by Regina Scott
Nathan stared at her. He knew she was right. If her aunt truly was bent on murder, they had to protect themselves. Yet it was not her own person or reputation for which she feared, it was the duke’s.
All along he’d thought she was playing a game, one at which she had every advantage of nature and skill to win. But she had to know that revealing this secret could ruin her if he wasn’t trustworthy. She had put all her faith in him.
Could he do any less?
He took her in his arms again, held her close. “We’ll find your aunt,” he promised. “And your blackmailer. Am I right to assume this is the secret you feared would be discovered?”
She nodded, and her hair caressed his cheek. “Yes, but I’ve thought and thought, and I don’t know who else could have learned of it.”
“Perhaps one of her caretakers talked,” Nathan said, trying not to drink in the scent of her like water. “Perhaps she escaped another time and was seen before being returned. Whatever happened, we need help to fetch her back this time.” He held her away from him. “I want you to allow me to contact Bow Street.”
She started to shake her head, but Nathan gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Not a stranger. Mr. Cropper. I believe we can agree that he will be discrete.”
He felt her tension ease. “Yes. I trust him, particularly if he’s working on my behalf.”
“Good.” Nathan released her. “Until then, I think you should consider staying with Lady Emily.”
She frowned. “Why?”
He chose his words carefully. “We cannot know your aunt’s mind, as you pointed out, but it seems she has always favored you. That favor could turn on you if she perceives you as working against her. Here at Lady Emily’s, there are always staff about, more people to keep you safe.”
“Very well,” she said with a shiver that made him long to gather her close once more. But voices sounded from the corridor, and he forced himself to take a step back from her even as she wiped away the last of her tears with her fingers.
“How did you like the painting, Your Grace?” she asked brightly as he, Lady Emily, and the Courdebas sisters entered the room. Ariadne put her head down as if trying to avoid having to comment on the topic, and even her more exuberant sister hurried over to her seat as if to distance herself.
His Grace shuddered. “Dark, dismal, distressing thing, all blood and gore. I commissioned one like it for the east drawing room.”
Only Lady Emily looked pleased by his announcement.
“Well, then,” Nathan said, hiding a smile, “I believe we should take our leave of you.” He bowed to Lady Emily and her friends. Then he took a step closer to Priscilla.
“I will be in touch as soon as I know more,” he murmured as he bowed to her.
“Thank you,” she murmured back. “And be careful.”
Nathan straightened to find His Grace eyeing him. His cousin’s head was uncharacteristically high, his chin remarkably firm. What now?
“Miss Tate,” His Grace said. “I must speak to you. Alone.”
“Alone?” she asked, paling.
“Alone.” He affixed Nathan with a glare.
“Oh, look at the time,” Ariadne cried, reaching for her sister’s hand and drawing her to her feet. “We have so many things to do!”
“We do?” Daphne asked with a frown.
Ariadne’s grip on her sister’s hand was so tight it strained the fabric of her gloves. “We do. Emily, dear, would you walk us to the door?”
“Assuredly.” Their hostess shook out her green skirts, and all three trotted from the room so quickly they seemed to suspect it would shortly be set ablaze.
Nathan refused to budge. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. This could not be what he feared.
His Grace paid him less attention than if he was one of the comfits on a plate. He clasped his hands behind the back of the tan coat Nathan had insisted he wear that day.
“Miss Tate,” he said, long nose in the air, “I have made my decision. I think you’ll do quite well for a wife. I’ll speak to your father today, and we can announce our engagement at the masquerade.”
Nathan felt as if the coffered ceiling had fallen on his head. He should have seen this coming, but somehow, he’d thought the duke would discuss the matter with him before making his choice. Until today, he would have counseled him against Priscilla Tate. Now, well now, he wished he’d proposed first.
The feeling slammed into him, nearly knocked him off his feet. He wanted to be the one to court Priscilla, request her hand in marriage. Oh, not with this perfunctory proposal but with one made from heartfelt entreaty, on bended knee, his dreams shining in every word.
But he knew her circumstances. The Duke of Rottenford was the better catch, higher position, greater fortune. What did Nathan have on his side of the equation other than the fact that he saw her for who she was and loved her for it?
He waited for her to murmur her acceptance, to claim the honor for which she’d worked so hard. But instead of fluttering her lashes at the duke, cooing out her delight, she looked at Nathan. Their gazes held. Was he mad to think he saw regret for what might have been?
Then she was blushing, gaze on her slippers. “I am honored, Your Grace. But you must know that my family cannot be compared with the elevation of yours. Indeed, there is reason to believe at least one member is insane and rather dangerous.”
What was she doing? She’d made her confession to Nathan, but he’d hardly expected her to present it to the duke himself. If Mr. Cropper succeeded, Lady Brentfield would soon be back where she belonged and no one the wiser. Why mention the matter now?
His cousin waved a hand. “There’s probably a nutter or two in my family as well. You haven’t met my Aunt Philharmonica yet.”
She dimpled. “You are too kind. But are you certain our marriage will make you happy? What of your duty to your family?”
His family? Since when did she care beyond securing the future of her own family? Why did she persist in presenting potential problems? This was her dream!
