Magical Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade (11 page)

‘Of course, Rochford is so much older that he has
been much more like a father than a brother to me.’ The two women were luxuriating
in the heat of a roaring fire while the ancient walls of Camer Castle were
battered by a sea gale of biblical proportions. Arabella had been gently led by
Minette’s sympathetic questioning to the subject of her own birth. ‘I was a
posthumous baby, you know; our father died several months before I was born.’

‘No, I did not know that. How very sad. And then
your mama—?’

‘Oh, she died of the fever a few days after my
birth. But with Philip and my dear Nurse I did very well, I promise you.’

‘There is such an age difference between you and—and—Philip.
It seems strange.’

‘Oh no.
Poor Mama suffered several stillbirths and miscarriages in the
intervening years.’ She spoke with complete unconcern as one relating ancient
history. ‘They never thought I should live,’ she announced rather proudly. ‘I
was the sickliest baby.’ She huddled her shawl around her and listened for a
moment to the howling wind. ‘Mrs Pritchard told me that, one night, poor Nurse
was so tired she did not wake when I cried. And Philip himself came to see what
was wrong and, rather than disturb Nurse, he heated some milk and fed it to me
himself. And then he walked up and down with me in his arms for hours and
hours.’

Minette smiled at the story. ‘Where is your nurse
now? Is she still living?’

Arabella nodded. ‘She went to live with her niece
in Tonbridge. The Castle being so close to the sea she became a perfect martyr
to rheumatism. Philip persuaded her to leave for her own sake. He gives her a
very generous pension, and she is quite comfortable. Perhaps we can go to see
her when the weather improves. I know Philip often stops by on his way down to
Camer. She was his nurse, too, you see.’

‘He seems an admirable character,’
mused
Minette, forgetful of her audience.

‘What a strange thing to say about your own husband!’

Minette flushed. ‘Oh, but we were not very well acquainted
when we married. I am still learning about him.’

‘Did you fall in love with him at first sight?’
Bella sighed. ‘It is so romantic.’ She glanced at Minette from under her
lashes. ‘It was a little like that for me, even though, of course, I’ve known
Frank forever. But I had not seen him for years, and then when he came up to us
in the theatre and smiled down at me
—
then I knew I loved him.’

‘Oh Bella, be careful! He is very attractive, very
engaging, but think what you know of him. That poor girl from the village—’

Bella shrugged rather pettishly. ‘Oh, I daresay
that was all much exaggerated and, anyway, it happened years ago when he was quite
young. He was very wild then, but that is what makes it all the more romantic
that he should—Minette I want to tell you a secret, but you must promise not to
tell Philip.’

Minette did not hesitate. To keep this oddly
appealing girl safe, she would perjure her soul. ‘I promise. What is this
secret?’

Bella fished in her reticule and brought out a bedraggled
sheet of paper. It had obviously been folded and refolded many times, for it
was almost falling apart. Minette recognised its appearance, as her own note
from Rochford was in very much the same state. ‘Look. It is from him.’

‘I do not think I should read it, you know. It was
not meant for me. Is it a love letter?’

‘No—not exactly, but it is so kind, and I think he
is just afraid to say anything that might frighten me, or perhaps he is unsure
of himself.’

‘Very clever Mr Franklyn Clareville,’ murmured
Minette to herself. Then, more loudly, ‘Perhaps I should read it then. I can
help you to interpret his words.’

Bella smoothed out the note with loving fingers and
handed it to Minette.
Dearest little Bluebell,
it began.
I hope you will forgive
your wicked cousin for writing to you in this scandalous manner. I do not know
what I have done to make Philip disapprove of me, but he would certainly take
steps to prevent our being better acquainted if he gets wind of this. But you
are too enchanting, little cousin, for me to allow his prejudice to preclude
our friendship. Write to me at this address, just a word or two to let me know
that you are well and thinking, perhaps, of me as I am of you.
Your loving cousin, Frank.

