Chapter Eleven
It seemed that the Earl of Scarcliffe's mask was not quite the disguise he thought it was. Cecily quickly discovered that she was the only woman he had found time to dance with at his own ball. As a consequence, the mysterious Miss Somerville was the subject of a very satisfying degree of attention and intrigue. The ladies all wanted to meet her; the men all wanted to dance with her.
Cecily had always wondered whether her success in society was simply due to her high birth. No-one could deny that being a Duke's daughter came with many advantages. So she was inordinately pleased to find that her wit and flirtation were just as well-received when she was no more than a Miss.
Jemima was faring similarly well, though she had not managed a dance with Robert. Cecily had barely exchanged a word with her "sister" all night, so great were the number of Jemima's dance partners. Jemima had exactly the sort of slender figure and mass of golden hair which attracted a gentleman's attention. Cecily had often been jealous of her, although she knew that Jemima's good looks did not mean her life was an easy one.
At present, the only way to track Jemima about the room was by the bobbing of her peacock feathers above the mask. Judging by the way they shook with merriment, she was having a good time.
Cecily could not have been more pleased with her scheme.
"I simply must sit down a moment," she told her latest partner with a happy sigh. "Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of lemonade?"
The young man moved with half-smitten alacrity to find her a chair, and went off in search of refreshments. Cecily wriggled her toes inside her dancing slippers. They were not exactly the leather half-boots she preferred, but she could not deny that they were pretty.
Sometimes it was nice to simply be pretty, vapid, and charming. None of the gentlemen that evening had taxed her mind at all – Robert excepted. It was relaxing. It would drive her completely mad if life was always like this, but, once in a while, it was truly pleasant.
Cecily found herself looking around the dance floor, seeking out Robert's latest partner. How strange. He was nowhere to be seen.
What sort of man did not attend his own ball? Only the flimsy disguise of the masks prevented him from being decried as a poor host.
It was then that Cecily began to wonder how much Robert had really wanted this ball at all. He did not strike her as the sort of man who filled his days with social chatter and giggling Misses. She'd had him down as an early-to-bed, early-to-rise, lover of the outdoors and the wild country lifestyle.
Unless that was only what she wanted him to be…
Cecily had only half drifted away on her thoughts of Robert. She was still listening, though not intently, to the chatter going on around her. She had the sort of mind that was always eager for some amusement and could not be readily turned off.
So it was not through eavesdropping, but rather, her natural habit of seeking out distraction, that led her to overhear the conversation taking place between the gentlemen standing beside her.
"I was disappointed not to see your father, Hart," one gentleman was saying. "I've heard the old fellow could put any man to shame on the dance floor in his day!"
"I'm sorry to say his dancing days are over," answered Lord Jonathan Hartley. "Though it is mysterious the way his gout has suddenly flared up on this evening in particular."
"Mysterious? In what way?"
"Well, I don't like to gossip." The other gentlemen laughed disbelievingly. Hart conceded the point. "Very well, very well. Call me an old fishwife if you must. I'm simply saying that it's curious. The old man arrives at Scarcliffe Hall – takes a drink from a cask of port that came to us from Loxton, which, as you know, is on the Duke of Loxwell's land – and he's taken ill. Draw your own conclusions, gentlemen. I have drawn mine."
"You cannot be suggesting that the Duke has poisoned your father!"
Cecily could not resist turning to watch Lord Jonathan's reaction. He gave an elegant shrug, and answered with something of a leer:
"Oh, the dastardly old Duke would never do anything fatal."
"Is it your habit to speak of Dukes so disrespectfully?" Cecily demanded, rising to her feet. The group of gentlemen broke apart before her, every man abashed save one.
Hart met her eyes coolly. "Pardon me, Miss. I don't think I've had the honour?"
"My name is Jane Somerville," said Cecily. "And you, I believe, are Lord Jonathan Hartley. Not a King, my lord. Not a Queen, either, as far as I can make out." This remark was greeted by sniggers from the assembled gentlemen. "What gives you the right to speak ill of a Duke?"
"I said nothing unwarranted," said Hart, turning away as though her conversation bored him. Cecily's hand darted out and rapped him on the shoulder.
"I have not finished speaking!"
She was too angry to regret it. Even when painful silence spread out around her and Robert's brother, she did not quite regret it.
Hart looked at the place on his shoulder where she had touched him as though he could not quite believe she had done it. "But I am finished, Miss Somerville."
