Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) (2 page)

Her slippers made an audible squishing sound when she landed, freezing liquid seeping in through the thin material. She was lucky her slippers were tied to her feet, or else they would have been sucked right off.

She had only made it a few steps when the horses were pushed into action. Muddy slush flung up from the wheels as they turned, coating the back of her dark blue cloak in tiny brown dots.

Kathryn sighed heavily through a shiver without bothering to assess the damage. She need not look to know her entire ensemble hadn’t a chance, but what would that matter? She had to trudge all the way around the front of the theater to get to the right alley, anyhow. She could thank Lord Obtrusive for that.

Snow mixed with drizzle came down in a gentle haze, and by the time she passed the entrance to the theater, the warmth from the lantern looked incredibly enticing. If there hadn’t been a man standing in the shadows by the theater door, she would have stopped to warm her hands.

Once she passed the doors and turned into the next alley, it was not more than two minutes before she reached the rendezvous point to meet her contact.

The alley was narrow. The yellow light of a small lantern illuminated tiny specks of drizzle, adding to the mush that covered the cobblestones and rubbish lining the walkway. Her face, hands, and feet were stinging from the cold, and it was all she could do to control her shivering.

It was almost over. After all the trouble of setting up this dashed mission, Ainsley’s fraying of her nerves and utter destruction of her patience, topped off with the ghastly weather not suitable for intelligent life, she was finally here.

She waited until a shadowed figure appeared out of a doorway not far ahead of her. He looked at her for a long moment before glancing around then slowly stepping toward her.

Kathryn took a deep, steadying breath, her teeth not chattering quite loudly enough to drown out her own heartbeat. Then she stepped out to meet him.

The closer she came, the better she could make out his features. He was a stocky individual with a limp on his right, but that was all she could discern in the dim light and with him wrapped up in so many rags.

“Are you Mr. White?” she asked.

He grunted a barely intelligible yes.

“Right. Then this is for you. I expect you know where to take it?” She handed him a folded envelope from her reticule.

He peeked into the envelope then, seemingly satisfied, stuffed it into his inner pocket. With another grunt, he turned to leave, and she watched him limp back through the same door he had emerged from moments before. Then she sighed, her breath clearly visible in the night air.

The wind cut through her heavy cloak as though it were laced with holes. She was numb to her knees, her elbows, and her neck. She wasn’t getting out of this without a sniffle at best, pneumonia at worst, but it was worth it. She had done it! Too dangerous, indeed. If not for the weather and Ainsley, it might have been considered uneventful.

She turned and shuffled back toward the main street, a curl of self-satisfaction pulling up the corners of her mouth. However, she had barely taken five steps before she heard a sloshing sound behind her.

She turned on her heel to peer into darkness, the only light being the small lantern swinging over the door with tiny specks of drizzle coming down around it.

She pulled open the strings of her reticule with stiff fingers to have a reassuring glance at her small pistol. She should not have any need of it. No one, not even a pea-brained monster, would be dense enough to linger out here.

Still…

She started again toward the theater with renewed vigor, reminding herself she had seen no one enter the alleyway whilst she was there. Besides, if someone
were
lurking in the shadows, they would have already had her.

This time, the sloshing sounded a mere few yards behind her, far too close for her to waste time fumbling for her pistol with numb fingers. In a heartbeat, she broke out into a sprint with her hands hiking her damp skirts to her knees. She managed only two clumsy strides before she was caught.

A heavy blow to her temple pitched her into the stone wall. She fell limply to the ground, and her reticule along with her pistol was flung far out of reach in the snow.

As she hit, specks of light flooded her vision, but the lancing pain from the blow cut through the fog, and she cried out.

She didn’t see the iron boot that drove into her ribs. It knocked the air from her lungs with only a shallow breath reluctantly seeping back in. She shut her eyes as tightly as she could manage to block out the pain—
mind over matter
—but the pain was edging in on her mantra.

Mind…
throb
… over…
throb
… matter…
throb!

