Masque of Enchantment

by Charlene Cross

  As soon as the door closed, Alissa rushed across the room, her feet sliding inside Agatha’s shoes. Turning the key, she threw the bolt. Then she fairly flew to the window. Fortunately, she’d been given a room opposite the entrance to the Angel. She yanked aside the lace curtain and viewed the traffic along the Great North for several furlongs in each direction. For once, luck was with her. Within moments, a large stagecoach, pulled by four strong bays, came rambling through the stretch, heading north, stopping at the Angel. The lettering on the side, the words rising one over the other, read: Edinburgh-London.

  The curtain dropped; Alissa ran to the bed and opened her case. She knew she had little time. Public coaches never tarried. Within minutes, it would be gone, and with it, her hopes of escape.

  Lace-trimmed chemises, petticoats, pantalettes, a corset or two, plus her dresses flew through the air, landing all over the quilt-covered bed as she searched for the white stocking containing her savings. Finally, reaching the bottom of the case, she turned it upside down, giving it a violent shake. Nothing! Again, she searched the scattered pieces, turning each garment inside out, feeling each stocking from toe to top. Why, she didn’t know, for the particular stocking she wanted would be quite visible to the naked eye, its small, rounded bulge stuffing the toe.

  Distraught, Alissa rubbed her fingers across her forehead, hoping to stimulate her thoughts. Where could it be? she wondered, her hand bumping the bonnet’s brim. In a fit of temper, she yanked the ribbons free and tossed the obnoxious thing across the room. Then her eye caught the remnants of her makeup left on her glove, and she realized she’d managed to wipe more off.

  Why? Why? Why? she wanted to scream, aloud; but somehow she managed to hold it inside. Oh, how she wished she could scrub herself from head to foot, discard the horrid clothing and the oversize shoes and just be herself once more. But the disguise was all she had to get her safely out of England.

  The stage! She rushed back to the window, praying it was still there. Indeed it was, but Alissa stiffened when she saw the activity around it. The rotund little man who’d brushed her aside, earlier, stood next to another, more dignified-looking gentleman, whom Alissa believed to be the Justice of the Peace; two other men helped the women passengers, one at a time, alight from the coach’s interior. The Justice tipped his hat, then questioned each woman as she stepped down. When the last woman appeared at the door, the fat little man pointed an accusing finger, shaking it with vigor, while a cry erupted from his pudgy mouth.

  With a force Alissa deemed unnecessary, the two regulars practically dragged the poor woman from the coach. Then, suddenly, another man literally leapt into the picture, bounding from the passenger seat atop the stage. Rage filled his features as he shoved the constables aside, then he placed a protective arm around the shaking woman’s shoulders. The two men instantly backed off.

  “Keep your filthy hands from my wife!” the man shouted, his angry voice filtering through the windowpane into Alissa’s ears. “I shall have your heads if you touch her again!”

  The man seemed so enraged Alissa expected to see him slap his glove across the face of each man involved, challenging all to a duel, commencing immediately. Should he do so, there was no doubt in her mind that, whether he fought each one individually or the foursome together, he would be the victor.

  Then Alissa noticed the traffic on the Great North had stopped; spectators surrounded the coach, more than mildly interested in the outcome of the foray. Suffering from embarrassment, the woman apparently wanted to make peace, for she placed her gloved hand on her husband’s chest and whispered something to him. The man nodded, then withdrew his arm from her shoulders, bumping her bonnet. Alissa gasped as she watched it fall from the woman’s head, a head filled with a wealth of mahogany hair.

  Suddenly she realized why they’d singled out this particular woman. She’d been mistaken for Alissa Ashford, actress and murderess!

  Defeated, Alissa moved to the bed and sank to the down-filled mattress. Even if she had found her money, she’d never have escaped Stilton, not when they were searching the coaches, not even in her disguise. Still, there remained the possibility she could offer a bribe—her mother’s jewels—to a farmer or to a private coachman. But it seemed unlikely. Word was already out, and Alissa suspected everyone would be extra cautious until the murderess had been captured.

