Masquerade 2

by Emma East

  The wind and the hooves upon the road and the rattle of the wheels and the blur of hedges and trees and startled pedestrians made him forget, for a time, the uncertainty that poisoned his well-ordered mind. But the rush of careening through the park could not last long after he finally drew to a stop, uneasy about pushing his horses too far past their limits.

  He retrieved his hat after a few minutes searching. Only a few walkers were about, though his antics had drawn most of their attention. Shrugging away the tightness in his shoulders, he replaced his hat. Gentleman had done more foolish things in public—in fact, many people considered it a great show of sportsmanship and ability to drive horses as he had just done, though perhaps they performed the feat without as much furious devotion as Darcy displayed.

  He was returning to his gig when he heard someone call his name. He stiffened upon recognizing the voice.

  “Darcy, wait up!”

  Willoughby advanced toward him down a nearby path, waving his walking stick to gain Darcy’s attention. He fumbled to a stop in front of Darcy and stared at awe between Darcy and his carriage.

  “Darcy! What the devil are you doing?”

  He bowed. “Willoughby.”

  Willoughby stared at him, mouth parting. Then his brow furrowed. “I, er, thought you were afraid of…”

  “No,” Darcy said. Once he could have admitted a certain trepidation to speeding coaches owing to the deaths of his parents caused during a coach accident. But now, the old fear was just that. Old.

  Willoughby kept staring at him, his shock written across his expression. His university friend may have felt the need for an explanation, but he would not receive one. Determining that his old friend did not intend to make further inquiries—or discussion, from his flabbergasted expression—Darcy turned away.

  “I apologize for the shortness of the visit. I must attend a meeting.”

  “Darcy!” Willoughby said, hustling after him and grabbing his arm. “Lady Dervish’s dinner tomorrow evening. Did you plan to attend? No one even told me you were in town!”

  “I have not sent around my card, so no one could hardly have invited me to a function,” Darcy said, letting Willoughby follow him rather than stopping to address him.

  “Why ever not? But you should come!”

  “That would defeat the purpose of having forgone sending out my card.”

  Willoughby stopped as Darcy threw himself up into his carriage and stared up at him. “You are acting antisocial, more queerly than usual. Is something the matter?”

  Darcy tilted his hat. “No, but I appreciate you asking. I really must go now. Good day.”

  He left the park at a brisk but safe pace. With Willoughby’s gaze burning on his back, it felt like fleeing. It had been a mistake to go to the park that day.

  That mistake was compounded when, the next day as Darcy read the morning’s edition, his butler interrupted him.

  “Sir. A visitor is outside. He refuses to leave even after I informed him you were unavailable.”

  Darcy sighed. Dipping his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn the nosy bugger. “Did he give his name?”

  “A Mr. Willoughby, sir.”

  “Naturally,” Darcy muttered, but it was for his own ears. His butler’s expression remained solemn but helpful, with no flicker of emotion to tell Darcy what he thought. As it should be. He wanted as little speculation as possible about this matter. But what would provide that?

  Allow Willoughby in and he could make a scene. However, if Darcy didn’t allow him in, he could also make a scene. One would be witnessed by neighbors, and one would be witnessed by servants he should, in all practicality, trust with his private affairs.

  Except Darcy had never trusted any servant with his most private affairs, and the thought of them whispering about whatever Willoughby said made Darcy feel queasy.

  “Take him to my study,” Darcy told him. There they could at least have more privacy than one of the lounges, and the heavy door was soundproof.

  Darcy went upstairs and changed out of his housecoat. A glance in the mirror showed the lack of the sun’s kiss on his cheeks. Not an unusual sight. However, the bags under his eyes were an unusual sight, and not one he could find an immediate cure for. He would have to hope Willoughby was in an inattentive mood.

  As he walked downstairs, his mind caught a trailing memory. A memory of a woman with an excellent physique following him up a set of stairs, her hand trembling in his.

