by Julia Ross
The maid bobbed a curtsy and left. The noise and commotion stopped instantly once she had closed the double doors behind her.
Sarah stood and waited, feeling very alone.
The room cocooned her in silence.
After a few moments of absolute quiet, she looked about. A painting of a bareheaded knight in full armor hung above the fireplace. She walked over to stare up at it.
A breeze from the edge of the world unsettled the knight’s hair and streamed through his mount’s mane and tail. An imaginary forest rioted in the background, decorated with flowers and wildly curling leaves. A tall keep, flying the St. George dragon banner, rose from amongst the trees. Beyond them lay the sea.
Emphasized by the severe lines of the man’s face, dark, compelling eyes gazed back down at her.
An odd longing seized her soul.
Sarah could almost hear the drag of the surf on the shingle and smell the salt-sweet fragrance of the flowers.
Closer to her heart, she could sense the presence of the man, as if the knight might step down from the painting at any moment to offer her his fealty and his sword arm to defend her from all enemies.
“As a portrait, it’s entirely imaginary, of course,” a woman’s voice said with a hint of humor. “It was painted about ten years ago as a present to the duchess. I doubt that the real Ambrose de Verrant was either so handsome or so romantic. Though he was an ancestor of my husband’s—and for quite different reasons my baby is his namesake—the first Ambrose was very probably a bit of a brute.”
Sarah spun about.
Swinging a black mask from one hand, a dark-haired lady had entered through a door that had been hidden in the paneling. She was breathtakingly lovely, the kind of beauty that could stun both men and women into silence.
“Welcome to Blackdown House, Mrs. Callaway.” The woman walked forward. Her entire being seemed lit from within, as if she carried a lamp in her heart. “I’m Lady Ryderbourne, the wife of the present duke’s eldest son, and the proud mother of the next in line to the dukedom. I’m afraid that all of this”—she waved both hands—“is in my baby son’s honor, poor little mite, though he’s not yet eight weeks old. Meanwhile, I don’t know whether you can tell that I’m meant to be Nell Gwyn, since I’ve set down my oranges somewhere. I can’t think where. And now, I imagine, someone’s eaten them.”
Unable to help herself, Sarah laughed. She felt suddenly light, as if she had just met a long-lost sister, instead of a duke’s daughter-in-law.
“Ah, that’s better!” the new mother said. Her smile warmed like the sun. “For a moment I thought you were about to turn tail and flee. But any friend of Guy’s is a friend of ours, so we really do extend our warmest welcome.”
Sarah curtsied. “You’re very kind, Lady Ryderbourne, but I met Mr. Devoran for the first time only yesterday. I’m hardly his friend.”
“Yet you will be, which comes to the same thing. So you mustn’t let any of us daunt you for a moment. If it helps, just remember that I was born in a cottage.” Her Ladyship waved the black mask again and laughed. “For all my exalted titles, I’m no doubt a great deal less respectable than you are.”
“I don’t know if any person can claim total respectability when she’s wearing sheep on her head,” Sarah said, smiling. “Though I’m doing my very best to herd them with the appropriate aplomb.”
Lady Ryderbourne giggled like a schoolgirl. “With a rather marked lack of success, alas! Yet I trust you’ll forgive me for both the sheep and that ridiculous little hat? It was all I could throw together at such short notice.”
Dismay undermined Sarah’s courage for a moment. “Your Ladyship chose this costume?”
“I’m afraid so, though Guy helped. I confess that we found all the bits and pieces in the attics. In the end the sheep were Guy’s idea. Never mind! Let me help you to adjust them before they run off into seriously unmentionable places.”
Sarah swallowed her astonishment as a future duchess stood on tiptoe to wrap the sheep-laden ribbon securely about her guest’s headdress.
“There!” Lady Ryderbourne said. “That should survive a whole night of dancing.”
Sarah turned back to face her. “But surely I’m not expected to attend the ball?”
“Why ever not? Though it’s a terrible fuss for a baby, isn’t it? I’ve left strict instructions that I’m to be fetched should my little son cry for even an instant, whatever King Charles’s fearsome mother may have to say about it.”
