Once Upon a Masquerade (3 page)

Mr. Westerly tapped Hamlet on the shoulder. “
Excuse moi.
May I?”

The impish gleam returned to Hamlet’s eyes. Striking a theatrical pose, he exclaimed, “‘That it should come to this!’”

“‘Give thy thoughts no tongue,’” Mr. Westerly jibed back.

With a look of outrage, Hamlet scolded, “‘Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better.’” Hamlet met Rebecca’s amused gaze before placing a kiss on the back of her hand. He retreated with his skull, exclaiming and then fading in dramatic fashion, “‘You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal; except my life, except my life, except my life.’”

In a final sigh, he added, “‘The rest is silence,’” and lowered his head in defeat.

“Sorry to have left you alone for so long,” Mr. Westerly said. “Had I realized you’d been cornered by Spencer Henley, I would have come to your rescue much sooner.”

She curtsied to begin the next dance. “Don’t concern yourself. Mr. Henley was a gentleman, albeit a somewhat loud and eccentric gentleman.”

Mr. Westerly bowed, before laying a hand at her waist to begin. “So tell me, have you been in New York long?”

Inwardly, she cringed. She hated lying. “No, not more than a week.”

“Then you haven’t seen all of our charming city yet?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Allow me to escort you on a tour. We could go for a ride in the park, tomorrow afternoon.” Mr. Westerly swept her around the dance floor amid the other whirling dancers.

“That would be lovely.” He might have an interest in her after all. This plan of hers might actually work.

“Wonderful. Where shall I send my carriage?”

She nearly flinched at the question, uncertain how to respond. “I must run some errands tomorrow. May I meet you?”

“Let’s meet midday in Central Park, by the bronze figure.”

“Splendid,” she said, calming once more.

Over Mr. Westerly’s shoulder, she peeked in the direction she’d last spied Mr. Black. Her spirits fell when she didn’t see him there. She searched the crowded ballroom and spotted him talking with Hamlet. What an odd coincidence. She inhaled a sharp breath. Would he tell Mr. Black of her interest in him? Her next step faltered. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Mr. Westerly when he surveyed her with a questioning glance.

Peering at Mr. Black again, she hoped to find their discussion had come to an end. Instead, their eyes locked, his curious and bold. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and in a panic she turned away, stumbling on Mr. Westerly’s foot.

“Are you well?” Mr. Westerly asked.

“I’m not certain.” She took another quick look from the corner of her eye. Mr. Black still watched her. “I feel a bit faint. If I could just take in some fresh air.”

“Come with me.” Mr. Westerly led her through the crush of costumed guests. By the time they reached a secluded balcony, she felt sure they’d escaped. Mr. Westerly lifted two goblets from a passing servant’s tray.

Once outside, she massaged her forehead, the crisp air welcome. Her limbs trembled as she leaned against the railing.

“Here, drink this.” He handed her a glass of champagne.

She drank freely all of the sweet bubbling contents. “I’m feeling much better now,” she assured him after a few calming breaths.

“Would another cool refreshment be in order?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

Once Mr. Westerly set out on his errand, she groaned and dropped her face into her hands.

What if Mr. Black recognized her? She was dressed as a maid for God’s sake. Should she leave, or could she avoid him? In such a large house avoidance shouldn’t prove difficult.

Then again, perhaps he simply wondered what foolish woman would agree to dance with a drunken Hamlet. He was standing a fair distance away. Yes, that was it. She’d panicked for no reason. Still, she’d be more careful from here on out. They’d never see each other again.

She stretched her aching shoulders and neck. Although muffled sounds emanated from the ball within, the overall silence helped to relax her. She leaned over the railing as the gentle wind played with her hair, the touch cool and soft, and absently flicked a fine layer of dirt from the railing with her feather duster.

“You play your role well.”

She recognized the voice immediately. The duster slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. Christopher Black.

Chapter Three

CHRISTOPHER STEPPED ONTO THE balcony as the enchantress he’d followed spun about and retrieved her duster. The hint of fear that flashed in her eyes disturbed him. “Could I persuade you to work for me? You appear quite capable with a duster.”

