Unmasked (18 page)

Laura found her voice. “What on earth are you doing, Charles?”

Charles jumped as though he had been bitten and in that moment Laura realized it was the first time in their marriage that she had ever questioned him about anything. He looked confused, taken aback and then rather alarmed at her tone.

“Hello, old girl. I was simply looking…” His voice trailed away as he looked down at the jewelry in his hands.

Charles, Laura thought, with some pity, was not a man who could think of good excuses quickly.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “you wanted to check if I kept my jewelry safely locked away?”

“Yes!” Charles grasped at this excuse desperately. “Should be in the bank, of course. That would be much better.”

“Of course,” Laura said politely. “But then you could not take the pieces that you needed, Charles. I had wondered where my silver locket had gone, and my pearl earrings. I would have accused my maid, but I know her to be entirely trustworthy.”

Charles drooped. “Oh, Lord. I thought you wouldn’t notice, old girl. Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“You thought I would not mind that you were pilfering my grandmother’s heirlooms?” Laura said, raising her brows. The anger was licking along her veins now and it felt surprisingly good. “Why on earth would you think that, Charles? Because I never made a fuss before?”

Charles shifted from one foot to another. He looked utterly discomfited, and Laura felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him. He had married an aristocrat he had thought was his equal in cold blue blood and after ten years she was turning into an unpredictable woman whose feelings and emotions were dangerously close to the surface. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye, as he would a horse of uncertain temperament.

“Steady on, Laura,” he said, replacing the necklace in the box and closing the chest rather gingerly. “No harm done.”

“How much do you owe, Charles?” Laura asked. Certain matters were clicking into place in her mind now; her husband’s frequent absences in Town, his refusal to allow her to join him, the faded patch on the wall where a rather fine portrait by Hogarth had hung…He could scarce gamble away his inheritance in Skipton without someone noticing, but in London there were so many more opportunities.

“How much,” she repeated, and he looked away shiftily.

“Forty,” he muttered.

“Forty
thousand?
” Mentally Laura doubled it. That meant that he had gambled away his inheritance and her dowry into the bargain. The flicker of anger within her grew, expanded, started to blaze. Not that he needed anything to leave to his heirs since he had not begotten any, but how long would it be before word got around about his financial troubles? Perhaps, Laura thought, word was already out in London and that was another reason why he did not want her there.

“You had better take my grandmother’s rubies,” she said. “Those are worth about forty thousand. They should stave your creditors off for a little while.”

Charles blinked at her. “Take the rubies? I can’t do that, old girl!”

Laura knew that he would have taken them anyway in the end, even if he deluded himself that he would not. The pictures would have gone from the walls, the jewels from her case; even the furniture might have started to disappear. And, she thought, the extraordinary thing was that neither of them would have said anything. For ten years she had been unhappy in her marriage and had said not a word, and she would have carried on forever in silence because that was what she had been taught Duchesses did. Her husband would have denied her the pleasure of going up to Town, the pleasures of company and she would not have challenged him because she had promised to obey him when she took her wedding vows. He could have ransacked their home, taken everything of value, and she would not have broached the subject because she never complained, never asked for difficult explanations. In the privacy of her chamber she might have stared into her mirror and felt despair, but she would never have told Charles how she felt and he would never have thought to talk to her about it.

She thought of the time that she had caught Hester sneaking out to lead the Glory Girls and how Hester had looked terrified because she had thought Laura would inevitably be so outraged and appalled that she would give the game away. Hester had never realized how much Laura envied her for her unconventionality and her outspokenness. Laura had always felt like the caged canary to Hester’s free-flying hawk.

But not any longer.

Laura looked at her husband, with his weak chin and his trapped, darting gaze, and something shifted deep within her. Something finally broke that could never be repaired.

“When we next go up to London, I will come with you to the solicitor’s offices and we shall discuss the full extent of your debt and work out a plan to retrench,” Laura said. She saw his face twitch at her use of the word
we,
but carried on regardless. “It will be delightful to be up in Town again. I cannot think why I have not made the journey before.” She swished across the room toward him and he actually retreated a few steps. “Perhaps Papa might advance us a loan to help clear some of the more urgent bills,” she said thoughtfully. “I will ask him.”

