Dangerous Masquerade Read online

  Among other things, it listed eviction of the ladies residing in the manor and raising the estate tenants’ rents to a level that would cause considerable hardship.

  She collapsed onto a nearby light blue striped sofa before her legs gave way under her. It was the last straw. She buried her face in her hands and let go of the tears that had been threatening to choke her for the past few hours.

  Weeping was a relief after everything that had happened in the past fortnight. Finding out what Geoffrey planned, worrying about what to do, making plans, and enduring today’s trial. Now it was over, she was free to break down.

  Ria fleetingly thought about what had happened at the masquerade ball but didn’t allow herself to dwell upon it. Not now. Not yet.

  From his usual vantage point by the hearth, Monty watched her, at a loss to know what to do.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry, my dear, that you had to go through such an ordeal.”

  After giving a somewhat unladylike sniff and blowing her nose, Ria looked at him. “I know, sir, but neither of us could come up with any other way out of it.”

  A little voice in Monty, which some would call a conscience, disagreed. Monty mentally told it to be quiet. It was for the best. Certainly the best way forward for Ria, even if she didn’t know it.

  Looking back down at Geoffrey’s list, she added, “There is no way the tenants could pay this. What was he thinking?”

  Sighing deeply, Monty looked into the fire as though he would find an answer in the flickering flames. “The only explanation I can think of is he is in dun territory, probably been brought to point non plus. This is how he is going to raise money to pay off his creditors.”

  Monty looked at her. “He was always extravagant.” Shrugging his shoulders, he added, “Maybe if his father hadn’t died when he was five, it would have been different. My sister devoted all her attention to him, and he grew up to be spoilt and selfish. And because of his looks, people assume he’s an angel, which doesn’t help.” Sighing once again, he added, “I should have stopped it, done something, but I told myself it wouldn’t hurt. Then it was too late. The damage was done.”

  Casting the paper aside, Ria rose from the sofa. “Well, at least it’s over now. We are all safe from that man.”

  Monty murmured softly so she couldn’t hear him, “I hope so. I very much hope so. Though somehow I doubt Geoffrey will give up easily. I must see you settled properly. And protected. I must.”

  3

  She was a sinner.

  Ria slowly walked down the aisle of St. Margaret’s church. She had walked this route countless Sundays before, but today was different.

  Not St. Margaret’s. The stone and timber in the thirteenth century church were unchanged. The stained-glass windows still reflected the same patterns on the gray stone floor. The scent of beeswax and pine was familiar.

  The church congregation seemed the same. Although, as she now knew, appearances can be deceptive. She searched their faces—what secrets did they hide? On the surface, all looked normal. Everyone was sitting in the same oak pews. The Babcocks third row from the front on the right. The Marshams third row from the front on the left. As usual, Mrs. Marsham and Mrs. Babcock were casting sidelong glances at the other, each checking to make sure the other didn’t have a more expensive gown or mantle.

  Today it was Ria who was different. She felt like a shameless sinner. With each step she took, an accusing word echoed up from the stone floor.

  She was a disgrace. Brazen. Indecent. Immoral. Sinful. And thankful she had reached her pew.

  She waited as the ladies, her late husband’s two aunts and two cousins, slipped into their second pew on the right. She was the last to slide in, straightening her black skirt as she sat down.

  From the front left pew, Lady Glendowie gave her a polite nod, her purple turban slightly slipping to one side as she did so. Ria was sure in another couple of nods it was bound to fall off. She sighed—even that thought was not enough to lighten her mood.

  She stared at the back of the oak pew in front. The grain of the wood was smooth, worn to a dull patina by the numerous hands that had touched it over the years.

  She was a fraud. She had conspired to keep the St. James estate out of the hands of her late husband’s nephew. Yes, it was done for a good reason, but still—she bowed her head and briefly closed her eyes. Her husband had wanted her to inherit the estate—even if a mistake had been made with the wording of his will, it was his wish. She had only done what she must to carry out that wish.

