by M C Beaton
For just one second, James Bentley could have sworn there was a cold flash of something sinister in Lord Charles’s dark eyes, but then it was gone and his face had slackened. Lord Charles took a gold snuffbox from his pocket, took a pinch, carefully put the snuffbox away again, and said, “I’ll buy ’em.”
“Why?” asked James Bentley, considerably startled.
“Present for old Westerby,” slurred Lord Charles, sinking deeper into his chair and putting one leg up on a console table and examining the toe of his black leather shoe with interest. “Send me the pictures. Send me the bill.”
Fanny sang louder than ever. Lord Charles put up his glass and stared at her in amazement and then demanded more brandy.
“To revert to what you were saying,” said James Bentley. “I assure you, my lord, I am no amateur. No, indeed. Why I won this house and Westerby’s estates from him.”
“Ought to be ashamed of yourself,” commented Lord Charles. A little china ornament stood on the table a few inches from his foot. He kicked it idly with his toe until Mrs. Bentley fluttered forward and took it away.
“Play you for them,” remarked Lord Charles laconically.
“What?” demanded Mr. Bentley, made stupid by surprise.
Lord Charles heaved himself up and stared drunkenly and belligerently at Mr. Bentley.
“I’ll play you for the Westerby estates,” said Lord Charles loudly and clearly.
“And what will you set against it?”
“My lands and my fortune,” said Lord Charles. He swayed slightly as he crossed the room to pick up the brandy decanter, which he carried back to his chair.
“Ah, we jest, my lord,” said Mr. Bentley.
“No, we don’t jest,” snarled Lord Charles. “You have only the Westerby lands to lose, not your personal fortune. I’m putting everything on the table.”
“True! True!” said Mr. Bentley, a pale fire beginning to gleam in his eyes. He would never have dreamed of playing Lord Charles at cards before, because his lordship’s luck at the tables was legendary. But Mr. Bentley had made his fortune out of fleecing young men who did not know how to hold their drink. Nonetheless, a lifetime of caution was not to be thrown away lightly. He would stall. He would put out his spies and see if my lord’s phenomenal luck at the tables still held. Eppington Chase meant more to him at the moment than any card game, however high the stakes.
“Give me time to consider the matter, my lord,” said Mr. Bentley. “Now shall we listen to dear Fanny’s singing? Like a nightingale, is she not?”
“More like a crow,” said Lord Charles, staggering once more to his feet. “Must leave. Thanks for the hospitality. Servant, Mrs. Bentley.”
He reeled out and was helped into his chair.
He left a stunned silence behind.
“Monster!” cried Fanny. “Did you not hear what he said? You must play him, Papa! You must revenge me!”
“Well, well, let us spy out the land first,” said Mr. Bentley. He turned to his wife. “What think you, my dear?”
His wife’s face was flushed with anger. “He is no longer young—in his thirties,” she said. “That is about the time that these fools can no longer hold their drink as they once could. Observe him carefully in the coming weeks. Send him those Westerby portraits as a gift. We don’t want them! Furthermore, an you put them up for auction, you will have a lot of Westerby’s friends calling you ‘miser.’”
“Very true, my dear,” said Mr. Bentley thoughtfully. “Just think what I could do with Welbourne’s fortune added to my own. There’s one thing for sure: Fanny don’t want to marry him now.”
“I hate him,” said Fanny in a low voice. “I could kill him.”
“There now, my puss,” said her father indulgently, patting her cheek. “There are more ways of killing a man than with cold steel.”
Back at Hessel Street, a surprisingly sober Lord Charles examined the ruin of his coat. The last two glasses had been tipped down his sleeve.
He looked up as his butler entered.
“My lord,” said Anderson, “Lady Jane and Lady Comfrey are to attend a masked ball at Crocker’s tonight.”
“Good heavens! Are you sure? It seems a very lively entertainment for such an old lady.”
“It’s true, my lord. I fell into conversation with Lady Comfrey’s maid, Bella, who takes the air of an afternoon and likes to gossip with all and sundry. Complaining bitterly about it she was, my lord. Saying as how she had to go as well.”
