Chapter Two
Having retrieved and stabled his horse, which was none the worse for its adventure, Lord Warenton returned to his sister’s apartment near St. Stephen’s Cathedral. He discovered Lady Caroline in her sitting room with her maid, trying to decide between two brocade trims which looked exactly the same to him.
“This is infuriating,” Caroline exclaimed. “They are both so pretty, it will make me cry if I can’t make up my mind. Francis, which should I wear to the Renleighs’ masquerade?”
“The one on the left,” Warenton said randomly.
“You are quite right,” Caroline agreed with obvious relief. “Even if you didn’t actually look at them. This one, Cardew. It is clearly superior.”
“Clearly,” Warenton murmured.
“What will you wear, Francis?” Caroline asked as the maid hurried from the room.
“My regimentals,” Warenton said at once. “Masquerading as a soldier.”
Caroline eyed him sideways. “You don’t need to leave the army, you know. There are other people who can run the estates perfectly well without you.”
“It isn’t the same, though, and it isn’t right,” he said, throwing himself into the vacant chair near her. “Besides, most of us will be on half-pay soon anyway. Not much need of soldiers in peace time. Don’t pay any attention to my whining. It’s not that I mind stepping into George’s shoes. I just wish he was still wearing them.”
Caroline swallowed and reached for her handkerchief. “So do I,” she snuffled into it, then lowered it and smiled at him encouragingly. “But in truth, Francis, you never whined. I just know how much you always loved the army. It was never meant to be this way, was it? You were meant to be a general one day.”
He shrugged. “I’d be a rotten general. I may well prove to be a rotten earl, too, but at least no one will tell me what to do.” He frowned suddenly. “Talking of being told what to do, must I go to this damned ball? I hate masquerades.”
“Well, of course you must go! I already told Miss Renleigh and Sylvia that you would be there. You’re practically the guest of honor.”
“In a mask,” he said disparagingly. “What’s the point of that?”
“You don’t need to wear it. It’s just a bit of fun. And most fashionable here in Vienna. Everyone who is anyone holds masked balls. Besides, it could be romantic. You could propose to Sylvia before the unmasking.”
He cast her a sardonic glance. “What if I propose to the wrong lady by mistake? Besides, you have quite the wrong idea about Sylvia if you imagine she is remotely romantic. Like any well-bred young woman, she is marrying the position not the person.”
Caroline, halfway to the door, paused to glance back at him curiously. No one had ever accused her of a lack of perception. “That sounds like a criticism. I thought this was what you wanted? A well-bred lady to run your households and bear you heirs.”
“It didn’t work for George, did it?” Warenton retorted.
“Well, I always felt he could have tried harder,” Caroline said candidly. “Too many opera dancers and not enough time at home with his wife.”
“He should have married a more agreeable lady. Honoria would drive a saint into the arms of opera dancers. Plural.”
“Francis!” she exclaimed, in shocked tones that didn’t fool Warenton for a moment.
“You brought the subject up.”
Caroline waved that aside. Instead of leaving, she came back into the room and sat down beside him. “You do find Sylvia agreeable, do you not? You did say you liked her best of all the suitable candidates I suggested.”
Warenton shifted restlessly. For some reason, the big, dark eyes of the pretty French girl swam back into his wayward mind. A sweet face with most kissable lips beneath a tired old bonnet. Within her oft-mended gown and cloak, her figure had been trim and desirable, even if she had felt so light and frail and curiously vulnerable in his arms. A mysterious lady of undoubted attractions.
But more than that, she was different. Unexpected. She had depths, passions. The way she had looked at him when he’d first crouched down beside her—a strange mixture of intense pleasure, gratitude and fear that he was at a loss to account for. Especially since she’d been so keen to dismiss him. Even though—or perhaps because—she knew exactly who he was.
“Maybe agreeable isn’t enough,” he said aloud. “Shouldn’t there be more to leg-shackling yourself for life to someone?”
“If she’s agreeable now, there will be more,” Caroline promised him. “As there is for Vernon and me.”
“Vernon was always a good chap. And good company... Is Sylvia agreeable?”
“You said she was.”
“So I did,” he recalled, getting to his feet. “But the truth is, I wouldn’t miss her if I never saw her again.” In fact, if she ran off with a gypsy, he’d probably be relieved.
