Dangerous Masquerade

by Peta Lee Rose

  For the first time on the journey, she felt her spirit lighten. A little smile came to her lips. This was her home. She owned it. It was all hers.

  Alighting from the carriage, Ria and Mary walked to the front door. As the door to the cottage creaked open, Ria found herself in a small stone-floored entrance. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of stale air and dust.

  A door to her left opened onto a sitting room with a low ceiling and central beam. As Ria walked past a chair swathed in a Holland cover, she brushed against the side of it and the cloth slipped. She sneezed as the dust cloud rose through the air.

  The sitting room connected to another room of similar size, with double doors between that could be pushed back to make one large room or kept shut to make two small rooms.

  Going back into the entrance, she found the door to the right led to a dining parlor and beyond that a large kitchen.

  Her heart sank as she went from room to room. Everything was covered with thick dust and cobwebs. She was glad she had decided last night to stay in Bishop Malton, even though she’d been tempted to press on, eager to get her first glimpse of the cottage. There was a lot of work that needed to be done. They would need all day just to make a few rooms habitable.

  Venturing upstairs, she counted five smallish bedrooms. From the window of one at the back of the house, she saw a couple of buildings, including a small stable. There was also a walled kitchen garden and an orchard connected by a gravel walk.

  Although dismayed by the amount of dirt and cobwebs, she thought the cottage could be made quite comfortable. It was nice and compact. Most pleasing was the number of bedrooms.

  Ria believed she could be happy here but was concerned about the ladies. It certainly wasn’t what they were used to.

  She carefully walked up the narrow stairs to the garret. A quick glance from the top of the stairs showed her that, unlike the rest of the house, it was barren of furniture.

  Going back downstairs, she encountered Matthews and the groom in the hallway.

  Matthews gave her a broad smile. “The stable is nice and snug. There’s even a couple of rooms Dawson and I can use. It all just needs a bit of cleaning.” Then, with a nod of his head, he indicated the bags he and the groom were carrying, “Where would you like these, madam?”

  After showing them where to leave them, she went into the kitchen where she found Mary. As she entered, Mary popped her head out of the cupboard she’d been looking in. Holding out her hands, she said. “I found these, madam, but they can’t be used. They’re all chipped and broken.”

  Ria picked up the chipped pieces of blue pottery. They were inexpensive but pretty. She arranged them on the deep kitchen windowsills, stood back, and looked at the display, then nodded in satisfaction. After they were washed, they would look good there; a few chips didn’t matter.

  Mary continued to list her finds. “It’s a good thing we stopped and got those supplies, madam. There is little in here but some tea, sugar, flour, and musty old spices. And it’s all spoilt. Shame we didn’t buy some pots and pans. Most of them are a disgrace. Though some might scrub up all right,” she admitted grudgingly.

  Ria thought about their priorities. “We’ll do that today. I think this room plus two bedchambers are where we should start. That way we have somewhere cook, eat, and sleep.”

  “There’s a small room at the back, madam. I can sleep in there or even in here by the fire.”

  She looked in the room Mary was indicating. It was very dark and dismal with the only window high up on the wall. “It’s too small, and there’s no bed in there, Mary.”

  As she saw the maid was about to argue, she put up a hand and said firmly, “I want you to sleep upstairs.”

  Wasting no time, the women made a list of further supplies they needed. Ria gave the list to Matthews and requested he and Dawson go to Bishop Malton first thing the next day to purchase them. Then they started making the kitchen habitable.

  By the end of the day, Ria was exhausted by the unaccustomed physical labor, but as she looked around the gleaming room that even smelled clean, she felt pleased with their efforts.

  As Mary helped her into bed, now made with clean linen they had brought with them, the maid told her, “I’ve banked the fire, madam, and there’s bread for breakfast in the morning. We have enough food to last us about a week.”

  Ria smiled in thanks, then bid Mary goodnight.

  After a restless night, she got up early. As she looked out the window, she was just in time to see Matthews and Dawson setting off for the village.

  Hearing unusual sounds coming from Mary’s room, she checked on her, only to find the maid bending over a basin.

  Feeling her forehead, she was dismayed to find Mary was very warm. Ria gestured to the bed and told her maid, “You get back in there, and I’ll go and get you some tea and toast. Do you think you can manage to eat that?”

  “I think so, madam, but I can go and make it.”

  “No, you’re not well enough. I’ll do it.”

  “But the fire has been banked. It needs to be restarted and—”

  “It’s all right Mary. I watched you yesterday. I’m sure I can do it. If I have any problems, I will come and ask.”

  At the unconvinced expression on Mary’s face, she said sternly, “Don’t get out of that bed. That’s an order.”

  Feeling much less confident than she’d sounded, Ria went down to the kitchen. Shivering, she rubbed her hands together and stared at the range in the fireplace. She told herself I can do this; it’s not that hard.

  Ten minutes later, she threw down the shovel with so much force it bounced. Her glower at the kindling resting on top of the ash had more flame and warmth in it than the fireplace. Blowing on the kindling like she had seen Mary do hadn’t worked. Nor had pushing around the ash and kindling with a shovel. No amount of coaxing or cajoling could convince the kindling to burst into flames. It just sat there, sulking. She was about ready to admit defeat.