“D-don’t!” Charles stuttered. “Don’t tell your papa about this!”

Laura ignored him. “After all, Papa would be most concerned to hear that you were obliged to hawk my jewelry about the place in order to pay your gambling debts.”

“Laura.” There was a note of desperation in Charles’s voice now. “I pray you not to involve Lord Burlington. There is no need!”

“Well, perhaps not.” Laura smiled. “I shall think about it. Now, I suggest that you go back to bed, Charles. All this worry cannot be good for you and we have a house full of guests to entertain on the morrow.”

“Yes,” Charles said, with relief. “Yes, of course. Good night, old girl.”

Laura watched him scurry away to the door and listened to the sound of his footfalls fading along the corridor.

Remembering the hopeless passion she had felt for him so recently, she could scarce believe it. Now, she thought, she almost hated him. Her loathing and her anger were so hot inside her that she thought for a moment that she might burst; she might explode like a firework. There was only one way to get rid of such restless fury. Taking her candle, Laura made for her closet and reached for her riding clothes.

A
LITTLE LATER
,
as the first streaks of dawn were beginning to lighten the eastern sky above the fells, the landlady of Half Moon House was roused from her bed by a persistent knocking at the inn door. Grumbling, she made her way down the stairs and drew the bolts, holding her candle high in one hand and her pistol in the other as she confronted the cloaked and masked stranger on the doorstep.

“Mercy,” she said after a moment, lowering the pistol. “It’s you, madam! I thought the Glories did not ride out again this night?”

Laura laughed. “I am going out alone, Josie, to do what we originally promised and burn Sampson’s ricks to the ground. I have come for a horse.” She looked thoughtfully at the candle flame. “And a flaming torch, as well, I think. Yes, that will be a nice touch. The tale of Glory’s torchlight dawn gallop through the villages will soon be the talk of every inn and club in the country.”

“Take care, madam,” Josie said. Her face was troubled. “Sometimes I think that the devil is in you even more than in Lady Hester.”

Laura laughed. “Very probably, Josie.” She adjusted her gloves. “Could you lend me the white gelding tonight, please? He will look the best in the torchlight. I intend to make sure that everyone remembers Glory’s last ride.”

“M
ERCY ON US, MA’AM
,”
Jane said the next morning as she brought Mari’s cup of tea, “Glory was out alone last night and burned Mr. Sampson’s ricks and set fire to his fences! There is such a to-do in the village this morning, ma’am! They had to bring buckets of water from the river, and by the time they had put the fire out there was none of his hay left!”

“Glory?” Mari said. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I thought—” She stopped.

Jane bustled around the bed to draw back the drapes. “Frank said that Glory rode through Starbotton like an avenging angel with a torch in her hand.” There was a misty look in her eyes. “He said the horse was pure white and there were sparks flying from its hooves and a circle of fire about Glory’s head. Fair puts the fear of God in you, doesn’t it, ma’am?”

“It does indeed,” Mari said. “Please could you lay the green cambric gown out for me this morning, Jane? I shall be attending to my hothouse and so do not require anything smart to wear.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said, recognizing this change of topic for what it was. “No tea for Lady Hester this morning, ma’am,” she added, her mouth pursing with disapproval. “She is not here again!”

“I expect she has gone out for an early morning ride with Lord Teague,” Mari said easily.

“Aye, ma’am.” Jane’s tone suggested that if Mari believed that, she would believe anything. “Is that all, ma’am?”

“Thank you, Jane,” Mari said.

When the maid had gone out, she took her teacup, slipped from the bed and walked over to the window, in much the same way as she had on the morning Nick Falconer had first come to Peacock Oak. Across the valley she could see wisps of smoke rising in the still air. Shaking her head slightly she curled up on the window seat with her cup.

“This has to stop,” she said, under her breath. A rueful smile twisted her lips. “Even so, I would have liked to have seen it. Circle of fire, indeed! And I’ll wager she took that showy white gelding on purpose.”

I
N THE BREAKFAST PARLOR
of Cole Court, the Duke was buttering his eggs with bad-tempered vigor. Neither Lord Henry, nor Lady Faye, nor their daughter had yet risen to face the demands of the day and so Charles and Laura were obliged to eat alone together, a fact which Laura observed seemed to make her spouse uncomfortable after the events of the previous night.

