The Secret Duke (10 page)

She arrived at the center of the house, at a crowded grand landing above a magnificent staircase of gleaming wood and gilded metal. Above, she could just make out a richly plastered ceiling with a central painting, but little light reached there.

Instead, the hall below was lit to draw the eye, making it a stage onto which new arrivals stepped. She eased to the front of the crowd to get a better view, and was instantly assailed by noise, perfumes, and sweat, both from around her and from below.

She looked down, wondering if the duke was in the hall, greeting the most important guests. What costume would he wear? A senatorial toga, perhaps with an emperor’s laurel wreath? She saw some of those, and even gilded ones.

Yes, the haughty duke would dress like that.

She hoped this invasion might lead to more information about the Duke of Ithorne, because she had a particular interest in him. She was worried about that extraordinary donation of a thousand guineas, and she’d asked Mr. Brownley, the London solicitor engaged for her by Mr. Clatterford, to try to find the source. He’d had great difficulty, for clearly the source didn’t want to be uncovered, but some connection at a law firm that did a great deal of work for the dukedom of Ithorne had let slip that he knew of the matter. Now why would a young, rakish duke give such a sum to the Fowler Fund? For no good purpose, she was sure.

Had he hoped it would tempt Lady Fowler to dangerous folly? That seemed extraordinarily devious, but such had been the result. Lady Fowler was now convinced that she had powerful secret supporters and, under the influence of the Drummonds, was devising more grandiose plans by the day.

To make matters worse, for months now she’d been attacking the Marquess of Rothgar in her letters, which had to be the height of folly, even if he had foisted a bastard daughter on his wife and society.

Would the man they called the Dark Marquess be here tonight, perhaps dressed all in black? Another term applied to him was the Eminence Noir—the black power behind the throne. The term came from France, apparently, where there had once been L’Eminence Rouge—the red power, or Cardinal Richelieu.

Lord Rothgar frightened Bella more than the king did, for he knew no rules or laws. From what she knew of him, he did whatever he liked and his vengeance was swift.

Yes, she must leave Lady Fowler’s. Must find some other life.

None of the men below seemed right for Lord Rothgar or the duke, though both would be hard to detect. She’d seen either only a few times and at a distance. Both were tall and had dark hair when it was unpowdered. The marquess was ten years older than the duke.

As she searched, she noticed that the arriving guests looked up and around and exclaimed with pleasure. Bella decided to go down to see the scene as they saw it.

It wasn’t easy to go against the flow, and sometimes she had to brush too closely against people. Sometimes against men, who smiled and teased. One tried to compel her upstairs with him, but released her as soon as she protested.

She became hot and flustered, however. She wished some costumes didn’t leave muscular arms exposed to brush her naked ones. She wished the crowd didn’t occasionally press her completely against a hard body, or hard armor.

She’d forgotten the sense of men when close like this. Perhaps she’d never known it. Not like this, so informally.

Except once.

Four years ago. Dover. Wrapped in the arms of a man in the midst of a drunken crowd. Kissed in a drunken crowd. Standing in that stable close by a man’s side, terrified of being caught, of the fate hanging over her, but aware of him there. Powerfully, physically aware in a way she’d never forgotten.

And he’d been fully dressed, as had she.

She pushed free of the end of the stairs and stepped into space, sucking in breaths as if she’d been drowning. Drowning in male scent and power.

She was still in the midst of a crowd, but not in contact with anyone anymore. No man had an excuse to press against her, thank the gods. She strolled toward the front door, and then turned, to see the scene as it presented to people entering the house in the normal way.

She’d never been to Italy, but this was as she thought it would be. Illusory stone walls were broken by painted windows and balconies that showed people painted so cunningly that they could almost be alive. The dark cloth that had obscured some of her view from above gave the impression of a starry night sky. She became aware of smells. She couldn’t identify them, but herbs and other aromas suggested a foreign land.

“Absurd, isn’t it?”

Bella started and turned to face the speaker—a young man in peasant clothing. He wore a knee-length tunic of undyed homespun over brown leggings. He had dark stubble on his chin, unkempt grayish hair, and his mask was merely a rag wrapped around his eyes that left only a narrow gap.

