by Carie, Jamie
"No!" Alex pulled on his arm. "Help me!" She ran toward the cloaked man, fear vibrating through her whole being. She knew who this was. She knew this protector, and if he'd died for her she didn't know how she would ever go on.
They knelt by the still form. Alex pulled his head into her lap.
Montague! She didn't know if she said it inside or outside her head. "Wake up. Don't you die on me! Do you hear me!" Oh, God. Save him, please. I'll do anything.
"Lady Alexandria Featherstone!" It was an order and a bark of authority. Her spine instantly straightened. She sniffed, noticing for the first time that her face was wet with tears.
"Yes?" she asked in a very small voice.
"Quit that blubbering and act like the woman I know you are." His voice lowered with a note of humor. "Besides, you're getting blood all over your new dress."
That brought a fresh bout of tears, but this time she was crying and laughing at the same time. "Are you all right? Where are you hurt?"
"Here, let me see." John, who was leaning over him, backed up and they saw the knife sticking from his chest. "Oh, Uncle. That doesn't look good. We have to get you to a doctor."
Alex started wailing afresh until Montague grasped her arm and pulled her toward his face. "Look at me," he demanded. "It's missed my heart, I think. And I'm breathing well despite the sharp pull on my ribs. I need you to pull it out and then stop the bleeding with something."
Alex nodded, a feeling of desperation to hold on to his calm assurance the only thing keeping her upright and coherent. "I can do it." She told them all, including herself.
"That's my girl." He turned to John. "Your neck cloth, sir. There may be a lot of blood when she pulls it out. You'll have to press hard and hold it to staunch the bleeding."
John nodded. "Yes, Uncle. I understand."
They both looked at Alex. Oh, God! Was she really going to have to do this? She'd been on her knees, but the thought that she might need to put some weight behind the action made her stand up and lean over him. She grasped the hilt of the knife.
One . . . two . . . three. She turned her head aside, squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled as hard as she could.
Montague came off the walkway with a groan. The knife flew from her hands and clattered, bloody, into the middle of the street.
Alex broke into a fresh sob.
John pressed on the wound.
Montague grasped her hand and gasped out, "Well done, my dear. If I'd had a daughter . . . I would have . . . wanted her to be . . . just . . . like . . . you."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Servants, porters, the hotel staff, and his valet rushed back and forth between the Duke of St. Easton's suite of rooms and the front desk where package after package was arriving. In the last week he had met with tailors, boot makers, glove and hat makers; there were all kinds of leather goods including elaborate new saddles and tack for the horses. His staff had three sets of matching livery, and Meade, an entire new wardrobe, even though he complained it unnecessary and despised the tedious sittings for the tailor.
Gabriel sat at his desk with Meade across from him as the packages arrived, were unpacked, and presented. He sent back almost as much as he kept.
"Here are the invitations that have arrived so far." Meade began opening them and handing them across the desk in the familiar routine they'd had for years. There were at least thirty invitations to all sorts of entertainments and he'd only been in town a week. The rumor mill had obviously done its job. The plan was working.
"Accept the O'Brien dinner party for tonight and Lord Donovan's ball tomorrow night. Have we heard from the viceroy yet?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Meade passed over a thick letter. "Earl Talbot has responded exactly as we hoped."
Gabriel unfolded the letter, a personal note of welcome from the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and the enclosed, gilt-edged invitation to the masquerade ball at Dublin Castle. He sat back with a smile. There would be any number of people who might know of the Featherstones, the missing Sloane manuscript, and possibly even know of Lady Alexandria herself. He would only have to ask the right questions and watch their responses. Meade would accompany him and direct him in how best to answer.
It wasn't a perfect system, any number of things could go wrong, but his fellow attendees would have heard all about the power and wealth of the Duke of St. Easton and would hopefully think him eccentric instead of deaf should he choose to walk away from a conversation. It was the best way to find her in such a vast city. Not that he hadn't hired investigators to scour the city too. He was leaving nothing to chance this time.