Each throb intensified, shattering her brain and lungs into splinters. She opened her eyes, but the world spun and lights still danced around her.

Another blow, this time to the middle of her back, sent a shaft of pain as it drove out what little air she had been able to work into her stinging lungs. The heavy blows kept coming, and she soon lost count of how many times she was struck.

When it finally stopped, she felt blood trailing across her forehead. Each drop of blood echoed in her ear as the rest of her battered body finally began to numb.

Hot tears welled in her eyes. Silence was swallowing up the sound of carriages and horses from the street barely half a block away when one final blow stilled everything.

* * *

G
rey was abnormally
irritable as he watched the hackney rumble off around the corner.

He was caught off guard, that was all. He had rambled on enough to irritate a saint. Why the hell had she suffered it for so long? She was supposed to go back to her box like a good little girl, perhaps blush at being caught, or give him some cockamamie excuse. It turned out she was one of the prickliest and most intractable women Grey had ever laid eyes on, a rebellious cactus wrapped in muslin.

Grey lifted his hat to drag a hand through his already disheveled hair. Before he had even agreed to help, he had understood precisely why Grenville wanted someone to keep an eye on her. How many galas and dinner parties had Grey gone to and caught her wandering off on one of her little excursions? Even so, walking about the private rooms at a house party was one thing. Strolling about London alone in the dead of night was entirely different.

She didn’t need someone to keep an eye on her. She needed a full-time caretaker, and Grey wasn’t it. He would thank Grenville for saving his sorry life some other way,
any
other way.

He fell back into his usual, black expression as he removed a pouch of tobacco and a small paper. He sprinkled tobacco onto the slender strip, cinching the pouch again with his teeth then tucking it back inside his coat. The paper was rolled, licked, and stuck between his lips before the end was lit from a lantern hanging by the door.

He supposed he ought to smoke like an Englishman now that he was back instead of smoking what the French soldiers called cigarettes. He had become fond of them whilst infiltrating Napoleon’s army during the war, because it was easier than carrying around a pipe, and he had never been overly fond of cheroots. He had never been overly fond of smoking in general. He didn’t understand why he continued to do it.

Even as that thought bounced around his brain, he took a deep draw and found a shadowed wall to lean on. He tipped his hat down to cover his eyes, shielding them from the bursts of wind that whipped through his little corner. There he stayed, unmoving, the only show of life being a bright red glow and a puff of smoke.

It was almost as cold as when summer had been skipped altogether in 1816. Still, he would rather be out here than risk being seen inside. There was no one he cared to converse with in there, and he was in no big hurry to get back to his box and his mistress, who might or might not be his mistress after he had left so abruptly to run after Kathryn. He didn’t expect to be forgiven soon. For now, he would rather stand outside in the godforsaken, freezing cold, smoking his tobacco and ignoring the rest of humanity.

If only there were such a place where he could ignore the rest of bloody humanity. In fact, if he gave it thought, the interruption a moment later was not all that surprising.

He did not budge an inch when, from the corner of his beaver hat, he noticed a bundle of mud-spattered muslin irritatingly similar to the one he had just sent off.

His jaw tensed as he watched Kathryn round the building into an alley.

A bleeding alley, for Christ’s sake!

The end of the cigarette burned a bright red as he took a deep drag then chucked it into the slush. He slowly exhaled a long stream of smoke as he stared after her from under the brim of his hat.

He ought to follow her just to make sure she didn’t get herself killed.

He lifted his hat from his eyes and began to stalk after her, but then stopped himself short. He should not be the one to go after her. He might, just might, turn her over his knee and give her the spanking her father never would. The temptation would be too much for him to resist. Then he would tie her to his own carriage and
drag
her home. She would be ruined for sure, and Grey was not about to marry the chit. Kathryn would be ruined, and Grenville would kill him.

Even if he didn’t kill Grey, it would hardly be a surprise if Grenville personally flogged him in Hyde Park. Or he might decide to cripple Grey, instead.

