Josephine
The costume ball was a crush. Lady Fambridge had displayed what Josephine had learned was her well-known flair for the dramatic in the décor she had chosen for the evening. The large, elegant room was lit with red and gold lanterns rather than blazing chandeliers. The dim illumination steeped the space in long, mysterious shadows.
A number of potted palms had been brought in from the conservatory. They had been strategically placed in clusters along the walls to provide secluded niches for couples.
Costume balls, Josephine had quickly discovered, were all about dalliance and flirtation. They provided opportunities for the jaded members of Society to play their favourite games of seduction and intrigue even more openly than was usual.
Hero had admitted that morning at breakfast that when he had elected to accept the invitation, he had not realized the event would require a domino and a mask.
That was what came of leaving social decisions to a man, Josephine thought. They did not always pay attention to the details.
Anne and Felix both appeared to be enjoying themselves thoroughly, however. They had disappeared half an hour before. Josephine had a hunch that they were making good use of one of the palm-shrouded bowers scattered strategically around the room.
She, on the other hand, was making her way through the crowd toward the nearest door. She needed a rest.
For the last hour, she had dutifully danced with any number of masked gentlemen, rarely bothering to hide her own features behind the little feathered mask she carried in one hand. The point was for her to be recognized, after all, as Anne had reminded her.
She had carried out her responsibilities to the best of her ability, but now she was not only bored, but her feet were also beginning to hurt inside her soft leather dancing slippers. A steady diet of balls and soirees took its toll, she thought.
She had almost reached the door when she noticed the man in the black domino making his way determinedly toward her. The cowl of the enveloping cloak-like garment had been drawn up over his head, casting his face into deep shadow. As he drew closer she saw that he wore a black silk mask.
He moved like a wolf gliding through a flock of sheep in search of the weakest lamb. For an instant, her spirits rose and she forgot all about her sore feet. When he had left the house earlier that evening, Hero had taken a black domino and a black mask with him. He had said he would meet her at the Fambridge ball and accompany her home.
She had not expected him to arrive so early, however. Perhaps he had met with success in his inquiries and wanted to discuss the new information with her. She took some comfort in the knowledge that, although he seemed intent on ignoring the attraction between them—at least for now—he had more or less made her a consultant in this affair.
The stranger in the domino arrived in front of her. Josephine’s excitement evaporated instantly. This was not Hero. She was not certain how she knew that with such certainty before he even touched her, but she did know it.
It was not the man’s voice that gave him away—he did not speak. There was nothing odd about that. He was not the first gentleman that night to use gestures to invite her to dance. Voices were easy to identify, and several guests preferred to play their games anonymously. Nevertheless, she had recognized most of her partners, especially those with whom she had danced the waltz on previous occasions.
The waltz was a surprisingly intimate sort of exercise. No two men conducted it in quite the same manner. Some went about the business with military-style precision. A few steered her around the floor with such energetic enthusiasm that she felt as though she was engaging in a horse race. Still, others took advantage of the close contact to try to rest their hands in places where propriety dictated they did not belong.
She hesitated when the man in the black domino offered his arm in a graceful flourish. He was not Hero, and her feet really did hurt. But whoever he was, he had made a considerable effort to get to her in the crowd. The least she could do was dance with him, she thought. After all, she was being paid to perform a role.
The man in the mask took her arm. In the next breath, she regretted her decision. The touch of his long, elegant fingers sent an inexplicable chill through her.
She caught her breath and told herself that it must be her imagination. But her senses rejected that logic. There was an aura about the stranger that stirred her nerves in a most unpleasant manner.
When he guided her into the steps of the waltz, it was all she could do not to wrinkle her nose in reaction to the unwholesome odour that emanated from him. She could tell that he had recently perspired very heavily, but the smell of his sweat was not that which was produced by normal exertion. It was tainted with some essence that she could not identify; a vapour that filled her with disgust.
She studied the small portion of his face that was not covered by the mask. In the lantern light, his eyes fairly glittered through the slits cut in the black silk.
Her first thought was that he was intoxicated, but she discarded that theory when she realized that he was not the least unsteady or lacking in coordination. Perhaps he had just won or lost a fortune in a game of whist or hazard. That might account for his air of unnatural excitement.
Tension tightened the muscles in her body. She wished with all her heart that she had not accepted the cowled man’s offer of a dance. But it was too late. Unless she wanted to cause a scene, she was trapped until the music ended.