“Blackett tells me that the Glory woman has been out again,” Charles said, “burning Sampson’s barns.” He rustled his newspaper irritably. “It’s a damned disgrace! I’m a justice of the peace and I’ll see her hang! Do you hear me, Laura? This just won’t do!”

For a moment Laura wondered how much he knew, but when she met his eyes, he looked away and made a business of picking up the paper again. At any rate, she thought, he will never tell me what to do again. Not after last night.

She reached for the honeypot and spread the golden substance lavishly over her toast. She smiled sunnily at her husband. “Just so, my love,” she murmured. “I am sure you will.”

Fig—I keep my secrets

“I
AM SO HAPPY
!”
Hester burst into the hall just as Mari was coming down the stairs for breakfast. “I have been with John all night—don’t scold, Mari, we are to be wed—and I am so happy I could burst!” She grabbed Mari by the hand and dragged her into the parlor where the maid was setting out the fresh bread and butter and honey. “Will you be my matron of honor, Mari? The banns are to be read next Sunday for the first time of asking. Charles is being very stuffy because he heard I was with John and he insists we wed as quickly as possible.” She gave Mari an impulsive hug. “Who would have thought it?”

“I would, for one,” Mari said, smiling. “The only wonder is what took you so long.”

“Yes.” Hester blushed. “I was very foolish and I have treated John very badly. I see that now. But I was lonely and sad—” Her face fell and she squeezed Mari’s hand all the tighter. “I am sorry, Mari,” she said quietly.

A lump rose in Mari’s throat. “Do not be,” she said. “I am glad for you, even if I am to be an old widow woman living on my own!” She felt the loneliness grip her heart. She understood what Hester was trying to say. Her friend knew that her newfound happiness would only increase Mari’s isolation.

“We will still be friends,” Hester said, looking anxious, “and Starbotton is no great distance.”

“Of course not,” Mari said. “And perhaps this is the opportunity for me to appoint some staid matron as my companion to make up for my own scandalous character!”

“Well, I wouldn’t do that,” Hester said, sliding into her seat and reaching for the coffeepot. “That would not suit you at all.” She stopped and put the pot down with a thud. “Oh, Mari, I do so want you to be happy. I want you to be as happy as I am!”

Mari looked at her; Hester, her friend, flushed with love, her eyes dreamy, and in that moment she felt so pleased for her and so wrenched with sadness.

“I cannot wait to live at Starbotton again,” Hester was saying. “Really I do not know why I did not accept John sooner so that I could go home!”

“Perhaps,” Mari said calmly, “because you did not realize quite how good in bed John would turn out to be. A pity, because if you
had
realized sooner, we would have been spared all your roistering at Half Moon House.”

“Mari!” Hester turned a gratifying scarlet.

Mari shrugged. “Is it not so?”

“I suppose so,” Hester said. She bit her lip. “I have behaved very badly—”

“Never mind. You can turn into a pattern card of respectability now,” Mari said. “You will be Lady Hester Teague of Starbotton Hall, and Laura will be untouchable as the Duchess of Cole and Glory can slide into legend where she belongs.”

“But what about you?” Hester looked anxious again. “What about you, Mari?”

“I shall do very well,” Mari said, ignoring the painful knot inside her. “I shall devote myself to good causes.”

“Perhaps you are correct about the Glories,” Hester said, on a sigh. “John says that Major Falconer has been sent by the Home Secretary himself to bring us to justice. I realize that we cannot ride again.”

“John knows that?” The cold fear struck Mari’s heart. Nick Falconer had been sent by the government to find the Glories? It was even worse than she had thought.

“He had it from Major Falconer himself,” Hester confirmed.

The maid came back and Mari turned the conversation to the wedding and the trousseau, and Hester’s face lit up and she chattered on about going to Skipton for gowns and not having enough time for all the preparations, and she barely stopped talking to eat.

It was only later, when Hester had rushed back to Starbotton Hall with unseemly haste, that Mari sat alone drinking a second cup of coffee and feeling melancholy. She was happy to see Hester so radiant but it seemed a cruel contrast to her own situation.

