Unmasked (7 page)

“It isn’t that,” Charles said. He, too, had gone a little red. “I know Laura has taken her up and Hester likes her, but…” He stopped, looking uncomfortable.

“It is true that she is a little reserved,” Teague said gruffly, “but when one gets to know her…” He took a deep breath. “She has been the truest friend to Hester that one could ever ask for, and to Laura, too, if you would only admit it. Laura is lonely here in the country with you up in Town so often—” Teague stopped and cleared his throat as Charles shot him a less than friendly look. “They have a genuine mutual interest in the horticultural society,” he finished, a little lamely.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Charles snapped.

Nick said nothing. There were interesting undercurrents here, he thought. He had not realized that Charles left his wife in the country when he went up to London to take his seat in the Lords. He wondered why they spent so much time apart. And then there was Teague, who evidently was in love with Hester Berry. His defense of Mari Osborne might well spring from his loyalty to Hester. But what of his discomfort when the Glory Girls were mentioned? It could be that Nick was getting too close in his questions and that Teague knew it. Mari Osborne’s apparent lack of skill as a rider, for example, could be as much an elaborate ruse as her dowdy appearance. Whatever the case, it was clear where Teague’s sympathies lay and that made him a man worth watching, as well.

Nick stood up and stretched. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen, and for the brandy, Charles. If you will excuse me, I will seek my bed. It has been a long day.”

As he went out, Charles was offering John Teague another glass but in Nick’s view Teague’s thoughts did not appear to be on the excellence of his host’s cellar. He was gazing into the distance and the expression in his gray eyes was very bleak indeed.

M
ARI HAD FOUND
a dark corner of the terrace where the honeysuckle twined around a pretty little arbor of her own design. She curled up on the cushioned seat, wrapping her arms around her knees, careless of crushing the silk of her gown. It was a warm night with a gentle breeze from the moors that carried with it the smell of gorse and bracken and, rather more agriculturally, sheep.

When she had walked away from Nick Falconer, her first instinct had been to run and hide until she had the chance to gather her thoughts. She knew, however, that for the sake of her charade, she had to appear utterly unconcerned by their encounter. Accordingly she had gone into the ballroom and had accepted the first offer to dance made to her, which had, unfortunately, been from Lord Henry Cole.

Mari detested Lord Henry. A big, bluff hunting man, he hid a vicious nature under an outward show of bonhomie. He reminded her of Rashleigh in too many ways. For some time now Henry had been pressing her to show him what he referred to as “kindnesses” and what Mari knew to be sexual favors, implying that her bed had been cold too long and he was just the man to fill it. When he had squeezed her in such a disgustingly familiar manner during the dance, she had felt horribly sick, his big, sweaty lustful hands reminding her of Rashleigh’s importunities. She knew that his liberties would only get worse. He seemed inordinately excited by her resistance, the kind of man who saw refusal as a challenge that simply has to be overcome by force.

Mari shuddered. To make matters worse, she knew that Nick Falconer had been watching her every move with that dark, implacable gaze of his. She thought that he had probably been the only one to see Lord Henry touch her, for he had started toward them as though he were about to intervene. He had looked positively thunderous. The realization that he had been coming to her aid made Mari feel very strange. She had felt a compound of relief and security and
trust
that she had never experienced in her life before. She wanted to throw herself into Nick’s arms and simply soak up the strength and protectiveness of him. It was an instantaneous and inexplicable reaction but more importantly, it was extremely dangerous because of
course
she could not trust Nicholas Falconer. He was the last man on earth she should allow close to her. He could expose the truth about her. She had the horrible thought that perhaps
he
was the author of the anonymous letter, the fate that was about to catch up with her.

“I know all about you. I know what you did…”

The panic threatened to overwhelm her, tight bands around her chest, the fluttery wings of a thousand butterflies in her stomach beating frantically to break out. She had been troubled by such attacks on and off since she had run away from Rashleigh. They happened whenever the past loomed too close, whenever it seemed that she could not escape. Because sometimes it seemed that she could never get away, never be free.