"Excellent." Gabriel gave Meade a sly look. "And is my costume ready?"
Meade snorted. "Yes, Your Grace. You will certainly strike fear into their hearts."
"Fear, you say?" Gabriel could mostly read Meade's lips, far better than anyone else's, but he still missed a word here and there.
Meade was not perturbed in the least and seemed to take pride that they could get on without the speaking book quite often. "Yes," he overly enunciated, "fear."
Gabriel laughed. "Well, that was the point of it, wasn't it? We don't want anyone too comfortable, asking too many questions."
"It is an excellent plan, if I may say so."
Another commotion at the door brought their attention around. A servant of the hotel hurried forward, bowing and hardly daring to look Gabriel in the eye. He spoke with Meade for several minutes and then backed out of the room, bowing and scraping all the way.
Meade turned toward Gabriel with his brows raised. He took up the speaking book and wrote down the message.
We've found several men who are known to have some knowledge of Sloane's collection. They are: Sir Kiefer Donovan, Sean Healy, Patrick Sullivan, and Jeremy Lyons. Three are members of the Royal Irish Academy and two are expected at the ball. You were right again, Your Grace. The ball will be a good place to ask questions.
Gabriel studied the names, allowing his mind to rove through his memories. Lyons rang a bell, but he wasn't sure why. "Which two are expected at the ball?"
"Healy and Lyons."
Excellent. "Find out all you can about each of them. And find out what the two attending the ball look like, what they'll be wearing. We won't want to miss them."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Meade hurried to do his bidding while Gabriel closed his eyes and thought of his quarry so close now within his grasp.
THEY WERE LATE. PURPOSEFULLY LATE.
Being deaf made great crowds a challenge that Gabriel hadn't known would ever be problematic for him. He'd always been the picture of confidence and control. Sought after in any crowd and made to feel important. Now, when he walked into a crowded room, he felt disoriented, lost, left out, and alone. Sometimes the anxiety grew until the dizziness haunted him, loping through his mind and making his ears ring. That was the worst. And then there was the horror of the scene he would cause if he collapsed again. He couldn't risk that here, not after all he'd gone through to convince the good people of Dublin that he was so grand as to be almost otherworldly with wealth and power.
So he and Meade arrived a full hour late. It was probably expected anyway. They would be panting to see him after hearing so many audacious rumors. The viceroy and vicereine had been ecstatic that he had accepted their invitation to the masked ball, or so he'd been told.
Dublin Castle was as he remembered it. A scrawling mass of stone buildings. He'd been in the upper courts once before, where the lord lieutenant had his apartments. But he'd rejected the offer of a tour, probably offending them at the time, but after seeing most of the palaces of the world, he hadn't been in the mood to be accommodating. He was, he discovered with some surprise, eager to see it now, especially the grand ballroom.
They passed through a gate from Cork Hill and saw the two gigantic statues of
Justice and Fortitude on either side of the central colonnade. The coach with his ducal coat of arms emblazoned on the side swung up to the front and stopped. Gabriel waited for the footman to open his door and then tossed back his cape and stepped down into the drive surrounded by the courtyard.
He waited for Meade to come around, looked down at his secretary, and smiled. Meade was dressed as a crocodile, and it was all Gabriel could do not to laugh out loud every time he looked at him. "I can't believe you've worn that, Meade. You'll be tripping everyone within arm's length and you have to stay close."
Meade turned toward him, the lower half of his face plainly visible from the crocodile's wide mouth. "It's perfect, Your Grace. Only you will be able to see my mouth."
Gabriel sighed. "If I don't look like I'm mooning over you all night, it will be a miracle. Good heavens, what was I thinking to agree to this plan?"
"If I recall rightly, it was your plan, Your Grace."
