The Black Mask

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  THE BLACK MASK

  Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Chapter One

  “I hope this won’t take the entire day,” Rupert said, pacing across the worn carpet of the solicitor’s office.

  “I’m sure it won’t, once Mr. Crenshaw finds those papers.” His sister perched on the edge of a rather rickety chair whose once plush velvet covering was now leaking feathers. Every time Rose moved, a little puff of white down shot into the dusty air. Whatever gifts Mr. Crenshaw had as a legal mind, his housekeeping tended toward the negligently casual. Books slid and slipped on tables and shelves, like cliffs suffering serious erosion. Rupert had already caused one avalanche by an incautiously wide turn.

  ‘Your godfather must have been an uncommon eccentric old boy to have such a curst odd lawyer.”

  “He was out of England for a very long time, Rupert, Perhaps when Mr. Crenshaw was young, he was more sharp-witted.”

  Rose wished Rupert would sit down, since watching him pace was making her seasick. He had been unusually restless the last several weeks, ever since they’d heard her long-absent godfather had left her a legacy. She had not liked to ask him, but she was very much afraid he’d been gaming and losing again. He’d tell her soon enough if it were true.

  “Father said Mr. MacElroy did not meet with good fortune in India.”

  “Just because the old boy didn’t write once he reached the East don’t mean he was a failure. Father always looks on the dark side, you know.”

  “Yes, he is melancholic. But I don’t want to indulge hope too far. He might have left me no more than a second silver cup to match the first.”

  Rupert shook his dark head. “Not even such a queer nabs as this Crenshaw fellow could call a silver cup a legacy. I hope MacElroy’s left you a fortune, little Rose. I’d like to see you as rich as Golden Ball.” She couldn’t doubt the sincerity with which he spoke. Rose only wished she had been left a fortune. She would pay off her younger brother’s debts and buy him the commission his father steadfastly refused to give him.

  Gavelison MacElroy had been her father’s best friend at university. He had stayed in England only long enough to act as godfather to William Spenser’s firstborn child. He discharged his duty to the tune of a silver christening cup, vanished to India, and had not been heard of again until a report of his death reached his old friend. Shortly after, the attorney Crenshaw had written to the Spensers regarding a legacy for Rose.

  Since Rose and Rupert had planned to go to London on a long-delayed visit to their mother’s sister, Mr. Crenshaw thought it best if they deal with the matter in town.

  As the minutes ticked past, even Rose became impatient. “Look to see what is keeping him,” she urged Rupert.

  “All right. I don’t mind.” Rupert turned toward the door, put his hand to the knob, then let it fall. “Look now, I can’t go wandering about yelping for him like a lost pup, can I?”

  “I thought you were in a hurry.”

  “Fact is, I promised to meet some good fellows for a bit of fun and gig. Don’t care to disappoint For-bush and Quayle. Top o’ the Trees, sticklers for conduct.”

  “Then you’d better find Mr. Crenshaw,” Rose said, though her heart sank at hearing the names of his two most profligate friends. Sons of wealth and privilege, they thought nothing of dropping a few hundred at the tables. Rupert, though the son of a well-to-do banker, couldn’t afford to play so deep, especially after his disastrous losses last year.

  “Dashed if I will,” Rupert said. “I’ll no sooner poke my nose out the door than the fellow’ll come back. You’ll see.”

  “Heavens!” Followed by further puffs of feathers, Rose went herself. Halfway down the dark hallway, lined with a musty carpet, she passed a door that stood slightly ajar. Someone moved against the light, casting a shadow that flickered in the opening.

  “Mr. Crenshaw?” Rose said, pushing open the door. For a moment, she was reminded of the first volume of a Gothic novel she’d read. Her mother had confiscated the other two as soon as she had investigated what Rose was reading.

  But no corpses fell into the hall, nor did mad monks pursue her. “Yes? What is it?”

  To Rose’s mind, an animated skeleton or lurching beast would have been preferable. “Oh, it’s you,” she said.

  “At your service, Miss Spenser.”

