Unmasked (14 page)

Anstruther seemed disinclined toward conversation, which suited Nick perfectly since he was preoccupied in thinking about his discussion with Marina Osborne. And this time his thoughts were not on seduction, or his relentless desire to possess her, nor on the habitual guilt that those feelings aroused in him because of Anna’s memory, but on the very last thing that Mari had said to him.

Sport? Tell that to the hunted, Major Falconer.

He had wondered at the time if that comment had been directed at him, for certainly he was pursuing her, unyielding in his determination to unmask her and drive her to tell him the truth. And yet he thought it was another memory that had haunted her thoughts at that moment, and one so powerful that it had made her almost physically ill. He felt a wayward pang of sympathy as he remembered her pallor and the way she had drawn on some inner strength to compose herself. Then he stifled his feelings. This was no time to weaken. He should take her vulnerability and exploit it ruthlessly to gain what he wanted.

The lights of the tavern pricked the darkness and they left the horses with the ostler and settled into a corner of the taproom. The noise and the fug of smoke and the smell of ale reminded Nick of the Hen and Vulture. Anstruther had engaged one of the inn servants in conversation in the hope of gaining some information on the Glory Girls but from the man’s blank expression and the way that he was shaking his head, it seemed that little of use was forthcoming. A short while later the landlady, a fearsome-looking woman built like a brick outhouse, came into the bar and stared hard at them, hands on hips, as though sizing up whether to pick them both up in one hand and throw them out onto the street.

“They don’t like strangers at the Half Moon,” Anstruther said ruefully, burying his face in his tankard of ale.

Several hours later, and having drunk considerably more than he had intended, Nick was in a bad temper. They had heard no mention of the Glory Girls all evening and none of their bland inquiries had elicited any useful response. Taken together with the lack of information he and Anstruther had gained that day from Arkwright’s banker in Skipton, it meant that the sum total of Nick’s inquiries so far was precisely nothing.

As they clattered out onto the road toward Cole Court, Anstruther brought his horse close alongside.

“Did you have a chance to visit the stables, sir?” he asked, in a low voice.

Nick had, in fact, made a point of dropping in to the stables on his way back from the jakes, on the pretext of checking on his own mount. The ostler, a surly looking man, had seemed unimpressed by Nick’s care for his horseflesh and had answered his questions in monosyllables, but it had at least given Nick the opportunity to size up the other horses that were stabled there.

“Yes,” he said. “I thought there were a couple of mounts that might suit a dashing highwaywoman.”

Anstruther grinned. “Aye, sir. A very nice bay mare with a flash, just like Arkwright’s banker mentioned.” He lowered his voice still further. “She was shoed backward, sir.”

Nick turned his head and gave him a sharp look. “You are sure?”

“Yes, sir. A highwayman’s trick, sir.”

Nick whistled soundlessly. Shoeing a horse backward was an old ploy to throw any pursuers off the trail.

“Well, well,” he said slowly. “And Lady Hester Berry was riding back this way when we met her in the woods that morning a week ago. Perhaps she has acquaintance at Half Moon House.”

They strode into the hall of Cole Court just as John Teague and Charles Cole were emerging from the study, laughing and joking together and looking almost as badly foxed as Nick was starting to feel.

“You look as though you’ve had a hard night, old chap,” Teague said, sobering slightly. “Any luck with your inquiries at Half Moon House?” He cocked a brow. “I assume that was where you went?”

“Quiet, man!” Charles hushed him in a comically loud whisper. “We don’t want everyone to know Falconer’s business!”

“I should think they all know it already,” Teague said easily, “news traveling as quickly as it does around here.”

“Well, there’s damn all news tonight,” Nick said abruptly, and noticed that Teague smiled with just the slightest edge of relief. “I am for bed,” he added, refusing Charles’s eager offer of a nightcap, “but before I go I wondered if either of you recollected the first name of Mrs. Osborne’s husband?”

Teague looked startled and it was Charles who replied. “I believe it was Phineas,” he said. “Or possibly Phileas. Something of that sort.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “She seldom speaks of him, and always as Mr. Osborne rather than by name.”

“And where did he come from?” Nick pursued.

“Wasn’t it Dorsetshire?” Teague suggested, his tone just a shade too casual.

“Cornwall,” Charles said. “The Truro area. His father was a clergyman.”

“That should make the family easy enough to trace,” Nick said pleasantly, and saw Teague frown slightly.

The emergence of Lady Faye and the Duchess of Cole from the blue drawing room put an end to further conversation between them. Lady Faye gave a little, repressed scream to see so many gentlemen in their cups and recoiled in horror. Laura Cole’s hazel gaze slid over them, lingered for a moment on Charles’s flushed, foxed face, and then touched Nick and Dexter Anstruther with equal indifference. Nick saw Anstruther blush and start to stammer an apology but it was too late. Laura had gone.

