Victoire flipped up her veil, regarding the medieval maiden in the mirror with something close to a pout. The flow of the wide-sleeved rose linen gown from shoulders to hem made her look taller, more elegant, the color a perfect foil for her skin tone, her wide brown eyes and glossy dark hair. A band of jewels enhanced the neckline and hems of the sleeves, and an equally sparkling chatelaine belt met in a wide V below her waist. The shoulder-length veil depended from a jeweled circlet of matching rose linen. She lifted it, peered more closely at the glass. Truthfully, she had never looked better, no matter the fears that threatened to engulf her.
If only she were simply a bride attending her first masquerade ball with her new husband at her side. Ah, then she could let her excitement soar, her feet float through the dances. She could enjoy the unabashed pleasure of her husband’s attention. His full attention.
Sacré bleu! How much of an idiot could she be? Her husband had taken up the fight against an entire ducal family. And all because of her.
Well, almost all. From what she had gleaned from talk she’d heard, it appeared Jack had taken an interest in the jewel thefts some length of time before he committed himself to her problems. Which meant . . . no matter how much he protested his involvement in establishing a London police force, he would always be a policeman at heart. A man ready to step up and fight other people’s battles.
Therefore, instead of pouting, she should be on her knees thanking the good Lord that Jack Harding included her in his list of challenges. Even if her Darrincote blood might forever taint future generations of Hardings.
Future generations. Yet to be begotten.
Or perhaps not.
Victoire blushed a scarlet that clashed quite hideously with the rose of her gown. Abruptly, she lowered her veil and turned away from the mirror. Only to find a vision in green standing in the doorway which connected her bedchamber to her husband’s. Even his mask was green. Ma foi! But of course. While in Lincolnshire, she had learned enough about Jack Harding to appreciate the singular appropriateness of his costume. Who else should he be but Robin Hood?
“You are a vision,” he said softly. Then, giving her no opportunity to respond to the unexpected compliment, he switched back to the man in charge of catching a thief and the unraveling of the Darrincote family’s evil plans. “Keep your veil in place at all times,” Jack ordered. “Theoretically, marriage has put a crimp in the plans to seize your fortune, but it is not yet in our hands, and anything is possible.”
He seized both her hands in his. “Someone will be watching you every moment. Cheyney, Hammond, Blacklock, even O’Rourke will be here to augment Tom Dudley and his men.”
“But they must watch Lady Conyngham,” Victoire protested.
“Not all of them, I promise.” He raised her hands to his lips. “And keep in mind that, for all our preparations, it’s unlikely the thief will attempt to seize either necklace or earrings from her person. The best we can hope is to catch him openly eyeing the jewels—which are quite spectacular, if fake—”
“Fake!” Victoire cried.
“Ugly as the necklace is, the stones are priceless. Conyngham had Rundell & Bridge create a replica.”
“All this to catch someone looking at the jewels? That is not at all sensible!”
Jack squeezed her hands tight, his eyes taking on that foolish-girl gleam she so despised. “We will be posting a watch over Lady Conyngham’s jewels each night for the foreseeable future. Tonight’s precautions are merely dictated by common sense. The possibility that the jewel thief could change his—or her—modus operandi and attack Lady Conyngham directly is always present. And we must protect her at all costs. Just as we will be protecting you.”
“And who protects you?” Victoire demanded. “The Darrincotes can only keep my money over your dead body.”
For a moment he stood very still, her hands still clasped in his. Then he removed his mask, lifted her veil, and gazed directly into her eyes. “One problem at a time, Victoire. Tonight we seek a thief. I do not expect murder at a masquerade.”
With those words something else passed between them. A promise of better days ahead? A crumb to cling to when everything went wrong?
Victoire nodded, offering a wan smile. She must believe—she would believe—tonight was the beginning of the end.
