Beneath the Mask

by Margaret McGaffey Fisk

  The horse tossed his head, as if contesting the pleasure of that path, making Jasper laugh out loud.

  “You have so little faith in those of my class, you old mule, you.” He tightened his knees and pressed on one side, steering his mount into the sparse traffic. Though he couldn’t protest the horse’s opinion, he did have a book to pick up at the bookshop. He’d requested the philosophy text when it came up in discussion with some of his old Oxford comrades. It wouldn’t stand for them to be more aware of the world than he, but they’d played a pretty game on him a time or two so he’d read the text on his own before claiming a permanent copy.

  Few of the elegant stores had opened their doors, knowing full well mid-morning was not yet time for their clientele. Jasper enjoyed the relative quiet and only had to acknowledge a few friends or acquaintances, none of which were female.

  “Heard you’ve been snatched up in the marriage mart, my boy,” an older friend of his father’s called up to him.

  Jasper smiled, hiding his own thoughts behind a social mask. “It had to happen sometime,” he told the man who had not been to their house since his father passed.

  “True enough. You need strong boys to carry on your family name. Only hope you have better luck than your father.”

  Giving the man a fierce stare, Jasper kneed the horse past him, wanting no reminder of the wedded bliss his parents had suffered for nigh on thirty years, though like as not the comment referred to the loss of his brothers. The man had often enough praised the late Lord Pendleton’s perseverance. Unlike many of his generation, Jasper’s father survived to a ripe old age, ducking the hunting and riding accidents that claimed many of his peers. And yet, to live so long beside the harridan Jasper’s mother had become around his father would have been enough to test any man’s will to live.

  Jasper swung down from his mount, his movements no less smooth for his bad mood. After tying the reins to the mounting post, he strode up to the bookshop, taking a firm hold on the door handle and jerking it open. The loud jangle from a bell secured above the door made him flinch as it announced his presence. Still, the musky scent of books crowded upon themselves in the close-packed space calmed him as little could. As a child, he’d spent many a favored hour in his father’s study, listening to the gentlemen’s discourse or pouring over the books filling the shelves.

  “Be right with you. Just a moment.” The shopkeeper’s voice came from among the stacks, muffled by the press of books.

  Jasper scanned the books on the counter, then leaned over the divider to see what the shopkeeper offered to those just passing by. He lifted a book on land rotation, skimming the first few pages and then flipping to the middle to study the methods more intently.

  “Ah, Lord Pendleton. Come for that philosophy text I’d guess.”

  He nodded to the shopkeeper, smiling a greeting. They’d come to know each other well in his Oxford days, and the acquaintance only deepened with Jasper coming into a modest fortune not too long after.

  “I think I’ll take this one as well,” Jasper said, hefting the agriculture manual. “If its offerings are sound, you may have to request another copy.”

  The shopkeeper took the book from his hand and looked at it almost despairingly. “And I suppose you claimed this from the window? I’m having the hardest time keeping that display, though with so few copies, I don’t see why I expect any different.”

  Jasper laughed. “Oh? Another long-limbed boy come snatching up your inventory?” he asked, bringing to mind an old joke between them.

  “No,” the shopkeeper said, without looking up. “A girl. Mere chit of a thing, but with a very good name. Wanted a novel.”

  “Figures. No female would want something of substance.”

  The shopkeeper stopped scribbling in the ledger and glanced up. “Oh, there you are mistaken. This book was no simple tale of love and woe. She’s yet to return it, but I had second thoughts about letting a Scarborough take it home. It read more like a biography than fiction, even claimed to be one. And it certainly did not skimp on the harsh parts.”

  Jasper had been about to dismiss the contention when he heard a name he’d never expected. Scarborough. “A biography of whom?” he asked, intrigued at this sign that his affianced might have more to her than that he’d seen on the dance floors.

  “Some dancer, my lord. The story ends well, but the path to that ending is very dark. Not what I’d expected to interest a young lady, let me tell you.”