"Never mind that." His mood was starting to seriously sour. "Let's pray we get through the next couple of hours." He didn't wait to hear what Meade might think of that. He had been praying. More than he'd ever prayed in his life.
They made their way up the wide flight of stairs to a grand, and thankfully empty, hall. Gabriel paused to adjust his sweeping black cape. It reached almost to his ankles in the back and swirled around him in voluminous folds whenever he turned. His black demimask was tied around his eyes, but he had made sure that he would be identifiable. He needed to be known to get the answers he wanted.
"Well?" He motioned for Meade to precede him. "Follow the noise, man, and find us the ballroom."
Meade responded like a horse being nudged. They went down a wide hall, passing a brilliant but empty presence chamber complete with the viceroy's throne. They turned a corner and Meade stopped. At the entry to the ballroom stood liveried servants in the viceroy's colors of green and gold. They saw him, spoke briefly with Meade while Gabriel pretended to ignore them, and then they beckoned them into the room. Meade turned toward him and mouthed, the viceroy.
He understood that the servants had been on the lookout for him and were ordered to take him directly to the viceroy when he arrived. So far, so good.
Gabriel stepped forward, feeling the rush of battle beat through his veins as he fought with the anxiety filling him. He took a deep breath, nodded to those close to him, and started forward. As if a spotlight had been shined upon him, those he passed stopped and turned to stare. His gaze swept over the glittering crowd amassed in all manner of costumes from the exquisite to the ridiculous.
There were clowns with giant heads, dogs leading real identical dogs on a leash, medieval kings and queens, Greek gods and goddesses, sultans and belly dancers, Spanish gypsies, gaudily painted jesters, and women as sweet as dairy maids and as raunchy as the prostitutes from Covent Garden.
Their eyes seemed overly bright, their voices too loud though he could hear nothing. A sweat broke out down his back and he felt a little sick. And to think he used to enjoy these things. He used to at least be able to pretend he did. It was all he could do not to flee.
Meade tapped on his arm and directed his attention to the viceroy. He was dressed as a Turk with a high purple-and-gold turban on his head that looked ridiculous and a fake snake coiled around his back and arm.
Gabriel blinked once at the snake and then drawled out in his most condescending manner. "Good evening, Lord Talbot. You have a new friend, I see. Have you charmed the Irish into welcoming reptiles?"
The man laughed, the lines around his eyes deepening. Gabriel turned away, as if bored with the answer, but he looked into Meade's long snout to see if there was anything imperative he should say. Meade rolled his eyes and gestured that they leave. That probably meant that the viceroy was gushing over him.
He turned swiftly toward his host and gave him a bow, low enough to show respect. "Forgive me, Viceroy. I haven't been to a masquerade in years. I find myself . . . curious." He looked speculatively at a nearby beauty who was showcasing her assets.
The viceroy followed his gaze, his eyes lighting up. He thrust out his hand toward the woman and the party and said something about enjoying himself. Gabriel thanked him and stalked away toward the other side of the ballroom. Now to find Jeremy Lyons and Sean Healy and the real reason he'd come tonight.
He looked intently for the two men, one reportedly dressed as a domino, the typical costume of all black with a black mask, and the other as Benjamin Franklin, the famed American politician, scientist, and inventor.
Suddenly Gabriel slammed into someone, knocking him off balance. He looked down and discovered a woman. She fell back, bumped into another man who had his back to them, and then started to fall toward the floor.
Gabriel caught her with reflexes that knew what to do before he had a chance to think of it. He hauled her into his arms, into his chest, steadied her and righted her to stand on her own feet in a matter of seconds.
She swayed for a moment and then turned flashing blue eyes on him. His senses took in her costume in a moment—blues and greens and purples, splashes of pale yellow, more purple with red tones, all the colors blending into each other and flowing from the body of the dress into streamers of colored fabric, organza over taffeta. The colored streamers stirred and fluttered with her every movement. Most of her face was covered with a turquoise mask edged in purple lace. Her pale blue eyes, ringed in darker blue, locked with his.
