The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2)

by Julia Brannan

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he trilled. “Vous êtes tres belle.”

  Angus opened his mouth to translate, but Katerina put her tiny hand on his arm.

  “Yo capisco,” she said, smiling. “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur le Comte,” she replied in heavily accented French. Beth and Angus exchanged twin glances of apprehension. If she understood that, what more did she comprehend? Then Sir Anthony was motioning the pair to sit down again. He did not disabuse the girl of her notion that he was a Count, Beth noticed.

  “So,” he continued in French. “Jim here tells me you are maid to a countess on her way to Paris. Have you been to France before?”

  The girl looked expectantly at her companion, who translated slowly, in halting Italian.

  “No,” she replied, in the same language. “But I am very much looking forward to it.”

  Once again, Angus translated, slowly. Sir Anthony showed no sign that he could, in fact, speak Italian quite well, certainly a lot better than the young man struggling to translate. Beth stood back, observing as the conversation continued for a few minutes in Sir Anthony’s flawless French, and Katerina’s beautiful Italian, punctuated by ‘Jim’s’ painful attempts at translation. The girl showed no sign of understanding any more French than his first compliment to her beauty, which she had undoubtedly heard from every Frenchman she had ever met in Italy. How long would her husband continue this charade? Beth felt more sorry for Angus than Katerina now. She had recovered from her first sight of Sir Anthony, although her eyes were moist with the effort of not laughing. Angus’s command of Italian was being tested beyond its limits, however, and he was clearly becoming irritated.

  The weather and the delights of Paris now being exhausted, the conversation finally drew to a close, and the young couple rose from their seats to take their leave. Sir Anthony took Katerina’s hand and once again lifted it to his lips.

  “Your mother was a whore and your father fucks pigs,” he said pleasantly, still in French, smiling warmly at her.

  Beth inhaled strongly, through her nose.

  Katerina glanced up at Angus, awaiting the translation. Angus blinked once, then looked calmly at his brother, and smiled. He turned to Katerina, then pointed at Sir Anthony and Beth, before walking his fingers through the air in the direction of the door.

  “My master and mistress are going out,” he said carefully. He pointed now at himself, and her, before making a sweeping gesture which took in the whole room. “They have said we can stay here this evening. After our meal,” Angus rapidly wielded a knife and fork upon a generous helping of air, then raised an imaginary glass in toast to Sir Anthony. “Which he will pay for,” he finished, miming his master paying a large sum of money to an invisible waiter. He smiled and bowed his gratitude to Sir Anthony, and it was Beth’s turn to choke back a laugh.

  “Oh, Grazie mille, Segnore!” Katerina cried, curtseying deeply, her eyes sparkling.

  “Cleverly managed, Jim,” said Sir Anthony in French, throwing his purse at his footman, who caught it deftly. “But you’ll need to go out while I change into something a little less garish. I suggest you find an eating house. There’s an expensive one by the harbour, which should empty that purse somewhat, and ensure you a successful night. We will return at dawn. Be gone by then.”

  “Are you going to explain?” Beth asked, as Alex rubbed the excess rouge off his cheeks, and selected a new outfit in the comparatively sober colours of mulberry red and lemon.

  “Do I need to?” he asked. “Were you offended?”

  “By your comment? No. If she was pretending not to understand your normal conversation for some reason, she would nevertheless have shown some reaction to your appalling insult. She didn’t. Are you satisfied now that she didn’t understand Henri?”

  “Yes,” said her husband, unbuttoning the garish orange waistcoat. “But not just because of her lack of reaction to my comment. Tell me something. If you understood French, but knew that your life depended on people not knowing that, would you react if I called your mother a whore and your father a seducer of animals?”

  “No,” said Beth, “I wouldn’t.”

  “But on the same basis, if you knew that the man you were about to meet for the first time was not only a man of title and power, but who also became very violent at the slightest provocation, would you laugh at him if he turned out to look like a circus clown and smell like a brothel?”