“King Charles’s mother?”
“The Duchess of Blackdown. Of course, she’s my own mother now, as well, since I married her eldest son last September.” One lovely dark eye closed in a wink. “Her Grace insisted that we must celebrate the resulting child in the grand style, and she’s probably right. So my husband is dressed as the Merry Monarch tonight. It’s a bit of a joke between us.”
“That Nell Gwyn was King Charles’s mistress?”
“Ah, more than that! But never mind. The naughty Nell Gwyn may have been closely related to some of my ancestors, and since several members of my husband’s family were acknowledged as the natural children of kings, Ryder’s very probably dressed as an ancestor, too.”
Her merry mood was infectious. “And it’s very likely that some of my ancestors were shepherds,” Sarah said, “so I suppose we’re all dressed appropriately.”
Lady Ryderbourne laughed and glanced back up at the painting. “Guy’s family is also descended from de Verrant, of course. It appears that the rogue made very free with his favors. Alas, now my poor little baby is the heir to all of it. He’s sleeping far above our heads with a dozen nursemaids watching over him, and it’s the first time we’ve been apart this long since he was born.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sarah said. “If I’d known, I’ve never have kept you. “
“Attending my baby’s christening ball is a very tiny price to pay for marrying a duke’s son, especially when he’s the love of my life. Anyway, I promised Guy to take care of you, and I’m more than happy to do so.”
“Mr. Devoran did not wish to meet me privately, before it all starts?”
Lady Ryderbourne tied on her mask. “Good heavens! It’s already started, and Guy is as essential to the festivities as the duke and duchess themselves. He’s not only my cousin by marriage, but he’s also a very old and dear friend. I’ve known him since I was sixteen. If Guy asks for the moon, we Ryderbournes would cast nets to the heavens to catch it for him.”
“I’m overwhelmed,” Sarah said simply. “I had no idea—”
“Nonsense! It’s our pleasure, and you may trust the honor of each of our men implicitly.”
“I don’t know very much about the finer points of honor among the peerage.”
“Though you were married to a captain who fought at Waterloo, I understand,” Lady Ryderbourne said gently. “And that’s the most honorable title that there is. Ah, I see that I’ve spoken out of turn. I’m so sorry.”
To her intense embarrassment, tears pricked at Sarah’s eyes. Yet it was impossible to resist her hostess’s charm, and especially impossible to resist the certain knowledge that Lady Ryderbourne understood a great deal about the human heart.
“Did Mr. Devoran tell you that?”
“Guy thought I ought to know, but we’ll say no more about it. Here, let me help you with your mask.” Lady Ryderbourne took the slip of blue fabric from Sarah’s hand and tied it securely. “You look wonderful—so mysterious and sensual. You have very lovely eyes, Mrs. Callaway.”
Sarah blinked away her moment of distress and stared at herself in a wall mirror. The freckle-faced schoolmistress had disappeared. In her place stood an enigmatic, long-necked lady with a witty little hat perched on her silver wig.
“Goodness,” she said. “Not even my own cousin would ever guess it was me.”
“No one knows who anyone is, which is a big part of the fun.” The new mother linked her arm through Sarah’s. “Everyone is in costume, except the Duk
e of Blackdown himself and Wellington—and the king, of course.”
“The king is here?”
“Propped on a large chair filled with cushions. As for Blackdown and the Iron Duke, it’s too far beneath their ducal dignity to cavort about in fancy dress. The duchess, however, is ruling the roost as Queen Elizabeth. Her Grace is even wearing a breastplate, as Good Queen Bess did when she addressed the troops at Tilbury before the Armada.”
“Ah,” Sarah said. “One of the most famous speeches in history: ‘I know I have but the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king—and of a king of England, too—’”
“‘—and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realm,’” Lady Ryderbourne finished with a flourish. She tapped on the massive double doors. “You may take it that Her Grace’s armor is appropriate.”
“And Mr. Devoran’s?” Sarah asked. “Might he be dressed as that knight?”
