Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (20 page)

“Not you, Clarie. Saturday marks the end of your year of mourning. You are free, dearest, to take Princess Soltana’s place in the earl’s regard and pursue it to its natural conclusion.”

The shock of her aunt’s pronouncement left Clarissa momentarily speechless. It had not actually occurred to her that she might remain in London as Mrs. Clarissa Willoughby, widow. “It cannot be done. Everyone will guess at once.”

Heloise smiled at her. “You are so naïve, child. People see the veil of Princess Soltana when you enter a room, nothing more. Remove the veil, they will not think to look for her. You have changed remarkably in the six years you have been away. You have changed even more in the short six weeks we have been in London. You have blossomed and grown. Men are fascinated by you, when two months ago you had despaired of your ability to please even your own lost husband. I have seen how Lord Ramsbury looks at you. Whenever you are in his presence, it’s as if his life’s breath depends upon keeping his eyes on you.

“Don’t turn missish and protest that you have not noticed. Nor, as a Holton, do I expect you to dissemble over your own feelings. Since you’ve had the remarkably good sense to attach your feelings to the man, you must have the courage to see it through.”

Clarissa had no intention of concealing her feelings any longer. “How easy you make it sound when the exact opposite is true. If Lord Ramsbury’s feelings are engaged, they belong to Princess Soltana. I cannot very well walk in as a new personality and snatch him from her.”

“Of course you can. Ladies do it to one another all the time. Throckmorton has never forgiven me for taking Quentin from her clutches.”

“You’ve mentioned it before. Were they once engaged?”

“Certainly not! I could never have been attracted to a man who found Letticia to his taste. Yet she had ‘expectations.’ They were neighbors, you see. But Quentin didn’t give a devil’s care for anyone’s expectations besides his own. You will likely find your earl is similarly inclined.”

“This is different,” Clarissa maintained. “I could not respect Lord Ramsbury if his love is so inconstant that it can be easily transferred. I would rather he hate me for deceiving him.”

Lady Heloise regarded her niece in considering silence. What a web of impossibilities the girl was spinning for herself by using her head instead of her heart! The Age of Reason had done a great disservice to Romance, she decided.

“If you want consistency and regularity in a man, my dear, you should seek a Platonic relationship with a monk. I understand they are ruled entirely by habit and higher consequence. If you want Lord Ramsbury, that passionate-natured young Blood who thinks a shade too highly of himself, then you may have him by showing him that you, in whatever guise, are exactly what he needs!”

“I shall never marry again.”

Heloise smiled. “In that case, things are much simpler. Take him as a lover until you tire of him. Now, finish your tea. I’ve packing to do.”

Hadrian decided, not for the first time, that he hated opera. It was not that he detested the music. He enjoyed a few of the individual arias and duets. Yet they were a small portion of the hours of singing and dancing that comprised the usual fare. Nor was he immune to the seductive charms of the numerous young female ballet dancers. On the whole, the music was preferable to the rest of what constituted the ritual of “attending the Opera.” The crowds, noisy and straining through opera glasses to see who was attending and with whom, often left the serious opera lover at his wits’ end to even hear, let alone enjoy a performance.

But that was not what made him restless this night. Soltana was missing!

He had never been so enraged or frustrated or offended in all his life as when he called on her the day following the afternoon she had visited his home and been told that both ladies had left London, instanter. Further inquiry had provided the news that Lady Arbuthnott had gone back to Surrey after expressing the fear of losing her jewels to the thief who was stalking the London
ton.
A spy, in the form of a Ramsbury footman, had been dispatched to Surrey and brought back word that the viscountess had traveled alone. So where was Princess Soltana?

He began to drum his fingers on the gilt arm of his chair. A full week had passed, and he was no nearer to finding her than the day she disappeared. His contacts in the War Office had proved next to useless. There was no record of an entrance visa being issued to Princess El Djemal, though that would scarcely have prevented her from entering the country. Strangely, his contacts would neither prove nor disprove her connection to the Crown, nor were they very forthcoming even about its probability. But none of that mattered in the face of her disappearance from London.

Unconsciously, Hadrian sighed. He had been prepared for every eventuality but this one. Soltana had left him without a note or word or any sign that would soften her desertion—for he considered it no less than that. A second, longer sigh escaped him.

“You are weary, my lord.” Countess Lieven, wife of the Russian Ambassador, Count Andreievitch Lieven, placed a gloved hand on Hadrian’s sleeve as they sat in one of the royal boxes. “I fear the company bores you.”

“Not at all, my dear countess,” he replied, speaking French as did all the Russian court. Under cover of darkness, he lightly covered her hand with his own, a gesture meant to be reassuring, nothing more. “I am afraid that other matters occupy my mind. Matters of state.”

