Haunted Hearts (11 page)

She was announced. Some few heads turned at the sound of her name. She could almost hear their thoughts: this was the Viscountess, Lady Stratton?

Olivia stepped forward, offering her gloved hand to her host. For a moment Lord Quinn’s dark blue eyes danced, until they were obscured as he bowed over her hand. “How pleased I am you’ve come tonight,” he said as he straightened, looking at her directly again.

“How pleased I was to be invited.”

“You were also invited to my masquerade, but did you come? I don’t recall seeing your lovely face when it came time to remove the masks.”

Olivia hesitated, but then decided there was no harm to come from confession after the fact. “I was here, dressed as a cat.”

There was something in the way his eyes glittered that told her perhaps this wasn’t news after all. “Ah yes. The tarot predicted your future.”

“Which has yet to come true.”

He smiled, a man’s smile at a woman. “There is time.”

“Indeed,” she said, looking away from his penetrating attention, and then another partygoer was announced and she moved on.

Really, there had been warmth in that gaze, a not utterly unpleasing warmth. This could, no doubt, explain why the man was a popular host--if he looked at other women in this same intense, almost hungry way, and despite his reputation for dissolution. In fact, her eyes had gone to his hair, almost expecting to see the Samhain horns still there, and had been mildly disappointed to find it was not so. There was something about the man that made him seem even more in disguise without the horns or the outfit, as though his fine black evening clothes were the costume, not the other way around.

She moved into the room, pleased to recognize some ladies from her widow’s groups and church. A longtime acquaintance, one Mrs. Dennis, moved toward her.

“Lady Stratton! How delightful to see you here tonight,” she called.

“Mrs. Dennis, it’s lovely to see you, too.”

Mrs. Dennis, bless her, pulled Olivia into a group, making introductions. Thus ended any openly curious stares at the long-missing lady.

Mrs. Dennis turned back to Olivia. “But, my dear, what brings you out this night?” Her speaking eyes went on to say that even when they’d met before, never had Olivia looked so sophisticated or polished. When and where had the girl gone, leaving this refined woman in her place? said her expression.

“I have come to enjoy an evening out,” Olivia answered simply and truthfully, the bright smile that accompanied the words causing the ladies around her to smile along.

Olivia had been ready for denouncements if they were to be forthcoming. She knew she was fair to look upon, with a monetary worth that only added to one’s attractiveness. She’d dressed with care and a bit of dash. Her brief prior season had taught her some women considered any other woman to be competition. But instead of rejection--and perhaps because her daughters were all married--Mrs. Dennis merely asked to know the name of Olivia’s
modiste
.

As Olivia supplied the information, which led to a discussion of the latest trend toward exaggerated epaulets for riding habits, internally she shook herself, a silent sigh of relief coursing through her. She’d done it. She’d shown the world her true face, and had been accepted. Her head almost spun with the giddiness of the moment, with the release of the weight of isolation she’d been carrying, needlessly, foolishly, for far too long.

A group of gentlemen came up to the ladies, a few of them inquiring as to availability for dancing. Gentle laughter rose as agreements were made. Olivia looked up, catching the eye of the gentleman nearest her…then over his shoulder, some twenty feet away, she saw the man she knew only as Louis XIV. She gasped aloud.

***

It had become perhaps only a bit of a parlor game, after all these years, for Ian to memorize yet more names and faces. Besides, he already knew a third of the others also attending Quinn’s celebration, by reputation if not having actually met them yet. Quinn’s Guy Fawkes party was not so highly attended as his Hallows’ Eve masquerade had been; this seemed a gathering of more intimate acquaintances, to judge by the ease of conversation between them and by the smaller numbers.

Quinn’s home was large, and boasted the previously used ballroom, half of which was now unlighted and cut off by a row of tables, since fewer attendees needed to be accommodated. The half-room now lacked any harvest plenty. For decoration there were only clusters of Union Jack flags, and a couple dozen kegs of varying sizes set about the room, over-representing the explosives with which Guy Fawkes and his compatriots had hoped they might blow up Parliament. The ostentatiously oversized charge cords lay about, meant to seem “ripped out”, as though the Gunpowder Plot had not only been found out, but rendered inert.