  Jasper smiled then shook his head at this grasping for straws. “I’m sure she skipped to the happy parts. She must not have known what she’d chosen.”

  The shopkeeper laughed. “You may well be right. She seemed so fascinated and wouldn’t accept my cautions, but when she actually sat down to read it, well, it could very well have been different. She may just be too embarrassed to return it.”

  Picking up the brown-wrapped package containing his two books, Jasper signed the promissory note with a flourish, having left his mother’s presence with little coin. “A man can spend a lifetime trying to understand the feminine mind only to discover it contains solely two thoughts: titles and money. I’ll be happy to stay with my philosophy texts.”

  “As you say, my lord.” The shopkeeper gave a short bow.

  Jasper returned the salute and headed back to his horse, unable to wipe the thoughts from his mind as easily as his tongue had dismissed them. Imagine the daughter of an earl reading something more taxing than a fanciful romance? He shook his head. “Fanciful is the right word for my thoughts,” he muttered, swinging into the saddle. “I know just how to handle my wife-to-be. It’s the best for both of us.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “That’s a beautiful gown,” Lady Scarborough said, gently rotating Daphne to get the full effect. “It should do nicely for your visit. It’s so nice of you to spend time with Penelope. Her mother worries she’ll be overshadowed by her sister. And I can’t help but think the crowd her sister hangs with will only be bad for that girl.”

  Daphne ducked her head to hide her expression, sure the guilt showed plainly. She, too, had felt a tinge of pity for the other girl, though not enough to suffer another moment in that lion’s den. “I think I look fine, Mother,” she said, ignoring the rest. “But I don’t want to be late.”

  Her mother laughed with a practiced twinkle in her eye. “It’s fashionable to be a little late, dear. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see your doldrums fading. It’s not right for a young girl like you to spend her time moping. You’ll have fun with Penelope, and when you both come out, it will be fabulous.” Making a grand sweep of her arm, Lady Scarborough conjured images of a ball, bringing her hand up to simulate a fan masking her face.

  Again, Daphne felt heat gather in her cheeks, as if her mother could see the mask hidden in the coach along with a plain change of clothes. At least her mask wouldn’t be noticed when sneaking in. She’d remembered a comment from the last visit to Penelope’s home that reassured her.

  “Now, dearest, don’t let it worry you. We’ll start small and get you used to such august company before your first ball. After all, we don’t want you to give the impression of a shrinking violet. No man wants a ninny for a wife.”

  Daphne stared at her mother in confusion before she realized her mother thought her discomfort due to the idea of a ball. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m sure I’ll do fine with your help, but I really should be going.” She tugged free of her mother’s hands and stepped toward the corridor.

  “True enough. You have a good time. And mind your manners. The others may act like louts but there’s no cause for you to be one. But don’t insult them either. The ton has a long memory and you never know who might come to one of those gatherings. It’s not like Penelope’s mother doesn’t run in the right circles.”

  Daphne smothered a laugh as her mother subtly condemned Penelope’s sister’s friends using basically the same tactics the sister had. “I’ll do fine,” she repeated, moving out of
her mother’s view.

  The carriage waiting for her at the bottom of the step proved a welcome sight until Daphne’s gaze fell on the crest painted in rich colors on the door. She climbed in, her mind whirling at this last impediment to her plan. She couldn’t hope to escape notice driving up to the dance hall in this.

  Waiting until they’d moved beyond her street, Daphne kept struggling with the flaw, trying to come up with a way to get around it. She didn’t waste her time on mulling though. There wouldn’t be many chances to get this right. She struggled with her dress, barely managing to get it off in the tight space without help.

  If only she could have a female confident, Daphne thought as she pulled the plainer dress over her head and tried to fasten it by herself. No sooner had she had the thought than the carriage jerked to one side, sending her sliding to the floor in a pile of discarded clothing.

  “Watch your driving,” Willem shouted.

