Too many steps! Muttering an impatient curse, Parsifal vaulted over the low wall and landed firmly on the ground. A strange exhilaration sped his feet toward the struggle before him—but too late. The man froze for a moment, clearly seeing Parsifal bearing down upon him, and thrust the lady away in his haste to run off. With another cry the lady stumbled, fell down the few steps, and lay still.
His body tensed to spring after the man, but Parsifal could not leave the lady—it was obvious she was hurt. He cursed again. He leaned over her. It was the shepherdess he had danced with earlier, the one who had reminded him of Annabella. He removed her mask and recognized her— Lady Smith. He had seen her at Annabella’s side at various functions from time to time.
A sharp gasp burst above him, and someone tumbled down beside him.
“Oh, no! Mama! Please, please—she is not dead!” Annabella’s voice broke.
Parsifal took Lady Smith’s wrist. “No, she is alive.” He felt about her head and found a lump at the temple. “But hurt. I will need to take her into the house.” Carefully, he lifted the lady in his arms and saw something drop from her hand. There was no time to pick it up; the lady needed help first. He carried her to a side door of the house. Once there, he shouted for a servant.
“Lady Smith has been injured—I want a room ready for her now,” he ordered the maid who came at his call. “Tell Jackson to get the doctor, quickly. And have someone bring some cold water and cloths.”
“The Blue Room, sir—’twas made up for another guest but—”
Parsifal cut her off. “Very well! Go find the groom and tell him what I told you, now!” The maid bobbed a hasty curtsey and ran out. He turned to Annabella. Her face was pale, her lower lip held tightly in her teeth. “Come,” he said gently. “The steps are quite shallow. I cannot think your mother’s injuries to be grievous.”
“Of course.” But her face was still strained, her voice a pale whisper.
He did not know what else to say, how to comfort her. All he knew was that he must do something to help. He turned and climbed the stairs, glad that Lady Smith was a small lady so he could swiftly get her to her room. He could hear Annabella’s footsteps close behind him, as if urging him to hurry. He climbed faster.
Once in the Blue Room, he laid Lady Smith down upon the bed. A maid came in with the cloths and water, and Annabella wet them and applied them to her mother’s head. She looked up at him, her eyes miserable. “Thank you,” she said.
Parsifal shook his head. “I did little.” He paused. “There was nothing you could do. You must know that.”
Annabella bit her lip again, but said nothing. She turned to her mother and dipped another cloth in the water. Her shoulders slumped, and Parsifal wished he could hold her in his arms again to comfort her. But Annabella looked only at her mother, patting and stroking her hand when she was not applying a cloth to the lady’s head. Her whole concern was with her mother’s hurt; he would only be in the way and keep Annabella from doing what she thought she should.
He left silently, not wanting to disturb them further. Besides, he needed to see if the doctor had come and direct him to Lady Smith, and tell his mother of the incident, so that she would know they had at least one more guest. Parsifal grimaced as he descended the stairs. He would have to break the news in as gentle and tactful manner as possible, or else his mother would resort to her vinaigrette, and he would prefer to avoid that. One never knew how far into alt Lady Grafton would get once she took to her vinaigrette.
He felt tired, for he had been up early as was his habit, and it was now past midnight. Yawning, he lifted his hand to rub his eyes and almost dislodged his mask. He gave a short laugh. In all the excitement he had forgotten to take it off. It was just as well. He untied the string that held it in place and gazed at the piece of black cloth in his hands, shaking his head. Miss Smith would have been disappointed to know that it was no one more dashing beneath the costume but the plain Parsifal Wentworth. The masquerade ball was nearly over, anyway, and she would be going—.
His feet stumbled, and he put out his hand to the wall to steady himself. No. Miss Smith would not be going home. If there was some attacker outside, he could hardly expect her to return home unescorted, without her mother. Most of the guests would stay the night and depart the next day or so. Lady Smith and Annabella were among the few who lived close enough to travel home, as had been their intent. But now ...