The fragile lady beside him leaned close so that those who shared their box would not overhear her.
“Mais oui,
it is but very fatiguing to share the society of so many lofty and powerful men. This week alone Tsar Alexander has seen Congreve’s fireworks in Green Park, visited Vauxhall, been a guest at a musical gala at the King’s Theatre, toured the British Museum, the Royal Exchange, Westminster Abbey, Hampton Court, and Merton.
Enfin!
This leaves unaccounted the many dinners, suppers, and assemblies to which the Tsar has given his attendance. For myself, I am thoroughly worn out with the efficacy of Office.”

“I would never think to call a lady a liar, my countess,” Hadrian countered, his smile as flirtatious as her own, “but I would challenge any gentleman who dared to suggest that you are anything other than the most radiant beauty in the house.”

She squeezed his arm possessively. “Always you say these things to me when we are in company. Yet you are strangely reluctant when we find ourselves alone. One would think,
mon beau
earl, that you were shy with the ladies. But with my own eyes and intuition I cannot believe this of one so robust, so manly of form. Your feelings are, perhaps, engaged elsewhere,
n’est-ce pas
?”

He nearly countered the suggestion with a flattering denial, yet something made him say, “I would it were not so, my lady.”

“Ah, you are discreet, then, and not shy.” Her hand remained compellingly on his arm. “Tell me about her,
chéri.
Perhaps I shall aid your suit, providing she is not too beautiful and you are not too much in love.”

Hadrian chuckled in admiration of her very unBritish way of looking at life. “Lady Lieven, you may be the only woman in all of England who could help me.”

“Then tell me more,
mon ami,
and quickly. I have grown but terribly bored with the cares of princes and states.”

“You may have heard of a new young lady in town by the name of Princess Soltana El Djemal.”

“The Barbary Princess, but of course!”

Hadrian turned a startled gaze on her. “You know her?”

“She was introduced to me. I believe her guardian hoped she would receive an invitation to Almack’s. Who does not,
mais qui?
Is she your little
chère amie?”

“I was some taken with her,” Hadrian hedged, wishing now he had kept silent. “But, it seems the lady has bolted.”

“Bolted? Ah, I understand. She has run away from you, yes? Poor Earl, you must have frightened her very much. You tried to make love to her. Do not deny it!”

Hadrian experienced several sensations, all of them uncomfortable. “I assure you, I did nothing which could be construed as—”

“Shame on you!” She cut his speech short with gentle but mocking laughter. “You men are all the same, stamping and stomping about. You frightened her,
mon beau
earl. A lovers’ quarrel. She will come back. I give you my word on it. How could she not, now that she knows what it is like to be in your arms?”

This bit of womanly thinking offered no shred of hard fact but it pleased Hadrian all the same. “Thank you for your considered opinion, Countess.”

“But of course! Now you may amuse me. I have heard enough about your
chère amie
and grow jealous.”

In that moment, Hadrian understood why the Ambassador, unlike many husbands, welcomed his wife’s company in public. Not only was she beautiful and lively, but she possessed tact and the good sense to know when to change a topic. “There comes to mind a most amusing tale of Louis XVIII. But, then, you will have heard it.”

“What of that? Tell me,
mon beau
earl. The antics of the new French king offer the Tsar much diversion. His Excellency is responsible for the buffoon’s presence on the throne but will the gross Bourbon own up to it?
Non!”

Hadrian launched at once into the tale, aware that her diatribe on the ungratefulness of the French monarch would draw the attention of those who shared the box, and this respite from talk of politics would be lost.

“He ate them all?” she questioned when the earl was done. “None for the ladies?”

“I have it on very good authority from General the Duke of Wellington himself. Not one other guest at dinner had so much as a single strawberry.”

Countess Lieven laughed gaily. “No wonder his subjects call him
le cochon.
To eat the entire dessert himself. What greed!” She tapped his arm with her fan. “Now, do you not feel better,
mon beau
earl? We have a saying in my country which touts the virtues of wine and laughter to ease a man’s mind.”

He arched a brow. “I thought there was a third item.”

She smiled beguilingly at him. “Another time,
peut-être,
when we are alone, you must recall what it is.”

Smiling in acknowledgment, Hadrian turned his attention back to the stage. Duels with words might be infinitely preferable to cold steel, but a man stood to lose his head just the same, if he was not very clever and very careful.

She was back!

Hadrian directed his new mount at a spanking pace down the avenue toward Holton House. His spying footmen had brought the news at daybreak. A young lady had arrived at the Holton residence just after dark. She was alone but brought several trunks with her. The man had not seen her face clearly yet had plainly heard the butler address her as “lady.” He was arriving half an hour earlier than the usual afternoon visitor, but he wanted to see her alone.

Soltana was back!

Whatever the reason for her sudden bolt, she had returned. She would explain, and then
he
would explain a few things of his own, like the fact that he was claiming the right to know her whereabouts from now on, that he meant to be with her as much as propriety would allow, and that—Emory be damned—he would not have her flirting with any other man.

