The Black Mask (8 page)

“I don’t know,” Beringer snapped, his face dirty and sweating. “I don’t concern myself with their problems.”

A certain crest caught the quick-moving eyes behind the mask. Quickly, he scooped up the case. Flipping it open, he saw the miniature of a sweet-faced girl, hardly sixteen, with round eyes and a soft mouth, done in ivory with diamonds around the frame. “Bella Fortescue.”

“It’s not my fault the silly wench drowned herself,” Beringer said sulkily. “I told her no one would find out if she kept her gob shut. S’not as if she were pregnant. I told her no one would know she wasn’t a virgin if she didn’t tell ’em.”

“But she was in love with William Perry and couldn’t face him.”

“Silly wench. She could have got her hands on the Perry fortune. Enough for all of us in those pockets. But: she had to go drown herself in the Serpentine. Fat lot of good that money does me in the grave.”

‘You are unspeakably vile, sir.” It was so much his own thought that for an instant, Niles thought he’d spoken aloud. Then he saw the duchess in the doorway. He scowled. He had been embarrassed almost beyond bearing when he’d returned in his persona of the Black Mask to confront Beringer, having confirmed as Sir Niles that Beringer was indeed the blackmailer who, rumor whispered, had long preyed upon society. For some reason, probably his own sense of the romantic, he’d expected Beringer’s next “client” to be some young woman in trouble. But to come back and find a woman, well known not only to the world but to his own family, had been almost enough to make him save Beringer’s exposure for another evening.

She entered with the same confident bearing she’d shown earlier. “Good evening, Black Mask. I’ve heard of you.”

He bowed, afraid his voice would give him away.

Looking toward the fireplace, she sniffed. “A grand auto-da-fe of the evidence, I see. No matter. Perhaps it’s just as well.”

“Your own are burnt as well,” Niles said hoarsely.

“Excellent. If you hadn’t, I should have had to.”

“Is that why you came back?”

“No. Magistrate Howe is rousing his minions and has promised to meet me here.”

“He won’t find anything,” Beringer exulted. “That one is too clever for his own good. There’s no more evidence.”

“I believe my unsupported word should be enough. If I, with my name, stand in the dock and proclaim that you attempted to extort money from me by threats of exposure, you’ll be lucky to be transported. They might even hang you.”

Beringer’s cheeks were pale as uncooked pork, but he tried to bluster. “You wouldn’t dare! You’d be ruined.”

The duchess gave the ringing laugh that had, more than anything else, made her the toast of London in her day. “Ruined? I? I have been ruined and redeemed a dozen times. Didn’t you ever hear how I was abducted at nineteen and not returned for a week? Or that my second girl bears far too clear a resemblance to a certain cardinal now living in Rome?”

Beringer’s eyes were avid even through his fear, obviously plotting how to use this information given so freely.
“You
don’t dare expose yourself.”

The duchess looked at him dispassionately. “I am very old, Mr. Beringer. They can’t hurt me now. As long as my daughter and grandson are safe,
I
don’t care what anyone says about me. They’ve said it before. You, however, should care.”

“What’s to stop me telling the world about your precious grandson? If I’m ruined, he’ll go down too!”

Niles took the man by the lapel and shook him as a cook shakes a jelly bag. “Speak civil, rot you, or you’ll never live to stand that trial.”

Behind him, the duchess spoke softly. “Tell about my grandson and you’ll stand convicted out of your own mouth. The jury won’t even leave the box. And then you’ll hang by your bull-like throat until you are dead. I’ve seen dozens of hangings. Fat men seldom break their necks. Their friends come and pull on their legs until they die. Have you any friends, Mr. Beringer?”

Beringer subsided into a moaning lump.

Ignoring him, the duchess touched Niles on the arm. “You’d better be off. Magistrates are not imaginative men.”

“Dunno what you mean.”

“I mean twice now you have discovered rather obscure men to be nothing less than criminals. Once might be accidental; twice begins to look like good staff work. I think if I had a guilty conscience, I would start locking my windows more carefully. Not to mention concealing any incriminating evidence beyond the cunning of mere man.”

“Dunno what you mean.”

“Of course not. Nevertheless, you have done me and mine a good turn this evening. I should hate to see your gallant career end on the scaffold next to that miserable object. So take this plunder and be gone.”

