Clandestine (4 page)

Sarah picked up the coins. Money was such an improper present for any gentleman to give to a lady that she ought to return it with a stiff note. Yet her hotel bill would use almost the last of her cash, and now she could buy several meals, as well as offer the correct rewards to his servants.

She had asked for Guy Devoran's help. It would be idiotic to faint from hunger before he could give it. And, of course, he had very cleverly offered her a way to save face—
please use it for charity
.

So it was just one more small indignity she must suffer for Rachel's sake.

Yet a masked ball?

Sarah had never attended such an event in her life.

The first grandson of the Duke of Blackdown
—that would be Lord Ryderbourne's new baby, who enjoyed the courtesy title of Earl of Wyldshay even in his cradle. The birth had recently been announced in the newspapers.

The thought of Mr. Devoran's being godfather to his cousin's new baby was indeed oddly reassuring.

Concentrating only on that, Sarah washed her face in cold water, stripped off her plain green gown, and donned the blue silk. The fit was tight, but passable. The fabric, obviously, was French.

The shoes, luckily, were a good fit.

The entire costume was probably worth several months of her schoolteacher's salary.

It was not easy without the help of a maid, but she managed to bundle her unruly hair beneath the wig. The little bonnet perched above her left ear like a drunken post boy. Using the small dappled mirror above the fireplace, she tried to adjust it. The sheep—all tied together by a length of ribbon—seemed determined to race off down the powdered ringlets to escape over her shoulder. Which only emphasized that the tight bodice was very close to being indecent.

Sarah tucked the handkerchief into the décolletage. One of the sheep entangled itself in the lace edging. She tried to free it and only caught two more of them.

From the sheer absurdity of it—and as if she must at last release all of her worry in open mockery at herself—she began to laugh. She laughed till she cried.

C
ARRIAGES
lined the street. Music echoed into the night.

Beneath the glow of the gaslights, each fabulous equipage moved, then stopped, then moved again. The procession stretched for several blocks as the most glorious members of the beau monde stepped down into the courtyard to sweep in through the grand entry of Blackdown House.

Sarah stood in the shadows and tried to breathe normally, though a rapid staccato beat in her veins. The tall, burly footman who had been sent to accompany her stood at her elbow.

As Mr. Devoran had planned, she was completely hidden beneath a dark cloak, the one worn by the maid who had arrived as promised at Brockton's Hotel. Should anyone be watching, it would appear that the woman had delivered a message, then left again to rejoin the footman who waited for her in the street.

So Sarah felt physically safe enough, in spite of her harshly beating heart and tingling spine. It wasn't simply the prospect of the ball that was so unnerving, not even one given by a duke. It was the idea of surrendering her quest to Guy Devoran's control without guide or anchor.

In spite of the shepherdess costume, or perhaps because of it, whenever he glanced at her with those intelligent, laughing eyes, he was bound to find her wanting.

She took another deep breath.

Some of London's less respectable citizens had gathered at the gates to watch. The grand mansion sat in its own grounds, as if it had been plucked from the countryside to flaunt its superiority over the neighboring streets. As the town residence of one of the most powerful peers in England, perhaps the Duke of Blackdown's London house had reason to boast. After all, he also owned a castle at Wyldshay in Dorset. The facade and setting were intimidating, precisely because they had been designed that way.

Yet Sarah's headgear required perfect posture, as she demanded from her pupils when she taught them to dance. With a wry appreciation for all of her own childhood lessons in deportment, she stared at the glittering home of one of the most powerful members of the peerage and kept her head high.

Already masked, Neptune and Athene—complete with owl—passed up the steps. Meanwhile Sir Lancelot and Titania were climbing down from their carriage.

The crowd cheered and called out comments, trying to guess identities. A circle of liveried menservants kept them at bay. Yet every member of the rabble was clutching a mug of ale, a meat pie, and a small purse set with blue ribbons. So another kind of party was taking place in the street.

Sarah Callaway belonged to neither of these worlds. Both the watching crowd and the glittering aristocrats were as foreign to her as the men of Patagonia, who were said—or so her geography book claimed—to be of gigantic size.

As if acknowledging her lack of status, the footman hustled her around to the back of the house. The stable yard was another hubbub of activity. The man winked solemnly as he handed Sarah over to the care of a maid, who rushed her into the house past the frantic preparations in the kitchens, then into a small anteroom.

The maid bobbed a curtsy and left. The noise and commotion stopped instantly once she had closed the double doors behind her.

Sarah stood and waited, feeling very alone.

The room cocooned her in silence.

After a few moments of absolute quiet, she looked about. A painting of a bareheaded knight in full armor hung above the fireplace. She walked over to stare up at it.

A breeze from the edge of the world unsettled the knight's hair and streamed through his mount's mane and tail. An imaginary forest rioted in the background, decorated with flowers and wildly curling leaves. A tall keep, flying the St. George dragon banner, rose from amongst the trees. Beyond them lay the sea.

Emphasized by the severe lines of the man's face, dark, compelling eyes gazed back down at her.

An odd longing seized her soul.

Sarah could almost hear the drag of the surf on the shingle and smell the salt-sweet fragrance of the flowers.