  With a sigh of resignation, knowing she’d have to continue north with Jared Braxton, she began retrieving her clothing. Perhaps Eudora had packed the stocking in Agatha’s luggage. Then she remembered Eudora’s words: “I packed half of your undergarments …” Half certainly was not all, and Alissa realized her money was still in London, hidden in the back of her bureau drawer along with some worn stockings that Eudora probably ignored in her haste to get Alissa safely out of London. Unfortunately, Alissa had forgotten to ask.

  Resigned to her fate, she realized that not only would she have to continue with Jared, but she’d also have to rely on him for support. And she’d have to become Agatha Pembroke to get it.

  Alissa clutched a petticoat to her breast. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes; her head moved in a negative gesture. If she had an ounce of courage, she’d stop her ridiculous charade, fleeing one country, then most likely another, and march herself down the stairs, straight to the Justice of the Peace. As she seriously thought about it, the courts versus Jared Braxton, she knew her best chance would be with the former. Undoubtedly, a hangman’s noose would be far kinder than the punishment Jared Braxton would surely mete out, should he discover her deception.

  Footsteps sounded outside her door, then she heard the whiny voice of the servant girl; Jared Braxton’s deep voice countered, “She’s not a threat to you, so hold your tongue.” Then a knock sounded on the door.

  Alissa didn’t answer. Her makeup was smeared, her bonnet was in the corner, her clothing was still scattered across the bed, and only a few feet away stood her executioner! If he were to discover her like this, he’d know she’d been pretending all along!

  The knock sounded again, louder, harder, and in a flurry of activity, Alissa stuffed her clothing into the case, snapping it shut. As she rushed to the mirror, Jared’s rap sounded again, but she still ignored it. Plucking the tin of makeup from her purse, she did a quick repair job, which took only seconds, then she hurried across the room and snatched the bonnet from the floor. She squashed the thing onto her head as Jared fairly pounded the solid door asunder.

  He jiggled the latch. “Miss Pembroke, open up!”

  Taking a deep breath, Alissa spun toward the panel. Hurriedly, she started toward the door, slid inside her shoes, and lost her balance. Her arms flailed as she tried to correct herself. But she overcompensated and fell backward, landing on her seat with an unladylike plop.

  Outside, Jared heard the thud; he glanced at the girl holding the food-laden tray. “Do you have a key?”

  “No, sir,” the wide-eyed girl answered. “They’re all downstairs on a ring.”

  Jared quickly ran his hand along the sturdy wood, then set his shoulder to it. Solid, through and through, he concluded. He looked at the girl, then back to the door. “Oh, hell!” He growled the words just before his booted heel hit the latch. The splintered panel crashed against the wall, and Jared burst across the threshold to stop short.

  “Why, Mr. Braxton, you startled me!” Alissa exclaimed from where she primly sat on the edge of the bed, a small book held in one hand, the other over her wildly beating heart. “One would think a simple knock would have sufficed!”

  Jared eyed her suspiciously. “One would think so, Miss Pembroke,” he said, and the grating quality of his voice scraped along Alissa’s nerves. “Since I nearly beat the door in two, I’d like to know what in blazes you were doing in here!”

  “Doing?” Alissa asked innocently.

  “Yes, doing!”

  “Why, I was reading.”

  “Reading!” he exploded, his hand raking through his thick, dark hair.

>   To Alissa, it looked as though he were about to pull it from its roots. “Yes,” she said as she waved the copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets in the air, silently thanking the dear departed Agatha for having it in her purse. “It relaxes me.”

  “My dear Miss Pembroke, relaxes is hardly the proper word. You’d have to be stone-dead not to have heard me!”

  If he only knew, she thought, but said aloud, “I apologize, Mr. Braxton, but when I become absorbed in Shakespeare, a cannon could discharge beside me and I’d never know it.”

  Jared’s eyes narrowed. What trick was she trying to pull? When he was on the other side of the door, it had sounded as though she’d been chasing herself around the room. But now she sat, all neat and tidy, just like he’d left her, her ridiculous-looking bonnet still crowning her head. Did she ever take the blasted thing off? Then he noticed her face was that godawful salmon color again. As he viewed her, he couldn’t decide which suited her best, paste gray or yellowish pink.