  Understanding dawned.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” she said. “But she did, and had difficulty controlling herself for some time. So you knew then that she was not adept at concealing her emotions.”

  “Precisely,” said her husband, still in the tones of Sir Anthony, which he would now maintain for the rest of the evening. “The girl is delightful, and quite ingenuous. She displays her emotions for all to see. She is quite taken with Angus. And in answer to your next question, no I wouldn’t.”

  “No you wouldn’t what?” said Beth, unaware that she had had another question to ask.

  “Have been able to kill her, if I had been tumbling her in the hothouse last night.”

  Beth heard with relief the answer to the question she had not known she wanted to ask, and realised how well her husband knew her. It was warming, disconcerting.

  “I’m very glad you weren’t,” she replied after a minute. He had shrugged on his coat, blown out the candle, and moved towards the door. He paused, his fingers on the handle.

  “You’re very glad I wasn’t what?” he asked, smiling down at her.

  “Tumbling Katerina in the hothouse, or any other woman, anywhere. Because if you were, and I found out, I would be quite capable of killing you. Although my blood would be far from cold at the time.”

  He turned back, and reaching, cupped her face with his hands. The skin of his gloves was soft, warm against her cheeks.

  “I am yours, until I die,” he said, startling her with his sudden seriousness. “If you ever have cause to kill me, it will not be due to my unfaithfulness. I will love you, and only you, and will take no other, not even in play, while you live.” In spite of the make-up and clothes, it was not Sir Anthony, but Alex who leaned forward, and kissed her, gently, on the mouth. His lips were warm and dry. “One day, when you are ready,” he said, “I hope you will say the same to me. But I do not demand it. I know why you married me.”

  She looked at him, unblinking. The soft touch of his strong hands on her skin, the scent of the suede, the intensity of his dark blue gaze burned themselves into her memory, and she knew she would never forget this moment, however long she lived.

  “I am ready,” she said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The young couple walked along the second-floor gallery of the Palazzo Muti, the clicking of their shoes on the polished wooden floor echoing dully from the walls and high ceiling. Portraits of long-dead women wearing ruffs and holding flowers, or men in full armour and outmoded wigs, hands on hips, stared down at them as they made their way to the door at the end of the gallery, which was guarded casually by two men with sheathed swords.

  Beth, both nervous and excited by the meeting to come, had dressed modestly, although elegantly, hoping to minimise her beauty, and therefore observe rather than be observed. She had never expected to meet the man behind the door, and had no idea what to expect, as her husband, although acquainted with him, would divulge nothing, telling her only that he wished her to make up her own mind, and would be interested to hear her opinion later.

  Alex was nervous for the opposite reason to Beth. He had had several meetings with the man, but always as Alex MacGregor; this would be the first time he had entered these chambers as Sir Anthony Peters, and in doing so he was about to reveal his dual identity to another person. He was not worried about that in itself; this man would not betray him, and if he did, then Alex would have spent his whole life in vain. What worried him was that there might be other people present at this meeting, at least initially; people who had never met Sir Anthony, but who w
ere acquainted with Alex MacGregor, and who must not know that the two were one and the same man.

  To that end, he had applied his paint, patches and elaborately curled wig with great care, and was wearing breeches and coat of violet satin, and an ivory waistcoat heavily embroidered with a pattern of stylised leaves and flowers. As the couple arrived at the door they were stopped by the guards, who now stood to sloppy attention.

  “You must relinquish your sword, sir,” one of them said, looking lasciviously at Beth rather than at the baronet. She sighed inwardly, realising that her attempt to look dowdy had failed at the first hurdle.

  Her husband’s hands fluttered to his swordbelt, but he seemed incapable of unbuckling it, he was trembling so badly, and in the end, exasperated, Beth reached over and took it off herself, handing it to the guards, who didn’t trouble to hide their smiles of contempt.

  “Do you have any other weapons, sir?” asked the other guard.

