After she’d seen Aunt Judith settled with Clarissa, a compress, and a decanter of elderflower cordial, Sarah donned her gold domino again and returned to the ballroom to look for Malcolm. Even though she’d only been gone a short time, the atmosphere had changed: the laughter had grown raucous, the chatter louder, the dancing wilder. She wrinkled her nose a little as she carefully wove her way between the tight clusters of masked guests; the candles in the chandeliers had burned low and the air was heavy with the smell of melted wax, smoke, and perspiration barely masked by the scent of stale perfume. Pausing at the edge of the dance floor where a lively gavotte was taking place, she searched for Malcolm’s tall, broad-shouldered form, but despite the fact he was shrouded in a crimson cape, she failed to spot him anywhere. But then, perhaps he was playing cards as she’d earlier surmised.
On entering the card room, she spied Damaris playing faro with an older, bewigged gentleman in a leering Pulcinello mask, his cheeks ruddy with drink. However, her sister-in-law-to-be wasn’t much help. She tossed her dark auburn curls over one slender shoulder, barely looking up from the cards in her hand as she answered Sarah’s query about Malcolm. ‘I have no idea where he is, my dear. I’m not my brother’s keeper. Why don’t you try the supper room? Or Lord Kenmuir’s private study. He’s probably sampling our host’s cognac.’
Sarah pressed her lips together but she was unable to suppress a small sigh of frustration. Damaris could be annoyingly self-centred at times. She was a young widow—only six-and-twenty—and like Malcolm, quite beautiful with a high forehead and cheekbones and eyes the colour of golden-brown topaz; she certainly received a lot of attention from men, both young and old. Her faro opponent was a case in point; he was quite transfixed with Damaris’s décolletage rather than what was in his hand—and Damaris did not seem to mind his unseemly interest. In fact, she seemed to be deliberately drawing attention to her bosom; one of her fingertips trailed lazily back and forth along the low sweeping neckline of her turquoise silk bodice. Bewitching her card-playing partner was clearly more of a priority than helping her find Malcolm.
‘Well, if you see your brother before I do, please tell him I’m looking for him,’ Sarah murmured as she began to turn away; she wasn’t surprised in the least when Damaris simply waved a dismissive hand by way of a reply.
A brief search of the supper room proved futile as well. Sarah hovered by a glass-panelled set of doors leading to the empty, snow-dusted terrace. She was wondering whether she should give up her quest and just take a plate of sugared sweetmeats and dainty cakes to her aunt when she sensed the presence of another guest by her shoulder.
‘Still looking for something, or should I say, someone? Lord Tay perhaps?’
Sarah’s brows snapped together as she whirled around to face her enigmatic stalker. ‘Why are you following me?’ she demanded, not caring if others in their vicinity overheard. What on earth was this man up to? Surely he wasn’t attempting to seduce her… He’d be mad to try such a thing. Malcolm would kill him.
Clearly unperturbed by her brusque tone, the stranger simply smiled, ignoring her question, just as she’d ignored his. He tilted his head towards the doors leading to the terrace and the enclosed garden beyond. ‘Have you looked outside?’
‘For Lord Tay? I seriously doubt he would be taking a turn about the terrace on a night like this.’
The man in black shrugged. ‘It was just a thought,’ he said softly in that rich, deep voice of his that seemed to wrap around her like smoke. ‘I’d be willing to escort you. It is rather dark out there.’
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Sarah, steadfastly turning her head away. ‘I don’t even know your name. We’ve not been formally introduced.’
‘No, we haven’t,’ he said. ‘But then, isn’t one supposed to be in disguise at a masquerade ball? It’s a night designed for all manner of clandestine activities, don’t you think? Who knows what might happen.’
‘You’re incorrigible, Mr Whoever-you-are.’
Mr Whoever-you-are laughed. ‘True.’ He took a step back and affected a courtly bow. ‘Allow me to introduce myself then. My name is Alexander Black.’
‘Mr Black.’ Sarah arched an eyebrow. ‘How clever of you to match your attire to your name. And possibly your nature.’
Alexander Black grimaced. ‘You wound me, Miss Lambert. We’ve only just met.’
‘I know a rogue when I see one.’
Mr Black or whatever-his-name-was flashed a grin. ‘Do you now? Have you met many?’
‘Enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back to my aunt.’
‘What about your affianced?’
‘Yes, of course. Lord Tay too.’
‘Well then, I bid you adieu yet again, Miss Lambert.’
Sarah stepped away but then turned back, her rose silk skirts brushing the tops of Mr Black’s silver buckled shoes. Something was still bothering her. ‘You know something about Lord Tay’s whereabouts, don’t you? You keep alluding to it.’
