Читать книгу The Unlacing of Miss Leigh - Diane Gaston, Diane Gaston - Страница 5

London, June, 1812

A thousand lamps blazed in the elms. Colonnades, fountains, cascades and porticos, while throngs of people of all sorts made up this night of masquerade in Vauxhall Gardens.

Amid this wonder, Margaret Leigh’s heart raced. She was here to meet a gentleman, a man who would pay for her company.

“Are you certain you wish to do this, Maggie?” Her cousin’s brow furrowed. “It is not at all proper.”

She slanted him an amused look. “You are one to speak of propriety.”

Henry had long been the scourge of the family. A schoolmaster’s son and a vicar’s nephew, Henry ran off to join a theater company when he’d barely begun to shave. Now, there was little family left to condemn him, only Margaret and her younger brother.

Henry nodded and waved a hand. “To the devil with propriety, anyway. Life is too short not to seek enjoyment where we can.”

Margaret released a nervous breath. “Well, I cannot afford either enjoyment or propriety at the moment.”

Henry pursed his lips in sympathy. Wearing horns on his head and tight-fitting green trousers and coat, his expression looked nothing more than comical.

Margaret stifled a laugh.

Henry was dressed as Puck in a costume from Covent Garden Theatre where he performed small parts. For Margaret, he had borrowed a fairy costume—a gown of palest blush, its skirts fashioned from so many layers of silk net that she seemed to float as she walked. It was quite the most beautiful gown she’d ever worn.

“Here we are.” Henry stopped at the supper boxes along the South Walk.

Margaret, an impoverished vicar’s daughter, and her cousin Henry, an actor of no renown, were to be guests of the Duke of Manning. For the festivities, the duke had engaged several boxes joined together, decorated with flowers and swags of colorful silks. Already, the boxes seemed filled with people. Most of the gentlemen wore black dominoes, but the women wore a variety of costumes, from rustic milkmaids frocks to elaborate Egyptian princesses’ gowns. The gentleman had arranged his rendezvous with Margaret to take place among the friends of the duke.

Margaret gave Henry a rueful smile. “If our parents could see us now.”

Her cousin laughed. “I envision them collectively rolling over in their graves. I can almost hear your father.” He made a dramatic gesture as if preaching from a pulpit. “…I have written unto you not to keep company, if any man that is called a brother be a fornicator…”

Tears pricked at Margaret’s eyes. “You sound just like him.”

Henry sobered. “My talent for mimicry.”

Margaret’s father had passed away of a sudden apoplexy not two months earlier and grief still overcame her at unforeseen moments. He’d been the last of that generation. They were orphans now, Margaret thought.

Henry’s sympathetic look returned, but he quickly smiled and punched her on the arm. “I daresay your father would consider the Duke of Manning improper company for you.”

“And his friend.” The gentleman she was to meet.

The notorious Duke of Manning had run off with the Earl of Linwall’s wife, set up housekeeping with her, and sired several children by her—the Fitzmanning Miscellany, the society gossips called them. In the supper box, the duke and his lady were easy to recognize, greeting their guests, both dressed in white wigs and colorful brocades that were fashionable decades ago.

Margaret turned back to Henry. “For a man and woman living in sin, they look very happy.”

“They do indeed.” Henry clasped her arm and stepped forward. “The rewards of impropriety.”

They showed their invitation to the footman positioned at the entry to the boxes. As he admitted them, Margaret scanned the gentlemen in black dominoes. His would be lined in red, he’d written to her.

She glimpsed no red.

The words in his advertisement in The Times came back to her.

Seeking an educated lady of genteel birth for companionship. Gentleman of good fortune offers generous compensation.

Margaret had answered the advertisement. She answered every advertisement for companions or governesses, the most common professions for a woman of her station. None yielded any results. When the gentleman mentioned in the ad sent a footman with a written response, Margaret’s hopes surged.

And were immediately dashed.

The companionship the gentleman sought was of a different nature entirely. He sought a mistress.

Behind his rather witty response to her had been a sense of aching loneliness. Margaret wrote back to him, even though it was highly improper to do so. She sent a polite refusal.

He wrote back.

He wrote to her again and again, charming letters of persistent persuasiveness, witty words and despairing loneliness. Each time, she sent back a refusal, but soon the greatest pleasure of her day was seeing his footman arrive at the door with the now-daily letter, then reading its contents.

Eventually, the gentleman proposed a meeting for which he would pay her twenty pounds. He suggested this masked ball at Vauxhall as the location. Twenty pounds was almost as much as she could earn in a year as a lady’s companion or governess.

She needed that money quite desperately.

Her cousin led her to a table of refreshments. She picked up a glass of claret in hopes it would settle her nerves.

