forfeited, along with her virtue. There was no place in polite society for a woman who was known to be fast. Oh, she could have easily been someone’s mistress or joined the ranks of the demimonde, but it hadn’t been money or even passion that had prompted her fall from grace. It had been her own foolish belief that she was in love and that Freddy had loved her in return. The truth had been bitter medicine.
Forcing her mind away from such dark thoughts, she continued in the vein of her earlier comments, talking nonsense to him as the fever burned. Leaning over, Elizabeth touched his brow, stroking his overly-warm skin and wondering what strange circumstances had brought him into their small world.
Chapter Six
“It will be an adventure.”
Those words echoed in the recesses of Benedict’s dreams. That phrase had haunted him throughout most of his life, both waking and sleeping. He didn’t know where it had come from, or why it sounded with such ominous frequency in his head, but it was there, inescapable and panic inducing.
Forcing his eyes to open again, he found himself staring up into a sweetly feminine face etched with concern. She was lovely, her face softened from sleep, hair slightly mussed, and her lips pursed with worry.
“What will be an adventure?” she asked. “Why would you such a thing?”
Memory of those men grabbing at her, attempting to carry her off into the darkness, flared in his mind. “You’re safe. They’ve gone?”
“They’re gone. We’re all safe,” she whispered soothingly. “You need to rest.”
She touched him again, cupping his face tenderly. He turned into it, savoring the softness of her touch, the sweet scent of her skin and all the comfort she offered with a gentle touch. It soothed him to his soul and he, once more, fell into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.
Benedict drifted there for a while, in and out of consciousness, existing in a strange melange of past, present and fantasy. It might have been only moments or it could have been hours. One minute he was ducking blows from the miserable sot that was his adopted father and the next he was listening to the soft, sweet voice of the woman that had soothed him. At other times, he was chasing Mary, always behind her, always losing sight of her just as she rounded a bend, hearing her call out for him and never reaching her.
It was from one of those terrifying and frustrating visions, of chasing Mary down darkened streets only to watch the shadows swallow her up, that he sat bolt upright in bed. He took in his surroundings cautiously, not entirely certain of where he’d landed himself. The room was beautiful and luxurious, but didn’t have the overdone decor that he’d come to associate with bawdy houses and hells. Which meant he was in a private home and it belonged to someone wealthy and refined.
Pale light streamed between the drawn curtains, indicating that it was early morning at the very least. Turning his head and ignoring the pain it caused, he noted the woman sleeping in the chair next to the bed. She curled into herself, sitting on her hip with her knees drawn up. Her chin was tucked against her chest and her hair had long since escaped the confines of the tight chignon it had been in when first he’d seen her. He remembered her instantly, of course—the one he’d mistaken for a servant, the one who’d fought so fiercely. The one who, with only a brief exchange in the square, had captivated his attention and stirred his lust.
Guilt clawed at him. He was there to find his sister, to discover what awful fate might have befallen her. It was not a proper time to indulge in a flirtation or embark on an ill-fated affair. The woman was a distraction that he could not afford.
Outside, the sun notched higher in the sky, filtering through the curtains and falling on the strands of hair that curled along her neck. Noting the fine texture and how it shined in the light, he snorted.
“Little brown bird, indeed.”
It didn’t resemble the feathers of a sparrow so much as rich sable. She was lovelier and far younger than he’d first realized.
Even as he thought it, her eyelids fluttered open and she turned in his direction. Her eyes were the same bright blue as a cornflower.
“You’re awake,” she stated redundantly. Her voice was low and husky from sleep, but her words held the clipped precision that he’d worked so hard to copy. Whatever her present circumstances, she’d been raised as a member of the gentry at the very least.
“Yes, as are you. You are unharmed?” he queried.
“Thanks to you, yes, I am unharmed,” she replied, tucking her chin to her chest and looking up at him through lowered lashes. It was not intended to be a flirtatious gesture, of that he was certain. It was artless and effortless from her, but it was a look that courtesans and members of the demimonde practiced routinely to perfect. On her, it was all the more compelling for having not been intended.
“You were not so lucky, it would seem,” she continued. “A pistol ball to the shoulder and a nasty lump on your head were your rewards for all your dashing heroics… but at least you’re speaking sensibly now. You roused several times during the night, muttering naught but nonsense.”
Benedict wondered at what he might have said, at what he might have revealed. It pained him that she might have some insight now into the ugliness of the world from which he’d come, but there was naught to be done for it. Instead, he turned his attention to the matter at hand. “Who were those men? Have you ever seen them before?” he asked.
“I’ll answer your question if you answer mine,” she fired back. Her chin was up, her back straight, and wherever it had been hiding moments earlier, she’d found her confidence it seemed.
“And if I choose not to?” he challenged. It was rude, impossibly so, and went against everything he’d learned about behaving like a gentleman. But he couldn’t afford to nurture any tender feelings or attraction between them. If she disliked him, if she thought him arrogant and rude, all the better. She’d keep her distance and he could attend to the things he had to do.