For a moment she thought him an impudent servant, but the voice had not been a servant’s voice. Clearly he was a gentleman, and one who took bold liberties with the limits of the costumes here to come as a Roman slave.

He was waiting for her response, perhaps wondering at her silence.

She chose rapidly between jaded and appreciative and preferred honesty. “I think it’s lovely. I wonder if it truly resembles Italy.”

“As a theater set resembles anything. But you think Ithorne’s done a tolerable job?”

“I doubt the noble duke actually did anything.”

Her companion chuckled. “How true. ‘Here, minion, do this. Hence serf and do that.’ ”

His tone told her he was a kindred spirit in dislike of the idle rich.

He seemed to notice the same thing about her. “Clearly we’re companion souls,” he said. “Come dance with me.”

It might be taken as a request, but instead of offering his hand for her to take, he grasped hers and drew her back toward the stairs.

After an instinctive resistance, Bella went. She needed to be unobtrusive here until later, when the wickedness should begin, and a lady with a partner would be less notable than one alone. She couldn’t deny that she’d also love to dance again, just once. It had been so long.

As she’d thought, when she had an escort other men didn’t bother her. A lady should be able to go around unescorted and free from insult, but her heart wasn’t in outrage at the moment. In truth, her heart was in disarray.

No, not her heart. She wasn’t falling in love, but she was teetering on some brink, and all because a strong, masculine hand captured hers. How long had it been since a man had held her hand, both of them ungloved, skin-to-skin?

Four years, she supposed, at some country dance. Or perhaps when Coxy and Naiscourt had forced her into a coach.

“What angers you, sweet nymph?” her companion asked.

Bella realized they’d reached the top of the stairs and she was frowning. He mustn’t think her unusual in any way, so she quickly smiled. “Only the crush, sir, and hence the delay at reaching the ballroom. I do enjoy dancing.”

He glanced at the crowd blocking their way. “Shall I command a parting of the ways?”

“Are you Moses, then? You do wear a slavish costume.”

“Merely a poor goatherd allowed off my solitary peak to play. But if we were to pretend all these inconvenient people were goats, I might know how to manage them.”

“Goats? At the Olympian Revels?”

“Aristocratic goats are still goats. Only hear them bleat.”

Bella had to chuckle. “Lud, sir! I fear you’ll come to a dire end.”

“Sent back to my mountain? Or forced to flee the country, like poor old Wilkes? Never fear: I’m not foolish enough to put my disrespectful thoughts into print. Are you?”

Bella gulped. Had she been caught so easily? “What disrespectful thoughts would I have?” she managed.

“About idle Ithorne, for one. He probably has a dungeon deep below for insolence like that.”

“More than likely. I hear he’s a rake of the lowest degree.”

He smiled. “A duke is never low, sweet nymph.”

“Perhaps not in this life.”

“Ah, you anticipate when we shall all be divided into sheep and goats. Unfair to goats, don’t you think, to make them devil bait?”

“Very,” she agreed, enjoying the harmless banter more than was wise. Lady Fowler’s house was sadly lacking in wit. “You promised me dancing, sir. Are you not a man of your word?”

Oh, that was the old Bella Barstowe, all impatience and demands.

“Come, let me herd you, then.” He put an arm around her and steered forward. Bella felt powerless, as if he had captured her will as well as her waist.

As if she’d go anywhere at his direction.

Like a mindless goat.

No man had ever put his arm around her in such a commanding way, and she felt the lack of her usual layers of clothing. As if by some magic he created enough space for them to pass, she almost felt as if his bare arm lay against her bare skin.

Be he of high or low degree, she’d fallen in with a rascal who didn’t know the meaning of restraint. A wise woman would spurn him, but she did so want to dance.

They plunged through the throng into the ballroom. It too was decorated to look like marble and pillars, though there’d been no attempt to hide the painted and gilded ceiling, glittering in the light of hundreds of candles. Down the center of the long room, a line of costumed guests danced to the tune “The Lady of May.”