He clamped his jaw shut and decided to find someone else to go after her. He hoped for her sake that whoever it was would find her before she got herself into too much trouble.

With a dark scowl, he turned to stalk back inside to the boxes. Somewhere in Huntly’s box was a Mr. Jermie Peckers who would soon be freezing his prick off, running after Grenville’s rebellious cactus. Alias: Lady Kathryn.

K
athryn woke
to a soft hand on her forehead and a soothing voice in her ear. When she began prying open her eyes, bright shards of light lanced through her skull.

“Oh, Kathryn!” the voice was saying. “You could not imagine how much more unbearable Mrs. Owen has become. Every day, I hear about how unfortunate I am to lose you and how fortunate she is that she had three girls and five boys, all healthy and most married. I keep telling her you are only ill and will be back with us very soon. Her own eldest, Astrid, gets a cold and then she is laid up for a month. For her throat, she says.

“And John Owen is hardly any better. The boy was thrown from a horse barely twelve hands tall. He was two and twenty and twelve stone heavy at the time! He had no business on that poor animal. Served him right that he got kicked in the head as soon as he landed. Oh, and how she brags about Astrid marrying that baron’s son!”

Kathryn’s brow knitted as she tried to make sense of the rambling. She wanted to understand what the woman was going on about, but the voice was so soothing she was loathed to do anything that might cause an interruption in its cadence. She resolved just to listen.

“As if marriage was all there was for a girl, anyway. Of course, you know your father and I wish you happily settled and secure, but you want to find your own voice, your own place in this world. You don’t want to be dependent on any man. After the way your aunt passed, I understand. I am so glad you weren’t there to witness the worst of it. What that man did to her—his own wife—locking her away, sucking the life from her slowly, and then—” The voice cracked and paused then started again a bit more strongly. “But unlike her, you
will
wake up, my dear. You must, if only to prove that ridiculous Mrs. Owen you are made of stronger stuff than those ninny coxcombs she claims as her children, and because you have not finished
Gulliver’s Travels,
and I must know the ending. You know I cannot sit long to read it for myself. The words blur.”

Kathryn’s brow knitted again. Jonathan Swift’s
Gulliver’s Travels?
She had read it five times by the time she was twelve; she was sure of it. Though, she could not remember actually reading it, and she could not exactly remember any specific details about the story, including the end. In fact, she could not remember much of anything. It was as though the diary of her life thus far was left out in the rain and the words smeared.

Was she dead?

Kathryn shook her head and furrowed her brow, trying to recall anything. She was living in London, yes. With whom? No faces, no names.

“You are awake!” the voice said and the hand disappeared from Kathryn’s forehead. “Oh, thank heavens!”

Kathryn opened her mouth to speak, but her voice was hoarse and her throat dry. She croaked out a groan that was meant to be a request for water. Then she cleared her throat and croaked again.

“Shh, my dear,” cooed the voice. “Wait for the tea. Then we shall talk.”

At the promise of tea, Kathryn relaxed and began the slow process of prying her eyes open. One by one, they slit just enough to see a blur of colors.

“Emily, the drapes.”

After a few seconds, the room darkened somewhat, and Kathryn was able to open her eyes a little more. The woman settled on the mattress beside her was near fifty with the remnants of former beauty, though she certainly was not plain now. She had the same chestnut brown hair as Kathryn. Her eyes were a warm brown, whereas Kathryn’s were a clear blue, but the nose, square jawline, and cupids bow lips were the same.

Kathryn frowned. “Mama?”

The woman smiled with pursed lips. “My little Kate, I am here. Your mother is here.” She scooted over on the bed to cradle Kathryn’s head and shoulders.

Kathryn's throat thickened and her eyes began to sting. Her head throbbed fiercely and her muscles ached, but she managed to turn herself and lift her arm to drape around her mother’s waist.

“You must be famished,” Lady Grenville said softly. Then she asked with a little more volume, “Emily, will you send up a breakfast for Kathryn?”

An affirmation came from the other side of the room before a door opened and shut.