  The thought of what she needed to do had haunted her in the week leading up to the masquerade ball. She had dreaded it. Now it was over, and, well, that was where the shameless sinner part was applicable.

  Since last night, Ria had been unable to keep locked up her memories of the masquerade. She had suppressed them for a week, but with the doctor’s examination over and his finding in her favor, she could keep them secure no longer. They had escaped.

  Part of her had trouble believing that night had even happened. Monty’s herbal concoction, the champagne, and a masquerade filled with gods and goddesses in elaborate masks made it seem like a vivid dream at the center of which was the black-clad figure of Hades, her as his Persephone, and what they had done together.

  Ria shivered as she remembered the feel of his smooth olive skin, the heat of his touch, the warmth of his mouth. Not only had she had carnal relations outside wedlock, but after her initial surprise, she had enjoyed it.

  There. She had admitted it. She sighed deeply. Somehow that made it seem worse.

  It meant she was scandalous, shameless, wanton, and wicked. And relieved she had reached the end of the alphabet.

  The service seemed endless. The theme of the day was the dangers of lust and how unbridled desires could lead to sin. To Ria, every word uttered by the vicar was a dart aimed directly at her. Pointed. Sharp. Searing.

  “And those who sin shall dwell in the eternal fires of hell.”

  Wherever Hades’ hand had touched her, a trail of fire had been left behind. She didn’t want to contradict the vicar, but as she remembered the sparks his touch had ignited, well, it really had felt like heaven.

  “Beware the temptations of Lucifer.”

  She thought of how it had felt when he had nibbled her just above the knee. Her knee jerked in reflex.

  “Pure thoughts shall be your salvation.”

  She suppressed a groan when her wayward imagination recalled how he had touched her between her legs. Hades had seemed to know just where to caress her. How much pressure to use. How to touch her with small, light circles. He had—Ria squirmed slightly on her seat.

  “The innocent will reap their reward in heaven.”

  She was surely damned.

  But was she sorry?

  At the end of the service, the ladies of the parish flocked around the vicar, thanking him for his splendidly illuminating sermon. Mr. Brown, pleased to have their attention, added a few more pithy comments about the perils of sin. The feathers in their bonnets fluttered as they bobbed their heads in agreement.

  Blushing slightly and finding it hard to meet his gaze, Ria gave the vicar a brief nod over the ladies’ heads, then quickly left the shelter of the church porch and headed for the little cemetery behind the church.

  She clutched her black pelisse closed, shivering at the chilly winter wind that brought with it a hint of wood smoke from the fires in the nearby village cottages. To keep warm, she walked briskly, the gravel crunching with each step she took. Once out of sight of the congregation, she pushed back the black crepe widow’s veil covering her bonnet, delighting in the winter sun’s rays on her face, weak though they were.

  The path winding downhill through a gap in the hedge of rhododendrons and into the cemetery was familiar to her. Since she was sixteen, Ria had visited her parents’ grave every Sunday after the church service. In the past few months, visiting her husband’s graveside had been added to her ritual. The latte
r seemed somewhat pointless, but it was expected, and Ria always did the expected.

  Well, at least until recently.

  As was her custom, once in the cemetery, she kept her gaze to the front and avoided looking directly at the graves as she never knew what, or whom, she might see. She stopped at a plot where bare oak branches cast skeletal shadows over the headstone. As always when she stood by her parents’ grave, sadness blanketed her. Shivering, she pulled her pelisse tight and snuggled into it.

  She missed them both, missed being able to talk to them—particularly to her father, who had been like her and had understood what she saw and how she felt.

  Today, looking at their headstone, thoughts tumbled over each other in her mind. If they hadn’t died in the carriage accident, what would her life have been like? She wouldn’t now be Mrs. St. James—there would have been no need. And she wouldn’t have attended the masquerade and would not feel so torn.

