The Madcap Masquerade Read online

  “That you did.” Maeve smiled, thinking of the sensation she’d created in her daring green gown. “Now, where did you put my roses? I’d like to see them.”

  “Why in the little salon where you and the Earl was just sitting, Miss. It seemed the proper place to show them off, what with you having so many callers and all.”

  “Good thinking,” Maeve agreed and sweeping past the giggling maid, proceeded down the stairs to the small salon. She stopped just inside the door and felt her breath catch in her throat. The roses were everything Lucy had claimed, and more. A mass of perfect ruby buds, their spicy sweet fragrance filled every corner of the room and drifted into the entryway beyond. She touched a velvet petal with her fingertip, so moved by their beauty, she felt tears spring to her eyes.

  A picture of Theo’s handsome, saturnine face swam in her tear-blurred vision. Her first kiss. Her first waltz. Now her first flowers. Like it or not, the Earl of Lynley had already carved himself a special place in her memory—and her requisite fortnight posing as her twin had just barely begun.

  Theo was in a foul mood.

  The business of terminating his affair with Sophie had not gone at all as he’d planned. She’d wept all over him. She’d ranted and raved and pleaded with him to continue seeing her after he was married. When he’d flatly refused, she’d shrieked like a banshee and torn her hair and threatened to kill herself. She’d even threatened to go to his betrothed and describe in detail the interesting ways he’d entertained her on the cold winter nights when he’d warmed himself in her bed.

  In short, she had acted in an alarmingly emotional and shockingly un-British manner, which had given him a complete disgust of her. He’d spent the better part of the night trying to reason with her. To no avail. She was as hysterical when he left her as she’d been nearly twelve hours earlier when he’d first announced his intention to be faithful to his marriage vows.

  Hell and damnation! How had a rational, well-intentioned fellow like him managed to land in such a bumblebroth? And how could an innocent country recluse like Meg Barrington have so accurately predicted the way a trollop like Sophie Whitcomb would react when she received her congé?

  He was still pondering these baffling questions when he turned his horse over to a waiting groom and strode into the entryway of Ravenswood to find his mother waiting for him.

  She raised her lorgnette and perused him as she might a particularly offensive piece of refuse found floating in the Thames. “Really, Theo, must you insult me by returning from one of your nights of debauchery looking and smelling as if you had been lolling about in a brothel? Remove yourself to your chambers this instant and I shall order the footmen to prepare you a bath.”

  Theo took a deep breath and reminded himself that the woman was his mother, and, as such, deserved his respect no matter how annoying she might be. “I am perfectly capable of ordering my own bath, Madam,” he declared somewhat more curtly than he intended.

  “Then please do so immediately. Our houseguests should be arriving momentarily.”

  “Guests?” Theo scowled. “I do not recall inviting anyone to Ravenswood.”

  “At my request, my brother, the viscount, is honoring us with a short visit and bringing with him his friend, the Duke of Kent.”

  Theo swore softly under his breath. He thoroughly disliked his uncle. There was something about the overdressed dandy that made his skin crawl. He had never met the Duke of Kent, but if the rumors about him were true, he stood second only to the evil Duke of Cumberland as the most hated of the Regent’s brothers.

  What had possessed his mother to invite two such unpleasant fellows as houseguests? And without consulting him. The woman was taking entirely too much upon herself. All the more reason he should install his bride as mistress of Ravenswood as soon as possible. Then he could move his mother to the dower house where, like it or not, she belonged.

  Wearily he mounted the stairs to his bedchamber. Perhaps because of all that had happened in the past few days—perhaps because he was simply too tired to delude himself any longer, he faced a truth he had never before allowed himself to acknowledge. He disliked his mother even more than he disliked his uncle.

  It was not an easy truth to face. For what kind of man would despise the woman who had given him life—even if that woman had given him none of the warmth or tenderness he’d craved so desperately as a child?

  Not for the first time, he found himself wondering if the driving need he often felt as an adult to lose himself in a woman’s arms stemmed from his loveless childhood. Not for the first time, he vowed that no child of his would ever suffer the loneliness of knowing he was nothing more to his parents than the means of perpetuating their noble name.