  The dark-haired gentleman of fashion looked out of place behind a desk, long sheets of foolscap scattered before him. The light in the room came over his shoulder from a half-open window, so Rose could not see his face well. But she knew that cool, slow, and, above all, ironic voice.

  “Sir Niles. I am surprised to see you here.” She seemed to meet him everywhere she went these days. Even her bedroom window looked into the garden at the rear of his house in town.

  “Not so surprised as I, Miss Spenser. Mr. Crenshaw has been my man of affairs for many years, but only rarely can he interest me in the details of my fortune.”

  “So long as your gift with cards continues, you surely need never worry about your fortune,” Rose said tartly.

  “A gypsy witch once told me I had lucky hands.” Sir Niles came around the desk. Rose took an involuntary step back. He wasn’t in any way threatening. In fact, she rather despised him for his dandified ways, yet some deep feminine instinct warned her against coming within his orbit. Or perhaps it was simply the memory of all the salacious gossip which circulated about him.

  “Quite a few lucky hands, if my brother tells me true. He says you never lose.”

  “Mr. Spenser should learn not to repeat the gossip of the gaming hells to his sister.”

  “I’ll inform him of your opinion, shall I? He’s down the hall, waiting for Mr. Crenshaw.”

  “Indeed? And you are not waiting for him?”

  Rose told herself she need not answer. If gossip were true, Sir Niles Alardyce was far too accustomed to having women do his bidding. Yet politeness demanded she speak. “Mr. Crenshaw has been gone for some little time. My brother has an engagement which will not wait.”

  Sir Niles chuckled coolly. One could not imagine him doing anything so uncouth as laughing out loud. “Knowing Crenshaw as I do, he may very well be standing in some corner with his nose in a law book, tracing some chance thought to its place of origin. For a clever lawyer, he’s the most unworldly of men. He has undoubtedly forgotten all about you and your business. I would flatter myself that I am not forgotten were I not quite sure I have been. It must have been half an hour since he left me.”

  “You tolerate such neglect?” Rose asked as he herded her back to her brother.

  “Crenshaw is most astute when it comes to business. My father relied on him totally. Other members of my family have not found him wanting, either.”

  She noticed, as if for the first time, that Sir Niles was only a few inches taller than she was, perhaps five-foot-eight or -nine. His biscuit-colored waistcoat and inexpressibles lent the illusion of height under his beautiful blue coat. More than that, however, he carried himself as though he were surveying the earth like a property he considered purchasing.

  His haughtiness brought out the urchin in her. Every time she saw him, she felt an unladylike urge to find a nicely squishy beetroot or vegetable marrow to throw at him. She found herself squinting slightly, gauging the distance she’d have to throw a mudball to knock off his ever-so-precisely adjusted hat. She fought the feeling strenuously, knowing it wasn’t like her at all. Even as a girl, she’d never done anything so crude. Well, hardly ever....

  Rupert turned with a start as Rose and Sir Niles entered. “Alardyce?” he said, an embarrassed blush climbing into his cheeks. Always a handsome boy, his bright complexion showed every feeling, making him look both younger and more innocent than he wa
s. “About those vowels of mine ...”

  Rose saw the chastening glance the man of the world gave Rupert. “No need to worry about that now, Spenser.” With the exquisite yet distant manners that marked him, Sir Niles eased Rose into her chair. The fact that she did not, at that moment, wish to sit down seemed less important than giving way to his politeness.

  Since she and Rupert had arrived in London, they’d been participating in the social gala that was the Season. Their aunt, Lady Marlton, moved in the first circles of society, though whether because of her youthful widowhood or despite it was a question Rose had not yet solved.

  Sir Niles, wealthy, unmarried, and elegant, was a prize every hostess yearned for and every mama prayed for. His reputation for resistance to all female wiles had approached the legendary. The mamas’ innocent and not-so-innocent daughters spread snares for his feet, which he avoided with miraculous grace.

  “Oh, he’s so polite,” one of Rose’s new friends had complained. “He doesn’t notice anything you do, right or wrong, because it wouldn’t be polite. It’s like dancing with someone who isn’t really there.”

