“That’s an invitation,” Jane said, stating the obvious. “I didn’t think you ever got any. Do you think you’ve finally paid enough penance to be allowed back in society?”
“I doubt it,” Miranda replied. She was loath to open it. The obvious source would be Lucien de Malheur. It had been more than a week since she’d been to his house, and she hadn’t heard a word from him. She’d expected at least a note, perhaps flowers, some recognition of the wonderful evening they’d spent together, but so far there’d been nothing.
She’d come to the conclusion that it was not nearly as wonderful for him as it had been for her. Which shouldn’t surprise her. It had been her first adult, intelligent conversation in weeks, and the first with someone outside her family in almost a year, not counting Jane, who really was family.
She tapped the envelope against her other hand, reluctant. If it was the note she’d expected it was both overdue and something she wanted to savor in private. Jane knew her too well, and Miranda wasn’t even sure of her own feelings and reactions to Lucien de Malheur. She certainly wasn’t ready to share them.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Jane demanded, rising and leaving the ribbons behind. Jane was tall, dark-haired like her mother, but lacking Evangelina Pagett’s extraordinary beauty or her father’s cynical grace. She was a little thin, a little plain and the best and dearest friend in the world.
“I’ll open it later.” Miranda set the note back down on the salver.
“Oh, no, you won’t,” Jane said, lunging for it, grabbing it before Miranda could stop her. “I’m the one with the stultifying life. At least I can live through you vicariously.”
Miranda leaped to her feet, reaching for the letter, which Jane laughingly held over her head, and fixed her with a stern look. “You’re about to marry a good man who adores you, and you’ll live in a lovely house and have wonderful children and…what’s that face for? Don’t tell me you’re not happy?” Miranda stopped reaching for the invitation, falling back to look at her troubled friend.
Jane tried for her usual smile, but Miranda could see the pain behind it, the pain she should have recognized before, and she forgot about the letter.
“Things are never quite what they seem,” Jane said carefully. “Mr. Bothwell feels that I’ll make a suitable wife and that I should breed quite easily. He’s most desirous of an heir. He likes that I’m quiet and well-behaved and conduct myself just as I ought, and he thinks I’ll do very well.”
“You’ll do very well?” Miranda echoed, incensed. “And you agreed to this affecting proposal?”
“I’m three and twenty, Miranda. I’d had five seasons and no other offers, and Mr. Bothwell is a gentleman with a significant income.” There was a faint wobble in her voice.
“And your parents agreed to this iniquitous match?”
“Don’t be absurd. I told them I was madly in love with the man. I can’t live with them forever, and I want children. I want a life of my own. Mr. Bothwell will do very well, I’m sure.”
For a long moment Miranda said nothing. And then she put her arms around Jane’s waist. “Dearest, you should have told him no. You could come and live with me, and we can become two strange old ladies who keep a great deal too many cats and wear eccentric clothes and say things we shouldn’t. It would be grand fun.”
Jane shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t. You can’t convince me you’re any happier than I am.”
“I do well enough. And besides, I deserve my banishment. I’m a lightskirt, remember? You deserve a man who adores you.”
“You aren’t a lightskirt. And we all deserve a man who adores us. Haven’t you yet learned we don’t always get what we deserve?” Jane said. She handed her the vellum envelope. “Why don’t we see your invitation? It might be something diverting.”
Miranda cast one last troubled glance at her dearest friend and then turned her attention to the envelope. It was addressed with a feminine hand—she knew it hadn’t come from de Malheur, but she was nevertheless disappointed when she tore open the envelope to find a card inviting her to attend a ridotto given by the Duke and Duchess of Carrimore, in honor of their fifth wedding anniversary. She showed it to Jane, then tossed it back onto the salver with a negligent air, taking her seat by the fire.
“It was very sweet of them,” she said. “At least, sweet of his grace. He was in awe of my shocking grandfather when he was young, and he’s always gone out of his way to be kind to me no matter what. I won’t go, of course.”
“You will go,” Jane said firmly. “I’m invited, as well. You know it’s impossible to drag my parents back to town and I could scarcely go alone. If Mr. Bothwell was in town he’d refuse on the grounds of propriety—he doesn’t hold with masked balls. If I don’t go with you I’ll never have the chance to attend one again, and besides, I’m dying to see Lady Carrimore’s diamonds. Apparently she has one the size of a pigeon’s egg.”
