Unmasked

Mari had an all too vivid picture of what those memories might look like. She took a deep, steadying breath.

“Very well. If I have your promise of silence then I suppose I must be content.”

He bowed mockingly. “Of course. No gentleman could promise less.”

Mari bit her lip. She was not sure if she trusted him to keep silent. It should have felt like a partial victory and yet the spark in those dark eyes suggested that it was anything but.

“Thank you,” she said warily.

He shrugged easily. “Once again, a pleasure. And if you tell me that we have never met before, then I shall, of course, believe you. But…” He hesitated, and Mari’s overtaxed nerves tightened a further notch, “I wonder…Do you ever visit London, Mrs. Osborne?”

It took every last ounce of self-control for Mari not to jump. She met his gaze and saw nothing there but polite inquiry. He had the most perfect face for games of chance, she thought. He was able to hide every emotion behind a wall of impassivity. And yet she thought she knew where this conversation was heading now. Despite her disguise, he must have recognized her from the Hen and Vulture. He must know she had been the one there that night, waiting for Rashleigh.

Why had he come to Peacock Oak? Did he know her true identity? Had he come to accuse her of Rashleigh’s murder?

Mari thought of the consequences of unmasking and the fear took her breath away. She closed her eyes for a second to steady herself, reminding herself that she knew none of this for certain. Even if he suspected her, he could prove nothing.

“I go to London very seldom, Major Falconer.” The evenness of her voice surprised her. “I have no need of the diversions of Town when I am so sincerely attached to the country.”

Nick inclined his head. “Odd. I thought perhaps that we might have met there a few months ago?”

Mari smiled and shook her head. “I have already said not, if you recall, Major Falconer. And I advise you not to push your luck—or your familiarities—too far.”

Their eyes met and held with the clash and challenge of a sword thrust. Then, with inexpressible relief Mari saw the figure of Laura Cole approaching. There was a faintly worried expression on her face, as though she had realized that Mari was in trouble and was coming to the rescue. Mari was so relieved she wanted to hug her.

“I do believe your hostess is coming to welcome you,” she said. “I wish you a pleasant stay at Cole Court, Major Falconer.”

Nick detained her with a hand on her arm. She felt the warmth of his touch through her sleeve as though her skin was bare. “I will see you again, Mrs. Osborne?”

“I doubt it, Major Falconer,” Mari said, and saw his teeth flash white as he smiled.

“You misunderstand me, Mrs. Osborne,” he said. “It was not a question. I will see you again. In fact, I would stake on it.”

“I do not play games,” Mari said. She released herself very deliberately from his touch. “Goodbye, Major Falconer.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Rosemary—Remembrance

NICK LEANED HIS BROAD shoulders against the ballroom doorway and watched Marina Osborne dancing the cotillion. Laura, Duchess of Cole, had welcomed him in the vague, sweet manner that he remembered and then she had drifted off to speak to some of her other guests and Nick thought that he would retire for the night rather than join the festivities. He felt tired and dirty from the journey. He was not dressed for a ball, as Lady Faye Cole had not hesitated to point out when she had passed him in the doorway and had practically sniffed to imply that he smelled rather insalubrious from his travels.

Mari was dancing with Faye’s husband, Charles’s cousin Henry Cole. Nick watched the elegant sway of her gown as she moved through the steps of the dance. When she and Henry came together, he grabbed at her with the overexcited playfulness of a puppy and she withdrew, an ice maiden in silver satin. Nick did not know Henry well for, although he belonged to the junior branch of the Cole family, he was older than Charles by several years and so Nick had never spent much time in his company. Henry had always struck him as a typical country squire, his life a round of hunting and shooting and fishing, gorging himself at table, drinking hard and suffering the gout in consequence. His color was certainly high as he danced with Mari but that, Nick thought, was probably due to a different kind of excitement from that engendered in the field. As he watched, he saw Henry surreptitiously squeeze Mari’s bottom as she passed him, a clumsy but lascivious gesture that made Nick clench his fists in disgust. For a moment Henry bent close to her ear and made some remark that had the color searing Mari’s face. No one else had seen his actions—Nick realized that Henry had made very sure of that. His opinion of Charles’s cousin fell several notches from an already low starting point.

