The Black Mask (4 page)

“My word.” Aunt Paige laughed a little. “How perfectly ghastly.”

“Wonderful thing, isn’t it?” Rose slipped it again onto her middle finger.

“It’s the ugliest piece of jewelry I ever saw, except for the Queen of Naples’s diamond tiara. The woman had no taste. She would have loved that ring.”

“If I am ever in Naples, I’ll make her a gift of it. It bears the name of a queen.”

“Does it? Which one?”

“I mean, it’s called Queen. In Indian.
Malikzadi.”
She slipped it off and handed it to her aunt. “It’s large enough to make you a bracelet.”

“I wouldn’t have it as a gift,” Aunt Paige said, holding her pretty hands up. “You keep it. Maybe it will be your good luck charm. Did you say it’s worthless?”

“Not worthless, precisely. Sir Niles said ...” She closed her mouth instantly, but wasn’t quite quick enough.

“Sir Niles? Sir Niles Alardyce?”

Rose nodded resignedly. Was she to suffer another paean of praise to the incomparable, inimitable, insufferable Sir Niles?

“Whatever was he doing at an attorney’s office?”

“He said Mr. Crenshaw had long been his man of affairs.”

“Poor man must keep very busy if he is directing Sir Niles’s affairs.”

Though she was very fond of her socially adept aunt, Rose did not like it when she gave vent to one of her sophisticated little laughs, leaving Rose with the feeling that she was a very ignorant and foolish girl indeed. Many older women laughed like that, with a cynical intonation that made Sir Niles’s irony seem like sweet-tempered enthusiasm. She wondered if she would come to laugh like that when she turned forty.

“I confess I don’t like Sir Niles very much,” she said. “But he doesn’t seem like a libertine.”

“The most talented ones never do, dear heart. But never mind. Did he see this?” She pointed to the ruby.

‘Yes, he examined it.”

“And pronounced upon it? A coup! Why, there are ladies by the score who have attempted to entice Sir Niles into looking at their gawds—usually while resting upon their bosoms. That man must have looked into more crevasses than a Swiss mountain guide.”

‘You like Sir Niles yourself, Aunt.”

“I confess I do. There’s something about a very cold man. The challenge, I suppose. Oh, well. He’s years and years too young for me.”

“Are you going to marry again, Aunt?”

“Inquisitive, aren’t you?” Aunt Paige smiled mysteriously and fluttered over to Rose’s wardrobe. The room she’d given her niece was far quieter than Rupert’s, which looked right onto the street and was filled with noises from the call of the knife grinder to the bone-shaking rumble of delivery wagons drawn by horses with feet the size of pies.

Rose’s room looked out over the back garden, a quiet, hardly used space except on sunny days, when the staff would take a few moments to lift their faces, like so many sunflowers, to the rarely glimpsed sky. Rose missed the blue sky over her home. In London, the air was too often tinged with the yellow stains of fog and coal smoke.

In fact, the only drawback to this charming, airy room was that the garden marched down to meet Sir Niles Alardyce’s brick wall. His garden, while not as beautifully tended as Paige’s, served as a continuation of hers, so Rose had several hundred feet of nearly uninterrupted greenery to admire. She did admire it, except when she looked out her window to see Sir Niles taking the air. Then the view was spoiled.

While Aunt Paige romped happily through her new dresses, Rose sat down to cleanse her face and hands in a basin. “What is going forward tonight, Aunt?”

“The opera, my dear, and then Lady Fitzmonroe has had the most diverting notion. An
indoor
picnic. She’s turned her ballroom into a sylvan glade, if you can believe it.”

“Sounds charming.”

“Complete with a stream! Everyone will be copying her, mark my words.”

“And are we all to dress like milkmaids?” Rose asked, drying her face.

“No, no. It’s not a masquerade. There hasn’t been a decent masquerade yet this year.”

“That reminds me. Aunt, have you heard of the Black Mask’s latest escapade?”

“You mean the prime minister?
Your
admirers were full of nothing else. Of course, being men, they all think the Black Mask is nothing but a rogue with imagination.”

“What do you think?”

“I?” For a moment, Aunt Paige peeked around the open wardrobe door, her cap askew on her still golden hair. “If I were a young girl again, I should be lost in daydreams of such a dashing fellow. As a staid matron, however, I should naturally deplore the whole business, but I can’t quite bring myself to do so.” She giggled like a girl. “What do your friends think?”