“You have only had broth for weeks now, you know,” Lady Grenville murmured before settling Kathryn’s head back on the pillow carefully and rising from the bed. “There will be laudanum in the tea, though not so much, so do not be alarmed if you feel a bit strange afterward. It’s for the pain. Dr. Meade said your head would more than likely be in horrible pain.”

Kathryn realized her intention with a wave of panic. “W-wait! Don’t leave me.”

Her mother smiled. “Kathryn, I shall not be gone long. Though I doubt you will know it. You will want to eat, and after that, I dare say you will be right back to sleep.”

“Please, don’t leave,” Kathryn croaked. Her mouth was uncomfortably dry and her voice hoarse as she forced out her words. It felt as though sand had been shoved down her throat. She had to stop to lick her lips. “Where am I? What happened to me?”

Lady Grenville’s smile faded. “My dear, I shall be back directly. I must write to your father. He will be so relieved.” With a quick, reassuring nod, she turned and left the room.

It was not long before Emily bustled in with a tray of steaming tea, toast, eggs, sliced apple, and some cheese, though all in child-sized portions.

Kathryn glanced around the room as much as she could without moving her head overmuch whilst the milk and sugar were mixed in with her tea. Not one painting, one stick of furniture, brought back a memory. She felt a hazy familiarity for the room yet no specific memories of dressing here, sleeping, or reading.

Kathryn was propped upright on a mountain of pillows, and then the tray was settled on her lap. The repast that had been laid out tasted even better than it smelled, and she savored every bite. The eggs were gone first then the toast. Uprising nausea caused her to slow, or she would have scarfed the rest down in seconds.

She had nearly finished her second cup of tea when a knock sounded and the door opened.

A husky man with a gray beard and looking about as gentle as a blacksmith stepped toward the bed. “Lady Kathryn, may I trouble you for a moment?”

“Er…” Kathryn stuttered then watched mutely as the large man sat on the edge of the bed without seeming to truly think much about whether she cared to be troubled or not.

“Now,” he said as he opened a large, black bag and removed a wooden stethoscope, pressing one end to her chest and the other to his ear. “Take a deep breath.”

Kathryn was too shocked to do otherwise.

“Good, good. We were worried about the pneumonia, but that sounds to be cleared up.” He put away the stethoscope then gently held her wrist with one hand and felt her forehead with the other. “The fever is gone, too. That’s fortunate. Pulse is good. You have a strong heart.” He placed her wrist back on the bed and stood.

“Well, it looks as though I am no longer needed. It was a hard fight, but you came out of it. Now rest well, eat well, and regain your strength. You won’t be as strong as you were before, so take it slowly. You have been out for more than three weeks, and most of that time, we thought you wouldn’t last another day.”

The door opened again, and Lady Grenville stepped into the room. “Dr. Meade, I am so pleased you could come so soon.”

He smiled warmly. “I was nearby.”

“How is she?”

“Fully recovered from anything I thought fatal,” he assured her as he picked up his bag. “Give her time to regain her strength, and she will be just fine.”

“What about her memory?” Lady Grenville asked softly.

“Her memory?” Dr. Meade asked. He turned to Kathryn with a frown. “Kathryn, what’s this about your memory?”

Kathryn was at a loss as to how to explain her predicament. How could she explain she remembered yet didn’t remember? Like a word on the tip of her tongue that she could not quite get out.

His frown deepened. “Where is your father’s seat, Kathryn?”

“Derbyshire,” she replied easily. It was her childhood home.

“And where is your father now?”

Kathryn looked around the room. Not to find him—she knew he wasn’t there—but to catch the memory. “I-I don’t know.”

Dr. Meade looked gravely to Lady Grenville then turned back to Kathryn. “Can you tell me what they called the last battle with Napoleon? It was rather well known. June 1815.”

“No,” she replied after a short silence.

“What is the current year?”

Kathryn shook her head. What things she could somewhat recall were impressionistic images at best, without time or order.