Still, he had to marry someone, now that he was earl. And, moreover, an earl who traced his ancestry back to the Conquest and his title back to the thirteenth century needed to marry an equally well-bred woman. He owed that to his family. Caroline was right. Sylvia was also a scion of an ancient, noble lineage. She would run his houses efficiently and make an excellent countess. She knew all that was expected of her. She was pretty enough, too, and accomplished. At the age of one and twenty, she had already turned down two eligible suitors, which, oddly enough, was what had endeared her to Warenton in the first place. That she was picky.
Only now did it occur to him, somewhat cynically, that she’d turned down an untitled gentleman and a mere baronet. She might have come to Vienna in search of a prince—God knew they were practically ten a penny here right now—but she’d make do with an earl.
He was at the door before, from sudden impulse, he turned back again. “Do you know any of the French émigrés here, Caro?”
“You think you might prefer old but grateful aristocracy?” Caroline said irreverently. “You’re too late for the gratitude. They’ll all go back to France and be rich again.”
“A few might, but I doubt many can bank on it.”
“Why are you interested?”
“No reason.” Warenton murmured and went out. He wanted to find out who and where—and how—Elise de Sancerre was, but he had no intention of revealing his reasons to his sister. For one thing, he wasn’t sure what they were.
***
On the day following her accident, the day of the Renleighs’ masquerade, Elise was run ragged with a million trivial tasks. By the time the ladies were actually dressing for the event, her ankle ached almost as much as it had when she’d first returned to the tall, thin house in the Fahrengasse, laden with her torn and tatty parcels.
She hadn’t explained to Miss Renleigh all that had happened, saying only that she’d fallen in the street on the way home and hurt her ankle.
Miss Renleigh had glared at her. “What deplorable timing, Mamzelle!” She always called Elise Mamzelle so that sometimes it seemed to be her actual name. “You knew I was counting on you. Tomorrow is vitally important to us.”
“I’m sure I’ll be able to cope, Miss Renleigh,” she said optimistically.
Miss Renleigh sniffed. “The cost of the ruined meat and the paints will be kept from your salary. Might teach you to be more careful.”
Elise, who’d expected nothing else, didn’t even sigh. Once, she’d naively imagined saving enough money to leave Miss Renleigh’s employ and becoming a governess instead. Or opening a hat shop. Or running away on a pirate ship. One was as likely as another.
Miss Renleigh preferred the way Elise dressed her hair to her maid’s efforts, but for the ball, nothing pleased her and she ended by hitting Elise with the hairbrush. “Bring me the ruby tiara instead,” she snapped. “Perhaps we can still disguise your mess!”
“Miss Sylvia has the tiara tonight,” Elise reminded her, rubbing the sore ear where the brush had struck her.
Miss Renleigh scowled. “It’s a masquerade. Everyone will know who she is if she wears the tiara, however many masks she has on!”
“They will know who you are, too,” Elise pointed out.
“Who cares? I’m an old woman. My niece is about to make a brilliant marriage. She has to play the game. I simply watch. Go and get the tiara from her and bring it to me.”
Elise limped out of Miss Renleigh’s bedchamber and made her way along the passage to Miss Sylvia’s.
Sylvia looked beautiful, like a perfect, porcelain doll. Tall, regal and angelically fair, she wore a pure white, muslin gown trimmed with blue, exactly the same shade as her clear, cool eyes. Her maid was just lowering the tiara on to her blonde head when Elise limped in.
“Miss Renleigh says you should not wear the tiara tonight, that it will reveal your identity too early. She wants me to bring it back to her.”
A flash of smugness on the maid’s face told Elise that Sylvia had already received and ignored this advice. Sylvia knocked the maid’s hand aside with enough force to dislodge the tiara which tumbled to the floor.
“Take it,” Sylvia uttered with deep discontent. “It’s an ugly thing anyway. I thought it might make me look regal.” She shrugged impatiently, while Elise bent and picked the heavy tiara off the floor. “But maybe it’s for the best. I shall be regal after I’m married. Or at least engaged.”
Elise’s heart seemed to twist. At first, she’d thought it was her dislike of Sylvia that caused her ill-natured wish for the pursued earl not to marry her. But in truth, there had always been something more to him, more than the cold, shallow Sylvia deserved. At least in Elise’s eyes. And yet, the man had never looked at Elise or spoken to her until yesterday’s accident.
