Daring Masquerade

by Mary Balogh

  Dear Reader,

  Between 1985 and 1998, I wrote more than thirty Signet Regency romances, most of which have long been out of print. Many of you have been asking me about them and hunting for them, and, in some cases, paying high prices for second-hand copies to complete your collections of my books. I have been touched by your interest. I am delighted that these books are going to be available as e-books with lovely new covers and very affordable prices.

  If you have read any of my more recent books, the Bedwyn saga, the Simply quartet, the Huxtable series, the Survivors’ Club series, for example, you may wish to discover if my writing has changed in the course of the past 30 years or if my view of life and love and romance remains essentially the same. Whatever you decide, I do hope you will enjoy being able to read these books at last.

  Mary Balogh

  www.marybalogh.com

  “A Daring Masquerade” © 1989 by Mary Balogh

  DARING MASQUERADE First Ebook edition August 2018 ISBN: 978-1-944654-24-5

  All rights reserved. No part of the Ebook may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both copyright owner and Class Ebook Editions Ltd., the publisher of the Ebook. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  “Balogh is today’s superstar heir to the marvelous legacy of Georgette Heyer (except a lot steamier)!” –New York Times Bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “With her brilliant, beautiful and emotionally intense writing Mary Balogh sets the gold standard in historical romance.” –New York Times Bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

  “When it comes to historical romance, Mary Balogh is one of my favorites!”— New York Times Bestselling author Eloisa James

  “One of the best!” –New York Times Bestselling author Julia Quinn

  “Mary Balogh has the gift of making a relationship seem utterly real and utterly compelling.” –New York Times Bestselling author Mary Jo Putney

  “Winning, witty, and engaging…fulfilled all of my romantic fantasies.” –New York Times Bestselling author Teresa Medeiros

  A Daring

  Masquerade

  Mary Balogh

  Class Ebook Editions, Ltd.

  New York, NY

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dear Reader

  Praise for Mary

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  More by Mary Balogh

  Biography

  Also by Mary Balogh

  Chapter 1

  Early Summer, 1811

  “You see?” the little figure in the plain gray bonnet and cloak said accusingly, her face pressed against the carriage window as she peered outside. “I said it would be dark before we could reach Barton Abbey. I can scarcely see the landscape any longer, and where is the Abbey? Nowhere in sight, that’s where. We will be beset by highwaymen yet, mark my words. And never say that I did not warn you.”

  “We cannot be more than a few miles away now,” a bored male voice said from the opposite corner of the carriage. “And what highwaymen would be doing in this secluded corner of Dorsetshire, I really could not say, Thelma. Not growing very wealthy, at a guess.”

  “It is all very well for you to appear so brave,” the girl said petulantly. “You are a man and can fight against ruffians. You really do not care what happens to me, do you, Adam? I could be ra . . . rav . . .”

  “I would relax if I were you,” the unruffled Adam said, folding his arms and sinking lower in his seat. “If it turns out to be a lone highwayman who waylays us, I am quite sure the man would have sufficient taste to to ra . . . rav . . . Mrs. Mannering rather than you. She is the one who should be trembling and whining.”

  “I shall tell Papa that you do not possess a chivalrous bone in your body,” the lady in gray replied indignantly, “for all your education and fashionable clothes and town bronze.”

  The gentleman raised his eyes to the roof of the carriage before closing them and settling himself for a sleep. He seemed remarkably unperturbed by the threat.

  The other occupant of the carriage, the Mrs. Mannering referred to, sat opposite the lady in gray. She was fashionably dressed in a wine-colored velvet pelisse and matching bonnet lavishly decorated with pink plumes and ribbons. Her clothes gave her an instant advantage over the other young lady. It seemed almost unfair that she also had other advantages. She was almost the same size as her companion but far more shapely. Her hair beneath the bonnet was not a great deal lighter than the other young lady’s, but the difference was between shining blonde and light mouse. Both had gray eyes, but hers were very dark and large, fringed by thick, dark lashes, whereas those of the other girl were quite unremarkable. The rather long, thin face of the girl in gray and her pale complexion were no match for the heart-shaped face of Mrs. Mannering, with its straight little nose, generous mouth, and naturally creamy complexion.

  Mrs. Mannering smiled now. “I really must agree with your brother, Lady Thelma,” she said. “I would think the danger of losing a wheel on this dreadful road is far greater than that of being held up by footpads or highwaymen. And if such an unlikely occurrence should befall us, I am quite sure that our ruse will work.”

  “Do you really think it would?” the girl replied. “But I should feel almost as bad to see you the focus of rude attention, Kate, as to suffer myself. If they were to find that you do not have any real valuables on you, they could become rough. And if you were to get hurt, I should never forgive myself for allowing it to happen.”

