The Devil's Masquerade (Royal Pains Book 3)

by Nina Mason

Returning to the food table in defeat, she gobbled another cake. This one was decorated to look like a tiny cream-colored package tied with a ribbon of pink icing. So pretty was the confection, she almost hated to eat it. Almost, but not quite. As she savored the sugary goodness, she turned back to the dancers. There, she found Robert engaged with Lady Fitzhardinge, who looked well-pleased with her partner.

  A blush of shame scorched Maggie’s cheeks as her mind showed her the naked viscountess being birched over her husband’s knees. She could not believe she’d been a party to—nay, the instigator of—such wickedness, and vowed then and there to keep Mistress Margaret on a tighter leash in future. If word of their escapade got out, she’d never live it down— or have the least hope of evading the most depraved of the courtiers whilst Robert was away in Scotland.

  Her heart sank at the reminder of her husband’s rapidly approaching departure. Fanning furiously, she watched the dance, thinking it unfair that they should have to spend their last night together entertaining other people. Perhaps, by the by, he’d live up to his costume and entice her to steal behind one of the privy screens for a bit of amorous frolicking.

  Maggie’s pulse quickened when the first notes of the furlana—a fast-paced dance of courtly love—reached her ears. To the devil with propriety. She wanted to stand up with her husband, but where had he gotten off to after the bourrée? She did not see him anywhere, damn her eyes.

  The couples were assembling and making their bows. If she did not find him soon they would be too late to join the line. Then, she spotted him talking to her father. Leaving her wine, she pushed toward him through the mass of bodies. When somebody tried to stop her, she shook off their hand. Others groped and bumped her in offensive ways as she squeezed past them. She pressed on, gaze fixed on the man in the devil’s mask conversing with the king and queen. At last, she made her way to his side, but too late for the dance, now well underway.

  She curtsied to her father and step-mother before taking her husband’s arm. They’d been talking of something inconsequential and, when Robert turned his mask her way, she said, “I was hoping to dance this one with you, but, alas, could not reach you in time.”

  “I am unfamiliar with this one,” he returned with a smile in his eyes.

  “Oh,” she said, feeling foolish. “Well, you ought to learn it because it is a favorite of mine—and also very romantic.”

  He set his hand atop hers and gave it a squeeze. “If I dance all the sets with you, tongues will wag.”

  “Let them. And let it be to remark upon how rare and wonderful it is to see a married couple still so very much in love. And how envious they are of our felicity.”

  “If I thought for even a moment their remarks would be so gracious, I would never leave your side. But I know better, dearest, as do you.”

  “Even so, I refuse to believe ’twould shock the court out of their stockings if we were to dance one more before the last. Especially under the circumstances.”

  The sudden expressions of horror on the faces of the king and queen made her turn sharply to see the cause of their reaction. There, just behind her, stood a woman wearing a round, black-eyed mask and a triumphant smile. As the unknown lady dropped into a courtesy, Robert drew Maggie aside as if he expected trouble.

  The queen hissed at the king, “What the devil is she doing here?”

  Someone behind them snidely declared, in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “The minx appeared to have gathered a fresh stock of impudence since James became king.”

  “Who is she?” Maggie asked Robert.

  “Catherine Sedley, your father’s favorite mistress at present, who clearly has more gumption than good sense.”

  “And who made the crack about her gathering fresh impudence?”

  “Lady Bellassis, who is no doubt even more jealous than the queen.”

  “What cause does she have to be jealous? And please let it not be that he’s swiving her, too.”

  “I cannot speak to the current status of their relationship, but I do know she was his mistress at one time. Back when he was married to the mother of Mary and Anne.”

  Indignation wove its threads through Maggie. All evidence suggested her father had no intention of backing up his promises to restore morality to the royal court. Not that she’d placed much stock in his promises to do so, given his fondness for adulterous pastimes.