“Good work, Anderson,” said Lord Charles. “Crocker’s it is. Fetch me some tea. Faugh! I stink of brandy.”
Crocker’s was still a very respectable place to go in those days, masked ridotto or no. Lady Jane Lovelace was fortunate in belonging to a stratum of society that could dare to venture abroad in the evening. For although the streets were infested with prowling thieves and dangerous bullies and the Lord Mayor complained bitterly that “persons armed with bludgeons, pistols, and cutlasses infest lanes and private passages and issue forth to rob and wound peaceful people,” the aristocracy were mostly left unmolested. Dr. Johnson summed it up:
Prepare for death if here at night you roam,
And sign your will before you step from home,
Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,
Who sleeps in brambles till he kills his man—
Some frolic drunkard reeling from a feast,
Provokes a broil and stabs you for a jest,
Yet even these heroes mischievously gay,
Lords of the street and terrors of the way,
Flushed as they are with folly, youth and wine,
Their prudent insults to the poor confine:
Afar they mark the flambeau’s bright approach,
And shun the shining train and golden coach.
Certainly Lady Comfrey and her party negotiated the short distance to Oxford Street without mishap, although the Comfrey carriage could hardly be called a golden coach, being of antique design and badly in need of a coat of varnish.
They stopped in front of the imposing pillared portico of Crocker’s after waiting for about an hour in the press of traffic. Lady Jane felt she would die with excitement. It was all so strange, being masked and enfolded in a silken domino. She felt as if all sorts of marvelous and wonderful things were going to occur. She did not mind the long wait in the least, although Bella fretted and fumed, for every swaggering masked figure in one of the other carriages could be Lord Charles.
She longed to dance. She had never danced with a man before, her only experience of the art having been at school and with Philadelphia as a partner.
And oh! it was even more exciting than she had imagined, once they were seated in their box inside. Jewels flashed on gowns and sword hilts and shoe buckles. The air was heavy with all the perfumes of Arabia, which served to sweeten more than one little hand. It was a wonderful year for scent but a very bad one for personal cleanliness. Lady Comfrey’s eyes were sparkling as she watched the shifting, moving throng of dancers perform a gavotte, and she seemed almost as excited as Jane. Even Bella was enjoying herself immensely, trying to guess which notable hid behind each mask and saving every bit of gossip she could to relay to her servant friends the next day.
There were many virtuosos strutting about on their high heels and several daughters of joy hunting for prey. There were all the fashionables and those who prayed on them, from cardsharps to prostitutes. Despite the members of the less savory society, it was a well-ordered affair.
Jane started to scan the throng for Lord Charles. There seemed to be quite a number of tall men with masks who could be he. At last she gave up in despair and was just about to turn her attention back to Lady Comfrey when she espied a familiar portly figure standing at the entrance. Despite the glory of a green sequined mask, there was no mistaking the stocky figure and form of Sir Anthony Blake. As she watched, Sir Anthony was joined by a tall figure dressed in white silk. Immediately Jane recognized Lord Charles’s mouth beneath hi
s white mask, and her heart hammered against her ribs. Now, would he recognize her? Her face felt hot behind her mask of gold silk. Her hair was unpowdered, but then, Lord Charles had never seen her without powder. Surely he would recognize Lady Comfrey and Bella.
A roguish-looking female was ogling him, and he answered her sallies with a slow smile. Jane pettishly turned her head away and then found that a small man with a foppish air was staring up at her in her box.
“May I beg the favor of this dance, my sweetness?” he asked.
“I am sorry, sir,” said Jane quickly. “I do not dance.”
“Faith,” he persisted, “such a pretty miss would grace the floor.”
“No,” repeated Jane firmly. “I am not dancing this evening.”
“Desolated,” he drawled and bowed and withdrew.
“Now you can’t dance at all,” said Lady Comfrey, alive to the world this evening.
“Oh, no, Godmama,” said Jane. “It was just that I did not like the look of him.”
“But you can’t dance now,” persisted Lady Comfrey. “If you refuse to stand with one gentleman, then you cannot stand up with any other. ’Tis the form, you know.”
