The Madcap Masquerade (8 page)

“Aye, she knows.” Mrs. Pinkert looked grim. “For haven’t I heard the squire tell her a hundred times and more it’s her duty to save Barrington Hall for all those what comes after her.” Mrs. Pinkert wrinkled her nose. “I’m that fond of the randy old goat, as you may have noticed, but there’s things he does where Miss Meg’s concerned that don’t sit well with me.”

Rising from the table, Mrs. Pinkert proceeded to cut herself a thick slab of bread and spread it with the bacon grease Maeve had poured from the skillet before cooking her eggs. She plopped back down in her chair, took a healthy bite and regarded Maeve solemnly. “My point is, Missy, you’d be smart to pin the squire down and find out what kind of flim-flam he’s up to here—for your sake as well as Miss Meg’s.”

Maeve studied the older woman’s face with anxious eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Think on it,” Mrs. Pinkert said between chews. “If knowing what she did about that land grant, Miss Meg still couldn’t bring herself to show up at her betrothal ball, it don’t seem too likely she’s planning on coming back for her wedding.”

M
aeve spent the balance of the morning in a state of nervous agitation, touring the house accompanied by Mrs. Pinkert and the two old hounds who’d met her at the door when she’d arrived at Barrington Hall. She had no real interest in her father’s manor house, but it helped pass the time until he put in an appearance. She fully intended to confront him with the new knowledge she’d acquired regarding the marriage he’d arranged between Meg and the earl; she simply had to determine how to do so without revealing Mrs. Pinkert’s role.

Most of the rooms in the rambling manor house had been closed off and the furniture draped with Holland covers. The few rooms the squire used were furnished with massive chairs and couches, all upholstered in a faded brownish damask depicting one hunting scene or another.

The same smell of stale tobacco smoke and dog that had assailed Maeve’s nostrils when she’d stepped into the entry way two days earlier still permeated every room in the lived-in portion of the house, with the exception of one room. Unlocking a door on the second floor, Mrs. Pinkert led Maeve into what she called “Miss Meg’s music room. The sparsely furnished salon was sparkling clean, free of odor and like Meg’s bedchamber, amazingly bright and cheerful, considering the dark ambience of the rest of the manor house.

It was the first rewarding moment Maeve had experienced in an otherwise grimly frustrating morning. For sitting in the very center of the room was a pianoforte. “Miss Meg locks herself in here by the hour,” Mrs. Pinkert confided. “Sometimes I stand out in the hall listening to the pretty tunes she plays.”

Maeve beamed at the genial housekeeper. “At last I find something my sister and I have in common.” Seating herself on the bench, she ran her fingers over the keys, and grinned happily. “For I, too, love music and studied a number of years with a friend of my mother’s, who claimed he was once Louis XVI’s court musician. If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon end my tour here. I haven’t had a chance to play since I left London, and my fingers are itching to try out this pianoforte.”

She glanced up at Mrs. Pinkert. “However, I do need to speak to the squire as soon as possible. Would you please be kind enough to send for me when he leaves his bedchamber?”

“He ain’t sleeping in his bed. He’s curled up in the kennel with his pack of hounds, like he always does when he’s four sheets to the wind. I sometimes think there’s more hound blood than human in that man’s veins.”

“But how can that be when the hounds are lying here at my feet,” Maeve asked.

“These two old duffers?” Mrs. Pinkert gave the largest of the dogs a nudge with the toe of her house slipper. “They’re too old to run with the pack, and if you’re wondering why they’re living in the house, it’s ‘cause squire thought t’would be too hard on their old bones to spend the winter in an unheated kennel. Of course, that was two years ago and he’s gotten so used to having them sleep on his bed every night, I doubt he’ll ever send them back to their proper quarters.”

“Very well,” Maeve said patiently. “Please let me know when he comes in from the kennel.”

“I’ll do that, Miss Maeve. But since there’s three bottles of brandy missing from the liquor cabinet, I wouldn’t count on seeing him much before Tuesday if I was you—and he’ll be mean as a snake for a couple of days after that. Best you wait till next Friday to speak your piece.”

“Damn and blast,” Maeve muttered under her breath, but in the next moment she realized it might not be a bad idea to put off her talk with the squire for a few days. By then he might have forgotten how angry he was when she left the ball early.