"I demand that you recant your foul accusation against the Duke of Loxwell!"
"In looking back over what I have said, I find nothing which I wish to reconsider." Hart's voice was dangerously soft and low.
"Then you are no gentleman, my lord. The Duke of Loxwell is an honourable man."
"Is it the done thing to defend a man's enemies under his own roof?" Hart demanded. "May I remind you where you are, young lady. This is my family's house."
"That does not give you the right to spread gossip and rumour –"
"I do what I please in my own home." To Cecily's shock, Hart ripped the mask from his face, revealing the derisive sneer he wore. "I am not afraid to put my face beside my words. Are you?"
Cecily realised that he had her backed into a corner. Everyone in the ballroom had turned to watch their argument. If she revealed her face, they would all know what she had done. She would be thrown out of the ball in disgrace.
"I have said nothing amiss," she said, taking a step back. Hart moved towards her, arms folded, face mocking.
"You have attempted to tell me what I can and cannot say under my own roof. If you were a gentleman, I would call you out on the spot. But you are a lady, and so, at the very least, I demand to face my accuser."
"Now, now, Hart," gasped Northmere, who had run across from the other side of the ballroom. "What's all this? I'm sure the lady meant no harm."
"Sister!" came Jemima's voice, rather too high-pitched for comfort. She had evidently been dancing with Northmere – he had practically dragged her behind him. "I have had quite enough entertainment for one evening. Why don't we thank Lord Jonathan for his hospitality and go home?"
"Oh, there's no need for that," said Hart, smiling like a fox with a cornered rabbit. "If Miss Somerville will only remove her mask, I'm sure we will be able to smooth things over admirably."
The last thing Cecily wanted to do was let Hart win. Her choices were not pleasant: reveal her face, and admit to the fact that she, Lady Cecily Balfour, had snuck into a ball she was not invited to – or go home. Run away, in fact. Leave Lord Jonathan the clear victor.
She was so conflicted that, for once in her life, she had nothing at all to say.
"Let me escort you to the door," said Northmere, positioning himself between Cecily and Hart. He took her hand somewhat roughly and tugged her along with him. "Don't be a fool," he muttered. "Hart will not appreciate you toying with him."
"But the things he said about my father –"
"I don't believe he was talking about your father, Miss Somerville." Northmere bundled Cecily out of the ballroom, Jemima following close behind them. A wave of chatter broke over the crowd the moment they had left, and Cecily was certain that she was the chief topic of conversation.
Northmere looked at Jemima wearily. "And who do I truly have the honour of addressing?"
Jemima lifted her mask, sending the peacock feathers trembling, and pressed a finger to her lips. "Lady Jemima Stanhope," she whispered.
Northmere rolled his eyes. "Well, my ladies, I hope you have entertained yourselves at the Hartleys' expense enough for one evening. I will help you into your carriage – and I will keep watch until I see it turning the corner at the end of the driveway."
"Thank you, Lord Northmere," said Cecily, with feeling. It was not often that she got herself into such a scrape she needed help to escape it.
"I am not doing this for you." Northmere gave a wry smile. "I happen to be something of an expert at extricating myself from tricky situations, and this is one occasion when I can use my talents for someone else's good." They reached the carriage. "Goodnight, ladies." He offered first Cecily, then Jemima, his hand to step inside. True to his word, Cecily saw him watching from the steps at the front of the house as their carriage drove away.
"That Baron Northmere is more than a little charming," said Jemima, diplomatically avoiding the subject of Cecily's brush with disaster. "It's a pity he wasn't the one to tear off his mask. I would have liked a closer look at him."
Cecily twirled a strand of loose hair between her fingers. Contrition did not come naturally to her, but she was doing her best. "Did you manage to enjoy yourself this evening, then? Despite my forcing you into it… and almost upsetting the whole scheme to boot?"
Jemima was about to answer when the carriage juddered to a sudden halt.
Cecily bit her lip. The last thing she wanted was to stay another moment on Hartley land.
"Driver!" she called. "What on earth is going on?"
"There's a horseman blocking the road ahead," came the reply. "Not to worry, my lady. We'll move him on in a jiffy."
"Oh, for goodness' sake." Cecily stuck her head out of the window, expecting to be confronted by a ball-goer who had partaken of a little too much champagne. "Excuse me!" she called out. "Get out of the way at once!"
The last person she expected to ride up to the window was the man whose brother she'd just insulted in front of nearly all their acquaintance.
But there Robert was.