  Willoughby greeted Darcy with a smile that did not reach his eyes. Darcy had often accused the blond-haired, blue-eyed gentleman of being the Devil’s own. Today, his attempt at looking angelic fell flat.

  “What may I do for you today, Willoughby?”

  He arched his brow. “May I not perform a social call on an old friend?”

  “A social call would not obligate you to threaten my butler with a scene if I did not comply.”

  Darcy sat behind his oversized desk. Intricate designs were carved into the oak around the edges and down the legs of the desk, flaring into sturdy, clawed feet that supported the massive desk. As Darcy cleaned it off every day, not a single piece of paper interrupted the impressive desktop. He didn’t find it surprising that a hint of nervousness flickered across Willoughby’s expression when Darcy looked at him from behind his desk. His shield. His forbidding wall.

  Willoughby recovered quickly enough. He gestured to the chair in front of the desk. “May I?” Darcy waved him ahead, and he sat, then leaned forward to pull something out of the bag he had brought with him. Once retrieved, he threw it onto the desk.

  The mask clattered loudly in the quiet study.

  Faceless, emotionless.

  “You would recognize it, I presume?”

  Darcy tore his gaze away from the mask. Willoughby’s expression was muted, absent the smirk that Darcy would have expected him to have given the situation.

  “I do,” Darcy intoned, eyeing his old friend. “What do you expect me to do with it?”

  “The organizer, the host, has requested a meeting with you since they learned you had returned to London.”

  Willoughby’s eyes darted back and forth when he wasn’t outright looking down. Darcy remembered the subtle cues for nerves he had once known to recognize in his friend. The flush on the tips of his ears. The tightness of his lips, as if wishing to spill out some secret. He was usually such an easygoing, outgoing man that to find him in this manner surprised Darcy. But in their university days, Willoughby’s nerves mainly ran to drinking too much the night before examinations, or the blowback from an outlandish prank.

  Darcy’s jaw tightened. “So it’s blackmail they want, then.”

  Willoughby spluttered. “No! Well, I mean—” He stopped with a grimace, his brow contracted and still not meeting Darcy’s gaze. Quieter, he said, “I don’t know, Darcy. I hope not, but they couldn’t give me a satisfying answer.”

  “And have many of your other friends you drug to these masquerades received similar invitations?”

  Willoughby scowled and finally met his eyes. “If you are saying I am involved in some scheme to blackmail those within our society—”

  “No, no.” Darcy sighed and scowled at the mask. His friend’s attitude made it clear that he wasn’t involved in a conspiracy, but that did not make Darcy entirely happy. It meant he was being singled out. Why?

  Willoughby grimaced. “Though, I would say that the other people I invited to these events did not have the same, er, character as yourself, or the same public image.”

  “Ah.”

  Sighing, he steepled his hand in front of his face and considered his options.

  “Did they say what would happen if I decline the invitation to meet?”

  He winced. “They did. I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Seeing Darcy’s expression, he hurried on. “You must believe me, Darcy. If I had known they would use their guests in such a vile way, to break the trust implicit in such an affair, I would have never invited you to
one. There has been no hint, no whisper, of this occurring before.”

  “Then I may be satisfied they are at least discreet in choosing their targets.”

  Willoughby blanched. “Truly, Darcy—”

  “I know, I know.” Darcy waved him away. “I suppose they gave you a date?”

  That was how, the next evening found Darcy leaving the sanctuary of his townhome and climbing the front steps of the stately home in North London where their mysterious hosts organized masquerades for the wealthy and elite. How Elizabeth had ended up wearing one of their custom masks, Darcy didn’t know. She was neither rich nor one of the elite. How had she caught their eye?

  By being beautiful and innocent, naturally. The allure of the innocent would always attract sinners, the corruptors. But Elizabeth was no loose woman, not like the ladies regularly attending these functions. She had followed Darcy upstairs into one of the bedrooms a trembling virgin and been just as sweet when he found her months later in Hertfordshire.

  “Sign the ledger, sir.”