His Grace frowned. “My family? Oh, well, as long as Natty approves.” He glanced at Nathan and waited.
The silence stretched.
Priscilla smiled at him. “Well, Natty? Do you approve of me marrying His Grace?”
He knew what she must want him to say. She’d obliterated all his objections. He wished her only happiness. He opened his mouth to give his approval and heard himself say, “No. Not in the slightest. I don’t think you should marry His Grace.”
*
Priscilla recoiled. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She should never have told Nathan the truth. She should know by now that the glittering gold Priscilla Tate she showed to Society was always to be preferred to the real woman. Why had she thought Nathan would be any different?
Still, she felt tears coming again, her emotions rising. She couldn’t look at him another minute. She turned and ran from the room.
Emily, Daphne, and Ariadne were waiting in the corridor, faces pinched.
“We would not be who we are if we didn’t attempt to overhear,” Ariadne said without apology.
“And commiserate,” Daphne added.
“You deserve better,” Emily said, and that made Priscilla cry all the more.
They encircled her, arms around her waist, murmuring condolences, support. She clung to them, these friends who had seen her at her worst and still loved her. That was one thing she could count on, if nothing else.
Behind her, she heard a nasal cough that could only be the duke clearing his throat. She knew her face must be blotched from crying, but she found she couldn’t care. She released her friends and turned.
The duke’s lips were pressed tightly together, as if he were holding back words. His brows were drawn down over his long nose. Nathan was nowhere in sight.
“I want you to know,” His Grace said, gaze meeting hers, “that while I accept my family’s advice on any number of matters, I believe a fellow ought to choose his own wi
fe.” He blinked a moment as if surprised by the strength of his convictions, then asked, “Don’t you?”
Priscilla managed a smile. “Yes, Your Grace. I do.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded. “Excellent. Excellent. Then I see no reason to delay our announcement. I will go find your father this moment. Meet me at the masquerade. I will be dressed like a harlequin, bells and all.”
Heart pounding, Priscilla curtsied. “I will be dressed as a shepherdess, Your Grace. I look forward to standing beside you.”
He bowed over her hand and pressed a kiss against her gloved fingers. It was quick and a little sloppy if the moisture left on the leather was any indication, and she felt absolutely nothing. As he straightened, she saw Nathan standing behind him.
“I wish you every happiness, Miss Tate,” he said.
The air seemed to have stopped in her lungs. She could only stand there as the two took their leave of her friends. Her mind informed her that she had just accomplished the impossible. She’d won the greatest matrimonial prize in England. She would never have to piece together another outfit. Her parents would be welcomed everywhere as relatives of a duchess. She would dine and dance with royalty.
But the problem was, she didn’t want to marry the duke. She wanted to marry Nathan. Aunt Sylvia, had she been in her right mind, would have said it was ridiculous. Her parents would call it selfish. She knew it was completely unreasonable. But when she’d asked him his permission to marry the duke, she’d wanted him to refuse, to take her in his arms, to swear that he was the man for her.
But he hadn’t. He didn’t love her. He thought the worst of her. He didn’t even believe she was good enough to marry his feckless cousin.
Daphne recovered first, shaking her head and setting her honey-colored curls to bouncing. “My word, Priscilla,” she said. “You caught the duke!”
“You must be over the moon,” Ariadne marveled, turning to face her.
“Is this truly what you wanted?” Emily asked with a frown.
Priscilla glanced at each of them, seeing delight, excitement, and not a little surprise.
“No,” she told them. “I’ve never been more miserable in my life. It remains to be seen what I can do about it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
By the night of the masquerade, Priscilla had stopped crying. No one would have guessed her heart was broken. She had taken great pains with her costume, hoping to look like the little Dresden shepherdesses the ton so favored. Her curls were dressed to fall down behind her, allowing her lacy mask to frame her eyes. The crisp cotton of her flowered gown was bedecked with emerald ribbons, and ribbons laced up the longer bodice from an earlier era. She’d even found a puppet that had been covered in lamb’s wool to resemble a sheep, which she could cradle in one arm. A shame she could not seem to take as much joy from the ensemble as she’d hoped.
Her parents, on the other hand, were over the moon. True to his word, the duke had spoken to her father, and Mr. and Mrs. Tate were giddy with the knowledge that they could soon begin trading on their relationship with the House of Rottenford. As if determined to prove the fact, both had chosen to dress in amethyst-colored dominoes and jeweled masks like royalty.
Priscilla hadn’t been sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that His Grace had not brought Nathan with him when he had called, but all she’d seen of Nathan had been a note assuring her he was following through on his promise and investigating her “situation.”
And a situation it was. Lady Brentfield remained at large, though there had been no sightings reported. Priscilla’s parents alternated between congratulating themselves on losing her and lamenting that they were all likely to be ruined any moment. Priscilla felt as if doom hung over her head like the blade of a guillotine as she accompanied her parents to the duke’s home the evening of the masquerade.