Ian’s brows lifted. Lord Quinn’s decorations were not those of a nihilist, but a loyalist. Was this meant to mislead, or did the Home Office have the correct measure of the man? But perhaps he ought not draw too firm a conclusion, because, after all, what manner of fool would have public decorations that
supported
chaos and ill will?

The festivities began, in that guests were directed to tables from which to select tidbits from small plates. Everything was petite, a bite or less, clearly meant to stimulate, not satisfy the appetite. Too, while there were at least a dozen delicious selections to choose from, the item count was low; latecomers would find only empty plates. In all his travels, Ian had not seen a like food offering. He was coming to find Lord Quinn the sort to surprise on many levels.

He traded tidbits for a glass of sparkling wine. It was not champagne, Ian noted, even as he considered that champagne would have had to be gotten from smugglers, a highly illegal act in these days of war with France. Another sign of patriotism? Or mere cost-savings? As illegal as smuggling was, Ian doubted that fact alone would have stopped Quinn from getting what he desired.

Thinking a man must be judged through his acquaintances as well as his actions, Ian scanned the crowd a second and third time--but he couldn’t deny he was also looking for a specific lady. With a lowering sensation, he acknowledged he didn’t see anything to make him think Cat was among the invitees.

Truly, it’s time to cease looking for her
, he chided himself. That night had been an anomaly. To waste anymore time or thought on a few stolen moments was folly. He was no callow youth to pine after a woman he didn’t really know.

Think about something else…
So he thought about seeing Arthur earlier in the day. It had been--there was no other word for it--
wonderful
to see his brother again. It had been too long, yet the bond was still there. They’d toured the house, sampled from a half-dozen of Papa’s severely dust-covered bottles from the wine cellar, and traded memories. Arthur had too few from their time living in the house, but when they’d gone through those limited few, and on to ones from their mutual youthful travels, Arthur had then regaled his brother with tales from his time at sea. Arthur had done well for himself, sitting there so resplendent in his Lieutenant’s uniform. A naval life clearly suited him.

The visit, though hours long, had been too short. Arthur had left with the promise to return whenever he was fortunate enough to take port in London… Ian’s fond recollections were interrupted by his ears catching a French accent.

Eyes flying to the source, he located an attractive woman in a pale blue gown. Her hair was up, several braids ending in an artful woven knot, and was of a light brown color.
Cat’s hair might have been a very light brown.
Ian’s heart skipped a beat. In the glow of the overhead chandeliers, as he stepped closer, he affirmed this woman’s hair could be called as much blonde as brunette, highlights glinting in a way that made his lips part in response.

He’d attached himself tonight to one Mr. Connell, a baron’s son he’d met that day at White’s, and turned to him now. “Connell. The lady in blue? Who is she?”

Mr. Connell nodded in the lady’s direction. “That’s Miss Lisette Lyons. Lord Quinn’s hostess.” He leaned in to add in a whisper, “It’s said they used to be lovers, but no more.” He stood upright again. “I can introduce you, if you like.”

Ian considered the woman, knowing that, yes, he’d seen her before. He realized with a touch of disappointment that she’d been dressed as a harvest gleaner, and had very much acted the hostess for Quinn’s masquerade. Had she also worn a cat’s costume for part of the evening?

It wasn’t impossible… He also saw she was no more than five-and-twenty, but still old enough Ian wondered that she’d not married by now. Her accent might supply an answer, especially if she’d escaped France without family or dowry. Not to mention she kept unusual company.

Ian listened to the sound of her voice as she spoke, even closing his eyes to try and hear if this was the voice he’d heard in the dark five nights past. The accent made it harder to say. His first thought was the voice was not the same, but when he opened his eyes and looked again upon the woman’s height and general demeanor, he was not sure. Surely Cat had possessed a slimmer waistline?

Too, he must remember the woman in the darkened shed had lost her accent. This woman’s was lighter, perhaps a reflection of some months, if not years, spent in England?--but it was also possible this Lisette Lyons’s accent could be more pronounced when she chose for it to be. Under the influence of their shared passion, Miss Lyons might have forgotten to stress her accent. If it had been passion. If her accent was real, as he thought it might be. If it had been Mademoiselle Lyons at all with him that night.