  “Uh, sir,” the girl said behind him. “Do you mind if I bring in this tray?”

  “Here, I’ll take it.” He hefted the heavy thing from her hands. “Please inform the innkeeper of the damages and have him include it on my bill. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.” She dipped a curtsy while perusing the tall, handsome man with feminine interest Then she peered around Jared. “’Bout the coach, mum—”

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” Alissa cut in as she sprang from the bed, “but I won’t be needing the information.”

  The servant girl shrugged and, with one last look at Jared, left the room.

  “Coach?” he questioned, his dark brow rising.

  “Yes, uh, I inquired about a coach back to, uh, London,” she answered, turning her back to him, knowing she was adding another lie to her list. But she also knew there would be yet another and another.

  He eyed her skeptically. “Why?”

  “I felt, if we were to part company, here and now, there was no need for you to travel all the way back to London. I’d simply have taken a public coach.”

  “Then you’ve made your decision?”

  Alissa turned to face him. “I have.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve decided to go on to Scotland.”

  “As you wish.” He set the tray on the side table. “Eat hearty, it’s a long way to Selkirk. We’ll be leaving within the half hour.” He strode to the door, where he turned and looked her squarely in the eye. “I hope, for your sake, you’ve made the right choice.” Then, with a curt nod, he left.

  Not only had she heard the warning, but Alissa had read it in his green eyes. As she stared at the lopsided door, which stood slightly ajar, she whispered, “I hope I’ve made the right choice, too, Mr. Braxton. Believe me, I do.”

  CHAPTER

  Four

  Scotland

  As the coach swayed up the long drive, Alissa gazed in awe at the enormous house, stretching upward, three stories, into the overcast sky. Low-hung clouds swept the peaks of its slate-tiled roof; thick, hanging mists curtained its gray stone facade, creating an eerie appearance.

  A sudden chill shivered along her spine. She wondered if they had somehow taken a wrong turn. Her brow furrowed, hoping against hope they had. Then she noticed two wings jutting forward from the core of the house. Charred stones framed the windows on the eastern-most wing, resembling the blackened eyes of a plague-riddled corpse. No longer able to deny it, she finally admitted the ugly mars were the remnants of a fire. Indeed, this was Mr. Braxton’s home.

  With a loud snort, Mr. Stanley stirred in his seat. As he smacked his lips, his head lolled lazily against the interior wall of the coach, where it rested. Opening a bleary eye to see Miss Pembroke across from him, he suddenly realized where he was and jerked upright. His hand stroked over his balding pate, smoothing the few hairs that resided there. “Sorry, miss,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “I must’a dozed fer a minute.”

  Alissa bit her lower lip, trying to contain her laughter. His snores had vibrated steadily for a good two hours, if not longer. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Stanley. You deserve a long rest. In but a few moments, I’m certain your bed will offer great comfort.”

  His head twisted, and he glanced through the coach window. “We’re at Hawkstone.” He sounded somewhat amazed. “Guess I dozed a bit longer than I’d thought.”

  “Hawkstone, you say,” Alissa mused aloud, gazing again at the huge mansion. “Mr. Stanley,” she began, turning her attention to him, “how is it Mr. Braxton can afford such an enormous place?”

  The coachman fidgeted in his seat; his fingers scratched the back of his neck, his gaze shying away from hers. “Cain’t say, miss. His lo … uh”—he coughed, fitfully, and cleared his throat—“Mr. Braxton don’t exactly share his finances with me.”

  While he busily straightened his rumpled clothing, the same ruse she’d used whenever she wanted to distract Jared’s attention from the issue at hand, Alissa viewed him distrustfully. Nonsense! The past few days had been harrowing, to say the least, making her suspicious of everyone and everything. “It’s an impressive home,” she stated simply, not wanting to distress the man further.

  The coach swayed slightly as the horses accelerated their pace, gaining speed for the final uphill stretch to the house, and she wondered how the master of Hawkstone was faring from his long stint in the bleak elements.

