by Martha Keyes
Lord Moulinet wore a dark blue domino and a half-mask, and Cecilia stared at how bright and fierce looked the eye on the uncovered side of his face. Mrs. Broussard had adopted an Elizabethan costume with an exceptionally tall neck ruff and wrist ruffs to match.
Letty let out a disgusted noise, and Cecilia glanced at her with a frown. "What is it?"
"Him," Letty replied, indicating with her head a man nearby in a knight costume. The visor was raised so that there was no mistaking his identity: the marquess of Retsford.
Cecilia sighed. "I can only imagine it will be quite awful to dance with him in that clanking, bulky costume."
"I am more than willing," said Lord Moulinet, "to do what I can to spare you that necessity. Would you care to dance with me instead?"
Cecilia smiled gratefully and placed her hand on the arm he extended to her. Was there anyone in the room she would prefer to dance with more than Lord Moulinet? She couldn't think of a single gentleman. And that was in spite of the residual shame and contrition she felt which made Lord Moulinet’s company less comfortable than usual. She hated knowing that he disapproved of her behavior.
But his behavior toward her held no reserve or disapprobation as they took their place among the set.
"How are your wounds, my lord?" she said as they joined hands to move down the set.
"Nearly healed, thank you," he said amiably.
They took their places across from one another again. "I am very sorry to have been the cause of such a terrible ordeal for you."
He shook his head. "What is past is done. I am glad that I was there to prevent you from coming to harm. I hope you know that my anger was merely fear for what might have occurred had I not made the decision—a very uncharacteristic one, mind you"— he smiled at her, and she felt tingling in her skin —"to attend."
"But you needn't have intervened. You had no obligation to do so. Why not simply let us experience the consequences of our decisions?"
He blew a laugh through his nose, even as his brows furrowed. "What a fellow you must think me. I could never leave someone I care about to such a fate."
Cecilia swallowed. Of course he meant nothing by the phrase someone I care about.
"Well, I am forever indebted to you for it. I am afraid it cannot have done anything to abate the marquess's dislike of you, though."
The vicomte chuckled. "No, certainly not. He is no admirer of mine. I believe he has made it a personal goal to embarrass me in whatever way he possibly can."
"Hmph," Cecilia said incredulously. "And how should he accomplish such a thing? In at least one way you proved yourself his superior. And I hardly think any woman in this room would debate which of you two is more handsome or charming or amiable—or younger, for that matter."
Lord Moulinet's ears turned red, and Cecilia realized, with a blush of her own, how forward her comment had been.
"Letty would certainly not agree with you," he said with a wry smile.
Cecilia laughed, her eyes searching out her cousin. She was not, as Cecilia had anticipated, standing next to Aunt Emily, but was shoulder to shoulder with a young woman in a purple domino and matching mask. Cecilia's mouth twisted to the side. Where was Aunt Emily?
"You dislike Lady Caroline's example for Letty," said Cecilia, "but what say you to the influence of someone like Priscilla Fletcher?”
Lord Moulinet turned his head to look for Letty. He grimaced when he saw who she stood with. "Where is Aunt Emily?"
Cecilia shrugged. "I wouldn't put it past Priscilla to have concocted some plan to distract her. She is always up to some mischief or other."
"Happily," said the vicomte with a light smile, "she is not our concern."
The dance took them apart for a time, and Cecilia couldn't help but glance again to where Letty had been standing when they came together again. Priscilla Fletcher stood in the same spot, her mother standing at her side. Aunt Emily stood not far off, her head leaning in toward the woman next to her as though they wished to be private.
Letty was nowhere to be seen.
"She is gone," Cecilia said, her eyes searching all over for the silver domino and mask as Lord Moulinet joined her.
They broke apart as the last note of the song was played, and Cecilia made a swift curtsy, matched by the perfunctory bow of Lord Moulinet. There was one more song in the set, but as she met eyes with Lord Moulinet, he said, "Perhaps we should..."
Cecilia nodded.
The vicomte escorted her off of the ballroom floor, and they headed toward Aunt Emily but came upon Mary Holledge first.
"Mary," said Cecilia, slightly breathless, "have you seen Letty anywhere?"
Mary shook her head. "No, I haven't seen her all evening."
Cecilia's brow wrinkled. "She is wearing a full mask, so I suppose it is no wonder you didn't recognize her."
"Wait," Mary said, her eyes narrowing as she rested a hand on Cecilia's arm. "A full mask and a silver domino?"
Cecilia nodded, swallowing.
Mary clenched her teeth, pointing toward the tall, white French doors. "I saw her walk out onto the terrace with Lord Retsford—though if I had known it was her, I should have tried to stop her."
"Thank you," Cecilia said quickly, as Lord Moulinet rushed away toward the large doors which opened onto the terrace and into the gardens.
She followed behind him, her heart beating erratically. Why would Letty do something so foolish with a man she held in aversion?
Lord Moulinet squeezed past a pair of ladies walking through the doors and out onto the walled terrace. Cecilia joined him, looking over the rows of perfectly-aligned trees, the long encased pond, and the elaborate maison chinoise that seemed to float in the middle.