Nick found that he had already taken a couple of steps forward, with every intention of intervening, when he saw Mari dig the spokes of her fan into Henry’s ribs with a force that had him almost doubling up in pain. Henry reeled out of the dance, coughing and spluttering and Mari raised her brows, a look of most perfect concern on her face. Nick relaxed a little and smothered a grin. Henry Cole had got what he deserved and clearly Mari Osborne could take care of herself. Of course she could. She did not need his protection. For a moment he had almost forgotten that she might be a criminal and even a murderer, blinded as always by the complicated mixture of raw desire and deeper need that she seemed to evoke in him.

As a soldier, Nick had honed a fine instinct for danger, when to attack, when to withdraw and bide his time, to trust his gut feeling, to listen to that intuition which other men sometimes derided. It had led him to make judgments and decisions that on more than one occasion seemed to fly in the face of practicality and sense and yet they had proved correct in the long run. His instinct had kept him and his men alive. And now his instinct was telling him that Mari Osborne was Glory, the harlot from the tavern, and he wanted her. Lusting after Mari Osborne, the clever, devious, disreputable widow ran counter to everything that he had always believed in about himself and what he had thought he wanted from a woman. She could not have been more different from Anna. And yet his hunger for her was intense, burning him up.

He shifted, uncomfortable with both his thoughts and the physical effect that they had on him. He had found crossing swords with Mari intensely stimulating. He had admired the coolness with which she had countered his attack and the manner in which she had weighed the odds and decided which matters to concede and where to fight him. She was a clever strategist and he relished the game between them. And since they possessed such a powerful mutual awareness, he would use that attraction to bring her down. He would get close to her. He would seduce the truth from her. And he would not forget for a moment that this was all in the line of duty. In playing the game he would be able to slake his desire for her and then the white-hot passion that seared him would burn itself out.

“She turned you down then,” Charles Cole said in his ear, with a certain satisfaction.

Nick straightened up. “She did. In no uncertain terms.”

Charles laughed. “I did warn you,” he said. “She’s as cold as the driven snow. Always has been.”

Nick raised his brows. “Does she have many disappointed suitors then?”

“Plenty of men are interested in her fortune,” Charles said, “even if she is a little gray mouse of a woman.”

Nick looked at him. Charles was a man, albeit an apparently happily married one. Could he not see how alluring Marina Osborne was if one looked beneath the dowdiness of her attire? But perhaps he could not. Charles skated across the surface of life, seldom seeking deep meaning. He had been like that for as long as Nick had known him. Perhaps he could not see the rich curves and tempting lines of Mari Osborne’s body and perhaps it was a good thing, too, for Nick had a powerful feeling that he would want to take any man who looked covetously on Marina Osborne and pull his neck cloth so tight it choked him.

With a palpable effort he forced himself to relax. His feelings were becoming too involved and it was clouding his judgment. This was precisely what had happened to him at the Hen and Vulture when Mari’s warmth, the touch and the taste of her, had invaded his senses and played havoc with his judgment. She had played him for a fool then. It would not happen again. Now they would play on his terms, not hers.

He watched as Mari made her way off the dance floor and disappeared through the doors that opened on to the terrace. Her gray dress blended in with the pale shadows and she was gone from his sight. With a slight jolt Nick realized that Mari’s deliberately drab appearance was as much a disguise in its way as the blond wig and mask had been at the Hen and Vulture. She was trying to efface herself, perhaps to escape the fortune hunters, perhaps for another reason. Could she be deliberately creating a persona as far from that of Glory, the female hellion, as possible?

“I think,” Charles said suddenly, surprisingly, “that Mrs. Osborne might be shy. She is not at ease in social situations. I have often observed that she would prefer to avoid gatherings such as this.”

Nick reflected cynically that Charles might have made an interesting point—that Mari Osborne avoided company—but attributed it to the wrong reasons. No woman who dressed as a courtesan and picked men up in a tavern like the Hen and Vulture could possibly be shy, but again she might be deliberately playing a role that was the opposite of the highwaywoman heroine, Glory.

“Well, if she is shy, then she is most unlike your cousin,” he said, nodding toward Lady Hester Berry, the vivid center of a group of male admirers further down the room.