  When they’d left Stilton, over a day ago, a surprised Alissa had watched Jared, still attired in evening clothes, climb to Mr. Stanley’s spot atop the coach. At the time, she’d thought him extremely considerate, for his man, eyes spiderwebbed in red, could not go another furlong without sleep. Now, as she thought on it, she wondered if he’d changed places simply to avoid her. It mattered not, she concluded. In actuality, she’d been equally relieved to escape his presence, as much as he’d been hers. Possibly more so!

  Over the passing miles, the two men had shifted positions every four hours. Mr. Stanley had slept soundly during his breaks, and when Jared entered the coach, Alissa had pretended to do the same. They’d stopped for hot meals, a periodic change of horses, and once for several hours’ rest, Jared changing into more appropriate garb. Then they were off again to travel throughout the long night.

  Alissa’s nerves suddenly quavered. Their journey at its end, she thought of Megan Braxton. Beyond those dismal stone walls resided her charge, and her guilt soared anew. It’s wrong, her conscience admonished harshly. Knowing it was too late, she closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer of penitence.

  The coach pulled to a stop at the huge stone entry; the carved doors swung wide. A rather austere-looking woman stepped from the house, head held high. Her brown hair peeked from beneath a white cap; her back stood rod-straight. Dressed in somber gray to match the gloomy weather, she waited on the doorstep, her face totally devoid of expression.

  “That’s Leona Dugan,” Mr. Stanley stated with a sniff, supplying the answer to Alissa’s unspoken question. “She’s the housekeeper here at Hawkstone.”

  “Why, Mr. Stanley, you sound as though you’re not overly fond of her.”

  The disgruntled coachman glanced at Alissa. “She’s a mite strange, she is.”

  Curious about his statement, Alissa opened her mouth to inquire on it, but the coach door opened, and Jared offered his hand. “Miss Pembroke.”

  Her bones stiff and achy, Alissa grimaced as she tried to slide to the edge of her seat. Noticing her distressed look, Jared reached deeper into the coach, took her arm, and gently urged her forward. Then his firm hands spanned her small waist, and with little effort, he hoisted her from the interior, settling her to the solid ground, and held her, giving her his support.

  As the blood started to recirculate through her lower extremities, a surge of heat tingled to Alissa’s toes; needles pricked painfully under her skin, and her legs wobbled like a newborn colt’s. Unnerved by Jared’s familiar touch, she was, by the same token, thankful for his steadying hands.


  Amazed, Jared discovered that she was sleek and soft beneath the worn material of her gown, not the skin and bone he’d imagined, and his errant fingers moved upward in gentle exploration. Startled, Alissa’s head snapped up; the stiff brim of her bonnet striking him square in the jaw. Immediately, he kicked back his head, fearing she’d strike again.

  “I can stand on my own now, thank you,” she announced curtly. Yet, her cool tone belied the warm sensations coursing through her body. Confused, she pushed his hands aside. Suddenly her legs gave way, and Jared caught her arm before she landed on the ground in a heap.

  “Obviously, you cannot,” came his clipped reply. Angered that he’d allowed his male curiosity to play a game of seek and find with this pretentious woman, he scowled at her and took a firm grip on her elbow. With long strides, he escorted her to the stone steps.

  Her feet sliding inside Agatha’s shoes, Alissa found herself hard-pressed to keep up, especially with her legs still tottering beneath her. Yet, she held her protest, for her eyes were on those of the reed-thin woman standing by the doorway. A disapproving look came from the housekeeper, causing Alissa to shrink inside. Alarmed, she thought the woman might be clairvoyant and had guessed she was an imposter. But she quickly dismissed the idea and squared her shoulders.

  Jared easily climbed the steps, Alissa in tow. “Miss Pembroke, may I present my housekeeper, Leona Dugan.”

  Alissa extended her hand. “How do you do,” she stated in a friendly tone, trying to break the woman’s glacial reserve, but she received only a curt nod in return, and Alissa’s hand drifted slowly to her side.

  “Megan has been impatient for your return,” Leona said, ignoring the newcomer, her dark brown eyes held rigidly on her employer. “I’ve sent Mary up for her. She’s been in her room since you’ve left. She’s hardly eaten a thing.”