Masque of Enchantment

by Charlene Cross

  “I’ll keep an eye out for you at the cottage,” Ian said, bidding his farewell.

  The two watched as man and dog crossed the stream. Ian mounted his horse and rode up the hill, out of sight. “He’ll be back soon,” Alissa said by way of reassurance to Megan. Then she realized the words had been meant for herself, as well.

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  While his hand rubbed the nape of his neck, Jared paced his office floor, his boots marring the polished oak surface. He stopped by the window to gaze in the direction of the cottage, but could not see it through the wall of shielding trees. Then, for the third time in less than five minutes, he glanced at the clock.

  His daughter and her governess were nearly an hour overdue. True, their tardiness might have resulted from the late spring thunderstorm that had rolled through the valley earlier, the remnants of its passing still flashing in the distant sky. Perhaps they were on their way now, he conceded, but it gave him little peace of mind.

  Since the cart traveled a dirt lane, a wheel might have easily mired itself in the mud. Or a rotten limb might have fallen, blocking their path. Lightning flashed on the horizon, and another scenario suddenly leapt into Jared’s overactive mind to paint a horrifyingly vivid picture. If the governess had tried to return to the main house before the storm hit, then … Distant lightning flashed again, and he envisioned the bolt of fire crashing into a tree, splintering it, sending its top onto the cart.

  He shook the ghastly thought from his head. Surely, she wouldn’t have been foolish enough to leave the safety of the cottage. Yes, she would! For she was stubborn, obstinate—mulish, to be precise! And if she thought she could make the mile-plus trek, beating the storm, she would have set off for the main house, Megan at her side.

  Not able to withstand the suspense a moment longer, Jared strode to the door and jerked it open to reveal a startled Mr. Stanley, his fist raised, ready to pound the wood. “Have they returned?” Jared asked, anxiously.

  “Sorry, ain’t seen ’em.”

  “Send down to the stables. Have Thor saddled.”

  “The tar-headed knave be out front, awaitin’ ye,” he said with a scowl, rubbing his forearm where he’d taken a nasty nip from the stallion. The mark had healed in the two and a half weeks since its occurrence, but Mr. Stanley’s temper over the episode had not. “He be muzzled, too!”

  Jared smiled, patting the man’s shoulder. “Thanks, my friend,” he said, routing himself toward the front entry.

  The burlap pulled from Thor’s muzzle, the stallion tossed his head, and Jared sprang to his back and set the large horse into a full gallop toward the cottage.

  Skirting the deserted lane, the pair traveled the woods, then topped the knoll to the clearing. The unhitched cart stood by the small lean-to, the pony sheltered inside. Seeing it, Jared felt the tension drain from his body and wondered why he had doubted the governess’s intelligence. Any fool would have known she’d have waited out the storm, where she’d be safe and dry. No doubt, he decided, chuckling to himself, she was entertaining Megan with a dull read from one of his daughter’s primers.

  As he quietly guided Thor around the edge of the glade, following the line of trees, the wind caught the branches, sending a spray of water down upon them; Thor pranced nervously from the sudden shower. “Easy, boy,” Jared crooned, patting the stallion’s sinewy neck, then he dismounted and led Thor toward the cottage. Stopping thirty yards away, he draped the reins around a small bush, giving the stallion enough lead to graze, and set off alone.

  With other matters claiming his attention, it had been nearly three weeks since he’d observed his daughter and her governess together. Knowing they were safe, lamps lit within the cottage to chase away the day’s gloom, he decided to spy on the two. Under normal circumstances, he’d never have stooped to such skulduggery, but there was nothing one might consider the least bit normal about the perplexing Miss Pembroke.

  In his presence, she would stiffen, her prudishness and cool reserve worn like a shield. But, when she believed herself away from his sight, she became an entirely different woman—lively, high-spirited—and her metamorphosis completely confused him.

  On quiet feet, he crept toward an opened window, shadowed by an unpruned lilac. Suddenly, he stopped. A lilting voice, clear and true, drifted from the cottage, and an odd sensation of déjà vu spun through his head.

