Magical Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade Read online

  ‘Do not be alarmed. I have no intention of enforcing my matrimonial rights. I am merely appreciative of the artistic picture you present.’

  ‘You love beauty,’ she said softly. ‘You surround yourself with it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, beauty is not communicable. It does not, as we say, rub off.’ His face twisted so that for a moment even the unscarred side looked ugly. ‘Do not imagine I blame you for your revulsion. I blame only myself for being unrealistic enough to hope—’ he broke off and laughed unpleasantly.

  She lowered her eyes and sat silent, although she longed to speak. There was nothing disgusting to her in those terrible scars. After the first few moments, she had barely noticed them. But she could not tell him so. For Eugénie found her husband hideous, and it would be cruelty, not kindness, to make him believe anything else.

  Perhaps her expression spoke for her, however, for he said in a softened tone, ‘You were too young. It was my error, but I shall not let it hurt you. Have no fear.’

  ‘I am sorry, I am so very tired. I think I will retire,’ she managed to say.

  ‘Of course.’ He lifted her hand and made as though to kiss it; but, before his lips touched her, he changed his mind, drew back, bowed, and released her. ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’

  Minette lay awake for half the night. At about midnight, she heard a light, firm tread outside her door and glimpsed the light of a candle under the door of her bedchamber. She held her breath, instinctively tensing under the heavy brocade coverlet. But the footsteps did not stop outside her door. Even so, it was long before she slept.

  Four

  The next morning, she awoke heavy-eyed and unrefreshed. Gratefully sipping her chocolate, she watched Becky bustle about the room, drawing back the window curtains to let in the wintry sunshine, and making up the fire, which had been lit hours earlier by a shivering scullion.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked presently.

  ‘Just on eleven o’clock, Ma’am.’

  ‘Goodness, it is a long time since I have slept so late!’

  ‘I’m sorry if I did wrong, Ma’am, but Mr Sturridge said you never have your chocolate before eleven.’

  Minette bit her lip and silently apostrophised herself as an idiot. She must stop volunteering information. Of course, it did not matter with Becky, but the Duke was no fool. Her mistakes were mounting up.

  ‘No, no, you have not done wrong. I have been staying with my grandmother and, of course, I rise earlier there. That is all I meant.’

  ‘I hope the poor old lady is better?’

  ‘Thank you, she is.’ She stretched her arms above her head and then pulled off the pretty lace cap that covered her curls. ‘Has the Duke left for London?’

  ‘Oh no, Ma’am. He finished breakfast two hours ago and is shut up with Mr Wilkinson in the library.’

  Minette longed to ask who Mr Wilkinson was, but a few moments’ cogitation produced a vague memory of Eugénie speaking of him as the Duke’s agent. Her heart sank. How long would his business take? And how was she to get through a whole day without betraying herself?

  She allowed Becky to lace her into a merino morning-gown in Eugénie’s favourite deep-red, trimmed at the neck and wrists with swansdown. A handsome silk shawl draped across her elbows, and a fashionable velvet bandeau, in the same shade as her gown, completed her toilette.

  She went downstairs in some trepidation, but she met no one. The servants were all about their business, either above or below stairs, and for all she saw of them, the Castle might have been deserted. She wandered about quite happily, familiarising herself with the public rooms. It was comforting to remember that Eugénie herself had spent only a few days at the Castle when she was first married. She had not had time to establish many habits, although not rising until eleven was obviously one she had succeeded in impressing upon the servants.

  After opening several doors into rooms that were chill and depressingly dim, she found herself in a very pretty, well-lit room in which there blazed a good fire. An embroidery frame, writing bureau, and various feminine knick-knacks convinced her that this was the room she was expected to occupy during the morning hours, and consequently she sat by the fire warming herself. She glanced at the embroidery on the frame, wondering if it were Arabella’s work. She was sure it could not be Eugénie’s, for her sister rarely picked up a needle. Presently, she noticed several leather-bound volumes in a little book case and selected Julie ou la Nouvelle Heloise, a book which had often been recommended to her by her grandmother, who approved its high-minded sentiments while secretly much preferring Monsieur Voltaire’s shocking Candide for her own delectation.

