He knew the moment was altering, tumbling out of his control. He was not a man of impulse, yet he was one who had a regard for poetry, a thing of which this embrace, this woman’s lips on his was made. A cadence, a rightness, almost an inevitability stirred in him, and it was only with a great effort that he made an attempt to pull away.
“I think--” he said against her lips, but she silenced him with her mouth recapturing his.
The time of protest passed. He felt her revel in his kiss, in the arms that tightened around her, and the hands that rumpled her dress and sought knowledge of her contours. The tight bodice was both revealing and frustrating, leaving little room for seeking fingers.
He didn’t know how it had come to this; he had never done anything like this before, for it was clear where the moment was leading. The blood thundering through his body, and her touches in return, told him he was not mistaken. He had known women before, of course, but not even in some of the exotic locales in which he had grown as a man and as a spy had he found himself in such a position. Once or twice he’d wondered if he might have to make his way into a woman’s bed to obtain the information he wanted, but other factors had always intervened. Now there was no need for such an experience; this woman had nothing he needed. She was the one who had need, to be established under a new identity, hidden from the reach of French revenge. It made no sense. He could not fathom why she was so receptive to him, a stranger, but then her tongue ventured into his mouth to touch his own, and he forgot to wonder at anything but sensation.
Suddenly, a flurry of sound came from the house, fanfares and cheers. To Ian’s ears came the cries of, “Remove your masks! Remove your masks!”
He and the unnamed lady went still.
“It must be midnight,” she murmured against his lips.
A long beat went by, and then she pushed against his chest, getting her feet firmly under her. He slowly let her go, even though it was the last thing his arms wanted to do.
She bent, presumably to retrieve her hair hood and mask.
“My carriage is not far--” he began to offer.
“Oh, no, you don’t need to do that. I’ll make my own way home.”
“Home?” he echoed, confused.
She stepped up to him, one hand cupping his cheek, that she might know where to raise her lips for a quick peck on his cheek, now not lover-like but tender and sincere. “Thank you,” she whispered. She stepped back toward the doorless opening, turning and crossing over the threshold of the building. She hesitated there a moment, her outline picked out in the doorway, and whispered sincerely, again, “Thank you so much.” Then she stepped away.
“But--!” he cried, coming to the doorway, a hand on either side of the opening. Where was she going? Had he misunderstood his instructions somehow?
“Good night. God bless,” she called softly as she slipped out of sight behind shrubbery and fog, but not before he saw the lightness of her hair disappear, presumably beneath the cat-mask’s attendant hood.
“But how shall I find you?” he cried, starting forward, only to check his progress as a thought occurred to him. Did she think they’d been seen? Was she laying some kind of false trail, unbeknownst to or understood by him? But…?
Had he not been concentrating so on the lady’s retreat, he might have noted a faint stirring in the slender trees off to the left. A single shadow separated itself from the leaves and branches, the long gown of the dark costume evident in the night for a moment in silhouette, to slip toward the house, to complete her assigned duty by a murmur in Lord Quinn’s ear.
Instead Ian heard only the Lady Cat’s gentle disembodied voice as it floated back to him, “You’re not meant to find me, sir.”
He bit his lower lip; he could have stopped her but had not. It would have been simple to dash forward and hold her back, but he hadn’t so much as moved toward her because he’d suddenly had a sinking feeling that he’d attached himself to the wrong person.
He groaned aloud when it struck him, standing there staring into the fickle fog: the mysterious Lady Cat had entirely lost her French accent.
Chapter 5
Georges Douzain had been at the party for ten minutes, nine minutes longer than he had thought to.
I am sticking out like the thumb that is sore.
And, worse, now he must step out from the shadows against the wall, forcing himself into the brighter light of the overhanging chandeliers. Only the fact he wore a domino to cover his head, and a cloth mask covering all but his mouth, gave him the courage to do so. He could not locate
le vicomte
; my lord Ewald must find him, it seemed.
