Moonlight Masquerade (2 page)

“Christine!” Aunt Nellis pressed a hand to
her mouth and slowly counted to ten. The child was breaking her
heart; absolutely breaking her heart! “Well, he did too,” she said
at last, knowing her niece was right but refusing to acknowledge
it. “He distinctly told me he wanted you to go to London for a
Season.”

“And he—also before charging off after his
naughty wife—told you that I was forbidden to ever ride horses, and
I was to sew a fine seam, and I was to never leave my fork propped
drunkenly on the edge of my plate, and I was forbidden to cross my
legs, even at the ankle, and I was never,
ever
to allow any
man to—”

“Enough, Christine!”

Christine reached across the coach to lay
her free hand on her aunt’s arm. “I’m sorry, dearest,” she said
sincerely, as she had only been hoping to draw the woman’s mind
away from the storm raging outside. “But don’t you see? I know that
it was you who raised me, you who wants me to have this Season. You
love me, Aunt Nellis. You love me, and I love you. You don’t have
to hide your hopes for me behind the father I don’t remember. Now,
why don’t
you
ask me not to be impertinent and see what
happens?”

Nellis looked at her niece in silence for a
long time as the rising wind howled outside the coach, then slowly
nodded. “We’ll probably freeze to death in this awful coach before
we ever reach London anyway,” she groused halfheartedly, summoning
a weak smile.

Christine gave up her attempt to sidetrack
her aunt from her usual pessimistic thoughts—for after all, they
seemed to bring her so much joy—and agreed: “The coachman will
probably hop down off his perch once we’re in front of the town
house you rented on Half Moon Street and pull open the door, just
to have the two of us topple out onto the cobblestones like huge
blocks of ice. Why, they’ll have to wait until we thaw in order to
bury us.”

Her niece’s words conjured up a mental
picture that, while depressing, turned Aunt Nellis’s mind to the
problems involved with such an occurrence. She was always happiest
while planning strategies for dealing with disaster. “Our knees
will be rigidly bent, of course, because we’re seated. We couldn’t
fit very neatly in a coffin that way, could we? How embarrassing!
Do you suppose we should tie a few ribbons about our skirts at our
ankles? Just so that we don’t show too much leg as we topple?”

Christine was saved from answering as the
coachman drew the horses to a stop and opened the trapdoor that
looked down into the interior of the hired coach. “It’s snowin’
pretty awful, ladies, an’ it be more ’an five miles to the nearest
postin’ house. We ain’t goin’ ta make it iffen I doesn’t spring ’em
as much as I can in this bloodly—er, that is ta say, in this bad
storm. Yer’ll have ta hold on, ma’am, miss. It’s bound ta be a
bumpy ride.”

Before the trapdoor had slammed shut once
more Aunt Nellis was already well launched into her second chorus
of, “Oh, we’re going to die, we’re going to die. I just know we’re
going to die!”

Holding onto the strap with both hands,
Christine, her queasy stomach forgotten, did her best to console
her distraught aunt, who now appeared to be a most creditable
prophetess of doom. The coach was swaying violently as it moved
along the highway, its wheels sliding rather than rolling over the
packed snow and ice.

Forgotten also was the fact that her toes
were freezing, or the knowledge that she was heading toward London
and the Season she hadn’t wanted in the first place. All Christine
could think of at the moment was keeping her aunt calm. That, and
trying very hard not to panic herself.

Deciding to investigate—just to double-check
the coachman’s assertions—she rolled down a window to look outside,
only to have her cheeks viciously stung by the sleet that was now
pelting the countryside. It was only three o’clock but it was as
dark as midnight.

The coach slowed to a crawl as the weary
horses worked to haul their passengers and a small mountain of
baggage up a steep incline and Christine called out to the
coachman, warning him to remember that what goes up must eventually
come down, and there could be a dangerous descent waiting for them.
Her words were snatched away by the wind just before Aunt Nellis,
grabbing her niece most inelegantly about the waist, hauled her
back inside.

“Whew! It looks like the end of the world
out there,” Christine said as she collapsed against the seat.
Looking at her aunt’s ashen face, she quickly regretted her
thoughtless words. “Oh, Aunt, I’m so sorry,” she began, letting go
of the strap to reach out her hands in comfort, “I didn’t really
mean it actually is the—
oh
!”

The howling wind had turned the road at the
crest of the hill into a mass of deep, treacherous frozen ruts. The
off-leader stumbled, regained its balance, then stumbled once more,
this time losing its footing completely. One moment the horses were
straining to move forward, and the next moment they were wild-eyed,
plunging and twisting in their efforts to avoid the fallen
horse.

The coachman employed his whip, desperately
trying to restore order, but to no avail. Within the space of a
heartbeat, control of the coach shifted from the driver to the
team, and lastly to the elements. The panicked horses drove forward
against the shaft, their shod hooves finding no purchase on the
roadway as the coach, now on the descent, gathered force behind
it.

Aunt Nellis screamed again and again as they
tipped first one way, then the other as she vainly tried to grasp
at Christine’s helplessly tumbling body. She heard the fatal sound
of the shaft breaking away from the body of the equipage just
before the coach gave a sickening lurch and the whole world turned
upside down.

Hawk’s Roost

I
t was the very
devil of a night outside, fit for neither man nor beast. Lord
Hawkhurst was seated in his private study as was his custom each
evening after dinner during clement or inclement weather, a book in
his lap and a snifter of warmed, aged brandy at his side.

The howling wind suited the earl’s frame of
mind. In fact, he might, if this melancholy mood stayed with him,
take a walk in the windswept garden before retiring to his chamber
for the night.