Still, unnoticed, she had observed him well over the last few weeks. A hint of self-deprecating humor had lurked behind his words and his occasional sardonic smile at those of others. That had intrigued her, together with the knowledge that Colonel Wolfe was a greatly honored soldier, a hero amongst Wellington’s army of heroes. A large, quiet man with a commanding presence, never afraid to speak his mind, although he never seemed to rush to impose his views either. A clever man, who thought quickly, saw all sides, assessed and made judgments. An unexpectedly kind man, as she’d discovered yesterday morning. With rather beautiful, brown eyes steeped in tragedy beneath the surface he showed the world. A strong and handsome man whose hands had already touched her more intimately than those of any other... Sensitive—
“What are you waiting for, Mademoiselle?” Sylvia snapped, breaking into her reverie like a brutal discord in a tranquil piece of music.
“Nothing,” Elise murmured, hastily limping away with the tiara.
“What the devil took you so long?” Miss Renleigh demanded as she reentered the bedchamber.
“Sorry, Miss Renleigh,” Elise said automatically. She set the dazzling tiara amongst the iron grey hair, but before she could pin it in place, Miss Renleigh snatched it from her head with irritation.
“It’s all wrong. And will look stupid with a mask.” Contemptuously, she threw the tiara several feet across the room to the bed. “I shall have to make do like this. After all, my niece is the belle of the ball.” In the mirror, she caught Elise’s gaze and frowned. “I shall want you close by my side, Mamzelle.”
Elise’s heart sank. She’d hoped for the night to herself, to rest her aching ankle and read a novel until she fell asleep to the sounds of the gaiety below. “Of course, Miss Renleigh. Only...why?”
Miss Renleigh glared. “For whatever reason I wish! To carry messages to my niece, to the servants or anyone else I choose. To carry out my wishes as is your function as my companion! Go and change into your other gown.”
Her other gown was equally old, darned and unfashionable, though it had once had pretensions of being evening wear.
“Should I wear a mask as well?” she asked, with the faint hope of at least having some fun out of the evening.
But Miss Renleigh flared her nostrils in disapproval. “Of course not. You’re not a guest.”
Elise left once more and trailed along the passage to the stairs, where she encountered Lord Renleigh, a fashionable young gentleman of two and twenty, who had just leapt down them three at a time. Arriving at the bottom, he immediately grabbed Elise and waltzed her wildly around the passage, to the further detriment of her poor ankle, until she managed to yank herself free.
“What has put you into such high spirits?” she demanded.
“Everything,” his lordship enthused. “But mostly, the word is that Warenton’s going to pop the question to my sister tonight, which means he’ll be good for a tap.”
Elise blinked. “You really mean to borrow money from him as soon as he and Miss Sylvia are engaged?”
“Why not? He’ll expect it,” Renleigh said cheerfully.
“Best not disappoint him then,” Elise said with sarcasm.
“Exactly,” Renleigh agreed and went on his way with a grin.
By far the most congenial of the Renleigh family, the young baron was, Elise had to concede, nevertheless equally grasping, self-centered and lazy. Although she suspected he might be in for a shock. Somehow, she couldn’t quite see Lord Warenton happily handing out large wads of cash to fund Renleigh’s predilections for gambling and expensive actresses.
***
From her hard seat in the shadow of the ballroom stairs, Elise saw the Earl of Warenton arrive, together with his sister and her husband. Lady Caroline and Mr. Vernon were both easily recognizable, despite their masks. Lord Warenton didn’t even trouble to wear his, although it dangled from his fingers carelessly as he bowed over Miss Renleigh’s hand.
Prepared as she was, Elise couldn’t prevent the sudden tumbling sensation in her heart.
In truth, he had always had something of that effect on her. She could never understand why when he only ever looked through her. Even when he’d knelt before her, her foot on his thigh and her ankle between his sure fingers, looking directly into her face, he’d had no idea that they’d ever met before. Because she, as a mere companion, was so far beneath him? Or because he was too dazzled by Sylvia?
Before yesterday, it had hardly mattered. Even now that she’d spoken to him, gained his attention for half an hour and made him smile, it shouldn’t matter. Yet as he strolled into the ballroom, idly twirling his mask by its strings around one finger, her heart galloped without her permission. She couldn’t drag her gaze away.
Always a distinguished man, in his red and gold-braided regimental coat and black pantaloons, he looked magnificent—large, broad-shouldered and powerful. And yet, he moved with easy elegance, unusual in so big a man
He made some sardonic remark to Mr. Vernon, who laughed with clear amusement. A flicker of response lit the earl’s face before he strolled away on his own, out of Elise’s view. Searching, no doubt, for Sylvia.
