Once Upon a Masquerade (Entangled Scandalous) Page 3

  “Who might that be?”

  “I’m not sure, but he’s out there somewhere.”

  Rebecca sidled closer. If Miss Stevenson had the same intentions, maybe she could learn something from her.

  As if a sisterhood had been formed by Rebecca’s curiosity, Miss Stevenson pointed to a blond Napoleon across the room. “There’s Peter Douglas. He’s very wealthy, if a bit old, although I’ve heard he’s not half as well-off as Philip Westerly.”

  The gentlemen must be incredibly rich for Miss Stevenson to mention their wealth in such a way. Which begged another thought. How did someone gently press a gentleman for money? She couldn’t imagine the appropriate time. While flirting? Her stomach lurched. Or during something more lurid? Dear Lord.

  “The gentleman next to Mr. Douglas is Thomas Claire.” Mr. Claire, a younger man with dimples, seemed oblivious to Miss Stevenson’s inspection. “He’s from a good family, but I think he has a fondness for Emily Preston.” Miss Stevenson barely stopped to take a breath. “And beneath the chandelier is Christopher Black, a very handsome man.”

  A streak of excitement coursed through Rebecca’s body. Christopher Black. Costumed as a pirate, he wore a free-flowing black shirt unbuttoned mid-chest to reveal a glitter of silver. His ebony hair and dark stubble added a wild, almost dangerous, appeal.

  Miss Stevenson resumed her search for eligible bachelors, but Rebecca couldn’t take her eyes off Mr. Black. She smiled as he joked with another gentleman, his laughter a sight to behold. She sincerely wished—

  “No, not again,” Miss Stevenson moaned. “He’s coming back this way.”

  “Who?”

  “Spencer Henley, or Hamlet if you will. He’s already come to visit me twice this evening. He’s apparently well into his cups.”

  From the corner of her eye, Rebecca spotted a man with a mustache and short stubbly beard draw near, a skull clasped in one hand.

  As he approached, Miss Stevenson muttered, “If I hear him spout one more word of Shakespeare, I may scream.”

  With a wide grin, he bowed low. “‘O, woe is me, to have seen what I have seen, see what I see!’ That a fair maid such as thee is not dancing and frolicking merry.” He bestowed a kiss on Miss Stevenson’s hand. “Dance with me, oh beautiful gypsy?”

  “Thank you for your kind offer, sir, but I’m simply exhausted. Perhaps Miss Bailey would be willing.”

  To his credit, the smile on Hamlet’s face never wavered as he turned to Rebecca. “A dance, fine lady?”

  Her sympathies went out to the man. She knew what it felt like to desire someone from afar. “I’d love to,” she said, only to regret her act of empathy. Her teeth tugged her lower lip as they reached the dance floor. Tucking her duster into her apron, she curtsied to her partner as her mind raced through the steps to come.

  Hamlet bent forward in a slight bow and stepped toward her. Instead of taking her hand in his, he moved the skull from one hand to the other, in an attempt to determine the best place to hold it. After many failed positions, he grinned. “Would you take this, my lady?”

  She giggled and took the prop, happy to find the skull made of plaster. She held it to his shoulder. “A friend of yours?”

  “A very dear one. Do be careful.”

  The waltz began, and she smiled in relief when the steps came easily to her. Her partner, although a bit wobbly, was a capable dancer who seemed to drift off into his own thoughts. Despite herself and her grand plans, she found her eyes drifting over the crowd, looking for Mr. Black. She spied him some distance away. She studied his strong features and lithe form. Was it possible he wouldn’t recognize her if they chanced to meet? After all, he’d barely looked at her that disastrous afternoon when she’d spilled the tea.

  “‘Give me that man, that is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him, in my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, as I do thee,’” Hamlet said in her ear.

  She smiled, recalling a few lines from Hamlet herself, “‘These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.’”

  He nodded in the direction she’d stared. “What man has captured your attention, dear lady?”

  “Oh, no, I—”

  “Is it yon Henry VIII with his distended belly and rat-infested beard?” He bent down to look into her face. “No, I see no spark of passion for that one.”