She dug her nails into the palms of her hands and tried desperately to calm her shaking. Breathe deeply. Distract yourself.

She thought about what she might do now that Nick Falconer was here. She could run away. She could start all over again. She had done it before. But if she did that, Rashleigh would have won again and she would not let that happen. She was too strong to let that happen.

The feeling of panic was passing now, the tightness in her chest easing, her breath coming more easily. She pressed her forehead against her knees and felt the cool silk of her skirts against her hot cheek. Suddenly she felt bone-weary. It had been a very long day.

There was a step on the terrace beside her and a swish of silk and Mari straightened up hastily, pushing her tumbled hair back from her face. Her turban—she hated it anyway, the ridiculous thing—lay discarded on the terrace beside her. She made a grab for it but then realized that the newcomer was only Hester so she relaxed again.

Hester sat on the balustrade beside her and passed her a glass of cold champagne. It felt smooth against Mari’s rough throat.

“Are you all right, Mari?” Hester’s voice was troubled. “What happened? I saw you leave the ballroom.”

“I am very well.” Mari gulped some more champagne. “Lord Henry annoyed me. I hate his importunities.”

“He molested you again.” Hester sounded disgusted. “I am so sorry, Mari. He is a blackguard to do so, especially when he knows you are an unprotected female. What can we do? Shall I get John Teague to call him out, or…I know—
Glory
can call him out!”

“No,” Mari said, feeling a little better. Hester’s suggestion had almost made her laugh. “I know John would do that for your sake, Hes, and I am sure it could only add to the luster of Glory’s reputation for her to fight a duel, but there is no need. It only upset me because it reminded me of Rashleigh. Most of the time I can shut out such thoughts but sometimes…” She shook her head. “Anyway, I stabbed Lord Henry with my fan and I think I bruised him.”

“Good,” Hester said, with satisfaction. “A pity you did not crack his ribs.” She swung her legs beneath her silken skirts but within a moment the movement had stilled. Her voice changed, became serious. “I have been asking some questions, Mari. About Major Falconer, I mean. He is a widower, heir to a Scottish Marquisate.”

“Lady Faye will be delighted,” Mari said dryly.

“I imagine so. But the rest is not so delightful,” Hester said. “He is Rashleigh’s cousin on his mother’s side, Mari, and when Rashleigh died without issue, he inherited everything that was not entailed.”

Mari almost dropped her champagne glass. Nick Falconer was Rashleigh’s
cousin?
Suddenly it felt illicit to have been attracted to him, shameful and wrong. Even if he were not cut from the same cloth as Rashleigh, they were related, tied by blood. And if he had inherited all of Rashleigh’s property then he might well have inherited
her
along with Rashleigh’s other possessions. She had run away but she had never been freed. She had been Rashleigh’s chattel, body and soul. She felt sick.

“Oh,” she whispered. She cleared her throat. “I did not know.” She put her glass down very carefully. “I
knew
it could be no coincidence that he was here! That must be why he was in the Hen and Vulture that night, Hes. He had gone to meet Rashleigh. Perhaps—” Her anxiety was rising again and she fought hard to control it. “Perhaps Rashleigh told his cousin about me,” she said. She looked at Hester and rubbed a hand across her brow, her head aching intolerably. Suddenly the past pressed frighteningly close. “Do you think that is why he has come here? Does he know I am his property? Does he intend to take up the blackmail where Rashleigh left off?”

Hester slid off the balustrade and came to sit beside her, passing a warm arm comfortingly around her shoulders. “Do not even think it, Mari!” she said sternly. “I am sure it is nothing of the sort. Rashleigh may have threatened to expose your past and reveal your links to the Glory Girls but I am sure he told no one else of his evil plans. That sort of scoundrel always keeps his secrets.”

“I hope that you are right,” Mari said, with a shudder. “It is true that whilst I was with him I never met any other member of his family and he never spoke of them so I imagine he cannot have been close to his cousin. But Major Falconer must know that the Earls of Rashleigh once owned serfs in Russia.”