  Minette was so deeply engrossed in Saint-Preux’s somewhat verbose confession of love for the lovely Julie that she failed to hear the door open. The Duke walked into the room and stood for a moment in the doorway with a rather puzzled expression. ‘Eugénie?’

  Minette took no notice until he raised his voice and said again, ‘Eugénie!’

  ‘Oh, how you startled me. I was reading, you see.’

  ‘I did see it,’ he acknowledged. ‘And with no little surprise. Did you not once tell me that reading was the greatest bore imaginable?’

  Minette flinched, then, deciding that boldness was the only course that would serve her, she said, ‘I did not think you wished for a bookish wife, Sir. Perhaps we all supress certain characteristics in the early days of marriage.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Doubtless. I wonder what else you have kept from me.’

  She laughed but gently shook her head. ‘It was kind of you to provide me with books in French as well as in English.’

  ‘I am tempted to allow you to think me more considerate than I am. The books were my mother’s. She was French, you will recollect.’

  ‘Oh yes. I so admire that wonderful portrait of her in the drawing room.’ She was on safe ground here as Eugénie had described the portrait minutely with especial emphasis on the elegance of the late Duchess’ toilette. ‘She was very beautiful.’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘And the late, sainted French queen’s dame d’honneur?’

  ‘She had that privilege before her marriage, certainly.’ His mouth twisted in a wry smile, ‘Thus my predilection for a wife of noble French blood.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You married me for my bloodline. Like a mare.’

  ‘A thoroughbred mare.’

  ‘And I thought it was to add me to your collection.’

  He bowed sardonically. ‘You are unquestionably its jewel, my Duchess.’

  She bowed her head. ‘I am glad I give satisfaction in that respect at least.’

  ‘I have ceased to hope for any other kind of satisfaction from you, certainly.’

  It was the second time he had used the word ‘hope’ in connection with their relations. It was becoming obvious to Minette that Rochford was by no means as indifferent to Eugénie as her twin had blithely asserted. Her own position would be ten times more dangerous if Rochford was indeed in love with his wife. Restraint was surely bound to give way to more natural feelings, and then she would be lost indeed.

  She did not answer him, merely hanging her head a little so that it drooped like a lovely, fading flower on its fragile stem.

  ‘I do not, you will notice, ask you why you married me,’ continued that smooth, impersonal voice. ‘In France, young ladies of your degree do whatever they are required to do by their family when it comes to matrimony.’

  She lifted her head and said daringly, ‘If you know that, then it ill becomes you to blame me for my obedience. As it happens, I was born and brought up in England, but my family remains resolutely French in these matters. But you, there was no need for you, surely, to make a mariage de convenance.’

  ‘I gave up any thought of a love match some years ago,’ he answered with a swift, sideways glance into a mirror that hung above the fireplace.

  She suppressed an impulse to tell him that the ruin of his face was
no bar to the kind of love he believed denied to him. ‘Then neither of us will, at least, be disillusioned,’ she remarked.

  He shrugged. ‘What is that you are reading?’

  ‘Julie ou la Nouvelle Heloise.’

  ‘A singularly foolish work. The husband is a chucklehead. No man of sense would permit his wife’s erstwhile lover to tutor his children.’

  ‘Does he so? I have not reached that part. But if the lady remains virtuous—?’

  ‘I have found it does not do to expose virtue to too much temptation.’

  ‘Their love seems to be of a very high-flown and cerebral nature. Quite exalted, in fact.’

  ‘Then, she might as well be his sister! I have no patience with such sentimental twaddle.’

  She laughed. ‘I must say I think it is nonsense, too. He writes a letter pages and pages long about how he adores her when, surely, all he needs to do is take her hand and tell her so.’

