The Madcap Masquerade

by Nadine Miller

  At the moment, however, she felt sadly out of place. Neither the gentleman on her left nor the one on her right appeared the least bit interested in conversation. She felt certain the dowager had chosen her future daughter-in-law’s dinner companions with infinite care. Which left Maeve to sit in silence, bored to flinders and straining to hear what was said around her.

  Most of it was simply idle chitchat, but to her surprise, she heard the name “Marcus Browne” arise in a conversation directly across the table from her. The speaker was a rather haughty fellow who had earlier been introduced as “the Duke of Kent’s amanuensis.” Maeve instantly perked up her ears. It was always fascinating to hear what the ton thought of her work.

  “The fellow goes too far,” the duke’s secretary declared. “If the publishers of the Times were the responsible citizens they purport to be, they would ban his licentious cartoons. Why he has actually dared to attack the very foundation of our society—the Royal Family. If one were to take his series of drawings depicting the royal dukes seriously, one might come to the conclusion they were naught but a collection of mindless buffoons.”

  His dinner companion gave a grunt of agreement. “Shocking business that. Though I must admit I was at a loss to understand the drawing of the Duke of Kent. That word the cartoonist wrote above it was most puzzling.”

  “That ‘word’ had everyone in London rushing to the library to hunt it up in Dr. Johnson’s dictionary—myself included,” the secretary said. “It and the blasted cartoon it captioned was all anyone in London could talk about for months on end.”

  “But what did it mean?” his companion asked.

  “It was listed as one of the longest words in the English language, but the meaning was simply ‘the estimation of something as valueless’.”

  “Aha! Now I understand. Egad, the fellow really is clever.”

  “Clever?” The secretary stared down his long, narrow nose at the fool uttering such blasphemy. “The cartoon was clearly a vicious attempt to exacerbate the minor misunderstanding between his grace and the Prince Regent.”

  Maeve chuckled to herself. It was a well known fact that Prinny and his brother, the Duke of Kent, cordially hated each other and constantly disagreed both privately and publicly.

  She had drawn the fussy duke bent over a model of Prinny’s incredibly expensive and controversial Brighton Pavilion, examining it through a magnifying glass. Across the top of the cartoon she had printed the word Floccinaucinihilipilification.

  The cartoon had launched her career. She’d had letters of congratulation from such luminaries of the world of political cartooning as James Gillray, Thomas Rowlandson and the young genius George Cruikshank whose cartoons appeared in both The Satirist and Town Talk—all of whom had assumed, of course, that she was a man.

  As if by magic, her self-confidence returned—along with her appetite. Food that had tasted like so much sawdust but moments before now tempted her palate. Tucking in with gusto, she glanced down the long stretch of table to find Theo watching her with anxious eyes. She cast him such a brilliant smile, he blinked.

  For a long, breathtaking moment their gazes locked in a shockingly intimate communion that sent strange little tremors ricocheting through the most feminine parts of Maeve’s body.

  Then Theo returned her smile with one of his own, and it was her turn to blink and duck her head.

  An odd kind of ache gripped her heart that had nothing to do with the guilt she felt over posing as his betrothed. For the first time, she found herself sincerely regretting that nothing could ever come of this tenuous friendship she sensed was beginning to blossom between them.

  The Earl of Lynley was really not such a bad sort of fellow after all—for a rake and fortune hunter.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  With the long, tedious dinner drawing to a close, Maeve found herself dreading the time when the ladies would withdraw to allow the gentlemen the pleasure of brandy and cigars. She felt certain the dowager would retaliate for Theo’s defection, and she had a horror of public scenes.

  “You will find us in the music room, gentlemen, when you are ready to join us,” the countess announced finally. As if on cue, every lady at the table rose and exited the dining area in the wake of the elegant black-clad hostess. In hushed silence, the little procession wound its way through the labyrinthine halls of the manor house to a large room on the second floor containing a magnificent pianoforte and an equally magnificent harp. Dozens of straight-back Hepplewhite chairs sat in neat rows facing the two instruments, awaiting the audience for whatever musical entertainment was planned for the evening.

