by Hazel Hunter
“Mama, you should be in bed,” she reproved lightly as she set down the tray. “What are you looking at?”
“I heard voices,” her mother said, and pointed down. “I came over and saw men walking across the property, as bold as you please. The gardeners have already gone home for the day.”
“I will tell Barton, and ask him to check the grounds.” Jennet helped her mother back to bed before she placed the tray beside her. “Perhaps they were travelers.”
“The Romany have gone south, where it is warmer,” Margaret told her, and then saw the cake. “What is this? Lemon cake?” She scowled. “Cook did not make this, for we have no lemons, and we ate the last of the berries yesterday. You went to the village.”
“I did.” Jennet sat down on the edge of the bed. “I needed some thread, and Mrs. Holloway’s order came in. I thought you would enjoy a little treat.”
“You cannot distract me with cake,” Margaret told her before popping a raspberry into her mouth. “You should have stayed at home, with me. We are about to be cursed.”
“I have arranged to avoid any curses.” Jennet brushed some of her curls back from her face. “Catherine and I are going to the masquerade at Dredthorne Hall together. She promises not to leave my side for a moment.”
Her mother sighed. “That is why you brought the cake, to ease the blow.”
“Mama, you leave me little choice. If I go, we will not be cursed,” she pointed out. “Catherine will see to it that no one harms me, and I return home safely.”
Margaret’s bottom lip trembled as she met her gaze. “You think I am a foolish old woman, but I know these things are true. There has been shadow on this family ever since your father died. You should be married now, and a mother, and happy, and you are not.”
Jennet took hold of her hands. “I will go to the ball, and try very hard to meet a fine young gentleman. Perhaps he will offer for me, and give me children, and that will make you happy.”
“You have never been the same, you know,” her mother said softly. “Ever since he left, you have kept your heart locked up against any other. I daresay Wellington himself could offer for you, and you would refuse him.”
“His Grace is already married, and rather busy at the moment.” She leaned close to whisper, “I have heard that he possesses a hooked nose.”
She was finally able to make Margaret laugh, and stayed with her until she finished her cake and was growing drowsy. After she kissed her goodnight, she carried the tray downstairs and mentioned to Mrs. Holloway what Margaret had said about the men wandering on the property.
“They may be poachers, or hands that have lost their positions,” the housekeeper said. “I’ll ask Barton to have a look tonight, and check the stables and wood shed.”
Chapter 4
On a hill overlooking the Dredthorne Hall estate, Ruban waited alone beneath an old horse-chestnut tree. The overgrowth that had concealed much of the old house had been cut back, and the rear grounds prepared for a spring garden. In England everything was about appearances, and someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make the decrepit hall look almost inviting.
While the English danced to music here, others dear to Ruban languished in prisons, or starved in their camps.
A crackle of heavy footsteps through the leaves drew his attention to the large, broad figure approaching him. He wore the heavy, practical garb of a woodsman, but the axe he carried on his shoulder was merely for show. The villagers paid no attention to any common laborers they might see.
Jean-Pierre stopped as soon as he saw the gleam of the pistol and held up his empty hands. “Bonsoir.”
“Speak only in English.” How many times would he and the other men have to be told that? Ruban felt impatient. “Where are the others?”
“Deep in de woods.” The big man jerked his chin in the direction of Dredthorne’s back property. “Too cold to sleep on de ground, and we had to leave de other place. Old lady see us. We find a sheep-man’s hut.”
“Shepherd’s hut,” Ruban corrected. His English was appalling; perhaps it was better they speak in French.
Jean-Pierre shrugged. “Dat is where we wait for you.”
“I will be otherwise engaged.” Dropping the heavy haversack at his feet, Ruban nudged it with a boot toe. “Food, enough for three days. Do not light any fires, and stay out of sight until I signal you. Then meet me at the rendezvous point.”
He grunted. “You think de Raven will be at de old chateau.”
“Oh, yes.” Ruban looked at Dredthorne Hall. “Death so enjoys a good party.”
Chapter 5
Twilight had descended around the weathered grey slate tile roofs and worn buff stone and brick walls of Dredthorne Hall when Baron Greystone stepped out onto the second-floor balcony. A biting wind yanked at his cravat, and raked loose his black mane, determined to dishevel him. Over the years since he had departed Renwick, he had often recalled this old folly, built a century past by a merchant with too much wealth and too little restraint. The previous tenants had made some repairs, mostly to shore up the deteriorating structure and disguise the worst ravages of time, but Pickering had declared it perfectly suited to his scheme.
As he did for all things French, Greystone felt little admiration for the crumbling would-be chateau, but he would only have to tolerate it for one night. In a handful of hours this thing would be finished, and Greystone could return to London on the morrow.
Not that he especially wished to.
It surprised him how little Renwick had changed since he had left it; the countryside had remained rustic, peaceful and unreservedly charming, just as it had been in his boyhood, in fact. Prior to his arrival he had been obliged to arrange the hiring of more staff for Gerard Lodge in order to make a convincing show of taking up proper residence, but he had already decided to keep them on. His boyhood home had been neglected since his father’s illness, and needed to be thoroughly cleaned and refurnished. Once spring came his mother might be persuaded to move to the country, as long as someone else suggested it.