“Chalk and cheese,” Charles agreed. “Poor John Teague—” He indicated an older man standing slightly apart from the group and watching with an air of weary amusement. “He never gets a chance. He’s been in love with Hester for years but I think she barely sees him.”

Teague glanced toward them and Charles beckoned him over. “Come on,” he said to Nick. “There’s better refreshment in my study than you’ll find for Laura’s guests. And Teague has lived in this area awhile. You may find he can throw light on your case.”

They repaired to Charles’s study, a room off the hall where Charles had stashed a very fine bottle of brandy against the need to fortify himself to deal with his cousins.

“For,” he said wryly, “Henry and Faye may be family but I fear that I have little in common with them and Faye will try to foist her daughter on any or all of my male guests, like a fishwife pushing her wares.”

“A shame,” John Teague said lazily, accepting a glass of brandy and folding his long length into an armchair, “for Miss Cole is a fetching little chit—” He broke off to see Charles’s quizzical eye upon him. “No, I do not have an interest there myself!” he said hastily. “You know me better than that, Charles.”

Nick had been watching Teague and weighing up how far to take him into his confidence. Charles had introduced the older man as a friend and indicated that he was reliable, but Nick liked to make his own mind up on such things. Certainly Teague, with his shrewd expression and open manner, seemed pleasant enough. But even at Eton, Charles had been quick to trust, and whilst it was an admirable trait to look for the good in everyone, it could be damnably awkward if you found that the man you had thought honorable turned out to be less than sound. So Nick said nothing of Rashleigh’s murder, merely indicating that he had been sent by Lord Hawkesbury to investigate the civil disturbance caused by the Glory Girls. Teague raised his brows and said he was surprised that Hawkesbury should concern himself with such a small domestic matter.

“They are a bunch of petty criminals, highwaymen, no more,” Teague said. “Gossip has it that they are females, but I doubt it very much.”

“Gossip has it that they are gently bred females,” Charles interposed, “and I think there may be some truth in it.”

“Do they ride sidesaddle?” Nick asked.

Charles laughed. “Not they! They ride astride like a pack of huntsmen!”

Teague shot him a look from beneath lowered brows. “There was nothing gently bred or remotely feminine about the felons who held up my coach two weeks ago, old chap,” he said. “The ringleader had the gruffest voice this side of the alehouse and sat his horse like a trooper.”

“What did they stop you for?” Nick asked mildly.

Teague turned his shrewd gray eyes back to him. Nick remembered what Charles had said about Teague being one of Hester Berry’s suitors and remembered that he had almost pitied him to hear it, but now, seeing the keen intelligence behind those eyes, he started to wonder if Hester knew John Teague very well at all. He did not seem the kind to tolerate her flirting with a great deal of equanimity.

“What do you mean, old fellow?” Teague asked.

Playing for time, Nick thought, and wondered why.

“I understand that the Glory Girls always have a reason for what they do,” he explained. “The redistribution of wealth to the poor, for example, if a mill owner is cheating his workers. Or the liberation of the oppressed if farm laborers are forced to work long hours.”

Teague gave a crack of laughter. “If you say so, Falconer. All they wished to liberate in my case was my money.”

Nick pulled a face. “Are you sure it was the Glory Girls?”

Teague shifted and took a mouthful of brandy. “Certain. They boasted of it.”

Nick shrugged and let it pass. It was odd that in Teague’s case there appeared to have been no ulterior motive for the attack when all the other cases he had read about had been prompted by some injustice. But perhaps the gang that had attacked Teague were impostors trading on the Glory Girls’ name and reputation. That happened often enough when one set of thieves wanted to borrow some of the luster of another.

“My favorite,” Charles said, with a reminiscent grin, “was the time they kidnapped Annabel Morehead on the way to her wedding. Her father’s face, when he realized that all his scheming to marry her off for money had been in vain!”

“That was richly deserved,” Teague agreed. “And Miss Morehead was extremely grateful.” He looked thoughtfully at Nick. “You will find plenty who do not look kindly upon your plan to capture the Glories, Falconer. Some people see them as popular heroes—or heroines—hereabouts.”

