Fragile Mask (7 page)

‘
You’re piqued, Hawk, that’s all. Too used to having your
own way in these matters, and you can’t abide to lose.’

Denzell looked round at him. ‘Is it that? Did I imagine it
then?’

Osmond raised his brows. ‘Taking this a mite seriously,
ain’t you, Hawk?’

‘
Am I?’

‘
Come on, man. What is it to you, barring a trifle of fun
and gig? You’re as bad as Unice, laying some fanciful notion of
your own on the girl’s head. Face it. She’s a handsome piece, but
cold. That’s all there is to it.’

‘
No, it isn’t,’ said Denzell with decision. ‘I know what I
saw. She’s acting—wearing some kind of public mask. Only look at
her. How could any female remain indifferent, being so feted and
fawned over? It’s unheard of.’

‘
It don’t sit well, I must admit,’ mused Osmond. ‘What do
you mean to do, then, if you won’t join the throng?’

Denzell grinned. ‘Draw her attention, of
course.’

‘
Ha! Playing that game, eh? A bow and a smile, and not a
word said, in the hopes you’ll pique her vanity. It won’t
work.’

‘
You’ve tried it, of course,’ returned Denzell on a
sarcastic note.

‘
No, but I’ve seen you at it. I know you, Hawk. But I’m
telling you. This time it won’t work.’

Denzell remained unconvinced. If he was right, if Verena
Chaceley was presenting a façade to the world, then it was
incumbent upon him to find a chink in her armour.

He bided his time, waiting until the crowd about her
thinned a little, giving meanwhile his attention to the elegant Sir
John Frinton—blue silk tonight with silver lace at his
waistcoat—who, having paid his respects to the beauty, wandered
close by apparently for the sole purpose of twitting his junior
slyly.

‘
Do you believe her to be aware of your absence, my dear
young friend?’

Denzell cocked an eyebrow. ‘By “her” you
mean...?’

‘
Come, come, Hawkeridge, do you take me for a
fool?’

‘
No, sir,’ said Denzell, laughing. ‘But I’m damned if I know
how—’

‘
I should imagine the whole room must know how, my
dear boy,’ chided Sir John. He added, as Denzell, looking rather
startled, glanced round, ‘No, no, you will not find them
advertising their interest. But if you do not wish the world to
know where
your
interests lie, then you must become
more master of your eyes, my friend.’

‘
Chaste stars, but how can I?’

Sir John’s smile grew. ‘She is very beautiful.’

‘
In this case, sir, I find the word inadequate.’

‘
But it is a surface beauty,’ continued the elder man. ‘Or
don’t you think so?’

Denzell met his eyes, a frown in his own. Was he being
quizzed? Had Sir John also seen beyond the veil of that polite
serenity?

‘
I don’t, sir,’ he said bluntly. ‘And I mean to seek what
there may be beneath it.’

A soft laugh came from the aged exquisite. ‘I wish you
well. Though the odds, I fear, are against you.’

‘
I care nothing for the odds, as long as it is not Miss
Chaceley who is against me,’ retorted Denzell, grinning.

Sir John glanced across to where Verena could be seen
listening with an air of attention to Mr Cumberland’s ponderous
speechifying.

‘
I imagine you must inevitably receive a welcome if you were
to rescue her from our poet, poor girl.’

But Denzell had no intention of rescuing Verena Chaceley.
He had quite other plans in mind. When at last he moved in her
direction, he did not look at her, but kept his gaze on Mrs
Peverill instead, who had risen from her chair and was weaving a
slow path through the room, chatting with a number of
acquaintances.

As he passed close to where Verena still remained seated,
with now both Cumberland and Martin Yorke vying for her attention,
Denzell paused in his way, turned his head and looked her full in
the face quite suddenly.

She caught his eye, and blinked, but her features did not
alter. Denzell gave her his most dazzling smile and nodded a
greeting. She gave him a slight inclination of the head.

Before she could turn
away again, Denzell averted his own gaze and continued on his
way.

