The Perfect Waltz (11 page)

Faith was welcome to him. For all his talent and dark good looks, Hope didn’t find the count nearly as attractive as the big, glowering man at her side. She glanced sideways to see if Mr. Reyne was enjoying the music, but he was staring at his shoes, lost in thought. What was he so cross about? she wondered again. Was it Lady Elinore, or the music, or was it something else, some problem in his life? He seemed so tense and unhappy. She wanted to lean across and slip her arm though his and comfort him.

After a final crescendo, the count, exhausted by the energy he had expended, reeled elegantly and sank onto a nearby chair, declaring he needed refreshment before he could continue. Ladies and servants rushed to his aid.

There was a muffled snort from Mr. Reyne.

Hope smiled. She’d seen from his rigid attention to his shoes that Mr. Reyne was not fascinated with the count; now she suspected their opinions of the man might coincide.

“So, Mr. Reyne, what do you think of—” she began, but her sister grasped her arm urgently.

“Hope! Hope, I must meet him! Come on!” Faith was adamant. It was unusual for her twin to make such a compelling request, so with a small apologetic smile at Mr. Reyne, Hope allowed herself to be dragged off to join the throng of ministering females.

The count petulantly rejected the forms of refreshment first rushed to him. “Wine and cakes? Pah, food for ladies. I am a man!”

He waved away the champagne. “Is zere no vodka in the house? Very well, if zere is nozzing else, brandy will have to do. But in Paris, they give me the finest vodka.” He took the glass of brandy offered, flung it down his throat with one dramatic movement, and shuddered extravagantly. He opened his eyes and regarded the waiting crowd through slitted eyes. He looked like a partially satiated pet panther. “Anyzing to eat?”

Hope watched, faintly amused by the man’s pretensions and by the way his adoring feminine acolytes rushed about trying to please him.

“Ham? Bah! Would you poison me?” He regarded the offending plate with disgust. The lady who’d offered it shrank away apologetically. A moment ago, she’d snatched the plate of shaved ham from a footman and offered it to the count in triumph. A baronet’s wife, fawning over a performer. As was half the extremely well-bred room. It was an extraordinary sight.

Could they not see that refusing to be pleased was part of his act? Hope turned to her sister to share the joke, but Faith was not there.

“Perhaps a morsel of smoked salmon on some lightly buttered bread, Count Rimavska?” In amazement, Hope heard her sister’s soft voice make the offer. Had everyone gone mad?

The count paused for a tense moment, then gave an approving smile. “An angel of sustenance. From your fair hands, O divine one, I would even risk ham!”

Faith glowed as he drew her closer. Hope turned away, shocked. What was Faith doing? It was taking musical admiration to extremes.

She sought out Mrs. Jenner. “Do something!”

“What would you have me do?”

“Stop my sister making a fool of herself.”

Mrs. Jenner looked incredulous. “But she is not making a fool of herself. I think it is charming.”

“But he’s—he’s—” Hope could hardly speak. “She’s waiting on him like a servant!”

“Nonsense, she’s just being helpful.” Mrs. Jenner raised a brow and gave Hope a smug look. “He’s a count, of excellent lineage, I’m told. And fabulously wealthy. He’s also a very good musician and extremely handsome. At least dear Faith hasn’t had her head turned by an unsavory cit!”

Had her head turned? Stunned, Hope watched as her sister passed morsels to the count. It didn’t seem right. The man was a poseur. She turned to older, wiser heads. “Great Uncle Oswald? Lady Gussie? What is Faith doing? I’ve never seen her act so bold.”

Lady Gussie patted her hand. “It’s just a bit of fun, dear. Faith is enjoying herself. He’s a very pretty man, and he plays like an angel. It’s a pleasure to see shy little Faith flirting for a change. Too serious, that girl.”

Hope frowned.
Flirting?
Faith never flirted. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “A
musician
!” Was this Faith’s dream come true?

Great Uncle Oswald heard her. “Yes, but no harm in that. Titled, and the family is disgustin’ly rich. And since there’s a shockin’ shortage of dukes at the moment . . .” He shrugged. “So run along and let your sister be.”

