The Marsh Hawk (3 page)

“Help us, Mother. We're in a muddle,” Jenna said, suppressing a smile. “What shall we do with my hair? It's too thick to put up, and too long to leave down; it will show below the cowl.”

First Emily tried to find a solution, and then Lady Hollingsworth tried her hand. The modiste had created the perfect headgear for a baldheaded woman, Jenna thought, before they finally settled on a soft, flat coil at the back of the head held in place snood fashion by a bit of sarcenet.

“Long hair is so out of fashion, Jenna,” her mother said, fussing with the results. “You should have cut it long ago.” She threw up her hands. “There's nothing for it. When you unmask, dear, just pull the tendrils out around your face. The center part is quite becoming, and the waves are falling naturally at least. It will have to do.”

Taking a full-length view in the cheval glass, Jenna had to agree that Madame Flaubert had outdone herself. The swanhead mask fit perfectly. The eyeholes were slanted at just the right angle to follow the natural curve of her silvery gray eyes, and her mouth and chin were visible beneath the beak. Decidedly, she was magnificent.

Soliciting dances beforehand was waived for the evening, since part of the fun was to be attempting to identify one's dance partner—which really didn't promise to be all that difficult in most cases, judging from the gathering. Would Rupert recognize her? Jenna hoped not. She wanted to enjoy herself, or at least to try. Being in costume allowed her to pretend that she wasn't the Lady Jenna Hollingsworth, who had done murder and was about to ruin the rest of her life as result of it; she was a beautiful, graceful swan without a care in the world, and she longed to spread her lovely feathered wings and fly.

That delicious fantasy dissolved, however, the minute she entered the Grand Ballroom. The orchestra was playing a selection from Bach while the guests poured in through the archway, one costume more bizarre than the next. She spotted Rupert almost at once, dressed as a pharaoh, in keeping with the neoclassical movement that had become so popular among the ton. She hadn't remembered until then that John Nash, who had perpetuated Robert Adam's vision in decor, had begun redecorating Moorhaven in the Empire style incorporating concepts brought back by Englishmen who fought Napoleon during the Egyptian campaign. How could she not have noticed? There were evidences of the man's revolutionary touch everywhere. Jenna wasn't sure she approved.

She managed to avoid Rupert for the moment; he had become surrounded by several members of the House of Lords, who had just arrived from London for the event. The betrothal announcement was to be made at midnight. It would be signaled by the arrival of a troop of footmen bearing silver trays laden with champagne glasses already filled for toasting. That, however, was still more than two hours away, and it was going to be difficult to hide dressed in the most conspicuous costume in the hall.

The dancing began with a quadrille. A daring Viennese
valse à deux temps
followed by a gallop and then another quadrille would set the pattern for fourteen dances before a formal break for the announcement. Jenna danced the first quadrille with the Marquess of Roxbury. He was costumed as a magistrate, an older man, overweight and out of breath, who smelled of onions, and couldn't keep his wig on straight. The experience was nauseating, and she was thankful that her stomach was practically empty.

She didn't know her partner for the waltz. He was dressed simply in a voluminous domino and mask, though most of the masks framed by the customary white satin-lined black hoods were spectacular and very inventive. His resembled a hawk. Many of the other masks represented birds as well. There were owls, falcons, ravens—feathered creatures of every species were well accounted for, one more resplendent than the next, and all sporting formidable looking beaks. But birds were not the only species on display. Jenna particularly admired a lion mask worn by Lord Eccleston, whose deep, gravelly voice gave him away. It was designed as a cowl much like hers and covered his head completely. He was her partner for the gallop.

A duke, elaborately dressed as a potentate, was her partner for the second quadrille, during which she observed the ladies' costumes, which ranged from pastoral milkmaids to fairy princesses in every color imaginable. The young, blond woman who had stolen the earl of Kevernwood away that afternoon, was costumed as a toddler in white organdy and lace, complete with ruffled baby bonnet and leading strings. It suited her. Watching her skip effortlessly over the floor with Sir Gerald Markham leading their set sent a disturbing pang of jealousy shooting through Jenna. The girl seemed so happy, so unencumbered by guilt. Not a care in the world.

