Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (14 page)

Brought so close to him, Clarissa could not miss the clarity in his gaze. He was not in the least drunk. His eyes were bright and sharp as ever. Another deception. “Did I frighten you?” he asked.

His amused expression made her suddenly ashamed of her concern for him, and she shielded those thoughts by a downward sweep of her lashes. “Gambling does not appeal to me, my lord,” she said softly. “Things are never quite what they seem.”

Hadrian looked down at the hand he held, his thumb brushing across the back of her gloved fingers. “I would have thought you would enjoy games of chance more than most. Games of deception are Standard fare along the Barbary Coast.”

“I would not know, my lord.”

“Truly? Then from where do you hail, sweet one?”

The caressing words brought her gaze flying back up to his face. “Don’t you think I know who you are?” he questioned in a harsh whisper, his arm snaked out about her waist to bring her even closer. “I do, you know.”

The concentration in his gaze seemed enough to strip away the silk veil from her face, Clarissa thought in alarm. When had he realized that beneath her exotic disguise lay the ordinary if reckless widow who had accosted him at Plymouth? No, that was not the right question. Only one question remained. Did he now intend to make as much a spectacle of unmasking her as he had the other cheat, Mr. Tibbitts?

She felt as if she had fallen into the exact center of the universe and that the slightest touch would send her spinning off into oblivion. Tiny sparks of regret burst upon the midnight darkness surrounding her. Now she would never again know what it was like to be in his arms! Her shame would be exacted before the mocking gaze of Lady Throckmorton! Her aunt! No! Aunt Heloise was not strong enough to withstand such humiliation. Her fragile hold on reality would be knocked to pieces.

She reached out and touched his shirtfront. “Please. Not here! I will go. Just don’t harm—”

“Oh, there you are!”

Emory Blackburne’s voice startled her into a backward step away from his brother.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Emory grinned at her, seeming unaware that he had found her practically in his brother’s embrace. “Thought you were in Lady Yiewsley’s private salon. Never expected to find you here.”

Clarissa turned to him. “I joined the company watching Lord Ramsbury’s play.” She swallowed her emotion. “He won.”

Emory’s gaze met his brother’s as a hectic flush climbed his neck. “Saw Tibbitts go out on his ear. The Yiewsley footman has a strong foot.”

Hadrian scowled. “ ’Tis better than a ball in the chest. Though I doubt Mr. Tibbitts can appreciate the refinement just now. Ah! I believe I hear the dinner gong.” He offered Clarissa his arm. “Your servant, my lady.”

Emory cut in. “Sorry, old man. If you recall aright, the choice of lady is mine.” He drew Clarissa’s hand through his arm and steered her away.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Clarissa saw Lord Ramsbury staring after her. He had said he knew who she was. Why then was he allowing her to escape … unless he planned to exact a more terrible revenge at a later time?

With a sickening feeling she recalled Tibbitts’s ignoble exit from the cardroom. Tibbitts had cheated. Lord Ramsbury’s response now seemed a carefully orchestrated trap to catch a mountebank. Was he waiting to bait a similar trap for her?

Suddenly the thought of dinner held no more charm than the prospect of swallowing glass.

“I think we may call the evening a success,” Heloise declared as she and Clarissa rode home in her carriage. “Lady Throckmorton was unable to think of anything hateful to say at dinner. Of course, she did allow that it is a pity your antecedents are not known, for it might put the cap on your eligibility.”

“I pray you did not tell any more lies, Aunt,” Clarissa said in disapproval. She had been seated at the opposite end of the table from her aunt and Lord Ramsbury. As the table seated sixty, she might as well have been in the next room for all she heard of their conversations.

“I said that you were not a show animal to be received with a pedigree tied in a bow about your neck.” Clarissa smiled for she could well imagine Lady Throckmorton’s choleric response. “Lord Ramsbury was quick to second my opinion,” Heloise added smugly.

This was not expected. Clarissa kept her voice carefully neutral. “What is your opinion of Lord Ramsbury?”

“Little that is exceptional. Why do you ask, dear?”

