Moonlight Masquerade (21 page)

“You’re strangely silent, Christine. Are you
tired? We could go back inside.”

Christine shook her head and continued
walking down the bricked path. It was hard to believe Lady Wexford
could have such an extensive garden, here in the heart of Mayfair,
and she had asked Fletcher to escort her outside so that she could
take a closer look at it. “I’m not tired, really. I just feel
rather—quiet. Do you understand?”

Fletcher pulled her hand more fully through
the crook of his arm, watching as her thin shawl slipped from her
shoulder. The look in his eyes, had she seen it, would have had her
scurrying back to the safety of the ballroom.

“I understand, Christine,” he answered
softly, leading her toward a curved stone bench that sat back from
the path beneath a group of small, ornamental trees. “Let’s sit
here a moment, and we can be quiet together.”

They sat side by side for some minutes, lost
in their own thoughts, before Fletcher spoke again. “We’ve enjoyed
ourselves, being together like this, haven’t we, Christine?”

She turned her head to smile up at him, for
she liked him very much. “You know we have, Fletcher. You’re the
best friend I’ve had since coming to London. The only friend, for
that matter. I don’t know how I would have gotten through these
last weeks without you.”

Fletcher’s gaze was warm, his smile hinting
of his happiness. “You know, I hated the thought of coming back to
town. Really hated it. I—I had a rather bad experience here once,
one I’d rather put behind me. I had feared the memories would all
come rushing back once I—but that doesn’t matter anymore. That
first night, when I saw you across the ballroom floor, my mind
became a merciful blank. I think I’ve lived my entire life waiting
for you to come along.”

Christine’s heart suddenly leapt into her
throat, choking her. “Fletcher, I—”

“No,” he cut her off, holding up his hand to
press his fingertips against her lips. “Please, Christine, don’t
say anything. Don’t say a word, please, until I’m finished. I want
to get this just right.”

Her eyes burning with unshed tears,
Christine reluctantly nodded her agreement.

He removed his fingers, only to begin
lightly stroking the side of her face. “I know you thought I was
joking, but I meant it that first night. I want to marry you.
Everything that’s happened since then has only made me more sure. I
love you, Christine. I can make you happy. Please—please marry
me.”

He could see them in the distance, sitting
together, speaking earnestly, their voices near whispers that he
could not overhear. His hands clenched into fists.

It wasn’t fair. Not her. Not him. Dear God,
not him. It wasn’t fair!

When Christine’s hand came up to cup
Fletcher’s cheek, and his head lowered so that their lips met,
Vincent groaned aloud, then melted back into the night.

“G
ood lord, I do
believe I’ve just been insulted,” Fletcher remarked wryly once the
short kiss was over. “Father would be so disappointed in his
son.”

“Insulted?” Christine repeated in confusion,
sitting back and folding her hands in her lap. She had kissed him
impulsively, to quiet his words before he could continue, and to
show him that she was very fond of him.

Fletcher smiled, although his expression
remained crestfallen. “That kiss, Christine. It was the sort you
would give your brother, or a kind elderly uncle. I’ve been kissed
a time or two before, you see, and I’ve learned to recognize the
difference. You really do love that other man, don’t you? Even
worse, you were totally unaware that I’ve been falling more madly,
passionately in love with you each day over these last two weeks.
It’s enough to make a man doubt his own importance.”

Christine blinked, trying not to embarrass
him with her tears. She felt so sorry for him, for she had grown
fond of him. “You’re a wonderful man,” she told him quickly. “Any
woman would be fortunate to have you love her. It’s just... it’s
just that—”

Fletcher cut her off. “Yes, I know. It’s
just that you’re ‘quite desperately’ in love with someone else. I
had assumed it was some fuzzy-cheeked squire’s son who lives near
Manderley, and no real competition for a sophisticated man of the
world like myself. Overweeningly arrogant, wasn’t I? I didn’t even
want to know his name before, but now I find myself overcome with
curiosity. Tell me who he is, Christine, for I would dearly love to
do him an injury.”

Looking down at the ground, hiding the swift
pain his words evoked, Christine said simply, “You already have,
Fletcher. Done him an injury, that is. The man I love is the Earl
of Hawkhurst, Vincent Mayhew.”

Christine had been sure Fletcher’s reaction
would be one of anger, outrage, even disgust, and she was prepared
to defend Vincent to him. But it was none of these. Fletcher’s
complexion paled visibly, his strong jaw clenched, and he slowly
bowed his head.