“Anstruther,” Nick said quietly, as, somewhat sobered, they climbed the stairs to their chambers, “have you noticed how John Teague tried to misdirect our inquiries? On my first night here he did a similar thing when he pretended to know very little about the Glory Girls.”

“Protecting Mrs. Osborne, perhaps, sir?” Anstruther suggested.

“Perhaps. Or Lady Hester Berry.” Nick frowned. “I require you to do something for me, Anstruther. I fear it will demand a spirit of self-sacrifice.”

Anstruther smoothed a hand over his tousled locks. “Of course, sir.”

“I need you to go back to London,” Nick said. “I am sorry to tear you away from the charms of the Duchess of Cole after only a week, but there is some work that requires your specific talents and besides, I don’t think that Laura Cole is in the market for a lover.”

Anstruther’s face blushed an even deeper red. “No, sir,” he said. “I mean, yes, I am sure you are quite correct. I never really imagined that she would be, sir. I will go to London in the morning. What is it that you require me to do?”

Nick drew him to one side as a housemaid passed them with a hasty curtsy. “You heard the Duke of Cole. I need you to find out about Phileas or Phineas Osborne, who was apparently the son of a clergyman from Truro, and specialized in the importing and selling of exotic plants. I would also like details of his death approximately five years ago and any information you can find out about his widow.”

“What exactly are you expecting me to find, sir?”

“I do not know,” Nick said grimly, “but I am beginning to wonder if you will find much at all.” He looked at Anstruther’s puzzled face and articulated the suspicion that had been forming in his mind for some time. “Specifically, Anstruther, I am beginning to wonder if the sainted Mr. Osborne ever existed.”

Bilberry—Treachery

“N
EVER MIND
about your fancy men for now,” Josie hissed, when Hester stepped through the door of Half Moon House a couple of nights later. “Lenny’s here. Some flash cove has been asking questions about Glory. He’s been here
and
to the King’s Head. Come downstairs. No one can hear us there.” She bundled Hester out of the crowded taproom and down the steps into the cellar where Lenny was sitting on the edge of a beer barrel, a pint of ale clasped in his hand. Hester thought that he looked even more lugubrious than usual in the dim light. Even his moustache drooped.

“Tell her, Lenny!” Josie said.

Lenny looked glum. “It’s true. Flash London cove, looked like an army man, staying with your cousin at the Court.”

“Tall, dark—” Hester began.

“Handsome,” Josie said, nodding. “That’s the one.”

“Major Falconer,” Hester said. She sighed. “Damnation! We were hoping that if he found nothing, he would cease his questions, both about Mari and the Glories.” She stopped, sighed again. “He is damnably persistent.”

“Why’s he interested in little Mrs. O?” Josie inquired. “She done something wrong?”

“No more so than you or I,” Hester said ruefully.

“Then we’ll all hang together,” Josie said with a cackle.

“At least Mrs. O ain’t out half the night riding about the county,” Lenny pointed out. “Can’t pin Glory’s activities on her if we all keep our mouths shut.”

“No.” Hester sat down heavily on the barrel next to Lenny. “But he is trying to pin other things on her and once he starts digging around, we’ll all go down if we’re not careful. Damnation!” she said again. “Was he in earnest in his inquiries?”

“Asking questions,” Lenny said. “Offering money. That’s in earnest.” He was a man of few words.

“Offering money?” Hester raised her brows. She was starting to feel very nervous now, knowing how desperate some of the local families were to find the next farthing. Would their loyalty to the Glories hold steady?

“No one took it,” Josie hurried in to say. “No one told him anything. But you know how it is, milady—there’s those as would sell their own grannies if the price was right.”

“Came sniffing around the stables, as well,” Lenny said, “looking at the horses. At that time of night! Next time we go out we need to switch the nags. If we’re going out.” He cocked a brow. “What about Midsummer night tomorrow? Do we ride against Sampson’s enclosures?”

Hester nodded. “We ride. And damn Major Falconer. In fact, I think we should teach him a lesson.”

She smiled to herself as she climbed the steps to the taproom. Riding out with the Glories always raised her spirits. She knew that Mari had said she would be a fool to ride against Nick Falconer, but perhaps Mari was wrong. Still thinking and planning, she strode straight past the hopeful grooms and farmhands without even noticing them and rode off into the night.

“A
VILLAGE DANCE
?”
Lady Faye Cole said in the sort of tone that implied that Laura had suggested an orgy. “My dear Laura, I really do not think so.”