His mother would have to know, of course. Parsifal swallowed. But worse, Miss Smith would have to stay and perhaps see him as he was, every day, and he would prefer she did not. He was not ready for this; it was better that she see him as some mysterious Cavalier, and not the tongue-tied gawk she encountered at the Bowerlands’ gallery. Oh, he had behaved in a more social manner than he ever had before then, and Miss Smith had not been repulsed, but it was hardly an improvement over his usual lack of social graces, was it?
He half turned away from the ballroom door, wanting to delay the inevitable, but the door burst open, and the noise of the masquerade blared at him. A loud shriek startled him and his body tensed.
“Oh, heavens, Parsifal, it is only you! What a start you gave me!” The dowager Countess of Grafton waved a lacy handkerchief about her face and gestured to the maid at her side. “Betty, do fetch my vinaigrette. The shock had made me feel a trifle faint.” The maid curtsied and left. The countess, dressed as a medieval lady with a tall hat and veil, continued to wave her handkerchief and pressed her hand to her plump bosom.
Parsifal let out his breath. This was not a good start. “Mother, I do not see what it is about me that should shock you.”
Lady Grafton stared at him, then closed her eyes, as if in profound pain. “That costume ... it almost made me think you were the ghost of your great-great-grandfather. I see now of course that it is indeed you, but you looked so much like that portrait...” She opened her eyes again. “Your father used to tell me about the ghost of your great-great grandfather in this house—not that I or anyone else have ever seen him! Of course I dismissed it, but one never knows but that it could be true!”
Parsifal opened his mouth to speak, but his mother continued.
“It has always been a matter of great discontent to me that you look so much like your grandfather, Parsifal, for you must know that though you are the dearest of sons to me, I never liked your grandfather, no, never! He was the most needling man alive! Nothing I ever did was good enough for him, despite the fact that I am the granddaughter of a duke.”
Parsifal groaned inwardly. He had heard this many times before, but it never stopped his mother from repeating it. “Yes, Mother,” he said. “I have called Doctor Robinson—
“How considerate of you, my dear boy.” Lady Grafton gave him a gratified smile. “But I shall not need him, though it has been a very trying evening! The vinaigrette should be enough for me. Ah, Betty, I thank you!” Lady Grafton unstopped the bottle the maid had just given to her. She breathed in the vapors, then sneezed violently. She sighed. “There! There is nothing like vigorous sneezing to enervate one’s constitution.”
Usually Parsifal bore his mother’s starts with resigned patience. But this time a flare of anger burst within him. “I did not call the doctor for you, ma’am!” he snapped.
“Parsifal! How dare you talk to me that—”
“I called him for Lady Smith. She has been grievously hurt—attacked in fact—and is unconscious in the Blue Room at this moment. Her daughter is attending her.”
“Attacked! Oh, good heavens!” The stopper on Lady Grafton’s vinaigrette came off again, and she sniffed and sneezed again. “I think perhaps when Doctor Robinson arrives I shall need—”
“Lady Smith will need his services first. Mother. Then if you need something, I will instruct him to come to you. Meanwhile, she and her daughter will be guests in our house until such time Lady Smith has recovered.” He turned to the maid standing round-eyed beside his mother. “Betty, prepare a room for Miss Smith, as close to he
r mother’s as possible, and direct her to it once the doctor arrives.” The maid curtsied and fled.
Lady Grafton stared at her son, astonishment and affront writ clearly on her face. “Parsifal! I have never, never—”
“I daresay,” he said and turned on his heel.
“Parsifal!”
He did not want to hear her arguments, and went up the stairs again to his chamber, ignoring her protests. More important things demanded his attention. Once there, he removed his costume, pulled on his usual clothes, and descended once again. Arriving just as the doctor’s gig stopped at the stables, he told Doctor Robinson what had occurred and sent him on his way.
But that was not the only reason why he had come outside again. He remembered something had dropped from Lady Smith’s hand; it was round, about the size and shape of a gentleman’s pocket watch. It seemed an unlikely thing for her to have. Perhaps it was something that her assailant had left behind.
