The Cornish Heiress (34 page)

Nonetheless Philip could not bear the thought of Meg being hurt
or shamed, no matter how foolish she had been. He had to get her away before
the unmasking before anyone realized she had somehow got into the party without
being invited. He could not get to her at that moment because she was dancing
with the man she had accepted, a vision of loveliness and gaiety, graceful, light
as a bird, sure enough of her steps to talk with freedom while she danced. Philip
delivered the orgeat and excused himself. He was aware of his partner’s
disappointment and sorry for it, but he could barely say what was civil. His mind,
his heart, his whole being was following Meg around the floor.

As soon as he was free he began to follow in fact as well as
in fancy, moving as inconspicuously as possible around the floor in pursuit of
the dancers. When the dance ended, however, he still had no opportunity to
approach her. Apparently her next partner had been watching, as Philip was, and
came across to claim her before she could be led to the sidelines. Philip had to
go, he had a partner waiting himself. That dance was not a success. Biting his lips
with worry, Philip watched every move Meg made and tried to determine from her
partner’s expression whether he had noticed anything odd. There was no evidence
of it that Philip could see, yet to his terrified mind it seemed suspicious
that, as soon as the dance ended, her partner headed quickly toward Lady
Moreton.

If Philip had not been so frantic, it might have occurred to
him that the gentleman wanted to find out who the vision of loveliness was.
However, in the state he was in, Philip was sure Meg had been recognized as an
intruder. Even if he had thought of the other reason it would not have altered
his actions, since he was sure that to call Meg to Lady Moreton’s attention would
also result in her immediate expulsion. Thus he threw caution to the wind and
rid himself of his partner rather abruptly as soon as the dance ended. Then he
rushed up to Meg, as if to pass out of the room hurriedly, and instead bumped her
hard.

Since Philip was prepared for the results of his action, he had
no trouble catching Meg in his arms and swinging her around, well away from her
new partner. “I am sorry, so sorry,” he cried aloud, and whispered fiercely in
her ear as he seemed to be steadying her on her feet, “It is Philip, Meg. Come away,
quickly.”

Philip’s shock, which had been bad enough when he first saw
her, was nothing compared to Megaera’s. Hers was compounded by the physical blow,
which had nearly knocked her down, being seized in the arms of a strange man,
who suddenly spoke in Philip’s voice and then recognizing that it
was
Philip.
Philip here! The betrayer, the cully-catcher, who had doubtless insinuated
himself among her friends to seduce another innocent woman or to fleece them by
some dishonest dealing. Not only Meg’s heart but her mind stopped too. She stood
absolutely frozen staring blankly, fighting with all her strength not to faint.

“Are you drunk?” Megaera’s partner asked furiously, pushing
himself between her and Philip, and then, “Mrs. Devoran, are you all right?”

“Quite all right,” Megaera said, amazed at the fact that her
voice came out quite clear and unshaken.

Gaining courage from that, she was able to think so far as to
recognize the first move necessary. That was to convince Philip she was
not
Red Meg. She had never wanted him to know, but now it was of major importance
that he should not know. Cheat, betrayer that he was, he would surely blackmail
her if he ever gained a hold on her. She smiled, at her partner.

“You are not supposed to have recognized me,” she said, playfully
scolding. “I am not the only redhead in the neighborhood.” Then, coldly, she
curtsied to Philip. “You will excuse us, sir, I hope. Allow me to suggest that you
do not visit the punchbowl quite so often—or even better, that you simply stay
in its neighborhood, for you are clearly quite incapable of dancing.”

The voice was not Meg’s! Philip gulped with combined disbelief
and relief as he bowed and backed away, still apologizing. The high, nasal,
haughty tones were not those of his Meg. Philip’s bewildered eyes were still
fixed on her, not seeing the surprise on her partner’s face that suggested he did
not recognize the voice either. Meanwhile Perce had come across the floor to see
what the disturbance was. He had heard the comment Meg’s partner had made and
although he had not seen Philip drink more than the minimum socially necessary,
he remembered vividly how often his friend had overindulged in the recent past.
It was clear as soon as he looked at Philip, however, that he was not drunk.