Minette raised her eyebrows. ‘Very pretty,’ she
said in a cool voice. ‘I think you may certainly count this missive as a love
letter.’ She handed it back to Bella, who was regarding her expectantly. ‘But,
as he has been invited to stay at the Castle, I do not see why he thinks Philip
disapproves of him or of your better acquaintance.’

‘Do you think he does not?’

Minette was determined to strip the affaire of
romance, shrewdly judging that any hint of opposition would send Bella flying
into Franklyn’s arms. ‘Well, it is not such a bad match, after all. Philip may
think you too young
,
which
—
do not
eat me, my love
—
you are. But if Franklyn pursues an honourable courtship and there are
no more clandestine letters, I expect he will give his consent in a year or
two.’

Bella’s face fell. ‘Two years?
How
dismal!’

‘You would scarcely wish to be married before you
have been presented and have had at least one Season, would you? Think of all
the fun you would be missing. Why, you might have a baby to care for when all
the other girls your age have a dozen or more beaux fighting for their favours.’

‘A baby!’

‘Well, my
love, that
is
what usually happens.’

Bella looked distinctly thoughtful. Thanks to
Minette’s carefully discreet interference in her diet, Arabella had lost a good
deal of her puppy-like roundness, to the extent that some of her new gowns had
required to be taken in. ‘Having babies makes you fat. Does it not?’

‘It can have that effect, I believe. Not always,
you know, but sometimes, certainly.’

‘I daresay you will stay as slim as anything, but I
am sure to be the kind that gets as big as an elephant. Or I might die like
poor Mama.’

Cousin Franklyn’s chances seemed to be receding by
the minute. Minette wisely did not pursue the matter but changed the subject.

Later that afternoon, she lay alone in her
bedchamber, stretched upon the coverlet in an attempt to compose herself before
dinner. Her thoughts turned, as they so often did, to the moment when she and
Rochford would be reunited. It was foolish and impossible to think that she
could still feel the touch of his lips upon hers, still hear the note in his
voice when he warned her he would claim more than her dutiful compliance. She
acknowledged to herself that she burned to give him all that he demanded and
more. The mere thought brought back those sensations he had aroused in her as
strongly as before. She was flushed, heated, and yet shivering as though with a
fever. She wanted—she knew not what.

Surprisingly, the conventional immorality of their possible
union hardly intruded upon her consciousness. She had been inculcated with the
strictest notions of honour; the idea of lying with a man who was not her
husband would have been abhorrent to her only a few short weeks ago. That the
man should be her sister’s husband would have been inconceivable. Yet now her
only concern was the pain he would suffer when his erring wife returned to him,
as indifferent and unwilling as before. She pressed her cool palms to her hot
cheeks. If he came to her,
when
he
came to her, she must feign reluctance and accept him coldly as Eugénie would
have done, begrudging and ungenerous.

She heard a carriage draw up to the massive front
door. She ran lightly over to the window and stared down into the lighted
courtyard. The ducal carriage, drawn by a steaming team of chestnuts, was
directly beneath her and, as she watched, the footman let down the steps.
Rochford sprang down and reached up a hand to assist a second passenger to
descend.

She was a very old lady, swathed in furs, her white
hair as elaborately coiffed as though she had been on her way to a ball. She
leaned heavily on Rochford’s arm and allowed herself to be ushered into the
shelter of the hallway.

‘Grandmère!’
Minette felt as though her knees had turned to water. She dropped
weakly upon the padded window seat across which she had been leaning.
Her grandmother, here at Camer?
It must have been Rochford’s
doing. He thought, no doubt, to bring her solace and support during this, her
first house party; but, instead, he had brought her cold comfort. How was she
to endure the charade with Grandmère’s frosty gaze following her every movement?
She wished with all her heart she might hide away in her bedchamber and burrow
under the covers as she used to as a child when summoned to her grandmother’s
presence. But duty and habit prevailed. With trembling fingers, she tidied her
hair, smoothed her dress, and went down to greet the Marquise de Montauban.

