Magical Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade

by Hilary Gilman

  Rochford sank back beside her and gathered her against him. She burrowed against his chest, sudden fear for the future overwhelming her. It was dangerous to love a man as much as she loved him, but there was no help for it now.

  She knew she must tell him the truth but, before she did so, she craved reassurance of his devotion. ‘I love you so much. Swear you will never leave me.’

  He stroked her cheek with a hand that shook slightly. ‘Never, Minette, never.’

  He poured some wine for them both, and she sipped it awkwardly, for she would not raise her head from its resting place. When the dark wine fell upon his chest, she licked up the drops and, pleased with this diversion, he dipped his finger in the cup, traced a circle around her nipple, then licked it clean again.

  She knew it was but a matter of time before they came together once more. Her fatigue had disappeared as though it had never been. She felt that she could make love to this man in this hot little room for an eternity. But, just as he put down the glasses and turned to her, there came the wholly unexpected noise of a horse screaming in distress.

  ‘What the devil? That sounds like Genghis!’

  Minette knew enough of Rochford now to resign herself. A horse in distress was perhaps the only thing that could have distracted him from her at that moment. She lay back on the silken pillows, watching as Rochford shrugged himself into his shirt, loosely knotting the strings at the neck. He pulled on his breeches and reached for his boots. She opened her lips to beg him to be careful when, all at once, there was an appalling crash close by her head. She was showered with glass from a shattered window pane, and a flaming object bounced against the far wall, landing only feet from where she lay. Even as her drowsy mind tried to make sense of what had happened, she recognised the missile as a lighted oil lamp, there was an explosion, and the carpet and curtains blazed into an inferno of heat and smoke.

  She saw Philip pick up one of the rugs and beat at the flames. But the rug itself caught fire, and he dropped it as the flames scorched his hands. He cursed and began stamping upon the thick wool, which stank of burnt hair.

  She sprang to her feet and took a hasty step towards the flames with some vague notion of assisting him. But the broken glass bit into her bare feet, and she screamed in agony.

  ‘My God, Minette!’ Rochford staggered towards her and seized her in his arms. ‘Here, wrap this around you.’ He pulled a heavy coverlet from the pile of cushions, bundled it around her and, seizing a pitcher of water, dashed it over her, soaking the wool. ‘Damnation, I should have known when I found the key missing! Fool that I am.’ He ran to the door and turned the knob. ‘As I thought. Locked from the outside. Stand back!’ He ran at the heavy iron studded door and rammed it with his shoulder, but the door held firm. He raced to the window and, seizing a joint stool, began to smash all the remaining glass from the windows. The leading crumpled like silver paper, and the rotten frame disintegrated. ‘Keep that tight around you!’ He lifted her in his arms and almost flung her at the space.

  She fell face forward into the frost-hardened earth. Her knees and elbows were bruised and scraped; but at least she could breathe, and the night air was blessedly cool against her cheek. She staggered to her feet, dimly conscious that she was not alone. In the darkness, a few feet from where she stood, two men swayed back and forth, locked together in a deadly embrace. A voice she recognised cursed in fluent French as the big man strained against the lithe and wiry frame of the other.

  She neither knew nor cared why they fought. She screamed, ‘Help, oh help! Rochford! He is trapped inside!’

  A cloud passed from before the moon, and its light suddenly illuminated the faces of the two men: Charles D’Evremont, grim and dangerous, and Franklyn, livid, twisted, and snarling, all his easy charm wiped away as though it had never existed. All at once, Franklyn staggered in the other man’s grip, kicked out, and sent Charles sprawling. He was up in a moment and, as Franklyn ran desperately for the shelter of the woods, Charles took a flying leap, tackled him, and brought him down. As he fell, Franklyn rolled on to his back and reached up to grip the other man’s throat. Charles, his muscles hardened by years at sea, tore the clinging hands away with ease. He knelt over Franklyn, pounding his fists against his face, blow after blow. Then the sickening sound of bone on bone ceased, and Charles stood up, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand against the palm of his right. Franklyn lay still.