She was positive that she had never danced the waltz with this man before tonight, but she wondered if she had met him at some other affair.
“Are you enjoying the evening, sir?” she asked, hoping that she could tempt him into speaking.
But he merely inclined his head in silent, affirmative response.
The long fingers gripped her own so tightly that she could feel the outline of the ring he wore.
She felt his gloved hand tighten at her waist and almost stumbled in response. If he attempted to move his palm lower, she would end the dance immediately, she told herself. She could not abide him touching her any more intimately.
She shifted her fingertips from his shoulder to his arm to put a little more distance between them. The movement caused her palm to glide across a long, jagged tear in the voluminous folds of the heavy black cloth of the domino. Perhaps the garment had got caught on the door of his carriage. Should she mention the rip in his cloak to him?
No, the less said between them the better. She did not want to make polite conversation, even if he proved willing to talk.
And then, without a word, the man in the mask brought her to a halt at the edge of the dance floor, bowed deeply, turned and strode swiftly toward the nearest door.
She watched him leave, slightly stunned by the strange episode and exceedingly relieved that it was over.
The folds of her cloaklike domino suddenly felt much too warm. She needed that breath of fresh air now far more than she had a few minutes before.
Raising her mask to conceal her face, she managed to escape the shadowy ballroom without attracting any more attention. She went down a quiet hall and sought refuge in the Fambridges’ moonlit conservatory.
The large greenhouse radiated the wholesome, soothing scents of rich soil and thriving foliage. She paused at the entrance to give her eyes time to adjust to the shadows.
After a moment she discovered that the pale glow of the full moon flooding through the panes of glass provided sufficient illumination to make out the shapes of the workbenches and the masses of greenery.
She wandered down an aisle of broad-leaved plants, enjoying her moment of solitude and silence. She had danced with any number of mysterious masked strangers that evening, but Hero had not been among them. Even if he had come to her in a mask and a domino and said not one word, she would have known his touch, she mused. Something in her reacted to his nearness as though they shared some sort of metaphysical connection. Surely he experienced some of the same awareness when he was near her. Or was she fooling herself?
She reached the end of the corridor of potted plants and was about to turn back when something, a brush of a shoe against the tile or perhaps the soft swish of a domino, told her that she was no longer alone in the conservatory. Her pulse quickened. Instinctively she moved deeper into a patch of shadow created by a towering palm. What if her dance partner had followed her?
The conservatory had seemed a safe enough retreat, but it occurred to her that she could be trapped here at the far end of the glasshouse. The only way back into the ballroom would take her past whoever had followed her here.
“Miss Langford?” The woman’s voice was low and tremulous.
Relief cascaded through Josephine. She did hot recognize the newcomer, but knowing that she was dealing with a female eased her tension. She stepped out of the shadow of the tall palm.
“Yes, I’m here,” she said.
“I thought I saw you come this way.” The lady came toward her along with the plant lined aisle. Her domino was fashioned of a light coloured fabric that reflected the moonlight: pale blue or green, perhaps. She had the cowl pulled up over her head to shield her face.
“How did you recognize me?” Josephine asked, curious and somewhat surprised to discover that she was still a bit wary. The waltz with the masked stranger had unsettled her usually unflappable nerves more than she would have believed possible.
“I saw you arrive in Tiffin’s carriage earlier.” The woman was small and rather ethereal looking in her pale costume. She seemed to drift toward Josephine as though her feet did not quite touch the ground. “Your mask and domino are quite distinctive.”
“Have we been introduced?” Josephine asked.
“No, forgive me.” The lady reached up with one dainty, gloved hand and lowered her cowl to reveal an elegant coiffure. Her hair was most likely a golden blonde shade, but in the eerie light, it had the appearance of magically spun silver. “My name is Sydney Burnley.”
Hero’s former fiancee. Josephine managed, barely, not to groan aloud. The evening was progressing from bad to awkward. Where was Anne when she was needed?
“Mrs Burnley,” she murmured.
“Please, call me, Sydney.” She removed her mask.
Josephine had heard enough in the way of gossip to guess that Sydney was very pretty. The reality was somewhat daunting. Even here in the weak light of the moon, it was easy to see that Sydney was nothing short of beautiful. Her features were finely etched and delicately made.
Everything about her was so dainty and lovely as to be a little unreal. Here, amidst the moonlit foliage, Sydney looked like a fairy queen holding court in a moonlit garden.
“As you wish.” Josephine lowered her mask. “You obviously know who I am.”