  Maeve hesitated momentarily as she walked past the pianoforte, her fingers itching to try the keys, but common sense dictated she remain as inconspicuous as possible. Seating herself in one of the chairs in the last row, she waited somewhat anxiously to see what the countess would do. To her surprise, and relief, she was left entirely alone. The other ladies appeared to be in league with their hostess, and it was obvious the word had gotten around that the earl’s mother did not approve of her son’s choice of bride.

  It was all Maeve could do to keep an exultant smile off her face. If the dowager’s idea of giving her a set down was to arrange a cut direct from this collection of country frumps, the lady was sadly off the mark. She had simply saved Maeve the trouble of conversing with a lot of silly women with whom she had absolutely nothing in common.

  In an amazingly short time the men, led by Theo, came trooping through the door and seated themselves amongst the women. Richard claimed the chair on Maeve’s right, Theo the one on her left. Grim-faced and tight-lipped, the two of them looked for all the world like two bulldogs determined to guard the same bone.

  “Your mother was absolutely livid over that little scene before dinner,” Richard said in a hoarse whisper over Maeve’s head. “Knowing her as I do, I can’t believe she’ll simply let it go by, and I don’t want Margaret hurt.”

  “Speaking as her vicar I assume,” Theo said coldly.

  “Naturally.” Richard cleared his throat. “Seriously, Theo, what do you think your mother will do?”

  Theo glanced around him as if to ascertain there was no one within hearing distance. “God only knows. I may be her son, but I have never pretended to understand the woman.”

  “She has an odd look on her face,” Maeve interjected. “Rather like a tabby who’s cornered a mouse and intends to play with it a bit before dealing the death blow.”

  Two sets of eyes, wide with surprise, turned on her; two sets of lips proclaimed, “Exactly!”

  Maeve smiled. “Well at least you two have finally agreed on something.”

  She watched the dowager move to stand by the pianoforte and raise her hand for silence. “This dinner was such a spur of the moment affair, I scarcely had time to issue proper invitations, much less prepare for the evening’s entertainment.” She surveyed her guests with a chilly smile. “Therefore, upon the advice of my son, the earl, I shall turn the balance of the evening over to the future Countess of Lynley.”

  She turned her basilisk stare directly on Maeve. “Would you be kind enough to honor us with a few musical selections, Miss Barrington?”

  Richard Forsythe instantly leapt to his feet. “Miss Barrington is not accustomed to playing in public, my lady.”

  The dowager’s smile chilled another degree or two. “So I have been told. But we shall not be a critical audience.” She glanced around the room as if looking for confirmation of her statement, and immediately an affirmative murmur spread through the seated guests.

  “Do something, Theo,” Richard whispered. “This latest quirk of your mother’s is beyond cruel. Margaret will die of humiliation if she is forced to perform for an audience—particularly when it includes a member of the Royal Family.”

  Maeve rose to stand beside the vicar. “Thank you for your concern, Richard, but I really don’t mind that much.” Then remembering she was supposed to be her shy, reclusive sister, she dropp
ed her head and stared at the floor. “Of course, I shall be utterly terrified, but I feel relatively certain I shall live through it.”

  Richard groaned. “Help her, Theo, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  Theo stood up and clasped Maeve’s hand in his. “You do not have to do this, Meg. No one will think the less of you if you refuse. Least of all me. I would rather face Napoleon and his entire army singlehandedly than perform in public, and I have more than a speaking acquaintance with the pianoforte.”

  Maeve smiled into his face, surprised by the genuine look of concern she saw there. It occurred to her there was much more to this haughty aristocrat than appeared on the surface. Against her better judgment, she found herself beginning to like him—something she would never have thought possible when they’d first met.