“Vincent,” he said slowly at last, shaking
his head, his tone one of wonderment. “Dear God, so there is
justice in this world after all.”

“You can’t go, your lordship! Please
reconsider. He might kill you this time.”

Vincent carefully removed his servant’s hand
from the sleeve of his jacket. He had been sitting alone in his
study for two hours, thinking of what to do next. Now his course
was clear. “Why should he kill me, Lazarus? He has everything he
wants now. His revenge is perfect.”

“But then, why go at all?” Lazarus was
distraught. It was his fault that his master was so upset, his and
Christine Denham’s. He never should have pushed him into attending
that masquerade.

Throwing his black silk cloak around his
shoulders, Hawkhurst headed for the front door of his mansion.
“Because I need to hear it from his own lips, my friend. I need to
know if he really loves her or if he is only doing this to hurt me.
I can’t let Christine become a part of his revenge.”

Lazarus watched helplessly as the earl
slammed out into the night, uncaring if anyone saw him. “Women!” he
declared, shaking his head. “There’s never been a true one yet, to
my way of thinking.”

Fletcher Belden sat alone in the small
book-lined room that served as his study. His town house had been
closed during the time he had been away playing at war with
Wellington, and the servants had still not been able to completely
banish the musty smell of dust and damp, not that he noticed that
fact at this moment.

It was nearly three in the morning, long
past the hour of rational thinking if a person had been drinking
heavily since soon after midnight, but Fletcher’s mind had remained
disgustingly clear.

Vincent
.

“I believe this must be what the poets like
to call irony,” he mused aloud, peering into his half-filled brandy
snifter as if he would see the answers to all the world’s macabre,
twisted jokes floating there in the amber liquid. “Or is that
poetic justice? I can’t remember.”

“It’s Greek tragedy, and badly done at that.
You should have paid stricter attention in class, Fletcher, rather
than spending all your time thinking up ways to get the innkeeper’s
daughter to meet you after dark at the King’s College Cricket
Ground.”

“
Vincent!
” Fletcher cried out,
leaping to his feet so that the snifter flew unheeded from his
hand, to crash on the tile hearth. He looked down at the mess
stupidly, then noticed that his legs were splattered with the
spilled liquid. Without looking up he said, “That was the last of a
damned good brandy, old fellow—and it hasn’t done my breeches a
world of good, either.”

When Hawkhurst didn’t comment, he
straightened and looked about the room, trying to locate his old
friend. “You’re here to kill me, I imagine,” he remarked in a calm
voice, at last making out a dark figure near an open window and
idly wondering why he had not immediately noticed the cool evening
breeze that was now stirring the sheer curtains. Obviously, Vincent
had decided to bypass the front door.

The shadow moved slightly, but remained
silent as the tension grew in the dark room.

“I had already planned to avail you of my
person tomorrow—today, in fact, as it is nearly dawn— but then I
thought you were still buried at Hawk’s Roost. Have you been in
town long? No matter, I’m sure you don’t want me taking up precious
time with idle chatter. But do allow me to thank you for saving me
the journey. Pistols, Vincent? I’d rather not have to dance about
with a sword, huffing and puffing inelegantly until you could find
a way to run me through.”

“I’m not here to fight with you, Fletcher,”
Vincent told him, taking another step into the light cast by the
fire in the grate. “I’ve just come to inquire as to your intentions
for Miss Christine Denham. Are they honorable?”

Fletcher stepped back a pace, his expression
wry, yet strangely sad. Obviously, he had not anticipated this
question. “So noble, Vincent. And, alas, so very much in character.
Have you sprouted wings yet? I believe angels have hulking white
wings, which would explain why you wear that cloak.

“Must be deuced wearying, lugging the
feathery things about everywhere, not to mention the inelegance of
molting twice a year. You remind me, painfully, of the way you
stood so straight and tall, taking everything I could give you, as
I wielded that god-awful horsewhip. You always were the better of
the two of us. My God, if I weren’t feeling so damned guilty
already I could almost lie to you and tell you that Christine and I
are deeply in love and plan to marry as soon as possible.”

Fletcher now had a clear sight of Vincent,
or at least as clear as it could be, for the man remained half
hidden inside the hooded black domino. “You don’t love her?”
Hawkhurst shot back angrily. “Then you were taking advantage of her
tonight! God! I
could
kill you for that!”