Fragile Mask (15 page)

‘
There is far more to you than you would have us believe, is
there not, Verena?’

He had used her name without thinking, not even noticing
that he did so. But Verena noticed. She noticed also a quality of
tenderness in his voice. It touched something within her. Something
that seemed to thrust straight into her chest so that it seemed to
burst asunder, depriving her of breath. It was powerful,
frightening. All her control deserted her.

Her lips trembled. Her eyes misted. And everything was in
her face. The spangled gown seemed to envelop an ethereal creature,
vulnerable and confused.

Remorse gripped Denzell. Without any thought, he put out a
hand. ‘Miss Chaceley—’

‘
Don’t touch me!’

She stepped smartly back. The action purely instinctive,
the words ripped from the panic within. She met his eyes, her own
luminous, reproachful, matching the faint note of it in the husky
voice with which she addressed him.

‘
Does it amuse you, Mr Hawkeridge, to prick at the frailties
of your fellows?’

He was silenced, shattered by the appalling reaction to
this lightest of teasing quips. She had laughed before. How in the
world was he to guess that she might break apart like this? What
could he say?

But even as he watched, unable to utter a word—for what
word might not worsen the work he had already done?—the mask was
resuming as she turned from him to walk deliberately away into the
thick of the throng.

He watched her for some time, conscious of the most
wretched sensation somewhere deep inside himself. For all her
outward appearance, however, the incident might never have been.
Miss Verena Chaceley was once again the polite serene beauty,
shutting him out.

At length he was accosted by his hostess, interested to
know what he might have discovered from the Peverill boy. She was
destined to disappointment.

‘
Nothing very much,’ Denzell told her.

Unice looked up at him, struck by his manner. ‘Why, what is
the matter, Denzell?’

He met her anxious gaze, conjuring up a smile. His answer
came from the heart, without any previous consideration of the
question, the decision ready-made.

‘
The matter is that I must leave you tomorrow, Unice. I am
going home.’

***

Denzell tossed off his wine and dumped the glass down
unceremoniously onto the green baize table. He was beginning to
loathe this incessant wining and gaming. Not that tonight’s game
had been serious, not when he played with his particular
cronies.

He was aware that his boredom had communicated itself to
his friends, for there was silence about the table, and no one had
offered to begin another rubber. Denzell was thankful for that at
least. Chaste stars, but this Season was tedious!

Reaching out, he lifted the half-full bottle and
poured himself another glass from one of the better offerings from
the club’s cellars. He did not notice two of his companions
exchanging significant glances. Despising the stuffy political
correctness of both Brooks’s and White’s, Denzell and his cronies
were in general to be found, on those evenings when no other
interesting entertainment presented itself during the busy London
season, enjoying the more convivial atmosphere of Boodle’s. Its
aspect might be modest compared with those of its chief rivals, but
within the arrangements were agreeable, promoting a relaxed and
easy camaraderie among its
habitués.
They might
enjoy its amenities in comfort, frock-coats, buckskins and
top-boots being acceptable wear even in the
evening.

It had offered tonight, to Denzell, a respite
from the incessant round of socialising he was beginning to find
irksome. Not to mention the females thrust into the
ton
for the picking: An insipid collection with a sameness that
could only pall on his jaded spirit. Why it should seem so, why he
should feel so bored, so restless, he could not imagine. Deuce take
it, it was barely March. Yet he was conscious of a sense of
frustrated irritation that grew ever stronger with the arrival of
each new gilt-edged invitation.

Lounging like this—Denzell was in the
dishabille
of shirt-sleeves—with his three particular friends,
about a gaming table in one of the smaller rooms, was at least less
demanding than the rest. Yet the cards lay abandoned from the
desultory game of whist. A moment later, however, he wished they
had gone on playing.

‘
Now, lookee, Hawk,’ said Mr Aldous Congleton suddenly,
leaning across the table and wagging an admonishing bony finger,
‘ye’ve a deal of explaining to do.’

