Daring Masquerade

by Mary Balogh

  Kate swallowed again. “I stay here, my lord,” she said, “until you remove yourself from my path.”

  He almost snarled in reply, Kate was fascinated—and terrified—to notice. He had her arm in his grip and her person through the elm trees to the deserted lawn beyond before she could draw breath. Unfortunately, she saw in one hasty glance, there were plenty of other trees in the vicinity. There was little chance of being spotted by any wandering gardener.

  Lord Uppington shook her arm and released her. “Now, my girl,” he said, triumph in his voice, “we shall see if you are ready to talk sense.”

  “I assume that if I am not, sense will be talked into me with that whip?” Kate said, injecting as much scorn into her voice as she was able.

  “I really think it will be unnecessary for me to use it,” he said with a smile. He was tapping the whip against his boot.

  “On the contrary,” Kate said. “If you believe that fear of your whip will drive me into your arms, my lord, I can assure you that you do not know me. I would infinitely prefer a sound whipping than a single touch of your body.”

  “Oh, come, come,” he said impatiently. “I am not a barbaric man, Kate. I am not often forced to use violence on my women. Why will you not give up this senseless fight against me? Come. I shall put down the whip. I shall even forgive you for your vicious and unladylike treatment of me three days ago. Come to me, Kate.”

  “You may wish to take up your whip again, my lord,” Kate told him coolly. “I am going to scream.”

  And she did so, thoroughly relishing the unaccustomed vocal activity. She was quite convinced that her eardrums were about to shatter.

  The marquess had not retrieved his whip, but he did grab Kate painfully by the upper arms and shake her until her head was flopping dizzily on her neck.

  “It seems that I shall have to take what I want without any attempt to soften you,” he said through his teeth. “You have no one but yourself to blame, madam . . . What the deuce?”

  This last was said as a snarling mass hurled itself at him and separated him from Kate. Josh Pickering was using his head as a battering ram. His arms were flailing in wide arcs.

  Kate watched in horror as Lord Uppington reached down for his whip. He did not intend to use it. He disdained to fight with someone like Josh Pickering. He merely intended to crack it a few times in order to establish his superiority before making as dignified a retreat as he could. Kate realized that even as she rushed forward with crusading zeal to protect Josh. She held out her hands to divert the whip. She succeeded instead in deflecting it from the grass at which it had been directed.

  She did not even see Lord Uppington go. She was too preoccupied with the pain of her stinging palms.

  “Missus?” Josh was hovering in front of her, sounding as if he were about to cry.

  “Yes, Josh,” she said shakily. “I am all right. You saved me. I am all right.”

  “Very bad man, missus,” he said, reaching out as if to pat her on the shoulder, but removing his hand without doing so. “Bad man. Josh not let him hurt missus.”

  “No.” Kate resolutely forced herself to stand still. “You were very good, Josh. I am very, very grateful to you, my friend. Thank you.”

  He watched helplessly as she held her hands before her and bit her upper lip. “Oh, Josh,” she said, “was I not foolish? Look at what I did to myself.”

  “Bad man,” he said again. “Josh take you back to the house, missus. Bad man not hurt you no more.”

  “Thank you,” she said, looking around her and retrieving her reticule with careful fingertips from where it had landed on the ground. She kept a smile on her face as she set one foot ahead of the other and began to walk to the Abbey. She had to restrain herself from dancing in agony. She concentrated on one thought: reaching her room and her bed without anyone seeing her. She did not at all consider why she wanted not to be seen. She wanted her room. She must reach it without fainting. She was glad of Josh’s escort, though he offered no physical support.

  But she was not to be so fortunate as to reach her room undetected. Even as she crossed the terrace before the curved stairway leading to the main door and turned to thank Josh once more, Sir Harry Tate came around the corner from the side of the house. He was not moving at his accustomed indolent speed. There was no chance that she could enter the house without having to speak with him.