  Impossible, he told himself, yet his ears said otherwise. And secretly he took in the sight.

  An enthralled Megan sat upon a low stool, watching intently as Alissa reclined along the aged planks of the cottage floor. Pretending to rise from a night’s sleep, she recited from memory: “‘Help me, Lysander, help me! Do thy best to pluck this crawling serpent from my breast! Ay me, for pity! What a dream was here! Lysander, look how I do quake with fear. Methought a serpent eat my heart away, and you sat smiling at his cruel prey. …’”

  Instantly Jared stumbled back, his eyes staring blankly. That long-ago April night, when he’d first seen his Hermia at Covent Garden, had somehow superimposed itself over this mid-June afternoon, the young actress and his daughter’s governess becoming one and the same. Every graceful movement of her body, every word that escaped her lips was the same. The very same!

  Confused, he silently turned and wandered toward Thor, his mind replaying the scene in the cottage, over and over again. Slowly he mounted the stallion and headed for home at a steady pace. Suddenly something clicked inside his head. His green eyes flashed in anger, and he pressed his knees into Thor’s sides; the stallion tore into a gallop.

  Crashing hooves hit the stone drive, and Jared jerked the reins, pulling Thor to a thundering stop. The front door swung open, and a concerned Mr. Stanley rushed down the stone steps. “Did ye find ’em?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Jared hissed, and Mr. Stanley instantly retreated a step to eye his employer warily. “Tend to Thor,” he ordered of the lathered stallion, then his boots crunched in the loose stones. Hard feet hit the steps with an angry tread, then the door banged shut.

  “What’s got him in such a stew?” Mr. Stanley frowned at the door, then felt a nip at his backside. “Here, ye pesky nag!” he yelled, swatting at Thor. “Ye behave, or I’ll takes ye into town and have ye stuffed into a glue pot!” He led the horse off toward the stables, intermittently grumbling at the stallion, while scratching at his head, pondering his master’s unexplained fit of temper.

  Jared bounded up the last dozen steps, three at a time, and headed down the corridor to the west wing and Miss Pembroke’s quarters. He found the door unlocked, which saved him the bother of kicking it down.

  The door closed with a thump, and he turned the key. As he glanced around the room, he noted it was all neat and tidy, just like the woman herself. Then he headed toward the bureau, deciding, if he were right, and he was certain he was, her belongings would hold the truth.

  Several tins of makeup sat in the vanity drawer, but it wasn’t enough to prove his theory correct, so he moved to the armoire. Her drab dresses, two brown muslins and a gray wool, framed by threadbare petticoats, a high-necked nightgown, and a shabby cotton wrapper, plus her wool cloak, hung in the forefront of the wardrobe. He curled his lip at the lot, then shoved the articles aside to reveal a black velvet wrap and two fashionable dresses, hidden at the back of the closet. He fingered the blue silk material of one and smiled to himself, his thoughts growing darker and darker as the seconds passed. Quickly repositioning the clothing, he searched the shelves.

  At the very bottom, pushed well out of sight, Jared found an old, worn petticoat, rolled into a bundle, a stack of journals beneath it. Scraping the shelf clean, he hunkered back on his haunches and untied the ends. Inside, he found his proof. “Whoever she is,” he growled viciously, deciding at that moment her name was treachery, “she’s played me for a fool! A goddamned fool!”

  Again, his cold, furious gaze ran over the scattered articles, noting his letters to the real Miss Pembroke, a jewel case, R
ede’s Road to the Stage—a page tagged, explaining how an actor could assume the look of illness—a pair of kid slippers, a half-dozen letters from one Eudora Binnington, and a gossamer dress, Grecian in style, a costume … her costume!

  Disgusted, he tossed the thing to the carpet and snatched up Mrs. Binnington’s letters and began to read. A newspaper clipping fell from one, and he scanned it. Alissa Ashford! Nineteen! Actress! Covent Garden! Attempted murder! Charles Rhodes, Viscount Rothhamford!

