The Marriage Wager (36 page)

A tremor went through him. He was afraid that was no longer possible. And he was even more afraid, because—he clenched his fists—because it was no longer what he wanted.

He thought of Emma as he saw her a dozen times a day—sitting at the dining table, speaking to one of the servants, walking briskly along a corridor on some household errand, bending over one of the estate documents that he shared with her. She had made his house a place he longed to return to. She had made his life something far more than the bleak round of duty he had contemplated on the boat coming home.

He thought of their days at Trevallan. She had listened to the worst he had to tell and never drawn back. He thought of the odd circumstances of their original meeting, and how easily it might never have happened at all. And he remembered other times—how she responded to his touch with such ardor and tenderness that it made his breath catch to think of it.

This was love, Colin realized. This rich, complicated web of feelings that occupied his whole soul was the love that he had given up hope of ever finding less than a year ago. He shook his head dazedly. He hadn’t understood. He had thought love came in one great sudden swoop. But it was far otherwise. Parts of it had indeed emerged as soon as he met her—the passion, the laughter. But others had come more gradually, adding one to another until he finally, belatedly, reached this moment of revelation.

This was why he hadn’t confronted her, Colin saw. What he wanted was not the details about Orsino. He didn’t care a snap of his fingers for the man. He wanted Emma to love him. He wanted her to turn to him and tell him she was in love with him, as he was with her.

Colin drew a shaky breath. She had never claimed to love him, never promised to love him. He, blithering idiot that he was, had specifically excluded love from their agreement. He had no right to expect love.

But he wanted it.

She had drawn away from him recently. What if she wouldn’t come back? The possibility was more frightening than any battlefield he could recall. Colin Wareham, who had faced countless cannons and bayonets and lances in his life, sat rigid in the moving hack. He couldn’t bear any more losses. And the loss of Emma would be a catastrophe beyond any that he had so far endured.

Colin bared his teeth. He wouldn’t lose her, he vowed. He would fight his way through any obstacle. He would take the risk. And the time—as much time as necessary. He would destroy this Orsino, and anyone else who dared threaten Emma, and he would show her what it meant to love.

The driver knocked on the roof of the cab. “Here you are, guv,” he said.

Becoming aware of his surroundings once more, Colin climbed out and paid the fare. He would say something to Emma tonight, he thought, make some beginning. Then he cursed softly. The damned masquerade was tonight. He checked the watch that hung from a fob on his waistcoat. He was late. She would already be dressing for the wretched thing. Frowning, he walked through the front door of the house. Tomorrow, then, he decided. By then, he would most likely be able to tell her that Orsino was gone. That would make a good beginning, he concluded with satisfaction. And his campaign could go on from there.

“I look silly,” complained Colin a little later that evening, as Emma made a final adjustment to his costume for the masquerade and stood back to judge the effect.

“No, you don’t. You look very dashing and romantic. Here, let me just…” She straightened his shirt collar at the back. “There.”

Colin wore loose trousers of pale buff cloth tucked into his own high riding boots. His white shirt was also loose; it had an open neck, showing the bronze column of his throat, and broad, billowing sleeves. Emma had just finished tying a dark blue sash around his waist, letting the ends trail rakishly, and inserting a sheathed dagger in it at a jaunty angle.

“You’re the very picture of a noble Turkish gentleman,” she added.

“And you are, what?” he replied, running his eye over Emma’s unusual garb.

She looked into the long mirror behind him with a satisfied smile. Sophie had outdone herself when offered the challenge of creating her costume. Though it was actually a normal silk gown, it was so carefully cut and hung with scarves that it looked like a collection of multicolored, diaphanous veils fluttering around her body. A piece of actual veiling covered her hair, bound across the forehead with a glittering riband. “Why, I am a member of your harem,” Emma laughed. “A mysterious lady of the East.”

“You are extremely pleased with yourself,” said Colin, sounding puzzled and a bit strained.

“Well, you
have
trousers,” countered Emma. The truth was, she was in a state of nervous exaltation, anticipating the dangerous events of the night to come. The day appointed for Orsino’s elimination was upon them, and she was finding the whole thing unreal—like a story or a dream. Or rather like the few times when she had drunk too much champagne, she thought. She felt giddy, reckless, and slightly sick. She was doing her best to mask her jangled state with superficial gaiety. “Come,” she said. “We promised to fetch the Nettletons in our carriage.”

As they walked downstairs together, they encountered many more servants than usual as staff members lurked about pretending to work at important tasks and actually hoping to catch a glimpse of their costumes. In the front hall, a small, murmuring group of footmen and maids had assembled. “What the deuce?” wondered Colin. Then the group shifted, and he added, “Good God!”

Ferik awaited them near the door. He wore baggy pants of bright red gathered in at the ankle over low leather slippers. His upper torso was bare except for a jeweled and brocaded vest, revealing his massive muscles to all observers. On his head he wore a turban, fastened at the front, just above the center of his forehead, with a gold pin in the shape of a coiled snake. The snake’s green eye glinted ominously above the heads of the smaller Englishmen.

