The Masked Heart (Sweet Deception Regency #2) (17 page)

"What an enterprising young lady," Drew said. "A laudable deed to take such measures to ensure her sister's future. She has put nothing aside for herself?"

"Nothing, milord." The solicitor's face clearly showed his disapproval of such a thing.

"You have never met Miss Meriweather?"

"I have had the pleasure of Miss Fleur's acquaintance but Miss Blaine has been away from home during my visits."

"If you could hazard a guess, sir, what kind of a person would you suspect Miss Blaine Meriweather to be?" Drew's eyes were intent on Wesley's face and he did not miss the slight flush of embarrassment that tinged the little man's scalp.

"I don't know, Lord Farrington," he answered, his eyes shifting around the room.

"Cut line, Wesley," Drew snapped. "Is the chit involved in some havey-cavey business? Do I need concern myself that we might find ourselves involved in some messy scandal broth?"

It was evident to Drew that the solicitor was more than uncomfortable with the topic of discussion. He kept his face expressionless but there was a hardness around the eyes that bespoke his determination to have an answer. Finally Wesley Upton loosed a tired sigh.

"To be perfectly honest, Lord Farrington, I know absolutely nothing to Miss Blaine's discredit." He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, reaching out for his spectacles. He was silent while he polished the lenses then returned them to his face and carefully arranged the earpieces. "However, sir, we are both men of the world and if I were to venture an opinion, I would say that the young lady in question may be leading a less than virtuous existence."

"Good Lord, man!"

"I know that may seem a harsh accusation but I cannot account otherwise for the sums of money placed in my hands. You know the kind of employment to be secured by a young gentlewoman. The salary is barely enough to survive on. Yet according to Lady Yates, Miss Blaine uses her own money to clothe, feed and house herself. And beyond that, contributes money to her sister's dowry. I am not able to contact the girl directly; all correspondence is handled through the estate manager. With the amount of her deposits and the secrecy surrounding her, is it any wonder, Lord Farrington, that I have serious doubts as to her employment. In my mind, it does not add up to honest labor."

Nor did it in Drew's mind. He waited but there was no other information forthcoming. After thanking the solicitor for his help and promising to mention nothing of the latter part of their discussion to Lady Yates, he left the stuffy office. Outside, he walked slowly, unconscious of the direction he was taking. His mind was busy with all that he had heard.

In his wildest imaginings he had never suspected that he would turn up such a bewildering piece of information. He admitted now that under the guise of investigating Fleur's background he had really been trying to satisfy his own curiosity about the mysterious Blaine Meriweather. Good Lord, he muttered. What a nest of snakes he had uncovered. Was it possible that Blaine was a woman of easy virtue, plying the oldest trade in the world? A kept woman or merely a self-employed entrepreneur?

A frown etched his forehead and at a shout, he stepped back, narrowly missing a collision with a carter. He concentrated on wending his way across the crowded streets. He ignored the shouts of the carriage drivers and dodged a curricle as he reached the gates of a small park. Walking along the quiet lanes, Drew once more focused on his thoughts.

He found it hard to get a picture of Blaine Meriweather. According to Wesley Upton, she was most probably involved in the muslin trade, a woman of few morals, supplementing her family's income with ill-gotten gains. He remembered how Val's face lit up whenever he spoke of his sister. By his description, Blaine was all that was wonderful. She was competent in managing the estate. She was teaching the boy good values and sound judgment. Even Fleur and Lady Yates mentioned Blaine with a smile and a twinkle in their eyes.

Lady Yates would never mention the girl, if she were involved in some less than virtuous enterprise. Drew had seen in the old woman a lady of principles with a strong moral code. Perhaps she did not know? Impossible, Drew snorted. It would not be easy to fool Lady Yates with some Banbury Tale. She had a surprisingly jaded view of the world and would spot any moral weakness in her niece.

How then to account for the money? He supposed that he would just have to assume she was earning her way in some legitimate venture. Perhaps the mystery about her had nothing to do with her employment but as he had already considered, some physical deformity.