  A nervous laugh escaped her at his teasing. Mr. Black stood at Henry VIII’s right.

  He scanned the area once more. “Hmm. Long robe, hood and sandals. I assume not. Your tastes are no doubt too refined for a dowdy monk.” A mischievous sparkle glinted in his eye. “Now a pirate might turn your pretty head.”

  Her body tensed for an instant as she tried to muster a denial. Nothing came to mind.

  “If you’d like, I could arrange an introduction.”

  As much as she longed to face Mr. Black as a peer, she couldn’t risk the possibility he might recognize her. She had to set her foolhardy fantasies aside. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  Hamlet stared at her as if he could read her thoughts. “As you wish, my lady.”

  Surprised by his sensitivity, she realized with amusement the game he played. He was more sober than anyone suspected.

  Mr. Westerly tapped Hamlet on the shoulder. “Excuse moi. May I?”

  The impish gleam returned to Hamlet’s eyes. Striking a theatrical pose, he exclaimed, “‘That it should come to this!’”

  “‘Give thy thoughts no tongue,’” Mr. Westerly jibed back.

  With a look of outrage, Hamlet scolded, “‘Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better.’” Hamlet met Rebecca’s amused gaze before placing a kiss on the back of her hand. He retreated with his skull, exclaiming and then fading in dramatic fashion, “‘You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal; except my life, except my life, except my life.’”

  In a final sigh, he added, “‘The rest is silence,’” and lowered his head in defeat.

  “Sorry to have left you alone for so long,” Mr. Westerly said. “Had I realized you’d been cornered by Spencer Henley, I would have come to your rescue much sooner.”

  She curtsied to begin the next dance. “Don’t concern yourself. Mr. Henley was a gentleman, albeit a somewhat loud and eccentric gentleman.”

  Mr. Westerly bowed, before laying a hand at her waist to begin. “So tell me, have you been in New York long?”

  Inwardly, she cringed. She hated lying. “No, not more than a week.”

  “Then you haven’t seen all of our charming city yet?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Allow me to escort you on a tour. We could go for a ride in the park, tomorrow afternoon.” Mr. Westerly swept her around the dance floor amid the other whirling dancers.

  “That would be lovely.” He might have an interest in her after all. This plan of hers might actually work.

  “Wonderful. Where shall I send my carriage?”

  She nearly flinched at the question, uncertain how to respond. “I must run some errands tomorrow. May I meet you?”

  “Let’s meet midday in Central Park, by the bronze figure.”

  “Splendid,” she said, calming once more.

  Over Mr. Westerly’s shoulder, she peeked in the direction she’d last spied Mr. Black. Her spirits fell when she didn’t see him there. She searched the crowded ballroom and spotted him talking with Hamlet. What an odd coincidence. She inhaled a sharp breath. Would he tell Mr. Black of her interest in him? Her next step faltered. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Mr. Westerly when he surveyed her with a questioning glance.

  Peering at Mr. Black again, she hoped to find their discussion had come to an end. Instead, their eyes locked, his curious and bold. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and in a panic she turned away, stumbling on Mr. Westerly’s foot.

  “Are you well?” Mr. Westerly asked.

  “I’m not certain.” She took another quick look from the corner of her eye. Mr. Black sti
ll watched her. “I feel a bit faint. If I could just take in some fresh air.”

  “Come with me.” Mr. Westerly led her through the crush of costumed guests. By the time they reached a secluded balcony, she felt sure they’d escaped. Mr. Westerly lifted two goblets from a passing servant’s tray.

  Once outside, she massaged her forehead, the crisp air welcome. Her limbs trembled as she leaned against the railing.

  “Here, drink this.” He handed her a glass of champagne.

  She drank freely all of the sweet bubbling contents. “I’m feeling much better now,” she assured him after a few calming breaths.

  “Would another cool refreshment be in order?”

  “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

  Once Mr. Westerly set out on his errand, she groaned and dropped her face into her hands.

  What if Mr. Black recognized her? She was dressed as a maid for God’s sake. Should she leave, or could she avoid him? In such a large house avoidance shouldn’t prove difficult.