  The whole incident had taken only seconds, but seconds might have meant life or death for Rochford. ‘Philip—Philip!’

  Then Minette heard his voice calling, muffled by the roar of the fire. She shrieked, ‘The lock—break the lock!’

  Charles had reached her and clasped her to him. ‘Eugénie, ma Cherie, thank the Bon Dieu you are safe.’

  She clung to his arm, screaming, ‘Save Rochford—he is trapped; the flames have reached the window; he cannot get out that way.’

  Wasting no time on words, Charles strode to the door and, taking out a pistol, shot directly at the lock. The surrounding timber shattered, and one kick sent the heavy metal lock back into the room. He set his shoulder to the door and, as it opened, Rochford reeled out, coughing, shirt and hair blackened and singed, but alive. Minette ran to him, sobbing and clinging around his neck. ‘My love, my love.’

  ‘Eugénie?’ Charles’ voice was raw with pain.

  ‘This is too perfect,’ came Franklyn’s light, pleasant voice. ‘The erring wife, caught naked in her lover’s arms. Poor Rochford, betrayed again. Who can blame him for burning down their love nest? Who can be surprised if the gallant lover shoots him for it?’

  Franklyn was standing, propped against a tree, his face a bloody mess. But the arm that held his pistol was steady enough. He watched both men tense, lifted an amused eyebrow in quite his old manner, then winced as the cut above his eye opened. ‘No, do not make a move. You will note that I have dear little Eugénie, in my sights. Come here, ma Cherie, and stand by me.’ As one in a dream, or nightmare, Minette took a few steps towards Franklyn. He reached out and caught her wrist with his free hand and pulled her close. He held her in front of him as a shield, the pistol dug painfully into her side. He jerked his head towards Rochford. ‘You will oblige me, cousin, by binding that very ferocious young man’s wrists.’ With a wary eye upon the pistol, Rochford pulled off his shirt, tore it to strips, and made as though to tie Charles’ wrists behind him. ‘In front, if you please. And tie them tight, or I fear for your wife’s health, I do indeed.’

  Franklyn turned his satirical gaze upon Charles. ‘I do not have the slightest notion who you may be, but you have come most opportunely upon the scene.’ He frowned, ‘Although you did spoil one of my little effects. You got that great, ugly, brute of a horse out of the shed when I had quite intended that it was Philip who should do so, thus recreating the events of that unforgettable night that so sadly ruined his poor face.’

  If he hoped to win a reaction from Rochford, he was disappointed. Minette’s face, indeed, twisted into a grimace of repulsion, but Philip merely finished tying the younger man’s hands. Franklyn waved his pistol in an airy gesture. ‘Thank you. You are a valuable accomplice, are you not, Philip? I have to confess myself quite surprised that you are willing to sacrifice yourself to save your wife. I had not thought you cared. Is she so extremely skilled in the amatory arts as to have bewitched you, who are so very—well-travelled, shall we say? I am quite tempted to— But no, we must get on.’ He sighed and shook his head wearily at Rochford, who stood calmly watching him. ‘You have always been a thorn in my side, you know, Philip. So drearily virtuous.’ He gave a little chuckle. Minette thought it the most evil sound she had ever heard. ‘And now you have so kindly incapacitated our young Frenchman I can admit I was rather less than honest when I outlined my little ruse. For, of course, none of you will live to tell the tale of this encounter. As I see it, you, Philip, find your wife and her lover in flagrante delicto, as we say and, having shot dead your rival, throttle poor, tragic
Eugénie in a positively Shakespearian passion. Filled with remorse, you shoot yourself.’ He put his head on one side, considering. ‘Yes, there do not seem to be any loose ends.’

  ‘Do you imagine I shall simply stand here and allow you to—?’

  Minette wondered at Philip’s calm until she noticed the beads of sweat trickling down his cheek despite the freezing cold.

