by Nicole Byrd
The brown eyes opened a fraction too wide, and Sally actually stuttered. “B-but–”
”A settee is not required,” Gabriel added helpfully. “The Kuma Sutra lists over a hundred positions for the giving of delight, many of which–”
She gasped. “Oh my. No, that is–my husband–he might notice–”
It was as he suspected; she was not truly serious; it was simply a game to amuse the hour. Since she was Psyche’s friend, he was glad to know she meant no harm.
But Sally had regained her composure. “And, you wicked man, aside from my husband, we would have another obstacle to surmount before any such nefarious trysts should ensue.”
“You fear that Psyche might discover us?”
“No, Psyche has a trusting soul. The problem would be closer at hand, I think. Secluded alcove or not, your thoughts would be on Psyche, just as they are now,” Sally answered coolly. “A god of love, you may be, my lord Eros, but I think your elusive heart may have at last been snared.”
This time, he was silenced. It was just as well that the steps of the dance once more separated them. He could bow over the hand of a plump angel whose wings were wilting eiderdown all over the ball floor and avoid Sally’s sharp eyes for a measure or two.
Psyche felt herself stiffen. “What do you know about them?” she demanded, then tried to soften her tone. “I mean, I will pass on the intelligence to my Aunt Sophia.”
“The Sinclairs?” the older lady sniffed again. “Or at least this branch? Most ungracious family; the father rarely leaves his estate and has no friends, he drove them all off years ago. His poor wife–”
”What about the son, Gabriel Sinclair?” Psyche had no patience for vague meanderings. “Do you know anything of him?”
“Oh yes, a great scandal. Mind you, it happened years ago, but one doesn’t forget such a thing.” Lady Serena’s words were slow and measured, as if she enjoyed Psyche’s agony of impatience. “They tried to cover it up, shipped the boy off–he was not even properly on the town yet, still up at University when it came about–but whispers went round, don’t you know?”
“What happened?” Psyche almost whispered; her lips felt numb.
“He was having an affair with an older woman, the wife of a baronet, lovely little thing.”
“Is that all?” Psyche felt an irrational relief; affairs among the Ton were as common as daisies in Hyde Park.
“Oh no, dear,” the venerable dame said, her eyes glinting with malice. “Not at all. When he decided to end it, the lady was distraught. Pleaded with him, they said. Threatened to make it all public and egg her husband to a divorce.”
“Oh,” said Psyche said slowly. Affairs might be commonplace, divorces were not.
Lady Serena leaned closer and lowered her voice; her breath stank of sour wine. “The boy panicked, apparently. Afraid of his tartar of a papa, perhaps. At any rate, she died. They said he’d killed her.”
Psyche felt as if she’d been struck. “He couldn’t–”
”He was out of the country before anything could be done about it, and nowadays, few people remember. But you might want to ask him about it,” the matron said, her tone smooth. “Before you wed yourself to a murderer.”
Psyche wanted to escape, but her whole body felt frozen. She heard the woman beside her natter on, but the words flowed past her, their sense lost.
Gabriel a murderer? Oh no, it was impossible. It had to be impossible.
“It was, no doubt, a moment of anger. Young men are so hotheaded,” Lady Serena said, her voice still honeyed and still dripping with venom.
If Psyche didn’t escape from this woman, she might become a murderess herself, she thought. Desperation gave her rubbery knees strength; she stood suddenly. “Excuse me,” she said. “I see a friend I need to speak to.”
“Of course, dear,” the other woman said. “I know that the young are easily bored by the wisdom of their elders.”
“So true,” Psyche agreed. Giving the granddaughter a look of genuine pity, Psyche made her escape. But now her head pounded, and the room around her seemed a kaleidoscope of color and motion. She felt the room spin, and she thought she might pass out. Taking a deep breath, her steps a little uncertain, she walked on, determined to get away from that evil old woman.