  “Of course not. I have not come here to do battle!” squawked Sir Anthony, in a feeble and unsuccessful attempt to recover his dignity. The first guard winked suggestively at Beth, who looked from him to her husband. He was fussing over his appearance, brushing imaginary specks of lint from his coat and seemed not to have registered the fact that this servant dared to openly flirt with Beth in his presence. The guard smiled reassuringly at her, revealing a set of black and yellow teeth, and opened the door for them.

  “You may enter,” he said.

  She was halfway through the door when she felt the hand gently, but unmistakably squeeze her bottom. Outraged, she whirled round, and the sharp crack of her hand as it contacted with the guard’s cheek resounded across the room, causing the three men at the desk by the window to look up startled from the papers they were studying. The guard, red-faced with fury and embarrassment, backed out quickly, closing the door with a slam.

  It was not the entrance she would have wished for, and the colour rose to her cheeks. She felt the touch of her husband’s hand as he took her arm, ostensibly to steady himself, but taking the opportunity to give it a reassuring squeeze, and when she looked up at him, he allowed his merriment to show for a moment, before it was replaced by the apprehensive nervousness he wanted his audience to see. Beth felt a little better knowing that he, at any rate, did not think she had caused any damage by her action.

  They moved forward across the luxuriously appointed room towards the three men, who greeted them with a variety of expressions. The man on the left was elderly, thin-featured, pale, dressed in sober shades of brown. He viewed the couple with open curiosity. The second, on the right, who was eyeing them with disdain was much younger, about the same age as Alex, Beth thought, and was heavily-built, stern of feature, striking, although that was mainly because he was wearing the feileadh mór, the belted plaid of the Highlander, kilted to the knee, the surplus material draped over his left shoulder and pinned to his jacket by a silver brooch.

  Sir Anthony’s eyes swept across the two men without recognition and came to rest on the young man standing between them. He made a low and over-elaborate bow.

  Following his example Beth curtseyed deeply, and after a moment looked up at the young man, observing him discreetly from between her lashes. His dark blue frock coat and breeches were expensively tailored, and of good material. His bagwig was expertly curled and of the highest quality. But had he been dressed in rags, Beth would have known him to be Charles Edward Stuart, though she had heard no description of the prince. Every inch of him was royal. He was tall, almost as tall as Alex, of athletic build, fair-complexioned, his features regular, mouth sensual, brown eyes smiling as he eyed the unctuous dandy and the volatile young woman who were making their obeisance to him. He stepped forward to greet them and bade them rise, in lightly accented English.

  Beth rose smoothly, Sir Anthony stumbled a little and almost fell on his face. The disdain in the eyes of the Highlander deepened to utter contempt, although he did not speak.

  “Your Royal Highness!” cried the baronet. “You do myself and my dear lady wife the utmost honour in allowing us to enter into your presence. I am overwhelmed!”

  “Sir Anthony Peters, I believe. I am always pleased to make the acquaintance of one of my father’s subjects,” the prince replied, his voice and smile full of genuine welcome, betraying no sign of the amusement or contempt he must surely feel at the ridiculous sight before him.

  “Indeed! And my wife, Lady Elizabeth.” Sir Anthony fluttered a hand in Beth’s direction. “We are but newly married, Your Highness, and are visiting Rome as part of a tour of Europe.”

  Prince Charles turned his attention to Beth. He extended his hand to her and she placed hers in his. He grasped it, gently but firmly, and raised it to his lips, and she felt the hardness of the skin of his palms. A swordsman then, or a horseman. Or both.

  “Lady Elizabeth. Any lady is most welcome to my house, but such a beautiful one as yourself doubly so.” He smiled warmly at her, and she saw that he was neither flirting with her nor flattering her, but merely stating his honest opinion. She returned his smile. “We rarely see such loveliness as yours in Rome,” he continued. “The ladies here are of a somewhat darker beauty. That may explain, but does not excuse the behaviour of the guard towards you.” He released her hand then and strode to the door, flinging it open. The guards, caught in the act of lounging against the doorpost, shot to attention.

  “Giovanni, is it not?” said the prince in Italian to the man with one flaming cheek.

  The man muttered something, his head lowered.