“You know very well. You threw me at his head at the beginning of the evening.”

“Did I?” Heloise seemed unable to summon the memory. “Why, I must have assumed that you would appreciate the company of a man with military bearing.”

“I’ve had quite enough of soldiers,” Clarissa retorted. If a relationship between the earl and herself was what her aunt had in mind, she had best disabuse her of the notion at once. “Come to that, he scarcely qualifies. He insulted me.”

“Lord Ramsbury? My dear, I can’t quite believe it.”

“Believe it. He offered to escort me to a place where waltzing is allowed. Why did you not warn me that waltzing is considered an unsuitable activity for a lady?”

“You never expressed an interest before,” Heloise replied. “Did he suggest that you waltz with him?”

Clarissa fiddled with her veil. “Not precisely. I asked why they never played waltzes in London.” Her voice rose as her remembered anger came surging back. “Of course,
he
must surmise instantly that Princess Soltana is a loose woman, though he might at least have given me the benefit of the doubt. She is, after all, a foreigner.”

“Where men are concerned, a great deal of their conjecture is mere wishful thinking,” Heloise remarked with a knowing smile. “Ramsbury must have been thinking of Vauxhall Gardens. Quentin and I have been there. A rout or masquerade is held at nearly every week’s end during the summer months. You would have found the outing educational. Ladies and gentlemen behave quite without regard for their august personages when they’re masked and caped. The company tends to be less structured and the tone, well, a bit fast, but not exceptionally so.”

She paused in anticipation of Clarissa’s response but there was none. “Now that I consider it, I am persuaded that Vauxhall Gardens is
exactly
what Lord Ramsbury had in mind. He is known to be a bit high in the instep. I cannot conceive that he meant else. But never mind. You have said ‘no,’ and so no it is.”

Clarissa could not quite believe her ears. “You aren’t suggesting that I should have accepted his invitation?”

Heloise took her niece’s hand in hers and lightly squeezed it. “I would never presume to correct you when you are in the right, dear. If the man is odious to you, then that is that.”

The statement did not erase the suspicion from Clarissa’s mind that her aunt thought she had acted too rashly, and too prudishly, in rejecting Ramsbury’s offer. To change the subject she said, “Now that I’ve escaped from Lady Throckmorton with most of my feathers intact, do you suppose a voucher from Almack’s will soon be forthcoming?”

“One or two more occasions should do it.”

Clarissa fell silent, wondering if she would be given the opportunity to attend any more functions before Lord Ramsbury stripped Princess Soltana of her veil. She recalled the look of horror on Mr. Tibbitts’s face as he was manhandled from the cardroom, and a shiver of dread shook her.

“Are you cold, dear?”

“No,” Clarissa answered, but she pulled her evening cloak closer about her all the same. Perhaps she should seek Ramsbury out first and explain to him the reasons—however inane—for her mummery. He seemed a reasonable man and had exhibited a fondness for Lady Arbuthnott. Perhaps he could be persuaded to keep his silence if she agreed to abandon London immediately. But how and where could she arrange a secret meeting?

“Do you suppose there will be a masquerade ball at Vauxhall Gardens this Friday evening, Aunt?”

Hadrian sat with his port in a dark corner of his library. The Yiewsley Assembly had ended hours earlier. Dawn stretched pale fingers out from under the hems of the drapes, but within these walls the atmosphere would remain as shadowy as dusk unless the curtains were drawn. The penumbra suited his mood. He had bested Tibbitts at his own game, but it had been an empty victory, invoking little sense of elation.

The last hour of gaming was a blur. No details came clearly to Hadrian’s mind. He had found that was often the case in battle. A well-trained soldier did what was required. Afterward he might not remember the order of the attack nor even how he had gotten from one point to another. Yet the fact that he was alive proved he had gotten through the ordeal. Only later, after rest and peace, would the details come back.

Now that he thought it over, he could not say why he not simply declared the man a cheat when he took the cards. What had possessed him to beat Tibbitts with a double cheat?