“What the devil’s wrong?” Perce asked softly. “Seen a
ghost?”

“Yes—sort of,” Philip replied, taking a deep breath. “I—I
thought I recognized someone, the woman with red hair. But it was not the
person I thought—at least…”

“Which woman with red hair? There are five here although
three are wigs.”

“Not the wigs. There, the one who is going out toward the
refreshment room. Do you know who she is?”

“Oh, Mrs. Devoran, yes. I wouldn’t have recognized her
myself except that my mother made such a fuss when she came in. Her husband
died—” Perce hesitated, but it hardly seemed the right time or place to explain
how and why Edward had been murdered. “He died about a year and a half ago, and
she’s been—well, not a recluse but not going to any social events except afternoon
teas.”

Then it was not Meg. Philip made no connection between the
nighttime deliveries and the afternoon tea parties. Oddly, he did not feel in the
least attracted to the woman either, although she still looked so much like
Meg—what he could see of her face—that he was amazed. He noted that her body was
different. She carried herself very stiffly, too proudly erect, no longer
graceful as she had been when she was dancing. A real puzzle, Philip thought, but
Lady Moreton claimed him just then to rescue another maiden in distress, and
Philip had to put the matter aside to be decently attentive and polite.

The stiff carriage Meg had assumed was not any attempt to deceive
Philip but only a defense against shaking all over with shock and terror. She
had no idea what she said to her partner, who guided her solicitously into the refreshment
room and begged her to take some wine to restore herself. Desiring only to be rid
of him, Megaera agreed. She would have been glad to take poison to gain a
moment’s quiet in which to regain control over herself. He seated her on a settee
some distance from the tables and left her.

Megara’s first impulse was to run away, simply to slip out
of the house and find her coachman and order him to take her home. She knew
even as the desire racked her that it was not possible. Almost certainly the
carriage was a long way off; possibly the horses had been unhitched and placed
in a sheltered area.

The coachman was probably down in the servants’ hall or in
the quarters of Lord Moreton’s coachman, enjoying a “heavy wet” and a lively
exchange of opinions with the other men of his ilk. Those were not places where
Mrs. Edward Devoran could intrude. A footman must be sent to order her horses
put to and to summon her coachman. Even so simple a matter as finding her own
cloak was not possible without the intervention of a maid or footman. And to be
so rude as to run away without taking leave of Lady Moreton and thanking
her—no, that was impossible for Mrs. Edward Devoran.

Nonetheless, Megaera
had
to leave before the
unmasking at midnight. She might have fooled Philip for the moment; he had
retreated looking puzzled, but when her face was fully exposed no alteration in
voice or manner would continue to fool him. Yet she could not leave without
explaining why to Lady Moreton. For one instant Megaera’s sense of humor
loosened the bonds of terror that held her. She had a vision of Lady Moreton’s
face as she said, “I’m sorry to go, but I have just run into my smuggling
partner’s bastard. I must leave before he recognizes me. No, he can’t be
mistaken. He knows me too well because he’s been my lover.”

Tears came into her eyes instead of laughter when she
realized Philip would be her lover no longer. Never again would she caress his
smooth, dark skin with its triangular mat of black hair, harsh and curly on his
chest, silken smooth on his belly, tight curled and springy around his manhood.
Never again feel has lips, hot and hard, passing over her body or hear his
voice husky with passion telling her that each time he saw her she was more
beautiful than before.

“My dear Mrs. Devoran,” her partner murmured, bending over
her, “that fool must have hurt you.”

“Yes,” Megaera whispered, then caught her breath.

“Did he tread on your foot? Bruise your shoulder?”

The anxious questions so far removed from what Megaera was
thinking, recalled her to reality and provided a solution to her problem. She
shook her head and smiled “bravely”.

“I must have twisted myself somehow when we bumped. I didn’t
feel it at all at first, but now… If you could find Lady Moreton…”

He was off at once, which provided the double benefit of
allowing Megaera to remain hidden in her quiet corner and of giving her another
few moments to work on her story. She had been afraid at first that Philip
would follow her into the refreshment room, but even if that happened, she
would prefer to confront him alone. Philip had missed her partner’s look of
surprise when she changed her voice, but Megaera had not. Since her escort had
said nothing, she assumed he put it down to her being so startled or perhaps
hurt, however, she didn’t wish to need to use that false voice again in his
presence.

