The Gamekeeper's Lady (16 page)

‘I’ll be watching you, girl. Closely. Behave well, and who knows, perhaps Simon will take you to London to see the sights one day.’

Never.

‘Off you go. Be downstairs in the hallway ready to meet the guests at seven o’clock with Lady Radthorn.’ He flicked his fingers in dismissal.

Doubts about her plan assailed Frederica as she left the room. Simon was so far beneath Uncle’s thumb, he’d probably accept her despoiled state without a murmur, if Uncle Mortimer insisted.

In that case, there was nothing else she could do but run.

Robert cut across the Wynchwood lawn. Light streaming from the downstairs windows made it easy to see his way. Clearly Lord Wynchwood intended to impress his neighbours and his London guests.

Preferring to check out the lie of the land before venturing into the lion’s den, Robert pushed through the shrubbery beneath the ballroom windows and from the shadows peered into a room packed with every imaginable creature and assorted figures from history.

All the local gentry were invited, according to Weatherby, as well as the guests down from London. A few years ago he would have been one of them, though he rarely attended such dull affairs. Now here he was, an outsider skulking in the bushes.

Invitation or not, they ought to be honoured by his attendance. He’d found the perfect costume, too—a highwayman. The only person he feared might see through the disguise was Maggie. She might recognise his voice. He’d practised keeping it coarse and rough and with the beard and the waxed moustaches he’d devised from locks of his hair, he defied even his mother to recognise him.

The scrap of black silk he had fashioned for a mask covered the top half of his face. He pulled his borrowed tricorn hat down low on his brow for further concealment.

He took a deep breath. Now or never.

Careful to avoid attracting attention, he worked his way around to the front door, timing his entrance with the arrival of a carriage full of guests. Out stepped a Roman dignitary and his toga-clad lady, a male dressed as an Oriental in loose, flowing robes, who he immediately recognized as Radthorn, and a woman in a Tudor ruff and enormous skirt. Robert followed them in. Snively didn’t give him a second glance as they were directed to the antechamber where the ladies could change their shoes and leave their cloaks.

‘Really, John,’ the Tudor lady whispered having passed off her wrap to Maisie, ‘are you sure the Bracewells are quite the thing?’ She wrinkled her nose at the faded wallpaper above grimy panelling. ‘It is a little dingy.’

Lady Bentham, Robert realised. A merry young widow and John’s long-time mistress. John always said his grandmother was up for a lark. She had to be if she permitted him to house his mistress under her roof. If the old lady knew, that was.

Radthorn glanced around, his gaze passing over Robert without a gleam of recognition. ‘Old friends of the family. I haven’t been here in years.’ A smile flashed from beneath his drooping moustache. ‘It hasn’t changed a bit.’

Robert let his breath go. If his erstwhile best friend didn’t recognise him, then it appeared he was safe.

‘Why on earth was Lullington so insistent we all come?’ Lady Bentham asked. ‘It is going to be dreadfully dull.’

Radthorn shrugged. ‘You know Lullington. Young Bracewell owes him money and he’s not going to let him escape without paying up.’

Robert felt a flash of embarrassment. He’d left a great many debts in his wake. Devil take it, he would pay them no matter how long it took.

John took his lady’s arm and with many curses from him and much laughter from her, he helped her tilt her enormous hoop to allow her to pass through the doorway and they headed for the ballroom.

His heart racing more than he liked, Robert trailed them. The Roman tribune and his lady followed hard on his heels.

‘Oh, my,’ Lady Bentham said, stopping at the entrance to the grand room that ran the length of the back of the house.

Robert wasn’t surprised at her reaction to the swathes of cloth draping the walls and hundreds of candles. He’d spent most of the day helping with them.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Lady Bentham continued. ‘Who is she?’

Robert’s jaw dropped as he saw that she referred not to the decorations, but to the lady. A vision of loveliness, a glittering queen of the fairies. Frederica. He choked back a gasp.

Dressed in something floating and sheer, she looked enchanting. It didn’t take much to imagine the slender limbs beneath the skirts, or the high, pert breasts skimmed by the low-cut bodice. An ethereal queen of the fairies. He half-expected her to use the gossamer wings cunningly attached to the back of her gown and fly off on a breeze.

Every man in the room had the look of a rabid dog as they gazed at her. Only by dint of will did he stop himself from rushing to her side and covering her with his highwayman’s cloak.