  He strode toward her as if she were his long-lost love, Kate noted with weary dismay. He did not at all look his usual self.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  “I really do not consider that any of your concern, sir,” she said, concentrating on not swaying on her feet.

  “Josh?”

  Josh was grinning and nodding his head as if he were trying to shake it off his shoulders, Kate saw in disgust. “Bad man hurt missus,” he said. “Josh brought missus home, Mast—”

  “Yes, so I see,” Sir Harry said, cutting off the poor man in the middle of his explanation. He turned his attention on Kate. His eyes went immediately to her hands, which she held palm-up in front of her, the fingers curled loosely over them. He took a gentle hold of her wrists and uncurled the fingers with his thumbs. He stared for what seemed like a long while at the raw welt that cut across each palm.

  “Uppington?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes.” She was looking at his downcast eyes, her own somewhat dazed.

  He straightened and met her eyes for a moment. “Josh, thank you,” he said. “Go back home now, there’s a dear fellow. I shall come and talk to you later.”

  Josh bowed and grinned and backed himself away from them before turning and running in rather ungainly fashion in the direction of the driveway and the lodge.

  “Come into the garden for a minute,” Sir Harry said quietly to Kate. “I must ask you a few questions. The others are not home yet, I believe.”

  “I wish to go to my room,” she protested, staring numbly at her palms. His hands still held her wrists.

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “I shall support you there in a moment. Just for a minute, Kath . . . Kate.”

  He guided her past the fountain and around to the other side of it, where, seated on a bench, they were hidden from view to anyone on the terrace or steps.

  “Where did he meet you?” he asked. He was finding it well nigh impossible to be Harry Tate. Indeed, he hardly cared whether the deception were discovered or not.

  “On the driveway,” she said. “I was walking back to the house.”

  “How were these wounds inflicted?” he asked.

  “He had a whip,” she said. Her head was down, but she could see Sir Harry’s hands form into fists.

  “Did he strike just once?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I . . . It was something of an accident,” she said.

  “An accident?” He sounded incredulous. “Are you keeping something from me, Kate? Did he thrash you?”

  She shook her head, her eyes directed at her palms, but he clearly did not believe her. She felt his hands turn her very gently by the shoulders, so that she faced away from him, and begin to unbutton her dress from behind. It did not occur to her to feel outrage or to try to stop him. After a few moments he buttoned the dress closed again.

  “Josh did arrive in time, then,” he said. “Or almost.” He set his hands palm-up beneath hers to support them. “Lord Barton has to be told, Kate.”

  She shook her head. “Do you not know the way of the world?” she asked. “You of all people? He is a marquess, sir, one of the highest-ranking peers in the land. I am a servant and a woman.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Rape might be scarcely worth reporting, though I know that to a woman it is perhaps a worse crime than murder. But a whipping, Kate? Even just of the hands? You are not even his daughter or his wife, that he could plead the right to beat you. Lord Barton must be told. Uppington must be sent from here with all speed.”

  “I wish to go to my room,” Kate said. “Some women have to endur
e more than this almost daily. I am fortunate. This is only the second time I have been beaten in my life. And my husband did not use a whip.”

  Nicholas Seyton suddenly found himself viciously glad that Mr. Mannering had met an untimely end. And he felt just as fiercely delighted that the Marquess of Uppington was very much alive so that he could have the satisfaction of getting his hands on him.

  “And to be honest,” Kate said, “I don’t think Lord Uppington meant to use his whip on me.”

  “I can see you are trying to be brave.” Sir Harry said. “I might have expected as much. There is not a great deal of feminine softness in you, is there, Mrs. Mannering? I do not speak of physical parts, of course.”

  “Please excuse me,” Kate said. “I am afraid I must forgo the pleasure of sparring with you for today, Sir Harry. Some other day when I am feeling more the thing, perhaps?”

  “I shall have your maid sent to you immediately,” he said, “and warm water. Is the girl gentle? Audrey, is it? She will need to bathe those welts on your palms and apply some soothing ointment to them. And you must seriously consider speaking with Lord Barton. I shall speak in your defense if you wish.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I think not.”