  “I really don’t mind performing in public,” she reiterated. “I can think of a number of pieces I’ve practiced sufficiently to play by memory.”

  Richard groaned again. “Be sensible, Margaret. Can’t you see you’re setting yourself up for ridicule?”

  Theo scowled at his longtime friend. “Stubble it, Richard. If Meg isn’t worried about her performance, why should you be?” He offered his arm. “Permit me to escort you to the pianoforte, dear lady,” he said gallantly.

  Richard ceased his protesting and sank onto his chair. “Very well, Margaret, if I cannot dissuade you from allowing the dowager to turn you into a laughing stock, I shall do the only thing left to me. I shall pray for you.”

  Puzzled, Maeve gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and promised him once more that everything would be all right. It occurred to her that her twin must be even more shy than she’d been led to believe if Richard was this concerned over something as simple as playing a couple of musical selections for people who probably couldn’t tell the difference between B-sharp and A-flat.

  She settled herself at the pianoforte, painfully conscious of Theo standing behind her. Somewhat nervously, she ran her fingers over the keys and determined the instrument was in perfect tune, then glanced over her shoulder, silently requesting him to return to his chair.

  With a smile of encouragement, he did so, and she instantly felt herself relax. This was her world—the world of music. A place where she had achieved sufficient mastery that it no longer mattered that her lineage was somewhat questionable or that she was plain of face and small of stature.

  But what should she play for an audience such as this? Something light and melodic like one of Joseph Haydn’s delightful sonatas, she decided. Then perhaps that little known piece by Mozart which had always intrigued her.

  Poising her hands above the keys, she took a deep breath and began her impromptu concert. As always, with the first notes of the sonata she lost herself in the subtle intricacies that Haydn had woven so brilliantly into his lovely composition, and beneath her skillful fingers, the music came vibrantly, breathtakingly alive. “Music from your heart” her demanding teacher had called it on the rare occasions when he’d complimented her on her interpretation of the composer’s work.

  A hush fell on the audience. Maeve was vaguely aware that every eye was riveted on her, every ear avidly listening to the exquisite sounds her fingers were creating. Time stood still—until, with the last poignant note, she bowed her head and dropped her hands into her lap.

  A long moment of stunned silence ensued. Then a voice she recognized as Theo’s cried, “Bravo!” and suddenly everyone was cheering and clapping and talking to anyone who would listen. Everyone, that is, except the dowager, whose cold, expressionless features resembled that of a marble statue—and Richard Forsythe, whose mouth-gaping, eye-bulging look of disbelief gave him the appearance of a fish that had landed out of water.

  Briefly, she wondered if her taste in music was so far afield from that of her twin that she had given herself away. Then someone shouted, “More!” and she promptly forgot Richard and the countess and launched into the composition by Mozart.

  She could never remember the title the composer had given it; she thought of it simply as “Laughter.” For the daring, irreverent, almost giddy collection of notes perfectly captured the euphoria of joyous, uncontrollable laughter.

  Faster and faster her fingers flew over the keys. Wilder and more wanton the melody grew until in an instant too subtle to pinpoint, the laughter evolved into hysteria, the joy into madness. More than any other music he had written, this obscure little piece paralleled the tragic life of the young Austrian composer, and Maeve never failed to be deeply moved each time she played it.

  It had been a great favorite of Lily’s too, and Maeve had performed it many times for her mother’s circle of close friends. It was always well received; even the least discerning of listeners had thrilled to the rapid fingerwork the brilliant little composition required. But precious few had ever seen beyond the exacting technique to the tortured passion it portrayed. The “rare ones” Lily had dubbed them, and warned Maeve that to give herself to a man with such insight into the human soul would be asking to have her heart broken.

  The sound of the last note died away and Maeve lifted her fingers from the keys. The applause was even greater than for the sonata. The faces surrounding her, including those of the duke and viscount, were all smiles; even the dowager appeared to have thawed sufficiently to look slightly amazed.

