Sharon Sobel (30 page)

“My good man! The heat is nearly insufferable! I—”

“Even so,” came the evasive answer, spoken with a great deal of authority. “Is there a place I may talk with the boy?”

“Why, yes. There is a small anteroom just there. Is that adequate?”

“I daresay it is. Come, boy. And be quick about it. I am engaged for the next three dances.”

Ben Queensman slapped Lark’s shoulder a little too energetically as he handed the guard a coin with his other hand. Once the man retreated to his post, Mr. Queensman pushed her past the row of statues, muttering something about their inappropriateness for a young boy’s eyes.

She knew he was angry, and knew he would be even more so if her journey proved ill founded. What did she know, after all, but that something was to occur this night?

Perhaps the king expected a shipment of dissected puzzles with which to entertain his guests. Perhaps Mr. Queensman already knew what was amiss, if anything.

Once inside the room, he closed the door and turned to confront her. She thought she saw his expression soften, but realized it might be nothing more than the wish of her imagination.

Suddenly he reached for her and pulled the offending little cap off her head, releasing her loosening braids. He said nothing, waiting for her response, teasing her with his fingers in her hair.

She did not speak at first, but responded by lifting her hands to his face and lifting the mask from his eyes.

“I believe I have just unmasked Robin Hood,” Lark said softly. “Am I right?”

“Indeed you are, my lady. A Robin Hood unmasked is only at risk of his life. But I have just unmasked Lady Larkspur, and much more is at stake.”

“What might it be?” Lark asked, melting to his touch, his words.

“Why, her reputation. ‘Tis a fragile situation when a lady dons trousers and passes herself off as a boy.”

“It was not intended to be provocative.”

“And yet it is,” he said, and before she knew what he was about, he lowered his head to the neck of her shirt. She looked down, and too late realized the buttons against her breast had become undone and Ben Queensman was kissing the flesh revealed above her corset. She reached up to grasp his neck to support herself and pressed against him. Forgetting her desperation and sense of urgency, she was compelled by emotions of another sort and gave herself up to him.

Suddenly he leaned back and gazed down at her in amusement.

“I do not think you risked your reputation merely to seduce me. Nor do I imagine the furnishings of the Pavilion sufficient inducement to steal into the king’s palace. What is it, then, my lady? A new masquerade? Has the other finally bored you?”

Lark blinked uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then pushed herself away.

“You knave!” she whispered. “I have come to warn you of danger, of matters of great importance.”

“Concerning Lady Larkspur’s health? I already received that message, and I suspect she will live through the night.”

“Then she will have better luck than our king!”

The look of astonishment on his face provided nothing but the highest satisfaction.

“You had better explain yourself, my lady.”

“So I shall, if you are quite finished molesting me.”

“I—” he began and then apparently thought better of it. “What do you know?”

Lark saw his concern was real, and felt largely vindicated of her doubts. Ben Queensman would not take her seriously if he did not already have some secret knowledge, some suspicions.

She told him what she knew, as fragmented and speculative as it was. She mentioned Mr. Siddons by name, prompting a knowing nod, and implicated Colonel Wayland, which seemed to take him by surprise.

“I must away, Lark. There is no time to waste.”

“It is as I thought. I am coming with you.”

He had already turned towards the door, but she managed to stop him in his tracks.

“You will not. We are dealing with dangerous men.”

“I have already proved my worth in an emergency.”

“And you could have been killed. Do not think I am willing to risk it again.”

“My safety is not yours to risk, sir. You would do well to remember that.”

He sucked in his breath, looking angrier than she had ever seen him.

“As your physician, I order you to remain where you are, in this room.”

“You have already absolved yourself of that role. It has no merit.”

He suddenly reached for her, and Lark knew if it were any other man she would expect violence. But there was only desperation in the kiss he gave her, and he released her almost at once.

“There remains only one claim I might have on you, and I fear it may not have merit enough for you either.”

“I cannot judge if you will not tell me.”

