The reluctant cavalier (3 page)

"Perhaps ... perhaps not." His voice lowered, almost to a whisper, and she could feel his breath upon her ear. "Perhaps I wish to remain in your memory as I am now, unknown. Someone who watches you in secret, someone you may know and who holds this moment in his heart, remembering it even as you unknowingly speak with him at a supper, a rout, or a luncheon. I could be anyone. Think of it, Annabella."

She drew in her breath and shivered. How intriguing it would be, and exciting! She had felt so stifled lately, despite the balls and routs she'd been to. If the Cavalier attended them, too, it would be like a game, trying to discern who he might be.

"Will you promise to tell me, if I guess correctly?" she asked.

"Perhaps."

"But I must know sooner or later! It is not fair if you do not give me some clue and will not admit who you are. One clue, if you please! I will not ask more than that."

He looked at her, and his smile faded. Annabella was suddenly aware he had moved closer to her—how could she not notice, when he had come so close as to whisper in her ear just moments ago? She looked up at him, feeling oddly breathless.

"One clue, then," he said, and sighing, kissed her.

Only his lips held hers, and his hand held her chin; he touched her nowhere else. Yet she could not move, held in place by his mouth feathering over hers, his fingers tracing a shimmering line from her chin to just below her ear. That was all he did, but it was more than what Sir Quentin had done, for the Cavalier's gentleness made her think propriety a foolish thing instead of the wisdom her parents said it was.

She closed her eyes, letting her other senses have their turn: feeling his fingertips strong and firm against her skin; the scent of him, like sweet air and earth just after a spring rain, and the faint, very faint scent of roses. It was Lady Laughton's garden roses, she was sure, but the sweetness, the strength, the gentleness was all the Cavalier's.

His hand stroked her cheek and fell away; his lips left hers with a last soft brush. Annabella kept her eyes closed for a moment, for she felt that if she opened them, the lingering sensation of his kiss would fade too quickly. But a cool breeze brushed her lips instead, and she opened her eyes at last.

He had gone quietly into the night, gone as swiftly as he had come.

"You failed."

Sir Quentin mopped his suddenly damp brow with his handkerchief. "No, no, I tried—"

"You did not try hard enough." The shadow before him shifted slightly, and Sir Quentin moved back. "She must be tested, I told you that."

"It was not my fault!" Sir Quentin cried. "It was that damned Cavalier fellow! If he had not interfered, I would have seduced her, I know it!"

The man who stood in the shadows under the balcony of Lord Laughton's house said nothing, but Sir Quentin felt as if eyes were boring into him nevertheless. He never knew when the man would appear, or who he was. All he knew was that the man had given him money when he had needed it, and had asked him to seduce Miss Annabella Smith in return. It would be a simple thing, Sir Quentin had thought, and it would have been done tonight had it not been for the masked Cavalier.

He peered into the darkness, but could see nothing of the man. The first time he had met him was when he had woken up one night at Mrs. Marley's house. The whore he'd bedded had gone, but the man had spoken to him from a deeply shadowed corner of the room and offered him five hundred pounds if he'd seduce Miss Smith. It'd given him a fright at first; there was something about the man that made the hairs on his neck prickle. Sir Quentin had needed the money, for he'd lost five hundred pounds and more at faro, so he had agreed. But when he tried to see the man, he could glimpse nothing but a black cloak and hat tipped over a black mask. He'd shrugged. It was nothing to him if the man wanted to keep things secret.

"Perhaps there is something in what you say," the man said finally. "But you must be careful in the future. I do not tolerate incompetence." His voice was cold, as cold as the grave.

Sir Quentin shuddered, and feeling as if a trap was slowly closing over him. Perhaps it would be better if he returned the money—he'd get it somehow—and just forgot the whole scheme. But five hundred pounds ... A surge of resentment rose in him.

"If it is so damned important, I don't see why you can't do it yourself!"

Silence again. Then: "You must be careful in the future. I do not tolerate incompetence." The voice was colder than ever. The man laughed quietly. "Besides, it is too late. I have bought up the mortgages on your estate—worthless as they are."