  That odious bastard? Jared thought, knowing the coward’s reputation, well. An acquaintance, Matthew Etherton, of London, had challenged the man to a duel about five years ago. If he remembered correctly, Etherton’s sister had been accosted by Rothhamford. In the end, Rothhamford never showed, having taken a sudden, extended trip to the Continent, and Etherton never had the satisfaction of drawing blood. Jared had heard, even to this very day, Rothhamford skirted any area Etherton frequented.

  Examining the costume, he discovered the torn bodice. Instant anger raged through him. But why? Although he knew Rothhamford was a blackguard, it was Alissa Ashford who had duped him! He’d been harboring an imposter, a treacherous woman who could very well have injured his daughter’s emotions. Megan might never recover! The fact was, he should be summoning the sheriff and see to it that this … this actress was taken from the premises in chains!

  But, oddly, as Jared continued to read Eudora’s letters, he began to feel a stirring of pity for the young actress; an empathy for her plight struck a chord somewhere deep inside him. Then, when he’d finished the last of the one-sided correspondence, he was able to piece together the sketchy information and understand how he’d become involved.

  The plan, which he assumed had been devised entirely by Eudora Binnington, was an excellent bit of intrigue, quickly pulled together, assisted largely by fate, and of course, the real Miss Pembroke’s timely, or untimely, demise, depending on how one looked at it. Fate, indeed! he thought, knowing if he were in a different frame of mind he might applaud the undertaking, for he could not have done as well himself.

  But this Alissa Ashford, consummate actress that she was, had not seen fit to confess her deception once she’d escaped England. Instead, she’d continued her farce, knowing full well the import of her charade and the damaging effects it could have caused his daughter.

  Megan, he thought, appraising what this might do to her. He pictured his daughter as she sat on the low stool, her eyes aglow with excitement and wonderment, while she watched “Miss Pembroke” act the part of Hermia. He could not deny that since her arrival Megan seemed far more communicative and considerably improved. Where once there was a blank stare, laughter now danced in her eyes. Where once she withdrew from a human touch, especially a woman’s, now she was the first to reach out, showing no fear of rejection. And, should he decide to expose the young actress and have her arrested, he was certain it would completely destroy his daughter. With her newfound trust in women being irretrievably broken, she would be damaged for life, he knew. For that reason, and that alone, he was unwilling to allow his anger to be the source of his daughter’s ruin. He would keep his discovery to himself.

  His decision made, he sighed. Since he knew the viscount’s reputation personally, he suspected Alissa Ashford had been accused unfairly, hence her deception. Yet, he still wanted his pound of flesh. The young actress wasn’t about to get off so easily!

  As he replaced the evidence, the jewel case caught his eye, and he peeked inside to find a smattering of worthless gems, mostly paste. Then he opened the white satin box with its embroidered C; his eyes widened. “Is she a thief, as well?” Jared wondered aloud, as he perused the sapphire brooch, knowing it was real. Plucking it from its satin bed, he inspected it closely. He found no discernible markings on its solid gold setting, nothing to tell of its ownership. Perhaps a gift from a lover, he thought, then felt an odd sort of rage fill him.

  Considering the age of the satin box, he concluded it was a gift given long ago, a keepsake passed from one generation to another, possibly from mother to daughter. Yet, he wondered what the C represented. And its worth? He couldn’t even fathom that.

  There was no time to answer his silent queries, for he had other matters to settle. Tying the petticoat’s ends together, he stuffed it back onto the shelf, the journals beneath, making certain nothing appeared to have been disturbed. The armoire closed, he paced the floor, devising a suitable punishment as reward for the little imposter.

  After several false starts, the retribution either too severe or too light in nature, Jared paced all the harder, his brow furrowed in thought. Suddenly his shout of laughter filled the air. “Oh, my dear, prim and proper ‘Miss Pembroke,’” he said, his tone smug, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. “I promise, you shall experience a night you’ll never forget. Never!”

  Then Jared quit the room.

  Not more than fifteen minutes later, Alissa entered her bedroom and found a note tucked under the door. Opening the handsome piece of stationery, she read: Miss Pembroke, I request we might forgo our usual seven o’clock meeting. Unfortunately, other matters will claim my attention at that time. However, I hope you will join me in the dining room at precisely eight-thirty. Your most obedient servant, J.