“I doubt it. Guy’s a wonderful dancer, and who’d want to be escorted by a man who’d be clanking around the ballroom?”
“Then how will I know him?”
“I don’t know.” Lady Ryderbourne grinned as the footman swung the doors wide. “But since Guy suggested your costume and picked out the sheep, he’ll certainly know you.”
CHAPTER THREE
GUESTS STREAMED INTO THE BALLROOM, A MASS OF WIGS and headdresses and costumes. Everyone was masked.
A tall man in a splendid curled wig and red velvet coat immediately walked up to join Sarah and Lady Ryderbourne. Though a black mask hid his face, he could only be Guy Devoran’s older cousin, Lord Ryderbourne, heir to the duchy.
Flourishing his plumed hat, he swept both ladies a bow, then he pulled his wife into his arms and kissed her on the mouth.
“A buss for your sweetheart, Nell! What the devil have you done with your oranges?”
“I lost them.”
“Which explains why Lady Fallay sat on them and created a small social disaster for Queen Bess. Though Her Grace will forgive you anything, sweetheart, now that you’ve given her a new Earl of Wyldshay to dandle.”
Lady Ryderbourne laughed and reached up to kiss him again. “Which is too great a name for such a tiny baby, sir. Ambrose Laurence Jonathan Devoran St. George is mouthful enough. But this is Sarah Callaway, Ryder: Guy’s shepherdess.”
Sarah curtsied, but Lord Ryderbourne took her hand and raised it to his lips. His eyes were deep green, like the laughing shadow beneath a wave.
“Of course! Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Callaway. I see my cousin’s wicked sense of humor has been at work, yet I’m most partial to sheep. May I ask for the honor of this next dance?”
It was impossible not to smile. “You’re very gracious, my lord, but—”
“No, don’t refuse!” Lady Ryderbourne said. “If you don’t dance with Ryder, Guy will think we’ve abandoned you.”
“And then he’ll call me out. My tragic corpse will be found on Hampstead Heath, and my little son will be left fatherless.” He tucked Sarah’s hand into his elbow. “I pray you’ll not pretend that you cannot dance, ma’am?”
She was trapped, so she smiled again. “I’m delighted to accept, my lord. But I assume this is only part of some devious plot of Mr. Devoran’s?”
“Most definitely!” Lord Ryderbourne led her onto the floor. “Guy’s a great plotter, but only in the most noble of causes. He first enlisted me to shadow you in St. James’s, in case you didn’t take the right street and he lost you.”
Sarah swallowed the shock. “So you were the gentleman that Mr. Devoran stopped to talk to in front of the wine seller’s? I had no idea that either of you had noticed me.”
“I hadn’t, until Guy pointed you out. After that, you were the unfortunate victim of our conspiracy. I followed you as you tracked him, while Guy lay in wait for you in a bookstore. I trailed you again after that—in the most casual fashion—until you had safely entered your hotel. Enlist one of us, Mrs. Callaway, and a small army is at your disposal. I hope you’ll find that more reassuring than intimidating, though we can be an overbearing lot, I’m afraid.”
Sarah tried not to let her growing alarm show in her face, for the green eyes seemed to miss nothing.
“We?” she asked lightly.
“My brother, Lord Jonathan. My cousin, Guy Devoran. And myself. Plus any of a select group of gentlemen whom we could call upon at any time, and whose discretion we trust absolutely. If you’re in trouble, Mrs. Callaway, you have powerful regiments of aid still held in reserve.”
Her heart seemed to be skipping every other beat. “How many of those gentlemen know of my exact predicament, my lord?”
“None,” he replied, “including me. Guy said only that you’d be here tonight and need our support. So now that you’re reassured that you still retain absolute privacy, are you ready to dance, ma’am? Guy will find you later, but meanwhile these are the best musicians in London.”
The lines had already formed for the next set. Further conversation was impossible. Sarah stood between Atalanta in her gauzy purple gown, and a swan in a mask and costume of white feathers. Lord Ryderbourne took his place next to Julius Caesar. The ladies curtsied as the men bowed, and the dance began.