“That he is Robin Hood come to life again. But I told them one gift to the poor does not a Robin Hood make. Besides, I’m sorry for poor Miss Stonebridge. What a horrible way to find out about your lover.”

“Better she should learn now than after they’ve taken their vows. I understand Mr. Stonebridge has threatened to horsewhip Curtman when he’s released from the magistrate’s. One of your admirers—they all do look so alike, Rose!—said bets are being taken that Curtman will flee the country. Apparently, no odds are offered he’ll do the honorable thing.”

“What honorable thing?”

Again Aunt Paige’s head popped out. “Suicide,” she whispered, like a ghost.

“I wonder if that would make Miss Stonebridge feel better or worse.”

“Here,” Aunt Paige exclaimed. She stepped into plain view, waving a gown like a flag of triumph. ‘You shall wear this!”

The cream-colored silk was embroidered all over with green leaves in a shimmering thread. The square neck was outlined in deep green velvet ribbon, which was echoed in a triple row around the hem. “And flowers in your hair. Roses, I think. Pink roses. They’ll look vastly sweet peeking from your dark curls.” Lady Marlton squinted at her niece, visualizing the prospect. “My dear, you’ll charm the birds from the trees.”

“Lady Fitzmonroe imported birds for the evening?”

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised. She’s a frighteningly thorough woman.”

As she unpinned her curling hair, Rose thought of Rupert. “Aunt, aren’t you going to ask Rupert to escort us?”

“I already did. He’s made some engagement with a party of friends. But you needn’t worry. I asked Mr. Dickson to be so kind. He’ll call for us at eight.”

“Mr. Dickson?”

“Forgotten one of your admirers already?” Aunt Paige teased. “Well, with so many of them ...”

“Which one is he?”

“You met him at Almack’s. Tall, slightly graying, about forty, I suppose. He made his fortune in the City, but his mother was a de Matelet. So he’s quite eligible.”

“Aunt...”

Aunt Paige pushed a footstool close to Rose and sank down on it gracefully. “Older men make very secure husbands, my love. A trifle boring, perhaps, but one always knows where they are. But if you prefer the young and dashing, why not take Colonel Wapton?”

“He’s not precisely young. He must be as old as your Mr. Dickson.”

“But certainly dashing in his uniform.”

Rose sighed. She’d known this moment would come and had decided to be both frank and determined. “Aunt, I appreciate your interest on my behalf. But I have no scheme to marry any of these estimable gentlemen.”

“Why not?” A slight frown creased her forehead and was instantly rubbed away. “Pray don’t tell me you are stuffed full of ridiculous notions about marrying for love.”

With becoming meekness, Rose looked away. “I made sure you of all people would be sympathetic to my plight.”

But Aunt Paige caught the note of stifled laughter.
“You
thought nothing of the kind, minx.” She pinched Rose’s cheek.

Then Rose did laugh aloud. “I can’t say I have too many ridiculous notions,” she said when she recovered. “But I cannot bring myself to consider marriage only in terms of economics.”

“As is only right. A young girl shouldn’t consider such matters. Properties, jointures, pin money ... these things are better left to fathers. Let them sprout gray hairs while the women go mad buying bride clothes.”

“I agree. However, I am a banker’s daughter and my blood runs true.”

Aunt Paige looked curiously at her niece. “Do you wish you had been born a boy so you could have been a banker yourself?”

“Not at all. Being a woman has so many benefits that I can hardly cavil at those inconveniences that go with it.” She toyed with her silver-backed hairbrush and comb. “I know perfectly well there is no other suitable path for me but marriage. I don’t burn to reform the world, Aunt, but if given a choice, I should like a marriage that is more than a merger of two equal properties.”

Aunt Paige shook her head but seemed pleased. “Well, that sounds more practical than foolish. A girl must have her dreams, but she must consider her future very carefully.” Aunt Paige patted Rose’s knee. “I made up my mind when I invited you to come to London that you’d not go home without a promised husband. Your mother, as you know, cannot interest herself in finding you a husband at this time. If you put it off much longer, you’ll be on the shelf through no fault of your own.”

“A terrible fate, to be sure.”

“Yes, it is. You’ve no notion.”