  Daphne climbed up onto the seat and peered out the window. A hackney, the cause of her tumble, pushed past them almost close enough to scrape her father’s crest. No matter how much mother supported her choice of destination, she’d never hear the end of it if any damage came to the carriage.

  She moved from the back bench until she knelt right behind Willem, calling up to him through the grill. “Willem. Find a park to pull aside in.” The glimmering of an idea teased her mind.

  “Are you sure, Lady Daphne? This is not the best of neighborhoods.”

  His voice came down into the carriage, and she nodded, forgetting at first that he couldn’t see her. “Yes. Please stop,” Daphne added.

  She waited for him to find a park and rein in the horses before unlatching the door from inside and slipping out, the mask clutched in one hand.

  “Lady Daphne! Where are you going?” Willem called, the scrape of his shoe against the carriage side warning her of his approach. He grabbed her arm in a disturbingly familiar touch.

  Daphne tried to jerk away, but his hold was firm.

  “You don’t want to be wandering alone here, my lady. It’s not safe for the likes of you.”

  She pulled again, glowering. “What would you have me do? Ride up to the door in my father’s carriage? Word would get back to my mother as fast as a lightning bolt strikes the ground. How will my father react when he has to account for his time? Do you think my secret, or that of your aid, will hold for long? If I have to walk to the theater, it’s little enough to pay for my craft.”

  He frowned, but his grip did not loosen. “I can’t let you go like this. I’d better suffer the consequences of discovery than if harm came to you in my care.”

  Daphne took a deep breath before she lashed out, giving her a moment to rethink her angry words. “How else can I go then?” she asked, keeping her tone mild with an effort.

  With a jerk, he pulled her back to the carriage. “Wait inside while I think a bit. You won’t get what you want if some man takes a liking to you.”

  She shuddered at the thought, not resisting as he tucked her back onto the bench. Her plan had seemed so simple back in the mirrored ballroom.

  Willem leaned against the door, looking at her through the carriage window.

  “You could walk me there, Willem. In the dark, your livery looks much like any other suit.”

  He laughed. “Thanks for that thought, Lady Daphne, but you’re wrong. Your father’s name might not be blazoned on my livery in the dark, but no one would mistake me for a regular gent any more than you could have gone in that fancy dress your mother gave you.”

  She twisted the curtain cord between her fingers, unwilling to give up so close to her goal. Her foot came out and pushed the hated white fabric now crumpled on the floor. She’d have enough of a time explaining how she sullied her dress. Her mother would be no happier to hear of the hackney and would ask what they’d been doing in areas frequented by them.

  The glimmer of thought that had teased her before now came clear. “A hire coach. Willem, can’t you find me one? You could wait here and I’ll come back when I’ve spoken to Monsieur Henre.”

  Willem frowned, the lines in his face cut deep by the reflection of the lantern. “And how will you find one on the way back?” he asked, though she could tell he worked hard to restrain an outright rejection.

  “Monsieur Henre can call me one,” she said quickly, reaching out to tap his arm. “Don’t worry. No one will recognize me. I’ve hardly been out in society at all and this dress is not reminiscent of a fine lady.” She plucked at the worn fabric, chosen for its invisibility. “No one will notice me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, my lady.” He gave her a long look. “But I see nothing will change your mind. Just make it quick. This really isn’t a safe place for your father’s carriage either.”

  Before she could say another word, he pulled away and walked down the street, seeking a hackney. She’d never felt so alone as when the lantern flickered in a slight breeze, sending the tree shadows stretching into her carriage. The silence became menacing, every little sound portending something dangerous.

  A tap on the door sent her back against the far corner, a squeak bursting from her lips as the door swung open.

  “It’s just me, my lady.” He stared at her in the flickering light. “Do you want to change your mind and go home?”

  Daphne couldn’t tell what he saw in her face, but she made an effort to school her features as she let her feet drop down to the floor and straightened her skirt. “Did you get the carriage?” she asked, her tone higher than normal but steady.

