A Masked Deception (10 page)

“Mama?” Brampton asked, his eyebrows raised in some surprise. “What the devil does she want at this hour?”

Chalmer tactfully ignored the question, but climbed the stairs ahead of his master and mistress to open the door to the drawing room on the first floor. Charlotte retreated to her own room.

“And Rosalind too,” Brampton commented to his wife. “Something’s up.”

The dowager was sitting stiffly on a sofa when they entered the room. Rosalind was hovering over her, vinaigrette in hand.

“Richard, dear,” his mother said faintly, “where ever have you been? Good day, Margaret, my love.”

“Had I known you were planning to pay us a visit, Mama,” Brampton said dryly, “I should have been sure to be here.”

“Richard, if you just knew what poor, dear Mama has to suffer, you would not talk with such a note of levity,” Rosalind scolded.

“Have you had tea brought up?” Margaret asked soothingly. “I shall ring immediately.”

“No, no, my love, I should choke on it,” the dowager replied tragically. “Richard, dear, it’s poor Charles.”

Brampton paled noticeably. “Charles?” he said. Margaret moved swiftly to his side and put a steadying hand on his arm. His other hand covered it.

“I begged you, Richard dear, not to buy him his commission. He was ever a delicate boy. But no one ever listened to me or cared for my delicate sensibilities. Well, perhaps now you will be sorry that you did not pay heed to your mother.”

“Mama,” Brampton said harshly, unconsciously squeezing Margaret’s fingers in a painful grip, “what has happened to Charles?”

“And why the Duke of Wellington has not finished with Boney’s men once and for all instead of chasing them all over Spain, I shall never know,” his mother continued, sniffing against a lace handkerchief.

“Mama!”

“Poor dear Charles has been wounded and is being sent home to die, I would not doubt,” the dowager announced.

Margaret felt her husband take a deep and ragged breath.

“Sit down, my lord,” she said, trying to draw him across to the nearest chair.

He shook off her arm and faced his mother wild-eyed. “To die?” he queried.

“Well, the poor boy says a bone in his arm has been shattered by a ball, but that he is in no danger. But I have heard about these field surgeons, Richard dear, and I know what butchers they are. I would not doubt that the wound will turn putrid and they will have to cut off the arm and he will die. And he has had the fever, poor boy, so that he is too weak to follow the army about Spain. So they are sending him home to die.” The dowager collapsed, weeping into her handkerchief.

“Pray, do not take on so, Mama,” Rosalind soothed while Brampton straightened up, looking visibly relieved.

“You have a letter from Charles, Mama?” he asked, holding out a hand.

She felt inside her reticule and drew out a crumpled sheet of paper. She handed it to her son and he perused it quickly.

“It is all right, my dear,” he said, turning to Margaret, who still stood at his shoulder. “He is being given invalid leave, but only because the army is constantly traveling and his wound does not allow him to be of any use to his regiment. He is in no danger.”

Margaret smiled at him and touched his arm again shyly. “I am glad, Richard,” she said. “I shall look forward to meeting my brother-in-law.”

“Dear Charles hopes to be at home within the week,” his mother added. “Come, Rosalind, I have a great many preparations to make. I must make sure that the bed is ready for my poor boy.” Handkerchief, vinaigrette, and reticule were swept together and the ladies took their leave. Margaret was left wondering how her sister would react to a regimental uniform.

C
aptain Charles Adair arrived home four days later. He refused to take to the bed his mother had so painstakingly prepared for him. He did allow himself to be examined by the physician she had lined up for the occasion, but only to set her mind at rest. Then he summoned his older brother, and the two sallied forth to White’s Club.

On the following evening, the Earl and Countess of Brampton gave a dinner in honor of Captain Adair’s safe return home. Margaret spent longer than usual in her dressing room getting ready for the evening. She knew that Richard had not married her for love, and she knew that she was not an attractive woman. But she wanted to make a favorable impression on her brother-in-law. She did not want him to feel that his brother had married a dowd.

She wore a dress of pale-blue lace over a white silk underdress. She had Kitty dress her braids higher than usual on her head. Her only ornaments were a pearl necklace that Richard had given her as a wedding gift, and her wedding rings.

Margaret was one of the last to enter the drawing room. Her mother-in-law was there already, holding court to Devin Northcott and another, elderly gentleman. Her two sisters-in-law who were in town were also present with their husbands. There were several other close acquaintances, talking in groups. But Margaret’s attention was caught by the three central figures before the fireplace. Richard was looking his usual magnificent and immaculate self, dressed in black, the color relieved only by his snowy-white shirt and flowing neckcloth. Charlotte was looking vivid in a rose-pink dress, her auburn hair dressed in a froth of curls, her cheeks flushed with color.

And Charles—it must be he!—was quite a breathtaking man. He was slightly taller than his brother, though slighter in build, and somewhat sallow of complexion since his bouts of fever in Spain. His hair was fairer and more wavy than his brother’s. He bore himself with military straightness and wore full-dress regimentals, his right arm carried in a sling. His face, Margaret noticed as she met his eyes across the room, was open and friendly. She wanted more than ever to be liked by him.

Brampton crossed the room to take her hand and lead her forward. “My dear,” he said, “come and meet your brother-in-law, Charles. Charles, my wife.”

Charles was feeling a shock of surprise. The countess was unlike anything he had imagined. When he had received news of the marriage, in Spain, he had amused himself trying to picture Dick’s bride. Would he have married an acclaimed beauty, someone he would be proud to show off at all the social functions of the
ton?
Or would he have married an uninteresting girl who would give him an heir? He doubted that Dick would have married for love. As Charles remembered him, he had always had need of many women, one at a time, it was true, but none retaining his attention for more than a few months. Charles could not remember having met Miss Margaret Wells, but her name made her sound as if she fell into the second category of bride.