  He smiled. ‘That would not, however, make for a very lengthy book.’

  She laid the volume down. ‘Did you wish to speak to me on any particular matter?’

  ‘Only to give you the list of guests for our Christmas house party.’

  She took it from him and glanced over it. Two names stood out as though written in fire, Lord and Lady Ashbury. So, the Duke’s mistress would be of their family party. How very civilised. At least it freed her from any fear that she would be honoured with her husband’s attentions. No! Eugénie’s husband, not hers, she corrected herself, horrified. What was she thinking? She glanced at the paper again. ‘Your cousin Franklyn?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  She was silent. Had Eugénie misrepresented the situation between the cousins? The fear of putting a foot wrong kept her constrained and silent.

  He seemed to interpret her silence according to his own ideas.

  ‘I had thought you would be pleased. Is he not one of your most devoted admirers?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She put a hand to her mouth and yawned daintily.

  ‘You do not like him? Good, I do not either. But his mother was always very kind to me and, for her sake, I endeavour to keep up the connection.’ He stood abruptly. ‘I had meant to return to Town tonight, but Wilkinson tells me there are matters that I must look into—in particular, a dispute that necessitates my involvement. I trust my presence will not incommode you?

  ‘This is your home. You do not need my permission to spend time here.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘How very gracious of you.’ She did not answer, and he said, with the air of one putting aside a distasteful subject, ‘I have decided I will remove Arabella from school, after all. If I refuse, she is quite capable of running away and causing a scandal. I shall send her down to you in a few days. Her company will keep you from moping.’

  ‘Poor child, I’m sure she will not find it very amusing.’

  ‘If I know Arabella, she will set up a flirtation with some local country bumpkin within hours of her arrival. Please keep an eye on her. She is quite capable of going beyond the line, and no one has yet had the slightest influence over her.’

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘Surely—?’

  ‘I understood she worships you. She must wish to do what will please you.’

  ‘I do not know who told you that. Certainly I did not.’

  ‘It was the impression I received from her. She talks of you with great affection.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, if it is the case, I can only say she hides it very well. If you were to ask me, I should say she regards me as a stern and implacable tyrant with one foot in the grave.’ He looked down into her face, the laughter fading from his own. ‘Much as you do, I suppose.’

  Her eyes fell before the searching beam of his one good eye. She gave a little shake of the head. ‘Indeed, I do not believe either of us is so foolish as to think you have one foot in the grave at eight-and-thirty. And, so far, to me at least, you have not been tyrannical.’

  ‘Make no mistake,’ he answered deliberately. ‘Where the good name of my house is concerned, I can be dictatorial enough. I will have no breath of scandal attached to you or her. I hesitate to bring up the subject of our previous—disagreement—or shall I say rather—discussion—concerning your conduct since our marriage. I have no wish to belabour the point while you are unwell but, believe me, I meant what I said. However modish it may be to allow a cicisbeo to whisper pretty speeches in your ear, I do not choose to tolerate it. Is that quite understood?’

  To Minette it seemed quite extraordinary that her twin, mourning her drowned lover, married to a man she could not love, and expecting a child that was not his, could have found time or inclination for dalliance with another. So she merely answered in a quiet, gentle tone, ‘You need have no fear, Sir. I shall never act contrary to your wishes. You have only to let me know what they are.’

  ‘Is that so, my dear? Perhaps I will—one day.’

  Five

  Minette passed most of the following day alone. Rochford had ridden out with Wilkinson after a solitary breakfast and had sent a warning, through the agency of the butler, not to expect him to return until it was time to dress for dinner. There was a dispute between one of the Duke’s tenant farmers and Wilkinson that his grace must arbitrate. He had mentioned to her over dinner that Wilkinson was old fashioned in his ideas, and the tenant, a youngish man with scientific views on agriculture, was most probably in the right of it. She received the decided impression that Rochford’s word was law in the district and reflected that he held a vast deal of power for good or ill over a great many people. She wondered how he wielded that power. His household appeared to hold him in respect and affection, but this accorded ill with the impression Eugénie had been at pains to give her.