Furthermore, now that she’d discovered Meg’s pianoforte, she’d be content to bide her time until her father emerged from his drunken stupor. Between that and the work she must accomplish on her cartoons to have them ready to submit to
The Times
when she returned to London, she would have plenty to keep her busy until Friday.

Half an hour later, lost in the joy of being reunited with the instrument she loved, she finished playing the last few bars of one of Mr. Bach’s beautifully precise fugues. Then without a moment’s break, she let her fingers drift into a lilting fragment from one of Mr. Beethoven’s symphonies, only to look up and find Mrs. Pinkert standing in the doorway.

“You’ve a visitor, Miss Maeve—or rather Miss Meg has.”

“A visitor?” Maeve’s heart skipped a beat. Surely the Earl wouldn’t be calling on her. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms.

“It’s the vicar, which ain’t surprising. He’s always here once or twice a week. Him and Miss Meg is thick as inkle weavers. I put him in the small salon off the entry.”

Maeve’s fingers crashed onto the keys. “Oh dear, what shall I do? If he’s spent that much time with Meg, he’s bound to notice my eyes. In fact, he looked at them rather oddly last night, but he apparently thought they reflected the green of my gown.”

Mrs. Pinkert threw up her hands. “Lord luv us, you’re right. If there’s anyone besides me what knows the true color of Miss Meg’s eyes, it’s her friend, the vicar.” She shrugged her plump shoulders. “Well you can’t turn him away; Miss Meg would never do that. Just don’t look at him straight on.”

Mrs. Pinkert’s advice seemed sound enough but as Maeve soon discovered, it was not all that easy to implement. She’d barely stepped through the doorway of the salon when Richard Forsythe rushed forward and clasped both her hands in his. “My dear, Theo told me why you left the ball so early, and then when you weren’t in church this morning, I knew you must be seriously ill.”

Maeve cursed her own stupidity. She should have known that, unlike herself, Meg attended church faithfully.

“These dreadful headaches of yours seem to be happening more frequently of late,” Richard continued. “Have you thought to discuss them with Dr. Mabley?”

“No, I haven’t,” Maeve murmured, suddenly struck by what seemed a perfect way to keep the vicar from noticing the color of her eyes. “The light,” she moaned, collapsing onto a well-worn sofa. “Would you please close the drapes?” She could never remember having had a headache herself, but Lilly had suffered from them, and the first thing she’d done when she felt one coming on was lie down in a darkened room with cold compresses on her forehead.

The vicar instantly rushed to do her bidding. Drawing the heavy velvet drapes across the window, he immersed the room in gloomy twilight. “I cannot bear to see you suffer like this,” he said, seating himself beside her. “Is there anything I can do to help alleviate your agony?”

Maeve raised her head. “Talk to me,” she said weakly. “It will help take my mind off the pain.” With the only light in the room that which shone through the unlined drapes and the open door, she felt safe from his scrutiny.

“What would you like to talk about, my dear?”

Maeve thought for a moment. “Tell me what you know about Sophie Whitcomb.”

“S-Sophie Whitcomb?” The vicar sounded as if there were something caught in his throat he could not quite swallow. “Perhaps you should first tell me what
you
know about Mrs. Whitcomb.”

“I know she’s the widow of the local alderman and that she grew up with the earl—probably with you too, since I remember your mentioning that you and he had been close friends since childhood. Oh, and of course, that she’s currently the earl’s mistress.”

The vicar made another strangled sound. “How…how could you know so much of the local gossip? You never venture into the village or anywhere else outside Barrington Hall except to attend church on Sundays, and I’ve never seen you speak to a soul then.”

“My new maid told me a little about Mrs. Whitcomb; the Earl supplied the rest shortly after he introduced her to me.”

“Theo introduced you? Surely you cannot mean it.” The vicar pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “I knew, of course, that Sophie was at the ball. Which was surprising enough. But I never dreamed Theo would…” His voice rose to a strangled squeak. “That is to say, the Earl is usually such a gentleman.”

Maeve shrugged. “To give the devil his due, I don’t think he had any intention of introducing us until his hand was forced. Furthermore, he claimed Mrs. Whitcomb’s invitation was mistakenly issued by his man-of-affairs. At least that’s what he said when I told him what I thought of his inviting his mistress to his betrothal ball.”

