Read Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One Online

Authors: Laura Parker

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Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (8 page)

BOOK: Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One
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“Then who?” Lady Ramsbury persisted.

“Why not ask Addison?” he said testily, for he had kept late hours at his club and resented his mother’s summons to breakfast.

“The gentleman reserved the right to remain anonymous,” Addison answered with a flicker of a smile.

“ ’Tis Hadrian!” cried Thordis. She jumped from her chair with a careless disregard for decorum and headed for the door only to collide with Hadrian, who was just entering. “I knew it must be you!” she stated joyfully as he caught her up in his arms.

“It seems some of us have yet to come to grips with the ten-day wonder of his return,” Emory offered sarcastically. “He ain’t dead, and there’s an end to it.”

“Emory!” his mother snapped.

Saxona rose from her chair to be greeted in turn by her elder brother. Only Jane refrained from being crushed in Hadrian’s embrace. Instead, she extended her hand to be kissed.

“Very gracefully done,” Hadrian said when he had saluted her hand. “you’ll not lack for suitors when the time is right.”

“Don’t put foolish notions into her head,” her mother admonished. “There’s little enough to recommend her at present. Excessive compliments will render her
entirely
unsuitable.”

Hadrian turned with a bow for his mother. “Hello,
Maman.”
He lifted a markedly arched brow at his brother. “How do, Emory? Haven’t seen you about much these last days.”

Emory looked away. “A man’s got his business to attend to.”

Aware of the reason for the strain between Emory and himself but determined not to disturb his mother with it, Hadrian turned to look at the sideboard. “Am I not to be invited to table?”

When Lady Ramsbury had sent a footman in search of silver and china for the extra cover, she turned an accusatory stare on her eldest child. “One assumed you preferred the fare of the common room. Living in a club! When you have a perfectly good home!”

“Mama, must you ring peal over Hadrian’s head just because he ain’t sleeping in his old room?” Thordis complained, jumping to her brother’s defense.

Hadrian reached out and sharply pulled one of her curls. “We’ll have no rag-mannered chits beneath this roof. Now—ah, thank you,” he said as a plate was proffered.

While Hadrian helped himself to the breakfast fare, Emory scowled into his own half-empty plate. His former position as second son had begun to pinch like an outgrown shoe. He would not, however, have been nearly so vexed had the slights been limited to the family. Hadrian’s return was making itself felt in ways both unexpected and humiliating.

Emory’s chin sank farther into his stiff-winged neckcloth. Since January he had been pursuing a quite delicious lady of the demimonde named Helene Rossiter. Twice he had been allowed to join her in her box at the opera. And one not-soon-to-be-forgotten night, she had entertained him in her boudoir with a supper of champagne and cracked crabs.

Then two weeks ago, riding in the Row, he had spied Helene’s curricle parked on a little side track. Thinking her alone, or at least in company she would not mind trading for his own, he had approached. It was not until he was within hailing distance that the lady had looked up, her head thrown back in laughter, and noticed him. The look she leveled at him was one of pure ice. He had reined in so violently in response that his mount had reared, drawing the attention of her companion, and Emory had found himself staring into Hadrian’s mildly sardonic expression.

He would not soon forgive Hadrian
that
usurpation, and he followed his thoughts with a vengeful glance at the author of his misery. He could tell his mother where Hadrian really slept.

Unaware of his brother’s exact thoughts, Hadrian sat down with a plate piled with several rashers of bacon, a slab of smoked ham, two broiled kidneys, one helping each of eggs coddled, scrambled, fried, and poached; toast, and marmalade. After a mouthful, he paused to ask with great good humor, “Now where were we?”

“You were speaking of the rag-manners displayed by
certain
members of this family.” The sarcasm in Emory’s tone was unmistakable. “Would you care to enlighten us on the morals of men who ride about in carriages belonging to actresses?”

“That will be quite enough from you,” his mother snapped and turned an appealing look upon Hadrian. “You cannot imagine what I’ve suffered to rear respectable children. Surely you see where your duty lies. We need the influence of a gentleman beneath this roof.”

With a violence that rattled every piece of china, Emory banged his fist on the table. “What am I, cotton wool?” Angry and flushed, he met his mother’s shocked expression. “Ever since his return it’s been Hadrian, Hadrian, Hadrian. It’s getting so’s a fellow can’t walk the street without tripping over Hadrian!” He threw down his napkin and left the room.

