Moonlight Masquerade

by Ruth Axtell

  However, I am sorry to have to tell you that I will be away from London for—

  Again he hesitated, his pen hovering above the page. Better play it safe, since he didn’t know how long this assignment would last.

  —a few weeks. The Foreign Office is sending me to an M.P.’s country house to act as his secretary. He is involved in some work on a pending bill and needs help in the research and drafting of it.

  Strange how easy lying was becoming to him, he who had always striven to be honest and aboveboard in all his dealings. He read over what he had just written.

  Would his sister believe his explanation? He didn’t even know if such a reason was plausible. But he couldn’t think of anything better on such short notice. If he pleaded indisposition, both his mother and sister would be upon him, wanting to nurse him.

  He scribbled a few more lines, adding some newsy bits about life in town and the latest excesses of the Prince Regent. He promised to write more at a later date, making it sound as if his job was keeping him particularly busy at the moment. He expressed his disappointment at not seeing them—being able to be genuine in this—and finally sat back, feeling as if he’d completed a grueling obstacle course.

  Would either of them read something between the lines? His mother was very discerning. Would she sense he wasn’t being candid? If so, hopefully, she would attribute it to the sensitive nature of his work at the Foreign Office.

  Sensitive. That’s exactly what it was, he thought, picturing Lady Wexham.

  He heard a clock tower chime the hour in the distance and realized with a start he needed to get back.

  He reread the note, folded it up, and proceeded to melt some wax to seal it. He’d have just enough time to post it.

  And he’d have to pray that when his sister was in town, he wouldn’t run into her. His lips turned downward at the little likelihood of her running into a butler. Though they would both reside in Mayfair, their two worlds would be at the opposite ends of the spectrum.

  As he made his way to the post office, his thoughts turned to Jessamine. He felt only a mild regret, that of not seeing an acquaintance who was coming up to town.

  Why wasn’t he more anxious to see her?

  He’d had little time and opportunity to form any romantic attachments in his life. Only now, at thirty-one, after a decade of toil, did he feel prepared to support a wife. He’d managed to put aside a little money—what he didn’t send to his mother and sister—by scrimping on his own life.

  He didn’t go out into society, so the only woman who held any interest for him was his sister’s closest friend, Jessamine, a young girl who’d lived in the same village all her life. She’d made his sister’s acquaintance when his widowed mother had resettled in her girlhood home.

  Rees had never seen Jessamine as anything but a girl until just recently, as both she and Megan had blossomed into young women. Whenever he managed to get home for a visit, she was there. Somehow, without any effort, they had formed a friendship. His sister and mother certainly seemed to encourage it.

  She was a well-behaved young lady, quiet, unassuming, all that a man would want in a wife.

  Any thoughts he might have had earlier in his life of settling down had been put aside, first because of the war, and then until his sister was provided with a respectable dowry and his mother for her old age. Without conscious intention, the idea had taken shape, so gradually he could hardly pinpoint when he’d first entertained it, that Jess would make him a suitable wife.

  He hadn’t gone so far as to court her formally, much less propose. But he had thought she seemed willing enough, if he were only to hint at a deeper friendship. There was nothing to displease, so he’d allowed himself to be led along with the notion, only making it clear to his sister and mother that he would not ask for anyone’s hand until he had paid off his father’s debts and saved enough to be able to provide for a wife and eventual offspring.

  Yet, now, he felt only a mild regret that he would miss Jessamine’s visit to London. Shouldn’t a man feel a woman’s absence more keenly?

  His thoughts turned to Lady Wexham, and he felt an ache so acute he came to an abrupt stop on the street. What was he thinking?

  He shook his head, determined to cast such thoughts of his employer—his temporary employer—far from his mind.

  Too many things were at stake right now—on a national and international scale—for him to be pining for a woman he had no right to be thinking of.

  Céline stood back to survey the effect of the red, white, and blue swags and banners draped across the top of the drawing room walls. The union jack hung at one end of the room.

  Sighing with satisfaction at how patriotic it all looked, she turned to William. “I want the lilies here, in front of the potted greenery.” She indicated a corner of the drawing room, then addressed Virginia, who stood with a feather duster in her hand. “Mind you clear all the trinkets from the tabletops before the footmen move them.”

  The room was in disarray as they removed most of the furniture from the drawing room in preparation for the ball. Céline craned her neck at Tom, who was on a stepladder cleaning the chandelier. “Tom, I want you to help William carry up the flowers that have been delivered.”

  She glanced at MacKinnon, who was perched on another ladder under another chandelier. “I am sure Mr. MacKinnon will excuse you for a few minutes.”

  The butler nodded. “Of course, my lady.” For a second their eyes met, and she wondered what was going on behind those watchful gray ones. She had come to no conclusions yet about his late-night errand, the preparations for the ball having taken up all her thoughts in the intervening time.

  The next moments were spent in consultation with Mrs. Finlay, directing the footmen in placing all the potted plants that had been ordered from Tubbs’ Nursery Gardens in Chelsea.