Lady Greystone would have nothing to do with her only son.
I understand you perfectly, William, the baroness had assured him the last time she had spoken to him. Your father and I raised you to be an honorable gentleman, but you have chosen another path. You also broke the heart of a dear young lady in the worst possible fashion. I only hope your conviction gives you comfort, for you will not have it from us.
Indeed. He had looked at his father. You are of the same opinion, sir?
Nothing more can be said, the baron said, his expression as cold as ever before he turned and left the room.
Before she followed, his mother had taken one long, last look at him. Please leave this house now, Mr. Gerard, and never again think of returning.
At his father’s funeral six years later, Greystone had watched his mother from the opposite side of the casket. He could see the tracks that tears had left in the rice powder on her cheeks, and the crumpled wad she had made of the handkerchief in her hand. For all his father’s coldness his mother had been a devoted, loving wife—just as William had been the silent, obedient son. Not once had the old baron ever attempted to free either of them from the prison of his own making.
Throughout the service Greystone refused to look at the casket holding his father’s remains. If he had, he knew he would have kicked it.
When he had tried to approach his mother after the funeral, her maid had stepped in his way, and shaken her head. He had watched as Lady Greystone made her way to a waiting carriage without looking back. The baroness could not even bring herself to acknowledge his presence.
Later, when his father’s attorney had met with him alone to discuss his inheritance and the barony, Greystone had given him a letter for his mother. In it he had broken the vow he had made to his father and told her the truth. A day later a footman returned it unopened to him at his club, along with her card, on the back of which she had written three words: Remember
your choice.
Besides Greystone, only his father could truly appreciate the irony, but the old baron had gone to his grave as silent on that subject as he had been in life. He’d tossed the letter on the fire and burned his last hope of redemption.
The past wanted to haunt him tonight, Greystone thought as he went to the balcony’s railing. Soon the guests for the masquerade ball would arrive, providing what he had been assured would be a distraction essential to the success of their plan. Only after agreeing did he learn that among the guests would be the only woman he had sworn to avoid for the rest of his life.
“We must keep up appearances, and nothing says ordinary like a country dance,” Arthur Pickering told him over an after-dinner brandy they had shared during Greystone’s first visit to Dredthorne Hall. “I have invited all of the unattached young swains and ladies in Renwick, so there should be a large crowd. Jennet Reed will be among them. Once I have left for London, you may follow on the morrow, unless you have some particular reason to linger.”
“None.” He kept his expression as bland as Pickering’s tone.
“I am gratified to know it will not disturb you to see your jilted bride again,” Pickering said. “You will be in costume, so you need not reveal yourself to her. I expect we will all have a marvelous time.”
The other man’s notion of marvelous encompassed many things Greystone personally despised. “What are you playing at, Arthur?”
“Nothing at all. I enjoy the lady’s company, and there’s little else in this damned place to provide me with amusement. Not even a decent brothel within riding distance.” He toasted him with his snifter. “Never tell me you would have come here without seizing the chance to see her again.”
“I never expected nor desired to,” Greystone countered. “What would be the point?”
“Precisely.” Pickering drained his glass and set it aside. “But my ball will permit you the opportunity to see her without being seen. I am certain that will gratify you in the end. You must be curious. We know you have been making regular inquiries.”
The we meant London, which boded nothing favorable for Greystone.
A yawn would have been too deliberate a show of indifference, so he smiled lazily. “You must also be aware that I have inquired after the welfare of my mother, my cousin Germaine and her boys, and some old friends from school.” He shook his head. “Have you invited them to your masquerade as well?”
Pickering’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “It seems I have overstepped. I am not questioning your steadfastness, old chap. Of all the men I know, you are the most unwavering.”
“There was another,” Greystone reminded him. “He sacrificed his family on the altar of his loyalty. That is why I will never have one.”
“Yet you still make inquiries.” Pickering propped his elbows on his knees to lean forward. “Do not glower at me. Until you relinquish the past, you will never be free of the resentment. Had I not been orphaned, I daresay I would have arranged to have my parents believe me dead.” He gave him an unpleasant smirk. “Perhaps you should consider the same. Even the most discreet of inquiries can lead to revelations far more unpleasant than the abandonment of a bride.”
He shrugged. “My mother would not care if I were dead, and Miss Reed is nothing to me.”
Now Greystone stood on the balcony watching for her carriage, that he might see the woman he had dismissed with such callousness. The sight of her would return to him the cold reason he needed for the work, for time would have bestowed much change. He needed to see her dulled and aged by the years, her bloom gone, her innocence giving way to artifice. Perhaps she would resemble her mother now, or have grown stout from consoling herself with sweets. She would be bitter still, and carrying that grudge for so long that it would have etched unkind lines in her face.
Please, God, let her be made plain and dull and forever safe from me.