She didn’t need to do so. Philip was still engaged with the
graceless girl Lady Moreton had wished on him when Megaera was begging to be
excused and to have her coachman called to take her home. At first Lady Moreton
would not hear of it. Megaera must come above and lie down. Dr. Partridge would
be summoned to her at once. She must stay the night. It was unthinkable that
she should be jolted over the rough roads in the dark when she was hurt.

“Papa,” Megaera said, “I cannot leave him for too long. If I
should not be there in the morning…”

She allowed her voice to drift away. Everyone local knew her
father’s problem. Lady Moreton could not guess exactly what Megaera meant her
father would do if he found himself unsupervised, but she felt it would be a
disaster. Megaera didn’t know what she meant either, since Lord Bolliet was no
longer capable of getting out of bed until well after noon. However, Lady
Moreton began to waver and Megaera sprang in with assurances that she would
rest quietly in Lady Moreton’s dressing room until her carriage was ready and
that she would send for Dr. Partridge as soon as she arrived. He would come to Bolliet
quicker, Megaera pointed out, since he was closer to the manor.

At last, seeing that Megaera’s color was returning and her
voice sounded strong and sure, Lady Moreton agreed. It did not seem that
Megaera was badly hurt, but if she had sprained herself, she would not be able
to dance and, really it was very dull to need to sit out all the dances.
Megaera was helped tenderly up the stairs and tucked into a luxurious chaise
longue with Lady Moreton’s maid in attendance until the coach and horses could be
readied. Lady Moreton had offered herself or her daughters to sit with Megaera,
but she civilly refused, saying, quite truthfully, that as long as she did not
move much she had no pain at all. Of course, she had no pain when she moved
violently either—but no one asked about that so she did not need to tell any
lies.

The half hour’s quiet that Megaera procured while
preparations for her departure were made did not do her any good. Her mind
seemed unable to get beyond the need to flee. After that it was blank. No
Philip, never again Philip—and no other man either. Now that she had seen him
again all the others became nothing, pale shadows without substance, unable to
raise a flicker of response in her. That pain was so fierce that she could not
fix her attention on anything but getting away, hiding where she could express
her grief and despair.

Once ensconced in her coach Megaera noted that the wind had
risen again but was coming from a different quarter. In the back of her mind
she knew that the storm would be renewed in full force before morning. Slowly
that thought made its way forward through her misery and connected with it so
that Pierre came into her mind. Pierre had said Philip would come as soon as he
could, but Philip had not come to her. Had Pierre misunderstood him? Was Pierre
false also? Had he sent Philip to find a new partner? But that was going too
far. Even in her disordered state Megaera knew it was ridiculous. One did not
go to a masked ball at the Justice of Peace’s estate to seek out a prospective
smuggler.

Then there must be a cully-catching game afoot. Philip must
intend to defraud some unsuspecting individual in some way. She had to stop
him. He would be caught. Lord Moreton was no fool. But how was she to reach
him? He had not tried—or had he? Suddenly Megaera straightened from the
agonized huddle in which she had been sitting. Pierre was no fool either. If
Philip had not intended to see her again, Pierre would not have mentioned him.
She tried to remember exactly what Pierre had said, but the words had been
swallowed up into her rage and shame. Philip had no way to reach her either,
except by coming to the cave—and she had not been there for several days. Was
there a message at the cave? Did he think she had abandoned him?

Now Megaera leaned forward as if her tense position could
drive the horses faster, but she managed to subdue the urge to scream at the
coachman. She knew the man was moving the carriage as fast as he could with
safety. The moon had been out, the winds having blown away the rain of the
previous night, but new clouds had formed and intermittently obscured the
moonlight. The drive seemed interminable, but ended at last. Then Megaera had
to deal with Rose, who could not understand why her mistress was home so early.
Finally, after pretending to take some laudanum to soothe the nonexistent pain
in her back, she was free.