  Though the masquerade had not officially begun that evening, the privacy screens comprising huge, thick fabric panels stretched across the foyer were already in place. A table stood just inside the door, and behind it stood a man in an executioner’s hood. Framed by black silk, his appearance unsettled Darcy. The intended effect was designed to intimidate those who would seek to circumvent the organizer’s strict rules of privacy.

  Darcy signed. At one point, Elizabeth would have signed this same register.

  The executioner pointed to a side room. This was where they had given him the mask he was to wear for the rest of the night. They had assigned him a judge mask and used that to track his assignation with Elizabeth that night. Now they planned to use that information against him.

  “Ah, Mr. Darcy.”

  Inside the room was a woman, elegantly dressed in red silk, pearls and jewels about her neck and wrists. Elegant except for the executioner’s hood concealing her face and hair.

  Glittering blue eyes twinkled out at him. She waved a delicate hand toward the chair across from her.

  “Please, sit. Would you like a refreshment?”

  Darcy didn’t feel the need for her hospitality and threw his mask onto the desk between them. “Tea would not taste very good when I know what I am here for. No, thank you.”

  He couldn’t tell her exact expression, but he could see the humor in her eyes. “Then at least sit, Mr. Darcy. We dislike standing upon formalities here.”

  Darcy did so, yanking his jacket straight and glaring at the woman who thought this to be a social visit. “I have plans tonight, and I do not wish to be tardy.”

  She tapped the desk in front of her. It was a desk Darcy would expect to see in a lady’s study, not in the main processing room of an event meant to create illicit affairs. “Plans? Will you not stay to enjoy tonight?”

  Darcy glowered. “No.”

  Though her eyes widened—she had expected more explanation, he assumed—she replied as if they were discussing the mild winter weather. “A pity. We like to ensure our guests are happy in every way. That is why you are here tonight, after all.”

  Darcy did not rise to the bait, and she waited only a beat before saying, “Mr. Darcy, I know by reputation that you are a taciturn man. Must you also be stubborn?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. Since she wished to perform blackmail, then she could lead this conversation. He saw no need to assist her in her scheme to pick his pocket.

  “People told me you were cold.”

  “That is not my concern.”

  With a delicate sigh, she opened a drawer in her desk and then laid out what appeared to be a contract. Her hands lingered on it, almost like a mother’s caress, before she pushed it toward him.

  “I assure you, our proposal is mutually beneficial. You may read it if you wish.”

  Internally, Darcy scoffed. No contract they offered could benefit him.

  “Or I can give you the highlights,” she said, her exasperation plain. She relaxed back in her chair and pinned him with her glittering stare. “We want you to sponsor our services to other gentlemen who may be… reluctant to indulge themselves because of privacy issues.”

  He arched both brows. The utter gall. “Should I just go to Parliament tomorrow?”

  “Not unless you wish,” she said with an elegant shrug. “We thought you could merely recommend us as a service to any gentlemen of your acquaintance who might enjoy them. Those who would trust someone with your reputation.”

  “There are two assumptions in your idea which are faulty. First, you assume my involvement in society extends to speaking about the lackluster love lives of my acquaintances. Second, you believe I had cause to enjoy these services you offer.”

  Now he could detect a hint of shock. “You would imply you received no benefit? I have a ledger and payment that says otherwise. You received a benefit and I’m sure Miss Kitten would agree.”

  Darcy tensed despite himself. Elizabeth was not a part of this and he refused to let this woman bring her into it.

  She didn’t appear to notice. “It is not our fault you removed yourself from town shortly after and no longer utilized our services.” Pausing, she reached out and tapped the contract. “Therefore, we would compensate you. For each referral, you would receive one free room per night.” Her smile grew. “With no limit to how many parties you wish to entertain.”

  “And if I choose not to agree to this contract?”

  Her smile faltered. “Why would you wish to, Mr. Darcy, when this relationship would offer you so much while you provide very little?”

  He supposed she meant to use his name to intimidate him, to remind him of where he stood in conjunction to herself. She imagined the hosts of these masquerades invincible and invisible. She did not imagine Darcy could stand against her might.