He moved them to one side so others could enter, and Bella found the strength to free herself from his arm.

He allowed it, his interesting mouth curled in humor. “Which nymph are you, my lovely one? By your stars I would guess one of the Pleiades. Stars at your toes too,” he remarked, in a tone that made Bella’s naked toes curl.

“Kelano,” she said quickly. “Do you have a name, goatherd?”

“I’m too lowly to be named. Ebony hair,” he remarked, boldly touching a long curl on her shoulder. “That could indicate Kelano the harpy, dark and clawed.”

How could a touch on a wig make her shudder?

“Or Kelano of the Amazons,” she pointed out, brushing his hand away. She’d researched her name. “Beware, sir. I may have a concealed bow and arrow.”

“Perhaps I should search you. In case of danger to my goats.”

“I think not!”

He reached out to touch the cloth covering her right shoulder, and for a moment she thought he might actually attempt it. But then he sighed. “Alas, nor do I. But you come as a mystery within a puzzle, Kelano, wrapped in a many-layered disguise. I must know more. But the night is young and there’s time.”

“Time?” she asked, trying not to sound breathless.

She’d met some bold men when she was young, but never anyone like this. Though her breathing felt shallow, Bella was thrilled down to her starry toes. He was flirting with her in a most deliciously wicked way. And she was flirting back.

How long had it been?

Four years.

Aeons.

“Time to peel away layers until we arrive at truth,” he said.

“Yours as well as mine?” It was an instinctive riposte, meant to repel, but he grinned and she realized her provocative riposte was very foolish.

“Of course,” he said. “Shall we begin?” Again an invading touch, but this time a quick finger down her side.

“No,” she said, stepping back, but coming up against a wall behind her.

“We could find a quieter spot. . . .”

Bella felt her eyes widen. He was proposing just the sort of scandal she’d come here to expose. And she, disastrously, was tempted!

“Dancing first,” she said quickly.

Later she’d slip away from him.

“Kelano the wise.” But then his smile became full of anticipation. “A slower pace does lead to greater pleasure, does it not? Come.”

This time he did hold out his hand rather than compel her. Bella knew wise Kelano would find an excuse to escape now, but she put hers into his.

“You truly do enjoy dancing, don’t you?”

As she was bouncing on her feet in time to the music, Bella didn’t attempt to deny it, and she ran with him to join the end of the line to weave into the longways dance. Soon she was lost in the patterns of the steps.

As they met in the middle and turned, he said, “I think I might know you.”

Despite a stab of panic, Bella smiled, but when she whirled off to turn with the next gentleman, her alarmed mind hunted through danger.

Could the goatherd be someone she’d known four years ago? She was certain he wasn’t any of her country neighbors, and what London beau would remember her from a passing moment? And yet . . . and yet she realized there was something vaguely familiar about him.

Where?

When?

Stubbled cheeks seemed part of it, and that was a rare detail among gentlemen. . . .

She couldn’t pin it down, but it nibbled at the back of her mind even as she smiled and flirted with other gentlemen. Recognition could be disastrous.

Was he recognizing Bella Barstowe or Bellona Flint? She couldn’t imagine how anyone could recognize Bellona in this costume, especially as Bellona didn’t mix with society at all.

“And who are you, pretty maid?”

Bella started and stared at the man she was mindlessly partnering. She gathered her wits to give the conventional response. “That’s for you to guess, sir.”

“Melia,” he suggested.

She had no idea who Melia was, but shook her head and danced on, wondering why she hadn’t given that conventional answer to the goatherd. Instead, she’d told him her name, just as she’d gone where he took her. He was a very dangerous man, and he thought he recognized her. As soon as the dance ended, she must elude him.

For now, she stole glances at him, assessing the danger.

Frequently, their eyes met.

Why was he watching her? Was he too puzzling over this sense of familiarity?

Was he part of Lady Fowler’s reforming circle? No. The few men who supported her were clergymen and scholars. The goatherd was too wicked by far. Only see him flirt with every woman he passed in the dance. Of course, she was doing the same, but all in a noble cause.