  Robert led her away, back to the beverage table, where they both had another drink. Between the candles and the crowd, the room was now exceedingly warm. “If you will not dance with me, what say you to stealing behind one of those screens for a quick grope?”

  “I’d like nothing better,” he said, “but I’ve already promised the next set to the Duchess of St. Alban.”

  “How about after the dance is over?”

  “I would be only too delighted,” he said. “Shall I come find you?”

  “By all means. And whilst you dance with Lady St. Alban, be mindful your own duchess awaits you with bated breath.”

  With a bow to her, he took his leave to go in search of his partner. Maggie grew more miserable with each moment she watched her husband dancing. Tonight he would return to her side, but soon he would be beyond her reach—possibly forever. She could no longer push away the thought, which now sat upon her shoulders like the heaviest of yokes. How would she bear his absence? How would she endure the wait day upon day, whilst fearing the worst? How would she not go to pieces if he never returned to her?

  Swallowing hard, she poured another glass of claret and drank it down, hoping the alcohol might ease the ache in her heart. Filling the glass again, she took it with her for a turn around the room. She was too anxious to go on watching and no longer cared to dance—until Robert was able to partner her again.

  On her first turn around the hall, several people tried to speak to her, but she engaged them no longer than civility dictated. No company apart from her husband’s could fill the aching cavern inside.

  The dance drew to a close on her second turn around the room’s perimeter. Just as the orchestra began the prelude to the next set, Robert came from out of nowhere, hooked her arm, and, without speaking a single word, led her behind the nearest screen. He did not remove his mask, did not caress her. He merely spun her around, bent her over the loveseat within, and lifted her petticoats. Taking it as evidence he wanted her as desperately as she wanted him, she felt only flattered and aroused by his haste.

  As he positioned his phallus at the door to her matrix, he said, “What say you, Duchess? Shall I baptize your papist cunt with my Protestant seed?”

  Horrified by the sound of Lord Mulgrave’s voice, she spun around and tore off his devil’s mask. Drawing back her hand, she made to slap his face, but he caught her wrist before she achieved her aim.

  “You…you whoreson,” she shouted, struggling in his grip. “You tricked me into believing you were my husband.”

  He laughed. “He shan’t be your husband much longer, you bitch, if I have aught to say about it. And, mark my words, I intend to. Especially after what he’s done to get Princess Anne locked up in the Cockpit.”

  Aflame with contempt, she glared at him. “No one apart from Anne is to blame for her captivity. She is plotting against my father, and I would not be surprised to learn you were in cahoots with her. I saw you two that day in the chapel. Rutting like animals. And you have the audacity to cast aspersions upon Catholics—and the gall to claim Anglicanism as the One True Church. The Church of Rome was founded by one of Christ’s apostles; the Church of England by a monarch who could not keep his pizzle in his codpiece. How can the latter hold a candle to the former in the eyes of God? Answer me that, you puffed-up Protestant arse.”

  “I notice you did not deny your husband had a hand in it.”

  “He is loyal to my father, which is more than can be said for you and my sisters.”

  “You deign to claim the princesses as your sisters?” His heated gaze bored into hers. “They are royalty by
birth as well as marriage, whilst you are naught but the spawn of fornication. And now I mean to take you in a manner indicative of the filthy slut you are. What say you to that?”

  “I shall tell my husband if you do. And my father.”

  “Rape is an accusation easy to make, but hard to prove.”

  “My husband will believe me, even if my father does not.”

  “And do what about it? Challenge me to a duel? He’ll be hard-pressed to meet me on the field of honor when he’s off to Scotland at first light.”

  “But that shan’t stop him from beating you senseless here and now,” Robert said behind her. “Now get your filthy hands off my wife before I tear you limb from limb.”

  “I fancy seeing you try,” Mulgrave sneered in return.

  “Very well then.” Robert’s tone was cold enough to chill the room.