 
Sebastian watched as the count ate his way through the plate of smoked salmon and then picked over a plate of lobster patties, both held adoringly for him by Miss Faith Merridew. Several glasses of the despised brandy disappeared down his throat.

It wasn’t refreshments the fellow needed—it was a good thrashing! The way the women crowded about the man made him grind his teeth. Miss Faith was feeding the man, and her sister was standing by, watching every movement tenderly. Unable to stomach the sight any longer, he crossed the room to join Giles and Lady Elinore. At least Lady Elinore hadn’t rushed to join the throng of ladies, he noted with satisfaction. A rational woman!

“Well, what do you think of that?” He jerked his head across the room. “Ever seen anything like it?”

“No indeed. A most exhilarating performance,” agreed Lady Elinore.

Sebastian snorted. “It’s a performance, all right.”

“I had heard him described as Byronesque,” Lady Elinore said, “but I had not realized the degree to which it would be so apt. There is a tendency in society to exaggerate such things, but in this case it seems appropriate. Do you not find him so, Mr. Reyne?”

“Find him what? Appropriate?” Sebastian blinked. Miss Hope hadn’t taken her eyes off the dratted fiddle player.

“Byronesque.”

Sebastian frowned. “I thought he was Hungarian.”

Both Giles and Lady Elinore laughed, as if he’d made a very good joke. Giles said, “Yes, as if he’d stepped right out of ‘The Giaour.’”

Sebastian supposed that the
Jowr
was some place in Hungary. He didn’t know about such things. He’d had only had a few years of schooling, as Giles very well knew, and poetry wasn’t part of it.

“Oh no, ‘The Corsair,’ I think,” Lady Elinore said. “‘His forehead high and pale / The sable curls in wild profusion veil; . . .’”

“Apt indeed,” Giles agreed.“‘And oft perforce his rising lip reveals / The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals.’ Though it does seem as if he’s quite willing to share his haughtier thoughts aloud—about the inferiority of the refreshments offered, for instance.”

Giles laughed at his own wit. Lady Elinore frowned. Sebastian, having not a clue what the devil they were talking about, frowned also. Miss Hope was paying far too much attention to the blasted fellow!

Lady Elinore said with cool severity, “Mr. Bemerton, I hope you are not mocking the count. I was in absolute earnest in my admiration. Count Felix Vladimir Rimavska is the finest violinist I have ever heard. The fact that he also resembles Lord Byron’s most romantical hero is not, I believe, a reason for flippancy. On the contrary, it only adds to his attraction.” She walked off, leaving Giles staring after her, his jaw agape.

“Did you see that?”

“I did indeed,” murmured Sebastian, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the scene next to the stage. “An absolute disgrace.”

“She reprimanded me! Again!”

“Hmm? Who?”

“Lady Elinore! She reprimanded me for my flippancy and walked off in high dudgeon!” Giles was astounded. And from the light in his eyes, amused. “I’ve never had any woman talk to me that way, let alone a dowdy little quiz at her last prayers.”

“Ahem!” Sebastian cleared his throat meaningfully, but Giles missed the hint, so he was forced to add, “Recall, if you please, that you are talking of my intended.”

“Oh, right. Yes, of course. Sorry.” Giles stared after Lady Elinore.

“What did you do to offend her, anyway?”

Giles jerked his chin in the direction of the stage. “Insulted the fiddler.”

Sebastian snorted. “A man like that cannot be insulted enough! Blasted coxcomb!” He glared at the Merridew sisters, still apparently entranced by the count.

Giles nodded. “Fellow needs a punch in the nose, if you ask me.”

“My thoughts exactly!”

In complete accord they watched the ladies thronging around the count. The Merridew girls were in the forefront, standing right beside him. Lady Elinore had quietly attached herself to the edge of the adoring circle. Sebastian said, “I’m not staying to watch any more of this.”

Giles shook his head in disgust. “Me neither. I need a drink.”

However, when they reached the house Sebastian had rented for the season, it was to find there was an urgent message waiting for him from his butler in Manchester. Cassie and Dorie were missing. They’d been missing for—he checked the date on the message—three days now. The butler had taken the liberty of calling in Mr. Morton Black.

Missing.
A cold chill enveloped his body, and for a second he could not think at all. They could not be missing. He could not have lost them again!