  ‘Yes, I do, because if you make the slightest move towards me, I shall shoot your pretty Duchess. But not dead.’ He shifted the pistol so that it was pointing upwards at her breast. ‘A shot just here will not kill her, at least not immediately. She shall suffer the agonies of Hell before you can even reach me. I’m sure she would prefer strangulation. So much quicker.’

  He lifted his pistol and levelled it at Rochford. ‘Pray, turn to the side. If this is to look like suicide—’

  Minette came suddenly to life in Franklyn’s arms. As he fired, she flung up her hand to spoil his aim and then hung upon his arm with all her strength dragging it down. He hit her hard in the side of the head, dropped the now useless pistol and, running like a deer, sprang onto Genghis’ bare back before Rochford could reach him. The moon shone on the still wood. As Minette watched, the scene seemed to shimmer before her eyes, and she thought she saw the form of a naked woman by the bridge, gleaming white, her long dark hair whipping about her as though storm-tossed, although the night was calm. The form reached out towards Franklyn, hands curled like claws. He lifted an arm as though to shield his eyes from the sight of her. His face was convulsed in terror, his eyes starting from his head. Then it seemed to Minette that the woman sprang in front of the horse, which reared, screamed, and fell, crushing Franklyn beneath him. Minette blinked and passed a hand over her eyes. When she opened them, Franklyn and the horse were down, but the woman was gone, leaving only the curve of a silver-birch leaning, graceful, in the moonlight, and a dark tangle of evergreen where her billowing hair had been. Rachael, oh Rachael, now you may rest in peace.

  The spell was broken; Minette was caught and seized in an embrace that threatened to crush her. It was only then that she became aware that her arm was torn and bleeding where the bullet had grazed it.

  ‘My darling, my darling, you are hurt.’ Philip pulled off what remained of his shirt and quickly bound her arm tightly above the wound. ‘Little fool, you should not have moved,’ he scolded, his mouth against her hair. ‘I was ready for him, would have dived, let him think he had killed me. He would have had to reload to shoot again.’

  ‘Well, how was I to know that?’ she demanded, clutching his arm as though she would never release him.

  He folded her closer. ‘I knew when he held that damned pistol to your breast how much I loved you.’ He put her gently aside and strode to where D’Evremont, who had struggled to his feet, was leaning against a tree for support. Rochford untied the knots he had made, saying as he did so, ‘I do not know who in God’s name you may be, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘My name, Monsieur le Duc, is Charles D’Evremont.’

  ‘Indeed? I understood that you were dead. I am delighted, under the circumstances, to find that you are not.’ He held out his hand in a frank, manly gesture, but Charles, rather pale and looking suddenly very young, ignored it.

  ‘I do not think you will be delighted when you have heard what I have to say. I followed you here tonight to put an end to an intolerable situation. I have come to claim Eugénie,’ he paused and then said with the force of an explosion, ‘I have come to claim my wife!’

  Rochford fell back a step, looking not at Charles but at Minette’s face of absolute shock.

  ‘Your wife?’ she uttered in a strangled voice. She held out a hand as though to hold him off and turned to look appealingly at Rochford. ‘I do not know what he is talking of, I swear.’

  Charles gave an inarticulate cry of pain. ‘Génie! You cannot mean to deny me! Think my darling, think. You married Rochford in all innocence believing yourself a widow when you had barely been a wife, but now, this must be resolved. Aside from our feelings, there is the matter of the law. A woman cannot have two living husbands.’

  Minette dropped her head into her hands, her thoughts whirling as she tried to comprehend this bewildering intelligence.

  ‘Genie, my love, my wife, come to me,’ Charles spoke with the gentle voice of a man intent on soothing a startled creature. ‘I am alive, we love each other, nothing else matters.’