Closer to her heart, she could sense the presence of the man, as if the knight might step down from the painting at any moment to offer her his fealty and his sword arm to defend her from all enemies.

“As a portrait, it's entirely imaginary, of course,” a woman's voice said with a hint of humor. “It was painted about ten years ago as a present to the duchess. I doubt that the real Ambrose de Verrant was either so handsome or so romantic. Though he was an ancestor of my husband's—and for quite different reasons my baby is his namesake—the first Ambrose was very probably a bit of a brute.”

Sarah spun about.

Swinging a black mask from one hand, a dark-haired lady had entered through a door that had been hidden in the paneling. She was breathtakingly lovely, the kind of beauty that could stun both men and women into silence.

“Welcome to Blackdown House, Mrs. Callaway.” The woman walked forward. Her entire being seemed lit from within, as if she carried a lamp in her heart. “I'm Lady Ryderbourne, the wife of the present duke's eldest son, and the proud mother of the next in line to the dukedom. I'm afraid that all of this”—she waved both hands—“is in my baby son's honor, poor little mite, though he's not yet eight weeks old. Meanwhile, I don't know whether you can tell that I'm meant to be Nell Gwyn, since I've set down my oranges somewhere. I can't think where. And now, I imagine, someone's eaten them.”

Unable to help herself, Sarah laughed. She felt suddenly light, as if she had just met a long-lost sister, instead of a duke's daughter-in-law.

“Ah, that's better!” the new mother said. Her smile warmed like the sun. “For a moment I thought you were about to turn tail and flee. But any friend of Guy's is a friend of ours, so we really do extend our warmest welcome.”

Sarah curtsied. “You're very kind, Lady Ryderbourne, but I met Mr. Devoran for the first time only yesterday. I'm hardly his friend.”

“Yet you will be, which comes to the same thing. So you mustn't let any of us daunt you for a moment. If it helps, just remember that I was born in a cottage.” Her Ladyship waved the black mask again and laughed. “For all my exalted titles, I'm no doubt a great deal less respectable than you are.”

“I don't know if any person can claim total respectability when she's wearing sheep on her head,” Sarah said, smiling. “Though I'm doing my very best to herd them with the appropriate aplomb.”

Lady Ryderbourne giggled like a schoolgirl. “With a rather marked lack of success, alas! Yet I trust you'll forgive me for both the sheep and that ridiculous little hat? It was all I could throw together at such short notice.”

Dismay undermined Sarah's courage for a moment. “Your Ladyship chose this costume?”

“I'm afraid so, though Guy helped. I confess that we found all the bits and pieces in the attics. In the end the sheep were Guy's idea. Never mind! Let me help you to adjust them before they run off into seriously unmentionable places.”

Sarah swallowed her astonishment as a future duchess stood on tiptoe to wrap the sheep-laden ribbon securely about her guest's headdress.

“There!” Lady Ryderbourne said. “That should survive a whole night of dancing.”

Sarah turned back to face her. “But surely I'm not expected to attend the ball?”

“Why ever not? Though it's a terrible fuss for a baby, isn't it? I've left strict instructions that I'm to be fetched should my little son cry for even an instant, whatever King Charles's fearsome mother may have to say about it.”

“King Charles's mother?”

“The Duchess of Blackdown. Of course, she's my own mother now, as well, since I married her eldest son last September.” One lovely dark eye closed in a wink. “Her Grace insisted that we must celebrate the resulting child in the grand style, and she's probably right. So my husband is dressed as the Merry Monarch tonight. It's a bit of a joke between us.”

“That Nell Gwyn was King Charles's mistress?”

“Ah, more than that! But never mind. The naughty Nell Gwyn may have been closely related to some of my ancestors, and since several members of my husband's family were acknowledged as the natural children of kings, Ryder's very probably dressed as an ancestor, too.”

Her merry mood was infectious. “And it's very likely that some of my ancestors were shepherds,” Sarah said, “so I suppose we're all dressed appropriately.”

Lady Ryderbourne laughed and glanced back up at the painting. “Guy's family is also descended from de Verrant, of course. It appears that the rogue made very free with his favors. Alas, now my poor little baby is the heir to all of it. He's sleeping far above our heads with a dozen nursemaids watching over him, and it's the first time we've been apart this long since he was born.”

“I'm so sorry,” Sarah said. “If I'd known, I've never have kept you. “

“Attending my baby's christening ball is a very tiny price to pay for marrying a duke's son, especially when he's the love of my life. Anyway, I promised Guy to take care of you, and I'm more than happy to do so.”

“Mr. Devoran did not wish to meet me privately, before it all starts?”

Lady Ryderbourne tied on her mask. “Good heavens! It's already started, and Guy is as essential to the festivities as the duke and duchess themselves. He's not only my cousin by marriage, but he's also a very old and dear friend. I've known him since I was sixteen. If Guy asks for the moon, we Ryderbournes would cast nets to the heavens to catch it for him.”

“I'm overwhelmed,” Sarah said simply. “I had no idea—”

“Nonsense! It's our pleasure, and you may trust the honor of each of our men implicitly.”

“I don't know very much about the finer points of honor among the peerage.”