Jane sank back bleakly in her chair. She had to admit to herself that she had been longing to dance with Lord Charles. Now she would have to sit and watch him dancing with someone like that roguish slut, who, Jane was sure, was no better than she should be.
Oh, dear! He had recognized her and was coming toward her.
Lord Charles and Sir Anthony joined Jane in Lady Comfrey’s box. They complimented Jane on her sac gown of gold brocade, and Jane mumbled her thanks and stared miserably at her hands.
Lord Charles’s eyes glinted with amusement behind his mask. “Why so downcast?” he asked Jane.
To his surprise, it was Lady Comfrey who answered. He had become accustomed to Lady Comfrey rambling on to herself, seemingly oblivious of the outside world.
“She can’t dance,” said Lady Comfrey. “She’s just refused a gentleman minutes before you arrived.”
“But we are all masked,” said Lord Charles gently. “I am sure Lady Jane’s cavalier will not recognize her. Come, Lady Jane.”
She glanced fleetingly up at his face. There was a warm expression in his eyes, and she felt strangely breathless. She mutely put her hand in his, and he held it in a strong grasp as he led her to the floor.
She hardly felt her feet touch the floor as she performed the steps of the gavotte, hypnotized by his presence. She was headily conscious of the strange, disturbing scent he wore, of his eyes on her face, of the soft swish of silks on the floor and the measured tread of the dance.
At last the final chord was struck, and she sank into a deep curtsy as he bowed low over her.
Then her enchanted world was shattered.
“Fie, for shame, lady!” came a querulous voice, and she found the hard eyes of her unsuccessful gallant looking down at her. “You said you did not dance,” he went on, “and it is against the rules therefore to dance at all, once you have refused me. But perhaps Miss is new from the country and not accustomed to town ways.”
“You are mistaken,” said Lord Charles icily. “You have never seen this lady before.”
“I’ faith, sirrah,” retorted the young man pettishly. “I beg to differ.”
“Then perhaps you would like to settle the argument to your satisfaction,” replied Lord Charles, fingering his sword hilt.
The young man looked up at Lord Charles’s great height and gulped. “You are right, sir,” he said, retreating hurriedly. “Never saw the lady before. Beg pardon.” And with that, he faded back into the crowd.
“Are you usually so ferocious?” asked Jane.
He looked down at her oddly. “Where your honor is at stake, my lady, I would challenge anyone,” he said with a strange intensity.
He led her back to the box, to find that Lady Comfrey and Bella had left. Jane leaned over the balcony and searched the masked faces in the crowd below. The next dance had not yet begun. Then she saw Lady Comfrey on the other side of the floor, with Bella in attendance, talking with great animation to an elderly gentleman.
“My lady has found herself a beau,” murmured Lord Charles, “and I think Sir Anthony has found a belle, so we shall sit here, very sedately, just like an old married couple, and survey the dancers. Have some wine. It is surprisingly good, or perhaps the intoxication of your company makes it so.”
“I had not thought you capable of making pretty speeches,” said Jane, feeling awkward and shy.
“Only to pretty ladies.”
Jane looked up at him from under her long lashes. Fashion was a great mask, she decided. Apart from the actual mask he wore at the moment, there seemed to be a barrier created by his exquisite silk costume, his glittering jewels, his patched face, and his powdered wig. “I wonder what color his hair is,” thought Jane, and then blushed.
She drank her wine very quickly as he surveyed her with amusement. “May I ask if I am the subject of that charming blush?”
“Oh,” faltered Jane, too embarrassed to tell less than the truth. “I suddenly wondered about the color of your hair.”
“Black. Black as my wicked heart, Lady Jane,” he mocked.
“And is that so very black?” asked Jane, made suddenly bold by the heavy wine.
“Very.” He poured her another glass and raised his thin eyebrows, and she downed it in one gulp. “Unless you are a hardened toper, my lady, I suggest that you sip your wine.”