Pushing past a couple of gypsies and a highwayman with a scarlet sash, she found another gilt chair unoccupied. Her knees had weakened again, and she sat more quickly than grace would dictate.
Gabriel a murderer.
No, it couldn’t be.
Blinded by shock, Psyche looked around, not really seeing. She thought she might swoon, and she had never fainted before. She took slow deep breaths, trying to steady herself. She smelled cloying perfumes and strong wine and from the highwayman, the faint scent of sweat.
“Are you all right, my dear?” a lady who might have stepped out of an Arabian night asked; her body was barely covered by the thin gauzy costume she wore, but her face was effectively masked by a scarf that covered all but her elaborately painted eyes.
A man in a kilt glanced her way, and two pirates, one wearing an eye patch, looked her up and down, their motives perhaps less altruistic.
“Yes, thank you,” Psyche muttered. What could she say? I have had a bad shock; the man who is my fiancé might be a murderer? Except he was not really her fiancé, how could she think in such a way? It was too easy to enjoy Gabriel‘s easy charm, Gabriel’s ready sense of humor, Gabriel’s disconcerting habit of always understanding her . . .
She had become so accustomed to his company in such a few days, and she had forgotten how little she really knew about him. He was an impostor, an expatriate with dark secrets in his past–he had said so himself. And then there was the most disturbing thing–she was very much afraid that she had fallen in love with him.
A woman in French court dress, with a towering powdered wig bedecked with a small gilt birdcage complete with a real canary, sauntered by, and with her a American Indian in leather and war paint and–oddly–jeweled shoes.
Psyche felt her head spin again. Who knew what was real, anymore?
“Psyche, are you unwell?”
The voice was familiar, but she jumped anyhow.
Gabriel had returned to her side.
Was she speaking to a murderer? Hadn’t she, once or twice, glimpsed a steel-hard determination in his eyes? Hadn’t he admitted to sins that he did not wish exposed to the harsh light of day?
But no, she couldn’t believe it. Not Gabriel, whom her little sister trusted, who made Psyche’s own heart quiver with his barest touch.
“Psyche?” His tone was concerned.
“I feel a little–a little faint,” she admitted, her voice trembling.
“Would you like to step outside for some air? It’s rather close in here.”
Psyche shut her eyes. It was true that the ballroom felt too warm, and the odors of the heavily-scented party-goers was almost overwhelming. But to step outside onto the veranda, out of sight of the other guests–at another time, she would have worried about gossip; now she wondered if she would be endangering her life?
No, that made no sense; it was impossible. But . . .
“I think I should like a little wine,” she said, aware of her roiling stomach.
Gabriel nodded. “I shall fetch it; will you be all right here? Should I send a maidservant to you?”
“No, just let me sit quietly,” Psyche told him. Gabriel turned and disappeared into the crowd.
He had barely gone when another young man came up to her; for a moment, she thought it was Mr. Denver again; he wore a mask adorned with mouse ears. But then Psyche saw that his coat was black and draped a better set of shoulders, and he had a more defined chin than the unfortunate Mr. Denver.
“Miss Hill?” he asked. “It is you?”
She recognized the voice. “Lord Westbury, yes, it’s I.” Why had she bothered with the costume; she should have worn her name on a placard around her neck and be done wit
h it, she thought crossly.
“Is Gabriel here? Such a crush, it’s dashed hard–oh, sorry–to find anyone. I came along to your house to escort you both to the ball, but I was too late,” David explained.
“He’s here; he’s just gone to get me a glass of wine,” she told the young man. “He’s wearing a white costume with a wide hat and blue plume.”
“Ah.” David nodded. “I shall see if I can catch up with him.” Then he plunged into the crowd, too, and headed toward the refreshment tables. Or else vanished beneath a hillock, not to emerge for a hundred years, as seekers of faerie land were wont to do.
She wasn’t sure, anymore. A man in a Russian peasant costume walked past, with a mermaid on his arm; a long blond wig covered the seashell top that hid her upper body, her fishy tail dragged on the ground behind them. Psyche would have sworn the apparition even smelled of fish.