The many congratulations first offered by the male company had gradually been tempered by the realization that at one time or another, many of them had been dupes of Tibbitts’s cheats. They had tried to make light of the fact that Ramsbury, a newcomer to the Season, could fish Tibbitts from the stream so quickly. But it only added embarrassment to their bravado. Their anecdotal tales would be much improved by the lapse of a few days. By the end of the week they would be relishing the telling of tales of Tibbitts at their own expense. Would they as easily forget that the Earl of Ramsbury had cheated to make his point?

Hadrian let his mind drift, knowing where it would go, where it had gone at every idle moment for days. To thoughts of Soltana.

What eyes she had. So expressive. So compelling. To be within her sight was to be stiff with anticipation.

In Algiers he had lived opposite the quarters of the slave girls who had been brought to market. At all hours of the day and night he could look out and see them. Beauties with sloe-dark eyes or the brightest blue, slender rounded limbs, firm high breasts, ripe hips; every color of the human rainbow—they were all represented there. Oh, how he had been tempted, beyond any temptation conceived by brothel or bawdy house. Their constant voices and songs, smiles and giggles were all subtle forms of seduction.

Nor was he rebuffed in his longing. “You like me?” they would ask shyly. “Then why don’t you buy me?” “Come, O master, and buy me!” Their plaintive cries had nearly driven him mad with desire.

Yet he would buy no human. And that was the only way he would ever have possessed any of them. Virtuous beauty was their only commodity in that sheltered world, and they knew it. It must be protected and treasured, and kept for the highest bidder.

But it was no houri’s phantom who peeked in at the edge of his consciousness this night. The woman he ached for was not a slave. She came with a free will, a sharp wit, and a body so sweetly ripe he could almost taste it.

Even now he remembered her last look, the utter surprise and then defeat. His chest still burned where she had laid her hand, her soft voice husky with emotion as she pleaded with him not to expose her. How amazed she would have been if he had confessed that he knew nothing about her, only suspected a great deal. He had been flushed with one victory and ready for another. What might she have revealed had Emory not interrupted them?

Hadrian blew a blue-gray smoke ring into the air and then watched as it drifted slowly away.

He would need to warn Emory off, and that, he knew, would prove tricky. Still, the boy must be persuaded to back away from a potentially damaging situation. Yasmin had taught him all about the treachery of women. A woman like Soltana would eat Emory for lunch and be ready for meatier fare by dinnertime.

No, she was meant for the enigmatic man known as
Shaitan
—the devil—who knew a great deal about the world of fabrication and lies.

“And so, I will have her,” he promised himself, feeling the craving for her swell in his groin with equal parts of satisfaction and vexation. The fact that he suspected her of being a charlatan only added piquancy to the pursuit. While he ferreted out her secrets, he would also indulge his passion for her.

He did not realize that he had fallen asleep until a knock on the library door awakened him. “Enter,” he called groggily and was surprised when the door opened to reveal Melsham and a hallway brilliant with the light of midday.

“A message just came for you, my lord. I would not disturb you, but the messenger awaits your reply.”

Hadrian waved him in then pulled himself upright in the wing chair that had served as his bed. The moment he unfolded the message, his senses came fully alert. There were only three words in it.

Vauxhall Gardens. Friday.

“Will there be a reply, my lord?” Melsham asked when a full minute passed without a word from Hadrian.

Hadrian lifted his head from the words now branded on his mind. “No. No reply.”

Hadrian read the final lines of the military dispatch with tempered satisfaction. Bonaparte had reached Elba on May 4. The following day Louis XVIII, invited to claim his brother’s throne, had returned to Paris and was now in residence at the Palace of the Tuileries. For the last six weeks Paris had been filled with the world’s mightiest monarchs and military leaders, drawn there to decide the fate of not only their defeated enemy, Napoleonic France, but also to redistribute a greater portion of Europe. The world was changing shape more quickly than ever before. The ravages of war, brutal and direct, were being replaced by the more subtle but no less potentially lethal game of politics and diplomacy.