  “Good morning.”

  At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, Ria hastily got up from the hearth, futilely tried to brush soot off her skirt, then tucked an escaped lock of hair behind her ear.

  In the doorway to the kitchen, she saw a young dark-haired gentleman dressed casually in buckskins, shirt, and loose greatcoat.

  “Can I help?”

  Casting a look of utter loathing toward the hearth she answered, “I’m trying to start the fire.”

  The young man strode over to the hearth. Bending down, he picked up her discarded shovel and scooped up from the range her clumps of kindling and with them a thick layer of ash that he unceremoniously dumped into a nearby bucket.

  At his sigh of satisfaction, Ria looked over his shoulder. Tucked at the back was a glowing clump of embers. To Ria, shivering with cold, they were like gleaming pieces of warm sunshine.

  As she watched, the youth carefully layered the thinnest pieces of kindling on top of the embers, then a thicker layer. Next he reached for the bellows at the side of the hearth and very gently blew air onto the fire. To her chagrin, he had a lovely blaze within minutes.

  Once it was going to his satisfaction, he turned back to her. “I saw smoke from your chimney last evening so came over to welcome you to the district. I am your nearest neighbor.”

  He glanced over at the kitchen table. Gesturing at the teapot, he asked, “You were going to make tea?”

  Ria nodded, adding, “And toast.” Then, very reluctantly, she admitted, “But I’ve never made toast before. My maid is upstairs, ill in bed. I’m going to take it up to her.”

  Although he looked surprised, he said nothing about the mistress waiting on the maid. Instead he merely regarded her for a moment longer, then smiled, the action lightening his somewhat severe countenance. “That’s all right. I do. My name is Alex Courtney, by the way.”

  “Ria St. James.”

  She watched attentively as Alex picked up the pot of water on the kitchen table, walked back to the hearth, plac
ed the handle over a hook, and swung it over the range’s central open fire.

  He turned back to her and asked, “Do you have any stale bread, a couple of days old?”

  “Mary said there was some in there.” She gestured to the pantry. “But I believe it is only a day old. It’s all there is, so it will have to do.”

  Alex looked at her, raising one eyebrow.

  Puzzled, she looked back, then realized he expected her to get it. As she walked toward the pantry Alex called after her, “Get some butter too.”

  Bringing them back, she put the food on the table.

  Alex handed her a knife and instructed, “Cut a few slices about a quarter of an inch thick.”

  Ria grasped the knife in one hand and the bread in another. As she began to cut into the bread, it flattened until it resembled a sponge. Releasing the pressure a bit, she tried to cut straight slices but one half of the first slice was too thick and the other so thin it looked like torn tissue paper. The second was slightly better, but the bottom half of the third was straggly and jagged. By the time she had finished though, a few of the slices were decent enough.

  Watching her, Alex said, “Some people cut off the crusts, but I think that’s wasteful.” Gesturing to the ragged edges, he added, “Though you might want to trim up those bits because they’ll burn.”

  She was grateful he said nothing about the thickness of the slices or her ineptness.

  “Put a slice on the toasting fork and hold it before the fire. Move it back and forth until it’s the color you want, then turn it over and do the other side.”

  She did as he instructed, trying not to let the slices burn.

  Turning from the fire, toast piled on a metal plate, she saw Alex had prepared the tea and a tray for Mary.

  He took the toast from her. Without saying a word he trimmed off the black bits, placed a small piece of hard butter on each slice, and then took them back so they were near the fire. Just as the butter began to melt, he returned them to the table and spread butter over each slice.

  She picked out the best two slices and put them on the tray next to the tea already there.

  Alex, after a quick look at Ria, asked, “Do you want me to carry that up?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.” Firmly grasping the edges of the tray, she picked it up. Ria held her breath as she very carefully walked to the door and up the narrow staircase. It was quite difficult to carry the tray up the stairs wearing skirts, all the while not spilling the tea, but to her relief she managed it without incident.

  Thankfully she had left the door to Mary’s room open. With a smile on her face, she walked in. “Here you are. It wasn’t a problem at all. I hope you enjoy it.”

  From the bed, Mary gave a wan smile. “Thank you, madam. This is very kind of you.”

  Going back downstairs, she saw her uninvited guest had helped himself to some cheese. He looked up as she walked into the kitchen. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Sitting down, she picked up a slice of toast. She eyed it critically. It was uneven both in size and color, but not obviously so. She took a bite. The unevenness had no effect on the taste of the slice of crunchy toast moistened by slightly salty butter. In fact, she could not remember when she had enjoyed toast more.

  Of course there was the matter of what to do about dinner. As she finished her breakfast, Ria eyed the youth opposite her. Deciding it was best to be direct, she asked him, “Mary is not well at all. Could you show me how to make something simple for dinner?”