He closed his eyes, mentally picturing
himself standing at the crest of the small cliff at the end of the
garden path, his uncovered head thrown back, challenging the
elements. He would face into the wind and feel the power of nature
assaulting his body, whipping at his face, tearing at his straining
muscles. If he could stand there, just so, for a quarter of an
hour, if he could conquer the wind and the cold for that precise
space of time, then he would reward himself by sending Lazarus to
London to purchase him a—

He closed the book, his short curse echoing
through the room. Was this what he had come to? Playing childish
games to fill the empty hours? And what, he asked himself, would he
have Lazarus buy that he did not already possess?

He had enough paintings and silver and fine,
handcrafted furniture. He had expensive silks and custom-tailored
clothing—enough to outfit a small army. He had wines and delicate
cheeses, the finest chef, the most loyal servants—everything a man
could possibly ask for and more.

There was nothing, not a single thing, the
Earl of Hawkhurst lacked.

He reached out a hand to cradle the brandy
snifter in his palm. It was a truly lovely piece. Perfect,
actually, except for one small air bubble that was barely
noticeable except to someone with a discerning eye. His long, thin
fingers caressed the delicate glass bowl as he brought it to his
lips. He drank deeply, savoring the taste, then flung the flawed
snifter into the fireplace. The flames caught at the brandy,
flaring briefly, and then all was quiet once more except for the
lonely howling of the wind.

An hour passed, an hour during which the
earl sat sprawled inelegantly in his deep leather chair, his long,
booted legs flung out in front of him as he glared at the
ever-changing faces in the fire, before a noise in the hallway
roused him from his brown study. Someone was knocking on the front
door of Hawk’s Roost.

“No,” Hawkhurst mused aloud, “someone is
trying their utmost to break down the front door.” Was he not to be
allowed any peace, even in the midst of a storm? Who dared to
intrude on his misery? “Lazarus, damn you!” he shouted above the
sound of something heavy hitting the thick wooden door. “Put a stop
to that infernal racket!”

The earl heard footsteps in the hallway,
followed by a gentle rapping on his study door. “Enter!” he allowed
imperiously.

“Excuse me, your lordship, but it appears
there’s been an accident on the road. There are three travelers
without, begging shelter for the night.”

Hawkhurst sat forward so that his right
profile was visible in front of the deep wingback of his chair.
Shifting his gaze so that one piercing green eye impaled the
servant standing just inside the door, he said, “And what, pray
tell, dear Lazarus, does that have to do with me? Only fools would
travel in this weather. There is no room at Hawk’s Roost for more
fools. I am here. One fool is sufficient.”

The servant bobbed his head up and down
several times, swallowing so hard that his Adam’s apple popped out
from beneath his starched collar. “Yes, your lordship, of course,”
he agreed, adding, “only, you see, sir, it’s a coachman and two
ladies.”

“Ladies, my good Lazarus? Are you quite
sure?”

“Yes, your lordship, two of them, actually.
The younger one’s hurt pretty bad, I think. The old one’s wringing
her hands and moaning to beat the Dutch, too. She says it’s been
hours since their coach overturned and they’re all about to freeze
solid. And something about coffins, sir, but I’m afraid I didn’t
quite catch it.”

Hawkhurst pinched the bridge of his nose
between his thumb and forefinger. “This tale you’re relating sounds
intriguing, to say the least, but it’s not my problem. Obviously
the injured one requires the services of a doctor. Do I look like a
doctor, Lazarus?”

“No, your lordship.”

“Then, dear man, may I make a suggestion ?
Why not have my coach brought around and transport the ladies to
the village? That shouldn’t prove to be an insurmountable problem.
Then see that I am brought another snifter. It would appear the
first one suffered an accident.”

Lazarus had been with the earl long enough
to know when to fight and when to withdraw. Clearly it was time for
the latter. “Yes, your lordship,” he said, bowing himself out of
the room. “Your carriage. The village. I’ll see to it immediately,
your lordship.”

“You’re a good man, Lazarus,” the earl
complimented softly, settling back into the shadows. “The best of
my inheritance.”

Unfortunately, even the best of Hawkhurst’s
inheritance was no match for the woman standing just inside the
great wooden door of his domicile. “Turn us away? Turn us away!”
the earl heard a high, shrill voice shriek. “With my baby all but
dead, you would turn us away? Not while there’s breath left in my
body, sirrah! I’ll not move one inch from this spot until I have
seen your master!”

Hawkhurst propped an elbow on the arm of the
chair and dropped his chin in his hand, one eye watching the door,
waiting for Lazarus’s return, which was not long in coming. “Er,
your lordship—” the servant began, his voice quavering.

“Yes, Lazarus,” the earl said, cutting him
off. “I heard. It seems our unwanted visitor is a most formidable,
if dramatic, woman. Well, I can’t have her upsetting you, can I,
Lazarus? I value you too highly. Very well. Bring me my cloak, if
you please,” he commanded, rising from the chair to face the
servant.

Lazarus hastened to do his master’s bidding,
fetching the hooded black silk cloak from a nearby chair and then
helping the earl don it, easing the material over the man’s left
arm and then standing on a stool to carefully place the hood over
Hawkhurst’s coal-black head, so that his lordship’s face was thrown
into shadow.

“Thank you, Lazarus,” Hawkhurst said,
already moving toward the study door, his strides long and
purposeful. “Shall we join the ladies?”

The earl stepped into the wide black and
white tiled foyer, tugging his hood further down over his head as
he cursed the extra candles some idiot had deemed fit to light due
to the arrival of their nocturnal visitors. There were three people
waiting for him, although his only clear view was of a tall,
exceedingly homely, exceptionally angry older woman who looked
fully capable of sitting herself down in the middle of the floor,
refusing to be moved.

“Madam,” Hawkhurst said quietly in his deep
voice, bowing in the woman’s direction. “I believe you requested my
appearance.”