She narrowed her eyes, studying Mr Black’s countenance but his expression was inscrutable behind his black domino. ‘You’re toying with me. I saw you watching my fiancé as he danced with his sister, Lady Glenleven, earlier this evening. And you were watching me too. I want to know why.’
He didn’t deny her assertions. Instead, his mouth tipped into a grin that was both maddening and appealing in equal measure. ‘You are a very lovely young woman, Miss Lambert. I’m sure I’m not the first man to have admired your,’ his gaze blatantly raked over her bosom, ‘person.’
A blush scalded Sarah’s cheeks. ‘What rot. There are innumerable beautiful women here tonight that you could ogle. Indeed, there was a young woman dressed in red flirting with you earlier this evening. Why should I, in particular, catch your interest?’ She folded her arms. ‘What do you want from me? And do you know where Lord Tay is or not?’
Even though the lighting by the doors to the terrace was muted, Sarah caught the flicker of a muscle in Black’s lean cheek. She was convinced more than ever that something was afoot.
‘He’s outside, isn’t he?’ Sarah pushed past Black and reached for the handle of the doors. But then Black placed his large hand over hers. A strange tingling sensation spread from Sarah’s fingers, up her arm, all the way to her chest, and her heart began to race. Heat rushed up her neck and washed over her face. But Black didn’t seem to notice her foolish reaction to his touch.
‘Miss Lambert…’ he murmured, his warm breath brushing her temple. Was there a tinge of regret lacing his tone? ‘I’m not sure—’
‘Well I am. Unhand me, sir.’
Black immediately released her and Sarah opened the door and marched out to the terrace.
The biting cold stole her breath. The moon’s pale orb was partly obscured by a shredded veil of silver-grey clouds and Sarah stopped by the white marble balustrade, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the inky darkness. And then she felt something slide over her shoulders—a black wool cloak lined with silk that smelled like warm male and some kind of exotic scent or soap. A blend of sandalwood and citrus—bergamot or citron perhaps.
‘If you are going to come out here, at least wear something to protect you from the cold.’
Sarah made a half-hearted attempt to shrug off the garment. It really was deliciously warm and her natural instinct was to wrap it around herself. ‘Mr Black, I hardly think it is appropriate—’
‘Just humour me, Miss Lambert. You may think me a rogue, but a gentleman would never let a woman catch her death.’
‘Very well.’ At her words, Black gently turned her around and fastened his cloak beneath her chin. His warm fingers brushed her jaw, making her shiver for a reason that had nothing to do with the cold; whether his intimate touch was by accident or design, Sarah wasn’t certain. She should rebuke him for his overfamiliarity but it seemed, for the moment, her tongue and lips wouldn’t work.
‘Shall we?’ Black offered her his arm and Sarah at last found her voice.
‘I’m neither an imbecile nor an invalid, Mr Black,’ she remarked in a clipped tone, annoyed at herself for almost succumbing to the blackguard’s charm. ‘I thank you for the loan of your cloak but pray, do not follow me. If Lord Tay is out here, I will find him.’
She turned and stalked away, relieved that Black appeared to heed her request.
At first glance the terrace seemed deserted, although there were so many deep shadows between the pools of light cast from the occasional uncurtained window, it was difficult to tell for certain. Marble statues—nymphs and satyrs and other mythical creatures—had been placed at regular intervals along the grey brick, ivy-clad walls and more than once, Sarah started when she mistook a statue for an actual person.
Upon reaching the end of the terrace, Sarah discovered it continued around the corner of Kenmuir House. A denuded arbour and stone bench stood about halfway along and a set of stairs led down to a gravel path that appeared to wind back to the main garden. This was surely a fool’s errand but she should at least satisfy herself that Malcolm wasn’t out here taking the fresh air or conversing with a male acquaintance about some private matter of business. Pausing, she glanced back towards the doors leading to the supper room; Alexander Black was where she’d left him and he raised a hand in greeting when he saw her looking his way. Ignoring the urge to wave back, she turned the corner and approached the rectangle of golden light spilling from the first set of windows.
Malcolm was nowhere in sight. Inwardly cursing herself for being so easily gulled by Black and his not so subtle intimations, Sarah was about to retrace her steps when something—a movement or perhaps it was a sound—made her stop and look through the window into the illuminated room beyond.
And her heart stopped. For there, in the centre of a lavishly appointed private parlour, was Malcolm. But he wasn’t alone. The blonde woman in scarlet and gold brocade—the woman who’d she’d seen flirting with Alexander Black—was with him. At least Sarah thought it was the same woman; it was difficult to tell considering she was bent over the side of a silk-covered settee, head down with her voluminous skirts bunched up around her waist, her bare derrière and legs exposed. Malcolm, his mask still in place, was also in a state of dishabille; the fall of his satin breeches was undone and the slit in his smallclothes gaped open. His hands grasped the woman’s hips, holding her in place as he pumped his member in and out of her like a wild, rutting beast.