A rare visitor to the Guards’ Club, established by the “Iron Duke” Wellington and the Regent for officers returning from the Peninsular Wars, Hadrian had been surprised to receive an invitation to dine with one of the club’s senior officers, Colonel Selwyn. They had shared fine food and excellent wines from the club’s famed kitchen before settling into the purpose for the meeting.

As he closed the leather-bound dispatches, Hadrian looked up at his host with new interest. “No doubt there is a reason why you’ve shown this to me, sir.” Colonel Selwyn met the younger officer’s level gaze of inquiry with a sober but steely expression of neutrality. “What is your opinion of the arrangements, Captain?”

“I would rest easier if Bonaparte had not been allowed to rule the principality of Elba. He has known what it is for the world to tremble at the sound of his name. One may wonder how long he will be satisfied as ‘emperor’ of a small Italian isle.”

The colonel’s face did not register any reaction. “What of Castlereagh’s hope for a speedy settlement of the question of Europe?”

Hadrian chose his words carefully, aware that more than idle chatter was being exchanged. “I’ve met Tsar Alexander. He will prove as intractable a personality as Talleyrand. Then there are the desires of the Austrians and the Prussians to be considered. Our foreign minister should expect that it will take more than a few days of merrymaking to allay the suspicions of years, for all the victorious armies became allies to defeat Napoleon.”

A quick jerk of Colonel Selwyn’s gray head signaled approval. “Yet diplomats seldom heed the advice of the military men who bring them to the peace table.” For the first time amusement thawed his wintry gaze. “Recent events in Paris have given the foreign minister new wisdom. He is now willing to settle for the peace treaty with France.”

Hadrian smiled. “The dispatches mention incidents where tempers have flared repeatedly during the last weeks despite the fact that Talleyrand and Tsar Alexander would seem to have settled the question of the French throne. Doubtless there is concern over King Louis’s ability to perform the job before him. He’s spent the last twenty years in exile both here and in Russia.” He paused. “If I may be frank?”

“Nothing less.”

“The question becomes, whose puppet shall Louis XVIII be?”

The colonel’s lipless mouth spread into a smile. “Exactly, my boy. The Tsar has shown himself to be a forceful leader and an able diplomat, and that rightly makes the rest of Europe nervous. The Austrian, Metternich, has proposed that an autumn congress be held in Vienna. There the victorious states will again take up the matter of the new order in Europe. He believes the passage of time should reduce tensions and allow for old alliances to reassert themselves.”

“And for grievances between old enemies to outweigh new friendships?” Hadrian suggested, thinking of Tsarist Russia.

The colonel chose another topic. “Our Regent has extended an invitation to all the heads of Europe to visit London come June. He, too, has hopes of dispersing doubts and soothing egos.”

“Does he, indeed?” Hadrian refrained from repeating the general consensus of the House of Lords, that the Regent, a host of grand gestures and great sentiments, could be unreliable when under strain. His bid to entertain so diverse a group might prove a stumbling block to progress if those august persons were insulted or felt slighted in any manner during their visit. Then, too, there was the resurgence of the Regent’s unpopularity among the people. Mobs formed wherever he went, sometimes becoming openly hostile.

Satisfied with Ramsbury’s tact, Colonel Selwyn said, “We in the War Office are as anxious as any to see that things go well. To that end, we are making our own plans. We need the services of a few discreet professionals.” He looked at Ramsbury. “Your service in the Mediterranean may be known to only a few, but it has placed you in the highest regard. We would like you to ply your skill in London for the next few weeks, providing that you can lay to rest the rumor that a duel is in the offing between you and a fellow named Tibbitts.”

Hadrian’s expression did not alter but his thoughts did. Two days earlier, outside a theater, and again this morning as he was coming out of his club just before cock’s crow, he had been accosted by strangers who had deliberately insulted him and then demanded satisfaction. Only the company of Bascombe and Chetham had allowed him to walk away unscathed the second time. He could not prove it, but he suspected the source of both attacks to be Tibbitts. Denied the right to meet his accuser on the field of honor, the man was no doubt hoping that by hiring professional bullies to hound him, Hadrian would finally be forced to issue a challenge. But that was not the War Office’s concern. “I have accepted no challenges, Colonel, nor do I intend to issue any.”