  But then if she had not, if she had not married and inherited the estate, what would have become of the ladies who lived there? Ria frowned. Geoffrey would have inherited, and he would have cast her husband’s aunts and cousins off. Even if St. James had left them an income, Geoffrey would have found some way to avoid handing it over.

  With no money, too old to be governesses or companions, they would have been destitute and could even have ended up in a workhouse. Ria shuddered at the thought of the kindly ladies who had become her family in one of those prison-like places.

  Bending over, she brushed off the dry and brittle oak leaves that had fallen on her parents’ grave. If they hadn’t died, it was likely she’d be married to someone else by now and possibly have children.

  As Ria stood up, she wondered what kind of man she would have married. Unbidden, an image of the Earl of Arden crossed her mind, and she laughed humorlessly at the whimsical tricks her brain liked to play.

  Her shoulders drooped. She wished her parents could have had the chance to know her as an adult, and she hoped they would not have been disappointed in the person she’d become.

  Next she stopped beside her husband’s grave. As had been his habit of late on a Sunday morning, Monty sat on the stone seat under the oak. He smiled and rose as she approached.

  “My dear, good morning. You are…” Monty’s voice trailed away as he looked past her. Later Ria would wonder at the look on his face. Part surprise, part satisfaction. Before she could respond, he was gone.

  Hearing the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path, she turned. Her eyes widened, and hastily she pulled down the veil of her black silk crepe bonnet.

  A dark-haired gentleman, apparently oblivious to the bitter wind since his greatcoat was open—showing his informal attire of waistcoat, shirt, buckskin breeches, and riding boots—strolled toward her.

  The gentleman nodded politely. “Good morning.”

  Ria made no response. She could not, as all breath had left her.

  The vicar was right after all: she was surely damned. The proof was in front of her in this very graveyard. Hades had come for her.

  As he brushed a dry leaf off his shoulder, the sight of his hand transported her back into the vivid dream world of the ball. That same hand had caressed her. She trembled slightly at the remembrance of the sparks it had left wherever it had touched her.

  He was looking at her, a quizzical expression in his forest-green eyes. Clearly he was waiting for her to say something. She swallowed, trying to dislodge the hard lump in her throat. She had to say something. Hard on the heels of that thought came another: what if he recognized her voice?

  Raising an eyebrow at her continued silence, he turned to the headstone she stood in front of and read aloud, “Here lies Rupert Andrew Montague St. James, beloved son, husband, nephew, and cousin.”

  Turning back to her, he said, “I presume you are a relative of Mr. St. James?”

  Knowing she could hardly continue to stay silent, Ria drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

  Please don’t recognize my voice.

  He seemed to be waiting for her to say something else, so she added, “He was my husband.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. My condolences on your loss.” His tone was soft and sympathetic, but was that a faint smile lifting the corner of his mouth?

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Ria closed her eyes briefly when she realized what she had said. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have noticed her slip and wonder how she knew he had a title.

  Bowing, he told her, “My pleasure, Mrs. St. James. My name is Luc Adair, Lord Arden.”

  There was one thing she was desperate to know, so she bluntly asked, “Are you staying in the area long?”

  Please say no!

  As he looked at her thoughtfully, Ria bowed her head. Her veil hid her face from view, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Looking down at her glove-clad hands, she began to pluck at the black border of her cambric handkerchief.

  “I was going to leave tomorrow.”

  Beneath her veil, she exhaled the breath she had been holding, only to raise her head in horror at his next words.

  “However, I have just realized there are delights in the area hitherto unidentified. As I have no pressing obligations, I believe I shall remain so I can thoroughly explore them.”

  He slowly smiled at her. Her heart, already in a precarious state, skipped a beat. Why was he looking at her like that? What did he mean by delights? Surely not her!

  “I am staying with a friend of mine. The Marquess of Lyons.”

  Her heart missed another beat. He was staying next door! With Devon!