When he heard her speak again, he was yet unsure.

When he saw her move, it was the same. Her figure was all that ought charm the eye…was it her dress that made her ribcage seem broader than his hands had told him Cat’s was?

However, all his careful consideration went flat as she turned her eyes toward his: brown eyes. The Lady Cat hadn’t had brown eyes.

More logic struck him: she was already established here in London. Comfortably so. What possible need would this lady have to be relocated, to be gotten out of England?

Unless something had gone terribly wrong with this re-established existence of hers, she could not be the one. She was not the informant…but was she the Lady Cat he’d held in his arms so recently?

Not with brown eyes, she wasn’t, he reminded himself.

Disillusionment swam in his belly, even while he admitted, again, that it was folly indulging his fancy like this.

Mr. Connell moved to a new group, and Ian let himself be pulled away from the attractive but disappointing Miss Lyons. Still, he noted when Quinn came to gather Miss Lyons for the first dance. Here, too, was another clue; she didn’t quite seem to move like the cat with whom Ian had danced.

He looked around to find the lady, a Miss Comstock, to whom he’d committed his first dance of the evening.

The dance over, Ian relocated Mr. Connell, pulled forth another social smile, and stepped up to the small group of ladies Mr. Connell had joined. He gave a bow to Lord Quinn, who’d also stepped up, and to each lady as Mr. Connell presented them. “Mrs. Carlyle. Countess Montgomery and her daughter, Miss Eulalie. And,” Mr. Connell turned in the remaining lady’s direction, “this is Lady Stratton.” Ian let his eyes linger a moment on the very pretty stranger as his own name was pronounced. Then his smile faded, for she was looking up at him with shock on her face.

“Lady Stratton,” he greeted her, putting a question into it. He felt a bit flustered by her open-mouthed stare. Ought he know her from his travels? He wasn’t used to forgetting faces, if he’d done so.

“Lord Ewald,” she murmured, still staring even as she curtsied to him.

A jolt went through him. There was no French accent, but that voice…! He searched her being from head to heel. Red-gold hair, leaning more to the gold. Those green eyes. A tiny waist…

“Cat?” he breathed out.

Her blush told all.

He couldn’t help it, he moved toward her, one hand poised to take her arm. Only at the last moment did he check the publicly unwarranted advance, turning it into another bow, deeper this time.

Those searching eyes… The shape of her chin… Yes! Yes, this was the lady whom he’d kissed and fondled, who had kissed and fondled him back. The lady whose sigh against his lips had been so unexpected and so delectable.

“Ladies,” Mr. Connell had gone on, “Lord Ewald is recently returned to us from India.”

“India? Oh, how fascinating,” Miss Eulalie purred.

Ian had to force his gaze to shift to the young lady, even as he took a half step back to include the other ladies. Absently, he answered in the negative Miss Eulalie’s question as to whether he had plans to return to India. His eyes flicked back to Lady Stratton, to see she now stared fiercely at the carpet.
I’m giddy,
Ian thought, absolutely shocked to know it was true.
My God, she’s a beauty.

Music struck up again, and Lord Quinn offered an arm to Lady Stratton. “My dance, I believe.” He’d granted her the second dance, just following on the heels of the first with his hostess.

She went with the man, only glancing at Ian for a second before she was taken away to the dance floor. Ian couldn’t have said if the glance was seeking information, was an apology, or begged him to say nothing--but he resolved at once he’d be her next dance partner, regardless of who else had first sought the privilege.

Here is Cat! She is found.

He stayed near the couple, observing them obliquely as he sought and received answers to his many questions from those among whom he stood: she was a widow, having been married to an old man. Newly out of mourning. She resided yet in a London home she’d shared with her husband, although it had returned to her, via some grandparent’s legacy, after her mate’s death. Her deceased mother had been fortunate in her wealth all her life, leaving the daughter funds not attached to any entail, and Stratton’s will had left her a proper widow’s portion, so Lady Stratton was far from destitute. The title and Stratton Hall, in Hertfordshire, had gone to her husband’s heir, his grand-nephew, but it was said the two weren’t close and the man seldom came to London. The new Lord Stratton was unmarried, so his grand-aunt by marriage had yet to have “dowager” attached to her title.