“I don’t know what has come over this household,” Lady Ramsbury murmured as she reached for the vinaigrette bottle that hung from her neck by a silk cord.

“Allow me,
Maman,”
Jane offered, unaffected by the outburst. When she had helped her mother take a few sniffs and recapped the bottle, she said, “I suppose we have all slighted Emory, but he can be so disobliging on occasion.”

“I meant no slight,” her mother said but her expression was contrite. “Whatever shall we do to make it up to the dear boy?”

“Leave Emory to me.” Hadrian leaned forward and gently covered his mother’s hand with his own. “Now,
Maman,
how may I cheer you?”

“You may dispel the odious rumors concerning you by escorting Jane to Lady Chetham’s Thursday evening,” she responded promptly.

“What rumor is this?”

“Only that you are a traitor whose peerage is in doubt,” Jane answered, her green eyes resting humorously on her elder brother who, amazingly enough, blushed.

“I had thought to mention the subject,
Maman,
but decided it would not be necessary. You shan’t require that,” he added when his mother again reached for her smelling salts. “Since there was no witness to my death, an act by the House of Lords was needed to declare me legally dead in order that Emory might inherit without delay. My solicitor informs me that it now requires a second action to pronounce me reborn, as it were.”

“Fustian!” His mother’s gaze ran fondly over her eldest. “Do I need Parliament to tell me what I can see for myself? Of course you are alive!”

Hadrian smiled indulgently. “A mere technicality. However, the business of Bonaparte has quite clogged the docket with more important matters, and it seems I must wait awhile upon the official restoration of the earl’s coronet.”

“I shall never understand how they maintain a government if they will allow such havey-cavey business where people may no longer be alive unless they pass bills that say so!”

He patted his mother’s hand affectionately. “Now that I have relieved your mind, I should speak with Emory.” He rose. “If you will excuse me, ladies.”

“Don’t forget Lady Chetham’s,” Jane called after him.

“Never fear, sis. My carriage will arrive at seven sharp.”

“It’s a musical evening with a light supper and a cardroom for the gentlemen,” his mother supplied.

“Small comforts,” Hadrian murmured, already regretting the necessity.

He found Emory as he was on his way out. “A moment of your time,” he called when Emory would have passed him without a word.

Emory paused, his brow thunderous. “I have an engagement.”

“Before two of the clock? Shocking.”

The attempt at humor failed to ease Emory’s scowl but he said, “Very well.” Hadrian indicated the library door and followed his brother inside.

A few minutes later Hadrian grimaced slightly as he finished his statement, “So you see, she cares for neither of us, only the title of earl. It is not the man she desires.”

“How easily you dismiss it when it’s your bed she seeks,” Emory shot back, not mollified in the least.

Hadrian raised a hand. “Nothing more should be said beneath this roof, brother. There are limits.”

“Very well.” Emory rose stiffly to his feet, affront still marking every line of his body. “In future I should be grateful if you would inform me of your next choice in light-o’-loves. That way we may not again cross—er, paths.”

“The choice shall be yours,” Hadrian agreed readily.

For the twentieth time Clarissa twisted her dark hair high up on her head, trying to create a Grecian knot. But the moment she began attaching pins, half a dozen silky tendrils escaped. In a fit of temper, she jerked the pins from the coil, allowing the tresses to slide in a heavy mahogany fall down over her shoulders and back.

“Bismillah!”
she muttered, finally admitting the folly of attempting a
grande toilette
single-handedly.

A close inspection of her face in the mirror confirmed her suspicions about the effect her exertions were having on her makeup. Her rouge was smudged and the kohl ringing her eyes had begun to run. “ ’Tis hopeless!” she exclaimed and then slued about on her stool at the sound of a rap at her door. “Come in!”

“What is this? You aren’t ready,” Heloise admonished as she swept in with plum skirts arustle.

Clarissa shook her head, halfway between laughter and tears. “It cannot be done. Just look at me. We must give up our charade or hire a maid who can be trusted with our secret.”

Heloise nodded. “I have thought of that, and here she is.” Her beckoning gesture toward the door produced a woman from the hallway beyond.

“Is it—it is! Sarah!” A squeal of delight followed Clarissa’s recognition of her aunt’s former maid. She hurried toward the woman, saying, “My aunt said you had been sent away in disgrace.”