“It will be an adventure,” Henry said.

“An adventure,” she repeated under her breath, downing the claret and taking another.

“Good God,” cried her cousin. “There is Daphne Blane.”

Daphne Blane was the darling of the London stage, a most sought-after leading lady and one who often was seen on the arm of a peer.

“How can you tell?” Margaret saw only a woman in a Grecian costume, with a gold mask covering most of her face.

“There is no mistaking her.” Henry put down his glass. “I must greet her. She will be impressed that I am one of the duke’s guests.”

Without Henry at her side, Margaret’s courage flagged. She ought to flee, run down the Grand Walk to where the wherries waited to ferry guests across the river, hop into a hackney coach and return to Henrietta Street.

Instead, she took another fortifying sip of claret and looked for a corner in which to stand.

A young woman dressed as a shepherdess walked up to her. “Do I know you?”

God forbid anyone know her here, else she never would have come.

The masked young woman grimaced. “Oh, dear, that sounded rude, did it not? It is just you are near my age, I think, and if you should be one of my friends, I should be quite ashamed not to know it.”

Margaret smiled. “I am certain you do not know me. I am Miss Leigh.”

The woman offered her hand. “I am Justine Savard, the duke’s daughter.”

Savard was not the duke’s surname, nor Lady Linwall’s. Was Miss Savard the duke’s daughter by another woman?

Her father would roll over in his grave.

Miss Savard returned her smile. “Are you here with someone?”

“I am with my cousin.” Margaret inclined her head in Henry’s direction. “He is Puck.”

“He is your cousin? I wondered who was speaking with Miss Blane.” Apparently Henry was not the only one to recognize the famous actress.

Miss Savard glanced around again, then caught herself and turned back to Margaret. “I fear my manners have quite gone begging.” She looked apologetic. “I am expecting someone.” Her color rose. “My sweetheart.”

Margaret did not know what to say to this obvious confidence. “I hope he arrives soon.”

“Oh, so do I.” Miss Savard glanced around one more time. “More guests are arriving. Papa’s friends. He and Lady Caroline invited everyone, I think. It is a shame his best friend could not attend. Papa and Baron Veall were schoolmates ages ago—”

“Baron Veall.” The blood drained from Margaret’s face.

“Do you know him?”

“No, I do not,” Margaret said too sharply.

Her father’s vicarage had been on land owned by Baron Veall, and one year the baron and his family summered in the great house there. Margaret had only encountered the younger son. One time.

She’d never forgotten him.

Miss Savard chattered on, “Well, the baron declined the invitation, but—it is the oddest thing—his son did not.”

“His son?” Margaret squeezed the stem of her glass.

“His younger son, the captain.”

Margaret’s legs trembled.

"I pine to know why he accepted. My father would not tell me, but I had the distinct impression there was some negotiation—something clandestine—and I do love a mystery, as long as I can solve it." She looked thoughtful. “Perhaps it has something to do with Captain Veall's injuries. He was hurt terribly in the Battle of Fuentes de Oñoro a year ago—”

Margaret well knew this. She’d scoured the lists of injured and dead hoping not to find his name.

“He’s been somewhat of a recluse ever since. My father called upon him once, but the captain refused to see him. Curious that suddenly he’s attending this party.” Miss Savard clutched Margaret’s arm. “Oh, my goodness. There he is. Not Captain Veall. My sweetheart. I would know him no matter his disguise.”

The man who captured her attention wore a simple black domino and looked to Margaret indistinguishable from the others.

“Is he not handsome, my Mr. Kinney?” She gave Margaret an imploring look. “Will you forgive me if I abandon you? I am so eager to see him.”

“By all means.”

Miss Savard rushed to the man’s side.

Margaret lifted her glass to her lips and searched the guests, both hoping and fearing she would see Captain Veall.

She’d been a little girl with hair in plaits and front teeth missing. He’d been a few years older. She had not even given him her name. He would never know her now, even without her mask, but she greatly desired to discover the man he’d become.

Margaret finished her second glass of claret and tried to determine which of the men in black dominoes might be Captain Veall. She walked back to the refreshment table for another claret. The orchestra began to play in the Grove.

Behind her, a man’s deep voice spoke. “Miss Leigh?”

She froze, then turned. She’d almost forgotten why she’d come.

The gentleman was tall, so tall he filled her vision. His domino, like his hair, was as black as the night, but he swirled the fabric to show its red lining. His mask, unlike any of the others, covered one side of his face, not just the top half.

She felt robbed of breath. “I am Miss Leigh.”

His eyes, a startling blue, appraised her. “I am the gentleman with whom you have corresponded.”

“Sir.” She curtsied.