  He slammed his fist into Mulgrave’s face. The sound of crunching cartilage at once sickened and delighted Maggie. The earl let her go as his hands flew to his nose, which now resembled a bent hinge. Blood gushed from his nostrils. When he tipped his head back to stop the bleeding, Robert threw another punch. As the blow snapped back Mulgrave’s head, Maggie brought her knee up hard between his legs, whereupon he let out a groan and dropped to the floor on his arse.

  Standing over him, Robert said with a venomous glare, “Name your weapon, Mulgrave. For I’ll not be setting foot outside Westminster until I have avenged my lady’s honor.”

  “Blades,” Mulgrave replied through the bloody hands gripping his broken nose.

  “Very well.” Robert sneered. “Blades it shall be—at daybreak in St. James’s Park. And come prepared to meet the God of your inferior faith.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Robert, holding his breath, eased out from under Maggie’s head with the greatest care. She’d only just fallen asleep and he did not wish to wake her. They’d been awake since leaving the ball, talking, kissing, and holding each other. He felt wrong about making love to her after what happened with Mulgrave, despite her insisting no lingering harm had been done.

  “You saved me in the nick of time,” she’d said, salting his face with grateful kisses.

  She might have rebounded, but he could not so easily file away the image of Lord All-Pride with his arrow inches from the bull’s-eye. Neither could he suppress the savage urge to skewer that pompous prick like a bloody Turkish kebab.

  The time had come. Dawn approached and he still needed to dress and get to the dueling ground. Richard Hardwick, his old friends from his younger days as a courtier to King Charles, would act as his second. Who Mulgrave had recruited to act as his, Robert neither knew nor cared.

  Unless he’d recruited the king, in which case, he cared a great deal. Five years ago, Maggie’s father had been his second at a duel fought against his only brother. His half-brother, he’d learned as Hugh lay dying of the wound he’d inflicted with his sword. He’d placed Maggie in his sibling’s care whilst he awayed to London on business with King Charles. Unbeknownst to Robert, his brother was a closet Covenanter with designs on the duchy. He’d abused Maggie atrociously and hired assassins to attack Robert’s coach.

  Did he regret killing his brother? He regretted breaking one of God’s commandments, but otherwise, he did what he had to do to avenge Maggie’s honor and his own. He was fortunate his wife was a strong woman. A lesser one might not have recovered from his brother’s maltreatment. His Rosebud, however, had come through it even tougher than before, which was lucky, as she would need that extra strength in the weeks and months ahead.

  “Robert?”

  Damn, he’d disturbed her sleep despite his best efforts. “Yes, dearest?”

  “Please be careful.”

  “I shall exercise the utmost care, I promise. Now, go back to sleep, Rosebud, and I will return to say my farewells when Lord All-Pride is with the devil in hell.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Do you mean to kill him then?”

  “Aye, if I have the chance of it.”

  “My father will not look favorably upon you killing the Lord Chamberlain of the Household.”

  “And I do not look with a favorable eye upon attempts to defile my wife. Nor will I allow any man to believe he can take such liberties with you and go unpunished. The court is crawling with willing cuckolds, Maggie, and I am bound and determined to remain outside their ranks.”

  “Oh, Robert,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I appreciate your valor on my behalf. Truly I do. But—”

  Her objection was silenced by a knock upon the front door. Robert, perched on the edge of the bed in only his nightshirt, sprang to his feet, retrieved his breeches, and pulled them on. As he padded into the parlor in his bare feet, he tied the ribbons on his fly. He opened the door without ceremony, expecting to find his second on the other side. The face that greeted his gaze did not belong to Lord Hardwick. Rather, ’twas that of the young page he’d bribed the day before to provide access to the king’s bedchamber.

  “Good morning, My Lord Dunwoody.” The page bent at the waist in a deep bow. “Forgive me for the earliness of the intrusion, but His Majesty the King requests that you attend him without delay.”

  Robert, pinging with alarm, furrowed his brow. “Do you know the reason for his summons?”

  “No, My Lord. Only that I am to wait whilst you ready yourself before bringing you to him.”