  “Oh, you need not worry about me,” Kate replied. “Any man who tried to molest me would receive as good as he gave, believe me. I should give him the length of my tongue, at the very least.”

  The young man laughed without opening his eyes or saying anything.

  “And I am not afraid of using my fists,” Mrs. Mannering added, turning to him with great dignity. “I have dealt a black eye and more than one bloody nose in my time.”

  The gentleman laughed again. He did not open his eyes or move. But he did speak this time. “Is that what did the unfortunate Mr. Mannering to death?” he asked.

  “Adam!” The shocked exclamation came from his sister. “It is one thing to insult me, but I cannot have you treating my companion in an unmannerly way. You know that papa always insists that we treat servants with courtesy. Apologize immediately.”

  Her brother opened his eyes and surveyed the other lady somewhat lazily. “Did I hurt you, Mrs. Mannering?” he asked. “You do not play the part of the devastated widow. I did not imagine you would crumple up under such a joke. My apologies, ma’am.”

  “Do you see me crump
led, sir?” Kate asked, looking him squarely in the face. “Your apology is accepted.”

  Truth to tell, she thought, after the gentleman had reclosed his eyes and his sister had resumed her anxious scrutiny of the almost invisible world beyond the carriage windows, the girl’s words had hurt far more. Servants must be treated with courtesy and therefore with condescension. They must be protected by their betters. And was she really a servant? She had not thought of herself by that title yet. A companion, yes. A lady’s companion. A paid lady’s companion. A servant. Yes, it was quite true. She was a servant. She must accustom herself to the fact.

  It was really quite a come-down for the daughter of a baronet and the widow of a respected landowner. But then, she thought philosophically, life was unpredictable at best. And she had no cause of complaint. There had been choices along the way.

  Kate’s father had a large family, nine children in all, four by his first wife, her mother, and five by his second and present wife. He was not a wealthy man. The six boys must all be educated, of course, and suitable positions in life found for them. The girls must be married as soon and as well as possible. The other two daughters were part of the second family and still too young to leave home. But Kate herself had been married six years before at the tender age of seventeen to a man more than twice her age, and widowed almost five years later when Mr. Mannering choked on a chicken bone.

  She could have gone back home. Her father loved her dearly, of course, and even her stepmother had a fondness for her. She could have excused herself for such a move on the grounds that she was still very young and had been no burden on her family for five years. She could help with the younger children. The best excuse of all was that she was utterly destitute, her late husband having been up to his ears in debt.

  She did not go home. Charlie was now a curate, but his income was such that he could only barely keep his own body and soul from parting company. Ernest and Walter were both at university, and Gregory and Peter were at Harrow, with Cecil to follow them there shortly. She could well imagine that even one more mouth to feed, though hers was an undemanding one, would put a severe strain on her father’s resources. She went to London to spend her year of mourning with her Aunt Priscilla and then looked about her for employment. She did not have to do so. Aunt Priscilla had married well and had connections in high places. She wanted to bring Kate out, though that was perhaps not quite the right term to use for a widow of three-and-twenty. She wanted to help her find another husband.

  Kate had declined. She had had one lengthy experience of marriage and concluded that if the choice must be made between becoming another man’s possession and becoming someone’s governess, she would become a governess. It was not an enviable prospect, but at least to a certain degree she would remain her own person. If worse came to worst, she could always leave employment. One could not leave a husband.

  Aunt Priscilla, finally convinced that her stubborn niece was not to be moved in her decision, took it upon herself to find Kate genteel employment. And she had learned that Lady Thelma Seyton, eighteen-year-old daughter of the new Earl of Barton, was in need of a companion.

  “Much more genteel than being a governess, dear,” the aunt had said. “If you are fortunate, you will become a friend as well as a companion, and then, you know, you will be treated almost as one of the family. And it would be quite a distinguished post. The earl is fabulously wealthy, with property all over England. The chief seat is Barton Abbey in Dorset. I have never seen it, but it is reputed to be one of the great showcases of England. Who knows, Kate? You may even meet an eligible gentleman before too much time has elapsed. You are beautiful enough, I am sure, even if you do not have anything for a dowry.”

  Kate had allowed her aunt to arrange an interview for her with Lady Thelma. She had found a thin, anxious young lady rather inclined to petulance, though not ill-natured, Kate judged. The girl had just started her come-out Season, apparently enough of an ordeal in itself. She seemed not to be of a naturally sociable disposition. But she had just been catapulted into prominence by the accession of her father to the earldom of Barton on the death of his uncle. Until then he had been merely Viscount Stoughton, owner of a modest estate in a distant part of Yorkshire. Now he was owner of several large estates, including the renowned Barton Abbey in Dorset, and one of the wealthiest men in the land. The Honorable Miss Thelma Seyton now found herself to be Lady Thelma Seyton and much sought after by people who had treated her with indifference a mere week before.