“You’re just like a storybook,” Nancy the maid cried shrilly. “I keep expecting you to say, ‘Open, sez me’ and pull a genie out of a bottle.”

“Be quiet, Nancy,” said Clinton.

“I look like a palace eunuch,” complained Ferik in response, drawing a piercing giggle from Nancy.

For the first time in the history of their association, Colin gave him a sympathetic glance.

“I would never wear such things as this at home, mistress,” Ferik continued.

“Well, no one knows that,” replied Emma ruthlessly, “and you look splendid.”

“It is not dignified,” muttered the giant.

“Do you have a heavy cloak?” asked Emma, as if he hadn’t spoken. “You will be cold without a shirt.”

“Yes, mistress,” Ferik replied resignedly in his deep, resonant voice. “I am always cold in this cursed country,” he murmured to himself.

Colin raised an eyebrow.

“And your mask?”

Ferik nodded.

“
That
will make him unrecognizable,” commented Colin. “We may as well leave ours at home, Emma. Everyone in London knows Ferik by this time.”

Emma went pale.

“Though in the crowd these masquerades attract, who knows?” Colin added. “I have heard the costumes are quite fantastic.”

She relaxed a little.

“I will stay in the shadows, mistress,” murmured Ferik, bending so that no one else heard him. “I will not be recognized.”

Reassured, Emma followed the two men out to the carriage, where Ferik swung himself up beside the driver as they got in.

After picking up their friends, they proceeded along the dark streets to the Pantheon, where the masquerade was already under way. As planned, they met the rest of their party outside and, safely masked, went in together.

Tom guided them directly to the box he had reserved, which was in the second tier—well above the rowdy floor of the building, but low enough so that they could easily observe the scene. An attendant took their wraps, and they spent a few minutes fulfilling their obligation to admire one another’s costumes.

Tom had come as a pirate, in an outfit rather like Colin’s. His wife was Marie Antoinette; she wore a brocaded satin gown with huge panniers that she had unearthed in an old trunk and an elaborate wig that added almost a foot to her height. The Nettletons were ancient Romans, though Victoria Nettleton seemed to be highly distrustful of her long, draped toga. Every few minutes she would jerk its folds as if she was afraid they were falling off. The fourth couple—Freddy and Liza Monckton—had dressed as Romeo and Juliet, even down to a doublet and tights for Freddy, which made him the focus of a good deal of raillery from the other men. “You’ve let down our side, Freddy,” Tom insisted. “Don’t you remember we drew the line at tights?”

Freddy, who was known to be much under the influence of his beautiful new wife, simply grinned good-naturedly and ambled over to investigate the refreshments laid out on a side table.

Emma saw that Ferik was settled in a dim rear corner of the spacious box, then took her seat and looked out over the huge room. The scene spread before her made her draw in her breath.

Tiers of boxes circled the wide floor, filled with groups like their own, some in costume and others wearing regular evening clothes and masks. They chatted together, leaned out to watch, and drank wine from stemmed glasses, forming an animated frieze around the perimeter of the great room. But the truly amazing sight was the dancers, who filled the floor to bursting. There, milkmaids whirled in the arms of multicolored Pierrots, queens partnered pirates, Egyptian princesses danced with Spanish grandees. Some of the costumes were shockingly skimpy, and as Emma began to notice details, she realized that the standards of behavior were extremely loose. Gentlemen leered and ogled; given any encouragement, they fondled breasts and limbs left bare for the purpose. Revelers continually approached those in the lowest tier of boxes and tried to lure them out for a bit of dalliance. Often, they succeeded, though Emma did not believe they were necessarily acquainted with the boxholders. It was a wild melee, a twirling pinwheel of color and animated faces lit by a thousand candles. The air was heavy with conflicting perfumes and the musky odor of unwashed bodies. Voices rose to a muted roar. Emma grew slightly dizzy observing it all.

“Do you want to try a dance in that mob?” Colin asked.

“I think I would rather stay here and watch,” she said. “It is like a play.”

“Indeed. Rather like the one we saw the other night, though with more harmony amongst the players.”

She laughed.

Colin brought her a glass of champagne, and they drank and ate and talked with their friends, pointing out to one another particularly interesting costumes or incidents in the crowd. Tom tried to persuade his wife to dance, and was repulsed. The Nettletons did venture down, and returned looking disheveled to report that it was a madhouse. Some unknown person had actually pinched Victoria.

The hour drew closer to midnight, and Emma felt her body tightening with tension. She continued to gaze out over the room, responding more and more mechanically to the others’ sallies. It was almost time to put her plan into action. Now that it was here, she didn’t quite believe that she had concocted this scheme. But though her hands trembled a little, her resolution did not waver.

She was about to rise when her eye was caught by something familiar in a box across the room. A woman sitting there wore a black gown trimmed with bunches of ribbon and embellished with a unique bell-shaped sleeve. Emma did not have to see the golden hair and pouting pink lips beneath the mask to identify Lady Mary Dacre. A groan escaped her lips.