The path to the garden was dark, but he knew it well and found the pocket watch easily, for he had noted in his mind the place at which it had fallen. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. He would examine it later in better light, once he returned to his room.
A clock in the house tolled the hour, and Parsifal looked up at the windows of the ballroom. The lights therein had been doused. A glance to the east showed no dawn yet, but he could hear the early morning birds begin to waken and sing. He would not be having his morning swim today, but would be sleeping late, as he was sure the other guests would. He would miss it, but if the guests left early, he could do it later in the day.
Meanwhile, he wished to look at his find. He went again to his room, took the watch out, and examined it in the light of the candles. The cover had an intricate design, etched in gold and silver. But on the other side was a stamped design, like a crest, and below it ornate lettering. Parsifal brought it up closer to the candlelight. There, in the middle of a tangle of leaves and vines were the letters Q and B.
His hand tightened over the watch. Miss Smith had been accosted before by a man with those initials—Sir Quentin Barnaby. He’d be willing to wager that the crest just above it belonged to the man as well. As for why he attacked Lady Smith this time ... could it be that the man had something against the two ladies, or the family as a whole?
Sir Robert Smith was involved in diplomatic matters, but peace had been declared at Amiens, and it was unlikely Sir Quentin had anything to do with foreign affairs, if that man’s reputation for unreliability and drink were any indication. No, what was more likely was that Sir Quentin sought to compromise and marry Annabella, for she was an heiress, and he was not at all well to heel.
As for his attack on Lady Smith, did not Parsifal himself almost mistake her for Annabella? If Sir Quentin wished to harm Annabella, it was very likely he had followed them and had mistaken Lady Smith for her daughter.
Parsifal was not certain whether his mother, sister, or even Geoffrey had invited Sir Quentin, or if the man had insinuated himself amongst the guests somehow. It would have been easily done, for the ballroom had been filled with a crush of people. Regardless, Lady and Miss Smith would bear watching in case Sir Quentin should return, and until such time Sir Robert could be notified of the threat.
He opened his hand and stared at the pocket watch again. And who would do the watching? It were best if he could have his whole family keep an eye on them, but it would be useless. Caroline was a flighty thing, not to be depended on at all. Geoffrey—well, Parsifal never knew when his brother would be about, or if he was even here this night. As for his mother, she would only take to her vinaigrette again.
Parsifal swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He supposed it meant that he would have to make himself presentable, and be as sociable as he could. With any luck, if he kept a still tongue, he would also keep himself from tripping over it.
Would it make it any better if he told Miss Smith that he was the Cavalier? He reviewed the evening and shuddered. God, no. After playing the clown and turning the country dance into a farce—no. She thought it had been exceedingly humorous, but comedy was not something to inspire confidence in one. And she would not like to know that she had been kissed by someone such as himself, he was certain.
He wished that he could have caught Sir Quentin, or had done something heroic ... but it was useless thinking of it. Better that he concentrate on the task at hand, and that was making sure Sir Quentin did not come near enough to the house to harm either Miss Smith or her mother.
Placing the watch in a drawer of a table, Parsifal stretched and yawned. If he did not go to sleep now, he’d have a difficult time staying awake later. He prepared himself for bed, not bothering to call his valet. Howell would probably have a discreet tantrum at the way his master draped his clothes at the foot of the bed, but he did not care.
Just before he fell asleep, a fleeting thought drifted through Parsifal’s mind: He had been acting strangely of late—impulsive and snappish—and he had spoken Spanish. He recognized it from the bright haze of his very early childhood, when he had sat at his grandfather’s knee. But sleep claimed him before he could catch any more thoughts.
* * * *
The Cavalier had gone quickly, silently from the room; Annabella did not even know when he had left. It was just as well that he was gone. She could not be distracted from doing all she could for her mother, for it was all her, Annabella’s, fault that her mother had been hurt.