He turned soberly to Lady Grenville. “I am so sorry, my lady. I have only seen this a handful of times, usually with soldiers.”

“Do they recover?” Lady Grenville asked with false bravado.

“Sometimes, sometimes,” he replied with a heavily furrowed brow. “All you can do is continue as usual with as much patience as possible. Perhaps when she sees something familiar, it will trigger other memories. Though, this may take some time, and it’s not guaranteed. Love and encouragement, Lady Grenville. Those are key.”

Lady Grenville nodded, and then Dr. Meade left the room quietly.

“Kathryn, please rest,” she said softly. “Just ring if you need anything. I must go for a while. I have letters to write.” She smiled and gently squeezed Kathryn’s hand.

If Kathryn had any thoughts of stopping her mother from leaving, they were overridden by the drowsy and disorienting effects of the laudanum beginning to set in. Her eyes closed and her body completely relaxed as she lay there, surrendering to the intoxicating pull of whatever peaceful rest awaited.

For a week, Kathryn built up her strength. Eventually, she was strong enough to take her meals with her mother. She had even ventured out into the garden for a stroll and read in the parlor whilst Lady Grenville embroidered. She was getting stronger every day, but her memories were still as elusive as ever.

Kathryn was writing down the most recent memory she could recall completely, or nearly completely, which was her riding her father’s hunter at eight-years-old. If her father had known, he would have been terribly upset. There was someone riding beside her, a boy maybe…?

Lady Grenville swept into the room, pulling her out of the thought.

“Today is the Garson Ball. They have a lovely ballroom, and everyone will be far too occupied with the youngest Garson girl entering the season to pay any attention to you. It will be perfect.” Lady Grenville beamed as she began pulling out shawls and ribbons.

“A ball?” Kathryn tucked the written memory into the writing table.

“Emily will help you dress, and she is brilliant with hair,” Lady Grenville added as she began piling the clothing on the bed.

Kathryn sat with pursed lips and a knit brow.

“Not that you will be dancing. I expect you to sit out every one. You are not quite strong enough yet for the exertion.”

“Mama, I can’t.”

Lady Grenville looked up blankly at Kathryn. “Can’t what? Sit out a dance? You can and you will! I shall not have you fainting on the ballroom floor.”

“No, I doubt I am ready to go at all.”

“Oh.” Lady Grenville smiled warmly and stepped toward Kathryn. “My dear, you are strong enough to sit. All I want you to do is watch everyone else so you might remember. You may join in conversation only if you wish to.”

“Sit?” Kathryn asked suspiciously.

Her mother nodded.

“Watch?”

Again, Lady Grenville nodded.

“What if—”

“Don’t worry. It’s a small gathering, that’s all,” Lady Grenville said, dismissing Kathryn’s anxieties with a wave of her hand.

Kathryn nodded reluctantly. She knew she was not getting out of this one, but something in her mother’s eyes had Kathryn questioning her definition of
small gathering.

“I shall see you when the carriage is ready.” Then Lady Grenville was gone, and Kathryn was left ill with dread.

She could only hope none of the guests got the inclination to speak to her. They would think her simple due to her lack of being able to converse on anything except the weather. She would be the laughing stock of London in a matter of hours.

Kathryn rested her head on the table. She had a handful of memories she had written down and tucked into her writing table, but not nearly enough to keep up conversation for an entire night. Perhaps members of the
haut ton
enjoyed talking about themselves more than anything else. A girl could hope.

* * *

“
G
reydon
, I shall not have any more of your nonsense!”

The dowager Lady Ainsley glared daggers at her son as they argued in his drawing room. The walls were carved wooden panels connecting to a ceiling of crisscrossed mahogany planks. The paintings and Aubusson rug underfoot were the only bits of color, dotted as they were with white and yellow. Though, the rug was mostly a mass of dark red.

The dowager looked terribly out of place in her frilly, light yellow muslin. Still, her eyes flashed, and that was all Grey needed to remind him it was his mother beneath all the silly lace. Moreover, she was rather upset.