Naturally, they arrived at Conyngham House a full hour early, giving Jack enough time to prowl each public room, make certain Tom Dudley and his men—looking exceedingly sheepish in hooded black dominos—were strategically placed both inside the rooms and outside on the terrace. Victoire hovered with the marchioness and her sister-in-law, all in perfect agreement that the Duchess of Marchmont had been quite right to keep the necklace and earrings locked away, unworn, through all the years of her marriage. The necklace, a flagrant display of yellow diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, set in heavy gold filigree, completely filled the décolletage of Lady Conyngham’s elaborate gown in the style of the court of Charles I.
“I can only hope he will steal it during the first hour,” Cat declared. “Such ugliness is a great embarrassment. I cannot believe any Trowbridge ever commissioned such a piece of vulgarity.”
“Was there not a pirate on the family tree?” Amabel asked. “Perhaps it is of foreign origin, captured at sea.”
Victoire clapped her hands. “Delightful. With such a history, I can almost forgive the ugliness.” But alas for all their hopes, every eye in the ballroom would be drawn to the duchess’s necklace, which fairly shouted its presence. And the word, trap. A nice parure of diamonds might have been more effective, Victoire thought with a sigh. Then again, if the thief was solely interested in the value of the stones . . .
“Our guests are arriving,” Cat whispered in conspiratorial tones. “The play begins.”
Feeling remarkably sheltered behind her filmy veil, Victoire wandered through the elegantly appointed rooms, polished to perfection in anticipation of a veritable crush of masked guests. Hundreds of candles defied the darkness, casting a warm glow over each room, augmented by crackling fires in exquisitely carved marble fireplaces. As she entered the ballroom, the orchestra was warming up, its squeaks and squawks the final preparation for the anticipated influx of colorfully garbed guests.
Eyes sparkling, Victoire drew a deep breath. She was out! She had escaped the confinement of South Audley Street. She was free to roam. Crossing the shining expanse of the ballroom floor, she peeked through one of the French doors leading onto the terrace. Ah, que magnifique! The garden was hung with strings of lanterns, and in areas where there were no trees or bushes to support the strings, tall torches had been driven into the ground, the overall effect transforming the garden into a twinkling fairyland of twisting brick paths, flowering bushes, and the first blossoms of impressive perennial borders. Victoire’s lips twisted into a wry smile. Lovers might find few dark corners on the Conyngham grounds, but the garden was pure enchantment.
Lovers. Victoire sighed. As much as she had been taught that marriages were made for land, for money, for bloodlines, for necessity—as hers had been—she had hoped for more. Not that Jack had indicated he found her wanting—indeed, far from it—and yet . . .
Ah, bah! They were stuck with each other and must make the best of it. Surely an affinity for each other in bed was a good way to start.
But how long would Jack’s interest last? Victoire sighed.
“Miz Harding?” Tom Dudley’s voice came from behind a nondescript black mask and hooded cloak. “’Tis best you not wander off. There’s safety in numbers.”
“Of course,” Victoire returned through clenched teeth. And why had Jack not come for her? Clearly, the exquisite Lady Conyngham’s necklace was of greater import than his wife’s life! Feeling very much put upon, Victoire turned back toward the rooms where the sound of voices was increasing by the moment. Freedom, it seemed, was elusive.
An hour later Victoire had danced with Lord Cheyney and, surprisingly, a man who quite took her breath away when he confessed to being Terence O’Rourke. Even in the course of a dance in which they were frequently separated, she could understand why Jack and Tobias Brockman’s son-in-law were friends. She could feel his energy, the power, the sheer determination to succeed, that was so frequently lacking in men of the ton who had never had to fight for their place in life. She had also sampled some of the finest champagne it had ever been her privilege to drink, champagne that surpassed even the vintages in Lord Claude’s cellars.
While the orchestra took a well-deserved rest, Victoire examined the crowd that now filled the ballroom. Scantily draped ladies of Greece and Rome, dazzling ladies of the Renaissance, shepherdesses and milkmaids, a wide range of queens from Eleanor of Aquitaine to Elizabeth and Marie Antoinette. At the moment Victoire could see neither the marchioness nor her sister-in-law. Nor a tall green Robin Hood. Nor anyone who looked as if he might be one of the Trowbridge twins. Once again, with even greater determination she searched the ballroom, concentrating on the men.