  “What do you think?” She stood back, observing the effect of all the greenery and colorful lilies and orchids gracing the various corners of the spacious room. “The orchestra will sit there between those rows of ferns and palms,” she said, pointing. “We’ll set the chairs over that way for the dowagers and these doors to the sitting room will be opened for refreshments.” She turned to the footmen.

  “Very good, ma’am.” Mrs. Finlay followed her indications. “It has been some years since you have given a ball.”

  She smiled ruefully. “Yes, I’m not sure whether I would have suggested it if I’d remembered the work involved.”

  Mrs. Finlay gave one of her rare smiles of approval. “Oh, my lady, I’m sure it is good to see the room being put to such advantage. No doubt, the late earl would have been pleased with all the effort you are putting forth for his young relative.”

  Céline smiled briefly but made no reply. The servants had been devoted to the old earl, and she had never by word or deed given any indication that her feelings were otherwise. She glanced at MacKinnon, who now stood at the base of one of the stepladders, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “Mr. MacKinnon?”

  He turned to her attentively. “Yes, my lady?”

  Although she was of medium height, standing beside him made her feel small. His shoulder was at about the height of her temple. “I wish to go over the guest list with you. I realize you have not presided over a ball in London and want to make sure you feel comfortable in your mind about it. Do you have a moment?”

  “As you wish.” He followed her to her sitting room.

  When he remained standing as she took her seat at the escritoire, she motioned to a nearby chair. “I really don’t want you towering over me,” she said with a smile.

  He brought over the straight-back chair and sat beside the desk.

  She pulled her guest list forward to where he could see it as well. “I have listed them in order of rank. I will have William receive the guests at the door. Tom can escort the ladies to Virginia or Sally in the retiring room where they can leave their wraps. When they arrive at the drawing room, you will announce th
em right at the entrance. Have you done this at all in your other position?”

  “I confess that I have not.”

  She moistened her lips. “Let us take the first names, the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough. You must speak loudly enough to be heard above any din or music. The most distinguished guests tend to arrive quite late, you know.”

  “I understand, my lady.”

  His eyes met hers, and once again she felt caught by their steady gaze. For an instant, she felt the overwhelming urge to ask him straight out what game he was about. But no, she mustn’t be so foolish. Hers was not the only life at stake. She must protect Gaspard and Valentine at all costs.

  But she couldn’t resist testing him a bit. She set down her list of names and sat back in her chair. “How is your uncle?”

  There was the merest flicker in his gray eyes, as if her words had thrown him. “On the mend, thank you.”

  He was quick to recover, she’d give him that. She smiled. “Perhaps I should visit him. He has been in the family so many years—long before I ever came to this household.”

  His eyes widened for a fraction of a second—in alarm?—then just as quickly were shuttered as he looked down at her guest list. “I am sure my uncle would be touched, but I assure you it is not necessary. You have your ball. I am certain he would be distressed to know you had taken so much time and effort to travel to Yorkshire on his behalf.”

  He looked once more at her, his gaze as calm and steady as before.

  “I didn’t realize in all these years he had a niece, isn’t that funny? She must be a comfort.”

  “She is his sister, actually.”

  Point scored for MacKinnon. “Yes, of course.” She picked up a quill pen and ran it along her cheek. “I’m sorry he was so far he wasn’t able to return here after his fall. We would have looked after him . . . and you would have him close by.”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “That is most kind of you, my lady, but really he is quite comfortable in . . . Leticia’s home.”

  She arched her brows. “Your Aunt Leticia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your family is numerous?” she asked innocently, intrigued by the tension she sensed in him. Perhaps he was only nervous because he still considered himself new in her household and under her protection. A part of her wished it were so . . . that he was only a simple butler.

  “Ye—no. That is to say,” he said with a slight clearing of his throat, “there are few offspring of—of—my generation, but we are scattered.” A faint color tinged the upper portions of his cleanly shaven cheeks.

  “Does Leticia have any children?”

  The flush had spread to his jawline—a fine, strong jaw. She rested her chin in her hand, more intrigued than ever by this mysterious stranger in her household. “No,” he said after a few seconds had passed.

  His slight hesitation and embarrassment, instead of diminishing his appeal, added to it. Her own cheeks grew warm at the thought. She realized she was enjoying the game—enjoying it too much.

  She folded her hands and sat straight, focusing back on her list. “Very well, I shall endeavor to get through this ball first. Perhaps afterwards . . .” Let him believe she still intended a visit to his “uncle.”

  “Now, when the duke and duchess arrive, you will announce them as His grace and . . .”

  8

  Rees stifled a yawn. He was tired of standing there like a statue, surveying the dancers on the floor.

  One thing he had learned over the past few weeks in her ladyship’s household. The butler and footmen did a lot of standing at attention.

  Lady Wexham’s ball was a grand success if measured by how crowded the room was—and how warm. Rees longed to tug at his tight cravat, but he must continue dignified and unmoving.

  The place overflowed with distinguished guests from dukes and marquesses, officers of the Horse Guards, members of parliament, and all the bedecked and bejeweled ladies they escorted.