  The girl wore mourning, a fact that added to her drab appearance, Kate decided. She was clearly bewildered by her change in status. Kate had felt sorry for her and had accepted the post of companion when it was offered to her after a short interview. Lady Thelma had seemed almost grateful to her, as if Kate were the one bestowing the favor.

  The earl had interviewed her too before she left the house. He told her that he would accept his daughter’s choice and that he even approved it after talking to Kate for a few minutes. But he was quite blunt in reminding her that she was to be an employee in their home. He would expect her to dress soberly and always to keep her hair confined at the back of her head. He would not expect her to put herself forward in any company they entertained. Kate’s cheeks had burned with mortification, but she had swallowed the hot retort that had risen to her lips. It was surprising, in fact, that she had not thought of herself as a servant at that point. Certainly the earl had made her feel like one. She had not been able to complain since then, though. He always treated her with courtesy. Because she was a servant, if Adam Seyton, the new Viscount Stoughton, were to be believed.

  All that had happened more than six weeks before. Since then Kate had grown somewhat accustomed to her new post. It really was not arduous. “Companion” was a good word to describe it. Her task was to keep Lady Thelma company wherever she went. Mainly that meant sitting and talking to the girl and giving her the courage to face life beyond the doors of her father’s house. There had not been much social life beyond a few private dinners and assemblies. The family was in deep mourning. But Kate had discovered that the girl did have a few friends and that she had an eye for one of her brother’s friends, a small, slender young dandy who had nothing particular to recommend him, as far as Kate could judge. She also discovered that Lady Thelma had an unnatural fear of footpads and highwaymen. Even in London she was rigid with fear if they had to travel the streets at night.

  One evening, when they were traveling back late from Richmond and her employer was in a worse dither of nerves than usual, Kate had suggested in exasperation that they exchange cloaks and bonnets. Even though Lady Thelma’s were black, their fabric and cut proclaimed their superior quality over Kate’s gray garments. Anyone who might hold up their carriage, Kate had declared, would mistake her for the lady and concentrate his pistol and his demands on her.

  Now they had decided on the same ruse. The earl had removed to Barton Abbey a week before. His son and daughter were joining him there. And a week later several of their friends and relatives were to arrive for a house party to last several weeks. The viscount and Lady Thelma were to leave off their mourning when they left London, the earl had decreed. Enough that they had missed two months of the Season. After all, they had never even met their great-uncle. He himself had not seen the deceased earl for more than twenty years, since he married their mother and moved north to the estate she had brought him on the marriage.

  Yes, she was a servant, Kate decided again, smoothing out the velvet folds of Thelma’s pelisse, which she wore. As soon as they arrived at Barton Abbey—surely soon now—she would change back into the gray garments that she would wear alternately with brown for goodness knew how many years. And—an even greater sacrifice to her new status—her hair would be scraped back again into its prim bun. She sighed. Life never had been particularly exciting, but from now on she could not even hope for any adventure to brighten her days. Only dull monotony stretched ahead of her.

  The car
riage lurched suddenly and the coachman was calling to the horses to halt and was dragging back on the ribbons. Thelma stifled a scream, and Lord Stoughton sat up with an oath.

  “What the deuce?” he said, peering fruitlessly out of the window. It was quite dark outside, and certainly he could see no cause for such an abrupt stop.

  Kate leaned forward, to comfort the terrified girl opposite her.

  And then in the quiet that ensued on the cessation of movement, they could hear the coachman and the footman scrambling down from the box outside and a clear masculine voice talking to them.

  “Come down slowly, and keep your hands in sight,” the voice said. “I would be loath to harm you. Move out into the middle of the road in front of the horses, where I can see you.”

  Thelma’s eyes, visible to Kate above the hand that the girl had clapped over her mouth, were so wide that they looked as if they were about to fall from their sockets.

  “Damn it to hell!” the viscount said, regardless of the sensibilities of his female companions. “I do not even have a pistol. Whoever would have thought it necessary in Dorset?”

  “Stay quiet!” Kate instructed her employer. “Leave this to me.” Her heart was knocking against her ribs so loudly that it felt as if it would burst through at any moment.

  After a short silence, during which the two servants were presumably doing exactly what they had been told, the door of the carriage opened to reveal black night.

  “If you have any weapons,” the same cool male voice said, “you would be well to throw them outside now. Then you may jump down into the road. Slowly and one at a time, please. I do not wish to have to use my pistol.” The accent of the voice was faintly French.