She found a mélange of Roman Senators, surcoated knights, court jesters, dashing pirates, several highwaymen in swirling greatcoats and oversize black hats, King Arthur in chainmail, three Henry the Eighths, a Viking warrior, a harlequin or two, and of course a number of men in black dominos, who could be anyone from Sergeant Dudley to gentlemen of the ton who scorned wearing a costume. None of them was Jack. Even Lord Cheyney had disappeared.
As she made her way around the edges of the room, she recognized Mr. Hammond, garbed as a Black Knight, and suspected the Knight Templar standing next to him was likely Mr. Blacklock.. Victoire wedged her way through an antechamber filled with chattering historical characters, wound her way through the as yet sparsely populated supper room, all to no avail, and finally entered a less crowded salon on the far side of the entry hall. The gaudy, two-tiered necklace of rubies, sapphires, and diamonds fairly leaped out at her. Lady Conyngham now wore an elaborate Venetian Carnival mask which almost fully obscured her perfect features, but the necklace was unmistakable.
Yet, Victoire thought, the exquisite young marchioness could not hold a candle to the bewigged eighteenth century dandy standing close behind her, sporting a coat of sky blue, elaborately ribboned along the swept-back edges, with a long satin vest embroidered in pink and silver worn over a shirt with cascades of lace at throat and cuffs. At his side swung a scabbard, the hilt of the blade sparkling with cabochon-cut gems. And, mon Dieu, spots of rouge etched his cheeks and extended to suspiciously rosy lips. To top off the impression of a useless fribble who would likely trip over his own sword, ribbons dangled from the tops of his white knee-high stockings and a lace-edged handkerchief dangled from his fingertips. Victoire gaped. The exquisite gentleman of another century had to be the Marquess of Conyngham, but the contrast with the dynamic, rather menacing, man she had met in her drawing room quite took her breath away. This then was the man she’d heard about, the one once called Blas the Bastard. A deadly poseur. Victoire could only applaud his efforts. His glance had flicked over her as she entered the room, but was now firmly fixed on the other guests, as if a thief might lurk behind each mask.
But still no Jack. With Lady Conyngham so well-guarded, Victoire supposed he was prowling the six rooms opened for the masquerade. Probably the gardens and the rooms considered off-limits as well. Why should she be disappointed? Jack was not here to enjoy himself, so what made her think she had a right to at least a modicum of her husband’s attention? More than a little dejected, Victoire continued her quest. She supposed she should be grateful she had not found him peering down Lady Conyngham’s décolletage, as she had anticipated.
Slowly, she walked through the antechamber that had been set up for gaming, but no resident of Sherwood Forest raised his eyes from his cards. She moved on.
“Victoire?” A nobleman of Tudor times touched her on the shoulder. The skin-tight trunk hose, the bulging short pants that looked if they had escaped from a pumpkin patch were surprisingly flattering on his lithe figure. His fitted velvet doublet topped a shirt with sleeves that matched the gold embroidered satin panes that bulged out over the black velvet of his rounded pants. It was a look not many men could wear, but she had to admit her cousin Julius did the costume justice. She had no idea how he recognized her—perhaps the veil was not as concealing as she had thought—but there was something about him she knew immediately. The sound of his voice, his stance? Familial instinct? Whatever—she could not be comfortable in his presence.
“How could you, Victoire?” Julius asked, clearly aggrieved. You were promised to me.”
“I was not!”
“Do not be obtuse, my girl. Cousins marry all the time, mostly for the purpose of keeping the money in the family. It’s expected. I thought you understood that.”
Victoire tossed back her veil and glared at him. “This is neither the time nor place for this discussion and, besides, it is too late. I am married, and there’s an end to it.”
