Moonlight Masquerade

by Ruth Axtell

  When he entered the house, he shoved the bolt of the service entrance back in place, then staggered to his bedroom. He unbuttoned his coat with his left hand, struggled to take if off, then followed it with his waistcoat. Finally, he braced himself to pull his shirt over his head.

  Dawn was beginning to tinge his room. He stared at the large red stain covering the upper right portion of his discarded shirt. What was he going to do about the bloody garments?

  Looking around his room, his glance stopped at his basin and pitcher. Since he wouldn’t be able to hide the evidence, he’d have to think of some reason he’d gotten up in the night and dressed. Perhaps it would be Tom or Virginia who came in the morning, and he could fob them off with some excuse.

  He dropped the shirt and waistcoat into the basin and poured water from his pitcher into it, doing his best with his left hand, which slowed his efforts.

  He eyed the bandage, deciding he wouldn’t be able to remove it since it was tied too far from his reach to change single-handedly.

  Sitting wearily on the bed, he managed to remove his shoes and stockings.

  Finally, he was back in bed, with another handkerchief over the bandage.

  Dear Lord, let it have stopped bleeding by the time someone comes by in the morning . . .

  Which would be all too soon.

  Valentine, who had been delayed a few days longer at Hartwell, had done nothing but complain since her arrival. Now, she tugged Céline’s hair, her dark eyes meeting Céline’s in the glass. “If you had not left in such haste, I would have been able to return sooner.”

  “But then you would not have been able to tell me what talk my abrupt departure caused.” Among most guests, her departure had not aroused any suspicion, since so many had left for London the day after the ball.

  Valentine sniffed. “A lot of good that did since de la Roche noticed. Perhaps if we had been with you, they would not have dared hold up your chaise.”

  Céline was tired of going around and around with Valentine. Her head hurt. Already Gaspard was consulting with Roland about what should be done now.

  She was relieved by a soft knock on the door. “Come in.”

  Virginia peered into the room. “Beg pardon, my lady.” Instead of her usual smile, the young maid seemed to hesitate at the threshold. “What is it?”

  Virginia took a step into the boudoir. “It’s Mr. MacKinnon, my lady.”

  Céline swiveled around on the stool, unmindful of Valentine’s protest. “Is he all right?”

  “I went to see him early this morning to bring him his breakfast—either one of the kitchen maids or I brings it to him, ma’am. It was my turn this morning.”

  “And?” She stood, her hands clenched at her side, unable to hide her impatience.

  “His wound, my lady—”

  Alarm choked off her breath.

  “It’s bleeding again. I thought you should know. He said it was nothing, but it didn’t look good to me, his bandage is all red and it’s soaked into his nightshirt—”

  Céline hurried to the door. “Excuse me, Valentine, my hair shall have to wait—”

  “But, madame, you cannot go like that—”

  Céline was already in the corridor. “Did he say anything more to you?”

  Virginia hurried to catch up with her. “No, my lady. Just that it must have opened in the night. I didn’t wait but came right up. I thought you should know.”

  “You did right. Has Mr. Simmons been sent for?”

  She shook her head. “No, I came straight up to you. The other servants don’t even know. But I’ll send a footman right away if you wish.”

  “Yes, do so.” By the time she reached the service stairs, she was running. She pushed open MacKinnon’s bedroom door as soon as she knocked, without waiting for permission to enter, and strode straight to his bed.

  He was propped up in bed, his breakfast tray on his lap. His eyes widened at her appearance. “My lady—what—?”

  She strode to his bedside, her focus on his bandages. “Virginia says your wound has reopened.” Her maid had not exaggerated. A large stain, bright red still at its center, spread across the snowy cloth. More blood covered his bedding.

  “She shouldn’t have disturbed you. It’s . . . it’s nothing.”

  She placed a hand to her breast to steady her breathing. “When did this happen?”

  “I—I don’t know. I mean . . . I got up in the night—”

  She frowned at him. “I told you to ring for help if you should need it.”

  His cheeks flushed and he made an uncertain movement with his hand. “I didn’t think . . . didn’t want to bother just for my personal . . . needs.”

  Ignoring his obvious embarrassment, she snapped, “It was clearly too soon to be up.”

  He began to move the tray off his lap.

  She stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “No, you mustn’t put any more strain on your shoulder. Mr. Simmons has been sent for.”

  “There’s no need, I assure you.”

  She paid him no heed but removed the tray from his lap and then leaned over him, looking for the knot of his bandage.

  “My lady, what are you doing?”

  “Getting this off. I must staunch the bleeding.”

  He tried to resist her efforts but soon sat still, realizing no doubt she would not be deterred. Her fingers shook, worry clawing at her insides at the thought of how much blood he’d already lost. How could his wound have reopened so fully from just getting out of his bed?

  “Goodness, why didn’t you ring for someone sooner?” Dark blood edging the bandaging showed that his wound must have been bleeding much earlier in the night. She picked up his bell and ran to the doorway to ring it.

  Tom appeared almost immediately, still chewing from his breakfast. “Get me some clean linens. Hurry!”

  After a startled look toward MacKinnon, he snapped to attention. “Yes, my lady.”