  Perhaps, as much as her fortune, what drew him to Meg Barrington was his sense that she would take great pleasure in motherhood. He could see she thought him anything but the ideal man to father her children. He felt certain he could change her opinion on that. But if, God forbid, he could not, he would learn to live with it.

  Far more important was the knowledge that with her as their mother, he was insuring his children the kind of maternal love and tenderness he had never known. He had never been more serious in his life than when he’d told her she belonged to him and to him alone.

  The gown Lucy selected for the dinner party at Ravenswood was as daring in its own way as the green ball gown, despite the fact that, in color, it was more acceptable for an unmarried woman. A white Belgian lace overdress covered the deep rose silk chemise, but the off-the-shoulder neckline was, to Maeve’s way of thinking, shockingly low, and the lace point hemline allowed a glimpse of ankle she was not quite sure was proper.

  “La, Miss, you’re much too modest,” Lucy declared when Maeve voiced her doubts. “Just let me finish weaving a few of the earl’s rosebuds into your hair, and you’ll look so pretty he’ll change his mind about waiting till fall for your wedding.”

  Luckily for her peace of mind, Maeve could recognize a butter boat when it was dumped on her, so she ignored Lucy’s blithe prophecy. The worst thing that could possibly happen would be to move the tentative wedding date up a month or two.

  The squire had declined the dowager’s dinner invitation shortly after he’d staggered into Mrs. Pinkert’s kitchen late Tuesday morning, covered with bits of straw and smelling like something extricated from a dung heap.

  “Make me excuses to the old besom,” he’d said when Maeve told him of the dowager’s invitation. “Just ‘cause I agreed to give the Earl me daughter to breed his sons and a fortune to bail him out of the River Tick don’t mean I’m willing to spend me evenings doing the pretty with his mother. Demmed woman’s got a disposition sour enough to curdle milk twixt the udder and the bucket.”

  He took a hearty swallow of the black coffee Mrs. Pinkert poured him. “Mark my word, daughter, ye’d best make certain that one’s moved to the dower house afore ye say yer vows. Give her a chance to get her toes dug in and ye’ll have her breathing down yer neck till the day she sticks her spoon in the wall.”

  “Sage advice, sir, but you’re giving it to the wrong daughter. I am Maeve, not Meg.”

  “What? Eh, so ye are. Can’t keep ye two straight in me mind.”

  “Nonsense, sir. You may be many things, but a fool is not one of them. You have us completely straight in your mind. It’s this scheme of yours that’s beginning to look like a corkscrew.” Maeve stared into her father’s bloodshot eyes. “I’ve been waiting three days to talk to you about that very thing.”

  “Not now, daughter. Can’t ye see I’m not well. We’ll talk once I’ve got me health back,” the squire declared shortly after he’d swallowed a mammoth bite of the slab of fried ham Mrs. Pinkert put before him.

  Maeve registered the “didn’t I tell you so” rise of Mrs. Pinkert’s eyebrow, but she could see that with the squire in his present frame of mind, she’d be wasting her time questioning him as to his intentions. She would, she’d decided, wait until he was in a
more receptive mood to have their little talk.

  Now, more than eight hours later, rolling along the rain-swept country road to Ravenswood, she wished she’d demanded the answers she wanted from the wicked old reprobate. But he’d smelled so ripe, she’d had all she could do to keep her breakfast down, much less have a serious discussion with him.

  She glanced over at Lucy, whom she’d brought with her because, as Mrs. Pinkert had reminded her, “Miss Meg was a proper lady who’d never leave home without a maid by her side.”

  Lucy seemed far more excited about the evening than her mistress. “I’ve an understanding of sorts with Ben Flynn, the earl’s fourth-in-line footman,” the young maid confessed with a blush, “but I’ve never seen him in his fine livery, for the dowager makes the Ravenswood servants wear their ordinary clothes when they take their free day once a month.” She sighed. “Ben’s almost as handsome as the earl. I can’t wait to see him, and won’t he be surprised to see me! He don’t even know I’ve a position of my own now.”