Drew slashed his walking cane, efficiently beheading several flowers along the pathway. It annoyed him that in seeking information about the elusive Miss Meriweather, he had only turned up more questions. He should have left well enough alone. Short of asking Lady Yates outright, Drew could see no immediate satisfaction to his curiosity.

He immediately brightened at the thought that he might approach Lady Yates but then a sudden thought made the brows bunch over his eyes in consternation. What was wrong with him lately? He was beginning to wonder if something had happened to age him prematurely. His brain must surely be softening since the only time he seemed to get any enjoyment out of life was when he was with a sharp-tongued sexagenarian.

The truth was, he really was fond of Lady Yates. He enjoyed her company and was intrigued by her conversation. The old woman never bored him and delighted in giving him ferocious setdowns. When he was with her, he never considered her age but treated her like one of his contemporaries. She had a straightforwardness he admired. He was perceptive enough to realize that one of the appeals of the woman was the absence of sexual tensions. He could never speak to a woman his own age with the same freedom he had with Lady Yates. Young ladies were always busy trying to affix his interest and he needed to have a care that they did not assume he might eventually be brought up to scratch. He must be getting old. Perhaps he should just adjourn to his library with a good book and a lap robe. Drew dug his walking stick into the packed earth of the pathway. Too early to stick your spoon in the wall, my lad.

His green eyes lost their look of confusion and sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight. He would go home and change for an evening at the theatre. Even if the object of his desires would have nothing to do with him, he would still have the joy of feasting his eyes on her. A note to Miss Mason might be acceptable. She had spoken kindly to him when he rescued her from that blackguard Stoddard. Perhaps she might look more kindly on his suit, especially if he couched it in respectful terms. Drew's steps were brisk as he walked toward the gates of the park.

Blaine opened her hand and dropped the crumpled note on the top of her dressing table. With shaking fingers, she smoothed the wrinkled paper, staring down at the beautifully formed pen strokes. Hearing Tate's movements behind her, she hastily folded the note and thrust it into the pocket of her dress.

It was impossible, she told the reflection in the mirror but her eyes stared back rebelliously. Her gaze dropped to the surface of the dressing table and she rearranged the glass bottles of scents in an effort to organize her own thoughts.

Drew Farrington had invited her to meet him at a private inn tomorrow night when the theatre would be dark. He said he only desired the pleasure of her company at dinner; she could come and go as she pleased. He gave her directions and told her he would wait for her there. One evening was all that he asked. It was these words which replayed over and over in Blaine's mind.

Her hand curled over the letter in her pocket and for a moment she debated whether she should rip it up or burn it. One evening. It was not so much to ask, her traitorous mind declared. Slowly her fingers relaxed and she stroked the material of her dress, smiling at the crackle of parchment beneath the silk.

It was such a temptation. She was so tired of her solitary life. For six years her social life had been less exciting than that of a cloistered religious. It would be wonderful to dine with a man, for once, not playing a role, but being herself. She had envisioned such an evening in her dreams and now the mere thought was delicious, despite the danger. And it would be dangerous.

Drew Farrington was a gentleman. She was sure that she could trust him not to go beyond the boundaries he had set for the evening. He was not the danger. She was.

The thing that frightened Blaine was that she was actually considering accepting an invitation from a gentleman. From the moment she had stepped on the stage, she had been besieged with offers from amorous suitors whose one objective was to bed her. She knew that Drew wanted to make her his mistress and, despite that fact, she still wanted to spend the evening with him. Ever since she had gotten to know him in Wiltshire, he had constantly been on her mind. If they were together she was aware of his every glance and movement. When she did not see him, she wove endless fantasies about him.

Any lasting relationship with Drew was a fantasy, she reminded herself bitterly. No matter, her background or breeding. In the world that he inhabited, an actress was no better than a woman of the streets. He desired her, wanted her only for a brief tumble, and then, when she bored him, he would leave her. How could she even consider spending an evening with such a man?