“I would ask you, as the man who loves you more than his own life, not to do anything to risk yours. Will you accept that, true and simple?”

But he did not wait for her answer. With just the briefest gesture of running his finger across her cheek, he turned from her and ran as Robin Hood might, quickly and stealthily, from the room.

L
ark rose unsteadily to her feet. She had received other declarations of love, of course. Lord Dunlop once professed great passion as they stood together in the protective embrace of an arbor. His sentiments were very fine, but he ruined the effect by having a sneezing fit. Undaunted, he continued his suit in the safety of his father’s great hall.

The Duke of Kelsford once accosted her in the privacy of a little hunting lodge, to which Lark had retired after an active day of riding. She thought his words very flattering.

Two years ago, she received a pretty proposal at Almack’s in a suite that might have been designed for that very purpose.

And Hindley Moore, the scoundrel, had approached her in the moonlight, surrounded by the heady scent of her mother’s prized dahlias.

Great romantics all, and yet their currency proved false.

So perhaps she ought to regard in an entirely different light a pronouncement of love delivered on the run by a costumed man to a boyish young woman. Worse—a young woman already determined to be a liar and a schemer. And worse still—a young woman affianced to the man’s cousin.

There must be merit in it; how could there not?

Lark put her icy hands up to her cheeks, but found little comfort there. She ought to feel the heat of passions long suppressed, but instead felt only a chill at her heart, infecting her spirit. Why would Mr. Queensman risk honor and reputation by declaring himself unless he thought it would not matter?

And why should it not matter?

Lark then knew why this profession of love felt truer and stronger than anything she had ever experienced. There was danger inherent and imminent, and the very real chance that her lover would not need to answer for himself on the morrow.

If there was danger, she must help him, for she had every bit
as much to lose as he. In any case, she knew a good deal more than she ought about this evening’s events and could provide a real service of the sort genuine boys might be asked to do for their country.

Buoyed by an absurd sense of heroism, Lark glanced one last time at the walls of the room in which she had been held a voluntary prisoner. They were very stylish, very well painted, exactly the sort of thing a young lady might enjoy if she had nothing else on her mind.

Lark laughed out loud and felt the warmth returning to her body.

As she stepped into the hallway, she realized there was yet another, perhaps more important reason why Mr. Queensman’s earnest plea might be received with greater trust and gratitude.

That is, of all the men who had ever romanced her with adoring sentiments, Mr. Queensman was the only one she loved with equal reckless abandonment.

Though not dressed in the livery of the king’s palace, Lark thought it advisable to look as if she belonged to the household, and so she scooped up a discarded tray from a table and walked purposefully down the hallway, very much as if she were one of the serving boys. She did not bother to formulate answers to the questions she might receive if anyone saw her, nor did she wonder if she might be accused of stealing the royal silver. She only felt she would improvise as she must and make her way closer to Ben Queensman as she did so.

She rounded a corner into yet another formidable hallway and could not help but wonder if Colonel Wayland’s informants had managed a dissected map of the Royal Pavilion. The place seemed a veritable labyrinth, asymmetrical and redundant, its gaudy rooms distinguishable only by colors and themes. Twice Lark entered a masterpiece in red brocade and thrice confronted her own image in the same series of mirrored panels. The situation seemed quite hopeless.

When she passed a porcelain peacock of very recent acquaintance, she stopped and laid her tray at its bright yellow feet. Perhaps her hearing might prove a more valuable instinct than her faulty sense of direction to lead her to Ben
Queensman’s side. She remained very still and closed her eyes, attempting to absorb every sound in the Royal Pavilion.

“And here is a young man who might be persuaded to help us, or else pay for it,” snickered a deep, hushed voice.

Lark could scarcely hear another thing but for the beating of her heart. She remained with her eyes closed as she nursed the absurd hope that the man might be speaking of another boy in the general vicinity.

But hope proved in vain, as an ungentle hand clasped her shoulder and pulled her around.

“Boy, are you deaf and—” The voice broke off and the hand fell away.