  Moments later, Maeve stepped from the carriage and, with Lucy trailing her, ascended the shallow flight of stairs into Ravenswood. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a red-faced, red-haired footman standing with four others dressed in the same elegant blue and gold livery. Ben Flynn, she assumed, though considering Lucy’s glowing description, she found him something of a disappointment. He was nowhere near as handsome as Theo. She sighed. But then, who was. In spite of herself, she felt a shiver of excitement just thinking about seeing the arrogant man who at their last meeting had declared she belonged to him and always would.

  A stiff-necked butler, who bore a strong resemblance to the one employed by Lady Hermione, met her at the door. Quickly dispatching Lucy to the servants’ hall, he escorted Maeve to where the guests had gathered in the drawing room awaiting their dinner.

  “Miss Margaret Barrington,” he announced and stepped aside to let her enter the doorway. A quick look around told her there were thirty or more people gathered in small groups about the elegant room. One minute they were all talking at once; the next there was dead silence as all eyes turned to her.

  Here and there Maeve recognized a face she’d seen at the ball, but no one to whom she’d actually spoken. She wondered how many of these strangers would expect Meg to address them by name; how many would expect her to inquire about their children or their elderly relatives. A sick kind of panic started at her toes and worked its way upward through her rigid body.

  Her heart thudded against her rib cage with such force her bosom nearly popped out of her daring neckline, and glancing downward, she found, to her horror, that her trembling knees had started the narrow skirt of her gown rippling like the surface of a pond in a windstorm.

  “Stop it!” she ordered herself. “This is exactly how the dowager was hoping you’d act.” With every last ounce of courage she possessed, she raised her head and found Richard Forsythe hurrying toward her from one corner of the room, Theo from another. Richard reached her first. “Margaret, my dear, why didn’t you tell me Theo had invited you to this dinner. I would have escorted you.”

  “Hell and damnation, Richard, give me credit for some brains.” Sparks of anger glittered in Theo’s black eyes. “If I’d known she was coming, I’d have escorted her myself.”

  Maeve felt her cheeks flame. “You didn’t expect me?”

  Theo smiled. “No, dear lady, I didn’t. But how pleasant to see you again.” Clasping her hand in his, he raised it to his lips.

  “Oh dear, I’m afraid this awkward moment is all my fault.” The dowager glided toward them, an elegant black bird of prey whose talons were barely sheathed. “With all I had to do to prepare for this evening, I completely forgot to tell Theo I’d invited you and your father.”

  Her pale brows drew together in a frown. “But where is the squire? I’ve told the duke so much about him, his grace is most anxious to meet him.”

  “My father became ill at the last minute. He sends his sincere regrets,” Maeve said. So, the dowager’s houseguest was a duke, no less. How disappointing for her that one of the two clowns she’d counted on for entertainment had failed to appear. The countess shrugged her elegant black-clad shoulders.

  “Ah well, I suppose such social infractions must be expected when one is dealing with the lower classes. A man of title would have risen from his death bed rather than throw his hostess’s seating arrangement into chaos.”

  “Think of it this way, Mother,” Theo said grimly. “In two, possibly three, more months Meg will be mistress of Ravenswood and such problems as seating arrangements will be hers to solve. While you, my lady, can retire to the peace and solitude of the dower house for your remaining days.”

  Turning his back on his mother, he clasped Maeve’s hand in his and placed it atop his arm. “Now, my dear, allow me to introduce you to our guest of honor.” So saying, he led her across the room to the group of men from which he’d detached himself but moments before.

  Maeve felt the dowager’s angry blue eyes boring holes into her back. Theo’s cruel set-down had drained every last drop of color from the woman’s face, leaving Maeve with the impression that until that moment, she had believed she would remain the mistress of Ravenswood even after her son’s marriage. No wonder she had approved of a timid little mouse as her daughter-in-law.

  Maeve glanced over her shoulder. The dowager still stood in the same spot, her chalk-white face twisted into an ugly mask of rage. Richard hovered beside her, looking utterly miserable and unprepared to handle the embarrassing situation in which he found himself.