Reluctantly, Elise returned her wayward gaze to Miss Renleigh who was, in fact, glaring at her. Elise flushed as she jumped to her feet and hurried the few yards to the old lady’s side. Clearly Miss Renleigh had been trying to summon her for several moments and she must surely have seen the direction of Elise’s attention.
“Find my niece,” Miss Renleigh snapped. “Tell her Lord Warenton is here and not masked. And Mamzelle?”
“Yes, Miss Renleigh?”
“Do so discreetly.”
“Of course.”
In accordance with the long established rules of her presence at such events, she didn’t plunge into the midst of the throng, but slipped around the edges. At such moments, she felt like a ghost, unseen and unreal, almost as if her whole person were slipping away into a mere phantom of herself.
If he saw her now, would he recognize her as the woman he’d helped yesterday? Or like everyone else, like every other occasion where they’d been in the same room, would he not see her at all?
Sylvia was dancing with the Russian Tsar, a notable distinction. They made a very handsome couple, each angelically tall and fair, and each wearing a charming, social smile. Although conversation appeared to be stilted. Well, Sylvia’s French was appalling. Despite being here for several weeks where the common language among the international community was French, hers had never progressed beyond the very basic of the uninterested schoolgirl.
Elise waited patiently against the wall for the dance to end. She entertained herself by predicting where Sylvia would be when the music stopped and positioning herself accordingly. Pleased with her accuracy, she intercepted her quarry within a second of her leaving the dance floor, touched her arm to draw her attention and murmured Miss Renleigh’s message. Sylvia bent her ear down to hear it, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge Elise’s presence.
Elise judged she now had a couple of minutes to herself before Miss Renleigh could accuse her of loitering, so she used it to wander around admiring the distinguished and beautiful among the guests. Prince Metternich himself, president of the Peace Congress, was present, urbane and affable and, no doubt, still working in his own peculiar way. The British delegation was also well represented, led by Lord and Lady Castlereagh, always recognizable for their eccentric dress, masked or not. Even Prince de Talleyrand, the French representative, limped past her, in conversation with the Austrian von Gentz. To her surprise, his glance fell upon her as she passed and he inclined his head with civility. A moment later, she spotted his niece, the beautiful Dorothée, on the other side of the room, the center of a lively court of admirers.
Elise could tell herself she was interested in all of these people, in being near those who were making the historic peace of Europe. And on some level, she was. But in truth, she was really searching for the Earl of Warenton. Not to speak to him. Not even to bring herself to his notice, because she couldn’t bear him to look through her as before. Or, worse, look down upon her in this company of the powerful and well-bred.
She still hadn’t seen him by the time she came to the small antechamber. Ornamented with a large pot plant, a full length looking glass, a low, occasional table and a sofa, it had been designed for those seeking a brief respite from the hubbub of the main ballroom. Or for statesmen to have the discreet conversations that influenced the policy of the Congress. For this reason, Elise glanced quite warily inside. A sheaf of notepaper, two pens and an ink bottle had been thoughtfully provided on a side table, beside a decanter and four glasses
However, the room was empty. She was about to carry on her circuit of the ballroom towards the card room—where she suspected the earl would be seen with his military friends —when an abandoned black mask caught her attention. On impulse, she slipped into the room and was immediately struck by the difference in noise. It really did give the impression of privacy and quiet.
Feeling guilty, Elise lowered herself onto the sofa and sighed with relief. One of the hardest things about being a companion was that one was never alone. Even at night, when she fell into bed, she could be summoned at any time because Miss Renleigh couldn’t sleep or didn’t feel well or just wanted to shout at someone. She could allow herself these two minutes...
However, only seconds later, she jumped up again, reaching for the abandoned mask on the table. By its size, it was a man’s mask, although, made of plain black silk, it could have been worn by either sex.
Limping to the mirror, Elise held the mask over her eyes and laughed out loud at her reflection. Since her face was small, the mask concealed nearly all of her face, which made her look even more mysterious than most. Only her eyes glittered between the slits. She amused herself by languidly tilting her head, then raising one arched eyebrow above the mask. Below it, she curved her lips into a provoking smile that looked both dangerous and seductive. At least she imagined it did. Fresh laughter at herself bubbled up but remained trapped in her throat because a shadow in the doorway darkened the room.
In the glass, her eyes met those of Francis Wolfe, Earl of Warenton.