No more masquerades, she promised herself. Real life was difficult enough to comprehend without dressing everything familiar in exotic disguises. The fanciful scene around her was beginning to take on aspects of nightmare. She could find nothing to reassure her, to slow her pounding heart, nor ease the confused tangle of her thoughts.
Who was Gabriel, really? Beneath the costume, beneath the fake title, beneath all that was false and unreal–who was the genuine man?
And did her life, not just her heart, not just her ill-conceived scheme for financial independence, depend on knowing the truth?
Someone else walked up to her; she knew him by the heavy tread before she even raised her eyes to see the black and white Puritan garb that did little to disguise her cousin Percy. His mask had been discarded, and his expression was, as usual, peeved.
“Psyche, I need to talk to you.”
This, at least, was quite normal, but she was not reassured. She felt the usual mixture of irritation and guilt that Percy always evoked, mixed now with a slight tendency to giggle. He made a worthy Puritan, indeed.
“How are you, Percy?”
He did not seem disposed for polite conversation. He plunged ahead, again as usual, into his own obviously already-thought out speech. “I regret that I have neglected you for some days, Cousin, but I felt that I must express my displeasure at your current conduct.”
Psyche hadn’t really had much chance to think about his absence, and if she had, she would have given thanks. But it wouldn’t do to speak such thoughts aloud. “I will make a note of your displeasure,” she agreed gravely.
“But the time has come to confront this problem, Psyche.”
“I’d really rather not,” she said. “Let us talk about the ball instead. If this not a fantastical setting?”
“My father has heard from your lawyer–”
”Sally’s vision is really quite amazing–”
“And Father says he will not bend to such blackmail–”
“And the guests seem to be enjoying themselves hugely–”
”He cannot believe you really intend to parade our little family disagreement before the courts–”
”I’m sure the ball will be the most talked-about event of–”
”And he begs you to come to your senses and to rid yourself of this greedy Captain Fortune who means to have–”
”The season–”
”Your fortune to squander–”
“Whereas you’d much rather squander it yourself?” Psyche finished coolly for him.
The veins on Percy’s forehead bulged, and his color had heightened. “Psyche, if you will not listen to me–”
“I have no intention of doing so,” she told him, her voice calm.
“Then I must speak to this–this so-called Marquis.”
“I’m sure he will be delighted,” she lied. “He went off to fetch me a glass of wine.”
“And what ridiculous costume is he wearing?” Percy demanded.
“He is–ah–he is wearing a set of mouse ears,” she told him, swallowing a wicked grin. With luck, he would not latch onto David; she had seen at least half a dozen mouse ears on young men of different heights and complexions.
Percy straightened his stiff white collar and threw back his narrow shoulders, which seemed to put an alarming strain on the buttons which held his sober black coat fastened over his round stomach. “I shall speak to him and demand that he give up his insane quest for your hand!”
“I’m sure he will be impressed with your logic,” Psyche said dryly. One more bit of insanity to make the ball complete, she thought.
Percy thrust himself into the crowd, treading on a queen’s scarlet train without apology or a second look; the royal lady glared and rearranged her skirts. Somewhere, unseen musicians began a new tune. It was a waltz.
Psyche thought wistfully of the waltz she and Gabriel had never danced. As if her thought had conjured him up, Gabriel emerged from the mob, two glasses of champagne in his hand.
“Are you all right?” he asked, offering her a glass.
“Better.” She took a sip of the wine. Almost at once, her stomach calmed, and with it, her disordered emotions. This was Gabriel of the laughing eyes and beautiful face; Gabriel, who always knew her thoughts and never failed to respond when she needed aid. She had met him only a few days ago, but it seemed she had known him all her life. He could not be a murderer; she could not believe it.
“They are playing a waltz,” he said now, as if he too hungered for a close embrace.