Sir Quentin closed his eyes against the faintness that threatened to overcome him. The trap had closed with a decided snap. Debtor's prison, then, if he did not cooperate with the man in the shadows.

"Very well, then," Sir Quentin said, and hated the way his voice shook. "Is there anything else?"

"No," said the man. "For now. You may go."

Sir Quentin stared hard into the darkness, but he could see nothing, and he could hear no further sound from under the balcony. He shrugged and put on a careless manner as he walked back into Lord Laughton's house. But he could not help feeling that the man was watching him as he left.

The man in the shadows frowned. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong man to test Miss Smith. It was difficult to tell, for it was true that the masked Cavalier had stopped Sir Quentin before he could get very far. But perhaps ... perhaps Miss Smith
was
a wanton, for did she not go out on the terrace with Sir Quentin? On the other hand, if she was truly a naive innocent, it could be she did not know enough to avoid certain situations. No, it was necessary to test her further, for he was nothing if not fair and just. If she was pure, pure as he required her to be, then she would be worthy of his affections. But if she was not, then she had to be punished, for no woman who enticed him could be less than perfect.

He shook his head. Perhaps it was not enough to have Sir Quentin test Miss Smith. Sir Quentin could lie, after all, and was not totally trustworthy. He would have to watch Miss Smith from time to time—daily, and her every movement, if necessary. It was the only way to be sure of her, and the only fair and just way to go about it. And he was always just. He prided himself on that.

Parsifal leaned back on the wall just below the Laughtons' terrace and closed his eyes. God, what a fool he was! He was thankful he'd not let Miss Smith persuade him to take off his mask. Lord only knew what she'd think if she found out he was only Parsifal Wentworth, the butt of his family's jokes. His hands grew damp under his gloves, thinking of it. He did not even know how he'd managed to steal a kiss from her. Heat rose from his belly at the thought of her lips, soft and sweet, and he groaned.

He'd wanted to kiss her thoroughly, wanted to touch his lips to her neck and breasts. A wildness had seized him, and images of himself pulling her down, kissing each part of her, had flashed through his mind. She is a lady, she is young and defenseless, a rational part of his mind had said, and he had only kissed her lips and touched her face instead. He should not have even done that; in kissing her, he'd been no better than Sir Quentin.

But she had not protested or moved away, though she could have done so. He wondered if—but no. She'd only let him kiss her out of gratitude, he was sure, and she did not know who he was, other than a figure of fantasy. It was easy to be caught up in the fantasy of a masquerade. She had not kissed Parsifal Wentworth at all, but a masked Cavalier who had stumbled upon her predicament and through sheer luck routed a coward.

And that was another thing: What in the world had possessed him to jump into such a situation? He'd always been deliberate in his actions, carefully weighing what he should or should not do. He abhorred violence, especially if it meant he'd have to do it. And yet, one glance at the pair had sent him running to thrust Sir Quentin away from Miss Smith. It wasn't even that he'd gone to
her
rescue—he had not even known it was she when he'd intervened. He had just assumed some lady was in distress and rushed in. Well, he had been lucky that he hadn't botched it and that Sir Quentin was cowardly enough to ran instead of challenging him.

Parsifal looked around the corner of the terrace. He let out a breath of relief. Annabella was gone. If he was careful, he could slip away once the clock struck midnight, which signaled the time at which everyone was to unmask. Heaven help him if he were to find himself next to Corisande Bentley at the unmasking—and he was sure Caroline would tell her what his disguise was. Miss Bentley never stopped talking so that he could get a word in edgewise, and he'd just as soon not have her see him, or else she'd cling like a leech. He'd have to collect Caroline, of course, directly after the unmasking and never mind her protests. He was
not
going to get himself into trouble again.