His heart beat a little faster as the house came into view. He had dressed with care. His Hessians were mirror-bright and his chamois breeches fit so well a study could have been made of his musculature. His sage-green tailcoat was double-breasted with a fine row of gleaming brass buttons marching up the broad expanse of his chest. His top hat was brushed and the brim rolled to perfection. The selection of the enormous bouquet of roses settled in the crook of his left elbow had been personally supervised by him. This was a special day in his life, and he wanted to look his best.

He was surprised to find that his hands shook a bit as he tied his horse to the hitching post, and it made him smile. He felt like a boy inside, a quivering aspic of desire and anticipation. He had faced mortar and shot and bayonet and never been quite this nervous. Perhaps that was because there was no training for a man in love.

“Lord Ramsbury,” Potsman greeted him neutrally in answer to the earl’s knock. “You are expected?”

“No, but I believe the lady of the house will see me. She is in?” A frown of doubt pleated Hadrian’s brow. He had left his spy at his post, to warn him if the lady should decide to leave before he arrived, but something might have happened.

“I shall see, my lord,” Potsman answered. He moved to allow the earl entrance saying, “If you will be kind enough to wait—”

“I’d rather not,” Hadrian said quickly and shifted the bouquet he carried. “It’s a bit of a surprise, you see. If you will but give me the lady’s direction.”

Potsman’s mouth formed a perfectly straight line, but he merely nodded, then indicated the opposite door.

Hadrian wondered what she would say, if the first moment would betray her joy at seeing him again. He gripped the door latch forcefully but found himself opening the door and entering as softly as a thief.

She stood at the window gazing out into the street. Had she seen him arrive but was too shy to greet him? A little of his nervousness dissolved. How sweet she looked. From the back all he could see was her smartly stylish lavender gown with a deep flounce at the hem. This was new, a demure silhouette unlike her more alluring clinging silks. The bonnet that covered her hair was deep and wide brimmed, something that his sister Jane might wear. But for all that, he could feel the joy radiating through his body. She was back.

After casting his flowers on a chair, he crossed the room, thinking only of seeing her, holding her again. He came quickly up to her, his hands finding her shoulders and turning her about as he said, “Thank God, you’re back!”

The young lady in his arms gasped in surprise and blinked, her gaze quite void of recognition.

The first thing he noticed was that she no longer wore a veil. The second that was she seemed less than thrilled to see him. Then she spoke. “Do I know you, sir?”

The voice! Something was different about her voice. It was crisper, and the vowels were different, more British.

“Soltana, you’ve removed your veil,” he said, but his gaze was traveling over her face for signs of recognition that would not come. The eyes were very similar, a soft purple-brown shade, but less compelling than Soltana’s. Or was it only that the absence of kohl made them seem less mysterious?

She reached up and gently but firmly disengaged his hands from her shoulders. “I believe I understand. You have mistaken me for someone else.”

“The devil I have!” But again there was that disconcerting tone in her voice. And something more. He had seen only Soltana’s brows and eyes in full daylight, yet he would have wagered that Soltana’s nose was a bit retroussé. This nose could only be called aquiline, though not sharply so. “You are Princess Soltana, are you not?”

She frowned at him and something familiar tugged at him, but it was not a recollection of Soltana.

“I am sorry, but I am not. My name is Clarissa Holton Willoughby. I am Lady Arbuthnott’s niece.”

When she held out her hand to him, a smile of polite reticence on her face, he took it, registering inconsequential things. She offered him a slim, gloveless hand with nails filed into smooth halfmoons. He had never noticed Soltana’s nails but suspected they were much longer, for he distinctly remembered her nails digging into his shoulders as he made love to her at Vauxhall.

“I have never heard mention of you before,” he said, holding her hand when she would have drawn away. How fast her pulse beat. Who was she?

“I would not doubt it, … sir?”

“Ramsbury,” he supplied a little testily. “Hadrian Blackburne, Earl of Ramsbury,” he added to emphasize his anger at her playacting.

To his astonishment she dropped at once into a deep respectful curtsy. “Forgive me, my lord. You should have announced yourself at once. You will have come to visit my aunt.”

She withdrew her hand from his and pulled loose the ribbon that held her bonnet in place. When she lifted it off, she revealed clusters of curls which framed her face and softened the contours. “I was about to go out, but that can wait. Won’t you have a seat? I’m afraid I have disappointing news. My aunt has left town. A seat, my lord?” she offered a second time.

“I shall stand,” Hadrian answered, jogging his brain for other points of comparison. After the initial shock he was beginning to realize that she was not Soltana. They were much alike, but much different. Soltana had never curtsied to him nor, he suspected, had she ever given much thought to his comfort, as in offering him a chair not once but twice. Yet this lady reminded him strongly of someone. Who was it? “Why did your aunt leave London?”

“I do not know. I thought you might. You must be a very close friend to have free run of my aunt’s house.”

Hadrian blushed and glanced at the closed doors, wondering if Potsman was standing by on the other side just in case his intercession was needed. “I meant to play a trick on someone.”