Denzell glanced across the table at the lean-featured face
of his friend, with its long thin nose poking at him in a manner
that filled him with dismay. Oh no. He had been expecting this. It
had been too much to hope that his lack of interest in the current
Season would pass unnoticed. He made no attempt to deflect the
question, but the belligerence of his voice was intended as a
warning.

‘
Have I now?’

It did not deter Mr Congleton. He jerked the nose in a
bird-like nod. ‘Ye have, Hawk. Been meaning to tackle ye this
age.’

‘
That’s right,’ agreed the deep voice of another gentlemen
to Denzell’s left.

Mr Cyril Bedale, whose large bulk formed a stark contrast
to the stick-like stature of Congleton, did not attempt to move
from the chair where he was sprawling, his hands folded comfortably
across the protrusion of his belly under a double-breasted
waistcoat, for the moment unbuttoned.

‘
Can’t expect to hoodwink your friends, old fellow,’ he
observed in a tone not untinged with sympathy.

‘
Indeed?’ Denzell said dangerously.

The word struck with stunning force in his own
head.
Indeed?
H
e could almost hear her saying it. The recognition blanked
out all his earlier antagonism, leaving him with an inward,
groaning protest. Not
again
.
If there was one thing more galling
than the tinsel emptiness of this Season, it was the persistent,
unwanted remembrance of a certain person whom he had several times
over sworn that he would forget. And just at this moment, when his
friends were making ready to quiz him on matters upon which he
preferred to remain silent. Damnation!

He pushed the thoughts away. Very well. Certain
people—unspecified—did not have a monopoly on keeping their
countenance in public. He maintained his languid stance, allowing
his glass to dangle in his fingers.

He was sitting leaning his forearm on one raised leg, which
was supported on a rung of the chair occupied by Frederick Lord
Rowner, the fourth member of the group, who had pushed himself back
and was resting his booted feet on the seat of another chair
filched from an adjoining table.

Before either of his two friends could pursue their
queries, this gentleman, a puzzled frown gathering in his rather
vacant, if handsome features, looked round at Denzell.

‘
What must you explain, Hawk?’

‘
It’s no use asking me, dear boy,’ Denzell told him lightly,
and quite untruthfully. ‘I haven’t the remotest guess what they
would be at.’

And if he had, he decided savagely, he was damned if he
would explain a thing. Especially as he did not understand
himself.

But Mr Congleton, his thin countenance drawn into lines of
careful severity, rapped the table. ‘It won’t do, Hawk. Ye know
perfectly well.’

‘
Do I?’ Denzell drawled, wondering how he could find a way
to turn the subject. It wanted only an opportunity.

‘
That’s right,’ repeated Bedale, blinking somewhat owlishly.
‘And if you don’t, we do.’

Denzell dredged up a laugh, and cast up his eyes. ‘You’re
foxed, Cyril.’

‘
No, I ain’t. Only on the second bottle. Can’t be foxed
yet.’

‘
Never mind that,’ put in Congleton, once again rapping the
table as he addressed himself this time to Lord Rowner. ‘Lookee,
Freddy. When have ye ever known Hawk to absent himself from a ball,
eh?’

‘
What ball?’

‘
He means Lady Breachwood’s party,’ Denzell explained,
adding as he turned back again, ‘And why the devil shouldn’t I
absent myself, Cong? Can you seriously suggest Lady Breachwood’s
daughter to be an attraction?’

‘
Lady Breachwood’s party?’ Freddy repeated before the other
gentleman could reply. ‘Is that tonight?’ He glanced down in
consternation at his own person, clad like the others in raiment
quite unsuitable for a ball. ‘Lord, I think I accepted that
one!’

Lord Rowner was known for his vagueness, and Congleton said
so.