Niles looked down at the piles of jewelry boxes. “Will you take charge of it all? See it returns to its owners.”

“You
don’t want it?”

Niles shook his head. “Being a lady, you can give ‘em their baubles back and not a soul the wiser. Maybe there’s some wives who’d like to have their old necklaces back without their husbands knowing. Me, I’d have t’drop ‘em off in the post, and they’re a disreputable lot.”

Some dismay shown on the duchess’s face. “I shall need a satchel to transport it all, but I accept your commission on the understanding that you leave at once. It’s not at all safe.”

“I don’t like to leave you with him,” he said, flicking one finger toward Beringer. The man quivered as though under a lash.

“Never mind about him.” With a little difficulty, for the hammer kept tangling in the lace, the duchess pulled a small pistol from her dainty reticule. “I don’t like to shoot things, but I assure you I am quite capable of doing so.”

Niles escaped out the window just as the rattle of heavy boots came over the threshold. He cocked an ear and grinned when he heard the duchess say, “You certainly took your time about it. I’ve had time to stand off him and a dozen like him.”

Half an hour later, Sir Niles Alardyce, a little less neat than usual, left the stable mews shared by the dozen or so young men of fashion who dwelt in the square. To all appearances, he’d either been saying good night to his horses or arranging the use of them in the morning.

When he entered his chambers on the second floor, he all but tripped over his man, asleep in a chair. “Letter for you, Sir Niles,” he said, sitting up suddenly and blinking owlishly at the candle his master held.

“Letter? You’re dreaming, Baxter. Go to bed.”

“Never on duty, Sir Niles.” He shifted in the armchair and pulled a white square of paper from between the cushions. “Here, sir. All present and correct. The bloke what delivered it intimated there was a lady waiting on pins and needles for an answer.”

Though permitted considerable freedom of expression by his master, Baxter knew a sore point when came to Sir Niles’s reputation with the females. Unlike the other gentlemen’s gentlemen’s masters, Sir Niles never confided either triumphs or disappointments to his valet’s sympathetic ear. Frequently, he knew only of the beginning or termination of an amour when told the particulars by one of his colleagues. This naturally injured Baxter’s pride.

By the judicious offer of beer, he’d solicited the name of the lady who had sent the letter. But Miss Rose Spenser didn’t sound the sort of female Sir Niles usually chose for an inamorata. No, Baxter didn’t care for what he heard from the footman. Miss Rose Spenser sounded like the sort of girl a man like Sir Niles married, and Baxter liked holding bachelor household. “Women,” he frequently averred while lifting a pint, “women get
into
things.”

‘Very well, Baxter,” Sir Niles said, reading the script “Get to bed, man. I’m rising at six to ride with Buzzy Harbottle in the Park.”

He read the note with close attention, weighing each word. What could she know of his activities as the Black Mask? Nothing. He dismissed the idea she’d somehow divined his secret. He read the note again. No. Whatever she wanted to discuss, it wasn’t that.

Later, sitting by the window, he moved the window curtain aside. He didn’t know which was Rose’s window. For all he knew, her bedroom was at the front of Lady Marlton’s house and didn’t overlook their gardens at all. Yet often, especially late at night, he would look toward the other house, wondering if Rose were also sleepless.

Niles pondered whether he should call on Rose as she asked or if it would be safer to send some excuse. Something about her made him want to do foolish things, an unneeded distraction at this time in his life when he was so close to completing his vengeance.

When he’d come upon her in Lady Fitzmonroe’s unreal garden, sitting there with her eyes closed like a goddess awaiting her worshippers, it had been like a dream. And, as in a dream, he was free to do what he most wanted to do. Fortunately, they’d been interrupted before he could commit any foolish act.

Niles found it difficult to analyze why Rose Spenser, of all women, had this effect on him. True, she was lovely. Her clear, porcelain skin, brightened by pink cheeks, was set off by rich curling hair, almost coffee-colored. Yet beauty alone had never interested him. As much as her appearance, her candor charmed him. Her sweetly serious eyes looked at him so straightforwardly. Too many girls simpered and were either naturally shy or told to be so by their mamas. But Rose looked right at him and did not approve, it seemed, of what she saw. That had pleased his taste.