“Margaret! You didn’t! Whatever has come over you lately? I scarcely recognize my shy little friend.” The vicar covered her hand with his. “My dear, that was simply not the thing to do. I know you have had little opportunity to learn how one should go on in proper society, so you can be forgiven small mistakes. But this was not a small mistake. No true lady would ever acknowledge the existence of a man’s mistress, much less discuss such a vulgar creature with him.”

“Vulgar creature?”

“Exactly. Such women are all unspeakably vulgar, my dear, and Sophie more so than most. No one could understand why Alderman Whitcomb would consider marrying the trollop when it was common knowledge she had consorted with virtually every young lad in the district by the time she was eighteen.”

Including you, no doubt.
Maeve’s jaw tightened, but before she could tell the vicar what she thought of his local gossip, she was interrupted by voices in the entryway. One, she knew was Mrs. Pinkert’s; the other was a deep rumble, too low to recognize.

A moment later, a tall, masculine figure filled the doorway. “What the devil! Are you sure this is the right salon, madam? The drapes are drawn.”

“Theo!” The vicar dropped Maeve’s hand and shot to his feet.

“Richard? Is that you?” The Earl blinked. “What’s going on here? Why, may I ask, are you sitting here in the dark?”

“Margaret—Miss Barrington has a headache.” The vicar cleared his throat; the sound ricocheted around the darkened room like a stray bullet. “I pulled the drapes because the light was hurting her eyes.”

“The devil you say!” The Earl stepped through the doorway and peered about him, his eyes apparently adjusting to the darkened room. A moment later Maeve felt the heat of his scorching gaze light on her.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said in a voice that quivered slightly. She had somehow faced him squarely the previous evening despite the monstrous deception she was carrying out; now, when she’d done nothing wrong, she hung her head like a naughty child caught in the midst of a shameful bit of mischief.

“Good morning Miss Barrington.” Icicles dripped from every word.

“Please come in and take a chair, my lord. There’s one directly to the right of you, in case you’ve failed to notice it.” Maeve took a deep breath. Lord he was handsome—magnificent in his rage. And rage it most surely was. Did he think he was being betrayed by his longtime friend as well as his bride-to-be?

The Earl seated himself in the chair she indicated. “Are you troubled with these severe headaches often, Miss Barrington?” he asked in the same chilling tone of voice.

“No,” Maeve said.

“Yes,” the vicar said simultaneously. “I wish you would persuade her to speak to Dr. Mabley about them, Theo. I’ve tried but to no avail.”

The Earl nodded gravely. “I shall insist upon it once we are married.” His tone of voice left no doubt that he intended to exercise the same control over his wife as he did his tenant farmers and the sheep that grazed his pastures. Maeve clenched her fists, but managed to remain silent. Only two more weeks she reminded herself; then she could put the autocratic Earl out of her mind as she might a bad dream once the night was over.

Theo’s eyes had actually adjusted to the dim light more quickly than he’d let on—quickly enough to see that Richard had been holding hands with Miss Barrington. A damned odd thing for a vicar to be doing, in his opinion. A fiercely possessive rage welled up inside him. Was Richard so naïve that he was unaware he had put the future Countess of Lynley in a compromising position?

“You appear to be amazingly well-versed concerning Miss Barrington’s health, Richard,” he remarked coldly.

“I am Margaret’s vicar, Theo.”

“Indeed. Do you feel the same personal concern for all your parishioners, or is Miss Barrington unique?”

Once again, Richard cleared his throat self-consciously. “I try to be there for any in the parish who need me. As a matter of fact, I must take my leave of you now since Annie Jennings is near her time and I promised to drop in on her.”

Richard made a quick bow. “Good afternoon then Margaret. Theo.” His voice sounded unnaturally thin and Theo felt his conscience prick him. He pitied his poor friend if he’d lost his heart to the intriguing squire’s daughter, but it changed nothing.

There were bigger things at stake here than the longings of one human heart, and the die was cast. Miss Barrington and her fortune were destined to save Ravenswood and the honor of a family name far older and more noble than that of the pathetic German prince who was currently the titular head of England’s government—and save it they would, no matter who got hurt in the process.

Rising from his chair, he crossed to the sofa and sat down next to Miss Barrington. Even in the dim light, he could see the startled look in her eyes. She didn’t move, at least not perceptibly, but he felt her withdraw behind an invisible barrier which shut him out as effectively as if she had slammed a door in his face.

“Did you have a specific purpose in mind for this visit, my lord, or are you merely fulfilling your social obligation to your betrothed?” she asked with quiet dignity.