“I doubt that Arkwright’s banker is one of those,” Nick said. “I must go to Skipton in the week and speak with him about the attack a few nights ago.”

“I doubt he will still be Arkwright’s banker after that fiasco,” Charles said. “Edward Arkwright does not condone incompetence in his employees and losing a tenth of his profits would be a heinous sin in his books.”

“Perhaps he should look to his own business practices, then,” Nick said. “He was the one who cheated his workers out of their money, so I understand.”

Teague cocked an inquiring brow. “You sound surprisingly sympathetic to these felons, Falconer,” he said. “Surely Lord Hawkesbury expects you to fulfill his commission with the full weight of the law?”

“I imagine so,” Nick said. “Don’t mistake me, Teague. I do not condone highway robbery or extortion and I do intend to find these criminals.” He drained his brandy glass. “Charles, have you ever been held up on the road?”

“No,” his host said, sounding, Nick thought, slightly disappointed to admit it. “But I keep a pistol in my carriages so I can wing them if they try and attack!”

Nick laughed. “I see. So, gentlemen, is there anything else that we know about the Glories?”

“No,” Teague said.

“They are reputed to meet at one of the hostelries on the Skipton road,” Charles said, after a moment.

“I recall,” Teague said. “The King’s Head, is it not?”

“Either the King’s or Half Moon House,” Charles agreed.

“I will call there,” Nick said, “and see what I may discover. And if we entertain for a moment the idea that the Glories are a band of gently bred females—”

Teague shifted, clearly uncomfortable. Once again, Nick noted it. And wondered.

“Seems preposterous,” Charles muttered. “Can’t see Laura or Faye or Reverend Butler’s wife leading a band of mounted desperadoes.”

“No,” Nick said. “On the other hand there must be others. Does Mrs. Osborne ride?”

Charles and John Teague exchanged a look. “Occasionally,” Charles said after a moment, “but she is a poor horsewoman.”

“Hester rides like a jockey,” Teague said, “but surely you are not suggesting that Cole’s cousin is a highwaywoman, Falconer? That’s outrageous!”

“I am not suggesting anything at the moment,” Nick said, unruffled. “I am merely asking.”

There was an awkward silence. “I’ve sometimes wondered about Mrs. Osborne,” Charles said suddenly.

“Oh, come now, Charles!” Teague had gone a little red in the face. “Just because she made her money in trade!”

“It isn’t that,” Charles said. He, too, had gone a little red. “I know Laura has taken her up and Hester likes her, but…” He stopped, looking uncomfortable.

“It is true that she is a little reserved,” Teague said gruffly, “but when one gets to know her…” He took a deep breath. “She has been the truest friend to Hester that one could ever ask for, and to Laura, too, if you would only admit it. Laura is lonely here in the country with you up in Town so often—” Teague stopped and cleared his throat as Charles shot him a less than friendly look. “They have a genuine mutual interest in the horticultural society,” he finished, a little lamely.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Charles snapped.

Nick said nothing. There were interesting undercurrents here, he thought. He had not realized that Charles left his wife in the country when he went up to London to take his seat in the Lords. He wondered why they spent so much time apart. And then there was Teague, who evidently was in love with Hester Berry. His defense of Mari Osborne might well spring from his loyalty to Hester. But what of his discomfort when the Glory Girls were mentioned? It could be that Nick was getting too close in his questions and that Teague knew it. Mari Osborne’s apparent lack of skill as a rider, for example, could be as much an elaborate ruse as her dowdy appearance. Whatever the case, it was clear where Teague’s sympathies lay and that made him a man worth watching, as well.

Nick stood up and stretched. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen, and for the brandy, Charles. If you will excuse me, I will seek my bed. It has been a long day.”

As he went out, Charles was offering John Teague another glass but in Nick’s view Teague’s thoughts did not appear to be on the excellence of his host’s cellar. He was gazing into the distance and the expression in his gray eyes was very bleak indeed.

MARI HAD FOUND a dark corner of the terrace where the honeysuckle twined around a pretty little arbor of her own design. She curled up on the cushioned seat, wrapping her arms around her knees, careless of crushing the silk of her gown. It was a warm night with a gentle breeze from the moors that carried with it the smell of gorse and bracken and, rather more agriculturally, sheep.

