Four In Hand (23 page)

———

Arabella’s role in the great plan was to flirt so outrageously that everyone in the entire room would be certain that it was indeed the vivacious Miss Twinning under the rose-pink domino. None of the conspirators had imagined this would prove at all difficult and, true to form, within half an hour Arabella had convinced the better part of the company of her identity. She left one group of revellers, laughing gaily, and was moving around the room, when she found she had walked into the arms of a large, black-domino-clad figure. The shock she received from the contact immediately informed her of the identity of the gentleman.

“Oh, sir! You quite overwhelm me!”

“In such a crowd as this, my dear? Surely you jest?”

“Would you contradict a lady, sir? Then you’re no gentlemen, in truth.”

“In truth, you’re quite right, sweet lady. Gentlemen lead such boring lives.”

The distinctly seductive tone brought Arabella up short. He could not know who she was, could he? As if in answer to her unspoken question, he asked, “And who might you be, my lovely?”

Arabella’s chin went up and she playfully retorted, “Why, that’s not for you to know, sir. My reputation might be at stake, simply for talking to so unconventional a gentleman as you.”

To her unease, Hugo responded with a deep and attractive chuckle. Their light banter continued, Arabella making all the customary responses, her quick ear for repartee saving her from floundering when his returns made her cheeks burn. She flirted with Hugo to the top of her bent. And hated every minute of it. He did not know who she was, yet was prepared to push an unknown lady to make an assignation with him for later in the evening. She was tempted to do so and then confront him with her identity. But her heart failed her. Instead, when she could bear it no longer, she made a weak excuse and escaped.

———

They had timed their plan carefully, to avoid any possible mishap. The unmasking was scheduled for one o’clock. At precisely half-past twelve, Sarah and Sir Ralph left the ballroom and strolled in a convincingly relaxed manner down a secluded walk which led to a little gazebo. The gazebo was placed across the path and, beyond it, the path continued to a gate giving access to the carriage drive.

Within sight of the gazebo, Sarah halted. “Arabella’s inside. I’ll wait here and ensure no one interrupts.”

Sir Ralph swallowed, nodded once and left her. He climbed the few steps and entered the gazebo. In the dimness, he beheld the rose-pink domino, her mask still in place, waiting nervously for him to approach. Reverently, he went forward and then went down on one knee.

Sarah, watching from the shadows outside, grinned in delight. The dim figures exchanged a few words, then Sir Ralph rose and kissed the lady. Sarah held her breath, but all went well. Hand in hand, the pink domino and her escort descended by the opposite door of the gazebo and headed for the gate. To make absolutely sure of their success, Sarah entered the gazebo and stood watching the couple disappear through the gate. She waited, silently, then the click of horses’ hooves came distantly on the breeze. With a quick smile, she turned to leave. And froze.

Just inside the door to the gazebo stood a tall, black-domino-clad figure, his shoulders propped negligently against the frame in an attitude so characteristic Sarah would have known him anywhere. “Are you perchance waiting for an assignation, my dear?”

Sarah made a grab for her fast-disappearing wits.

She drew herself up but, before she could speak, his voice came again. “Don’t run away. A chase through the bushes would be undignified at best and I would catch you all the same.”

Sarah’s brows rose haughtily. She had removed her mask which had been irritating her and it hung by its strings from her fingers. She swung it back and forth nervously. “Run? Why should I run?” Her voice, she was pleased to find, was calm.

Darcy did not answer. Instead, he pushed away from the door and crossed the floor to stand in front of her. He reached up and undid his mask. Then his eyes caught hers. “Are you still set on fleeing to a convent?”

Sarah held his gaze steadily. “I am.”

A wry smile, self-mocking, she thought, twisted his mobile mouth. “That won’t do, you know. You’re not cut out to be a bride of Christ.”

“Better a bride of Christ than the mistress of any man.” She watched the muscles in his jaw tighten.

“You think so?”

Despite the fact that she had known it would happen, had steeled herself to withstand it, her defences crumbled at his touch and she was swept headlong into abandonment, freed from restraint, knowing where the road led and no longer caring.