"It's time," Tate said, her face suddenly appearing in the mirror behind Blaine. "Come along, do. What have you been about, miss, that you're not ready? Have you got your fan? Your reticule?"

She let the nattering words of the dresser wash over her as she made her way to the wings. Her hand gripped the velvet curtain as she listened to the lines of the actors. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then expelled it slowly to relax herself. She closed her eyes and let her mind block out the sounds around her as she concentrated on the role she would be playing. When she opened her eyes, she was calm, moving on stage at the sound of her cue.

For the evening's bill, John Tibbles had chosen a comic opera, blatantly pirated from a
commedia dell' arte
offering at Drury Lane. Blaine was Columbine and her entrance was met by a tumultuous roar of approval from the pit. Moving forward to the center of the apron, she sang her song, her eyes lifted to the upper gallery. Her movements were graceful and she kept a sweet smile on her face as befitted her part. It took all of her concentration to keep from looking at Drew's private box but she had made up her mind and was determined to ignore the man.

Teddy Mortimer, one of her favorites in the company, was Pantaloon. She smiled as he tugged at the absurdly long points of his short white beard. Teddy had a fine sense of comic timing and his rich deep voice rolled out over the audience as he raised his brown mask with the hooked nose into the air.

She knew Drew's eyes were on her. She could feel them almost as a physical pressure, weighting her down. Lethargy invaded her body and yet her heart felt light as though she were floating. It took all her control not to raise her eyes but she fought the urge, keeping her gaze firmly on the actors on stage.

Harlequin capered across the boards and led her forward. Whitiker Chalmers was new to the company but he had shown well in rehearsal. He had a lean, wiry body which looked well in the costume of red, blue and green diamonds. As he waved his sword-bat, he stroked his moustaches and slyly grinned, displaying a gap-toothed smile that made Blaine giggle. While he sang, she fixed her eyes on his face in wide-eyed admiration, although her mind was far away.

The play moved at a spritely pace and, through it all, Blaine avoided glancing at the private boxes. She was proud of her determination but there was a bleakness to her spirits that she found hard to define. Her final song spoke of a love that could never be and her voice trembled with emotion as she completed the final trilling run. There was absolute silence in the audience when she finished and tears sheened her eyes, giving a rainbow effect in the light from the argand lamps.

Suddenly the roar of the crowd broke over her in a wild cacophony. For a moment she was disoriented. Without thought she looked up at Drew's box and was immediately transfixed by the blaze of emotion she read in his eyes. It was as though they were alone in the theatre; two minds attached over a great distance. Nothing mattered to Blaine except to forever bask in the light of approval she found there. She knew he had been waiting all evening to discover her response to his invitation. For once his austere features were hesitant, almost as if he were afraid of her answer. Holding his glance, she dropped into a graceful curtsy. As she rose, she nodded her head in a simple sign of acceptance.

Chapter Ten

"You have surely lost the wits you were born with," Tate snapped. "What will happen if he recognizes you?"

She stared at the figure on the window seat which faced out onto Portman Square. Seeing the set jaw of her mistress and the fiery determination in the golden-hazel eyes, the dresser sighed. It was never easy dealing with Blaine when she had already set her feet on a path. She shrugged, determined to fight against such a dangerous undertaking.

"I know the risks involved, Tate. Lord knows I have thought long and hard about this. With all my heart, I want this one night. For one night I want to pretend that my life is different. I want to be Blaine Margaret Meriweather, a young gentlewoman having dinner with a handsome gentleman."

The wizened little dresser heard the cry in her mistress' voice and could not harden her heart against the plea. For six years she had watched over Blaine, loving her much as if she were her own child. She had seen the girl combat loneliness and despair. She had been isolated from all of her own kind, living in a world renowned for its loose morals and debauchery. It was a wonderment that the girl had survived at all, let alone maintained the purity and innocence that lay just beneath the veneer of sophistication.

"Aye, lambie, I know it has been lonely for you," Tate said, an unaccustomed tear in her eye. "But it is almighty dangerous. Lord Farrington, of all people!"