“What is it?” asked Colin.

“There’s… I saw someone I know,” Emma answered.

“Who?”

“Someone who should
not
be here.”

“Who?” Colin tried to follow her gaze, but it was impossible to pick out any one person in the crowd.

“It’s better not to say. Perhaps no one will find out.” A male figure in black was seated next to Lady Mary. It was difficult to make him out against the dimness of the box, but she was certain it was Count Orsino. No one else would bring Lady Mary to such a place. “Damn him,” she murmured under her breath. This complicated her plan considerably. She would have to make certain Lady Mary was not left alone in this unsuitable place, and was taken home after Orsino… disappeared.

“I beg your pardon?” said Colin, bending toward her.

“Nothing.”

He looked at her, unconvinced.

It was time. She had to move now if she was to be in position, no matter what the complications. Emma rose and excused herself, knowing the others would assume she was going to visit the ladies’ convenience. As planned, Ferik slipped out after her, silently and discreetly, and they made their way down the inner stairs and along a corridor that bordered the main room. It too was filled with raucous revelers, but Ferik’s hovering presence discouraged any of them from accosting Emma.

Ferik took the lead. He had been here a day earlier to examine the building and find a spot he considered suitable for this fateful meeting. He led Emma past two small rooms that held a few masqueraders and into another, smaller one that was empty.

Emma looked around it, evaluating the place she had appointed, sight unseen, for her meeting with Orsino. It was not a salon. It appeared to be a kind of storage room for broken chairs and torn draperies. Emma found herself thinking that the Pantheon must have many of both, and realized that she was trying
not
to think of what was to come.

“I will stand here,” said Ferik quietly, stepping into a deep shadow cast by the open door. “He will not see me until it is too late.”

Emma nodded. She clasped her hands together to hide their trembling and walked into the center of the room. The chamber was lit by only two sconces. Most of the light came from the hall, thrown across the floor like a swath of bright cloth. Emma stood in it and waited.

Too soon, she heard booted footsteps approaching. Then, a dark figure appeared in the doorway, paused, and came in. “Baroness,” said Orsino’s voice, and he bowed deeply.

He wore a black tunic with a somber glitter of silver thread and black hose. In his hand he carried a flat velvet cap, also black. He looked like a renaissance portrait of a wicked Italian duke, Emma thought. His bland round face and the malicious glitter of his dark eyes fit perfectly with the role.

“You like my costume?” he asked, noticing her scrutiny. “I am Machiavelli. You have heard of him?” When she didn’t respond, he added, “No? A pity. You English are so ill educated. Machiavelli was the author of
The
Prince
, a masterpiece of courtly strategy. It tells the truth about what is behind the smiles around a ruler. He was Italian, of course.”

When Emma expressed no interest in this topic, he shrugged. “You English,” he added. “No subtlety, no style. The things that pass for humor among Englishmen! It is appalling!”

Emma made an impatient gesture.

“Ah, yes. So, down to business, eh, baroness?”

“Yes,” said Emma, her throat dry.

“An odd place for it,” he said. “But your week is up.”

“I know.”

“So? You have decided to cooperate?” He sounded utterly confident. He didn’t seem to imagine that she would dare to oppose him.

Emma hesitated. She was to raise a hand to brush back her veil. This was the signal to Ferik.

“After all this waiting, I think I may ask a little more,” Orsino went on. “Perhaps further meetings like this, where we can be
private
. Eh? You might find that we Italians are more… more exciting than the clumsy English in many, many ways.”

He had been drinking, Emma thought. His eyes were glazed with reckless desire and greed.

He started to move closer. Emma raised her hand.

Ferik stepped out of the shadows like an exotic ghost emerging from the wall. Before Orsino even registered his presence, he encircled the man’s neck with one massive arm and tightened his grip upon his throat. The count’s eyes widened in astonishment. His face began to turn red.

Emma felt a mixture of relief and nervousness. “I will not do as you ask,” she said. “And I will not allow you to hurt my husband or my friends. So…”

Orsino gurgled. His face was deepening to magenta. Emma looked anxiously at Ferik.

“Better you go now, mistress,” the giant servant said. “I will take care of this evil man.”

“What will you…?”

“No need for you to know.”

Orsino began to thrash and kick. His face was purple. Ferik clapped his other arm around the man’s chest, imprisoning him as effectively as iron shackles.

Emma was assailed by doubt. “Ferik, do you think…?”

“No one will ever find him, mistress,” was the calm reply. “You may be sure of it. You can trust me.”

“But should we really do this?” she questioned.

Orsino produced a frantic grunt. His face was now a dark purple, and his eyes seemed to bulge a little.

“An extremely good question, my dear Emma,” said Colin, strolling into the room as calmly as if he were entering a rather dull evening party. “Do ease your grip a bit, Ferik, while we ponder this matter.”

Startled, the giant complied. Orsino still could not speak, but the color of his face lightened slightly.

Emma found her tongue. “Colin! You… I…”