  Now was the time all must be told. There was no escaping the truth. She took a step, not to him but to Rochford. She twined her arms around his neck, resting her cheek against his chest. Safe in the sanctuary of his arms, she lifted her head, and her eyes met D’Evremont’s for a long moment. Charles stared, suddenly intent. Then, wonderingly, he said, ‘Mignonette?’

  Minette gave a shaky laugh. ‘You always could tell us apart. Yes, it is I, Mignonette.’

  ‘But—where is Eugénie?’

  ‘At Avignon with the Bovarys.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It is a long story, Charles, and I am not sure I have the strength to tell it now.’

  Rochford had stiffened, and now he gripped her wrists and flung her soft arms from around his neck. He stepped back from her, his expression that of a man doing calculations in his head. It was apparent he was reviewing the whole of their relation in the light of this revelation. ‘You are the sister?’ he said at last. ‘The sister who was kept hidden.’

  ‘Yes, Génie is my twin.’ She sank upon the wooden stump of a tree. Her teeth were chattering for the blanket that covered her nakedness was still damp. Charles shrugged himself out of his greatcoat and turned his back in gentlemanly fashion when she let fall the blanket and nestled into the warmth of the thick cloth.

  ‘We thought you were dead,’ she told Charles sadly. ‘Grandmère was urging Eugénie to marry Rochford. It seemed the only thing to be done. But she had loved you so much, and—’ she cast an timid look at Rochford, ‘When it came to it, she could not bring herself to—well—in any event—she ran away, and I took her place.’

  Rochford’s nostrils quivered in distaste. ‘May I ask when this substitution took place? Or can I make a guess?’

  ‘I should think so, for you are not a stupid man. I returned to the Castle after a supposed illness, and Génie left for France.’

  ‘So I have never lived with your sister as my wife.’

  ‘No. It was always me.’

  ‘It was a very talented performance,’ he commented dryly.

  She wiped away the tears that were falling ceaselessly down her pale cheeks and sniffed. ‘No, it was not. I made many, many mistakes, but you did not know or care enough about Génie to notice them. And then, when you grew to know me, and I you—well, things changed for both of us.’ She swallowed and took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘For me, it was no longer a performance.’

  ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’

  ‘If you do not, you might as well have let Franklyn kill me. I have no desire to live without you. I love you.’

  ‘Love!’ He turned and watched the flames devour the little cottage with its hoard of treasures. ‘I wish I could as easily burn the memory of what happened in there from my brain.’

  She flinched as though he had hit her. Her eyes glimmered in the moonlight, huge and dark in her colourless face. ‘I was going to tell you the truth tonight, I swear it. I even told Grandmère that I would and that I would be your mistress if I could not be your wife.’

  ‘Do you think I want you now? Knowing that every word you have spoken to me was a lie, every embrace a farce?’

  ‘How can you believe that?’

  He gave a short laugh and held his hand to his scarred cheek, scorched raw by this second conflagration. ‘How can I believe anything else?’

  Twenty-Five

  Minette was never afterwards able to clearly recollect the events of the remainder of that chaotic night or of the following day. She moved in a numb cloud of misery, spea
king when spoken to but mostly replying to all the anxious enquiries of her guests with a sad, sweet smile. She knew that they had been joined in the little copse by a posse of servants led by Sir Richard and Lord Gatley. The fire was already almost dead, and they had quickly beaten out the remaining flames. She had paid little attention to the tale being spun by Rochford but understood enough to agree that Franklyn had been riding recklessly in search of help to put out the fire when he had been thrown from his horse and his neck so tragically broken. D’Evremont had quietly disappeared into the night before the rescuers arrived, and his presence at the scene was never revealed.

  A carriage appeared, and she was bundled into it, wrapped in a fur rug with a hot brick at her feet. She was grateful for the warmth but sank back listlessly against the cushions, staring unseeingly out of the windows before dropping into an uneasy doze. When next she came to herself, she was in her own bed. She was surprised, for she had formed the confused impression that she was to be dismissed from the Castle that night and had expected to be carried directly into Sussex.