  So Rose had discovered when he had, very politely, begged the favor of a dance with her. His steps were correct and in the proper order. But the whole performance lacked spontaneity or any sense that a dance could be something other than a rather dull social duty. Heaven knew she didn’t expect every man who danced with her to flirt, but some demonstration of enjoyment was usual. But no sparkle had awakened in the half-open blue eyes.

  She decided then he was as cold as a fresh mackerel and excused herself from the second dance in the set. Since then, they’d met at other evenings. He had never again asked her to dance. And yet sometimes when kicking off her shoes at the end of the evening, Rose would realize how often she’d turn around and find him somewhere near.

  “I trust your business is not too pressing, Sir Niles,” Rose asked.

  “Oh, I shall happily surrender my appointment to your claims. No bad news, I hope?”

  Rupert gave his rather loud laugh. “I should say not. Little Rose had a rich godfather, you see. Left her a fortune.”

  “Rupert,” Rose said, admonishing him with a slight frown. “We don’t know that.”

  “There’s no point in all this folderol if he didn’t,” Rupert said. “Stands to reason a man doesn’t go to lashings of trouble just to hand on a trumpery silver cup.”

  “I fear I intrude,” Sir Niles said.

  “No, no,” Rupert said bluffly even as Rose was framing some polite answer that meant ‘yes, you do.’

  “I quite understand.”

  Rose felt he had somehow read her mind and knew exactly how reluctant she was to have him near her.

  Sir Niles looked past Rupert and smiled broadly. Rose blinked a little, surprised by the flash of warmth from his suddenly brilliant blue eyes. She turned to look toward the door. Mr. Crenshaw had returned.

  “Oh. Here you are, Sir Niles. I found the reference to the statute of limitations. It seems that in a case such as...”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Crenshaw,” Rose said loudly and clearly. “This gentleman has kindly allowed us the first opportunity of consulting with you.”

  “Oh, indeed. Very kind of Sir Niles, always kind. Now, young lady, what can I do for you?”

  The attorney didn’t look as absentminded as his behavior led one to believe. He wore neat dark clothes with no extravagances, was somewhere in his middle fifties, with beautifully combed iron-gray hair, and his only distinguishing characteristic was that he constantly rubbed his thumb over the back case of his watch. Rose had already noticed the slight groove he’d worn into the gold.

  Only his eyes gave his vagueness away. They never rested on one object or person very long without roaming. It was as if his eyes were in constant need of fresh sights. Now he blinked slowly at Rose.

  “Don’t you remember?” she asked.

  “Ah, yes,” he said with a smile. “A marriage contract, wasn’t it? This gentleman is going to act for you? You must be of age, you know.”

  “I am of age. And we’re here regarding Mr. MacElroy’s estate.”

  ‘You’re of age?” Mr. Crenshaw asked, with doubtful lines on his brow.

  Rose sighed and tried to remember it was rude to roll one’s eyes. “I am twenty-two,” she said for the second time today. In attempt to forestall a repetition of his questions, she volunteered what she’d told Mr. Crenshaw the first time. “I should have come to London several years ago to make my debut, but first my mother fell ill and then we went into mourning for my grandmother.”

  “But your mother is well?”

  “Quite well, Mr. Crenshaw. Now, about Mr. MacElroy’s legacy?” She could feel Rupert’s impatience with the older man’s doddering ways. He no longer troubled to hide his increasing yawns.

  “Ah, yes. Mr. MacElroy. A fine man, but a wild spirit I have his last letter somewhere.” He slid open the top drawer of his desk and rummaged a minute. “Perhaps it’s in a file. I should be able to put my hand on it in a moment or so.”

  “I should be most interested to see it, sir. However, my brother has an engagement this afternoon, and I don’t want to impose upon Sir Niles’s good temper for too long.”

  “My time is yours, Miss Spenser,” Sir Niles said. Was it her dislike of him that seemed to color his every comment with irony? Or was it the way his eyes were always half closed, heavy lids weighted down with thick lashes, as though he spent his life half asleep or half hidden?

  Rose wondered why that image had occurred to her. Half hidden? Surely Sir Niles hid nothing. His escapades were well known, even notorious, though she asked herself how so indolent a man could have found the energy for questionable pursuits.