He had reached the circle containing Mrs Peverill before he
dared to glance back to see how his treatment of Miss Chaceley
might have affected her.

Deuce take it, but she looked quite unconcerned!

The statuesque vision was speaking to Mr Yorke, her gaze
concentrated upon the old man. Piqued, Denzell turned to greet the
mother with an excess of enthusiastic charm.

‘
May I introduce myself, Mrs Peverill? Denzell Hawkeridge. I
am staying with the Ruishtons. I was fortunate enough to meet your
daughter a few days since.’

Pasty features looked up at him, gaunt and shadowed. The
woman was shockingly ill. Frail, too, if he was any judge. But she
answered him readily enough.

‘
You have met Verena? She said nothing of it to me.’ A smile
came, echoing the look he originally saw in Verena’s face. ‘I have
heard of you, Mr Hawkeridge, if only tonight. One does, you know.
So few newcomers in a place like this. Not that we
are...’

Her voice faded, and she seemed to sway a little. Denzell
put out a hand, catching at her arm to steady her.

‘
May I see you to a chair, Mrs Peverill?’

But the Master of Ceremonies, Mr Tyson, bustled up. He was
a dapper gentleman of middle years, with a respectful manner that
diminished a trifle the air of self-importance that he assumed from
his position in the town. This, his attitude seemed to say, was
peculiarly his own task.

‘
Mrs Peverill, allow me. You should be keeping your bed,
ma’am.’ He shook his head at Denzell, including him even as he
ousted him from the lady’s side. ‘She is not in the best of health,
not at all.’

Tucking the lady’s hand into his proffered arm, Richard
Tyson guided her towards one of the sofas that were ranged about
the sides of the room, chattering as he went. Denzell watched them
go, and then glanced back at Verena. She did not appear to have so
much as moved a muscle. She had not even noticed! Perhaps Osmond
had indeed gauged her correctly. Such an apparent carelessness of
her sickly parent argued a lack of feeling, as well as a cold
heart.

Chapter Three

Verena, for all her apparent unconcern, was acutely aware
of everything that had passed. Aware, and indignant. What was his
design in seeking out her mother, she would like to know? How dared
he flash that look at her as if to censure her for not taking
better care of Mama? Or did he suppose that she had not seen that
piece of byplay? Little did he know.

No doubt he would be astonished to learn of her mastery of
a particular art she had acquired over the years. Had been obliged
to acquire it. Swift and unremarked were the glances cast from
under her lashes, and from the corner of her eye she was well able
to note the whereabouts of anyone she chose. She had mastered this
secretive trick from sheer necessity. Heavens, but had she not had
her back to the wall for as long as she could remember? Had anyone
informed old Martin Yorke, for instance, that his listener, seeming
to be looking directly in his face, was in fact checking quite
other places, she was sure he would not have believed
them.

At home she had never entered a room without a swift and
comprehensive glance about, and had always taken care to sit where
she might slyly observe the room and the doors. How else could she
have fathomed Nathaniel’s moods?

She caught herself on this thought. Reverie in public was
too dangerous a pastime. She could not afford an instant’s
relaxation of her extreme vigilance. Besides, she did not wish to
think about Nathaniel. She did not wish to think about Mr
Hawkeridge either. But his antics—accosting Mama in that manner and
evidently embarking on the vaunted flirtatious campaign by ignoring
her—were forcing him upon her notice. She tried to ignore him in
return and put her wayward attention back on Mr Yorke.

‘
Pity you were never in India, Miss Chaceley. You would have
liked it extremely, I am persuaded.’

‘
I am persuaded I should, Mr Yorke,’ she agreed, although
she scarcely took in the sense of his words.

‘
Why, we had splendours never dreamed of in
England.’

The wheezy voice droned on, but Verena found that she could
pay no more heed to it than was needed for the interjections she
could make that would keep him content. For one thing, she was
carefully assessing Mama’s condition, and for another—much to her
chagrin—was keeping track of Mr Hawkeridge’s progress about the
room.