How dare she, when this is my ball, and I am so miserable?
And who was she anyway? Someone who knew Lord Kevernwood well enough to link arms with him, that's who. Yes, that pang was jealousy. Unmistakably. She wouldn't have minded a bit if Miss Blondness had linked arms with her betrothed. Facing that fact was jarring at best.

Rupert was still engaged in conversation with the Londoners. Would she catch a glimpse of the earl? Would he dance, considering his limp? When the quadrille ended, she glanced around the ballroom trying to pick him out among the guests, but there were just too many people at the gathering. What would it be like to glide over that floor in his arms? She fantasized their bodies touching—the warm pressure of his hand at her waist, moving her effortlessly over the polished terrazzo; the illusion was brought on by the orchestra having struck up another waltz, and her eyes were closed as she indulged in it, when a deep, sensuous voice from behind assailed her ears.

“Will you honor me with this dance, my lady?”

At first, she thought that voice was a phantom of her fantasy. But when she turned to be sure, she froze in horror as she faced not her delicious daydream, but her worst nightmare: a highwayman, in black from his tricorn hat to his polished Hessian boots, his blue eyes blazing through the holes in a glistening silk half-mask.

She gasped, swayed, and spiraled unconscious into the man's strong arms.

When Jenna came to, she was lying on a yellow, satin-striped chaise lounge in an antechamber off the ballroom. Rupert was stooping over her, alongside her mother, who was whimpering and fanning her furiously with Lord Eccleston's donated handkerchief. The earl, who had removed the black half-mask and tricorn hat, stood behind the lounge. The blond girl was at his side, clutching the rigid arm that ended in a clenched fist against his well-turned muscular thigh, her face pressed against his shoulder as they all stared down at her.

Jenna's cowl had been removed, sarcenet and all, and her hair fell over her shoulders resting now on her breast, which began to heave with spastic breaths the minute her eyes focused on the earl in what remained of his highwayman costume. Those astonishing blue eyes glaring down at her had darkened to smalt. They met hers wearing a different look now, one of gravity and bewilderment.

Rupert dosed him with a disdainful glance.

“I told her to eat something,” Lady Hollingsworth whined. “She scarcely touched a morsel all day.”

“How colossally stupid of you, Jenna,” Rupert said. Returning to his full height, he stood arms akimbo. “You've spoiled the masque!”

Clearly nonplussed, Kevernwood stood ramrod rigid, his eyes oscillating between them. There was nothing readable in his handsome face. If there had been something, anything in those lashes-fringed eyes that bespoke compassion, Jenna would have melted under their gaze. Tears blurred his image instead. Though he'd unmasked, her terror was still with her, and she reacted more like a frightened sparrow than the poised and graceful swan that she appeared.

“Kevernwood,” a gruff voice said from the doorway. It belonged to Lord Eccleston, absurdly carrying his lion's head under his arm. Tall and broad shouldered, in his sixties, he was one of the Hollingsworths' closest neighbors, and one of Jenna's father's oldest friends on the coast.

The earl's broad jaw shot upward in his direction in reply, and when Lord Eccleston motioned him closer, he disengaged himself from the clutches of Miss Blondness and strode toward him.

The young man who had accompanied them that afternoon took the earl's place at the girl's side, looking confused. Jenna assumed that he must have been in the dining hall when she fainted, and had no idea what had occurred.

Her mother was chattering in her ear like a magpie. Jenna scarcely heard. Her head was still reeling. It pounded unmercifully. Her cheeks were on fire, and she couldn't meet Rupert's eyes. It was all she could do to persuade herself not to jump to her feet and slap his petulant face.

She glanced toward the doorway where several other men had joined Kevernwood and Lord Eccleston. All at once the earl's head snapped toward her, and his eyes—those liquid sapphire eyes that had so mesmerized her—wavered briefly.

His limp was more pronounced when his steps were brisk, as they were then, returning to her. She wasn't afraid of him now that she realized he was neither a ghost nor a real highwayman. The flood of mixed emotions that coursed through her body then was so complex, however, that she nearly fainted a second time. Not the least of these was an overwhelming desire to be in his arms again; she barely remembered their touch. How cruel was providence. She had fantasized being in those arms, and when it happened she wasn't even conscious to experience it.

“My lady, please forgive me,” the earl murmured. “You must believe me, had I known, I would never—”

“Well, you should have known, shouldn't you?” Rupert snapped, interrupting. “Get out of that rig, Kevernwood. What could you have been thinking?”