Or was perhaps my lord Ewald already gone? It was a very poor thing Georges had arrived so late--that
stupide
carriage wheel!--it was now a quarter hour past midnight. Was it possible
le vicomte
had so soon tired of waiting, or had become convinced that he, Georges, was not going to show? The man was supposed to be in plain sight. If Georges’s contact was here, the man had made himself too hard to find.
Georges circled the room one last time with only faintly hopeful eyes, peering at groups of people to see if he had overlooked anyone, but then his blood froze.
Sacre bleu!
He was caught! There was a woman, her mask abandoned presumably at midnight, one who he knew could betray him, who could send her hired thugs to hit him over the head and drag him back to his merciless fate in France. She was standing there right before him. He could not move, terror ripping through him, for he knew the “justice” that awaited him in France was no less than death as a traitor for surrendering State secrets. He must not be taken!
Her eyes turned to him, making him give a small cry deep in his throat…but then they passed on. He watched as the woman, costumed as some kind of peasant with a basket on her arm, settled her gaze on a young man dressed as a sailor. She moved toward the man, her pace smooth but her intent deliberate.
A sliver of sanity returned to Georges, and he realized his mask was still firmly in place, hiding his distinctively hooked nose, his dark hair, and that his form was still largely disguised by the bulky domino he wore. There was nothing about his person, thus cloaked, that could give him away. That is, nothing but his own nervous behavior, he thought to himself. He must leave, at once. He would have to contact this Viscount Ewald another way. It had grown far too dangerous to remain at the masquerade.
He slipped back into the shadows and out into the night, his heart pounding as he moved with sharp eyes and careful movements, working to avoid being noticed.
***
Alexander rubbed his chin, and frowned down into his wine, because he’d much rather it was brandy, and because his middle sister had disappeared. That was, perhaps, a good thing, if it meant Olivia had taken herself and her half-clothed body home; it was not so good a thing if it meant she was closeted somewhere at this assembly with some rake who would be only too willing to accept what she seemed to be offering. Alexander had grown hopeful it was the former, for he’d circulated a great deal, peering into alcoves and opening doors to closed rooms, and even going so far as to meander through the garden--where he’d seen some amorous activities that had only lent to his concern.
Phoebe was missing, too, but that concerned him less, because she’d told him she was going to make herself scarce, in order to avoid letting Olivia take a good look at her. Her flimsy face covering must be as unsuccessful as Olivia’s mask--at least to her siblings--had proved to be.
For himself, perhaps Olivia had spotted Alexander, for if she remained at the masquerade, she was evading him rather handily.
“Is something the matter?” someone asked near him.
He startled and looked up, for the voice had been marked with an accent. For a fleeting moment he thought it might be Olivia, carrying on in that silly fashion she’d adopted for the night. It was not. It was the woman clothed in gleaner’s dress, who had turned and stared when Phoebe had ordered him to lower his voice earlier.
“Why…er…no. How d’you do?” he mumbled, hastily transferring his glass to his left hand, for she’d extended hers toward him. He took up her hand to execute an airy kiss over it. Foreigners especially liked that kind of thing, he knew.
She gave him a small curtsy in return. He noted the way her golden-brown hair curled out from under her kerchief, and that her lips were lightly rouged, a shocking practice however in keeping with the nature of this irreverent masquerade. There was something in her posture and in her eyes, too, that suddenly made him recall why he’d come tonight. If she’d had a mask, now that midnight had come and gone she’d abandoned it, and she looked at him with a frankly warm expression.
“May I have the pleasure of making your acquaintance?” he asked, letting a little of his sudden appreciation show in return, to see how she might respond.
“I am Miss Lyons. And you are…?” She had a charming dimple in her left cheek when she smiled.
“Lord Hargood,” he said on a bow. He liked that they’d had to introduce themselves, without the usual third party involved. Flirtation was already in place, and Alexander began to hope more was to come.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she murmured, her voice soft and low, her accent slight and very pleasant to the ear.
He smiled at her and offered her his arm, that they might stroll and talk. Yes, there was something in the way she put her hand on his arm, and in the way she looked at him, that made him feel perhaps he’d not wasted his time at this ridiculous All Hallow’s affair after all. That feeling could only be enhanced when she asked, “You have come alone to this party, my lord?”