  “I see.” Robert stepped back from the doorway to allow him to enter. “Well, in that case, do come in and take your ease in my parlor whilst I finish dressing myself.”

  Returning to the bedchamber, Robert found Maggie sitting up, her face etched with the same worry plaguing his gut. “Who was at the door?”

  “A page from your father,” he replied as he pulled on his waistcoat. “Apparently, he wishes to speak with me at once.”

  “But…’tis not yet daybreak.”

  “I expect it has to do with the duel,” he said, working the long line of buttons into their holes.

  “Will he endeavor to talk you out of fighting?”

  “Should that be his aim, he will not be the first king to stop such a contest between two of his courtiers.”

  His waistcoat now fastened, Robert sat in the chair to put on his stockings and shoes.

  “Will you concede if such proves to be his wish?”

  “Aye, though not before securing protection for you.”

  Now shod, he went to the looking glass, ran a brush through his hair, and attached one of his better lace cravats to his collar. Early though the hour was, he could hardly go to the king looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed. After putting on his sword, he retrieved the coat to his suit from the dressing room and, returning to the bed, gave Maggie a swift peck on the lips.

  “Fear not, dearest.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You did not marry a fool.”

  He quit the room and, pulling on his coat as he strode into the parlor, he informed the page he was ready to go.

  The page took him to a handsomely furnished withdrawing room, where he found the king wearing a long face over the embroidered suit from the ball. James stood at the window overlooking the little private garden adjoining his chambers. Robert had seen the garden from the window during his days as a page, so he knew it was there, but had never had the privilege of enjoying its virtues.

  On tenterhooks, he waited for the king to speak, which His Majesty did after several excruciating moments. “Do you happen to remember Mary Villiers, the daughter of the first Duke of Buckingham?”

  “No, sire,” he replied, puzzled by the question.

  “Mary Villiers was married when not yet eleven to Lord Herbert, son of the Earl of Pembroke,” his father-in-law explained. “Her husband died very shortly after, so she was still a child when she appeared at court in her widow’s weeds. One day, in order to pick fruit, she climbed a tree in the garden my eyes show me now, where no one had a right to enter. She was attired in a long, black dress and a black veil that entirely
covered her person. My brother Charles, then the Prince of Wales, saw her from a distance, and could not imagine what sort of bird he beheld, for her veil, stretched over the branches of the tree, resembled large wings. Knowing how well he shot, Charles called to George Porter, telling him to go and kill the big bird that he saw in the tree. When Porter approached the tree and recognized the little Countess of Pembroke, he had difficulty hiding his amusement. At first, she stared at him, and then with childish laughter commenced to pelt him with fruit. When he explained his assignment, she said, ‘You must keep your word, and we will play the merriest game on him. That he may be the better deceived, I will conceal myself in a basket with a cover; this can be carried to him. When they arrived, Porter presented Charles with the basket, saying that it had been his good fortune to take the butterfly alive, and that he would sooner have died than have killed it—so beautiful was the creature. Charles promptly raised the lid, and had the agreeable surprise of the young lady flinging her arms round his neck. After that day she was never called anything but La Papillion.”

  Robert just stood there, listening attentively. Though the story was diverting, he could not fathom what it had to do with him.

  By the by, the king turned in his direction and Robert startled at the glimmer of tears in his sovereign’s eyes. “I did not always agree with my brother’s policies, but I loved him dearly and still miss him dreadfully at times.”

  “Indeed, sire,” Robert said, unsure of the protocol in such a situation. “And I offer you my sincerest condolences.”

  “Thank you, Dunwoody. You are surprisingly kind for a man so fond of dueling.” Turning his hooded gaze on his son-in-law, James added, “Is it true you have issued a challenge to the Earl of Mulgrave?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty.”

  “Do you mean to shed his blood?”

  “I do indeed, sire.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed disapprovingly. “Because he made a pass at your wife?”

  “He did more than make a pass at her, sire. He attempted to force himself upon her person.”