Oh, God. Oh, dear God. Sarah stumbled backwards into the marble balustrade. The man she was supposed to marry, the man she was falling in love with, was fornicating with another woman.
The depth of Malcolm’s betrayal struck her with sickening force and Sarah spun around and gripped the balustrade, willing herself not to cast up the contents of her stomach into the dead, frozen garden bed below the terrace. With a shaking hand, she pulled off her mask before tipping back her head to suck in great lungfuls of frigid air. It felt as though she couldn’t breathe. Like she was drowning. Her head began to spin and she closed her eyes, dropping her head forward again. A strange shuddering sound, somewhere between a low moan and a sob escaped her lips. Why would you do this, Malcolm? I don’t understand. I thought you cared for me…
Dear Lord, what am I to do?
‘Miss Lambert. Here, sit down.’ Black was at her side, steering her toward the stone bench.
Too weak to question or resist, her vision blurred by stinging tears, Sarah complied. Black’s arm curled around her heaving shoulders and she subsided against him. Without thinking, she curled a hand into the silk lapel of his velvet frockcoat and pressed her wet cheek into his wide chest, grateful for the comfort he offered. She couldn’t stop shivering.
She wanted to close her eyes but every time she did, she saw Malcolm and the vile act he’d been engaged in. She had no idea what to do next. With her heart torn to shreds and her mind in whirling chaos, it hurt too much to think. Instead, she tried to focus on the sights and sounds of the night—the clouds scudding across the moon, the muted laughter and chatter emanating from the supper room, and the steady beat of Alexander Black’s heart beneath her ear.
They sat that way for several minutes, until Black reached into his coat and pulled out something. She’d expected a kerchief but it was a small silver flask. It winked at her in the moonlight as he uncorked it.
‘You’ve had a terrible shock, Miss Lambert,’ he murmured, his tone low and filled with compassion. ‘I suggest you take a sip or two of this before we go back inside. Then I’ll help you find your aunt.’
Sarah nodded and straightened. That sounded eminently sensible. She took the offered flask with trembling fingers and sniffed it. ‘What is it?’
Black’s mouth curved into a soft smile. ‘Brandy. It will stop the shaking. But if it’s not to your taste…’
‘No, it’s quite all right.’ She really should stop being so suspicious of Black. After all, he was only trying to help. She closed her eyes and took a long sip, then coughed and gasped. The concoction tasted overly sweet yet bitter and nothing like any brandy she’d ever had before. ‘What… on earth… is that?’ Sarah’s vision swam and the world began to spin again. Horror gripped her heart as she tried but failed to wrench herself away from Black’s hold.
‘Just one more sip, sweeting,’ whispered Black as he pressed the flask to her lips and tipped more of the foul-tasting liquid into her mouth.
Unable to summon the strength to move or even utter a murmur of protest, Sarah plummeted headlong into darkness.
***
Alex sighed heavily as Sarah Lambert slumped in his arms. If his circumstances were different—if his history were different—he wouldn’t be doing any of this: drugging then kidnapping an apparently innocent young woman, and turning her against her affianced.
Although, considering how readily Malcolm Campbell took the bait offered to him in the form of Miss Nell Burns, perhaps he was actually saving Miss Lambert from making the worst mistake of her life. Did the lass know her prospective husband was not only faithless, but a rapist and murderer?
He rather doubted it. Perhaps, in the future, she’d even thank him for what he was about to do.
At least, that’s what Alex tried to tell himself as he pocketed his recorked flask then stood and carefully lifted Sarah, still clothed in his wool cloak, into his arms. She was surprisingly light and he had no trouble at all carrying her down the terrace stairs and along a short gravel path to a gate that led out to a narrow laneway between Kenmuir House and the neighbouring residence. One of his trusted staff members had forced the lock earlier in the evening.
After closing the gate behind him with a small kick, Alex followed the lane to the end where his carriage waited. One of his footmen—plainly attired for the sake of subterfuge—opened the door and let down the step, and within moments, Alex and his hostage were safely inside. Once he’d settled Miss Lambert onto the blanket-lined bench, he rapped on the roof then took a seat next to her to ensure she wouldn’t fall when the carriage rolled forward.
His own residence was only a short distance away, a bit further along the Royal Mile. All going well, he’d be back at Kenmuir House within the space of half an hour. And with any luck, he’d also return in time to witness Malcolm Campbell’s reaction to finding out his very wealthy fiancée had disappeared.
Alex’s mouth curled into a grim smile. The next few hours were going to be entertaining indeed.