Just for a moment the image of Nick Falconer rose in Mari’s mind, the hard, clear planes of his face, the uncompromising line of his mouth, the dark perceptive gaze of his eyes. Just for a moment she permitted herself to wonder what it would be like to spend her life with a man like that; to share the good times and the difficult times, to bear his children, to have someone to trust in and to love and to cherish. She knew Nick could not be that man, at least not for her. In another time, perhaps, another existence…

With a sigh, she put down her cup. She knew Nick would seek her out today. After the events of the previous night, it was inevitable. She could run, of course, or she could hide away and refuse to see him, but in the end that would make no difference and anyway, she was weary now of running and hiding, of believing herself safe and discovering that she was not.

She knew Nick would want answers; that today would be the time he chose to demand from her the explanations he wanted in his subtle and merciless determination to reveal the truth.

She could not give them to him. No matter her desire to trust him, that troubling impulse that always prompted her to tell him the truth. One glance at Hester’s radiant face had been enough to convince her that she had to protect the Glory Girls against any accusation. In revealing her own history to Nick she would allow him to get close to Hester and Laura and the others. So she had to think of a way to keep their secrets.

She got to her feet. It was another beautiful day, perfect for spending time in the gardens. It was the place that gave her the most peace, so she would work there today.

And when Nick Falconer came, she would be ready.

“M
RS
. O
SBORNE
?”

It was late that afternoon, the shadows were starting to lengthen and Mari was in her hothouse by the south wall, repotting some seedlings of sweet marjoram. She jumped when she heard Nick’s voice and spun around, spilling some compost onto the wooden floor. Suddenly the enclosed space of the greenhouse felt tiny and very, very hot. She wished that she had opened some of the air vents in the roof. She was aware of the soil staining her fingers and the sweat beading her brow. She raised the back of her hand to wipe it away and then remembered, too late, that she would have made her face streaky with dirt. Her hair was scraped back beneath an old scarf and she was wearing an ancient gown of pale green cotton and she was sure she looked rumpled and shiny and grubby.

She had actually started to believe that he was not going to come to see her that day, had started to hope that he might be going to leave her alone, that she would not need her carefully assembled half-truths and protestations. But she might have known that he would not give up so easily. After all, he had been commissioned by the Home Secretary himself to discover the circumstances of Rashleigh’s death and the link to the Glory Girls.

You must lie to him,
Hester had said at the very beginning, and daily, hourly, her ability to do so seemed fatally undermined by both her attraction to him and the disturbing desire to confide in him. That was his skill, and her danger. He could make her forget the past. And even when she was aware that he was using her feelings with the most skillful manipulation, still it seemed that she was not immune to him. The previous night, at the dance, she had felt the strength of that attraction. She had allowed herself to think of that sweet seduction and to remember the way that he had held her, kissed her, down by the river. Her body had ached for him and for the satisfaction of slaking her loneliness with his touch, so that when he had taken her in his arms in the carriage, she had been all too ready to succumb.

But later, when the Glory Girls had sprung their attack and she had been shaken to the core to see marks of violence on Nick’s body, she had realized how damaged she was and that she could never ever reveal that vulnerability to any man. The depth of her feelings had confused her, suggesting that her attraction to Nick as not simply physical but was far deeper and more dangerous than that.

And now she was trapped in the greenhouse and Nick Falconer was leaning against the door frame, arms folded, looking disturbingly masculine and utterly implacable. He was blocking the only escape and looking at her with such a disconcertingly thorough appraisal that it made her feel as though the ground beneath her feet was shifting slightly.

“Major Falconer.” Mari cleared her throat. “I did not realize you had called.”

“I did not call at the house,” Nick said. “I wanted to see you alone. I hope that you have recovered from the experience of last night?”

“Yes, I thank you.” Her voice sounded rusty and awkward, like a green girl tongue-tied in the presence of a gentleman. She raised a hand again to rub her brow and felt the old green gown slip a little from one shoulder. Embarrassed, she quickly pulled it up again, but not before Nick’s glance had gone to her bare shoulder and the flash of heat in his eyes sent an answering burn through her whole body.

Nick took a step toward her and Mari’s stomach clenched with a mixture of nervousness and sheer sensual attraction.

“I have waited a long time,” he said, “to see my suspicions confirmed.”