At the same time, however, he had to admit she seemed to lack fire. She disapproved, but coldly. Just as well, perhaps. If Rose possessed honesty, beauty,
and
passion
,
he would be doomed to love her. As matters stood, however, he flattered himself he was safe. She came nearer to being his ideal than any woman he’d ever met, but he would not settle for only part of his dreams.

Niles fell to thinking of the raid on Beringer’s house and of his near apoplexy when the duchess walked in. By a lucky chance, what had seemed an unexpected complication turned out to be an asset. He had always intended to deprive Beringer of his foul livelihood, but had been reluctant to expose him publicly. To do so would cause all sorts of revelations. Nile had no wish to ruin people. That meant, of course, that Beringer would be free to collect again all his interesting facts. But if the duchess really would prosecute him ... Sir Niles, for one, would not desert her. Nor, if his influence had any value, would the
ton.
Old scandals didn’t, as a rule, interest people much, he knew. There were all too many fresh ones to be discussed.

In the morning, Niles rode with Buzzy Harbottle, usually a reliable lightning rod for any gossip going. “I say,” Harbottle said in greeting, “I’ve had a very bright thought. Dashed if I wasn’t awake half the night thinking it over.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense, old boy,” Niles said, mounting his restless horse. The gelding tried to fight him. Niles turned him in a tight circle, getting him under control.

“That beast of yours will have you off in a minute.”

“Not him,” Niles said, patting the proud bay neck. “He’s just eager for a canter.”

“Don’t know why you keep a creature like that in London. He’s more suited to the High Toby than a respectable gentleman’s mount.”

“Don’t you know? When the play goes against me, I take to highway robbery. A man needs a fleet horse under him when the bullets are flying past his ears.”

Buzzy looked at him with some doubt. Then he grinned. “I never know your mood, Alardyce. Sometimes I would take my oath you are not joking.”

Niles let that pass. “What’s your bright thought?”

“Eh? Oh. It’s this. Occurred to me at midnight. Best hour of the day for thinking, that is, ‘specially if you’ve had a drink or two.”

“And what jewel of thought did your binge bring forth?” Niles asked, amused, as the silence stretched. The wide streets were quiet except for a few early morning riders and a few late-to-bed revelers still in evening dress. It was actually possible to hear a bird sing in one of the pocket-sized parks they passed.

“Well,” Buzzy said diffidently. “You know m’sister’s holding this masquerade next week. Don’t approve of ‘em as a rule; too likely to turn into orgies.”

“Orgies? I must attend more of your sister’s parties.”

“Don’t mean that,” Buzzy said with a blush. “But romping, kiss-in-a-corner, torn laces. That sort of thing.”

“Buzzy, I never knew you were a poet.”

The inarticulate peer blushed harder but persevered. “Not the thing, and so I told her. But she’s got a maggot in her head that she’s to outdo Lady Fitzmonroe. Frankly, all the ladies are half mad with jealousy after last night.”

“It was a remarkable exhibition. I hate to think what it must have cost.”

“Oh, Fitzmonroe’s pockets are deep enough to stand the nonsense. Wish I had half his income.”

“Hard up?”

“Damnably. That’s the other benefit of my idea. Won’t cost a thing ‘cept for the loo mask. I imagine one’s man can dye a pair of old inexpressibles black.”

Miles caught a hint of Buzzy’s bright idea and started to grin. ‘You aren’t planning to attend dressed as the Black Mask, Buzzy?”

“Why
not?” Buzzy said defensively. “Ain’t all the girls mad about him? More than ever after the other day. I think I’d make quite a hit.”

“Yes, you would. You and the twelve other geniuses who are likely to think of the same disguise.”

‘You don’t think there’d be that many, do you?”

“Cheer up. The more of you who dress alike, the more fun you’ll have. No girl will know which man kissed her.”

That reminded him of Rose and a kiss not taken. He stared forward, between his horse’s ears. “What day is your sister’s party?”

“Wednesday next. Do you want an invitation?”

“Would she have me?”

“My dear fellow, she’ll jump at the chance. Ain’t your usual thing, though. Company won’t be what you like.”

“I hope I don’t hold myself above whatever company I find myself in.”

“No, ‘course not. You’re not high in the instep, and so I’ll tell m’sister.”

Niles rode on, controlling his horse automatically with knees and hands. A half smile played about his mouth as he thought about the risk he would take and the possible rewards. Of all the things the Black Mask had stolen, nothing would ever be as sweet as one kiss.