  After swallowing a final mouthful of cheese he said, “I’ll show you how to make a ragout if you like. I noticed you have all the ingredients in the pantry for it. But you don’t have much bread left, so if she’s not better tomorrow I’ll help you make some.”

  She smiled weakly at him. “I have one more favor to ask.”

  Alex looked at her enquiringly.

  She eyed his slender form. How strong was he? “Could you help me move a couple of pieces of furniture into here?”

  Leading the way into the drawing room, she showed him the pieces she wanted to move.

  As he bent to pick up the other side of the chair, Alex’s loose shirt was pulled flat against his chest. Ria gaped in amazement.

  “You’re a girl.”

  Alex grinned at her. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out.”

  “But you’re wearing men’s clothes!”

  “Much easier for working on the farm. Cheaper too, as there are a lot of old clothes in the attic. I think they were my father’s when he was young.”

  Ria was shocked. Though as she considered further, she could understand, and even admire, the practicalities of wearing male dress.

  She looked closely at Alex. Now she knew she recognized her femininity, but in men’s clothes one just assumed she was an elegant young man who had not yet filled out. Being tall, close to six feet, helped her get away with playing a boy. So did her thin face and long narrow nose. The most feminine features were her long dark eyelashes and, most telling of all, full lips.

  “So you work on your farm?”

  Alex nodded. “Since I was little—my father made sure of that. Though it’s now managed by the same person who manages your farm. Have you met Mr. Button yet?”

  When Ria shook her head, Alex blithely continued, “Like me, I’m sure he’s seen the smoke from your chimney, and if not, the villagers will have been tattling, so expect a visit from him today too.” With a smile, she added, “Welcome to Bishop Malton.”

  28

  London, March 1814

  Luc took a mouthful of claret. The brunette on his lap reached up and took the glass from him. Holding his gaze, she deliberately took a sip from the same place. A few drops of claret remained on her lips, and she slowly circled them with her tongue. Her invitation was blatant.

  He was unmoved. A common state of affairs for him lately.

  He looked over at his companions. Devon wasn’t having any such problems enjoying his blonde. If Luc was any judge, they would be going upstairs any moment now.

  He looked at his brunette. She wasn’t unknown to him. Though not a regular at this particular London brothel, he did come here on occasion and usually engaged Molly’s services when he did.

  He looked back at Devon who’d decided to come with Luc to London and, rather than open up his own house, was staying with him. He said that, since Luc had sponged off him so long, it was his turn.

  Then he’d laughed and said Luc was more entertaining than a Drury Street farce, and he wanted to be there for a few more acts and hopefully the finale.

  Luc took another sip of claret. Devon had certainly had ample entertainment so far. They’d been out every evening and had a riotous time. Well, Devon and sundry other friends of theirs had, but not Luc. He couldn’t seem to get into the spirit of things. He had drunk and gambled quite a bit. But despite a number of trips to brothels with the others, he hadn’t gone upstairs. He’d either continued to drink inferior wine while waiting for his companions or gone home alone. He was starting to wonder if Devon was doing it deliberately, just to see what he would do and how far he could be tested.

  Each night had been like tonight. He just couldn’t be bothered going upstairs. He looked at Molly. She was the best-looking Cyprian in the house, and he knew from experience that she was very good at what she did and genuinely liked it. He’d not have touched her otherwise.

  He put down his glass of claret with a snap. Molly looked at him hopefully. Giving her a slow, rakish smile, he let her lead him toward the stairs.

  Partway up the stairs, a shout of laughter made him turn in time to see a grinning Lord Ravenell at the foot of the stairs holding his hand out to Devon. “Pay up! I told you he wouldn’t be able to resist Molly”.

  Devon slapped Raven on the back as he said, “Stubble it you ass! If he’s up there for long enough, I’ll pay you when he comes back down.”

  After giving them bot
h a black look that promised retribution, he let Molly lead him into a dimly lit bedchamber. Like most of the rooms in the house, the walls and ceilings were generously decorated with gilt. The bed hangings, cover, and curtains were all red velvet.

  As soon as he shut the door, Molly threw herself into his arms and began kissing him with enthusiasm. He responded, but Molly must have sensed something because she stopped kissing him and gave him a searching look. “What’s wrong?”

  He frowned in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re not really here.” She reached down and touched his erection. “Oh, this is, it’s beginning to respond nicely—must say I was worried about that a little while ago. But these parts of you”—she touched his chest area above his heart and then his head—“they seem somewhere else tonight.”

  She laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in love.” She laughed again, but stopped abruptly at the look on his face. “You are. My God. Lucifer has found love.”

  Damn it, not her too. He gritted his teeth. “I am not in love.”

  “Really?” Her tone was disbelieving. “Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m ready and eager to go.”

  Molly pushed him backward onto her bed. “Fine. Let’s do it.” She climbed on top of him, her skirts bunched up around her waist.

  As she undid his shirt and kissed his chest he was reminded of Ria. The look of intense concentration on her face when she had explored his chest, how it had felt when she licked him…

  He groaned, put his hands on Molly’s shoulders and gently pushed. Molly looked at his face and, shaking her head from side to side, said, “You have it bad, lover.”