She found Rochford and her grandmother in the charming salon known to
the household as the Ruby Drawing Room. The chamber was lit by a chandelier fashioned
of crimson Bohemian glass, from which hung crystal droplets that reflected the
rosy shimmer in a thousand glancing beams of light. Gilded urns were placed at
either end of the chaste marble mantelpiece, and various glass pieces of exquisite
colour and workmanship were placed about the room. More rare and costly pieces
adorned an inlaid Italian occasional table, two glass-fronted bookcases, and a
magnificent pair of mahogany stands rising from delicate cabriole legs adorned
with gilt mouldings.

Grandmère, with her fine, high-bred face and snowy
hair, ensconced in a high-backed gilt chair, had been born to inhabit such
rooms. She was seated by the fire, and although she was nearly seventy years
old and had just made a tiring journey, it was noticeable that her back did not
touch the white and gold brocade of the chair, and her slender, freckled hands
were displayed upon her lap with all their habitual grace. The Duke was
standing by the fire, listening with courtesy to the thin, precise voice.

‘Grandmère, what a wonderful surprise,’ Minette
managed to utter from the doorway. She crossed the room, sank at her
grandmother’s feet, and kissed the hand held out to her. She turned up her face
to Rochford and smiled.
‘How very kind of you to think of
bringing her to me.’

He bowed slightly. ‘There is no need to thank me.
It was my privilege.’ He stepped forward and offered her his hand. She laid her
fingers in his palm, and he pulled her easily to her feet. They stood for a
moment, hands clasped, while the Marquise’s sharp eyes noted the delicate flush
in her granddaughter’s cheeks and the sudden, opaque darkness in Rochford’s grey
eye. She stood and said, ‘Conduct me to my room, Eugénie. I find myself more
fatigued than I had realised.’

Minette instantly stepped to her side and offered
her assistance. The thin fingers clutched her arm with a painful grip like a
peregrine’s claws settling upon the falconer’s glove. She winced and then
glanced swiftly at Rochford, whose eyebrows twitched together in a quick frown.
Just then, the door opened, and Arabella bounced into the room.

‘Minette, they told me your grandma is come to
stay! Can I see her?’

The Marquise drew in a sharp breath, like a hiss.
‘Minette?’

Her granddaughter started guiltily, then, recollecting
herself, she smiled and said easily, ‘Yes, I have asked Bella to call me by my
old pet name. You remember?’

‘I remember.’ The haughty face softened, and she
assumed the sweet, fragile air that, in Minette’s experience, made her the most
dangerous. ‘And this is the little sister? Come here, child, and let me look at
you.’

Nothing could make Arabella graceful, but she was
cowed enough by this formidable old woman to remember her schoolroom
deportment. She dropped a curtsey and then took a few steps forward, standing
with her hands clasped, back straight, chin and eyelids lowered modestly.

The Marquise studied her for a moment and then
patted her cheek.
‘Pretty child.’
She cast a shrewd
look at Rochford. ‘Have you arranged a marriage for her?’

He laughed.
‘Not yet, Ma’am.
It is early days.’

‘You are mistaken. Do not delay.’

He inclined his head, with a slight smile. Minette
interposed quickly, ‘I am taking my grandmother to her room now, Bella. You may
become better acquainted later
—
when she is rested.’

Arabella, who had turned bright red, gladly stepped
aside to allow them to leave the room. Minette, with her grandmother leaning
heavily upon her, made her way up the wide central staircase and found Mrs
Pritchard waiting upon the landing to show her the chamber that had been
prepared for Madame if Madame was pleased to approve. It overlooked the rose
garden, she said, and facing west, was sheltered from the sea breezes. The
Marquise was gracious and followed the housekeeper into the chamber. Like all
the rooms in Camer Castle, it was filled with the spoils of the Duke’s travels
—
in this
instance, his tours through Italy. There was a good deal of marble, alabaster,
and Venetian glass on display, and the high bed was hung with old-gold, silk
damask. There was a fire already glowing in the grate and a chaise-longue drawn
up in front of it, inviting repose.