Her face glowed. Beneath her mask of silk and sequins, her lips were parted in excitement. Yet her eyes held the shadows of absolute terror. Pride filled him. Pride at her beauty and her courage. The beast inside him wanted to proclaim her as his own.

He clenched his jaw instead.

‘I had no idea she was so lovely,’ Radthorn said, in an awed whisper. ‘Simon’s cousin. I met her on the hunt this morning. She is making her début under my grandmother’s guidance.’

Lady Bentham dug him in the ribs. ‘Stop salivating.’

Robert had never seen John look so besotted. He wanted to strangle his friend with his bare hands. He kept them loose at his sides.

The Roman couple pushed forwards. ‘I say there, what’s the hold up?’

The last thing he needed was an altercation. Robert extricated himself from the little knot at the door and swaggered in best highwayman style to his chosen location behind a pillar. From here he would observe yet remain unnoticed.

Like every man in the room, he found his gaze drawn to the slight figure in earth tones and diamonds. Like every man in the room, she filled his heart with a strange kind of wonder. He could see it in their eyes. How could any woman look so lovely, so pure, so unattainable?

A sprite come to taunt them all.

How could the man at her side, a cherub-faced idiot in a lion suit and a foolish grin, think himself good enough? Hell. Robert wasn’t good enough, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from claiming the first waltz.

He knew the moment she saw him, because she smiled brightly enough to outshine the hundreds of candles. A dozen men around him gasped and clutched their assorted chests of steel and wool and silk, but only he caught the full force of her wide-eyed astonishment.

He bowed and gave a slight shake of his head.

She covered her laugh with her fingers and looked away. His heart thudded wildly. The music started. A cotillion. The lion held out his arm. She placed her hand in his paw.

A growl of protest rumbled in Robert’s chest. He almost stepped out from his pillar. Mine. The possessive thought reverberated in his mind, yet he held still, narrow eyed, watching.

The scent of violets wafted beneath his nose. A voluptuous maiden in a veil and the garb of a sultan’s consort drifted to his side. ‘Oh, my,’ she said. ‘I do like a tall, strong highwayman. Who are you? Ten String Jack?’

Damnation. Maggie.

‘No, yer ladyship. I be the ghost of Mad Jack. Hung I was, up on Gallows Hill yonder.’

Maggie recoiled. ‘Lud! How gruesome.’ She eyed him up and down. ‘You know, I have the strangest feeling I know you from somewhere.’ She smiled her radiant, sophisticated, charming smile. A smile as bright as the gold coins on her bangles. The smile she used to hide her disappointments in the life she’d been handed by her parents. Married to an old man as a girl.

He grinned back. ‘No, yer ladyship. I live in these parts. You ain’t never heard of me.’

‘Oh, you foolish creature. I know we have met. Who are you?’

He flashed her a leer and waggled his brows. ‘If ye guess right, I’ll kiss you. Else ye’ll wait until the unmasking.’ When he’d be long gone.

‘Maggie?’ Lullington’s imperious voice jerked her head around.

The viscount, splendid as the Sun King in a gold mask and his lean body tightly encased in a suit of white embroidered with gold, crooked a finger. ‘Dance, my lady?’

‘Coming, Lull.’ She hurried off, but not before she cast a glance over her shoulder at Robert. He couldn’t resist. He bowed his appreciation. She really was a lovely sight. The loveliest woman in the room save for one.

Not that Frederica’s partner did her justice. Pompous ninny. The man knew the steps and performed with dignity, but without grace or feel for the music. The idiot spent most of his time nodding to the other members of the set, or shouting raillery to the other square when all his attention should have been fixed on his partner.

Popinjay.

The back of Robert’s neck prickled. Someone was watching him. Nonchalantly, as if seeking refreshment, he turned away from the dance floor. A swift glance found Radthorn’s puzzled gaze fixed on his person. Robert pretended not to notice and, walking with a limp, headed for the refreshment table. Glass in hand, he looked again. John’s attention was now wholly engaged with a grey-haired lady in the full regalia of the last century and looking as if she had simply pulled out one of her old gowns and wigs. Her long chin reminded him of John’s. This must be the doughty grandmother of whom John had spoken often and with great affection. The woman who had taken Frederica in hand.