Hester’s arm tightened. “What if he does know it? That is all in the past.”

“No, it is not,” Mari said, shivering. “You know that legally I was never given my freedom. I am still a serf.”

For one long, terrifying moment the memories crowded in and she was back in the study of the house in St. Petersburg, where she had lived for the first seventeen years of her life. Rashleigh’s father had taken her from her parents when she was a child and had educated her on a whim, instructing her in all the arts that an English lady would learn. He was an eccentric, an academic and a collector, and Mari had come to realize that in an odd sort of way she was part of his collection. He had wanted to see if he could take the child of Russian serfs and transform her into something approaching a lady.

But when his son had inherited her, he had had other ideas of the role of his father’s seventeen-year-old protégée. In her mind’s eye Mari could still see Robert Rashleigh strutting into the house and plundering it whilst his father’s body was not yet cold upstairs. He had lolled back in his father’s chair, appraising her with his insolent gaze.

How piquant of my father to try out such a foolish notion as to educate you and give you ideas above your station, girl! But never mind, all serfs are bred to be no more than bed warmers and soon you can take up your duties on your back.

He had leaned forward and pinned her with his icy-blue gaze.

You see, I have a proposition for you, my dear. An offer you cannot refuse. You and your family are serfs. You belong to me body and soul. So I am offering you a proposal—a rather piquant one, I think you’ll agree. If you give me your body to do with as I wish I will give your family their freedom, their souls, if you like…

She had accepted his proposition.

Of course she had, for how could she have refused, knowing that her family’s very freedom was at stake? She had had no real choice. She was trapped. So she had traded herself, her virginity, her innocence, her very life, for their freedom from slavery. She had become the Earl of Rashleigh’s mistress.

The only remarkable thing about it was that Rashleigh had kept his word, giving money for her sisters’ education, buying her father a small plot of land near Svartorsk and giving him grain and animals enough for him to forge a living from the soil. But then Mari had come to realize that it pleased Robert Rashleigh to be magnanimous sometimes, so that amidst the cruelty and avarice, he occasionally displayed a careless generosity that would surprise her. At first she had taken it as a sign of hope—that there was good in him after all. Later she came to realize that he did it precisely for that reason—to make people think there was hope in order to take a perverse pleasure in proving them utterly wrong. He had freed her family on whim because he wanted to prove he had the power to do so, the power of life and death, the power over freedom or slavery. And then he had set out to exact thorough and devastating payment from her, subjugating her body to his will.

With a shudder she pushed the memory back into the furthest recesses of her mind.

“Don’t think like that, Mari,” Hester said now, recalling her to the present. “You are not a possession. You belong to nobody but yourself. Legally—” she waved a hand around vaguely, with the kind of aristocratic disregard for convention that always made Mari laugh “—there may be some boring argument that someone could make against you, I suppose, but that will never happen.” She paused. “I think it is most likely that if Major Falconer does have a purpose in coming to Peacock Oak, it must be to solve his cousin’s murder.”

There was silence whilst they both thought about it.

“But how did he know to come
here?
” Mari spread her hands wide. “Unless Rashleigh told him where to find me…”

Hester was shaking her head. “I don’t know, Mari. But I think that until we find out, you must be very, very careful.”

Mari nodded. She felt frighteningly uncertain. From the questions he had asked her that evening she thought that Nick Falconer surely suspected her of Rashleigh’s murder. It could be no coincidence that he had come to Peacock Oak. She already knew he was strong and ruthless in his pursuit of what he wanted, and if his aim were justice, he would hunt her down. She refused to think of the other, even more frightening possibility that Rashleigh had told his cousin everything about her and that Nick was there to take up the blackmail where Rashleigh had left off. She tried not to think that he might have come there to claim
her.

Hester was right. She had to be very careful indeed. Say nothing, admit nothing, show no fear….

“He cannot prove a thing,” Hester said now, “least of all that you killed Rashleigh, since you did not.”