She glanced at the item in her hand, and her shoulders relaxed, descending several inches. She cocked her head to the side as if contemplating his offer. “I’m afraid not, sir. But, I could teach you how to fend for yourself.”

With a slow grin, he drew closer. “You’re obviously more adept than I in such matters. What incentive can I use to entice you to come to me, fair maid?”

She stroked the feathers of her duster almost nervously. “My services come at a high cost.” Her eyes darted to the floor. “I… What I meant was—”

He raised a finger to her lips, but didn’t touch. “As I suspected for someone as skilled as yourself.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw and motioned for her to turn about before him. “Are you an agreeable sort?”

She stood her ground, resting her hands on shapely hips. “Always.”

Christopher began to circle her, surprised but amused by her pluck. “Do you polish furniture?”

“I do.” The dark color of her gown accentuated her smooth, porcelain skin. The material hugged her enticing curves, from the gentle swell of her breasts to her narrow waist. Unlike those of her gender schooled to show vulnerability, this woman had vitality, an inner strength that beckoned.

“Make beds?”

Playfully, she leaned toward him, presenting her straight, white teeth for his inspection, and flexed the muscles of her arm. “Of course.”

With a chuckle, he stepped around to her back. “Do whatever your employer demands?”

“That depends on the demands.”

When she straightened, he admired the delicate skin at the nape of her neck exposed by her upswept hair. He leaned in from behind and breathed in the faint scent of cloves. “Would a kiss be too much to ask?”

She shivered and twirled around with a small gasp, her face inches from his. The unusual color of her eyes, a blend of soft greens, drew him in as sure as a wave to shore.

The corner of his lips curled. After failing to discover anything new about Nathan’s lady friend, he might be able to salvage this evening after all. “Or maybe a simple touch.” He reached down and lifted her gloved hand, his index finger stroking her palm. “Followed by a kiss.” Looking deep into her lovely eyes, he settled his lips on the back of her fingers. “I’m Christopher Black, fearsome pirate. Who might you be?”

She pulled her hand away and eased back a few steps, raising her feather duster. “Rebecca Bailey, a meek and humble maid.”

“Meek and humble? I find that hard to believe.” His gaze caressed her face, sweeping across her smooth skin to rest on those remarkable green eyes. “Have we met before?” He had the vague sense they had, although the time and place eluded him.

Taking another step back, she turned away, her delicate features tensed with alarm. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I’ve just arrived in New York.”

He sensed her desire to flee and wished he knew why she felt that way. He couldn’t let that happen, not yet. Instead of pressing her further, he conceded with a shrug, “I must be mistaken. Where do you hail from?”

“The great city of Boston.” The slight smile on her face belied the unsteady rise and fall of her chest. “We should return to the festivities inside.”

“As you wish.” He offered his arm. “Let’s see how the celebration is faring without us.” Hesitantly, she placed her hand on his arm, and he escorted her back inside the noisy ballroom, the dimness of the balcony replaced by glaring brilliance from the chandeliers hung high above. In her hair, a glitter of green reflected the light. He leaned closer for a better look, and spied a comb with emerald and diamond butterflies.

Nathan’s comb. His breath left him in a rush as sure as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. How could it be? Miss Bailey didn’t even live in New York. How could she have known Nathan? And yet, there was no denying the comb was an exact match, custom made here in the city.

He drew in a deep lungful of air, the shock ebbing, replaced by a pang of disappointment. Disappointment? Where was the relief? He’d finally found the woman Nathan had loved. He could “save” her, whatever that meant, just as Nathan had asked, and put the matter behind him. And perhaps alleviate some of the guilt that had plagued him this last year. Or possibly even unmask Nathan’s killer if the police had it right. The thought lasted only an instant, but it was there nonetheless.

“Would you care to join me for dinner? I understand there’s an impressive feast offered upstairs.” Once they were in a quieter place, he’d explain himself and find out what assistance she needed.

“I shouldn’t,” she said, her hands wringing together. “I was waiting on the balcony for Philip Westerly.”

Damn. When he’d seen them dancing together, he’d hoped the two were merely acquaintances. Frankly, he disliked the man—even more so now. “The two of you are betrothed?”

“No, we’ve only just met.” She scanned the crowd. “He went off to get refreshments. I think it would be terribly rude to take my leave without telling him.”

