Moonlight Masquerade (20 page)

Lazarus expelled his breath in an audible
sigh of exasperation. Nevertheless, he tried again, his voice low
and conspiratorial. “If you don’t talk, don’t say a word, she’d
never be the wiser. Your arm is nearly well now, so that it won’t
give you away, and the mask would cover your face. Why, you could
even
dance
with Miss Denham, and see for yourself that she
is fine.”

Temptation comes in many forms, but the
thought of holding Christine in his arms was more than
temptation—it was an irresistible lure. Setting down his cup,
Vincent looked up at the servant. “I don’t know, Lazarus,” he began
hesitantly, “it sounds innocent enough...”

Lazarus smiled, believing himself to have
single-handedly saved his lordship’s chance for happiness. “I
walked out last evening with Mrs. Ernestine Flam, cook to Miss
Nellis Denham. That woman would do anything for a pork pie, but all
I wished from her was a little information. Miss Christine Denham
is to attend the masked ball dressed as Queen Cleopatra of the
Nile.”

Vincent chuckled. “And Miss Nellis Denham’s
costume? The asp, I’m sure.”

Lazarus wrinkled his brow, clearly puzzled
at Hawkhurst’s joke, but then quickly laughed along, not wishing to
offend his lordship.

T
he massive
ballroom was overflowing with gaily dressed peasant girls, their
throats and ears dripping diamonds, courtly gentlemen in powdered
wigs and sawdust-filled clocked hose, pitchfork toting devils with
horns and leering grins, bosomy shepherd girls who would be hard-
pressed to recognize a sheep, overaged, multipatched courtesans
smelling of imported scent and domestic sweat, and more than half a
dozen King Henry the Eighth’s, at least two of whom needed no
buckram padding to mimic the man’s immense girth.

Lady Wexford had clearly outstripped even
her own greatest expectations, for everyone who was anyone was in
attendance at her masked ball this warm spring evening, including
more than a few opportunistic gate-crashers who had managed to find
their way onto the premises under the cover of costumes that would
conceal their identities as long as they refrained from dipping
their heads into the punch bowls and remembered not to drop their
“aitches” when they spoke.

The air fairly crackled with excitement, as
the masks they wore freed the
ton
from the necessity of
behaving themselves as they ought, and before the ball was halfway
over more than a dozen innocent and not so innocent assignations
had taken place in the privacy of Lady Wexford’s ornamental
gardens.

Lord Hawkhurst stood on the edge of the
garden, able to see both the ballroom and the couples strolling arm
and arm along the hedged walkways, a solitary figure enveloped neck
to Hessians in a swirling black silk domino, his hair uncovered,
his distinctive damning features hidden from the world behind a
mask depicting a grinning, vacant-eyed skull that had been the only
mask Lazarus could find that would cover his master’s entire
face.

“Look, Archy! ’ow gruesome! A death’s ’ead!”
a young woman dressed as Marie Antoinette might have looked had
that poor beheaded queen had a few more pounds and a few less
teeth, trilled to her partner, pointing straight at Vincent. “Oh, I
think I might jist faint dead away.”

Archy, a rather rotund gentleman clad in the
costume of a court fool, complete with jangling bells on his toes,
was not impressed. “Do, and I’ll pull you into the bushes and
tumble you anyway,” he shot back roughly, pulling her toward the
shrubbery. “You promised me a kiss. I haven’t time for hartshorn
and burnt feathers. We unmask at midnight and my wife will be
looking for me.”

“Oh, Archy! You gentry coves are
so
impatient!” Marie Antoinette teased, her eager hands already moving
toward the buttons on his bright green breeches.

“And those same searching hands will be
elbow-deep in his pockets before the night gets much older,”
Vincent remarked quietly to himself, wondering how he had ever
thought he missed
ton
life as he made his way toward the
ballroom.

But once inside the high-ceilinged room Lady
Wexford had ordered decorated in mile after mile of pink, white,
and golden yellow muslin, and enough flowers for a king’s funeral,
he quickly remembered that there were still things he liked about
London. This penchant for divine absurdity was one of them.

He had been one of the brightest comets in
the city during his years among the
ton
, part of a large
circle of friends who favored the sporting life as well as the
gentler side of Society. After a year spent in the Peninsula, he
had returned to the metropolis ready for amusement and adventure
and some lighthearted romantic dalliance, and he had found plenty
to occupy his time.

It was only after Arabella Belden had made
her debut that it had all changed, first for the better, and
then—

Two gentlemen walked past, also clad in
masks and dominos, one of them accidentally brushing up against
Hawkhurst.

“So sorry, my fault entirely,” the man
murmured, not really looking at the person he was addressing.

“That’s quite all right, Marcus,” Vincent
answered automatically, immediately recognizing the strapping
redhead he had sparred with on several occasions at Gentleman
Jackson’s Boxing Salon. “You never could walk more than two feet
without bumping into something.”

Marcus Schillingham stopped in his tracks,
leaning forward slightly as if this action would help him see the
face behind the skull mask. “Damn these stupid things! Leave it to
a woman to think up some silly nonsense to plague us. I sneezed a
moment ago and nearly killed myself. Do I know you, friend? Your
voice sounds so familiar, but I can’t seem to place it.”