“After delaying my debut for two years, I have a very good notion indeed. Last year was the dullest of my life. I vowed when I came to London I’d be gay to dissipation, and so I intend.”

“Excellent. The best way to find a husband is to search for one. He won’t come climbing through your window, you know. Not unless you intend to marry the Black Mask!”

Aunt Paige stayed to gossip and to direct her own maid in the dressing of Rose’s hair. Rose nodded and laughed in the right places, but her thoughts were busy. Though she disavowed all romantical fancies, the truth lay somewhere between illusion and reality. She cherished her dreams of finding and marrying a man she could truly love, but had long ago learned not to speak of them. Dreams, she found, withered faster than rosebuds in winter when scorn or rough humor followed their telling.

She liked her indulgent, fashionable aunt very much, yet feared too much exposure to her cynicism would kill her dreams for good and all. Rose didn’t believe that she could marry for love alone. Too many kindly and practical people were watching out for her interests. Besides, she would never marry to disoblige her family. She would choose a good, sensible man and hope his admirable qualities would spark the tenderer emotions in her heart just as everyone promised. “Love comes with time,” seemed to be the refrain she was to take to heart.

Meanwhile, no one could prevent her dreaming of her hero, some man who dared all odds like a knight of olden days, who would face dragons for his lady and win her heart in the moment of his victory. Rose knew these were only dreams that could never come true, yet they were very sweet. She couldn’t surrender them just yet.

Lady Fitzmonroe’s inspiration more than fulfilled its promise. Banks of newly opened flowers filled the air of the ballroom with the thousand scents of spring, while the cleverly improvised stream made rippling music in sweet counterpoint to the orchestra. The musicians and, indeed, all the servants were dressed like yeomen, having put off their powdered wigs and knee breeches for the evening. The butler wore a disgruntled expression when he’d opened the door, obviously not relishing his smock and trousers.

Rose had danced with half a dozen men before she’d had a moment to herself. She’d sent off her latest partner to fetch her something to drink. Now she sat alone in a quiet nook, enjoying with deep breaths the scents of jasmine and lily that surrounded her. She was a trifle too hot after her exercise and idly waved her fan, eyes closed.

Some sixth sense told her she wasn’t alone. ‘Thank you for ...” she began. Then she opened her eyes and recoiled slightly. “Oh, it’s you.”

Sir Niles bowed. “At your service again.” He offered her one of the champagne flutes he held.

‘Thank you, Sir Niles. But Mr. Dickson has offered to bring me refreshment.”

“When his dowager grandmother called him to her side, he delegated the delightful task to me.”

She couldn’t leave him standing there like a servant proffering a glass. She took it, strangely glad she wore gloves so their fingers did not actually touch. Rose remembered the strange sensation she’d had when he’d taken her hand in Mr. Crenshaw’s office.

“You’re not wearing your ruby,” Sir Niles commented. “I thought you’d be eager to show it off.”

“I hope I have better taste than that.”

“I hope so too,” he said under his breath.

Rose wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. It wasn’t like the punctilious Sir Niles to mutter.

Politeness bade her ask him to sit down. He accepted and sat beside her in silence, also most unlike him. Surely etiquette demanded he make some comment on the weather.

“A charming notion of Lady Fitzmonroe’s,” she said, doing her duty. She sipped the champagne and managed not to make a face. Accustomed by now to the bubbles and the drying effect on her mouth, she was still striving to get used to the taste.

“All this?” he asked, pushing aside a stray sprig of jasmine that seemed to want to tickle his face. “It seems a lot of effort for something that will fade by tomorrow afternoon.”

“But surely any effort is worthwhile if it creates such beauty. It reminds me of the late queen of France’s Petite Trianon. Not that I ever saw it. But my father did, a few years before the Revolution.”

“So did mine. A pretty piece of make-believe. Lady Fitzmonroe has done very well, considering she hasn’t the entire resources of France at her disposal. We might be deep in the middle of the country, no one around for miles.”

“Except for the orchestra,” Rose reminded him. She had never seen Sir Niles in a sportive mood. She wondered if anyone ever had. She also wondered if that was his first glass of champagne. But surely so famed a gamester couldn’t be fuddled by any amount of champagne.

“Played by talented sheep, perhaps? Bows held in their little black hooves?”

“And harps plucked by their curly little horns,” Rose said, entranced by the image.