“They’ll have other parties that aren’t shocking to your fiancé’s delicate sensibilities. Bothwell can accompany you.”
“Bothwell doesn’t approve of the Carrimores at all. Says they’re bad ton and he doesn’t want to associate with them.”
“And what does he say about me?”
“He wouldn’t dare criticize you,” Jane said, a little too swiftly, and Miranda knew he’d done just that. “Please, Miranda. It’s been ages since you’ve been out. And if any one dares cut you I’ll kick them. You’re acting like it’s something shocking, like, like an orgy given by the Heavenly Host.”
“Assuming they give orgies,” Miranda pointed out. “No one really knows what they do.”
“Orgies,” Jane said flatly. “I would be too disappointed if they indulged in something tame, given their atrocious reputation. But that’s neither here nor there. It isn’t the Heavenly Host, it’s a perfectly respectable gathering hosted by a duke and a duchess. Besides, most people will wear a mask and domino. They needn’t have any idea who we actually are. We’ll show up, wander around and laugh at all the ridiculous people, and then come back here and drink too much champagne and thank God we don’t live like that. Mr. Bothwell says diamonds are much too gaudy. He prefers me in something more subdued, like jet.”
“Something cheaper, more likely,” Miranda muttered. She’d always confided everything to Jane, her dearest friend since childhood, just as her mother had been best friends with Jane’s stunning mother. But it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t breathed a word about her midnight rendezvous with Lucien de Malheur, and she wasn’t quite sure why. She hesitated for another moment. If the Carrimores had lowered their standards enough to invite her, then she had little doubt they’d invited Lucien de Malheur, as well. And since he seemed to have forgotten her existence her best chance might be simply to arrive at a place he was likely to be. She was used to being ignored by the ton. She wasn’t going to accept being ignored by a fellow outcast like the Scorpion, not if she could help it.
“I’ll do it. As long as we leave before any planned unmasking. People will be incensed if they find out they’ve been polite to a shameless whore.”
“Stop it! You’re no such thing! This isn’t like you, Miranda. You know it’s going to be fun. Like old times. No one will have any idea who we are, and we can behave very badly indeed.”
“I think most people will attest to the fact that I’ve behaved badly enough for one lifetime, precious,” she said wryly.
“Oh, I don’t mean that,” Jane said in a dismissive voice. “I was thinking more along the lines of going places we shouldn’t go, ignoring people we don’t want to see. I’m about to be trapped in a dutiful marriage when there are so many places I want to visit, things I want to do. Grant me this much, Miranda.”
“You should have been born a sailor, love.” It was too tempting, what with the promise of a cape and mask to disguise even her gender if she so chose. And the sadness had momentarily left Jane’s eyes, which were sparkling now with excitement. “When is this going to be?” she asked, wondering if she could come up with a sudden trip out to the countryside. That would be the wise thing to do, remove herself from temptation. But then, when had she ever been wise?
“Didn’t you read the invitation? In three days. We got our invitation weeks ago—yours must have been delayed.”
“Or it took them that long to make up their minds whether to invite me,” Miranda said. Or had someone talked them into it? Someone powerful and mysterious who seemed to have disappeared out of her life as suddenly as he had entered it.
“I can arrange for the dominos and masks,” Jane said eagerly.
It would be a mistake, as surely as attending Lucien de Malheur’s salon had been a mistake. And she was going to do it anyway—and to hell with all the old biddies who’d be horrified at who was lurking beneath the domino. “Get me a red one,” she said firmly. And the last bit of shadow left Jane’s warm brown eyes.
At one point she thought he might have left town, but she’d overheard two stout matrons discussing the latest scandal concerning his appearance at the opera and a certain dancer, and Miranda couldn’t acquit him of the unspeakable crime of simply forgetting about her. He’d been polite, he’d done his duty, but he must have found her deadly dull. Tant pis. She had no interest in entertaining the likes of him. All she wanted was the quiet of their Dorset home near the high cliffs. It wasn’t as if she was running away. Clearly there was nothing to run from.
Jane was almost feverish with excitement when she arrived at the house wearing a pale blue domino, the scarlet one Miranda had requested over one arm. The street outside the Carrimore mansion was thronged with carriages, and by the time Jane’s hired hackney carriage brought them to the front portico Miranda was regretting her impulsive decision. It was too late to do anything; the footmen were already opening the door and letting down the steps, and Miranda pulled her hood up over her head, made certain her loo mask was carefully in place and followed her friend into the brightly lit gaiety.