Did she not go against her parents’ wishes regarding that first masquerade? It made her parents think it necessary that she be chaperoned to the next one. And did she not beg and plead her mother to go to this one? If she had not been do disobedient and willful, this would not have happened. Her parents loved her and wished the best for her. She knew it; they had always told her of their love and showed it in their displays of affection.
When they allowed her time to think over the duke’s most flattering marriage proposal, had she been grateful? No, she had not. She had put him off—had come close to refusing him, in fact. They had been patient with her when she had refused one suitor after another, and said nothing against her when she had asked the duke to wait for her answer. Annabella drew in a sobbing breath and pressed her hands against her eyes. She was a selfish wretch, to be sure! If she were a dutiful daughter as her parents deserved, she would have accepted the duke’s suit as soon as he had spoken.
And now she had allowed her mother to come to harm because of her selfishness in insisting on going to a silly masquerade, a thing that mattered naught when compared to her mother’s life and health. Truly, she should not wait, but accept the duke’s proposal as soon as she could. Her stomach tightened at the thought, but she made herself relax and focused her attention upon her mother again.
Annabella put another cold cloth upon the bump on her mother’s head and rubbed her mother’s hands. “Oh, please, please, Mama, be well,” she whispered.
A knock sounded on the door and a maid, then the doctor, entered. Annabella made room for the portly man, Doctor Robinson, who examined the bump upon Lady Smith’s head, and examined her limbs for any sprains or breaks. A slight moan issued from Lady Smith’s lips as he examined her, and she opened her eyes.
“Annabella?” Her voice was a whisper.
Her daughter rushed to her and clasped her hand. “Mama, I am here.”
Lady Smith smiled. “Sweet child. I remember ...” A painful frown creased her brow.
Doctor Robinson leaned toward her. “My lady, you remember?” he prompted.
“The man, he pushed me, he thought I was—” Her eyes became wild and frightened, and she held Annabella’s hand tightly. “He wanted to harm you, love. We must leave here.”
The doctor raised his grizzled eyebrows and turned to Annabella. “Is this true?”
She nodded. “Yes, I saw it, from a distance. I would not have, had not the Cavalier—a gentleman dressed as a Cavalier—gone to her rescue. He frightened the man away and brought my mother here.”
“Most irregular.” The doctor frowned. “Lord Grafton will need to be notified—or better, Mr. Wentworth. He knows the estate better than anyone, and that lad’s a sight more dependable, no disrespect meant to his lordship, mind you. However, it is good that my lady’s faculties seem to be in order—no loss of memory.”
“How soon can we go home?” Annabella asked.
“In two weeks, perhaps more.” He gently propped her mother up in the bed and gave her a draught of medicine.
“Two weeks ... ?” she faltered.
“Quite. Her concussion is bad, though not severe. But her ankle may have suffered a slight fracture or a sprain—I cannot tell precisely until the swelling has gone down—and will take quite a while to mend before she can stand on it again. She will be too dizzy to be moved, and must stay prone for at least a week at the start.”
“Oh, no! We cannot impose—we must go home—
The doctor gave her a kindly look. “I am sorry, but that is not possible if your mother is to be well.” He turned to the maid and requested that she call Mr. Wentworth, then held up his hand when Annabella opened her mouth to protest. “I know, it is late. But someone in this household should know my opinion of your mother’s condition, and I have found Master Parsifal to be a young man of good sense and much understanding. He already knows your mother was hurt, for it was he who told me of it when I arrived—I imagine that Cavalier fellow of yours must have told him.”
It was not long before Mr. Wentworth entered, looking rumpled and sleepy-eyed. It was clear he had been roused from his bed. Annabella blushed, feeling more miserable than ever. She not only caused her mother to be hurt, but she was now inconveniencing her hosts, as well.
She watched as the doctor explained his diagnosis to Mr. Wentworth, who listened intently and nodded his head. She saw him glance at her, and she looked hastily away. It was necessary that her mother not be moved so that she could be cared for, but Annabella did not like to be beholden to anyone, and she felt horribly awkward because of it.
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