  Only a handful of the guests had actually witnessed the imbroglio between the Earl and his mother, but Maeve could hear the telltale whispers spreading from group to group all around her. All things considered, she wasn’t certain if she felt more grateful or guilty over Theo’s staunch defense of her.

  She clutched at his arm and his taut muscles rippled beneath her fingers. “My lord…Theo, she is your mother,” she managed in a hoarse whisper.

  “And you are the woman I have chosen as my wife. She will treat you with the respect due you or answer to me.” Theo’s black eyes still snapped with anger. “I promise you, you will never again be subjected to one of her clever maneuvers to embarrass you or your father.”

  A powerful wave of guilt swept through Maeve. She didn’t want Theo to care about her bruised feelings; she didn’t want him to champion her against his mother. She was the worst kind of fraud and the last person in the world to deserve his loyalty.

  “I don’t want to cause trouble between you and your mother,” she protested, gripping his arm with numb fingers.

  “Don’t worry.” A note of sadness crept into Theo’s voice. “The trouble was there long before you entered the scene.”

  He came to a sudden halt and instantly his somber demeanor changed to that of the genial, smiling host. “May I present my uncle, the Viscount Tinsdale,” he said, indicating the elegant dandy who had stepped directly in front of them. “My betrothed, Miss Margaret Barrington, my lord.”

  “Charmed,” the viscount said and raised her fingers to his lips, but his cold blue eyes, so like his sister’s, swept her with a look of utter contempt.

  She felt Theo stiffen beside her, but with obvious effort, he held his temper. “And this, my dear, is our guest of honor, the Duke of Kent,” he said moving on to the portly, balding man standing a few feet beyond the viscount.

  Maeve’s heart skipped a beat. She had met this petty tyrant who was the fourth son of Mad King George on two different occasions. She prayed her change of hairdo and wardrobe would render her unrecognizable to him.

  Lily and he had had a brief affair shortly after he’d been recalled from Gibraltar in disgrace when the troops under his command had threatened to mutiny over his harsh discipline and endless obsession with petty detail. But the liaison was doomed from the onset. Lily led too harum-scarum a life to suit a man as meticulous and precise as the duke, and he was
too tight fisted for a spendthrift like her. He soon returned to the arms of his longtime mistress, Madame St. Laurent.

  “I am honored, your grace,” Maeve said once Theo had completed his introductions. Smiling warmly, she dipped into the graceful court curtsy Lily had insisted she perfect.

  The duke raised his quizzing glass and surveyed her with obvious curiosity. “Why do I have the feeling we’ve met before, Miss Barrington?”

  “I have a very ordinary face, your grace.”

  “Nonsense. No woman with such eyes could be called ordinary.” He raised an eyebrow. “Ah yes, that’s it. Your eyes. They remind me of those of someone I once knew. Oddly enough, I just recently learned of her death.” He returned his quizzing glass to the waistcoat pocket from which he’d drawn it. “Extraordinary. Most extraordinary.”

  Maeve breathed a sigh of relief for her unremarkable face and for the duke’s snobbery, which could never equate the daughter of one of the demimonde with an earl’s betrothed.

  Dinner at Ravenswood was a lengthy affair beginning with a delicate turtle soup, progressing through a fish course of turbot and lobster, a fowl course consisting of both goose and turkey, sweetbreads, eggs in aspic, roasted lamb, pork and beef, five different vegetables each with its own rich sauce, two ices, three custards and a macédoine of fruit—with sherry, Madeira and champagne served throughout.

  Maeve nibbled at the plethora of food the footmen served her, took a sip of champagne and did her best to pretend she was enjoying herself. She was seated too far from the head of the table to hear the conversation between the Earl and his guest of honor and too far from the foot to hear the angry confidence she could see the dowager was sharing with her brother.

  In short, she was in that nebulous area reserved for the guests of least consequence known as “below the salt.” Another public insult to the future Countess of Lynley at the hands of the dowager. Maeve found herself momentarily wishing she truly was the future countess. She would dearly love to pay the spiteful old woman back with some of her own.