Rather than being mollified by this statement, the colonel frowned. “ ’Tis said you double-crossed Tibbitts at his own game.”

Hadrian nodded. “It is also true that I have refused all offers to redeem my honor.”

For the first time the colonel’s impassive exterior cracked a little as surprise shone in his expression. “Can you afford that position? Tibbitts is publishing abroad that it was you who cheated him, and that your friends know it.”

“I have no intention of dueling with anyone.”

Mollified by the earl’s implacable tone, Colonel Selwyn did not respond directly. That Ramsbury might be drawn into some unsavory business while acting for them had been his superiors’ main concern. But if Ramsbury could not be drawn, then the rumors would soon die. “We need you to insinuate yourself within the Russian enclave in London. You must be established by the time the Tsar arrives. I assume you have an entrance.”

Hadrian nodded. “The Countess Lieven and I are acquainted.”

The colonel’s white brows shot up. “The Russian Ambassador’s wife? Perfect! Proceed then, with all caution. We cannot tell you what intrigue to expect, but you will recognize it if it arises. Now then, shall we open another bottle of that excellent claret?”

Hadrian nodded, settling more comfortably into his chair, but his mind quickly moved to other matters. “Who would benefit from knowing our government’s plans for the repartitioning of Europe?”

“Every major ally: Austria, Russia, and Prussia.”

“Might not the Ottomans want a say in how the liberated Mediterranean coastlines are to be governed?”

The colonel leaned forward. “You sniff intrigue!” He sat back with a smug grin. “Ramsbury will have the scent, I told Castlereagh. It becomes second nature to a man who’s …”

“Been a spy,” Hadrian finished pleasantly and laughed at the man’s painful expression. “I am not ashamed of the word, though I agree it does leave one feeling less than honor bright.”

“The War Office prefers the term ‘agent,’ Captain. Now what’s afoot?”

Hadrian shook his head. “I’d rather not say. It may come to nothing.” He reached for his wine but he decided to gamble. “You may do me a favor, Colonel.”

“Name it,” the man offered with uncharacteristic heartiness.

“Tell me what you know of Lady Arbuthnott.”

“The Viscount of Arbuthnott’s wife?” The colonel’s brows met over his nose. “As I recall she was quite a comer in her day.” His weathered face eased into a mobile smile. “Yes, I remember the most vivid red—titian, really—hair and a figure—”

“Quite!” Hadrian cut in. “It’s her politics that interest me.”

Surprised, the colonel brought his gaze back to the younger man. “I wouldn’t think she has any. Most women don’t.”

“What of her husband’s sympathies?”

“Eccentric. The viscount never cared much for his own life and times. Preferred digging and mucking about in pagan lands. Now, his brother, Major General Holton, was a right ’un. Served Wellington. Died honorably, at Vitoria. There was a daughter by the name of—”

“The viscount’s politics?” Hadrian prompted, uninterested in a social history of the Holton family.

“A man of strong opinion but quite without the tact needed in politics. Too direct. Never could abide a fool.” This brought a smile of sympathy to both soldiers’ features. “Why do you ask?”

“I only speculate, Colonel. I would like a dossier to be compiled on the young woman who calls herself Princess Soltana El Djemal. She’s Lady Arbuthnott’s houseguest. I should like to know where she’s from, the date of her arrival in London, her movements before that. Whatever there is to be known about her.”

The colonel nodded. “I have heard of her. She’s known in certain circles as the Mysterious Veil, what?” He flashed his companion a lecherous smile. “You suspect that she is a spy?”

Hadrian smiled at the use of a term that he had just been chastised for applying to himself. “I suspect that she is not what she seems. If she turns out to be the garden-variety interloper come to ply her wares in London’s marriage market, I wish her well of the venture.”

The colonel frowned at Hadrian. “If she is more?”

“I will catch her before she even suspects I am on to her.”

“Very well. I will put a man on it.”

“She is not to be approached.”