  Before she could turn to leave, Sir Harry slid his hands up to her elbows and lowered his lips to hers. Very briefly. Very tenderly.

  “Slip your arm through mine,” he said, “carefully so that your hand does not touch. And do not be ashamed to lean your weight on me. We are all weak at times in our lives, Mrs. Mannering. I shall escort you to your room.”

  Kate did as she was bidden, but she kept her weary weight poised over her own feet. She was not dead yet, or decrepit with age, for goodness’ sake.

  Chapter 19

  When Audrey brought Kate a pitcher of warm water for washing the following morning, she also brought the request that Mrs. Mannering attend Lord Barton in his cabinet at her earliest convenience. Kate washed and dressed quickly in her gray cotton dress, trying to ignore the tenderness of her palms. She had not gone down to dinner the evening before, but had sent word that she was indisposed. Lady Thelma had come to her even before dinner began to ask what was the matter. Kate, unable to hide her hands, which Audrey had bandaged after applying ointment, said that she had had a nasty fall while running up the driveway, afraid that she would be late for tea, and was feeling somewhat shaken as well as foolish.

  But this morning she was determined to make the effort to carry on as usual. She was in her shift and brushing out her long hair even before Audrey appeared. She did not know quite how she was going to look at either Lord Uppington or Sir Harry. But she did know that she had no intention of following the latter’s advice. Complaining to the Earl of Barton would solve nothing, and only cause herself embarrassment. The marquess was of higher rank than the earl, and he was being courted for Thelma. It was expected that a man of Lord Uppington’s rank would have mistresses. It would be nothing surprising to most people that he sometimes abused those mistresses physically. Who was to prevent him? It was absurd to expect that an enraged Lord Barton would order the man from his house for merely threatening an impoverished, employed widow with a whip when she had had the audacity to defy his wishes.

  No, Kate had decided, she would keep her mouth shut. But she would get her revenge. She had promised herself that. She did not know yet how she would do it, but her brain was at work on the matter already. Unfortunately, she did not have the physical strength either to challenge the marquess or to attack him without the courtesy of a warning. And it was not in her nature to take a gun and shoot him when his back was turned, though there was a definite temptation to do just that. She would think of something.

  In the meanwhile Lord Barton wished to speak to her. She would go to him immediately. Perhaps if she were later than usual for breakfast, she would avoid having too much company. She would find questions about her “fall” rather embarrassing.

  When the earl’s valet opened the door to admit Kate to the cabinet, she was somewhat taken aback to find that Lord Barton was not alone. The Marquess of Uppington stood with his back to the room, staring out of the window. Lady Thelma sat on the opposite side of the desk from her father, looking pale enough to faint. Poor girl, Kate thought immediately, they have been coercing her again. And what is my part to be in such persuasion, I wonder.

  Then the marquess turned around.

  Kate gaped. His face was almost unrecognizable. One eye was swollen completely shut, and the other seemed in little better case. His long aristocratic nose looked to be broken, and his upper lip was swollen to such an extent that the lower was invisible. His chin and both cheeks looked more like raw meat than anything else. He stared coldly at her from his half eye, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Well, Mrs. Mannering.” Lord Barton’s voice matched the marquess’s half an eye. “Do you approve of the handiwork of your lover?”

  Kate looked at him, startled. Sir Harry? “I beg your pardon, my lord?” she asked.

  Lord Barton’s elbows rested on the arms of his chair. His fingers were steepled beneath his chin. “Your lover— whoever he might be—did this to Lord Uppington last night while two other thugs held his arms,” he said. “I wish to know his identity, Mrs. Mannering.”

  Kate frowned. “What is this all about, my lord?” she asked.

  “Oh, come now.” The earl leaned forward in his chair suddenly and banged his fist on the desk, causing Kate to jump. “Do you deny that Lord Uppington caught you in the arms of a lover yesterday afternoon while that idiot son of the Pickerings kept watch?”