Ah, but that would serve him out. He had been accosted by
Mrs Felpham. Grim satisfaction settled in her breast, and she eyed
the old nabob with an air of interest, only to find that Sir John
Frinton had appeared behind him.

Verena permitted the ancient roué one of her marginally
warmer smiles. She liked Sir John. He had an acerbic tongue, and he
did not pay her fulsome compliments, allowing an appreciative glint
in the eye to speak his admiration.

‘
Are you boring on again about India, Yorke?’ he demanded on
a weary note. ‘How tedious of you. Poor Miss Chaceley is
glassy-eyed.’

Verena put a dismissive hand out to the old nabob,
nevertheless saying, ‘Your stories are most interesting, Mr
Yorke.’

‘
My dear Miss Chaceley, don’t encourage him,’ protested Sir
John in an under-voice as the wheezing old man wandered away. He
sat himself down in a chair beside her. ‘Now then, Miss Chaceley,
to some serious business.’

She looked an enquiry. ‘Yes, Sir John?’

‘
You are sought after, my dear.’

‘
Indeed?’

He laughed. ‘You need not sound so disinterested. I am not
speaking of the plethora of tedious old men—myself excepted—who
constantly badger you for attention.’

Verena’s expression did not change. ‘You are speaking of Mr
Hawkeridge.’

‘
Ah, so you have noticed.’

‘
I am neither blind nor inexperienced, Sir John. Besides, I
have already been approached by the gentleman himself. I think he
will not long waste his time on me.’

A knowing gaze watched her. ‘Is he wasting his
time?’

‘
Yes,’ she said, ‘but that is his privilege.’

Sir John’s brows rose. ‘Why, this is truly hard-hearted,
Miss Chaceley.’

‘
I truly hope so.’

‘
Do you indeed?’ The aged exquisite laughed. ‘I
wonder.’

He glanced about the room to locate Denzell, and Verena
with difficulty refrained from looking towards the precise spot
where she knew him to be standing. He was engaged with the
Ruishtons in close conversation.

A little pulse beat a trifle unevenly in her veins all of a
sudden. Had she seen aright? Did Mr Hawkeridge cast a quick glance
across at her then? She had the distinct impression that he had,
and an eerie sensation followed. She was under
discussion!

‘
Denzell,’ Unice was saying low-voiced, ‘did Mrs Felpham say
anything to you?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing beyond pointing out how lovely
Miss Chaceley looks tonight—as if I had not already noticed. She
must have searched the warehouses to match so perfectly her hair
colour with that gown.’

‘
Never mind that,’ said Unice, brushing aside the
unimportant matter of dress. She was herself, as always, discreetly
fine, cleverly drawing attention away from the bump below the waist
of her simple gown of Canterbury seersucker, with a fancy Cabriolet
bonnet perched on her dark curls.

‘
Mrs Felpham has certainly said something to me,’ she
declared. ‘And I should think she has said it to everybody else
also, judging from the veiled remarks that have been passing
around.’

Denzell cast another glance across to where he could see
Verena talking with Sir John Frinton. ‘That must be what Sir John
meant. What is being said?’

‘
It seems that Miss Chaceley has pre-empted you,’ she told
him in a hushed voice.

‘
What do you mean, Unice?’

‘
She went to see Mrs Felpham that day you met
her.’

‘
And?’

Unice sighed. ‘She made it very clear, so Mrs Felpham says,
that she was not going to succumb to your charms.’

‘
So that is why she has been invisible.’

‘
And,’ pursued Unice, ‘Verena must have intended that Mrs
Felpham would see to it that the whole town knows.’

‘
Ha!’ uttered her husband. ‘Spiked your guns,
Hawk.’

‘
Has she indeed?’ said Denzell softly.

Once more he looked over at Verena. She appeared to be
listening to what Sir John was saying, if not intently—for who
could tell what lay behind that expressionless face?—at least with
her full attention.