He spotted Westerly talking with an elderly man, two glasses of champagne in his hands. “Over there,” he pointed out.

A crush of guests blocked the path between them and the two men. Miss Bailey threw her arm boldly into the air, and Westerly waved back with an apologetic grimace.

Christopher seized the moment. “He’s talking with Charles Lipton, a man known for his lengthy political debates. It may be some time before he’ll be free again.”

Her brows furrowed, before a sweet smile touched her lips. “Then I suppose we’ll have to see what fare is provided upstairs.” She motioned to Westerly her intent, and he signaled his acceptance with a shrug, offering one of the glasses to his companion.

All too aware of her every movement and gesture, Christopher escorted her to the second floor, where they entered what appeared to be a tropical garden. Numerous tables were arranged among tall palm trees, each with clusters of orchids tied to its branches. Roses and lilies of the valley covered the doors to the opulent room and fountains bubbled in two corners.

They crossed to a long buffet table. Miss Bailey closed her eyes and inhaled as if in heaven. “I’m famished and this smells incredible.” She piled sugar-cured ham, chicken croquettes, and delicate pastries on a plate.

They sat down at a small linen-covered table, and Christopher attempted to ignore her enchanting grin of pleasure, wracking his brain for the right way to start the conversation about Nathan. With a sheepish look, Miss Bailey sank her teeth into a fruit-filled tart, only to frown and set the pastry aside to take a sip of champagne.

“Anything wrong?”

“A bit dry.” She shrugged. “Too much flour, I think.”

“It sounds as though you speak from experience.” Strange. Although many women in attendance might notice the dryness, few would know the cause with such certainty.

She flinched, and then smoothed the tablecloth with an unsteady hand, the movement a caress of glove to linen. “How silly. Of course not. I wouldn’t know the first thing about baking. It was simply a guess.”

He couldn’t resist. Reaching across the table, he brushed his fingertips along the corner of her lip where a speck of fruit filling had clung. He marveled at the incredible softness of her skin, the perfect curve of her lips, and wondered at the sweetness he’d find there. Remembering himself, he pulled his hand away. She had been Nathan’s, and as such, he should keep his distance. “We should talk.”

“About what?” She dabbed at the spot he touched, her tongue peeking out to finish the job.

He stared at the skin glistening from that lick, almost forgetting the discussion at hand.
Focus, man.
“Nathan Gebhardt.”

A questioning look crossed her face. “Who?”

“Nathan Gebhardt?” No recognition flared to life. In fact, she showed no reaction at all. “Are you saying you don’t know him?”

Her shoulders stiffened, and she squirmed in her seat. “Oh, Mr. Gebhardt. Yes, I know him.” Raising a hand to her chest, she chuffed out a laugh. “Everyone knows him. My father did business with him.”

He studied her, trying to understand her disquiet. Was she afraid to admit of her relationship to Nathan? Actually, it would make sense. If others discovered her secret love affair, her reputation would be ruined. “It’s all right to admit more,” he assured her. “I know who you are. Nathan was a good friend of mine.”

His admission only agitated her further. Her hand clenched, and a subtle wince tensed her features. “You do?”

And still, she was beautiful. Nathan had good taste in women, and Miss Bailey was no exception. He could well imagine how Nathan would have become so taken.

He tried again. “Nathan asked me to look after you, as his dying wish.”

“No, he must have meant someone else,” she insisted. “I didn’t know him all that well.”

Damn. Nathan had left this task to the wrong man. If he couldn’t even get her to admit knowing Nathan, how could he convince her to tell him what she needed saving from? As it was, she looked ready to bolt from the table. Then again, a year had passed since Nathan’s death. Did she still need saving? She seemed nervous, yes, but would a woman in dire straits be socializing at a ball? Hardly seemed likely.

Indeed, she appeared healthy and whole, her auburn hair a burst of color in comparison to her ivory skin, skin that glowed with vitality and life. Faded laugh lines attested to a sunny disposition, and those full, lush lips…

His scrutiny brought a flush to her face, and she stared out across the room.