It was breakfast on Midsummer’s day, and Laura had just outlined to her guests the plans for that evening’s entertainment.

“Sounds rather amusing,” Lord Henry Cole said loudly, gaining a dark glare from his spouse. “Will that little filly Marina Osborne be there, Laura? Rather fancy seeing her flashing her hocks in the jig, what!”

“I imagine that she will attend, cousin Henry,” Laura said coldly. She hated Henry’s lascivious comments, hated his hunting language in general, ever since he had looked at her critically on her wedding day and told Charles to cover her and get her in whelp as soon as possible.

“It is Mari who sponsors the dance, after all,” she said. “We merely lend the villagers a barn for the occasion.”

“Mrs. Osborne sponsors the event!” Lady Faye looked down her nose. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no, Laura! How very inappropriate. Henry, you certainly must not attend.”

Henry ignored her. “You’ll be joining us, eh, Charles?” he called across the table. “Come and tread a measure with your lady wife, eh?”

Charles rustled his morning paper irritably. The fact that he was reading at breakfast and largely ignoring his guests, leaving her to bear the brunt of the conversation, seemed to Laura inexcusable. But then, Charles had appeared somewhat preoccupied of late and his duties as host did not always seem to be foremost in his mind.

“Dancing?” he said. “Not I, Henry, I thank you!”

“Quite right,” Faye said, her chins quivering approval. “It is not at all suitable for a
Duke
to dance with his tenants.”

Laura felt all her happy anticipation in the event start to drain from her. She had been looking forward to the dance as a change of scene, a break from the suffocating evenings in the drawing room listening to poor piano playing, Faye’s malice and Henry’s innuendo. Now, looking at Charles buried once more in his newspaper, she felt a sort of exasperation with him that was entirely new. Had anyone, ever, been so utterly wrapped up in their own concerns and so indifferent to the needs of others?

“Charles, dear,” she said carefully, “I do think that, as the landlord, it would be most obliging of you to attend—”

The paper rustled again. Charles did not even look up. “I said no, Laura.”

Laura felt crushed. She could feel the tears sting her eyelids and clenched her hands beneath the tablecloth.

I am a Duchess. I will not cry at my own breakfast table.

She looked up to see Nick Falconer watching her with his disconcertingly shrewd dark gaze. For a moment Laura, vulnerable and distressed, felt absolute terror as she thought that Nick could expose the Glory Girls and send them all to the scaffold. Now that she was looking at him and measuring the cool ruthlessness she could see in his eyes, Laura thought that Hester’s plan for the Glories to ride out that very night was probably very ill conceived.

Then she straightened her spine.

I am a Duchess. I will not slouch in despair.

What Nick Falconer did not know, he could not prove, and if they could help Mari with their plan then so much the better.

“Major Falconer,” she said brightly. “Can I prevail upon you to make up the party with myself and Lord Henry? I am persuaded that Lady Hester and Lord Teague will certainly be there, as well.”

Nick inclined his head slightly and smiled at her, a warm smile that made Laura realize with a slight jolt what a very attractive man he was. He had charm to burn, she thought, and for some reason the picture of Dexter Anstruther popped into Laura’s mind at that precise moment and brought an entirely inappropriate blush to her cheeks. She found herself wishing he had stayed for the dance—and then wondered why on earth it should matter to her.

“I should be delighted to attend, your grace,” Nick said, and Laura heard Lady Faye give a disapproving sniff.

“That’s splendid then,” Laura said, smiling radiantly. “The carriages leave at eight.” And she tried not to worry that the Glory Girls had most certainly bitten off more than they could chew this time.

M
ARI HAD NOT SEEN
Nick Falconer for a whole week but he had scarcely been out of her mind for a minute of that time. He obsessed her thoughts during the day and stalked her dreams every night, nights when she would toss and turn, and awaken flushed and aroused, as though her deceitful body was intent of betraying her even when she tried to rule it with her mind.

She had tried to throw herself into planning her planting schemes for autumn and had also accepted some of the commissions offered to her by Laura’s friends. She could not help but think that the
Ton
would not be so quick to praise her designs when she was carted off to Newgate to hang, although given the fickle nature of fashion it might well be the case that were her past exposed and she were accused of Rashleigh’s murder, her work might become even more of a novelty. During the day she drew up different designs and discussed ideas with Frank, tended her hothouses and weeded her borders and wished for once that the gardens at Peacock Cottage were not quite so perfect and might afford her something more to do, physical work so hard it exhausted her and tired out mind and body before the night came. But each night was the same, filled with hot, disturbing dreams and each morning she would waken before Jane brought the tea and would lie there feeling as tired as though she had barely slept at all.