  Then again, perhaps he simply wondered what foolish woman would agree to dance with a drunken Hamlet. He was standing a fair distance away. Yes, that was it. She’d panicked for no reason. Still, she’d be more careful from here on out. They’d never see each other again.

  She stretched her aching shoulders and neck. Although muffled sounds emanated from the ball within, the overall silence helped to relax her. She leaned over the railing as the gentle wind played with her hair, the touch cool and soft, and absently flicked a fine layer of dirt from the railing with her feather duster.

  “You play your role well.”

  She recognized the voice immediately. The duster slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. Christopher Black.

  Chapter Three

  CHRISTOPHER STEPPED ONTO THE balcony as the enchantress he’d followed spun about and retrieved her duster. The hint of fear that flashed in her eyes disturbed him. “Could I persuade you to work for me? You appear quite capable with a duster.”

  She glanced at the item in her hand, and her shoulders relaxed, descending several inches. She cocked her head to the side as if contemplating his offer. “I’m afraid not, sir. But, I could teach you how to fend for yourself.”

  With a slow grin, he drew closer. “You’re obviously more adept than I in such matters. What incentive can I use to entice you to come to me, fair maid?”

  She stroked the feathers of her duster almost nervously. “My services come at a high cost.” Her eyes darted to the floor. “I… What I meant was—”

  He raised a finger to her lips, but didn’t touch. “As I suspected for someone as skilled as yourself.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw and motioned for her to turn about before him. “Are you an agreeable sort?”

  She stood her ground, resting her hands on shapely hips. “Always.”

  Christopher began to circle her, surprised but amused by her pluck. “Do you polish furniture?”

  “I do.” The dark color of her gown accentuated her smooth, porcelain skin. The material hugged her enticing curves, from the gentle swell of her breasts to her narrow waist. Unlike those of her gender schooled to show vulnerability, this woman had vitality, an inner strength that beckoned.

  “Make beds?”

  Playfully, she leaned toward him, presenting her straight, white teeth for his inspection, and flexed the muscles of her arm. “Of course.”

  With a chuckle, he stepped around to her back. “Do whatever your employer demands?”

  “That depends on the demands.”

  When she straightened, he admired the delicate skin at the nape of her neck exposed by her upswept hair. He leaned in from behind and breathed in the faint scent of cloves. “Would a kiss be too much to ask?”

  She shivered and twirled around with a small gasp, her face inches from his. The unusual color of her eyes, a blend of soft greens, drew him in as sure as a wave to shore.

  The corner of his lips curled. After failing to discover anything new about Nathan’s lady friend, he might be able to salvage this evening after all. “Or maybe a simple touch.” He reached down and lifted her gloved hand, his index finger stroking her palm. “Followed by a kiss.” Looking deep into her lovely eyes, he settled his lips on the back of her fingers. “I’m Christopher Black, fearsome pirate. Who might you be?”

  She pulled her hand away and eased back a few steps, raising her feather duster. “Rebecca Bailey, a meek and humble maid.”

  “Meek and humble? I find that hard to believe.” His gaze caressed her face, sweeping across her smooth skin to rest on those remarkable green eyes. “Have we met before?” He had the vague sense they had, although the time and place eluded him.

  Taking another step back, she turned away, her delicate features tensed with alarm. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I’ve just arrived in New York.”

  He sensed her desire to flee and wished he knew why she felt that way. He couldn’t let that happen, not yet. Instead of pressing her further, he conceded with a shrug, “I must be mistaken. Where do you hail from?”

  “The great city of Boston.” The slight smile on her face belied the unsteady rise and fall of her chest. “We should return to the festivities inside.”

  “As you wish.” He offered his arm. “Let’s see how the celebration is faring without us.” Hesitantly, she placed her hand on his arm, and he escorted her back inside the noisy ballroom, the dimness of the balcony replaced by glaring brilliance from the chandeliers hung high above. In her hair, a glitter of green reflected the light. He leaned closer for a better look, and spied a comb with emerald and diamond butterflies.

  Nathan’s comb. His breath left him in a rush as sure as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. How could it be? Miss Bailey didn’t even live in New York. How could she have known Nathan? And yet, there was no denying the comb was an exact match, custom made here in the city.