“So I was, and am, at least twice a year,” Sarah answered dryly, accepting with reluctance the hugging of her neck by her mistress’s niece. “That will be quite enough of that, milady,” she added with the familiarity of a longtime and favored servant. “Gracious, is that rouge on yer face! And what’s that black under yer eyes?”

“Mind your tongue, Sarah.” Heloise turned to Clarissa. “She’s disobliging, ham-fisted, and insolent, but I can’t seem to do without her for long. Even if she does water silk roses and iron the real ones.”

“ ’Twas your ladyship what watered the silk roses,” Sarah reminded her in a flat voice. “As for hamfisted, your ladyship always said I had a light hand with the brush.”

“Never did I!” Heloise shook her head. “But you need not take my word for it, Clarissa. Sit upon your stool and allow Sarah to torture you with her ministrations.”

“Gladly,” Clarissa answered and returned to her vanity.

“Sarah’s been apprised of our venture and accepts her part in it,” Heloise continued as the lady’s-maid picked up Clarissa’s brush. “All is in hand.”

“I see,” Clarissa murmured, hoping but not succeeding in catching Sarah’s eye in the mirror. Whatever the woman thought of the matter, she was keeping her own counsel.

Clarissa had been amazed by her aunt’s determination to see the matter through. Once enjoined in the battle to storm Almack’s, her aunt had proved to be a veritable Napoleon of tactic and intrigue. Though she had been out in public only twice, to take tea, London was abuzz with rumors concerning Lady Heloise’s mystery guest. While her London staff was loyal, Heloise had ordered Potsman in from Surrey to take charge of them. Under the majordomo’s critical gaze, they were sworn to secrecy and forbidden to discuss with any outsider Lady Arbuthnott’s “guest.” Now Sarah had been added to the knot of intriguers.

In two minutes flat, Sarah had effected a Grecian knot surpassing any Clarissa had ever worn. “That’ll have to do ’til I have time to treat you to a proper shampoo of eggs and honey,” she announced, sounding nominally satisfied. When she had adjusted Clarissa’s makeup, she stood back. “Well enough, though to my way of thinking, playacting ain’t a proper business for ladies.”

“No one cares for your opinion,” Heloise responded.

Not to be outdone, Sarah replied, “I’d not care to be about were his lordship alive to learn what you intend.”

“His lordship would have to explain his own rackety conduct first!” Heloise answered. “Now help Clar—forgive me, Soltana—into her gown.”

Clarissa looked up. “What did you call me?”

“You need an alias, child. I can’t forever refer to you as my little ward. Soltana has an especially nice ring to it.”

“Don’t sound the right sort of name for an English girl,” Sarah said doubtfully.

“It isn’t. It’s Arabic. The veil requires it. Now hurry and dress. If I’ve timed our arrival at Lady Chetham’s correctly, none shall miss our entrance.”

Clarissa’s gown was high-waisted with an overskirt of amethyst silk extensively and elaborately embroidered in gold thread. It was one of the gowns Quentin had brought back for his wife from his travels through the Ottoman Empire. Heloise insisted that its vaguely Oriental mode harmonized better than current English style with a veil. Clarissa doubted the wisdom of appearing in public in unusual attire. If she hoped to enter the hallowed rooms of Almack’s, she would need to appear in the first kick of fashion. However, Heloise’s powers of persuasion were irresistible.

Only when they were barreling along the street in her aunt’s carriage did Clarissa allow herself to consider the possibility that the goal she sought might prove impossible to achieve. In fact, her attempt might bring her social disaster. Her only comfort lay in the fact that no one would recognize her after six years, even if her veil slipped. No one, that is, but the Earl of Ramsbury.

For reasons she had not probed, she had pressed one of his roses in a book of poetry when they began to fade. Nor could she say why she was disappointed that he had not left his card in the days that followed. His attention would have made her present course impossible. In fact, she must hope that they would never meet again.

Aware suddenly that she had no idea whom she might meet this evening, she asked, “Should I expect to meet any of Almack’s patronesses tonight? Or will there only be the usual assortment of eligible gentlemen who follow wherever young ladies are present?”

Heloise chuckled. “No young Blood worth his tailoring bill would be caught dead at a musical soiree.”

BOOK: Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One
8.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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