Footmen came out of the hall to place hollowed turnips on the tops of railings and the sides of steps. Once they had been arranged, tapers were employed to light the candle stubs inside them. The flickering light caused the faces carved through the sides of the turnips to appear appropriately demonic. Snatches of music came faintly from the back of the old chateau as the musicians tuned their instruments in preparation for the dancing. Downstairs the servants would be rushing about to check that all was in readiness; the air would be rosy with the scents of spiced cider and mulled wine. The incomplete renovations to the elderly house gave it the distinct air of being suitably dilapidated and possibly haunted.
Around him the deep violet skies slowly darkened to a charcoal velvet, sheened silver by the rising moon. Greystone heard the first clatter of horses’ hooves and creaking of carriage wheels approaching, and drew back into the shadows. The mask Pickering had chosen for him would wholly conceal his features, or so he had assured him. Looking down he counted six carriages, each stopping in turn to reveal their occupants.
In the city, elegant dress and artful masks would have been expected, but here in the country the guests dressed in true costumes. He saw the men of Renwick wearing old uniforms, outdated livery, and even some monks’ robes. Their ladies had garbed themselves in fashions of decades past, and sparkled with paste-gemmed tiaras, necklaces and ear bobs. Their smiling faces and shared laughter made him feel a thousand years older.
Like his mother, they would never know about his dark inheritance, or how often he had washed the blood of it from his hands.
Two young women then climbed down from a rig in vintage ball gowns so voluminous they seemed to float like clouds. Ghosts of fashions long past, they shimmered in the scant light. Each wore a velvet mask that covered enough of the face to conceal their identities, and lent them the air of refined criminals. The taller of the two moved into a pool of glowing amber from the turnips’ candles, which gilded her blue gown and awoke the dark fire of her auburn hair. That color had been burned into Greystone’s memory as a winter bonfire that could never be extinguished.
There, she has come.
Greystone watched Jennet Reed lift her skirts to mount the steps leading up to the hall. She still moved with the same easy poise, her head held high, her movements effortless. Although the full gown tried to disguise her body, he could tell that her long-limbed form remained as slender as it ever had been. He had no doubt she would still smell of rose water and almond oil from the cream she used to keep her hands smooth. Touching her skin had been the same as caressing sun-warmed silk. It still would be, he imagined.
Jennet appeared no older than any debutante in her first season, and yet he knew her to be close to thirty now. How could she look so unchanged?
We will grow old together, she had said to Greystone just after she had accepted his proposal of marriage. How do you think you will like me when I am bent over and wrinkled and smell of rheumatism balm?
He had laughed at her. Who do you expect will be rubbing you down with that balm, my heart?
Below him Jennet’s brows arched as she paused and regarded the faces of the carved turnips. From the thinning of her lips she didn’t care for the devilish decorations. Greystone tensed, and then wondered why he did. If she left in a huff Pickering would be disappointed, but he would be spared the torment of watching her from afar. If she stayed he would spend the rest of the night yearning to hear her voice, look into her eyes, and kiss her until her knees gave way.
Her effect on him had not changed, it seemed. Despite his claims to Pickering, and his own futile wishes, he would always be obsessed with her. Greystone imagined that as fitting punishment. He deserved much worse.
The other young lady then said something to her, and Jennet’s expression shifted from dislike to wry amusement. As another quartet of costumed guests joined them, the pair fell into a lively conversation. She seemed content to be part of the group, and listen as the others chattered away, just as she always had in the past.
Nothing had changed her.
Seven years ago, Greystone had done to Jennet the very worst thing possible. He had driven out of Renwick, past the church where at that very moment she waited to marry him, and took the road to London. When he stopped to water and rest his horses, he had almost turned around to go back. Saner thoughts prevailed, and he continued on to his parents’ house in Mayfair. Once he had finished making the necessary arrangements to travel, he had gone to his club. There he had gotten so drunk he’d spent most of the night casting up his accounts.
A few days later he had left England, not to return for three years.
The weight of knowing what he had done to Jennet had been the only burden from his old life that Greystone had never been able to shed. By jilting her so abruptly he knew he had snuffed out any tender feeling she’d had for him; that had been his intent. No, he had wanted her to hate him with all her heart. He would have spared her the public humiliation of being left at the altar, but that, too, had been imperative. After his ruination of her Jennet had never married, that much he had allowed himself to glean from various sources familiar with the Reeds.
He had not simply ruined her; he had condemned her to a life of solitude and misery. Any man tempted by Jennet would be swiftly told of Greystone’s abandonment. No matter how much a man was to blame for a broken engagement, society held the rejected lady responsible. Aside from estranging himself from his parents, condemning a bright, beautiful young woman to the narrow, joyless existence of a spinster had been what Greystone considered his most singularly despicable act.
Yet here she was, Miss Jennet Reed, stepped out of his past into his present, seemingly without a single alteration. Smiling and easy with her friends, as if she had never suffered a moment in her life. Obviously prepared to dance and enjoy herself, was Jennet. She behaved as if she had not a care in the world. Greystone looked down and saw he had gripped the balcony railing so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