  He drew in a deep lungful of air, the shock ebbing, replaced by a pang of disappointment. Disappointment? Where was the relief? He’d finally found the woman Nathan had loved. He could “save” her, whatever that meant, just as Nathan had asked, and put the matter behind him. And perhaps alleviate some of the guilt that had plagued him this last year. Or possibly even unmask Nathan’s killer if the police had it right. The thought lasted only an instant, but it was there nonetheless.

  “Would you care to join me for dinner? I understand there’s an impressive feast offered upstairs.” Once they were in a quieter place, he’d explain himself and find out what assistance she needed.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said, her hands wringing together. “I was waiting on the balcony for Philip Westerly.”

  Damn. When he’d seen them dancing together, he’d hoped the two were merely acquaintances. Frankly, he disliked the man—even more so now. “The two of you are betrothed?”

  “No, we’ve only just met.” She scanned the crowd. “He went off to get refreshments. I think it would be terribly rude to take my leave without telling him.”

  He spotted Westerly talking with an elderly man, two glasses of champagne in his hands. “Over there,” he pointed out.

  A crush of guests blocked the path between them and the two men. Miss Bailey threw her arm boldly into the air, and Westerly waved back with an apologetic grimace.

  Christopher seized the moment. “He’s talking with Charles Lipton, a man known for his lengthy political debates. It may be some time before he’ll be free again.”

  Her brows furrowed, before a sweet smile touched her lips. “Then I suppose we’ll have to see what fare is provided upstairs.” She motioned to Westerly her intent, and he signaled his acceptance with a shrug, offering one of the glasses to his companion.

  All too aware of her every movement and gesture, Christopher escorted her to the second floor, where they entered what appeared to be a tropical garden. Numerous tables were arranged among tall palm trees, each with clusters of orchids tied to its branches. Roses and lilies of the valley covered the doors to the opul
ent room and fountains bubbled in two corners.

  They crossed to a long buffet table. Miss Bailey closed her eyes and inhaled as if in heaven. “I’m famished and this smells incredible.” She piled sugar-cured ham, chicken croquettes, and delicate pastries on a plate.

  They sat down at a small linen-covered table, and Christopher attempted to ignore her enchanting grin of pleasure, wracking his brain for the right way to start the conversation about Nathan. With a sheepish look, Miss Bailey sank her teeth into a fruit-filled tart, only to frown and set the pastry aside to take a sip of champagne.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “A bit dry.” She shrugged. “Too much flour, I think.”

  “It sounds as though you speak from experience.” Strange. Although many women in attendance might notice the dryness, few would know the cause with such certainty.

  She flinched, and then smoothed the tablecloth with an unsteady hand, the movement a caress of glove to linen. “How silly. Of course not. I wouldn’t know the first thing about baking. It was simply a guess.”

  He couldn’t resist. Reaching across the table, he brushed his fingertips along the corner of her lip where a speck of fruit filling had clung. He marveled at the incredible softness of her skin, the perfect curve of her lips, and wondered at the sweetness he’d find there. Remembering himself, he pulled his hand away. She had been Nathan’s, and as such, he should keep his distance. “We should talk.”

  “About what?” She dabbed at the spot he touched, her tongue peeking out to finish the job.

  He stared at the skin glistening from that lick, almost forgetting the discussion at hand. Focus, man. “Nathan Gebhardt.”

  A questioning look crossed her face. “Who?”

  “Nathan Gebhardt?” No recognition flared to life. In fact, she showed no reaction at all. “Are you saying you don’t know him?”

  Her shoulders stiffened, and she squirmed in her seat. “Oh, Mr. Gebhardt. Yes, I know him.” Raising a hand to her chest, she chuffed out a laugh. “Everyone knows him. My father did business with him.”

  He studied her, trying to understand her disquiet. Was she afraid to admit of her relationship to Nathan? Actually, it would make sense. If others discovered her secret love affair, her reputation would be ruined. “It’s all right to admit more,” he assured her. “I know who you are. Nathan was a good friend of mine.”