  He grimaced, but lowered his chin in a nod. “Can you give it another thought, Lady Daphne? Is this really what you be wanting?”

  She met his eyes, hers holding determination tinged with defiance. “I’d be untrue to my heart if I didn’t go. I’d hate myself forever forward if I let simple fear keep me from my dreams.” She put a hand on his shoulder, imploring him to understand. “I have to do this.”

  Willem nodded again, offering her a hand down from the carriage. “If you’re sure, you’re sure. Just take care with yourself. This isn’t the area for nice ladies like you.”

  Daphne slipped her mask into place and leaned close to whisper in Willem’s ear, “I’m not a nice lady anymore. I’m a dancer.”

  She pushed away, twirling in a circle, her feet slipping on the cobblestones but not enough to make her fall. Her heart pounded against her ribs as if it would burst free and fly up into the sky, so much excitement filled Daphne.

  “Lady Daphne, the hackney is this way,” Willem called, his smile visible even in the fading light.

  Daphne laughed, her joyous sound bouncing in between the trees as she skipped over to join him.

  Willem handed her into the coach, making her repeat back the address of this park three times before he was satisfied. After the door closed, she heard him give the coachman directions to Monsieur Henre’s theater using the address from the hated dismissal notice. At least she’d never given in to the desire to rip it into tiny shreds.

  THE HACKNEY CAME TO A stop and the driver called down to her. Daphne waited for a heartbeat, then laughing at herself, opened the coach door. She kicked the step until it fell down and she could climb onto the dirty street.

  “Out of the way, miss. I have another customer to collect.”

  Daphne stared up at the driver, startled, before she stepped back and let the carriage roll away, leaving her in the middle of the road. Another carriage approached, this one with a crest carved into its door. The gilt paint passed so close to her, she wondered if it now decorated her cheek.

  “Stupid git. Move to the side.”

  Dazed by the close contact, Daphne stumbled over to the well-lit theater entrance, joining the masses just collecting there. She ducked her head when she saw one of the women from Penelope’s house before remembering the mask hiding her features.

  Sliding through the crowd until she stood at the edge, Daphne slipped free and walked down the alleyway on the th
eater’s side. She sought a different kind of entrance than one given only to those holding a ticket.

  Though she could hear the sounds of the crowd behind her, the dark alley seemed a world away from them. Daphne shivered as wind rustled against something ahead of her, her mind painting pictures that made her want to turn and run.

  Some distance away, a door opened, sending a cheery glow into the alleyway.

  “I won’t have it,” a woman’s angry voice rang out. “If she can’t keep her paws off my costumes, you’ll have to find yourself another dancer.”

  Daphne stared as the woman stomped out, no sign of a dancer’s grace in her tense form. She tried to find some pity for the woman who had clearly been pushed too far, but her nerves thrummed with expectation. The urge to jump up and down calling, “Me, me,” swept over her as she absorbed the chance providence had shown her.

  She didn’t care what position the angry woman held. She wanted it.

  Rushing forward on the balls of her feet, Daphne let her excitement have free rein as it drew her closer to her heart’s desire. Not even the quiet thud when the door swung shut could dampen her enthusiasm, though she slowed, no longer able to see her way.

  Her feet crushed some refuse and she tripped over a large object in the path, but she barely noticed the impediments. Her gaze stayed locked on the faint hint of light revealing the doorframe. When she reached it, Daphne hesitated. She’d always imagined the scene spent talking to Monsieur Henre, never once considering how she’d get to him.

  Raising her hand to knock, instead, she rested her knuckles against the hard wood surface. What would she say to the person who answered? How could she convince them to let her past? Would she be ushered back to the front, her request unmade?

  Her chin firmed as she washed away the doubts. She reached for the knob, choosing not to take the chance that the person who answered would send her away. The dancer in the book had done horrible things to get that first moment to present her desires. Ignoring etiquette seemed a minor sacrifice in comparison.