  “Nevertheless,” she said, “if we could expedite this matter...”

  “Certainly, certainly,” Mr. Crenshaw said, absently patting his pockets. “There’s the matter of the receipt and, of course, the inspection. Shan’t take but a moment more.” His patting hands slowed. “Oh, dear, now what did I do with it?”

  Rose prided herself on the evenness of her temper. In a household where her father brooded, her mother enjoyed ill health, and her brother was prey to a restlessness that invariably plunged him into trouble, she was constrained to be coolheaded. All too often, the responsibility for a smoothly run household devolved onto her. She liked to think she handled the matters that fell within her compass with skill and poise, but she had no authority over a doddering old man. As for Sir Niles, how he would make game of her if she lost her temper.

  Fortunately for her reputation, Mr. Crenshaw thought of looking in the top drawer of his battered desk. “Here it is,” he crowed.

  He laid out a long sheet of paper and a small box carved from some reddish wood accented with brass. A faint scent, exotic and strange, wended through the dusty, book-flavored air. For the first time, Rose felt a flutter of excitement. What had her mysterious godfather left to her?

  Sir Niles cleared his throat softly. “I shall wait outside the door if you require my services, Miss Spenser.”

  ‘You are very kind, sir, but I think we can dispense with your services. No doubt Mr. Crenshaw’s clerk can assist us if any papers require a signature.”

  “As you wish, ma’am. Good afternoon, Spenser.”

  “Eh? Oh, quite. ‘Til this evening, eh?” Rupert hastened to open the door for his friend. Returning, he threw himself petulantly into the other chair. A small puff of feathers came out like punctuation. “Rose, you don’t talk to Sir Niles Alardyce like that,” he hissed in an angry undertone.

  “And how did I speak to him?”

  “Like you prefer a dashed clerk’s services to his. As if he don’t matter.”

  “I assure you he doesn’t matter. Not to me.”

  “But... but he’s Sir Niles Alardyce,” he said, almost in a panic at her female incomprehension. “Dash it. He invented the St. George lapel. He bested the Prince Regent’s time to Brighton. He bro
ught caramel au chocolat into fashion.”

  “Admirable as all his gifts may be,” Rose said, “I hardly think any of them qualify him to be privy to my private affairs.” She turned toward Mr. Crenshaw. “I beg your pardon, sir. If you would care to proceed?”

  For a moment, a gleam of a great and kindly intelligence appeared in Mr. Crenshaw’s eyes, twinkling at her from behind his rimless glasses. “I had a younger brother myself, Miss Spenser.”

  He cleared his throat and became the perfect lawyer. “This is the last will and testament of Mr. Gavelison MacElroy. ‘Being of sound mind and body, and with a due regard for the mercy of heaven which I pray to receive in my life hereafter, I declare this to be my final will...”

  Mr. Crenshaw read on in his thin voice. Rupert leaned forward, his hands dangling loosely between his knees as he concentrated on the involved sentences and legal language of the will. After a few minutes, however, the rolling sentences seemed to overwhelm him. He leaned back in his chair, adopting a more relaxed posture. His brown eyes, so like her own, became glazed as his jaw slackened. Soon he was yawning.

  Rose confessed she shared her brother’s confusion. Most of the will seemed to concern itself with individual bequests to servants and friends in India. She heard strange names and tried to picture, for example, what a statue of Lord Ganesha or Lord Hanuman must look like. She had no difficulty at all imagining her father’s reaction if a cartload of Indian curiosities arrived at Berling Manor and hoped her godfather had not left her any of his collection.

  Rupert’s head had begun to nod when the words, “and to my beloved goddaughter, Rose Redcliffe Spenser, I devise and bequeath” snapped his eyes open.

  “What’s that?”

  Mr. Crenshaw increased the volume of his mumble. “The sum of one hundred pounds and the jewel known as the Malikzadi.”

  “A jewel, b’Jove!” Rupert exclaimed, sitting bolt upright.

  “What does it mean, Mr. Crenshaw? Mal ... malikzadi?”

  “I believe it means queen, Miss Spenser. How the ruby came by that name, Mr. MacElroy did not divulge.”