by Mary Balogh
Henry had closed her eyes and let her head sink back against the pillows. Suddenly she pulled herself erect again. It was useless and far too feminine to think that way! She did not want to become dependent upon any man. She did not need Marius to get her out of her troubles. She could fight alone. Maybe she was wrong to feel uneasy about Oliver. But, however it was, she would work her own way through this. Besides, she could not confide the whole truth to Marius without betraying Giles, and she had promised him that she would never disclose his indiscretion to Marius, or ask his help.
Henry's eyes hardened and her lips compressed in the darkness as she recalled the new information about her husband that she had learned that afternoon. It hurt more than she would ever admit to know that he had a mistress. And Mrs. Broughton was a formidable rival, Henry concluded. How could she hope to compete against a woman of such poise and elegant beauty, a woman with such an amply proportioned body? She thought of her own slim, boyish figure and small breasts, of her weathered and freckled face, of her short and wayward curls, and for the first time in her life was dissatisfied with her own appearance. How could she ever hope to attract her husband away from his other love? It was ludicrous even to consider Marius really wanting her-Marius, with his very masculine physique and good looks; Marius, at the age of thirty-two, with years of experience with women behind him. He would make love to her within the next few weeks, yes, but what joy or triumph would there be for her when she knew that he would merely be consummating their marriage, merely setting out to ensure himself an heir other than Oliver Cranshawe?
Why had he married her, anyway? There were so many girls of the ton more eligible than she. She amused him, he had said on more than one occasion. What sort of reason was that?
Henry turned and thumped a fist angrily into her pillows. "I wish this were your nose, Marius Devron," she said aloud, "and I. wish the blood would come gushing out. Everything was fine before those confounded boys thought to wager on my bringing you up to scratch. How I wish they had settled on the chinless one, whatever his name was. I am sure I should be much happier with him!"
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The next few days until the Wednesday were unhappy ones for Henry. She had to visit a modiste she did not usually patronize, with only Betty in tow. There she purchased a dark-green domino and mask and hoped either that the dressmaker did not know her identity or that she would find no topic worthy of gossip in the Duchess of Eversleigh's having bought those particular items.
Worse, Henry had to deceive her husband. They had not accepted any particular invitation for Wednesday. She perused the small pile of cards that she had received and set aside as being of no particular importance. Which one would Marius be least likely to want to accept? She settled on a musical evening to be held at the home of Mrs. Augusta Welby, a lady strongly suspected of being a bluestocking. The program seemed particularly promising to Henry. It was proudly billed as a ladies' evening: an unknown but promising lady pianist, lately come from the provinces to take the capital by storm; Lady Pamela Bellamy, one of the year's crop of debutantes, who had generously agreed to contribute a rendering of several English love songs; Signora Ratelli, the Italian soprano who was currently enjoying great success in a tour of England. She was actually known to have sung for Prinny at Carleton House. Henry read no further. She could almost picture Marius holding the invitation at arm's length while he regarded it incredulously through his quizzing glass before languidly ordering poor Mr. Ridley to get rid of it.
After dinner that evening, while riding in the carriage with Eversleigh on the way to the theater to watch the renowned Kean play Lear, Henry told him that she had accepted the invitation. At the same time her heart beat painfully with the necessity of telling the lie.
"Good God, Henry!" he exclaimed, his language unusually strong. "When did you acquire such highbrow tastes?"
"I thought it time to learn about more cultural matters," she answered primly. "You keep reminding me that the Duchess of Eversleigh is expected to behave in a more ladylike manner."
"I believe I was talking about bonnets," he, said, giving her a sidelong look. "But an evening of ladies' musical talent, Henry? Is that not going too far?"
"I think not," she replied crossly. "Why should female talent be more to be laughed at than men's?"
-1 might have known I could depend upon you to change the focus of the discussion, my love," he remarked indulgently. "Go and enjoy the triumphs of your sex. But you will not expect me to accompany you, will you?"
"I had hoped you would," she replied cunningly, "but I shall not try to insist, of course. I am sure you can find some other way to spend the evening."
"Horton has invited me to play cards that evening," he continued. "It will break my heart to be away from you for a whole evening, of course, my love."
"Absurd!" she said, dimpling. But then she remembered that her part in this conversation was all deception and turned to stare into the darkness outside the carriage window.
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By the time Wednesday evening came, Henry was feeling quite wretched. She had spent the afternoon with Marius and the twins at the British Museum, viewing the Elgin Marbles. It had been an absurdly happy-go-lucky outing. The twins were in high spirits, as they usually were before some prank, Henry had noted from past experience. They did not get into trouble, but had merely darted from exhibit to exhibit, exclaiming over everything with loud enthusiasm. Henry had held to her husband's arm and had been almost breathlessly aware of his masculinity. He had used his quizzing glass freely and affected a shocked disapproval of the nakedness of many of the statues. Henry had giggled more than she had since leaving Roedean.