The day of the Midsummer dance was another glorious summer’s day and the air was heavy with the scent of roses and the light was just starting to fade from the western sky as Mari and Hester walked the short distance from Peacock Cottage to the barn where the dance was being held. Knowing what a crush the event could turn into, both of them had dressed in old cotton summer gowns, Hester in blue and Mari in pink. Mari had fastened her hair into one thick, black plait that reached halfway down her back. It was not elegant but it was practical and this was no
Ton
ball.

True enough, the barn was already packed when they arrived. The high, haunting melody of the fiddle was clear over the sound of the wind in the beech trees, and when they reached the barn, there was a huge fire blazing in front of it and torchlight spilling out from the interior.

“You have done the village proud again, Mari,” Hester said approvingly, looking at the piles of food on the trestle tables. “Cider from our own orchards! I wondered for what occasion you had been hoarding it. My, we shall all be three sheets to the wind before midnight!”

They made their way through the throng and into the barn’s interior. The sheep that normally inhabited the place had been banished and all trace of them fortunately swept away. The air was sweet with the scent of the roses that Mari had grown especially to entwine around the rafters. They mingled with strands of ivy and their petals floated down gently to be crushed beneath the dancing feet and release more scent into the air.

“Laura’s guests are already here,” Hester whispered in Mari’s ear. “I might have known Faye would decline and refuse to allow Lydia to come, too, but only look—I do believe that Charles has cried off, as well. How stuffy he can be!”

John Teague came upon them then and grabbed Hester’s hand, pulling her into the dance without so much as a word. Mari laughed at Hester’s blank look of astonishment as Teague whirled her into a jig. One of these days, she thought, Hester would see John Teague for what he really was; not the stalwart friend who was safe and reliable, nor the slightly dull peer who was a pillar of neighborhood society, but as a man who, she suspected, hid rather a lot of passion for Hester beneath his very proper exterior.

A moment later she forgot about Hester’s
amours
as she felt a prickle between her shoulder blades and the goose bumps rose on the sensitive skin of the back of her neck. She turned slowly. Nick Falconer was standing in the shadow of the doorway, his eyes fixed on her with disconcerting concentration. He started to move toward her through the crowd, apparently oblivious of the people blocking his path and the greetings thrown to him by Teague and Hester. He moved purposefully, with the same deliberate intention as he had done on the night he had arrived in Peacock Oak, and when he reached Mari’s side, she found she could neither speak nor move, so captured was she by the look in his eyes.

“Your hair…” he said. He raised one hand to touch the strands that had escaped her plait and curled around her face. His voice was gruff. “You look about eighteen.”

Mari’s awareness of him was intense. She smoothed the wayward wisps of hair back with a hand that trembled slightly and in doing so her fingers brushed his. The cool shivers of desire sparked in her blood instantly. The week of his absence had done nothing so much as increase the intensity of her feelings. This was like nothing she had ever experienced before. His slightest touch was incendiary.

“Good evening, Major Falconer,” she said. Her voice came out as a thread of a whisper. She saw the sudden flash in his eyes as he recollected who she was and where they were. His hand fell to his side and he took a step back.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Osborne,” he said. “Just for a moment I forgot myself.” He smiled, a slow, rueful smile, and her traitorous heart missed a beat. “It seems to be a surprisingly frequent experience when I am near you,” he added. “Would you care to dance?”

Mari had not been intending to dance that night, least of all with Nick Falconer, but now she found that he had taken her hand and pulled her into the fray before a refusal could pass her lips. Generally, dancing made her feel uncomfortable. The proximity it gave to a man, the license it granted him to touch her, were things that she disliked and tried to avoid. Yet tonight, with Nick, the wild, magical mood of the music swept her up and she found her heart lifting with excitement.

They danced a jig and a country-dance where the rules were nothing like the decorous conventions of the ballroom. Farmers’ lads were taking advantage to steal a kiss from their sweethearts, Hester was held very firmly in John Teague’s arms and whenever Nick and Mari came together she was acutely conscious of his hands on her waist or her back, warm, intimate, holding her close. They stirred an insidious throb deep inside her body, an ache that was building and burning. She whirled and spun in the dance, giving herself up to the music and the spirit of the evening and following no more than her instincts in entrusting herself to Nick’s hands. It felt dangerous, tantalizing, irresistible.

The wild beat of the fiddle softened and became dreamy, and Nick pulled her closer, his arms going around her. She looked up into his face. At such close quarters she could see the lines around his eyes, laughter lines that deepened when he smiled, and the stubble that darkened his cheek and jaw. She resisted an insane urge to run her fingers over the hard planes of his face. She wanted to see them soften. Wanted him to soften for her. She felt warm and melting inside.