Smiling, she put down her glass on a nearby table and held out her hand. He set down his own glass, closed his fingers around hers and guided her toward the music.
The room was still just as crowded, but somehow Gabriel led the way through the close-packed guests, past shepherdesses and queens, desert sheiks and low-dressed vagrants, and even made their passage seem easy.
In the second ballroom, dozens of couples whirled and swayed. They both paused at the edge of the dance and Gabriel put one hand on her waist. He pulled her close, and she followed his lead as they took a gliding step and were swallowed up by the smooth flow of the tune.
Somewhere, a violin trilled, and Psyche felt a shiver of chill bumps run up her bare arms. Or perhaps it was not the notes of the tune at all, but Gabriel’s nearness. She saw a vein jump in his temple–what was he thinking?– and then her gaze dropped and she admired the incredible smooth curve of his cheekbones; he might have been sculpted from marble, like the Greek statutes in her father’s etchings. He was just as beautiful to look upon, but he was alive, tanned and laughing and strong. She felt once more transported into a dream; he was the man she had never thought to find, and he was here, holding her close.
He bent down to whisper, “You know that you are the most captivating lady here?”
She laughed. “Cinderella would be offended to hear you say that.”
“Cinderella will have to be content with her band of mice,” Gabriel answered, his blue eyes warm. He pulled her even closer, and Psyche hoped that the music would never end.
Then she saw something from the corner of her vision that made her breath catch in her throat.
Gabriel raised his brow. “What is it?”
“That man is watching us. He was in the other room a few moments ago; did he follow us?”
“Perhaps he also came to dance,” Gabriel suggested, but he swung her round so that he could see the man whose appearance had alarmed her.
She felt him stiffen. “Gabriel?”
“I know the face,” he answered quietly. “He’s one of Barrett’s ruffians.”
She felt a shiver of fear run through her. She didn’t want to cause a scene, but if they were in danger–“What shall we do? Can we call for help?”
“David went out of the room; he decided to stand guard in the front hall. And Freddy is not here tonight; he refused to dress in costume, not that he’s much of a fighter, anyhow. I believe we shall dance to the other side of the room and slip out one of the French windows onto the veranda.” Gabriel twirled her expertly around two couples and toward the far
side of the room.
Psyche clung to him tightly. Surely the man wouldn’t dare to attack them in plain sight of the other guests? Then she looked past Gabriel’s arm and saw another man in rough clothes come to join the first, and then another. Oh, God, how many were here? How they had managed to walk into Sally’s house without the servants noticing?
The costumes, of course; everyone looked so strange, who could tell what was only a disguise and what was not?
Gabriel had noticed the other men, too. He quickened his steps, and they were almost to the edge of the room when a rough hand grabbed Psyche’s arm.
“We’ll just share this dance, won’t we, me lord,” a coarse voice said.
Psyche tried to pull away, but the grip was too tight. She winced at the painful hold.
Gabriel pushed the man back, breaking the villain’s grasp on Psyche. “Unhand her!” he said, his tone sharp.
But the other two men crowded in, and one put grimy fingers on Psyche, while two pushed Gabriel back. “We’ll ransom the lady for a fair sum,” one of the men boasted. “And you, sir, will have your throat slit in a back alley.”
Several couples who had been gliding and whirling to the waltz tune paused, and a woman shrieked, while the other guests around them stared with wide eyes. Psyche struggled with the man who clasped her wrist, waiting for someone to scream, to summon help.
Instead, a ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. One man said, “What will Sally think of next?’
“I want to be kidnapped, too,” a stout matron called playfully.
“Careful, Angela,” her friend warned. “Your husband is so tight, he wouldn’t come up with a tuppence for ransom.” More guests laughed, and several couples resumed their dance.
They would be murdered right here, or swept away under the very eyes of the whole ballroom, Psyche thought in alarm. She pulled harder against her captor. “Someone, help us!”
But the guest closest to her, who wore a Roman toga, laughed and shrugged. “Too many for me to fight.”