Sarah wove in and out, touching fingers with every gentleman as she passed up the line. Almost every partner took the brief chance to flirt. She did her best to respond graciously, though her thoughts raced like leaves in a millstream.
How much had Guy Devoran really told his cousins? And where was he? He must have had some purpose in inviting her here tonight. Whenever the movements of the dance allowed, she glanced about the room, hoping somehow to recognize him among all the centurions and knights and monks.
There was no sign of him.
When the set was over, Lady Ryderbourne introduced her to several more partners. As Sarah was led onto the floor for the second time, a footman approached. Nell Gwyn listened to the man for a moment, then whispered in her husband’s ear—obviously the baby wanted his mother. Lord Ryderbourne glanced at Sarah and signed an apology.
Sarah nodded her understanding. The new parents linked arms and walked away.
King Charles’s plumed hat briefly touched his wife’s shoulder as he bent his head down to listen to something she said—such a simple gesture of intimacy that made all the glitter of the ballroom irrelevant.
Sarah spun back to face the dance floor as some deep place in her heart filled with poignancy. She would never again know the warmth of her marriage, the comfort of touching and being touched with respect and caring, the moments of shared humor and gentleness. And children! She and Captain Callaway had never seized their chance to have a baby, and then his final illness had robbed them both of his life.
She shook herself and smiled as a masked gentleman in monk’s robes bowed for the next dance. No one except Lord and Lady Ryderbourne—and Guy Devoran himself, of course—could possibly know who she was. Perhaps somewhere in this sophisticated crowd was the very man who was responsible for Rachel’s disappearance.
That was one among many compelling reasons for enlisting Guy Devoran’s help. How else could a schoolteacher from Bath mingle so freely with the nobility of England?
Meanwhile, the sense of frivolity was infectious. Not only the dizziness of the dancing itself, but the idea that the St. Georges of Wyldshay had taken her under their protection, for at least this one night.
By the time supper was announced, Sarah had danced almost every measure. She escaped her last partner—a rather dull Alfred the Great—and dodged beneath some palm fronds at the side of the room to catch her breath. Her blood ran hot in her veins.
Laughing and talking, the crowd moved past her toward the supper tables. She tried to study each man as he passed, though she had no idea what to look for. Could guilt be betrayed by posture or gait? Even without the masks, she might see the villain and not know it.
“There’s quite a ju
ngle a little farther through here, Mrs. Callaway,” a male voice whispered in her ear. “Would you like to explore it?”
Sarah whirled around. A tall man in a crimson mask and silk turban had silently walked up to stand beside her. His Oriental robes were flamboyantly embroidered with dragons.
Uncertainty fractured her perception for a moment, as if she were thrust suddenly into a fantasy. Her heart had leaped in a shock of recognition at his expressive mouth and the hint of perfect profile, yet the gilt-brown gaze was most definitely not Mr. Devoran’s.
This man’s eyes were filled with a similar humor and bright intelligence, yet she thought that grim determination—even something of anger—also lurked just beneath the surface.
Sarah smiled with blind courage. “Do I know you, sir?”
“Lord Jonathan Devoran St. George, at your service, ma’am.” He bowed his head. “Guy asked me to take care of you, should Ryder be otherwise occupied. Come! You’ll like this.”
Ah! Lord Ryderbourne’s younger brother, Wild Lord Jack, who had recently returned to England from India. Mr. Devoran must have told him, too, about the sheep. Yet Lord Jonathan enjoyed an oddly terrifying reputation in the popular accounts of his adventures in the East.
Sarah dismissed her stab of apprehension and took his proffered arm.
They ducked together beneath the palm fronds and through a concealed doorway. Trees and vines clustered, some trailing long sprays of blossom, their roots bound in enormous clay pots. The floor disappeared beneath a thick layer of tanbark. Far above their heads, night scattered dark reflections between the stone ribs of a glasshouse.
The music faded as her escort led Sarah ever deeper into the rustling jade silence.
They stepped out into a small open space, dimly lit by a scattering of paper lanterns. A moist eddy carried earthy, flowery scents, with a strange undercurrent of danger, like air stirred by dragon’s wings.