"There," Cecilia said, seeing the conspicuous silver armor of the marquess. "In the Chinese House."
They rushed down the steps, brushing past the couples walking leisurely along the tree-lined path. Lord Moulinet's eyes were fixed on his cousin and the marquess, who stood opposite one another, the marquess resting an elbow on the stone wall, Letty with her hands clasped behind her back, her mask off entirely.
What in the world were they doing?
"Letty," Lord Moulinet said breathlessly, a hint of censure in his voice as they came upon them.
"Ah," said Lord Retsford, not even rising from his reclined posture as Cecilia and the vicomte stepped up into the maison. "The man himself, no doubt come to rescue you from my wiles. And joined by his greatest admirer, I see." He smiled at Cecilia with a hint of a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Letty," said Cecilia, pointedly ignoring the marquess, "I think we should return to the rotunda." She put out a hand, and Letty nodded, her eyes overbright.
The vicomte turned to follow them, and the marquess's voice carried behind them. "I was just learning," he said, "about some of your fascinating history, Lord Moulinet."
Why did he say the vicomte's name with such a mocking tone?
The vicomte barely turned around, inclining his head politely and saying, "I am glad if it entertained you. Good evening, my lord." He turned and kept walking.
"What in the world were you thinking, Letty?" Cecilia said. "To be seen roaming the gardens with Lord Retsford is enough to ruin your reputation."
"Not when no one knows who I am," said Letty defensively. "Besides, that is very rich coming from the woman who disappeared with him at the Ferguson's rout."
Cecilia's mouth opened and closed wordlessly. She could hardly refute the charge laid against her, but she had to force herself not to look at the vicomte for his reaction to the words. He seemed to have more and more reason to think ill of her with each thing he discovered.
But how had Letty even known? It had been before her arrival in town, at a time when Cecilia had felt intoxicated by the victory of having the marquess’s attentions directed toward her.
As if reading Cecilia's thoughts, Letty turned around, stopping on the terrace. "Priscilla told me," she said simply.
&n
bsp; "I suppose I should have guessed that," Cecilia said with a grimace. "It was a naïve piece of idiocy—the very type I have been trying to warn you against. I hope you can learn from my mistakes instead of insisting on making them yourself."
Letty pouted slightly. "All I was trying to do was help you."
Cecilia met Lord Moulinet's gaze, both looking incredulous.
"Forgive me," said the vicomte, "but I can't say that I see how escaping outside with the marquess is helping Miss Cosgrove."
Letty crossed her arms defensively, her mask still in her hand, and looked at him through narrowed eyes before turning to Cecilia with a mischievous smile twitching at the corner of her lip. "You said you wished you could tell Lord Retsford just what you thought of him. Well"— she shrugged her shoulders —"I thought I might do it for you since I am perfectly anonymous in this costume." She raised the mask to her face, and Cecilia could imagine her smiling behind it.
"Good heavens," said Cecilia, dismayed. Her eyes darted to Lord Moulinet, who closed his eyes and shook his head in a patience-summoning gesture. "What an idea, Letty! I hope you thought better of it."
"I am not such a coward!" Letty said, letting the mask drop from her face. "But I let him flirt with me for a few minutes before delivering my speech"— she smiled at the thought, staring out into the gardens as if remembering a sweet victory —"so that he might be even more embarrassed than ever when I ripped his character to shreds." She turned back toward them. "It was Priscilla's idea."
"Letty, Letty, Letty," said the vicomte. “Do you have any original ideas, or do they all originate with Priscilla Fletcher?” He took the mask from her hand and waved it in front of her face. "Besides, your costume only offers you anonymity when you wear it. And you were decidedly sans masque when we came upon you."
"Yes, well," said Letty, lifting her chin as her mouth returned to a pout, "it wasn't until after I had delivered my speech that the marquess made it clear that he already knew my identity."
Cecilia swallowed.
"Even had he not known," said Lord Moulinet, "he could easily have asked around after the fact. It would not be difficult to discover your identity."
"Was he angry?" Cecilia said, imagining with misgiving what someone as arrogant as the marquess would do after being so blatantly insulted.
Letty shook her head rapidly. "No, he was only amused." She frowned. "In fact, he was mostly interested in talking about you"— she indicated the vicomte —"asking me question after question."
Cecilia's brows knit, and she looked at Lord Moulinet, who shot her a quick, humorless smile. "He is determined to discover something—anything—unsavory about my character and my past."
Cecilia scoffed. "So he assumes that everyone is as reprehensible as himself?"
Lord Moulinet looked at her in a way that made her heart flutter.
How he was still able to countenance her company was something she struggled to understand, after all she had done to give him a distaste for it. But she was certainly grateful that he seemed not to dislike spending time with her.
When they were back inside the rotunda and had conveyed Letty back to the safety of her mother's chaperonage, Cecilia turned to the vicomte and took in a large breath. It was never easy to admit wrong.
"I find myself in a semi-constant state of needing to apologize to you," she said with a humorous grimace. "It is very vexing."
He smiled widely but tilted his head as if he was unsure what she meant.