  Kate looked incredulously at Lord Uppington. “I most certainly do deny it,” she said.

  “I told you she would,” Lord Uppington said with some difficulty. “In her place, so would I.”

  “It seems you have very low tastes, Mrs. Mannering,” Lord Barton continued, “choosing a lover from among the fishermen, I suppose, and inviting him onto my land so that you could satisfy your,”—he glanced at his white faced daughter—“desires.”

  “Is it true, Kate?” Lady Thelma asked, sounding utterly miserable. “I can scarce believe it.”

  “No, it is not true,” Kate assured her calmly.

  “The Pickering half-wit has already admitted it,” Lord Barton said with another bang of his fist on the desk.

  “Has admitted what, my lord?’ Kate asked.

  “That he was with you yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Mannering, when his lordship came upon you and attempted to drive your lover away with a whip. It seems Lord Uppington did not realize you were a willing partner in what was transpiring, until you threw yourself in the path of the whip to protect your lover and were struck by it across your hands.”

  “That was regrettable,” Lord Uppington said with a slight bow of the head toward Kate. “I would not knowingly have struck a woman.”

  “I see,” Kate said. “And in his testimony, my lord, did Josh mention the presence of a . . . er . . . lover?”

  “Unfortunately, the man does not have a clear mind at the best of times,” Lord Barton said. “But his evidence was clear enough. I do not believe you can deny you were there, Mrs. Mannering. Would you care to show us your hands?”

  “Oh, yes,” Kate said, nodding, a half-smile on her lips. “Certainly, my lord. And as you will see, I can no longer pretend that they were injured in a fall on the driveway. The marks are clearly the result of a cut with a whip. Lord Uppington’s whip, as he says.”

  “Then you confess all?” Lord Barton said, getting to his feet and inspecting the hands that Kate held palm-up in front of her.

  “Oh, by no means,” she said. “But I do not believe this is a trial, is it? It is a sentencing. I have nothing more to say. Except perhaps to ask how my phantom lover inflicted such very real punishment on Lord Uppington’s face.”

  “A tone of defiance and sarcasm hardly becomes you, Mrs. Mannering,” the earl said severely. “Lord Uppington, still believing that you were pe
rhaps an innocent victim, went to find your lover last night in order to punish him as he deserved. The coward was waiting for him but had two accomplices in hiding who held him while he was beaten senseless. Is this the type of man with whom you choose to consort on my property and on the time for which my daughter is paying you, Mrs. Mannering?”

  “If there only were such a man,” Kate said, looking the earl calmly in the eye, “I should be delighted to meet him and thank him in person, my lord.”

  “You see?” Lord Uppington said, wincing as he moved his lips. “She is not at all the sort of companion you would wish for your daughter, Barton, or me for my intended bride. I hope, however, that you will give her letters of recommendation before you cast her off. I understand that she is impoverished and I would not wish the woman permanent harm. Only keep her away from Lady Thelma.”

  “But Kate says it is not true, Papa,” Lady Thelma said timidly.

  “Do you call Lord Uppington a liar then?” Lord Barton almost barked at her, his brows drawn together in a heavy frown. “You heard that Pickering fellow. You have seen her hands. You see his lordship’s face.”

  Kate stood straight and apparently relaxed and said nothing.

  “I am disappointed in your moral weakness, Mrs. Mannering,” the earl said, turning and looking gravely at her, “and in your denials and defiant attitude. It is true that you are my daughter’s employee, but Lady Thelma is a minor and must abide by my decisions. I cannot have you remain here to contaminate her by your influence. I do not wish to be overharsh. You have conducted yourself with proper decorum here at the house. I will give you a week in which to gather your belongings and make arrangements to go wherever you will. But the day after the ball, you will leave, Mrs. Mannering. Neither Lady Thelma nor I will provide you with letters of reference, of course. You may leave.”