But when Darcy stooped and lifted her, to carry her to the wide cushioned seats at the side of the room, she shook her head violently. “Darcy, no!” Her voice caught on a sob. “Please, Darcy, let me go.”

Her tears sobered him as nothing else could have. Slowly, he let her down until her feet touched the floor. She was openly crying, as if her heart would break. “Sarah?” Darcy put out a hand to smooth her brown hair.

Sarah had found her handkerchief and was mopping her streaming eyes, her face averted. “Please go, Darcy.”

Darcy stiffened. For the first time in his adult life, he wanted to take a woman into his arms purely to comfort her. All inclinations to make love to her had vanished at the first hint of her distress. But, sensing behind her whispered words a confusion she had yet to resolve, he sighed and, with a curt bow, did as she asked.

Sarah listened to his footsteps die away. She remained in the gazebo until she had cried herself out. Then, thankful for the at least temporary protection of her mask, she returned to the ballroom to tell her sisters and their protegees of their success.

———

Hugo scanned the room again, searching through the sea of people for Arabella. But the pink domino was nowhere in sight. He was as thoroughly disgruntled as only someone of a generally placid nature could become. Arabella had flirted outrageously with an unknown man. Admittedly him, but she had not known that. Here he had been worrying himself into a state over her getting herself stuck in a loveless marriage for no reason and underneath she was just a heartless flirt. A jade. Where the hell was she?

A small hand on his arm made him jump. But, contrary to the conviction of his senses, it was not Arabella but a lady in a brown domino with a brown mask fixed firmly in place. ‘”Ello, kind sir. You seem strangely lonely.”

Hugo blinked. The lady’s accent was heavily middle European, her tone seductively low.

“I’m all alone,” sighed the lady in brown. “And as you seemed also alone, I thought that maybe we could cheer one another up, no?”

In spite of himself, Hugo’s glance flickered over the lady. Her voice suggested a wealth of experience yet her skin, what he could see of it, was as delicate as a young girl’s. The heavy mask she wore covered most of her face, even shading her lips, though he could see these were full and ripe. The domino, as dominos did, concealed her figure. Exasperated, Hugo sent another searching glance about the room in vain. Then, he looked down and smiled into the lady’s hazel eyes. “What a very interesting idea, my dear. Shall we find somewhere to further develop our mutual acquaintance?”

He slipped an arm around the lady’s waist and found that it was indeed very neat. She seemed for one instant to stiffen under his arm but immediately relaxed. Damn Arabella! She had driven him mad. He would forget her existence and let this lovely lady restore his sanity. “What did you say your name was, my dear?”

The lady smiled up at him, a wickedly inviting smile. “Maria Pavlovska,” she said as she allowed him to lead her out of the ballroom.

They found a deserted anteroom without difficulty and, without waiting time in further, clearly unnecessary talk, Hugo drew Maria Pavlovska into his arms. She allowed him to kiss her and, to his surprise, raised no demur when he deepened the kiss. His senses were racing and her responses drove him wild. He let his hand wander and she merely chuckled softly, the sound suggesting that he had yet to reach her limit. He found a convenient armchair and pulled her on to his lap and let her drive him demented. She was the most satisfyingly responsive woman he had ever found. Bewildered by his good fortune, he smiled understandingly when she whispered she would leave him for a moment.

He sighed in anticipation and stretched his long legs in front of him as the door clicked shut.

As the minutes ticked by and Maria Pavlovska did not return, sanity slowly settled back into Hugo’s fevered brain. Where the hell was she? She’d deserted him.
Just like Arabella
. The thought hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. Just like Arabella? No, he was imagining things. True, Maria Pavlovska had aroused him in a way he had begun to think only Arabella could.
Hell!
She had even
tasted
like Arabella. But Arabella’s domino was pink. Maria Pavlovska’s domino was brown. And, now he came to think of it, it had been a few inches too short; he had been able to see her pink slippers and the pink hem of her dress. Arabella’s favourite colour was pink but pink was, after all, a very popular colour. Damn, where was she? Where were they? With a long-suffering sigh, Hugo rose and, forswearing all women, left to seek the comparative safety of White’s for the rest of the night.