When she had walked away from Nick Falconer, her first instinct had been to run and hide until she had the chance to gather her thoughts. She knew, however, that for the sake of her charade, she had to appear utterly unconcerned by their encounter. Accordingly she had gone into the ballroom and had accepted the first offer to dance made to her, which had, unfortunately, been from Lord Henry Cole.

Mari detested Lord Henry. A big, bluff hunting man, he hid a vicious nature under an outward show of bonhomie. He reminded her of Rashleigh in too many ways. For some time now Henry had been pressing her to show him what he referred to as “kindnesses” and what Mari knew to be sexual favors, implying that her bed had been cold too long and he was just the man to fill it. When he had squeezed her in such a disgustingly familiar manner during the dance, she had felt horribly sick, his big, sweaty lustful hands reminding her of Rashleigh’s importunities. She knew that his liberties would only get worse. He seemed inordinately excited by her resistance, the kind of man who saw refusal as a challenge that simply has to be overcome by force.

Mari shuddered. To make matters worse, she knew that Nick Falconer had been watching her every move with that dark, implacable gaze of his. She thought that he had probably been the only one to see Lord Henry touch her, for he had started toward them as though he were about to intervene. He had looked positively thunderous. The realization that he had been coming to her aid made Mari feel very strange. She had felt a compound of relief and security and trust that she had never experienced in her life before. She wanted to throw herself into Nick’s arms and simply soak up the strength and protectiveness of him. It was an instantaneous and inexplicable reaction but more importantly, it was extremely dangerous because of course she could not trust Nicholas Falconer. He was the last man on earth she should allow close to her. He could expose the truth about her. She had the horrible thought that perhaps he was the author of the anonymous letter, the fate that was about to catch up with her.

“I know all about you. I know what you did…”

The panic threatened to overwhelm her, tight bands around her chest, the fluttery wings of a thousand butterflies in her stomach beating frantically to break out. She had been troubled by such attacks on and off since she had run away from Rashleigh. They happened whenever the past loomed too close, whenever it seemed that she could not escape. Because sometimes it seemed that she could never get away, never be free.

She dug her nails into the palms of her hands and tried desperately to calm her shaking. Breathe deeply. Distract yourself.

She thought about what she might do now that Nick Falconer was here. She could run away. She could start all over again. She had done it before. But if she did that, Rashleigh would have won again and she would not let that happen. She was too strong to let that happen.

The feeling of panic was passing now, the tightness in her chest easing, her breath coming more easily. She pressed her forehead against her knees and felt the cool silk of her skirts against her hot cheek. Suddenly she felt bone-weary. It had been a very long day.

There was a step on the terrace beside her and a swish of silk and Mari straightened up hastily, pushing her tumbled hair back from her face. Her turban—she hated it anyway, the ridiculous thing—lay discarded on the terrace beside her. She made a grab for it but then realized that the newcomer was only Hester so she relaxed again.

Hester sat on the balustrade beside her and passed her a glass of cold champagne. It felt smooth against Mari’s rough throat.

“Are you all right, Mari?” Hester’s voice was troubled. “What happened? I saw you leave the ballroom.”

“I am very well.” Mari gulped some more champagne. “Lord Henry annoyed me. I hate his importunities.”

“He molested you again.” Hester sounded disgusted. “I am so sorry, Mari. He is a blackguard to do so, especially when he knows you are an unprotected female. What can we do? Shall I get John Teague to call him out, or…I know—Glory can call him out!”

“No,” Mari said, feeling a little better. Hester’s suggestion had almost made her laugh. “I know John would do that for your sake, Hes, and I am sure it could only add to the luster of Glory’s reputation for her to fight a duel, but there is no need. It only upset me because it reminded me of Rashleigh. Most of the time I can shut out such thoughts but sometimes…” She shook her head. “Anyway, I stabbed Lord Henry with my fan and I think I bruised him.”

“Good,” Hester said, with satisfaction. “A pity you did not crack his ribs.” She swung her legs beneath her silken skirts but within a moment the movement had stilled. Her voice changed, became serious. “I have been asking some questions, Mari. About Major Falconer, I mean. He is a widower, heir to a Scottish Marquisate.”