Through the eyehole of his mask Margaret could see an angry red scar that the fabric did not entirely cover. Neither did it cover the drooping of one side of his mouth. The unusual mask was meant to cover his scars, she realized.

She lowered her eyes. “What do I call you?” He’d merely signed his letters A Gentleman.

“Call me Graham.”

Her gaze flew back to his face.

The eyes. She remembered his blue eyes.

That long ago day in the woods when Bob and Hughy Newell threw their sticks and stones at a little girl too small to outrun them, a boy with those blue eyes had come to her rescue. Graham Veall had been her first, nay, her only hero.

“Would you walk with me, Miss Leigh?” His voice seemed to resonate deep in her soul.

It shook her. “You do not wish to stay at the party?”

“I only came for you.” He pressed a purse into her hand.

Her payment. She swallowed.

He was letting her know she had already fulfilled their bargain. She could refuse his request if she wished.

But she wanted to be with him. He was Graham Veall.

“My pleasure, sir,” she murmured.

His eyes creased at the corners. “Graham.”

“Graham,” she repeated in a stronger voice.

He led her through the porticos, away from the throngs of people, away from the music. They walked on a gravel path toward trees with fewer lamps and where shadows loomed ahead. Any trepidation Margaret felt about this meeting had vanished. This was Graham Veall walking at her side. She held his arm and savored the warmth of his skin beneath the silk domino.

“I thought it very likely you would not come, Miss Leigh,” his voice sounded rusty from disuse.

“I needed the money.” No use to pretend otherwise, she thought.

It crossed her mind to tell him of their prior connection, but she was too proud to reveal how poorly her father had provided for her.

His expression turned sympathetic. “Are you so in need of money?”

She lifted the purse. “This will pay to keep my younger brother in school one more year.” She could not bear to think beyond that one year.

“It is for your brother?” Graham looked surprised. “How old is he?”

“Fourteen.”

“Is his schooling so important?” He sounded incredulous.

Education was Andrew’s joy; it was all he lived for. Even before Andrew was out of short coats, his thirst for learning had been evident. They’d been a family of scholars, so Andrew’s talent was not surprising. Their grandfather and Henry’s father had been schoolmasters. Margaret’s parents had run a small boarding school in their home to supplement their father’s church living. She and Andrew had always been surrounded by books and lessons and learning.

Until her mother died of influenza and her father could not manage the boarders alone. He’d used every spare penny to send Andrew to a good school, and Margaret had never begrudged the expense.

“My brother has a mind that begs for education. Now I can provide it for him.” She squeezed the purse.

Graham touched her arm and the warmth of his touch radiated through her. “I merely was surprised the money was not for yourself.”

She returned a steady gaze. “Andrew’s schooling is more important.”

He tilted his head as if examining her anew.

Threading her arm though his again, he continued their stroll. The paths were now much darker, and from the deep recesses of the shrubbery came sounds of murmuring and laughter. Ever since the Newells had chased her, Margaret had hated walking through woods, but with Graham she would be happy to walk all the way to the hermit who inhabited the farthest reaches of the Gardens.

“Tell me more about your brother,” he said.

She complied, telling of Andrew’s love of physics, of chemistry and of all things mechanical. Graham asked questions and seemed to listen to her answers. Margaret could almost delude herself that he was a beau, instead of a man who’d paid for her company. Because he was Graham, she wished he was a beau.

As they walked on, two men burst from the shrubbery and stumbled onto the path ahead of them. Margaret jumped back, uttering a cry. Graham wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into the trees, his black domino cloaking them both. The two young men, deep in their cups, staggered by, talking loudly and apparently never noticing them.

Still, Margaret trembled under Graham’s embrace.

“I would allow no harm to come to you,” he whispered in her ear.

Her trembling came not from feeling again like that little girl clinging to the boy who rescued her, but from an acute awareness that he was a boy no longer. He was a man with a man’s needs, and was willing to pay to have those needs met. His arms felt wonderful around her, his strong muscles holding her with such reassuring confidence. Her body was pressed against his, and it seemed that all his power and strength were melding with her.

Her breathing quickened, and sensation flared through her. She felt hungry for more, although she did not know precisely what made her ravenous. She only knew this moment must never end or she would surely perish.

Unfortunately he released her, but slowly, as if as reluctant as she to break the embrace. Still clasping her arms with his strong fingers, he looked down on her, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim light, pleading for something she wanted desperately to give him, but not knowing precisely what it was he desired. He lowered his head and Margaret’s excitement grew. She rose onto her toes.

The sounds of more revelers came near. He again enveloped her in his domino. “We will walk back to the supper boxes,” he rasped.

Her disappointment was crushing.

They walked in silence, and Margaret searched her mind for a question she could ask him, a question that was not Why did you release me?