The silver eyes framed by his black mask took on a darker gleam. “We shall see, cousin,” Julius said in a tone that sent shivers down her spine. “The matter is far from settled. And now, if you will excuse me”—he proffered a mockery of a bow—“I have other, more pressing, matters to attend to.”
More pressing? As in stealing a necklace? But when Victoire would have followed him, a Knight Templar confronted her. “I believe this is our dance.”
“But—”
“Lady Conyngham is well-protected and so are you,” Harry Blacklock informed her. “Tonight is not the time to deal with both problems at once.”
Though grumbling beneath her breath, Victoire allowed him to lead her back to the ballroom. The supper dance went to Lord Cheyney, but as much as she liked Jack’s brother, Victoire could not be content. Except for her confrontation with Julius, everything was happening elsewhere, for by now it was clear the men were keeping her as far away from the marchioness and her necklace as was possible. Ma foi! Better she should have stayed at home instead of endure such frustration. She wanted to help, yet all she could do was dance and grind her teeth.
After they had dined on what had to be the finest array of food of the London Season, Victoire used the excuse of wishing to visit the ladies’ retiring room and, instead, slipped outside to stand on the terrace, looking out over the flickering lanterns and torches lighting the gardens.
Merveilleux! The cool night breeze beckoned her, tempting her onto the winding paths between the shrubbery. In a matter of moments she was down the steps and out of sight of the terrace, the path leading her to a flag-stoned circle surrounded by yew hedges six feet high. Four separate paths led away from the sheltered nook, with benches curved to match the arc of the hedges. A large urn, overflowing with flowers, occupied the center of the circle, the focal point of all four paths.
Delighted with the seclusion, Victoire sank onto one of the benches and flipped her veil back over the top of her jewel-encrusted circlet. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the damp night air, the scent of earth and flowers.
A rustle, a soft swish of fabric.
She shot to her feet, memories of the long staircase at Ravensden Park roiling through her mind.
Strong hands seized her, a hand clamped over her mouth. She fought, but the hands that held her were as tight as manacles. Words. Someone was saying something . . . soft but insistent.
“Victoire, stop it! It’s Jack.”
How many times had he said it before she heard? Before she listened? She stilled, and the hand over her mouth vanished, as did the bruising grip on her arm.
“How could you?” she hissed. “You frightened me half to death.”
“And how could you do something as stupid as leave the house, exposing yourself to God knows what, all alone in the garden?”
“Clearly, I am not alone.”
“No, thank God. I was sent for the moment you ventured onto the terrace.” He took her by the shoulders, gave her a shake. “Are you mad? You know this is the height of foolishness!”
“I’m certain Lady Conyngham is wondering what has happened to you,” Victoire returned loftily. “She is the one you are protecting tonight, n’est-ce pas?”
“Little idiot,” he murmured with gratifying affection. “I have left her surrounded by protectors, as if Conyngham weren’t enough all by himself. After all, it isn’t as if the thief is going to strike in the midst of the ball—though I have great hopes for directly after.” Jack’s scowl deepened. “And I understand you had words with Tarrant. Could you not have told him he had mistaken your identity and ignored him, as any sensible female would?”
“He is my cousin. I recognized him, as he recognized me. Who knows? Perhaps we share a family scent.”
“Vic-toire,” Jack chided. He attempted to run his hand through his hair, almost dislodging his jaunty feathered cap. With a groan he dropped down onto the bench beside her. “I don’t want to quarrel with you, Victoire. And I apologize for sounding harsh. But, believe me, your life truly matters—”
Shouts. A shot. Screams.
“Hell!” Jack exploded. “Stay here. Don’t move!”
He disappeared around a curve in the path before Victoire had time to take it all in. Lady Conyngham. The necklace. Was it possible the thief was insane enough to strike in the midst of such a crowd?
More pressing matters.
Ah, no! Not Julius, the nincompoop.
And then it struck her. After that great scold, her husband had left her alone. Again.