“Tiffin’s new fiancée.” Sydney floated to a halt a short distance away. “I suppose I should offer my congratulations.” She ended the sentence on a rising note, as though asking a question.
“Thank you,” Josephine said coolly. “Was there something you wanted?”
Sydney flinched. “I’m sorry, I'm not handling this very well. The truth is, I’m not sure how to go about it.”
Nothing was so irritating as a person who hemmed and hawed and refused to get to the point, Josephine thought.
“What, precisely, are you attempting to accomplish?” she asked.
“This is so difficult. Perhaps it would be easier if you would allow me to start at the beginning.”
“If you feel that will help.”
Sydney turned slightly away and examined a nearby plant as though she had never seen anything like it in her entire life. “I’m sure you've heard the gossip.”
“I know that you were engaged to Hero and that you eloped with Roland Burnley if that is what you mean.” She did not bother to conceal her impatience.
Sydney clenched one gloved hand. “I had no choice. My parents were determined to marry me off to Tiffin. They would never have allowed me to end the engagement. I am certain that if I had confided to Papa that I couldn’t bring myself to go through with the wedding, he would have locked me in my room and fed me bread and water until I agreed to obey him.”
“I see,” Josephine said neutrally.
“You don’t believe me? I assure you, Papa is very strict. He will not tolerate any disagreement. Everything must be done according to his dictates. And Mama would not go against him. I would have done almost anything to escape the marriage they intended for me. My dear Roland came to my rescue.”
“I see.”
Sydney smiled wistfully. “He is handsome and noble and very, very brave. There is no other man I know who would have stood up to both my father and his own, not to mention Tiffin, to save me from a horrid marriage.”
“You’re certain that marriage to Hero would have been horrid?”
“It would have been intolerable.” Sydney shuddered. “During the weeks that I was engaged to him, I used to lie in bed at night and cry until dawn. I pleaded with Papa to find another husband for me, but he refused.”
“What, precisely, made you so sure that you could not bear to be married to Hero?”
Sydney’s neat brows came together in a delicate frown of confusion. “Why, because he is exactly like Papa, of course. How could I possibly wish to marry a man who would treat me the way Papa always treated me? A man who never paid the least attention to my opinions? A man who never allowed me to make my own decisions? A man who insisted upon playing the tyrant in his own home? Why I would rather have entered a convent.”
The light of understanding began to dawn. It was abruptly quite clear why Sydney had run off with her Roland.
“Well, that does explain a few things, I suppose,” Josephine replied.
Sydney searched her face. “You’re not the least bit afraid of Tiffin, are you?”
The unexpected question caught Josephine by surprise. She thought about it briefly. She had a good measure of respect for Hero, and she certainly had no wish to arouse his temper unnecessarily. Nor would she care to cross him. But fear him?
“No,” she said.
Sydney hesitated and then nodded. “I can see that it is different for you. I must admit that I am envious. How do you do it?”
“How do I do what?”
“How do you make Tiffin pay attention to what you have to say? How do you stop him from taking command of your life? How do you prevent him from having his own way in everything?”
“That is a rather personal question, Sydney,” she said. “I wonder if we might get to the reason why you sought me out here in the conservatory?”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to pry. It is just that I cannot help but be curious about the woman who, uh—”
“Took your place?” Josephine suggested.
“Yes, I suppose you could put it like that. I merely wondered how you deal with him.”
“Let’s just say that my relationship with Hero is considerably different than the one you had with him.”
“I see.” Sydney nodded again, this time with a sage air. “Perhaps you do not fear him because you are so much older than me and have so much more experience of the world and of men.”
Josephine discovered that she was gritting her teeth. “No doubt. Now, if you don’t mind, what was it you wished to say to me?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Sydney straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. “This is very difficult, Miss Langford, but I come to you as a supplicant.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Sydney held out one hand in a graceful, beseeching gesture. “I must beg you for a great favour. You are my only hope. I do not know where else to turn.”
Josephine wondered for a moment if Sydney was playing some sort of bizarre game. But the other woman’s desperation was plain. It was clear that whatever else was going on here, she was entirely serious.
“I'm sorry,” Josephine said, softening her tone despite her irritation. Sydney really did seem quite anxious. “I fail to see how I could possibly be in a position to be of service to you.”
“You are engaged to Tiffin.”
“What has that got to do with it?” Josephine asked warily.
Sydney cleared her throat. “The gossip is that, although you are not yet wed, the two of you appear to be on very intimate terms.”