  As soon as he left, she peeled the last bandage off carefully. As she had feared, the wound was still bleeding. She fought against the nausea that rose in her.

  She went to MacKinnon’s dresser and pulled open the top drawer. “Where do you keep your handkerchiefs?”

  “Right there, my lady.”

  A neat stack lay in one corner. She pulled out as many as she could clutch in her hands and brought them to him. Gently, she placed a couple of them against the wound. “Hold these, please, while I hunt for something with which to tie them.”

  He smiled weakly. “I fear I have no petticoats you can tear into strips.”

  Her gaze was already searching about the room, but before she could find anything, Mrs. Finlay entered with a stack of linen. “Oh, dear me, Mr. MacKinnon.” She tut-tutted, eyeing his wound with concern.

  “I assure you, it must look worse than it is,” he answered, but to Céline his voice sounded weak.

  She was already rummaging through the linens her housekeeper had brought in. Touching MacKinnon’s hand, she nudged it aside and removed the handkerchiefs. “Mrs. Finlay, could you please put these to soak before they’re ruined?” As she covered the wound with the thicker squares of cloth, her gaze flickered to MacKinnon. “I shall have them replaced for you if they are.”

  His gray eyes looked into hers briefly before he said only, “There’s no need.”

  She focused on her work, wrapping the long strips of bandaging around his shoulder, helping him to sit forward as she drew the bandage down over his back. When she was satisfied, she tied the last strip in a knot and straightened. “There, that should do until Simmons arrives.”

  She found him staring at her. “What is it?”

  His gray eyes flickered away. “Nothing.”

  She remembered her loose hair and blushed. She pushed the long locks back over her shoulders. “Goodness, I rushed down so quickly, I forgot. Valentine had not finished with my toilette yet.”

  He cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t have—”

  Her lips tightene
d. “And leave you to bleed to death?”

  “I thank you.”

  Only now that the immediate danger was past did she consider how warm his bare skin had felt under her fingertips.

  She swallowed, feeling the room very small and intimate at that moment. To disguise her sense of awareness, she picked up one of the soiled bandages Mrs. Finlay had forgotten and took it to the washstand.

  “Oh, dear.” His washbasin was full. Frowning, she lifted the sodden shirt . . . and waistcoat. The water was red with blood. Her glance met his across the room. “Where did you go?”

  His gaze shifted away. “Nowhere. I . . . I was just restless lying here so many days.”

  An exclamation of disbelief burst from her throat. “It has been but four days since you were shot. Were you mad?”

  He swallowed, still not looking at her. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to decide what to make of his strange behavior.

  “I realize I was foolish, but there is no major harm done. I do beg your pardon, as this probably means my convalescence shall be delayed a day or so more and I shan’t be able to resume my full duties—”

  She waved his words aside, anger rising within her. “Fie on your duties! You shall remain in your bed as long as the doctor orders. If I have to have both Tom and William tie you to the bedposts, I shall not hesitate.”

  The look of alarm in his eyes turned to amusement. “Seeing this cot has no bedposts, they shall find that order a bit difficult to carry out.”

  Once again, their gazes held. All she could think of was him as a man and how much he meant to her—whether or not he was in her household to spy on her. Tearing her gaze away, she set the bandage in the water and approached the bed once more. “But it has a sturdy set of iron rails,” she ended dryly.

  “I shall follow the doctor’s orders to the letter,” he promised meekly.

  She sighed. “You had best finish your breakfast if you are to mend quickly. I can ring for more tea or coffee if yours has grown cold.” Her words made her realize she didn’t know what he drank for breakfast.

  “This is fine, thank you,” he said softly.

  She lifted the tray and replaced it on his lap, realizing how weak he must be with the loss of blood. “There you go.” She released the tray.

  His chest rose and fell inches from her fingertips.

  “Thank you, my lady.” His voice sounded strained. She told herself to move away. But before her limbs could obey her, her gaze fell to his mouth, then dropped lower until she detected the tiny white scar on his chin, reassuring her that it was indeed the same man who had displayed such passion the night of the masquerade.

  With effort she straightened. “Well . . . I shall leave you to eat your breakfast.”

  She took a step away from the bed. “Please ring for someone to take the tray away as soon as you’ve finished so it won’t be in your way. Mr. Simmons will be here shortly, I’m sure. Try to rest until he comes.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  It was not until she was back upstairs, sitting before her mirror, Valentine once again in charge of her hair, that Céline was able to think more clearly about her butler’s strange foray.

  “Rushing off to a butler! If he bleeds to death, it is no more than he deserves—” Valentine’s outraged tones washed over her, making little impact as Céline replayed MacKinnon’s words in her mind.

  Why had he gone out? And if he’d only gone out to stretch his legs and get a breath of fresh air, would it really have caused his wound to reopen?

  Where had he gone? To his contact in the Home Office?

  She must have Gaspard find out what Roland had decided. Time was growing short.

  Rees sat looking at the empty doorway several minutes after Lady Wexham had left his room.