"It was my words," she said, "that inspired Letty this evening. Surely when I spoke of my desire to tell him what I thought of him…”
He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "You could never have known that she would take your words as an invitation to act. Besides, I distinctly remember you saying that you weren’t foolish enough to think such an endeavor would end well.”
Cecilia swallowed uncomfortably, hesitant to draw his attention to more of her foolish behavior. "But in combination with the example she feels I have set for her..." her voice trailed off, and she averted her eyes.
Why was it so hard to pretend confidence in his company? And why did she feel she had to be perfectly clear with him about her failings? Two months ago, she would have done nearly anything to avoid admitting such things.
"Miss Cosgrove," said the vicomte in an amused voice, "if you believe yourself to be the only person to have ever made unwise decisions, let me disabuse you of such a notion at once."
She looked up at him tentatively, feeling a glimmer of hope. "You at least seem to be free of such failings."
He shook his head. "Far from it."
She couldn't help it. She wanted to know more about this man who was still so mysterious to her in many ways. She tilted her head and looked at him with doubtful, teasing eyes. "I don't know if I believe you. Though I suppose," she said in a cryptic voice, "you might have a very sordid past that all of us are completely ignorant of." Her smile wavered as she looked at him.
He forced a smile and a breathy chuckle.
She blinked rapidly. What had she said?
He excused himself with a bow and a more convincing smile under the guise of having promised a dance to someone.
A prickle of jealousy flared up inside, and Cecilia only nodded stiffly, looking after his retreating figure with a sense of loneliness.
What, did she expect him to dance attendance upon her and only her all evening long? She was becoming almost as silly as Letty.
She turned away determinedly.
She needed to get her emotions under control quickly.
14
Jacques sat down to breakfast the day after the masquerade with a crease in his brow. He had been fighting off ill-humor ever since Miss Cosgrove's comment about his sordid past.
Little did she know how near the mark she had hit.
But to her, such a possibility was laughable—and only because it was unbelievable.
It was with dismay that she had seen his reaction to her joke. And he had known a moment of wishing to tell her everything.
She had become so open and genuine with him that he wished—painfully wished—that he could do the same.
But he couldn't. And he hated that he couldn't. He hated deceiving her into thinking that he was something so far from what he truly was.
He stared at the food on his plate for a moment, then scooted his chair back and strode out of the room.
He needed to speak with his father. Whether Jacques wanted to reveal his past or not, the marquess was certainly determined to ferret out damaging information about him. Jacques doubted he could manage such a feat—it had been more than twenty years since their arrival, after all—but he needed to be sure that there was no way the man could discover their ruse.
He knocked lightly on his father's bedroom door and opened it when he heard his father's voice welcome him in.
His father's valet stood behind him, making a few final touches to the small curls gathered in a band behind the Comte’s head. He wore an elaborate silk dressing gown—he had always been much more comfortable flaunting himself in expensive clothing than Jacques. Sometimes Jacques thought his father truly was made to be a Comte.
"Oh," his father said with a smile, turning around so that his valet's nostrils flared in annoyance. "I hadn't expected you, Jacques."
Jacques smiled perfunctorily. "I thought I would pay you a visit since the rest of the world has been up for hours, and you haven't yet made an appearance."
His father laughed jovially and slapped him on the shoulder. "When you're my age, you'll do the same, mon fils."
Jacques smiled and glanced at the valet. Following his gaze, his father looked at the valet and back to Jacques before saying, "Merci, Fortin." The valet executed a deep bow and left them to themselves.
"What is it, Jacques?" his father said as he sat on the edge of the bed. "I assume that you wish to be private with me, or else you would have simply waited for me to come down to breakfast."
Jacques nodded and inhaled. "Father, is there anyone who might be aware of our true identities?"
His father began shaking his head, but Jacques pressed on. "Anyone at all, Father. A servant who assisted the Comte upon arrival in Dover, even?"
His father shook his head again. "I sent one of the shipmen ahead of us to the inn to ensure that a room should be prepared for the Comte to rest in. When we arrived at the inn, we went straight to the room."
Jacques worried his lip. "So the shipman you sent would be aware that you are not the true Comte de Montreuil?"
His father scoffed. "A French shipman twenty years ago who returned immediately to France and likely never gave us a second thought?" He looked at Jacques curiously. "Why are you asking me this? We have discussed this before."
Jacques grimaced and shook his head. Surely he was just being ridiculous. The marquess would hardly be able to search out a solitary Frenchman who worked on the packet twenty years ago—and even if he managed such a feat, the likelihood of the man remembering such a commonplace event was so unlikely as to be absurd.
"Nothing," he said with a small laugh at himself. "You know how I am prone to worry."
His father squeezed his shoulder. "None better, I should think." He stood. "Come breakfast with me. I am feeling very sociable today and may even venture out with you this evening to whatever gathering you plan on attending." He wagged his eyebrows. Having little interest in the balls and parties that Jacques found himself attending, his father had been accompanying Mr. Broussard to his club.
In fact, Jacques was surprised at his own level of social involvement since his arrival in town. He had not anticipated that he would be engaged every evening of the week, and he had a sneaking suspicion that the underlying motivator for his unwonted levels of social engagement had much to do with Miss Cosgrove.