“How could his lordship have possibly known, Rupert?” Lord Eccleston defended, coming closer. “He's only just come home.”

Jenna nodded her awkward acceptance to the earl and attempted to rise.

“No, don't!” Miss Blondness erupted. “My lady, stay. You look frightful. Doesn't she, Crispin?” She was addressing the young man at her side, the man who possessed the other arm she'd linked that afternoon.

Jenna stared at them bewildered. Drat and blast! Who
was
this woman?

“Forgive me, my lady,” the earl said, as though he'd read her mind. “May I present Lady Evelyn St. John, and her brother, Crispin St. John; they are my houseguests at Kevernwood Hall.”

Jenna managed the correct amenities.

All at once, Lady Carolyn Marner, tall and regal, and totally in character in her Valkyrie costume, parted the growing crowd gathering at the antechamber door, her dull-witted husband, just as totally out of character as her Viking counterpart, trailing at her heels.

“Are you unwell, Jenna, my pet?” she intoned. “The marquess tells me that you swooned in the ballroom.”

“Kevernwood here frightened her in that getup,” Rupert put in.

“I'm sure he didn't mean to, Rupert, dear,” she purred. Then close in his ear, though they all heard, she added, “How could his lordship possibly have known that her father was killed by a highwayman?”

“Can we get on with this, or not?” Rupert snapped, throwing up his hands in a gesture of impatience. “The rest of us may as well unmask and have the announcement. We all look ridiculous.”

“No, please,” Jenna interrupted. Anger, jealousy, and embarrassment raised her to her feet. She dared not meet the earl's eyes then. She would have come undone. A strange heat radiated between them that she would not probe to identify in front of that gathering. It was taking unmerciful liberties with the most private regions of her anatomy. “Don't let me spoil the ball,” she faltered. Her lower lip had begun to tremble, but she would not give any one of them the satisfaction of her tears. “Go on with your merrymaking,” she murmured. “No one is at fault. Please, everyone, I beg you excuse me.”

She scarcely reached the landing before the tears came—a flood of them. She could barely see the steps. Her knees were still shaking from shock and anger and humiliation.

“How could you do this, Jenna?” her mother's voice rang in her ears. “Rupert is livid!”

“Rupert can go to—to
Jericho
!” she cried.

It was more than she could bear, and she covered her ears with her hands to shut out her mother's strangled gasp, and fled to her suite before the dowager's stutter became words.

Emily was waiting to help Jenna undress. Madame Flaubert's elegant feathered gown fell disrespected in a heap at her feet on the floral carpet. She gave it a vicious kick, scattering loose feathers into the air. How dare Rupert humiliate her in front of all those people? How dared Miss Blondness—St. John—Lady Whatever-Her-Name-Was, tell her she looked frightful? The woman was staying at Kevernwood Hall—under the same roof with those sensuous liquid sapphire eyes.

The maid had scarcely helped her into her nightgown, when a knock at the door of her sitting room brought an end to Jenna's assault on the feathers.

“If that is Mother, I have already retired, Emily,” she warned the girl. Then, closing her bedchamber door, she climbed into the four-poster just in case her mother wouldn't take the maid at her word.

Seconds later, a light rapping at the door put her on guard.

“It's me, my lady,” Emily called from the other side.

“Come,” Jenna said, relieved.

The maid entered with a folded and sealed missive, and offered it.

Jenna didn't bother to examine the seal. How dare Rupert think that he could smooth the situation over with a few empty words scribbled on a piece of parchment? She crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room.

“Leave me!” she sobbed, burying her hot, tear-stained face in the eiderdown pillow.

Downstairs, the ball was still going on. The announcement must have been made by now, and the rest of the guests had no doubt unmasked. It was official: she was Viscount Rupert Marner's betrothed. She could almost hear the violins playing another of those scandalous Viennese waltzes, just as they had done when Kevernwood asked her to dance. He was probably gliding over the floor with Miss Blondness close in his arms at that very moment, just as she'd imagined him holding her earlier, their bodies almost touching, his warm hand firmly resting on the small of her back—leading her—moving them to the music as one. Her heart sank. If only he hadn't worn that deuced costume.