  “You will apologise to the Lady Elizabeth and Sir Anthony Peters, for your unspeakable insult to them. Immediately.”

  Colour flooded the man’s face, eclipsing the marks of Beth’s blow, and his expression was sullen, resentful, but he did not hesitate. Turning to the visitors, he bowed, and spoke a few words in rapid Italian, which Beth assumed was an apology.

  The prince turned back to his guests. Beth was as scarlet as her assailant. Sir Anthony stood, mouth open, stunned.

  “Are you satisfied, Sir Anthony? Or do you wish to take further action?”

  “What? Oh, yes, of course. I am satisfied, I mean, I thought Elizabeth had dealt with the fellow already,” he simpered, clearly feeling no embarrassment that his wife should think it necessary to fend off attackers herself when in his presence.

  She looked at the prince, catching the momentary twist of his mouth that told her he shared the Highlander’s view of the baronet, and then he turned again to the unfortunate Giovanni.

  “You are dismissed,” he said coldly. “Gather your belongings and leave immediately.”

  He closed the door in the man’s face.

  Beth swallowed nervously.

  “I am sorry, Your Highness,” she said. “I should not have lost my temper.”

  “On the contrary, my lady,” Charles interrupted, the steel gone from his voice. “I seek all the support I can from my father’s English subjects, and hardly think it likely that I will make a good impression if my employees insult my guests before they have even entered my presence. I am grateful to you for drawing such unforgivable behaviour to my attention. You are both most welcome. Now, how can I help you?”

  “You have done more than enough already, Your Highness, by admitting us to your exalted presence. We never expected such an honour. It has quite eclipsed all the other sights of Rome, even the falls at Tivoli!” Sir Anthony gushed. He was excelling himself today, Beth thought.

  The elderly man tutted impatiently, but if Prince Charles resented being classified as a tourist attraction, he was too well bred to show it.

  “You have seen the falls at Tivoli, then?” he said pleasantly, seeking to put the baronet at his ease, before finding out what he wanted and getting rid of him. If he wanted anything at all that was, other than merely something to write home to his friends about.

  “Well, no, not yet, Your Highness,” admitted Sir Anthony. “But I am sure there is no point in troubling
to make the journey, as it would only be a disappointment after meeting your exalted person!”

  The prince allowed Beth to see his amused look at this outrageous sycophancy. He had already accurately summed up the relationship between Sir Anthony and Elizabeth, she noted.

  “We may as well return home immediately, as after today no monument or sight to be seen in the whole of Europe will satisfy my husband.” She smiled sweetly at the purple apparition by her side. He beamed down at her, clearly having failed to note the sarcasm in her voice. “You have saved us a small fortune in post-horses and accommodation. We thank you, Your Highness.”

  Behind them, the Scot coughed politely.

  “Your Highness,” he said in a soft Scottish burr. “We really must continue…”

  “Oh, quite, quite!” cried Sir Anthony. “We will leave you directly. You have great affairs to deal with, I am sure. But first, I would crave a few words in private, if Your Highness would be so kind.” Sir Anthony curved his lips up in an oily smile.

  “Allow me to introduce you to my companions,” the prince said mildly. He indicated the elderly man. “This is Sir Thomas Sheridan, my tutor and dearest friend. And the other is John Murray of Broughton, another friend. They are utterly trustworthy. You can say anything in front of them without fear that it will reach other ears.” His voice was still warm, but a vein of ice ran through it. I trust my friends, therefore so will you, and I will have no argument about it, he was saying. Beth’s first opinion of him had not yet been shaken.

  Sir Anthony looked deeply flustered.

  “I intended no insult to your friends, Your Highness,” he said. He reached into his pocket. Out of the corner of her eye Beth saw Murray step forward, his hand moving towards his sword. Although Sir Anthony was not facing him, his movements became slow and deliberate, unthreatening.

  “I have here a letter,” he said, drawing it out of his pocket with his index finger and thumb and handing it to the prince, “which, if you will be so kind as to read, will explain everything.”