He took a step closer. The back of Mari’s thighs came up hard against the greenhouse shelf and she braced her hands against its edge.

“What do you mean?” Her words were a whisper.

Slowly, almost negligently, Nick put out a hand and slid the edge of the old green gown down over her shoulder. It felt intimate. It felt as though he was undressing her. Her exposed skin prickled for his touch.

“So,” he said, “Mrs. Osborne of Peacock Oak is everything that is proper and respectable.” He tilted his head, watching her intently. “But what about Molly, the ravishing little whore from the Hen and Vulture? She had a scattering of freckles just there…” His fingers drifted across her shoulder and Mari felt the gooseflesh breathe along her skin.

She made a sharp movement and caught the edge of one of the little pots of marjoram. It fell to the floor, spilling soil as it went, and smashing to pieces.

“Damnation!” Mari said, staring at the shards. For one terrifying moment her mind was completely blank. She did not know either how to refute his words or how to escape. And it was far too late now anyway. Through her reaction she had betrayed herself more thoroughly than she could have done with mere words.

“Now that,” Nick said with a smile, “sounds more like Molly than Marina Osborne.”

Mari could feel the panic building in her chest, threatening to choke her. “Major Falconer—”

“Let me spare you the trouble of denials, Mrs. Osborne,” Nick said, suddenly cold and deadly, “for both you and I know that you
were
the woman in the club that night.” He took another step toward her. “Ever since I came to Peacock Oak I have been working to prove it.”

Mari’s knees suddenly threatened to give way. The heat in the greenhouse seemed overpowering. She could not breathe. She shook her head. Even though she had suspected this all along, to have it confirmed by him so starkly, finally to see her absolute danger, terrified her.

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

He laughed. “Of course you do. What does it take for me to prove it—should I kiss you until you admit it? You kiss just like the girl in the Hen and Vulture, and I should know.”

Mari swallowed hard. “You would not do that.”

“I would if that was what it took to make you admit the truth. There is some honesty in kisses.”

He was so close to her now that she could smell the scent of fresh air on his skin and hear his breathing. It sounded calm and steady, nothing like the tumultuous rush of her pulse. Quickly, desperately, Mari reviewed her options.

She could persist in her denials. He would give that short shrift.

She could admit the truth. That would only be the start of her troubles, troubles that might well end on the scaffold.

She could challenge him, dare him to kiss her and prove his point.

He had called her a gambler and now she had to risk all.

Tilting her chin up, she looked him in the eyes. “Very well, then,” she said. “Prove it.”

She saw his eyes widen as though she had surprised him, then darken with a raw desire that sent an answering spear of need through her, and then he took her chin in his hand, just as he had done that first night in the club, and turned her face up to his. When his lips were a mere inch away from hers, Mari closed her eyes.

She had thought that she could do this. She had willed herself to clear her mind, to remain unresponsive and to block the sensation of the kiss out until it was over. But it was not so simple.

His mouth covered hers and her heart raced as sweet, forbidden pleasure swamped her body. She forgot that she did not enjoy kissing. It was different with Nick. It always had been.

Her hand came up to brace against his chest but the impulse to hold him at arm’s length was lost as soon as it formed and instead she found her fingers curling into his shirt. She knew she was making a mistake, losing control, but the seduction of his kiss blew away all reason. The scent of his body mingled with the heavy, earthy smells of the greenhouse and filled her senses. She remembered the kiss in the tavern and the kiss by the river, remembered the sharp hunger she had felt for him then and was swept by an undeniable longing and a dizzy desire. Instead of pushing him away, she drew him closer still.

His fingers slid down her throat, lingering on the erratic pulse at the base.

“You always taste the same as I remember,” he said, against her parted lips. “Very sweet.”

“No—”

“Yes.”

He nipped at her bottom lip and Mari gave a little gasp and he slid his tongue into her mouth again, delving deep, tasting her, savoring her, drawing a fierce response from her that she could not hide. His hand fell to her shoulder again, sliding aside the green cotton dress so that he could press his lips to her bare skin where the freckles dusted it. His tongue flicked over the curve of her shoulder and his hand fell to cup her breast, his thumb circling her tight, hard nipple. Mari’s knees weakened and she groaned as the sensation ripped through her body.