‘
No one could be in the least surprised that you don’t turn
up, Freddy—too late now, in any event—and everyone knows Cyril
don’t dance. But Hawk? Now I ask ye, is it like him not to present
himself where he is bound to meet every debutante on the town? Not
to mention the Breachwood girl, though I grant ye, Hawk, she ain’t
your style.’

‘
How do you know what is my style, Cong?’

‘
Ought to, damme. Been watching you at your tricks for
years.’

Mr Congleton leaned across the table again, a smile of sly
triumph under the pointing nose. ‘Ah, but there’s more to it than
that. Got the whole tale from Ruishton in a letter.’

‘
The devil you did,’ Denzell swore. What had Ossie told him?
With Unice so close to her time, Osmond had put in no appearance in
town this Season. But deuce take him for a confoundedly literary
fellow! Why he must needs engage so avidly in the epistolary arts
with Cong was a matter passing Denzell’s comprehension. What the
devil did he mean by this base betrayal?

Honesty compelled him to toss away this thought. Ossie had
thought the whole affair to be a matter upon which he might
exercise his wit at Denzell’s expense. Could he reasonably blame
his friend for that? It was in such terms that he had begun it—to
his shame and regret. Only he had not known then with what he was
dealing.

Still, willingly could he have strangled Ossie. The last
thing he had wanted was for his cronies to get hold of the story.
Bad enough that he had thought they were seeking a reason to
explain his unutterable tedium. Disastrous that they should have
already found it.

How could he turn it off? As he must. Make light of it.
Could he bear to be the cause of her name being bandied about the
gentlemen’s clubs? He would not have that on his conscience—not in
addition.

‘
I have no doubt at all,’ he said, ‘that Ossie has
exaggerated the matter out of all recognition.’

‘
Stuff,’ scoffed Bedale. ‘If I know Ossie, I’d wager he
understated the case.’

Lord Rowner was looking confused. ‘Hey! What is all this?
What case are you talking of?’

‘
Pay no attention, Freddy. They’re both foxed.’

‘
No, we ain’t,’ grinned Congleton. ‘And there’s no need
thinking ye can turn it off. Ye see, Freddy, Ossie says our boy
here tried a fall with a female he calls the Ice Maiden. Tried—and
failed. Had to retire defeated after the first two
rounds.’

‘
What, Hawk? I don’t believe it!’

But Denzell was smiling in sudden
relief—exaggerated relief, out of all proportion to the event. What
had he been concerned about, after all? The matter was of no
real
interest to him. Not any more.

But if that was all Osmond had said, there was no harm
done. He could admit it, pretend it meant nothing. Pretend? What
was he thinking of? It did mean nothing.

Brushing aside the thoughts, he drained his glass and laid
it down.

‘
You may believe it, dear boy,’ he said on a wry grin,
‘because it is quite true. She wouldn’t look at me.’

‘
Told you,’ said Congleton smugly. ‘Most beautiful girl in
the world, too. Or so Hawk would have it. Ain’t that so,
Hawk?’

‘
Stunning,’ uttered Denzell, as the image of Verena Chaceley
leaped into his mind. Unbidden—and irremovable. Verena laughing and
golden, warm and vital against the winter world of
white.

He was hardly aware of speaking as he added, ‘But not ice.
A fairy princess…a snow maiden.’

And she had thawed towards him. Yes, she had. An
inward groan shook him. She had—until that last horrible encounter.
A moment that he had tried to rend from his memory, but that still
pierced him with remorse. He had argued himself silly, declaring
that he could not have known that a simple joke would upset her so.
But it would not do. Had he not been witness to that earlier
unwitting display of intense emotion? Had not Sir John
Frinton
warned
him? He should have guessed. That he
had not must be to his everlasting reproach.

Not that there was anything to be done about it. Not since
he had been idiotic enough to have left the place so precipitately.
Why he had done so, no amount of churning the matter in his mind
could discover. He had made a stupid blunder, but it might have
been mended. Another day, a simple apology and the thing would have
been done..