Jane smiled at him dreamily. He found himself becoming fascinated by the changing color of her eyes. It was as well he was a hardened bachelor, or this little girl might be just the one to make him think of marriage.
“Did you go to the Bentleys’?” asked Jane.
“Yes, this afternoon.”
“To see Fanny?”
“No, my sweet. To titillate the interest of Mr. Bentley. I gave the very picture of an oafish, drunken lout. He was delighted. He may play me yet.”
“Oh,” said Jane in a small voice. If only there wasn’t that horrid contract between them. But if she told him she did not wish to go through with it, would he want to spend any time in her company? Surely he would marry her rather than make her his mistress.
Instead she said, “I thought you were becoming enamored of Fanny.”
“No. You will find me very singleminded and hard of heart. Miss Fanny was quite disgusted with me. I said she sang like a crow.”
Jane gave a delighted gurgle of laughter.
“Have you any friends of your own age?” he asked curiously.
“Oh, yes,” replied Jane eagerly. “There is Philadelphia, Philadelphia Syms. She is the daughter of the vicar of Westerby and very beautiful.”
“As beautiful as you?”
“You are funning. I am not beautiful.”
He leaned forward and deftly removed her mask and studied her face.
“Not in the common way, my elf,” he said. “But you have great charm.”
“I think that is quite the most—the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me,” said Jane seriously.
“I am not kind, Jane,” he said in a solemn voice. “Merely a jaded gentleman of the town seeking a little amusement.”
Jane’s face fell, and all at once he could not bear to see her look so disappointed.
“We will promenade a little and find Lady Comfrey,” he said. “You are beginning to see some of the sights of the town. Would you like to meet His Majesty?”
“The King!” gasped Jane. “Oooh! Yes!”
“There is a Drawing Room to be held in two days’ time. I think I could arrange your presentation. King George was a great admirer of your mother.”
“Oh, you must be funning,” said Jane.
“No, I am serious.” He removed his mask. He gently took her hand and removed her glove and stared for a few moments at the small, still work-worn hand. Then he turned it over and pressed a kiss against her wrist.
Jane stood motionless, the other hand against her breast as if to quell its fluttering. “I have drunk too much wine,” she said in a low voice. “I feel shaky.”
“Yes,” he said in a suddenly flat voice. His eyes looked hard, and she wondered what she had done to offend him.
They promenaded in silence around the perimeter of the hall, but of Lady Comfrey and Bella there was not the slightest sign.
“I declare, that silly old woman has gone and left you,” said Lord Charles impatiently.
For the first time, poor Jane realized the disadvantages of her social position. Her father was landless and penniless, and her godmother was eccentric and could hardly be said to be a conscientious chaperon.
“Did not that maid of hers consider the folly of leaving a young maiden alone at Crocker’s?” he asked testily.
“Perhaps they considered me safe with you,” ventured Jane.
“Then they both have windmills in their heads. To be with me is worse for your reputation than being alone.”
“I feel quite safe with you,” said Jane timidly.
“More fool you,” he snapped unkindly, and then, as he saw her wince, he added in a quieter voice, “Well, no matter. It is a pity we unmasked.”
Lord Charles was now being accosted by various friends and acquaintances. He punctiliously introduced Jane, taking care to say that Lady Comfrey was still present.
He gradually led her to the entrance. Since they were leaving early, they did not have long to wait until his carriage was brought round.
Jane felt uneasy at being alone with him in the intimate darkness of the carriage. She hoped he would not take advantage of the situation, and when he settled himself in the far corner and appeared to become absorbed in his thoughts, she was surprised to find herself experiencing a faint twinge of disappointment.
Not until they came to a stop did he rouse himself and help her down to the pavement.
“Then I shall see you at the Court Drawing Room,” he said in an absentminded way.
“If Lady Comfrey remembers to take me,” said Jane tartly, wondering why he did not kiss her hand or look at her in that disturbingly intimate way of his.
He made her a magnificent bow. She curtsied and, after a slight hesitation, walked up the steps to Number Ten, unable to resist turning at the top to watch him as he climbed into his carriage. She could see the pale glimmer of his face behind the glass as he drove away.