“Why would you? You risked your life to rescue me, but I have sacrificed greatly in caring for you since, sir. We are not enemies,” she stated simply. “Bath is not so large a city. But it is large enough to question crossing paths with someone twice in one day when that person has so vehemently denied that we could ever move in the same circles.”
Benedict was forced, in that moment, to reevaluate his opinion of her. She’d been called a brown bird and he’d likened her hair to sable. But there was no mistaking that behind her gently pretty face was a cunning and wicked mind.
“You’re not a brown bird at all. I think perhaps you are a fox.”
She cocked her eyebrow at him. “Perhaps I was wrong in thinking that your hours of insensible gibberish were at an end.”
“Ask your damnable questions then,” he said, with grudging respect and no small amount of ire. He hadn’t time to be intrigued by a woman. There was too much at stake. “We’ll see how insensible I am.”
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Easy enough. Benedict Mason.”
She tensed, her eyes narrowed, and she was silent for a moment before asking, “Mason is your family name, then?”
Her response to that question was a curious one and, before long, he’d know the why of it, he determined. “I have no family name. Mason was my adopted father’s some time occupation, and mine, too, as a boy. If he had a surname he never disclosed it, likely because there was a bounty attached to it.”
She paled considerably, her eyebrows arcing up in surprise and her delicious, little mouth forming an “O” of surprise. No doubt his disclosure of his base upbringing and his family’s likely criminal history had put her off for good. Still, he couldn’t stop looking at her, and he couldn’t completely ignore the temptati
on to reach out and touch her hair to see if it felt as silky as it appeared. The loose tendrils curled around her face, softening it and highlighting just how young she actually was.
Upon closer examination, it was apparent that she wasn’t simply pretty as he’d first thought. With her alabaster skin, deep blue eyes, and delicate features, she was quite a beauty. It was no great mystery why a woman would go to such lengths to disguise it. Before their fortunes had turned and Mary had been able to avoid employment, she’d often done the same. His brown bird’s dress marked her as a companion or governess, perhaps even a lady’s secretary. Women in service of any kind were targets. Blending into the furnishings was the best way to avoid unwanted attentions.
“I see,” she finally managed. “And where was this that you and your adoptive father worked as masons?”
The way she said adoptive triggered a warning bell for him. She was after something and he wasn’t about to give it to her without knowing why. There were secrets in his past that could see him destroyed, and Mary, as well. It would take more than her pretty face to get at them.
“My adoptive parents rarely stayed in one place for very long. They weren’t truly gypsies as they move about by choice and not because a drunken sot made an ars—a cake of himself in front of the entire village. We moved every season it seemed… that would be seasons and not the Season. I’ve no doubt you know the difference,” he replied with a sharpness to his tone that belied just how tiresome he was finding it to speak of his family.
She sat back in her chair, her face a mask of serenity, as if he hadn’t just bitten her head off. “I see. And you are well acquainted with Miss Zella Hopkins, are you?”
He frowned. “Who is speaking insensibly now? I know no one of that name. Now, it is my turn to ask questions… who were those men and have you ever seen them before?” he demanded again.
“I’ve never seen them before yesterday. They did not introduce themselves as they attempted to abduct me… more’s the pity. Why were you at that address?”
Benedict debated how much to tell her, how much information to put forth when he had no idea what the outcome would be. There was still something about her that he did not quite trust. She had an agenda that he could not begin to fathom. Ultimately, he elected for the truth albeit a vague version of it. “Because I am looking for someone and that is the last place she was seen. When I crossed paths with you in the square, I was following them. And again last night. I have reason to believe that those men were responsible for her disappearance. Had I not intervened, I fear you and she would have suffered a similar fate, whatever it may be.”
“It’s Mary you speak of, isn’t it?” she asked.
He tensed. “How do you know that?”
She shrugged. “You had rather violent nightmares during the night, no doubt from the laudanum. While you were talking in your sleep, you said her name. Several times, in fact. You must care very deeply for her.”
“I do,” he agreed. “She’s been missing for a week now. And it’s imperative that I find her before something awful happens.”
“Well you’re in no shape to do anything about it at the moment,” she said pragmatically. “Another run-in with those ruffians and you won’t survive it. You’re as weak as a kitten.”
It was the truth, of course, but he resented it greatly. He had other questions. Things he needed to know that would not wait. “What is that house? Who lives there and what is going on in it that my—that Mary would have been there?”
“That house belongs to Madame Zula… a mystic,” she explained as she rose from her chair. Her movements were stilted at first, no doubt her body stiffened from the awkward position she’d slept in. But gradually, she began to move with more ease, each motion a study of grace and economy.
“A mystic?” he prompted, wondering what on earth a woman as seemingly pragmatic as she was would be doing there. He knew immediately why his sister had gone, of course.
“She tells fortunes,” she said, tossing the words back over her shoulder. “And contacts deceased loved ones. She claims to help people find the truth in whatever they seek. Personally, I believe her to be nothing more than a charlatan. She insists that, in spite of the theatrics employed to lend atmosphere and panache during her salon, her gift is quite real.”