With herculean effort, Lark opened her eyes, and was as surprised to see her assailant as he must have been to recognize her.

“The lady Larkspur, I presume?” Colonel Wayland, uncommonly spry, bowed with mock deference. “I must confess I am astonished by your costume. An excellent performance, would you not agree, Siddons?”

Gabriel Siddons stood with arms akimbo, regarding Lark with a leer and making a great point of allowing his eyes to roam up and down the length of her body. He did not even bother with mock deference.

“I expect you were aware ladies owned legs, were you not, Mr. Siddons?” Lark asked nastily. “Or do you, like your uncle, find my performance astonishing?”

Mr. Siddons grinned wickedly. “It is not so much the fact you possess legs that makes your masquerade fascinating. It is much more that they are apparently useful to you.”

“I cannot begin to—oh!” Lark blushed very much like a girl.

“Allow me to congratulate you on your rapid recovery, my dear. I would like to give some credit to the good Dr. Queensman, but I fear we may not see him for some time.” Mr. Siddons gave a great sigh and looked up towards heaven. Lark felt ill. “No matter. Perhaps I overstate his role in this affair. He seems to have other things on his mind, and you—you may not have been as weak as you pretended to be.”

“A lady is never deceitful,” Lark lied.

“But you, my dear, do not seem to be much of a lady.”

He held up his hand as she began to protest. “And, in truth, my tastes run to women with wicked ways.”

“Is it because they are so much like yourself?”

Colonel Wayland laughed. “She has got you there, boy!”

Mr. Siddons made a great show of looking insulted. Then he started to advance upon Lark, backing her into a corner. So close to his person, and unable to turn away, she could smell the rank odor of salt water and sweat upon him.

“How much do you know, pretty boy?” Mr. Siddons asked softly. “Did you come to the Pavilion out of curiosity—for some errand for your lover?”

“Lord Raeborn?” Lark stood up to him and tried not to breathe deeply. “I saw him not three hours ago.”

Mr. Siddons laughed. “You have fooled me about several things, pretty boy, but your relationship to Lord Raeborn is not one of them. The man would be a fool to marry you when he would be cuckolded ere the wedding trip was done. I once fancied you myself, before I saw how things stood between you and Queensman.”

“There is nothing between us.”

Siddons made a grunting noise. “Just as well, for you would be bound for disappointment. No matter; I shall make it up to you. For I have just realized I fancy you still, even dressed as a boy.”

Before Lark realized what was happening, he pressed her against the wall roughly and started kissing her. She cried out against his mouth and tried to push him off her, but he was a good deal stronger than he looked.

When his hand went hurtingly to her breast, his deeds finally met with other protests.

“Come, man, there is time enough for this later. We must complete our mission before someone spreads an alarm.” Colonel Wayland pulled his nephew away. Lark would have expressed her gratitude, but he would not meet her eyes.

“What, old man? Are you impatient to have her as well? There may not be enough of her to share when I am finished.” Mr. Siddons straightened up, making a great show of flattening the wool fabric of his breeches. Lark, recently wise to such matters, knew exactly what he demonstrated.

“I will remind you it is a grievous offense to rape the daughter of a peer,” Wayland said, with no attempt to gloss his words.

“And I will remind you we are in this for far worse,” Siddons said, looking briefly at Lark. “If we accomplish our mission, who will care about Lady Larkspur? Perhaps she will be forced to marry me. Then she could play the part of the grieving widow when I pay the ultimate price at the Tower. She is very good at playacting, you remember.”

“I shall not be a very convincing widow if I am forced to kill you myself,” Lark shot back.

Siddons grabbed her again and pressed painfully against her.

“Come, my boy—”

“I think you should listen to your uncle, Mr. Siddons,” Lark said, striving for some level of composure. It remained her only defense.

“My uncle?” Mr. Siddons laughed nastily. “Perhaps you are not as well informed as we feared, pretty boy. For, you see, we are quite capable of some subterfuge as well. Colonel Wayland is no more my uncle than you are an invalid. Nor is he a colonel.”