But her bad mood had begun to lift as she heard the sound of music floating down the stairs from the second-floor ballroom. It had been so very long since she’d danced, and she’d always loved dancing. Tonight she wouldn’t have to worry about who was good ton or bad, who was a proper partner and who was a bad hat. Since she’d come, she’d enjoy herself, and stop worrying about it.
She met Jane’s mischievous eyes. Her friend was almost her old self, the wicked behavior stripping away the layers of restraint Mr. Bothwell had heaped upon her. If Miranda had been around she could have done something to forestall the match, but it had been made in the drawing rooms where Miranda was no longer welcome, and it was too late. Jane would never cry off.
A moment later Jane had disappeared, swung into the arms of a dashing young man in uniform, a half mask over his handsome face, and Miranda wanted to laugh at her startled expression. And then she did laugh, as an older gentleman bowed before her, and she moved into his arms smoothly, sailing onto the crowded dance floor for the first time in years.
It was glorious, it was breathtaking, and she felt as if she were flying. Her hood fell back as she whirled around the floor, but it didn’t matter. With her plain brown hair sedately dressed and the loo mask firmly in place no one would have any idea who she was. She could dance, she could flirt, she could laugh and pretend there wasn’t a cloud of shame hanging over her head. A cloud of shame she refused to give in to.
The Carrimores were casual: no one solicited dances ahead of time, and Miranda moved from one partner to another, her feet flying on the polished wood floor. She danced until she could dance no more. Dinner was announced, people were pairing up and heading into the heavy-laden tables, but Miranda backed away. Her loo mask covered a good two-thirds of her face—there was no way she could eat without getting food on its silk, and the brighter lights of the dining room might be dangerous.
She faded back into the shadows, pulling her hood back over her head. She’d been silly to ask for a scarlet cape, but it was hardly as gaudy as some of the other outfits that night. She glanced over to the row of dowagers who sat against the wall, most of them unmasked, watching their charges with disapproval.
These were the ladies who despised her the most, and it gave Miranda a certain pleasure to join their ranks, keeping her disguise firmly in place. They nodded a tentative greeting in her direction, clearly not sure about anyone who wore a red domino, and she nodded back, sinking gracefully into one of the small, straight-backed chairs that creaked dangerously beneath some of the other women’s bulk, grateful to rest her feet. She sat back, listening to their malicious gossip, trying to catch a glimpse of Jane to see if she still danced or had gone in for supper. As long as she sat with the dowagers no one would try to entice her into the dining room, and it was safer that way. Even though all her exercise had worked up an appetite.
But the dowagers began to annoy her as they found fault with everyone they could recognize, and with their attempts to draw her into their disdain, and eventually Miranda rose, drifting farther into the shadows, away from everyone. The room was too warm, and she longed for the cool night air, but there was no terrace outside the Carrimore ballroom, and no place to escape to. She simply moved back into the deepest shadows, where her bright red domino turned black in the absence of light, and found a delicate table and chair. If Jane remembered she might sneak a cake or something that Miranda could devour when no one was looking. In the meantime she would simply wait.
She didn’t hear him approach, but then, the room was noisy, filled with the orchestra playing at top volume, the chatter of voices trying to drown out the music, the sounds of feet on the dance floor, the clink of glasses.
One moment she was blessedly, peacefully alone.
In the next, she wasn’t.
“Did you tire of dancing, Lady Miranda?”
There was no mistaking Lucien de Malheur’s sinuous voice. It came as such a surprise she jerked her head up, then wished to God she hadn’t. It would have been so much better if she’d simply ignored him, but it was already too late for that. So she blundered her way through it. “Lord Rochdale,” she murmured with cool courtesy. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Didn’t you? The Carrimores are known for their open hospitality. Even a damaged rogue like me is included.”
“As well as damaged goods like me,” she said in a sweet voice. “Don’t let me keep you, my lord. I’m certain you have more important things to attend to.”
He grew very still, looking down at her. “I seem to have offended the lady. Pray, what did I do to earn your ire?”
She could hardly tell him, not without sounding ridiculous. “Not a thing,” she said breezily.