  At about three in the afternoon, the sky darkened, and a sudden gusting wind whistled through the leafless trees in the park. With the wind came a driving rain, falling so hard it rebounded off the cobbled courtyard and hit the windows with powerful force. Minette, who had lived near the sea for most of her life, remained composed, even when the sky was riven by great sheets of lightening. But she was conscious of a little concern for Rochford and his companion and hoped they had found shelter from the storm.

  The door opened, and Sturridge entered the room. She had noticed that, since her arrival, this ancient retainer had unbent a little, and the expression on his face was almost benevolent as he said, ‘I came to inform your Grace that I have had fires lit in the Long Gallery.’

  She realised that she was supposed to be gratified by this announcement, but she was quite at a loss. ‘Thank you. But, pray, what is the Long Gallery?’

  Sturridge permitted himself a little smile, indulgent of such ignorance. ‘The Long Gallery, your Grace, is an apartment located in the Tudor wing of the Castle. On inclement days such as this it has been the custom of the ladies of the house to take their exercise there. It occurred to me that you have not been able to take your walk in the shrubbery due to the unfortunate weather.’

  ‘That was most thoughtful of you. I should like it excessively. But I do not know the way, and must ask you to act as my guide.’

  The old butler was all complaisance. ‘Yes, that would be best, my d— your Grace.’

  Minette smiled to herself. Had the old servant almost committed the solecism of calling his mistress ‘my dear’?

  ‘Follow me, please, your Grace. We must pass through the dining room, along the Italian Gallery into the Library, through the State Reception Chamber and—’

  ‘Yes, yes, just lead the way,’ she said, giving him a gentle little push. Never before had she appreciated the sheer size of the Castle. Hastening after Sturridge, who moved at a surprising speed for a man of his age, it seemed to take forever to traverse endless landings, staircases, and galleries, each impressive in its way, until they reached the Long Gallery. This chamber was aptly named. It dated from the sixteenth century and measured the full length of the wing. It seemed to Minette that every inch
of wall space was covered with gilt-framed canvases of great value. She recognised a David, a Titian, several Rembrandts, and two beautiful Watteau landscapes, but these did not interest her. Rochford was a wealthy man; he could purchase a dozen works of the Old Masters at any time. But the portraits of his great dynasty—these were beyond price. So, having dismissed the butler with thanks, she sought out the likenesses of four centuries of Clarevilles, from family groups to miniatures, from Kit-Kat portraits to an enormous canvas that half-covered the end wall and depicted the sixth Duke astride a handsome grey charger in the midst of some unidentified battle.

  At last she found the portrait for which she was searching. Hanging above an Adam fireplace in the centre of the long inner wall, there was a full-length portrait of the present Duke. He was dressed for a day’s shooting, bare-headed and leaning negligently against a tree. He held his gun carelessly across one arm. His springer spaniel, Beauty, lay at his feet, with her tan velvet nose resting upon his boot. Minette studied the painted countenance, and her lips softened into a smile. How easily he might have turned his good profile to the artist or demanded that Mr Lawrence gloss over the scars. But no, like Oliver Cromwell, he had been painted ‘warts and all.’ How like him, she thought. Of course, he would scorn to hide his face as though he had something to be ashamed of. And then she wondered at herself that she presumed to know him so well after so short a time in his company.

  She moved on a little and stood contemplating a small study of a handsome, mature lady seated here in this very gallery, with a most beautiful young man standing by the side of her chair. The lady was looking up into the smiling face of the boy and, with a sudden pang, Minette realised that this was Rochford himself before that terrible fire. With closer scrutiny, she saw that the lady with him was the same as was depicted, radiantly youthful, in the portrait that hung in the drawing room. The lady, then, was his mother. But how she was changed! The artist had caught her charm, but also her sadness. Had life been difficult for the ninth Duchess?