He was quite unprepared for this fragile little creature who stepped into the room with quiet self-assurance. She was not pretty in any obvious sense of the word, but Charles immediately categorized her as beautiful. Her beauty lay perhaps in the quiet way she bore herself, not using any of the lures he was used to seeing in other women; yet her whole being seemed to shine from her quiet gray eyes, so large and so full of pride in and love of Dick.

Charles looked curiously across at his brother as he made the introductions. By God, he loves her too, Charles decided with amusement. I wonder if he knows it!

“I am enchanted to meet you at last, ma’am,” he said, smiling down at this little sister-in-law whom he immediately liked, and with his left hand he raised her hand to his lips.

“Oh, please call me Margaret,” she replied. “And I am so happy to meet you too, sir. I never had a brother, you see.”

“Then I shall have to make up for lost time, Margaret,” he said, laughing. “And it must be Charles, please.”

She smiled happily up at him and accepted the left arm he offered to her to lead her into the dining room. She did not notice her husband’s eyes fixed, intrigued, on her face before he crossed the room to escort his mother in to dinner.

Margaret had placed Charles to her right, at the foot of the dining table. She had seated Charlotte to his right, hoping that she would not seem too obviously the matchmaker. She watched, satisfied, as they talked together. She hoped that Richard would not object to her sister and his brother developing a
tendre
for each other. She glanced down the table to find her husband’s eyes fixed steadily on her as he listened to the chatter of the woman beside him. His expression was unreadable. She smiled placidly at him and turned to the gentleman on her left.

Later, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the dining room, Brampton noticed that his brother crossed the room to sit between Margaret and Charlotte. They were soon all three deep in conversation, or at least, the two ladies were soon absorbed in listening to Charles. Richard felt the old envy that he had always felt for his brother, who found it so easy to charm people of all age groups. Why was he never able to bring that look of near-animation to his wife’s face?

And why should I care? he thought, giving himself a mental shake. He had made a good bargain when he had married her. She was quiet and undemanding. He could forget that she was there if he wanted to. And he certainly had not wanted a woman who would disturb his life in any way. It was fortunate for him that she did not find him as attractive as she seemed to find his brother. She might become a nuisance if she did, demanding what he was not prepared to give. He felt a fresh wave of irritation wash over him,as his wife—and Charlotte—broke into peals of laughter over something Charles had said. He had never been able to make her laugh.

And then he remembered what had never really been out of his mind for the last six days: tomorrow night he was to see his angel again! This thought had, in fact, been an agony to him all week. Several times he had made a definite decision not to go. His search for her, the pain he had felt six years before at not being able to find her, was long in the past. Would it not be best to leave it there, to let her slip out of his life again before his feelings were irrevocably involved? At these times he thought of his responsibilities as head of his family. Then he thought of his wife, whom he now held in respect, if not, indeed, in affection. Was he willing to risk the peace and tranquility of his present life for a romantic gambol with an unidentified figure from his past?

But at other times he admitted to himself that it was already too late. He had held the girl in his arms. She was no phantom, but very real flesh and blood. And he remembered the way passion had flared between them on both occasions. He had to hold her again. He had to have her! He looked forward to the following night with dread, with excitement, and with anxiety.

“Look as if you'd lost your best friend, Bram,” said Devin, cutting in on his thoughts.

Brampton was recalled to the present, and to his duties as a host, with a start.

“Seems to have a way with the ladies,” Devin continued, nodding in the direction of Charles Adair, “How long d’you say his leave was, Bram?”

* * *

Lord Brampton was riding early again in the park next morning. He had already galloped the length of the park and back again before he saw Devin Northcott turn his horse in through the gates. Brampton cantered toward him.

“Morning, Bram. You’re early,” Devin greeted his friend. “Must have something on your conscience.” They rode side by side for a while, talking about trivialities.

Finally Brampton cleared his throat. “Dev, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Anything you ask,” Devin replied, watching a young maidservant out walking a dog, and thinking of a head of auburn curls nodding close to a red regimental coat for a whole evening.

“I wish the use of your rooms tonight,” Brampton said.

“Eh?”

“I need privacy for certain—business.”

Devin was back in the present. “Into the muslin company again, Bram?”

“She is a lady,” his friend replied stiffly.

“Mm, yes, quite,” Devin commented, and then, on sudden inspiration, “Not the little silver lady from Vauxhall, Bram?”

Brampton did not reply immediately. “Yes,” he admitted finally.

Devin gave his friend a sidelong glance. What the devil? Was it really possible that he did not know?

“Have a date to play cards with Freddie Haversham, anyway,” he said. “I'll give the servants the night off. Give you my key.”

“Thank you, Dev. You’re a true friend,” Brampton said with relief.

“Must get back now,” Devin said, turning his horse. “Breakfast, y’know.” He gave Brampton a level look. “I say, Bram,” he said, “not at all fair to Lady Bram, y’know.”

“Damn it, Dev,” Brampton flared. “I do not need you for a conscience. I have a powerful enough one of my own.”

Devin Northcott was smiling rather grimly to himself as he prodded his horse into a gallop.

* * *

Margaret found it impossible to concentrate on any of her activities that day. She went shopping with Charlotte late in the morning. Charlotte had been complaining that she was wearing the same clothes too frequently and would soon be labeled as a poor country miss if she wore them once more.

“I declare, Meg,” she said crossly the day before, “soon people will see a green bonnet turn into Hyde Park from a half-mile distant and know that it must be me.”