Josephine went cold. Intimate terms was a polite euphemism and everyone knew it. She told herself that it was only to be expected that Society would speculate that she and Hero were involved in an affair. Indeed, she ought to have anticipated such rumours. Unlike Sydney, she was not an obviously innocent eighteen-year-old living under the stern protection of her parents.
As far as the Polite World was concerned, Josephine reminded herself, she was not only a mature woman, she was a lady of mystery who was residing under the same roof as her even more mysterious fiancé. Anne’s presence in that household gave the situation a socially acceptable facade, but that did not keep tongues from wagging.
It should have come as no surprise to learn that the scandalmongers were convinced that she was intimate with Hero.
“One would do well to remember that gossip is not always entirely accurate,” she said, trying to put a quelling note into her words.
“I did not mean to offend you,” Sydney said. “But I wanted you to know that I understand that you have a very close relationship with Tiffin. Why they say he was seen kissing you quite passionately the other night in the gardens outside a certain ballroom.” She paused. “He never kissed me like that.”
“Yes, well—”
“In addition, there is a rumour going around that he actually promised to issue a challenge to a gentleman who spoke to you in the park.”
“I assure you, that incident was inflated out of all proportion,” Josephine said quickly.
“The thing is, Tiffin actually issued the threat.” Sydney sighed. “Several people overheard him. That is the whole point, you see. He did not even bother to give chase the night Roland and I ran away.”
“Did you want him to go after you?” Josephine asked softly, suddenly very curious to know the truth.
“No, of course not.” Sydney tapped the edge of her mask lightly against a wooden workbench. “Indeed, I was profoundly grateful that he did not come after us. I was terrified that he might hurt Roland or even kill him in a duel. Instead, I’m told that Tiffin went to his club and played cards that evening.” She made a rueful face. “Which merely confirmed what I had believed all along.”
“What was that?”
“That while it was true that Tiffin was betrothed to me, his passions were decidedly not engaged.”
“I am glad that you were able to marry the man you love,” Josephine said gently. “But I still do not know what you want from me.”
“Do you not comprehend? My dear Roland took an enormous risk when he saved me from Tiffin. And he has paid a terrible price.”
“What price is that? You just told me that Hero did not harm him in any way.”
“I did not realize just how much Roland put at stake for me that night.” Sydney sounded as if she was fighting tears. “My greatest fear was that Tiffin would come after us, but the real danger lay elsewhere, in the very bosoms of our families.”
“What do you mean?”
“We knew that my father would be furious and would likely cut me off without a penny, and that is precisely what happened. But what we did not anticipate was that Roland’s father would be so enraged that he would stop Roland’s quarterly allowance.”
“Oh, dear.”
“We are in desperate financial straits, Miss Langford, and my Roland is too proud to go to his father and plead with him to restore his allowance.”
“How are you surviving?”
“My mother, bless her, braved my father’s wrath and secretly gave us some money from the allowance that Papa provides her for the household accounts. I sold some of the jewellery I took away with me the night that Roland and I eloped.” Sydney bit her lip. “Unfortunately, I did not get much for it. It is quite astonishing how little good jewellery is worth when one is obliged to pawn it.”
Josephine felt a twinge of genuine empathy. “I know. I, too, have had occasion to discover that sad fact.”
Sydney did not seem interested in comparing notes on pawn dealers, however. She was focusing intently on her tale. “For his part, Roland has been trying his luck at the gaming tables. Recently he fell in with a companion who seemed to know his way around that world.”
“What do you mean?”
“This man took Roland to a club where he promised the play was fair. At first, Roland won quite often. For a while, we believed that his luck would see us through. But lately, his cards have been very poor. Last night he lost quite heavily, and as he had pledged my last necklace, we are now down to almost nothing.”
Josephine sighed. “I understand that feeling very well indeed.”
“We cannot afford to go about very much.” Sydney shook her head. “I suppose it was very naive of me, but I must tell you that I had no notion how much a simple ball gown and a pair of matching slippers cost until Roland and I found ourselves cut off.” She touched the folds of the domino she wore. “The only reason I was able to come here tonight was because a friend allowed me to borrow this costume. Roland does not know I’m here. He is in the hells again.”
“I'm very sorry for your plight,” Josephine said.
“I fear that Roland is fast becoming desperate,” Sydney confided in hushed tones. “I do not know what he will do if his luck does not turn. That is why I have come to beg you for your assistance, Miss Langford. Will you help us?”