Eversleigh had been invited to Lord Horton's home for dinner before the all-male card party. It was a relief to Henry at least not to have to face him across the dinner table, knowing what she was planning to do that night. It also eased her mind that it was a card party that Marius was attending. It was bound to keep him away from home almost until morning. But her conscience was not eased at all. It was with a heavy heart that she left Manny sewing placidly in the drawing room (the twins had already gone to bed, yawning loudly and claiming to be tired out by their afternoon excursion) and retired to her room to get ready for the masquerade.
Betty helped her into a modest cream-colored silk evening gown. It was high-waisted and fell almost straight to the hemline, an ideal dress to wear beneath the domino. She folded the domino beneath her evening cloak and put the mask into her reticule. She did not wish the servants to know where she was going. They might conceivably leak the information to the duke.
Oliver Cranshawe arrived promptly at nine o'clock. The butler knocked on Henry's door and informed Betty that he was waiting downstairs in the hallway. Henry left her room, feeling that doomsday had come, and descended the stairs quickly, before she could lose her resolve.
Oliver, she was relieved to see, was also not dressed for a masquerade. He wore a plain black cloak over his blue satin evening clothes.
"Ah, your Grace," he said, bowing over her hand and playing to the audience of two footmen and a butler. "How lovely you look. And how honored I am to conduct you to the concert in place of my cousin."
She smiled bleakly. "Let us not be late, Oliver," she said, and swept out of the house ahead of him.
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Upstairs, about one hour later, Philip let himself quietly into his sister's room. He was dressed in plain, almost-ragged breeches and shirt, borrowed from a stableboy who had considered the loan of two outfits well worth the guinea he had received in exchange. A cap was pulled low over Philip's eyes.
"Are you ready, Pen?" he hissed into the darkness.
I think so," she whispered back anxiously. "Do I look like a boy, Phil? I just hope my hair stays tucked
under this cap. I should have it cut short like Henry's."
Philip peered into the darkness. He could see his sister dimly in the light that came through two large windows. "You'll do," he said. "Apart from the hair, you never do look much like a girl, anyway, Pen. You don't stick out in front. "
"Good," she said, not one whit offended by this blunt reference to her underdeveloped femininity. "Shall we go?"
They crept stealthily down the servants' staircase and let themselves out a side door, hoping that no one would come along and shoot the bolts across while they were still out. Penelope kept close to her twin as they turned south in the direction of the opera house, whose location they had studied carefully in the last few days.
"I wish we might have brought Brutus," she said. "But I suppose you were right. He would draw attention to us, and Henry and old toothpowder might recognize him if we get close."
"Now, Pen, let's go over again how we are to do this," her brother said.
"I still don't think it fair that you get to do the exciting part," Penelope complained.
"Ah, but you have the most difficult part," Philip replied diplomatically. "You have to do some acting."
They trudged along, going over once more their campaign plan, which had been formulated in many secret meetings over the previous few days.
When they reached the opera house, they stood across the road watching for a while, standing in the shadows of a doorway. Somehow their plan seemed more flimsy now that they could see the actual building and the activity going on before the doorway. There were two doormen on duty, both guarding the entrance against unauthorized persons and helping to open carriage doors and pull down carriage steps. And vehicles drew up with fair frequency.
"You see that pillar to the left of the entry?" Philip asked. "When you see me safely behind that, you wait for the next carriage to come and do your part. All right?"
"All right," she said, but she grabbed his shirt sleeve as he made to leave the doorway. "Phil, be careful," she added.
"Aw, don't start acting like a girl," he replied scornfully. "Just make sure that you wait for me at the corner of the street where we planned."
A few minutes later, Penelope could see that he was safely tucked behind the pillar. And she could see a carriage approaching down the street. With a deep breath and a thumping heart, she sauntered across the road. The doorman who had stepped forward to greet the approaching vehicle made shooing gestures with his hands. The other stayed where he was, hands clasped behind his back.
Penelope waited quietly until a dandified gentleman and a lady displaying an ample amount of bosom had descended from the carriage, and then stepped forward, palms cupped together.
"Spare us a penny, guv'nor," she whined, sidling up to the dandy. "Me mum's sick an' I ain't had nuthin' to eat in two days."
'Ere, 'ere," the closest doorman said, "be off with you, little tramp, and leave the quality be."
The lady gathered her skirts around her to avoid the contaminating touch of the beggar, and prepared to move around Penelope. The dandy completely ignored her.
"Just an 'apenny, then, lady," she said shrilly, stepping across the path of the female. "The baby's starvin and there ain't a crust o' bread in the 'ouse." She sniffed loudly and cuffed her nose noisily.
" 'Ere, I'll get the watch after you," the doorman growled, grabbing Penelope by the collar of her shirt and dragging her backward. The couple who had just alighted attempted again to go around her. In the meantime, another carriage had- drawn up and the other doorman had helped two couples down onto the pavement.
Penelope tore herself away from her captor and flung herself screaming to the ground. "Me pa's dead," she shrieked, "an' me mum's dyin'. The young uns is starvin' an' only me to provide for 'em. Have pity, ladies and gents. Have pity."
Everyone's attention was riveted to the ragged little figure rolling its eyes and drumming its heels on the pavement.
" 'Ere, Jake," said the first doorman, 'elp me clear the beggar away from the entrance."