Feeling sick and more worried than he’d been for years, Sebastian instantly ordered a fresh horse to be saddled. He explained briefly to Giles. “I must go, immediately.”

“Yes, of course, my dear fellow. I shall look after things for you here, shall I?”

Sebastian, his only thought for his sisters, said distractedly, “What things?”

“You have an engagement to drive out with Lady Elinore tomorrow morning, do you not?”

“Oh yes. Damn! I should write—”

Giles laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t give it another thought. I shall call on Lady Elinore in the morning, explain to her that you were called away on urgent family business. I’ll even take her on that drive, if she wants. I’ve no other engagements.”

“Thanks, Giles. You’re a good friend. Now, I’ll just get out of these evening clothes and be off.”

In less than ten minutes, Sebastian, in boots, buckskins, and riding coat, was ready and set off northward, into the night.

LORD BYRON

 
 
 
 
 
HOPE TURNED AND TWISTED, TRYING TO ESCAPE. DARK. JUST A
chink of light. She reached for it, for the handle. Can’t move. Pain. She tried again. “The Devil’s hand.” The rope burned into her wrist. “I forbid you to use it.”

Dark. So dark.
Can’t move hand. “I’ll teach you to use that hand.”

She fumbled with her other hand, groped at the chink of light. Should be able to work the lock from the inside.
Try, try!

Can’t! Too clumsy! “Tainted.”
Can’t use her right hand like everyone else. Can’t get out. Can’t breathe!

Coffin. She tried to hammer on the lid. Hand won’t move. Good hand. Bad hand. Rope bites into her flesh, tight. Tight enough to cut off the flesh, the bad hand.
“Evil. Tainted.”

“Hope! Hope darling, I’m here. Wake up, my dear.”

Light. Blessed light. Blinding her but oh, thank God! Sister. Twin. Faith, her other half. In a nightgown. She was saved. She gasped for breath.

“Breathe deeply now, Hope, dear. You’re safe. It was just one of your dreams.”

The words finally penetrated. A dream? She was not back at the Court? Thank God. Thank God.

“It was just a nightmare, love. You’re safe now, safe in your own bed, far away from Grandpapa.” Faith smoothed Hope’s tangled hair off her damp forehead.

Hope blinked, dazed, still partly in the grip of her nightmare. Her twin reached down and took Hope’s left hand and raised it in front of her. “See? No ropes. No marks. It’s all behind us, now.” She hugged her.

Hope gave several deep, shivery breaths and rubbed her left wrist as if the rope burns were still there. “I’m sorry, twin,” she said gruffly.

“Don’t be,” said her gentle sister almost fiercely. “Do you think I don’t know what these nightmares are about? How often you took punishments intended for me?” There were tears in her eyes. “I just wish I could suffer the nightmares for you.”

Hope smiled shakily and hugged Faith. “Don’t worry, twin. You have your own nightmares, I know. We all do. It is Grandpapa’s legacy.”

Her sister’s words of the other night came back to her.
“Give him another fifty years or so, and who will you be looking at? Grandpapa!”

Was that what had brought the nightmare on? Did he really, deep down, remind her of Grandpapa? Was the dream a warning?

She thought about it. Sebastian Reyne was not like Grandpapa, he was not. She was sure he was not.

Almost.

Wearily, Sebastian turned into the driveway of his home. Lights blazed from the house. He was drenched, filthy, and exhausted. He’d ridden almost nonstop for the last twenty-two hours. He’d lost track of the number of horses he’d exchanged on the way. He dismounted, staggering briefly, as his muscles cramped.

The front door was flung open before he had even reached the steps. The butler hurried to greet Sebastian. “It’s all right, sir, the girls have been found!”

Sebastian stumbled on a step.

“Mr. Black, he found them, safe and well!”

Sebastian stared at the butler, almost unable to take in his words. He glanced up. Behind the butler, Morton Black stood at the open front door of Sebastian’s house, and behind him stood Cassie, looking both belligerent and embarrassed, her hand clasping Dorie’s. Dorie looked no different from usual: wide-eyed, wary, and silent.

Relief flooded him. “Thank God!” He raced up the steps and bent to embrace the girls. They flinched and stepped back. Sebastian froze. In his relief at seeing them safe, he’d forgotten.