After returning to the ballroom with Caroline, Max found his temper unconducive to remaining at the ball. In short, he had a headache. His wards seemed to be behaving themselves, despite his premonitions, so there was little reason to remain at Penbright House. But the night was young and his interlude with Caroline had made it unlikely that sleep would come easily, so he excused himself to his eldest ward and his aunt, and left to seek entertainment of a different sort.

He had never got around to replacing Carmelita. There hardly seemed much point now. He doubted he would have much use for such women in future. He grinned to himself, then winced. Just at that moment, he regretted not having a replacement available. He would try his clubs—perhaps a little hazard might distract him.

The carriage had almost reached Delmere House when, on the spur of the moment, he redirected his coachman to a discreet house on Bolsover Street. Sending the carriage back to Penbright House, he entered the newest gaming hell in London. Naturally, the door was opened to His Grace of Twyford with an alacrity that brought a sardonic grin to His Grace’s face. But the play was entertaining enoughand the beverages varied and of a quality he could not fault.

The hell claimed to be at the forefront of fashion and consequently there were a number of women present, playing the green baize tables or, in some instances, merely accompanying their lovers. To his amusement, Max found a number of pairs of feminine eyes turned his way, but was too wise to evince an interest he did not, in truth, feel. Among the patrons he found more than a few refugees from the Penbright ball, among them Darcy Hamilton.

Darcy was leaning against the wall, watching the play at the hazard table. He glowered as Max approached. “I noticed both you and your eldest ward were absent from the festivities for an inordinately long time this evening. Examining etchings upstairs, I suppose?”

Max grinned. “We were upstairs, as it happens. But it wasn’t etchings I was examining.”

Darcy nearly choked on his laughter. “Damn you, Max,” he said when he could speak. “So you’ve won through, have you?”

A shrug answered him. “Virtually. But I decided the ball was not the right venue.” The comment stunned Darcy but before he could phrase his next question Max continued. “Her sisters seem to be hatching some plot, though I’m dashed if I can see what it is. But when I left all seemed peaceful enough.” Max’s blue eyes went to his friend’s face. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to avoid thinking,” said Darcy succinctly.

Max grinned. “Oh. In that case, come and play a hand of piquet.”

The two were old adversaries who only occasionally found the time to play against each other. Their skills were well-matched and before long their game had resolved into an exciting tussle which drew an increasing crowd of spectators. The owners of the hell, finding their patrons leaving the tables to view the contest, from their point an unprofitable exercise, held an urgent conference. They concluded that the cachet associated with having hosted a contest between two such well-known players was worth the expense. Consequently, the two combatants found their glasses continually refilled with the finest brandy and new decks of cards made readily available.

Both Max and Darcy enjoyed the battle, and as both were able to stand the nonsense, whatever the outcome, they were perfectly willing to continue the play for however long their interest lasted. In truth, both found the exercise a welcome outlet for their frustrations of the past weeks.

The brandy they both consumed made absolutely no impression on their play or their demeanour. Egged on by a throng of spectators, all considerably more drunk than the principals, the game was still underway at the small table in the first parlour when Lord McCubbin, an ageing but rich Scottish peer, entered with Emma Mortland on his arm.

Drawn to investigate the cause of the excitement, Emma’s bright eyes fell on the elegant figure of the Duke of Twyford. An unpleasant smile crossed her sharp features. She hung on Lord McCubbin’s arm, pressing close to whisper to him.

“Eh? What? Oh, yes,” said his lordship, somewhat incoherently. He turned to address the occupants of the table in the middle of the crowd. “Twyford! There you are! Think you’ve lost rather more than money tonight, what?”

Max, his hand poised to select his discard, let his eyes rise to Lord McCubbin’s face. He frowned, an unwelcome premonition filling him as his lordship’s words sank in. “What, exactly, do you mean by that, my lord?” The words were even and precise and distinctly deadly.

But Lord McCubbin seemed not to notice. “Why, dear boy, you’ve lost one of your wards. Saw her, clear as daylight. The flighty one in the damned pink domino. Getting into a carriage with that chap Keighly outside the Penbright place. Well, if you don’t know, it’s probably too late anyway, don’t you know?”