The disdain in her tone was telling enough. Whatever she had been there for, Benedict reasoned, she was not a believer. And he wouldn’t have thought that his sister would be, but then he knew just how desperate she was.
Mary was looking for her family—and for his. Neither of them knew exactly what circumstances had brought them into their adoptive parents’ care. Over the last few years, she had become obsessed with finding the truth, with discovering where they belonged, as she’d put it. She believed, and perhaps rightly so, that they had not been given into the care of the horrible couple who had raised them, so much as they’d been stolen away by them. He didn’t know and, frankly, he didn’t care. His childhood was an aspect of his life that he was only too happy to close the door on forever.
“And what truth were you seeking at Madame Zula’s?” he asked.
“None. I was not there for Madame Zula. I was accompanying my mistress, Lady Vale, who has lost her son.”
The explanation was pat but, again, her tone alerted him to the fact that there were things left unsaid. “You are an unusual creature—I’m sorry. I don’t believe I know your name.”
“You do not. I’ve never given it to you… but as we are beyond the point of formal introduction, I am Miss Elizabeth Masters,” she replied, even as she rose from the chair. “I’ll see about getting you something to eat from the kitchens. I imagine you must be famished at this point.”
He was. Before he could reply, the door burst open and an older but still beautiful and undeniably elegant woman rushed in. There was something hauntingly familiar about her. A tune played in his mind, a soft and sweet melody that he could only barely recall.
Those sorts of phantom memories haunted him—occurring at random times, sparked by things he could not fathom. Unfortunately, those memories never provided enough clarity for him to follow up on them.
“How is he? Is he recovered from the fever yet?” the woman asked, her voice tight with concern.
Miss Masters dipped a curtsy. “Lady Vale, good morning. Our patient is awake and coherent. The fever still burns, but not as severely as before.”
The woman seemed to simply melt. The tension left her body in a wave and she placed her face in her hands and wept.
Benedict’s eyebrows shot up in both surprise and alarm. It was quite a dramatic response to his recovery from someone he’d only just met. As a general rule, he had little to do with ladies beyond his sister. The women of his acquaintance were of an earthier sort. Was this what a fit of the vapors actually looked like?
“Please, my lady, sit. You are overwrought and this is not good for your health,” Miss Masters said, helping the other woman to the chair she’d only recently vacated.
“I am terribly sorry to take on so,” Lady Vale offered after she’d taken a moment to collect herself. She approached the bed and took Benedict’s hand in her own, holding it far more tightly than necessary. “I’m just so greatly relieved to know that you will recover. I simply cannot imagine what I would have done otherwise.”
“I daresay you would have recovered admirably from the shock,” he replied. “I must thank you, Lady Vale, and you, as well, Miss Masters, for taking it upon yourselves to provide aid when I was injured.”
Lady Vale smiled beatifically at him even as she dabbed tears from her eyes with a delicately embroidered handkerchief held in her other hand. “As if I could do less for you, my sweet boy! I am overjoyed to have found you again.”
It was the last word and the wealth of enthusiasm in her statement that pricked his curiosity. “Again?”
“Yes… again,” she repeated, more insistently. “What do you call yourself now?”
She was mad,
he decided. Utterly and completely mad. It was a pity and a shame. “Benedict Mason,” he answered. “Lately of London.”
She dropped her head again, but did not give in to tears the second time. When she lifted her gaze to him again, she was smiling through her tears. “I cannot tell you what it means to me that you’ve kept the name I gave you!”
Benedict looked to Miss Masters. It seemed she was the only one in the household possessed of both a sound mind and body. “Madame, forgive me, but I fear you must have me mistaken for someone else.”
“I do not,” Lady Vale insisted very firmly. “You are my son. You are Lord Benedict Middlethorp, Viscount Vale. You were taken from my arms when you were only a small boy, and I have devoted my life to finding you!” Her voice broke on a sob then, though a smile still curved her lips.
Benedict looked at her and recalled a trip he’d taken abroad. He’d gambled his way through Europe, a scoundrel’s version of the grand tour, financed by fleecing foolish young men who drank too much and bet too freely. It hadn’t all been games of chance and wicked women. He’d used that opportunity to study and better himself, to learn about art, to be tutored in dueling and finance. In one of the homes he’d frequented, there’d been a painting of Saint Theresa, her face lifted to the sky in adulation. To say that there were similarities to that portrait and Lady Vale’s current expression was to put it mildly.
“It’s just as Madame Zula said it would be!” she said tearfully. “You’ve been returned to me!”
“That woman!” Miss Masters said. Her ire was obvious in both her tone and the murderous expression that crossed her face. “She is naught but a charlatan! It’s all parlor tricks and theatrics, Lady Vale!”
“Then explain to me how she predicted that he was closer to us than we realized?” Lady Vale demanded, her eyes bright and her tone sharp. “And all that she predicted for you came to pass as well! She said that your life was about to take an unexpected turn and you were nearly abducted right there on the spot, only to be rescued heroically!”
The Vanishing of Lord Vale (The Lost Lords Book 2) Page 6