  The pain in his shoulder receded as he thought over her visit. She’d rushed down from her bedchamber as if she’d just stepped from her bed. Her hair—that glorious, chestnut mane tumbling over her shoulders, tickling his chest as she’d leaned over him—he tightened his fist, longing to feel her hair between his fingers.

  Had she believed his story? It was a flimsy one at best, all he could think of at the moment. She’d startled him so with her sudden appearance.

  She’d seemed genuinely distressed over his wound. He shook his head, forgetting his own worry for the moment, at how she’d fretted over him, the way his own mother used to when he was a lad and arrived home battered or bruised.

  Did she care about him so much? Would she show the same concern for any of her servants? Would she sit and read to them and share things about her past? Would she look at them the way she had him? His gut hurt from clenching it so hard to keep from grabbing her to discover if she would offer her lips to him willingly a second time. Did anyone have her heart? Or was he only one of her many admirers?

  He’d never wanted a woman as he wanted her. It tormented him to think of anyone else enjoying her favor. Why this woman who was completely out of his reach, he asked, looking heavenward. He’d never known until now what it was to feel this passion, torment, need. He was poised over a precipice that had nothing but a rocky fall below.

  Last night he’d taken the irrevocable step off the ledge by lying to Bunting. He had chosen to protect Lady Wexham over protecting his nation.

  19

  Céline finally met Roland that night. As she’d foreseen, he was pleased with the document she’d stolen from the Comte.

  Roland and Gaspard both agreed she must leave England as soon as possible. Roland promised to make the necessary arrangements to smuggle her past the blockade into Normandy. He and Gaspard had agreed that only Valentine should accompany her. “Three French people traveling together would arouse suspicion.”

  “But what about Gaspard?” Would the British arrest him if he stayed behind?

  “Do not worry,” Roland told her. “He will travel a different route, farther down the coast.”

  Céline paced her private sitting room now, wishing for things that could not be. She had put in motion this move to France by agreeing to spy for her former country, and she had no one to blame but herself now if she no longer knew what she believed.

  Valentine was overjoyed at leaving England. Gaspard had shrugged, saying it mattered little where he lived as long as he had freedom in his kitchen.

  Céline’s steps slowed, and she paused at her window, looking down at the narrow garden below. If this were her life a year ago, she would be making plans already to go into the country for the warmest summer months. Usually she visited several acquaintances, spending a few weeks at each country estate, before paying her obligatory visit to the new earl at his seat in Warwickshire. By August, she would be once again at Hartwell to look in on her mother, before heading to Scotland for the hunting season.

  She tapped a finger against her lips. Perhaps . . . perhaps if she made her usual plans, pretending to travel north and westward into the country, when in reality she’d be making her way south to the coast.

  It would buy them a little time perhaps—before it was discovered she’d crossed the Channel.

  According to Roland’s latest information, things would soon be coming to a head in France. Napoleon’s days were numbered, although he seemed to be regrouping after his disastrous Russian campaign. But Wellington had made major advances into Spain, and Céline had no doubts from what she knew of him that he would not give up until he crossed the Pyrenees and was at the French border. How long would it drag on?

  Roland had told her of the growing dissatisfaction and outright revolt in France against Napoleon. The French were tired of war; too many of the country’s young men had died. The thousands upon thousands left to perish from cold in Russia had been the final insult. It was clear Napoleon cared very little how many of his people he sacrificed for his own glory.

  Céline straightened her shoulders. It was time to return to her native land. A new government would be forming and she wished to have a say in its formation. It was time to put away
foolish dreams of love and romance. She was no longer an ingénue.

  She must travel while MacKinnon was still bedridden. He would soon be up and about, and she couldn’t be sure how long her ruse would hold.

  Her hand clutched the curtain. Yet, she couldn’t just leave him. How could she tell him good-bye?

  When she went down to his room with her book the next afternoon, she found him as usual sitting up in his bed with a book already on his lap.

  With an effort, she smiled the way she usually did, pushing aside thoughts of her impending departure. “Good afternoon, Mr. MacKinnon. How are you feeling today? No more nocturnal excursions?”

  He had the grace to flush. “No, my lady, though I feel more than ready to get up from this bed.”

  Though she knew he was in no shape to leave his room again, she had told Gaspard about MacKinnon, and her chef had kept a watch on his door during the night.

  She drew up the straight-back chair to MacKinnon’s bedside and sat down, smoothing her gown. “Well, you have only yourself to blame if you are confined to it several days longer than we had hoped.” She opened The Absentee to the place she had left off the day before. “Let us hope Mrs. Edgeworth will help take your mind off your restlessness.”

  After she’d read a chapter, she closed the book. He was watching her as she usually found when she read to him. “What were you reading when I came in?”

  He glanced down at the book on his lap. “The first volume of Voltaire’s Philosophical Dictionary.”

  Gratified with how much he was reading the books she had brought him, she cocked her head. “And how are you finding it?”

  “Enlightening.”

  She returned the smile playing around his lips. “Touché. Seriously, Mr. MacKinnon, I would like your opinion.”

  His hands rested on the coverlet. “He is not the antireligious philosopher he is credited to be. He is merely against the injustices he perceives the established church, particularly that in France, has committed.”

  “Is the church any different anywhere?”