  “I assume you live at St. James Manor, which makes us neighbors. Presumably you know Lord Lyons?”

  Could things get any worse? Trying to keep talking to a minimum, Ria merely said. “He is not often in the district.”

  Would she be forgiven for her lie of omission? But then what did it matter when she had so many other sins needing forgiveness? She’d just toss this one on the pile with the rest!

  “That is his misfortune,” he said softly.

  Was he flirting with her? Why? With the veil, he couldn’t see her and surely couldn’t deduce her age from her voice. Had he seen her earlier, before she pulled her veil down?

  And then there was the not-so-small matter of her being a widow. Wearing mourning clothes. Standing by her husband’s grave. Which, conveniently, gave her an excuse to never see him again.

  He smoothly continued, “It must be a very sad and solitary time for you. Perhaps I may visit?”

  “No!”

  His brow raised, presumably in response to her abrupt tone.

  Ria was tempted to leave her answer at that, but it was too blunt. The devil take manners! “That is, I mean to say, pray do not be concerned, my lord. I have the companionship of my husband’s aunts and cousins.”

  In other words, she thought, you won’t get to see me alone, if that is your intention.

  Dismay at his impudence put a thick layer of frost on her tone as she added, “As I am still in mourning”—Ria hoped he heard the stress she put on her final word—“I do not have many visitors or go about in society at present.”

  How times had changed. A few years ago, she’d have given anything to see him, alone or otherwise, but now… she couldn’t risk it. She took in a deep breath. And given his insensitivity, she didn’t mind. She really didn’t. Not at all…

  What, she asked herself, would dissuade him from remaining here? “I am sure having both yourself and Lord Lyons in residence will be welcomed by my neighbors. I will advise Mrs. Marsham and Mrs. Babcock so they may ensure you are invited to all the social engagements.”

  One taste of the Marshams and Babcocks and their daughters, and he would beat a hurry-scurry retreat back to London.

  Just at that moment, two ladies appeared by the cemetery gate. Quickly she said, “Excuse me, my lord. My aunts are waiting for me. It is unlikely we will meet again, so enjoy your stay. Goodbye.”

&n
bsp; Without giving him a chance to respond, she lifted the skirt of her dress, uncaring if her ankles showed, and fled along the path. As she hastily stuffed her shredded handkerchief into her reticule, Ria vowed she would make sure she never encountered him again. Even if it meant she never left the estate.

  She would not, could not, see him again.

  Luc Adair left the cemetery with considerably more vigor than when he’d arrived.

  He’d accompanied his friend to the village, but once they reached it, they had parted company. Devon had errands, but Luc preferred to take a walk to sweep away some of the cobwebs from the evening before. His host had a fine cellar, and in the past week they had sampled a large portion of it.

  Nearing the church, he’d been appalled to realize the church service had just ended. Anxious to avoid the ladies of the district, he’d retreated to the graveyard, planning to shelter under one of the trees until the congregation dispersed. When one of the ladies came into the cemetery, he’d cursed and moved deeper into the shadow of the trees, hoping she would not see him.

  But as she came closer, she lifted her veil, and he got a clear glimpse of her face framed by dark blond curls. His eyes were immediately drawn to her full, kissable lips.

  His sojourn in the country had already begun to pall. He had only stayed this long to find his companion from the masquerade, but no one he had spoken to had known who his Persephone was. Not even the servants who, in his experience, usually knew everything.

  A guinea to one of those servants had obtained the masquerade guest list. He’d gone through the list and eliminated those “ladies” of his and Devon’s acquaintance. She had certainly not been someone they knew. That left only six strangers.

  He had visited each one. Endured tepid tea and even more insipid conversation, but to no avail. None of them was his masked lady. The only conclusion he could come to was Persephone had been an uninvited guest.

  Why had she attended the masquerade? What conceivable reason could she have had for being there? He had thought she might be looking for a protector, but then why run away? Had she become frightened? Changed her mind?