  Alissa’s eyes beheld the boldly scrawled initial, her brow furrowing, and she wondered why he’d signed it as such and not Mr. Braxton. J seemed extremely intimate, more like something a husband or … a lover might use? Perhaps, his casual signature was simply part of his rebellious nature, his dislike of conformity. Then with a sigh she placed the note on her dressing table. At least she would have time for a short rest before their appointed meeting in the dining room. Kicking off her shoes, she settled upon the bed.

  At half past eight, Alissa stood just outside the doors leading into the dining room and smoothed the skirt of Agatha’s best gown, a bark-colored brown muslin. Weary of the plainness of her attire, she’d added a lace collar to the simple rounded neckline. It did little for the dress, but it made her feel a bit more feminine, which was exactly what she needed tonight, for her spirits were low.

  Her hair pulled severely into its usual unstylish knot, the hollows of her cheeks and the delicate tissue beneath her large blue eyes darkened with makeup, her face and lashes powdered, she was ready for her nightly performance. Another stilted execution of a badly written play, she thought, tired of her impersonation. Yet, she knew there was little she could do, except continue the charade.

  “You look quite lovely this evening,” Jared said in a low, mellow voice, startling Alissa. Having purposely come up from behind her on silent feet, he reached around her, his arm brushing her shoulder as he turned the door handle. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you?”

  Alissa gazed at him a long moment, noting his formal dress. His black silk jacket molded itself to his muscular shoulders, not an ounce of padding beneath. His white silk cravat, tied to perfection, was studded with a ruby. The silver waistcoat hugged his taut stomach; he did not wear a corset, as did many of his gender, she knew. Black trousers encased his long, sinewy legs to top a pair of polished half boots, made of the finest leather.

  Her eyes traveled upward. His shiny hair lay in thick waves, the back caressing his collar; a lock curled over his forehead. His gaze held a lazy, seductive quality; a warm smile curved his lips. Suddenly his vital masculinity overpowered her, and as a woman, Alissa felt like a dowdy little frump.

  “I await your hand, Miss Pembroke,” Jared said, his arm poised, and Alissa nervously placed her fingers along his forearm. He led her to her chair, directly to the right of his own. “I’ve arranged for a buffet, so we might have more privacy,” he said, his face close to her ear. “I hope it will meet with your approval.”

  As Jared’s clean breath fanned her face, Alissa felt an odd sensation tickle down her spine, its warmth spreading to her limbs. “I—I have no objections,” she said in a rush.

  “Excellent,” he drawled smoothly. “When it is
time, it will be my pleasure to serve you.”

  “Where is Megan?” Alissa asked, just now remembering the child. She’d not found her in her room, and the girl was certainly not in the dining room. Suddenly Alissa felt highly uncomfortable being alone with Jared.

  “She’s already eaten and is with Mary,” he said, moving to his own chair, his hand brushing Alissa’s shoulder as it trailed along the back of her chair. She stiffened, visibly, but Jared paid it no heed. “First, we shall have some wine.” Her mouth opened in protest, but he waved her off. “Mr. Stanley, if you will?”

  The dubious butler carried the uncorked bottle to the table, his eyes shifting from his employer to the governess and back again. It had been a long time since he’d served a “private” supper in this room, the last one being to one of the master’s mistresses. The wine poured, he turned a curious eye to his employer, waiting for the words that would confirm his suspicions.

  “Thank you, Mr. Stanley,” Jared said. “You may leave us now … and close the doors, please.”

  That’s ’em, he thought. Then, with his eyes trained on Alissa, he said, “Be outside, miss, if ye needs me.”

  She gazed after the wiry little man as he stomped to the door. She wondered if he was trying to relay a message, then watched the panels shut with a decided thump.

  “Miss Pembroke,” Jared addressed her, and she turned to see him holding his wine glass. “If you would, please”—he motioned to her own glass—“I’d like to salute a lovely lady who’s done so much for my daughter and myself.”

  “Mr. Braxton, I—”

  “Please, Miss Pembroke. One sip won’t harm you.”