"I'm so sorry." He caught that much from her pink lips. And then, as she tilted her rounded chin up she said more, but he couldn't fathom what it was. Despair and panic crashed through him. He wanted to know what she said. Who was she?
Before he had a chance to frighten her away with his confused silence, he clasped her waist with one hand and her hand with the other. "Dance with me," he thought he said. He hoped he said it aloud. If she protested he didn't know it; he didn't have the courage to look at her face.
Her body, though, followed. He felt the flow of muscle keep up with him beneath his gloved fingertips. She turned into his arms, she took a deep breath, as did he, and then he closed his eyes and concentrated on the vibrations of the music, the long-known steps of the waltz that he'd danced a thousand times and the familiar feel of a beautiful woman in his arms.
It felt good to dance again.
She was as light as moonbeams in his arms and moved with his every movement as if they were one. He opened his eyes, feeling the silence in a new way, seeing her dress come alive and flutter around them like a living thing that grasped and teased and caressed and waved . . . like the wind. She was like the wind.
Her breath was long and even, her chest going in and out in equal accord with his. There was no sound of anything, but it was as if she were a conductor and through her he could hear everything—the music, the laughing, whirling couples, the woman in his arms. She looked up then, into his eyes, and a look of startled fear filled her blue gaze.
She stopped. Stopped them in the middle of the whirling, twirling dancers. She covered her mouth with her white gloved hand, then dropped her hand, shook her head slowly back and forth, and took a step back. "It can't be," her lips read. She shook her head again and turned from him, turned and fled, silken streamers of flight in a bluish blur that quickly disappeared into the crowd.
What had he done to scare her away?
Meade rushed to rescue him before he stood very long staring after her like a lovesick fool.
The crocodile in the midst of the dancers did not go over very well. He was shot with dire looks, shrieked at by the ladies, shoved aside and cursed as one man tripped over his long tail, but none of that derailed him for even a moment. No. His stalwart secretary forged through the throng to save him.
Gabriel sighed, not knowing whether to laugh or run from him. He decided for a chuckle and strode over to the swamp monster, grasped his scaly shoul
der, and hurried him off the dance floor.
"Well?" Gabriel demanded, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. This night was not going at all as planned. "Have you found Healy or Lyons?"
Meade pointed behind him with a long yellow claw.
A small group of older gentlemen stood huddled together, looking deep in conversation. There was an obvious Ben Franklin among them and two men in domino regalia. One of them was probably Molony. Men interested in eccentricities such as ancient antiquities often gravitated toward each other at events like these.
Gabriel made his way over to them, his pet lumbering after him.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as he came up to their inner circle. They stopped talking and turned to stare at him. He inclined his head. "Gentlemen."
He saw someone say his name and plunged forward with the plan, their faces registering a degree of curiosity and respect. "I am sorry to interrupt but I've been looking for Jeremy Lyons and Sean Healy. I have important business to discuss. Would any of you, perhaps, be the gentlemen in question?"
Ben Franklin stepped forward and bowed. "I am Sean Healy." Gabriel was almost sure he'd read that right. Meade nodded at him from behind the croc's rows of uneven teeth. "And this is"—he flung out his hand to one of the more heavily masked men—"Jeremy Lyons."
That man only stared at him, eyes too dark to see beyond the mask, but something about him sent a chill through Gabriel. This man was no fool. He would have to be told everything to gain his cooperation.
"Would you mind accompanying me to a quieter place where we could talk?"
They both nodded.
They followed Meade and Gabriel into an empty drawing room outside the ballroom that was open for guests to refresh themselves. While the three men took seats around the fireplace, Meade gathered up plates of delicacies and lumbered through the room getting them drinks and making them comfortable.
Gabriel took off his mask and, at first, did all the talking, hoping his servile crocodile would sit down and help him when it came time for them to speak.