She didn’t like the smile that played around his mouth. He hadn’t bothered with a loo mask, which would have covered a great deal of his scarred face. Instead he was dressed in the height of elegance, all black and silver, and the walking stick he carried had a huge ruby on the top of it. “I rejoice to hear it. May I join you?”
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Are you indeed?” There was a note in his voice she couldn’t quite recognize.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “The person who accompanied me.”
“Ah.” He sank into the chair opposite her anyway. “You wouldn’t deprive a cripple of a moment of rest, would you? Even though I couldn’t indulge in the riotous dancing I find my leg is paining me damnably.”
“You’re hardly a cripple,” she said, not interested in playing his games.
He ignored her statement. “So tell me, my child, are you awaiting a man or a woman? Who brought you to this party, because I’m certain you wouldn’t have come on your own.”
“I was invited, my lord.”
“Of course you were. I saw to it.”
He’d managed to surprise her. She’d suspected as much, but not that he’d admit it. “Why?”
His smile was secretive. “I’ll tell you when you answer my question. Who brought you here, a man or a woman?”
“Why should it matter?”
“Because if you came with another man I’d have to have him killed.” The words were spoken with the lightest touch, accompanied by a faint smile, and she wondered why she wanted to shiver.
“I believe the crown frowns on dueling.”
“Oh, I rarely duel. I’m not light enough on my feet. I’d have him set upon by Mohocks and stabbed. It would be expensive, but, fortunately, easy enough to arrange.”
“Really? If I gave you a name could you see to it?”
“I believe Christopher St. John is no longer in England, or I’d be more than happy to have him killed for you.”
She froze. She should have known he’d be aware of all the intimate details of her fall from grace and the man who engineered it. “Too bad,” she said calmly. “That would have suited my amour propre very well.”
“Who brought you?” There was steel in his persistent question beneath the pleasant smile, and she was tempted to lie, just to see what would happen.
“My dearest friend Jane and I came together. We thought no one would recognize us in our dominos and masks, and Jane is about to be trapped into an unpleasant marriage. She wanted to enjoy herself before that happened.”
“I knew you the instant I saw you, Lady Miranda. But, pray tell me, isn’t that how you got into such trouble in the first place? Indulging in one last evening of harmless fun?”
She looked at him. “How is that you’re so intimately aware of the details of my downfall?”
“The entire ton knows the details of your downfall, child. Could you doubt it?”
“A gentleman wouldn’t mention that.”
“I’m not particularly a gentleman.”
She didn’t bother arguing. “If Jane causes a scandal and her husband-to-be cries off then it would be all to the good. She’d be better living life as a spinster than marrying someone she doesn’t love.”
“You’re still so young,” he murmured fondly. “Tell me this man’s name and I’ll get rid of him.”
“Why are you so bloodthirsty tonight?”
“I wasn’t going to have him killed, Miranda.” This time his voice faintly caressed her name without the title. “I was just going to throw a roadblock in the way of this marriage, since you seem so set against it.”
“Jane thinks she wants it.”
“And you think Jane’s wrong. I trust your judgment. What’s his name?”
She finally laughed. He was being absurd and charming, and he hadn’t forgotten her after all. “George Bothwell, but you’re not to do anything about it. Jane would never forgive me.”
“Jane need never know.” He rose, towering over her, leaning on his cane. In the shadows his scars were barely discernible. “Come with me, Lady Miranda. You need to admire her grace’s extraordinarily vulgar jewels. You need to get some fresh air. You need to stop hiding in the shadows like some kind of leper. Not that I don’t prefer you with me, but you need to be back out there dancing as your friend is. You looked…luminous.” He nodded as Jane waltzed by, too busy to notice anyone around her. Miranda wondered how he happened to recognize her friend, but she decided not to ask.
“Are you asking me to dance?”
His smile was twisted. “Hardly. You would find the effect quite gruesome. But I could find you any number of eligible partners who know better than to presume. Or we could simply go for a walk. Carrimore House is huge and possessed of mile upon mile of hallways. We could find someplace quiet to sit and talk.”
“You haven’t made any effort at all to talk with me in the last week.” It came out unexpectedly, and she could have bit her tongue.
“Did you miss me? I thought you would prefer not to be besieged. Had I known you were pining for me, I would have sought you out sooner.”
“I was hardly pining for you!” she snapped.
“Of course not, my child.” He held out his arm. “Shall we walk?”
And like a fool she rose and threaded her arm through his.