Jake came forward obligingly, a menacingly burly figure as viewed from Penelope's vantage point on the pavement.
"Poor little soul," said a lady's voice, and Penelope looked up into the heavily painted but kindly face of an overweight lady from the second carriage. "Give him some coins, George. And please let him go in peace," she instructed the disappointed doormen.
Both George and the footmen obeyed, and within moments Penelope was slinking off down the street, a shilling clasped in one hand, while the street behind her was returning to normality. She noticed as she passed the pillar that Philip was no longer behind it.
Philip had taken advantage of the commotion that his sister had created in order to slip through the doorway into the opera house. The ruse had worked even better than he had hoped. But now came the hard part. How was a scruffy urchin to be able to roam around this grand old building, which teemed with richly dressed men and women, without attracting suspicion? He ducked into a dark corner, removed his hat, and took from inside it a cloth apron such as the kitchen boy wore and a white cloth. The apron he tied quickly around his waist; the cloth he clutched in his hand. He smoothed his hair as best he could without either comb or mirror, abandoned the cap, and walked purposefully along the narrow corridor that circled around the auditorium behind the ground-level boxes. He hoped that his air of open confidence would allay suspicion and convince anyone who might wonder that he had been sent about some clean-up job.
Philip's eyes darted sharply over every figure he passed and through every open doorway, in search of the sister he had come to protect. He came upon her finally, quite unexpectedly, in a shadowy doorway in the corridor. It was unmistakably she, even though she was enveloped in a green domino and wore a green mask. Her hood had fallen back and those short, unruly auburn curls could belong to no one but Henry. She was clasped in the close embrace of a black domino and was being very masterfully kissed. But her clenched fists were between her own ribs and his, Philip noticed as he stood still and gaped in shock for a moment.
Chapter 9
The Duke of Eversleigh threw his cards into the center of the table, his face impassive, though he had won a considerable amount of money in the first two games of the evening.
Lord Horton threw in his cards, too. "I should know from experience never to play against you, Marius," sighed. "You're always a lucky devil!"
"We miss you at the club, Eversleigh," Rufus Smythe commented. "Tell us, do you still believe you were wise to choose a bride so carelessly?"
Eversleigh raised his quizzing glass and eyed his questioner slowly, his face still expressionless. "Ah, but I never: do anything without care," he answered.
Sir Wilfred Denning smoothed the lace of his cuffs over his well-manicured hands and shuddered delicately. "You'll certainly chose fast enough, Eversleigh. I am still smarting at the loss of my grays. I see you have given them to her, Grace. A nicely ironic touch, that!"
"Indeed you have brought the duchess into fashion, Marius," Horton commented. "She is all the rage, I understand."
"Henry is one of a kind," Eversleigh answered enigmatically.
Rufus Smythe laughed. "I see that even your cousin has taken a fancy to her," he said.
Eversleigh toyed with his quizzing glass again, but did not lift it to his eye.
"I lunched with him at Watier's today," Smythe continued. "It must be pleasant, Eversleigh, to have a relative willing to relieve one of the tedium of accompanying one's wife to all the social functions."
Eversleigh's hand, clasped around the quizzing glass, stilled. The half-closed eyelids hid eyes which had sharpened. "To which event in particular are you referring, Smythe?" he asked with a languidness that was at odds with his alert eyes.
"Oh, he was taking her to something or other tonight, was he not?" said Smythe, gathering the cards together and proceeding to shuffle them.
"Ah, tonight, yes," said Eversleigh, and prepared to play the hand that was dealt h
im.
At the end of the game, which he again won, Eversleigh rose to his feet in leisurely fashion and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his coat sleeve. He turned to his host. "This has been pleasant, my dear fellow," he said, "but I have another engagement for tonight that I cannot avoid.
"Marius!" said Horton, also rising to his feet. "The night has scarcely begun. I thought we were to have a fair chance tonight of stripping you of your fortune."
"Ha! See what marriage has done to him?" Denning mocked with his haughty drawl. "He does not even have the stamina to sit up with his friends to play cards."
"Perhaps he has better things to do," said Rufus Smythe, leering.
"I am delighted to have left you with a topic on which to speculate for the next hour, my dear fellows," Eversleigh said, seeming quite unperturbed by the good-natured teasing.
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A half-hour later, the Duke of Eversleigh was announced in the music room of Mrs. August Welby's home. That lady was all aflutter. Having a real live duke present at her musical evening, especially such a distinguished one as Eversleigh, was beyond her wildest dreams. Finally she would be a success, counted among the foremost of society's hostesses.
The guests were partaking of tea and pastries when he arrived, the first part of the program having been completed. The Italian soprano was billed for the second half of the evening. Eversleigh accepted a cup, remained on his feet, and languidly surveyed the gathering.
"Marius," a familar voice said at his elbow, "one does not expect to find you at such events. Have you suddenly acquired culture?"
"Like catching a cold?" Eversleigh returned, turning his lazy, half-closed eyes on Suzanne Broughton.
"That does not answer the question," she said archly, slapping him on the wrist with her fan. "Is Signora Ratelli the attraction? Rumor has it that she is looking for a new protector.