God help him, it didn’t feel right to make assumptions and let the matter rest. For Nathan’s sake, he would bide his time, and gain her trust, then find out if she needed his help. It was the least he could do for Nathan, and had nothing to do with spending more time at her side. Nothing whatsoever.

“My apologies. It seems I’m mistaken once again,” he said to put her at ease. “Other than the tart then, are you enjoying the evening so far?”

“Yes.” Her gaze returned to him, her eyes wary. “This home is beautiful. Alva and William Vanderbilt must be very proud.”

“Indeed they are.” He tore his attention from her dazzling green eyes, although the sight stayed trapped in his mind. “The very purpose of this event is to celebrate its completion and to graciously allow all of us to admire its beauty. And with Mrs. Astor in attendance, the Vanderbilts might be accepted into the esteemed four hundred.” The rich concerned themselves with the pettiest things.

“The four hundred?”

“The optimal number of guests that can occupy Mrs. Astor’s ballroom,” he informed her, unable to suppress the mockery in his tone. “She’s compiled a list of the top four hundred members of the wealthiest and most refined families in New York, and only those fortunate few are allowed into her social circle.”

An impish smirk lit up her face, her earlier tenseness all but gone. “Can I assume you aren’t included in this wondrous group?”

“You may.” Idly, he wondered… Did his social status matter to her? He wasn’t a blue blood, and many didn’t socialize with him because of it. Taking a drink of his champagne, he decided to find out. “I’m what’s known as a bouncer, an arriviste, someone who’s only recently amassed his fortune. Needless to say, I’m only reluctantly invited when absolutely required. My bloodlines are much too sullied.”

She pushed her plate away, giving no outward sign of upset. “A pity.”

“Indeed,” he muttered, her reaction warming him through. “Shall we stroll through this splendid home?”

“What a good idea.” She drained the last of her glass. Wobbling as she rose from her seat, she plucked the feather duster from the floor.

He tucked her arm in his and led her from the jungle into a corridor lined with doors. Her hand felt good nestled securely in the crook of his arm. Her hips swaying with each step, her skirts brushed against his pant leg.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you amass a fortune?” She looked up into his face, her eyes innocent and beguiling.

His lips quirked upward. Few in society cared, unless there was a profit to be made. “Shipping. When I was a boy, my father used almost all the money he had to buy our first vessel. He named her
The Fair Maiden
, and she needed a lot of repairs. The two of us worked on her for several months before she was ready to sail.”

“Remarkable. Working with your father on something so important must have been very satisfying.” A flash of sadness shadowed her features, but as quickly as it appeared, it vanished.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded. “My father and I don’t always see things in the same light.”

“Ah, that’s the way of fathers and children, isn’t it?” He rested his hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. “My father and I didn’t always agree either. There were moments when I didn’t want to put in the effort, but that’s where fathers are wise. In time, our work together came to mean a great deal to me. Our family grew the business from a one-vessel operation into one of the largest merchant companies in the country.”

She peeked into a small room equipped for sewing. “Hence the pirate costume?” she asked, a smile playing about her shapely lips and a teasing glint in her eye.

He guided her inside, toward a frame attached to a sturdy stand. “Actually, I was a ship’s captain for my family’s company for the last several years. Not as a pirate, mind you, more as an ambassador of sorts, establishing new sailing routes and port contacts. Have you ever sailed?”

“Oh, well, no.” She scanned around the room, several loose tresses dangling along her neck to brush her shoulders. “But it does sound adventurous. Do you miss it?”

“Very much.” His fingers itched to touch those strands, to feel their softness beneath his fingertips. “Standing on a well-scrubbed deck, smelling the salty air, and looking out at the endless rolling sea… There’s nothing quite like it.”

Her hand grazed along the back of a chair as she moved ahead to the needlepoint on the stand. “Why did you give it up?” As Miss Bailey studied the stitches before her, the image of Adele flashed before his eyes. Months had gone by and still her decision to cast him aside stung. Instead of ruining their evening discussing his past, he evaded Miss Bailey’s question. “I plan to set sail again once my new ship is complete. Although if my mother had her way, I’d stop working for good. She’s never liked my occupation. She says she can’t bear my long absences, claiming her right as an old woman to enjoy her only son’s company until she’s no longer with us.” He rested his hand over his heart in mock pain.