Emerging from the long line of carriages, they joined the other gentlemen and ladies in all manner of costume who were wending their way through the double doors at the front of the mansion. Priscilla sighted courtiers in white satin breeches, a lady with a stuffed swan perched on her shining curls. Some of the guests were austerely dressed in a black domino with a simple black mask. Other masks were so adorned with peacock feathers and jewels she wasn’t sure how the wearer could see through the eyeholes.
The ballroom where the masquerade was being held was located at the back of the house. A full two stories high and surmounted with a ceiling painted like a forest canopy, the space was held aloft by tall gilded pillars shaped like palm trees. At one end, a massive gold clock, as round as the sun, ticked off the time until midnight.
The guests entered along a landing that spanned one side of the room, with wide stairs sweeping down onto the parquet floor. Already the room was crowded, with couples darting among the groups. The music of a string quartet floated through the air.
Standing at the foot of the stairs, a gentleman in the costume of a harlequin waited for her, his mask with its long pointed nose obscuring his face. The tailor had been particularly artful in his construction, for she knew His Grace’s shoulders were not so broad. Indeed, he even seemed a little shorter than she remembered as she descended to his side, but most likely that was because she was higher than him on the stairs.
He bowed over her hand. She curtsied. He linked arms with her and drew her out onto the floor, promenading about the edges of the fine room. Some ladies eyed him from behind their masks, and Priscilla could only wonder how many times he’d confessed his costume. Did the other women to whom he’d shown interest know he’d made his choice?
“When do you intend to make your announcement?” she murmured. “Midnight, at the unmasking?”
He inclined his head. He had returned to being a man of few words. Very likely Nathan had impressed upon him the importance of making a good showing tonight. This was what she had to look forward to, standing beside him, propping him up, smiling charmingly as she smoothed over every gaff, her heart slowly shriveling inside her.
Oh, but she couldn’t do it. Not when she now knew how it felt to love someone her equal. How could any man compare to Nathan?
“Your Grace,” she started, but a movement near the windows across the back of the room caught her eye. A raven-haired beauty stood with head high, her demeanor in keeping with the royal purple robes in which she was gowned. Priscilla recognized the stance immediately, one foot forward, the other back, chest up, and mysterious smile playing about her mouth. No! It couldn’t be!
Despite her best efforts, her breath hissed out of her. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, pulling away. “I see a friend I must greet.”
His Grace stiffened as if to protest, but she turned her back on him to thread her way through the other couples and groups, intent only on capturing her aunt. But by the time she reached the other side of the room, the queen had vanished.
A long-limbed Diana, silky robes fluttering, all but galloped up to her.
“Priscilla!” Daphne declared. “There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere.” She peered closer. “It is Priscilla, is it not? I cannot imagine anyone else looking so well in that outfit.”
Priscilla tucked the sheep closer under her arm, glancing about as Ariadne in a similar white silk gown and a laurel wreath on her shining hair came up to join them. “Where’s Emily?”
Ariadne nodded across the room. “By the refreshments. We managed to escape Lady Minerva, though it cost me my earbobs.” She sighed and leaned closer. “I tried to dissuade Emily from her costume, Priscilla, but she would have none of it.”
Priscilla located her friend easily. Not too many ladies dared attend a masquerade in funereal black, a skull mask covering the top of her face and ruby red paint like blood dripping from one corner of her mouth.
“Let me guess,” she said. “She decided to come as Death?”
Ariadne sighed. “Original, but highly depressing.”
“So is my news.” She beckoned her friends closer. �
�I just saw Aunt Sylvia.”
Daphne’s head came up, and she glanced around. “Where?”
“Don’t look!” Priscilla warned. “She was standing here only a few moments ago, dressed like a queen.”
Of course, they both looked. Ariadne frowned. “I see no one of that description.”
“That is precisely the problem,” Priscilla said as their gazes returned to hers. “She is entirely too good at escaping. We must find her, before something terrible happens. Daphne, go to Emily and enlist her aid. Ariadne, come with me. We’ll circle the room and meet under the clock.”
Daphne scurried off, and Ariadne fell into step beside Priscilla.
“This is awful,” she commiserated as they set off around the room. “What could she want? Why did she come? How did she manage a costume?”
“Can you quote me no plays?” Priscilla challenged, gaze darting from person to person as they passed the Oriental screen hiding the string quartet. “Give me no plots?”
“Not a one,” Ariadne assured her. “Madwomen are generally content to hide in a garret or stand around and wash their hands. Your aunt is unique in her menace.”
“How very comforting,” Priscilla quipped.
For most of her life, she had admired her aunt’s skill in Society. Lady Brentfield had known just how to turn a phrase to filet someone who had displeased her, how to honey her words to draw men to her. When her aunt entered a room, everyone in it noticed. When had she become so adapt at hiding?
Though Priscilla and Ariadne accosted two other ladies dressed as queens and pushed their way to the center of more than one knot of people, she could not find her aunt. Daphne and Emily reported similar failure when they all met under the clock a short time later.
“Are you certain it was your aunt?” Emily asked. “There must be more than one queen attending tonight.”
“It appears to be a standard costume,” Ariadne agreed as another blond queen strolled past them.
“It was her,” Priscilla insisted. “She has a way of standing, of moving. I know it as well as my own, for she taught it to me.”