  Her gaze flew to Theo. He was clapping with the same enthusiasm as before, but for a few, brief moments his dark eyes held a haunted look that proclaimed he had sensed the torment of the young composer.

  An instant later the look was gone, and Maeve told herself she had only imagined it. Surely the rakish Earl was not the type of man to be one of Lily’s “rare ones.” It was enough that she was beginning to find him likable; she didn’t need to endow him with nonexistent sensibilities as well.

  She braced herself for the rush of embarrassing praise she had come to expect whenever she performed, but strangely enough, this time the rush went right past her—toward Theo. One and all, the local squires and their wives crowded around their resident earl to congratulate him on having the intelligence to choose a wife who could provide him with such excellent entertainment.

  An unaccustomed flush stained his cheeks, and over the heads of the toad-eaters his eyes sought hers in embarrassed apology. But unmistakable humor glinted in their dark depths as well and Maeve’s first thought was that Lily would have liked this belted earl who could laugh at the idiocy of society.

  She turned her gaze to the corner of the room where she’d last seen Richard. He stood alone, some distance from the crowd surrounding Theo. He was noticeably pale and the grim expression on his face made him look like anything but the mild-mannered country vicar she had come to know in the past few days. Something was definitely wrong. Heart pounding, she rose and made her way toward him.

  “Who are you, madam?” he hissed, grasping her upper arms in a vice-like grip.

  Maeve stared at him in horror, her first thought that he had noticed the color of her eyes.

  “Who are you?” he repeated. “Though you look incredibly like her, I know you are not Margaret Barrington.” His grip tightened. “I taught her everything she knows about the pianoforte—a few simple tunes she plays with minimal skill. She can’t even read music.”

  Maeve groaned to herself. What had she been thinking of? She should have realized a shy recluse, who rarely stepped outside the boundaries of Barrington Hall, would have no chance of studying music with a master teacher.

  “I am Meg’s twin sister, Maeve,” she admitted. If nothing else, Richard’s look of grave concern told her she must be honest with him.

  “Good heavens! I had heard a vague rumor about the existence of such a person when I was a boy … I thought it was merely scandalbroth invented by one of the village gossips.” His eyes narrowed. “But where do you come from and why are you here posing as Margaret? And, dear God, where is Margaret? I must know if she is well—and safe.”

  “The squire
assured me she is with her aunt in the Scottish Highlands,” Maeve said. Over his shoulder, she could see Theo working his way through the crowd toward them. “As for your other questions, I can’t answer them here. Call on me at Barrington Hall tomorrow morning; I promise I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  She pulled free of his grasp. “Now leave please before the Earl descends on us demanding to know why you’re manhandling me.”

  Richard’s face turned a deep crimson and he mumbled what sounded like an apology. “I cannot leave without paying my respects to my hostess,” he protested.

  “I’ll make your apologies. Just leave while you have the chance.” Maeve gave him a gentle shove, afraid to trust him to keep her secret in his present agitated state of mind.

  “Very well then, until tomorrow morning. I shall be there no later than ten o’clock.” With a furtive glance in Theo’s direction, he disappeared through the nearest open door.

  “What was that all about?” Theo asked a moment later, his gaze riveted on the fingermarks Richard had left on Maeve’s arms. “Nothing of consequence.” She managed a smile. “Richard and I were simply disagreeing about the…the relative merits of Haydn versus Mozart.”

  “Indeed? Then why did he feel it necessary to skitter away like a cutpurse caught with his fingers in another man’s pocket when he saw me approaching?”

  “He did not ‘skitter.’ He simply remembered he needed to make a call on one of his parishioners who…who is about to give birth,” Maeve said, remembering the excuse Richard had used on Sunday. She had always prided herself on her truthfulness; she was amazed at how easily she’d taken to lying in the past few days. It occurred to her there might be deficiencies in her character of which she had never before been aware.