  Would Lady Wexham use such a venue to glean state secrets? He doubted it. He’d seen her do nothing but greet the guests he’d announced and make certain no one stood alone. He watched her skill in making her guests feel comfortable, bringing people together, then moving off after ensuring they were engaged in conversation. She seemed to float through the throng of people.

  Floating was an appropriate word, he conceded, watching the airy gown swirl around her as she danced. He knew little of women’s fashions, but she never failed to impress him with her appearance. This evening, she wore some sort of filmy white overskirt over a pale pink gown.

  Ostrich feathers of the same shade of pink graced her dark hair. Pearl drop earrings dangled from her earlobes, and ropes of pearls graced her neck.

  Even though she directed everyone’s attention to the guest of honor, a shy young blonde who smiled at everyone presented to her but spoke little in return, it was Lady Wexham who outshone her, whether she meant to or not.

  He deliberately looked away from the countess, disturbed with how much notice he was taking of her. He could no longer fool himself that he was merely keeping his eyes on her to catch her in any suspicious behavior.

  She drew him with her beauty and femininity, with her charm and intellect, as no woman ever had. Sometimes, he had the sense that the attraction was mutual. He would catch her looking at him as if assessing him. The other day, sitting beside her desk, he felt as if she had been toying with him in some way. Or was it because her maid had caught him snooping?

  He had prayed for wisdom and discernment. He mustn’t let himself be swayed by her beauty. He must watch his step very carefully. Why hadn’t Lady Wexham confronted him about it? Was she playing a game with him?

  Was that why she looked at him in that thoughtful way?

  Abruptly, he left the ballroom, deciding to check on Tom, who was still at the front door for any late arrivals. Rees glanced into the dining room on his way, where the table was set for a midnight supper.

  In the entryway, he caught Tom yawning and smiled in sympathy. “Think you’ll make it to the end?”

  Expecting a scold, Tom had snapped his mouth shut and straightened. Now his lips relaxed into a grin. “Yes, sir. Gaspard has a full table laid for us below for later.” He gestured up the stairs. “How are things on the dance floor?”

  “Fine.” To relieve his own fatigue, Rees opened the door onto the mild night. The street lamps were lit. A carpet had been set over the steps and down the walkway to the street and torches placed there to help light the way to the entrance.

  Carriages lined the street with coachmen waiting for their employers. “Have they been offered refreshment?”

  “Oh yes. The kitchens have seen a steady stream of coachmen and grooms for the last few hours.”

  Rees glanced up and down the street. Things seemed relatively quiet. He paused at the outline of someone standing in the shadows near the corner. The person took a step, disappearing farther into the shadows.

  Rees quirked an eyebrow at Tom. “How long has he been hanging around?”

  Tom turned from looking at one of the carriages. “Who?”

  Rees indicated with his chin. “Down there, see that person?”

  Tom squinted. “No.”

  “Just wait. He moved into the shadows.”

  Rees engaged Tom in commonplace conversation, instructing him to keep his eyes in that direction, while Rees deliberately looked away.

  After a few moments, Tom said in a low tone, “Yes, I see someone.”

  “Notice him before? Perhaps one of the coachmen?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But it’s hard to tell, with so many people coming and going.”

  “Of course.” He pondered what, if anything, he ought to do.

  “Maybe he’ll move away when the watch comes along.”

  “Maybe.” Rees checked the case clock in the hall. “It will be another quarter of an hour. I’ll come back then. Let me know what happens.”

  “Yes, sir.”

&n
bsp; Rees made a tour of the downstairs rooms, and then walked to the basement to check on the activities in the kitchen. Although the maids and housekeeper were bustling about, and Gaspard was directing them like a captain from the quarterdeck, things seemed to be running smoothly. Rees stepped past them into the scullery and out into the backyard. Unlike most houses, where the backyard was used for storing coal and other things, this one contained a large area devoted to both a kitchen garden and some ornamental ones.

  The air was pleasant after the stuffy indoors. Rees made his way down a gravel path until he reached the alley separating the yard from the mews. A few lights still burned in the living quarters above the stables.

  Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he peered down the alley in the direction where he had seen the shadowy figure. No one was about.

  He made his way cautiously down the dark alley until he reached the end of the block, turned, and made his way toward the street, keeping his footsteps as silent as he could the closer he got to the corner.

  He paused, seeing a figure lounging against the building.

  Giving the man no time to react, he quickly stepped in front of him.

  The man flinched and took a step away.

  “Good evening, sir,” Rees said, looking him up and down. He appeared a gentleman, though wearing riding clothes—a dark cutaway, buckskin breeches, and tall boots.

  The man nodded curtly. He wore a hat so it was hard to make out his features in the shadows.

  “I am butler at the house yonder.” He indicated the lighted entry. “I couldn’t help but notice your presence in the vicinity. Are you a guest?” he asked, although it was obvious from the man’s lack of evening clothes that he was not.

  The man hesitated a few seconds then said, “No—that is, I am acquainted with . . . Lady Wexham, but I see she is entertaining.” He spoke with a French accent. He motioned to his garments. “As you can see, I did not come prepared.”