Vincent searched his brain for an answer
that would serve to fob off the man, but just then he spied a
dark-haired beauty modestly yet alluringly clad in flowing white
silk and a dozen or more gold bracelets appear ten feet in front of
him just as the orchestra was striking up a waltz. Her
midnight-black hair hung nearly to her waist, free of any restraint
other than a thin golden band around her forehead, with the head of
an asp rising above it. A small white mask circled her sky- blue
eyes, but he knew her in an instant, even if Lazarus hadn’t told
him what costume she had chosen to wear.

Christine
.

Quickly pressing Marcus’s shoulder with one
hand and mumbling something vague about catching up with him later
in the card room, Vincent wasted no time in approaching Christine,
bowing before her as he extended a hand toward the dance floor.

“Good luck to you, friend!” Marcus called
after him bracingly, laughing as he moved to rejoin his companion,
who was standing in the corner, openly leering down the bodice of a
comely red-haired milkmaid.

“May I have the honor, Madame Queen?”
Vincent asked, remembering to disguise his voice by dropping it a
full octave. The grinning skull further distorted his words, so
that even he didn’t recognize his voice in the loud ballroom.

Christine was smiling up at him, clearly
bemused by his horrific mask. Her eyes were full of mischief as she
quickly consulted the dance card that was suspended from her wrist
by a thin white ribbon. “You must be Death, I suppose, although you
appear to be quite healthy. Let me see if I can locate you on my
card, Sir Death. I have already promised dances to Romeo, and King
Lear, and a man who I think believes he is an aged, graying Merlin
but has only succeeded in looking as if he has been dumped head
first into a flour barrel. No, I don’t see any dead men here,
although I do believe my last partner was tottering on the brink,
for he has stumbled off somewhere, quite deserting me. I’m so
sorry.”

“Ah, fair Cleopatra,” Vincent responded,
taking her hand to lead her onto the floor, “what care you for
dance cards? You are queen of all you survey, and may choose your
own partners.”

Christine tipped her head to one side,
grinning impishly. “Yes, I am, aren’t I? What a grand thought. But
then why, Sir Death, I must ask, should this powerful queen deign
to dance with you?”

“Because an asp, dear lady, has no feet,”
Vincent retorted, pulling her into his arms before he exploded from
the need to hold her. He turned her neatly, effortlessly, as they
swept into the first full circle of the waltz.

And then the magic of the dance was on them
both, and there was no further need for words.

He cradled her slim body loosely, achingly
aware of her nearness, of her left hand placed on his arm just
above his elbow, of her right hand nestled confidently against his
palm. She was more than a full head shorter than he, yet as he
whirled her about, the pure, violet scent of her skin and hair
wafted up to his nostrils as an invisible fist squeezed shut deep
inside him, reawakening a hunger that had never really been fully
satisfied.

Round and round they danced, their steps
perfectly matched, their every movement one of grace and beauty.
Christine’s white draperies flowed behind her as she appeared to
float an inch above the ground, while Vincent’s ebony silk domino
billowed, exposing his black full evening dress, then molded itself
to his lean, muscular figure as he stepped forward into another
dizzying turn.

Christine was silent, staring up into his
masked face, and his tall frame bent only slightly toward her,
protectively, possessively, as he returned look for look, his jaw
tight, their gazes locked together in wordless communication.

He was dying, but it was a most beautiful
death. He was living, for the first time in months, and life had
never been more sweet. The music was in his head, in his heart, in
his soul, and it was the most beautiful music he had ever heard; an
angel chorus, played on golden harps. He wanted to dance with
Christine forever, hold her forever, look at her forever.

But nothing lasts forever, not happiness,
not even pain, and certainly, not a waltz at Lady Wexford’s masked
ball. The musicians ended the dance with a flourish of violins and
the dancers separated, each eager to find either a secluded spot to
continue their conversations or another, more congenial
partner.

Vincent and Christine stood quite still in
the center of the rapidly clearing floor, still frozen in the
graceful posture of the waltz, silently looking at each other,
oblivious of the rest of the world.

Finally, her voice very small, Christine
asked, “Who—who are you?”

He was tempted. He was so tempted. Even
behind the safety of a mask, Christine seemed to know him. Surely
this was a measure of their love for each other. Could he dare it?
Could he chance it?

Yet could he bear to hold her, and then walk
away?

Vincent slowly raised his right hand to his
face, taking hold of a bottom corner of his mask. “I’m—”

“Cleopatra! Ah, Cleo, my fatal darling! Have
you forgotten that you have promised me this next dance? I hadn’t
known queens were so forgetful. I’m surprised you haven’t misplaced
a few pyramids by now.”

Vincent’s hand stilled in the act of
removing his mask. That voice. He knew that voice. It was just that
the last time he had heard it, the voice had been full of agony,
cursing him, condemning him to pain, and degradation, and a
lifetime of guilt. Now that voice was light, carefree, and
addressing Christine in a very personal, very knowing way.

Christine stiffened visibly, a frown marring
her smooth features at the untimely interruption, but her
expression soon cleared and she turned away from Vincent to say,
“Mark Antony, you have come! Allow me to introduce to you the
mysterious Sir Death, someone we all must face at one time or
another. We have just been dancing together, death and I. Sir
Death, may I present the Roman upstart—” she began, turning back to
where Vincent had stood only a moment earlier. “Sir Death?”

Slowly, Christine turned to Fletcher Belden,
her hands spread wide, her expression puzzled and somewhat sad.
“Now isn’t that the oddest thing? He’s gone.”