The underlying steel in the earl’s voice did not escape the colonel’s detection.
There’s something personal at stake,
he thought.
Good!
When it came to dealing with women, a man who risked his own interest would be doubly certain of his facts. He had known Hadrian all his military life. If the temptations of the seraglio had not kept him from performing his duties, no brazen London baggage would deter him. “You’ve a pleasant pursuit. She’s accounted to be a prime article.”

“So gossip would have it,” Hadrian replied noncommittally. “I’m more interested in what lies hidden beneath the silk.”

So is every buck in London!
thought the colonel, but he refrained from offering the randy comment. It would not aid his own cause to anger the earl.

Hadrian glanced at the clock and then came quickly to his feet. “I must excuse myself, Colonel. I have an important engagement to keep.”

The Colonel stood and took the hand Hadrian offered. “I hope she is very beautiful.”

Hadrian smiled. “Of course.”

Set apart from the rest of London by the Thames, and lit by hundreds of gas lanterns, the Gardens of Vauxhall glowed in the evening’s dusk like a fairyland come to life. Though it was not quite dark, the avenue was lined with dozens of carriages and traps which had brought hundreds of visitors ready to pay the unusually high entrance fee of a guinea each to attend the night’s special event, a masquerade ball. A part of the throng dressed in long shapeless capes with hoods that concealed their costumes. Clarissa and her aunt entered the Gardens with a single footman as escort.

The golden glow of burning gas illuminated the Grand Walk, a long broad avenue paved in imported Flanders brick and lined on either side by huge elms in spring leaf. A long covered colonnade extended the length of the walk to offer protection from occasional bouts of inclement weather. Hanging in the archways between columns were backlit transparencies depicting rural and mythical scenes.

Having never before seen a pleasure garden, Clarissa gazed about with the rapt interest of a child. She was handed a handbill advertising a balloon ascension scheduled for the following Sunday. Another listed the pieces to be performed that evening by the concert master and famed organist Mr. James Hook. As people hurried past them toward the sound of an orchestra playing at the far end of the walk, she remembered again Lady Arbuthnott’s saying that the chief reason masquerades were so popular was because wearing a mask gave people an excuse to act on their whims, without fear of being recognized and later called to account for their actions. Why, then, had her aunt insisted on costumes that were certain to draw every eye? A little self-consciously, she twitched her cloak closed. Far from securing anonymity, their disguises were certain to attract notice when they were unveiled.

Yet no one seemed to pay them any attention. They were swallowed up in the carnival atmosphere of the other visitors whose voices rang out boisterously, buoyed by the carefree laughter of mischief set free.

At the end of the Grand Walk they came upon the Naumachia. The sounds of cannon volleys were heard. Then over the heads of the crowd Clarissa caught glimpses of fire and smoke. “What on earth, do you suppose, that is?”

“ ’Tis the Sea Battle Enactment!” Heloise cried into her niece’s ear as the level of noise grew. “Mock battles take place in an artificial lake where ships are burned and sunk. Such noise and stink of gunpowder. An odious display that would please only the vulgar. Come along, child.”

Vulgar or no, Clarissa was greatly disappointed to be denied the sight and allowed herself to be steered away with reluctance.

“Now, listen carefully,” Heloise continued as she threaded an arm through Clarissa’s. “I shouldn’t want you to become lost. The Gardens are divided into four parallel walks: the Grand Walk, the South Walk, the Hermit’s Walk, and one which you must not enter. That is the Dark Walk, sometimes referred to as the Lovers’ Walk. Dearest, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Aunt,” Clarissa answered but her attention had been diverted to a building labeled the Pavilion of Concord, where a sign promised “allegorical devices” depicting the wonders of the world. “Can we not go in there?” she asked.

“We would then miss the Cascade and fireworks,” Heloise replied. “That is the only reason I allowed you to persuade me to come at all. I wish you would have allowed me to mention our outing to Lord Ramsbury. He would, I’m certain, have offered his escort. As it is we are quite without masculine company, apart from Gooch,” she said, referring to the footman who walked a few paces ahead of them to part the crowd. “How will we waltz when I don’t recognize a single soul? Not one!”