Thank God the old dear hadn’t spoiled Frederica’s natural grace and spirit and turned her into a simpering miss like the one dressed as a shepherdess, crook in hand, heading his way.

Robert swung away. He prowled the circumference of the ballroom, avoiding Maggie and the shepherdess with spectacular success until Maggie cornered him beside the orchestra.

‘Dance with me,’ she said, batting her kohl-rimmed eyelashes.

‘Nay, lass,’ he growled.

She pouted. ‘La, sir. You are very rude.’

Flags of colour flew in her cheeks, a sign of her rare temper. Not good.

He pointed to her flimsy sandals. ‘I are mortal afeared of stepping on your pretty little toes.’

She pointed her foot. ‘They are pretty, aren’t they?’ She gazed at his feet. ‘And you are wearing very large boots.’ She reached up and tapped his chest with her flail. ‘But I’ll not take it as an excuse, sir.’

He grinned his defeat. ‘Then, my lady, your wish is my command.’

He led her into a set still in need of couples and she spent the whole of the dance throwing names at him. When they promenaded down the set, she laughed up at him. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’

‘It’s a masked ball. You ain’t supposed to know.’

‘Infuriating man.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘That voice…Are you related to a member of the
ton?’

‘Arr, missy. I’m related to the King of Thieves. Aladdin.’

She shook her fist at him, then groaned as the music concluded. ‘I give up, but I will see you later.’

Chuckling at her boldness, Robert stalked back to his pillar. Nearby, Lady Radthorn was engaged in a heated discussion with the master of the house.

‘Of course it is necessary. Do you want the world to think the Wynchwoods are country bumpkins?’

‘I have no reason to care what the world thinks,’ Lord Wynchwood said, wiping his brow. ‘You are giving me a headache.’

‘Then do as I ask. You requested my help, now you will accept it. We invited all these people from town. They expect to waltz.’

‘No.’

‘Oh, you are past bearing.’

‘And you are overbearing. And foolish.’

The two of them stared at each other in silence. Any man with an iota of common sense would have known Lady Radthorn would not be gainsaid.

Lord Wynchwood sagged. ‘All right. I’ll give the instruction. But my niece will not waltz. She will stand right here beside me.’

‘Nonsense. The gel must dance.’

Robert permitted himself a small smile and positioned himself within easy range of his lordship. The Roman, with whom Frederica had danced the last set, returned her to her spot beside her uncle and Lady Radthorn, who continued to argue that Frederica must dance.

Before anyone could instruct her either way, Robert strode forwards and led her on to the floor to the opening bars of the waltz.

‘I say,’ her uncle called out.

‘Too late,’ Robert murmured.

Frederica laughed up at him. ‘True to your profession, sir?’

‘Aye,’ he murmured finding her laugh enough to set wild music soaring in his blood. What was left of his mind he needed for dancing.

She glided in beneath the light touch of his fingers. In his hovel, she’d been earth, grounding him in the here and now. In the ballroom, with the candles playing rainbows among her diamonds and shimmering in the ocean colour of her eyes, she was pure sprite. She floated beneath his fingers, her lips curved in a smile of joy. He felt as if he could fight demons and win.

‘R-Robert?’

‘Hush,’ he murmured into hair scented with vanilla and roses. ‘I’m Mad Jack tonight.’

Her smile grew. ‘Mad indeed.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘You remembered my story.’

‘I did.’

Her face dropped. ‘But the fox…’

‘Safe and sound. Probably up on Gallows Hill, watching the lights and the dancing and wondering whose chickens to steal.’

A gurgle of laughter curled around him. ‘How?’

‘I trapped the other fox down in the meadow.’

They circled the floor. Despite feigned indifference, he noticed eyes watching him and wondering. Fans fluttered as people asked who he was. He dare not request more than one dance.

‘You will be in d-dreadful trouble if you are discovered, but I’m so glad you are here. I had quite decided not to waltz. But I would have been sorry.’

‘Me too, sweetheart. You deserve to dance all night.’

He swung her in a dizzying circle, her body, as pliant as a willow, moved in perfect harmony. She felt right in his arms, as if they’d been made for one another. Why had it taken so long to find her? And why now, when he could do nothing about it? After tonight she would be the toast of London. The
ton
despised anything different, except the truly unique. Those they embraced with fervour. For a while. Look at Byron and Brummell. His little wood nymph might well be next.