He heard a clock strike eleven and groaned.
Ye gods.
It'd be a whole hour before he could leave this place. He wondered if there was any other way he could get into the house, besides the terrace. There were others dressed as Cavaliers as well—Caroline was right that it was in fashion—perhaps he would be mistaken for one of them. On the other hand, he was sure Caroline would tell Miss Bentley which Cavalier he was, and then he would surely be caught. And then there was Miss Smith. He was certain he'd already run out of his limited store of witticisms. If he were to come upon her again, he'd no doubt stumble over his tongue or remain silent and bore her to death.

Damn!
He would
not
go back into the ballroom and humiliate himself. He was tired of Caroline poking at him with her taunts and would not subject himself to it again. He'd find some other way into the house and emerge only to collect Caroline and be on his way home.

He looked about him and spied a window above. Perhaps it was open. It had a ledge upon it that looked wide enough for him to grasp and pull himself up on it. He made a small leap and caught the ledge, but his gloved hands slipped from it.
Stupid!
He removed the gloves and held them between his teeth.

This time his hands grasped the ledge firmly. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself up, then swung up his legs. It was a tight squeeze, for his shoulders were a little too broad for the width of the window, but if he pulled them in he could sit upon the ledge without fear of falling. He was lucky he'd never had a fear of heights. He grimaced. He had one asset at least.

He pulled at the window. Luck favored him once more— it opened quietly outward. He put his gloves back on. Gingerly he stood, crouching a little, then slipped inside the room.

The moonlight gleamed over furniture under holland covers. The room was not occupied—it would have been awkward had it been. Parsifal sighed in relief. He felt his way through the room, somehow managing not to knock anything over. He came to the door, then stopped.

What did he think he was going to do? Surely, he didn't go through all the trouble of climbing through a window only to barge right into the ballroom again—he could have gone back in by the terrace if that was what he was going to do. He swore softly and long. Where was his reason? He'd lost it, surely. It was as if masquerading as a Cavalier had stripped him of his own personality and substituted another, more impulsive one.

He couldn't go back to the ballroom as a Cavalier—if only he could find another costume! He gazed at the room's furniture and wondered if he could fashion one from one of the holland covers. He snorted.
Ridiculous!
The only thing he could think of was disguising himself as a ghost, and he knew he'd probably end up tripping over the cloth as soon as he started walking.

He might as well give it up. What else was he doing other than trying to hide? It was a cowardly thing to do, certainly. He sighed and opened the door.

The room led out into a long hallway. He remembered the ballroom had been to the left of the window he had entered, so logically, that was the direction in which he should go. He strode down the hall to the door at the end of it, but just as he laid his hand upon it, the door opened. The noise of the ballroom burst through it, and then he heard a little shriek and a giggle. He slid behind the door as it opened wider.

"Oh, nonsense!" came Caroline's voice. "You cannot have fallen in love with me. You don't even know what look like or who I am!"

"Your voice, the grace of your body, and your sweet lips are enough to make me your slave." The man's voice was low—and too damned oily for him to be up to any good, thought Parsifal.

"You cannot know if I am graceful, for you have no danced with me. And certainly you cannot know anything about my lips."

The couple came through, and the door closed. Caroline had her arm on the arm of a man who was dressed as a Harlequin.

"I can always find out," said the man, and drew Caroline close to him.

A sound like a sharp whistling wind slashed the silence of the hallway.

"I think not," Parsifal said.

Caroline gave a little scream and her face paled.

He ignored her and faced the man, keeping his sword the Harlequin's neck. "You were not, I hope, going to kiss her?"

"I, I—"

Parsifal moved the tip of his sword so that it rested on the man's collar.

"No, no, of course not!" the man said, backing away.

"Good. I think you should know that, as her brother, I would have ... objected ... very strongly if you had."

"No, really, I wasn't! I—Dancing! Yes, I was going to dance with her!"

"Ah." Parsifal let down the sword and smiled grimly as he watched the Harlequin's throat move in a hard swallow "I think, however, that it would be best done in the ballroom, not in a dim hallway with the door closed." He moved to the door, opened it, and waved at the man to go through. The man hesitated, but at Parsifal's fierce grin, sprinted through the doorway with remarkable agility.

Parsifal turned to his sister. "It was not the most discreet thing to have done, Caroline."