It was with some reluctance he had to admit, “Well, no. My sister’s with me.”
“What a kind brother you are, to escort your sister. But is your wife not present?”
“No.” He smiled, growing more and more certain of the lady. “I’ve no wife. Just sisters,” he said, the reminder causing him to glance around the room again, feeling a little guilty that he’d forgotten about Olivia for a moment.
“Ah, I hope I do not keep you from seeing to zeir needs. It grows perhaps late for some, and it could be the late hour makes for zem a great weariness? I must not keep you--”
“No, no,” he assured her at once, for she had lovely light brown eyes, a reflection of her hair, eyes that spoke in a language of their own. “The one’s already gone, and the other can always presume upon a friend should she care to leave. I am a free soul. And I’ve taken a notion to stay a while longer. Would you care for some wine, Miss Lyons?”
The lady murmured how nice that would be, her dimple showing again, and Alexander happily waved away his last thought of regret that he had come.
***
Ian re-entered Quinn’s home, moving again among the crush of the party. It seemed loud and close, but he forced himself to stay still long enough to evaluate the room. He peered hard, seeking any sign that another was there, waiting for him; his true contact--if such there was.
Although, truth be told, he also looked for
her
, the lady in cat costume. He knew she’d departed, but yet he looked to see her again.
But no, she was gone. Or, no longer in costume.
He glanced into more faces, seeking light hair and light eyes, and the certain curve of a cheek. She’d been small-framed, with a delicate waist. She’d been young; her smooth skin and youthful movement had proved that.
Ian shook himself, as though the act would straighten the thoughts that tumbled in his mind. He began to grow a little angry, for doubts made him feel stupid. He’d moved past the mind-numbing and body-pleasuring interlude in the garden. Did it even matter that he find her again? Was she meant to find him once more? Or, as he began more and more to suspect, had he been mistaken altogether?
Why had he thought she could possibly be the one he had been sent to assist? Her actions hadn’t been those of a woman wishing to be rescued…had they? He set his jaw, looking at the crowd again, even while his mind was lost to conflicting facts. He could explain everything about her behavior, rationally, to himself--everything except her leaving. That made no sense. Had he been so far off the mark?
If she was not the one, then who was?
He had to admit it: he’d failed. The plans had gone awry, all because he’d been mistaken in his quarry.
He didn’t make his farewells to his bizarrely dressed--call it nearly undressed--host, Lord Quinn. He slipped out the front door after quietly obtaining his three-caped cloak, and walked to his carriage, not awaiting it on the front steps as was the usual fashion. His body told his mind to relax and think about it all later, but his brain settled into a darting pace that chased his thoughts about in circles.
He slumped inside his carriage, only his dark eyes revealing the whirlwind within, while his driver clucked the horses toward home. Why had the Lady Cat gone with him to the garden, if not to make an escape?
Yet that had not been her intent at all.
So then, she was a trollop, a member of the demimonde.
But…there had been no sex. No offer of such. No exchange of monies.
His talent for reading people had always stood him in good stead in the past, but now…nothing added up. It made no sense. She’d been drinking…but then again, he’d swear she’d not been so far gone that she’d not known what she was doing.
And her responses! He would swear those had not been practiced, not like the sounds or acts of any harlot he’d ever met. Either she was very new at the trade--would such a one be so giving, so apparently moved?--or else she was indeed a very fine actress.
No. It was impossible to believe. The woman had been no strumpet. The only price she’d asked of him was more kisses.
Ah, and here was a thought: indeed, she was no informant, but perhaps a widow--or a wayward wife? One who longed for affection howsoever she might come by it? Now that made some manner of sense.
Or…perhaps she longed for a child, one her husband could not give her? But she’d worn no ring. And, of course, they’d not made love. Had she quailed when the moment had been upon her? Indeed, she’d asked nothing of him but some caresses, not even giving him a face with which to be plagued in the future.