  She knew nothing about Darcy.

  He leaned forward, allowing a smirk to slide onto his lips as he settled his forearms on the desk. “Little? I do not care to recommend bordellos, nor do I see much chance for it in daily conversation. I have no use for free rooms—I have more than enough money to pay for my own, if I wished. If that is the only supposed benefit of this contract, then I think I am finished here.”

  She tilted her head, considering him. “I remember the girl you took the last time. Young, inexperienced. Perhaps you would prefer a woman with more knowledge.”

  She slid her hand over his on the desk in one smooth and confident motion. She was a woman who knew how to give pleasure, who delighted in such acts, her curved lips seemed to say.

  “I think not.”

  Darcy tore his hand free, his stomach turning, his skin crawling. He was halfway to the door, mask forgotten behind him, when she said, “Perhaps Miss Kitten’s family wouldn’t be too kind to the man who soiled their daughter. What do you think?”

  He stopped. He turned.

  Chapter Five

  “What a queer thing for someone to tie to the gate,” Mrs. Gardiner said, turning the mask this way and that. Her stomach revolting at her recent breakfast, Elizabeth wished she would stop handling it.

  “Perhaps it was merely kids,” Jane said after accepting the mask from their aunt. “What a cute little mask, though. Don’t you think so, Lizzy? Perhaps we should put it in the nursery for the girls to play with. They have a few other masks already, but I think they’ll like a cat mask.”

  The thought of one of her nieces running around the house with that kitten mask on made her shudder. Quickly excusing herself, she went upstairs to her bedroom. This was a message from the mysterious hosts. A message meant for her.

  What did it mean?

  Her hands shook as she put them to her overheated face. Was it an invitation to return? A message that they knew where her family resided in town?

  She had to go back down. She couldn’t let her aunt and sister think anything was wrong. They had two more weeks left in London before they returned to Hertfordsh
ire with Jane’s wedding trousseau. Elizabeth could count herself lucky that Mrs. Philips had convinced their mother to remain at Longbourn to make other wedding preparations, or else Elizabeth would have to worry about Mrs. Bennet making things worse. Bad enough that she still lamented Darcy’s sudden and complete absence, giving Elizabeth sorrowful looks when she thought her daughter wasn’t paying attention. The last thing she needed was her mother prodding about Darcy now.

  She dropped her hands and smoothed down her dress. Calm, collected. What hold did a little mask have on her?

  Only everything—what if they reveal me? They can trace me to Darcy. If they reveal that, then everyone will know what a fool I have been.

  Tears burned at the back of her eyes and she closed them, forcing them back. How could she handle this? She couldn’t go to her family. Just imagining Jane’s horrified expression made her want to crawl under the bed. Darcy would be an option, but he had left for Derbyshire. Besides, that assumed Darcy would help her.

  She would have to do this alone.

  Steeling herself, she returned downstairs. It would be tricky, and she would hate to betray her London relatives’ trusts a second time, but she had to do something. She wouldn’t allow these people, whoever they were, to expose her family to the scrutiny of the world.

  The next few days were agony for Elizabeth. She was forced to rescue the mask from her youngest niece lest she break off an ear, and she had secreted it in the inside lining of her trunk. Her nerves just couldn’t handle seeing anyone else touch it, not when she had such a sensitive connection to the mask.

  She attempted to act as normal as possible. Smile, make jokes, avoid any attempt to speak on the subject of Darcy or his troubling absence. The news of his hasty retreat from Hertfordshire had reached London via Mrs. Bennet, who had shared her hopes about a match with the rich gentleman. However, once Elizabeth rebuffed the topic of Darcy a couple of times, Mrs. Gardiner left her in peace on the subject. Overall, she thought she performed her role adequately, though her heart hammered anytime someone brought up the unusual mask at tea or during dinner with the Gardiner’s neighbors. Jane and Mrs. Gardiner didn’t comment on Elizabeth’s changed attitude, so she considered herself successful.