Moonlight Masquerade (14 page)

The servant rolled his eyes, for it appeared
that the dratted woman was at it again. “Yes, ma’am, if you say
so,” he murmured dutifully, trying not to meet her eyes, which
seemed determined to look straight through him. Of all the things
Lazarus did not like about Nellis Denham, he liked her eyes least
of all.

Aunt Nellis looked up as if surprised to
find him there. “Oh, my, Lazarus,” she exclaimed in a high voice, a
hand fluttering to her breast. “I didn’t see you come in. I was
addressing my niece. I am sorry. You must be wondering what I was
referring to, I’m sure, and thinking that my mind is breaking under
the strain of our enforced sojourn here—I have at last taken to
speaking nonsense.”

“Of course, ma’am,” the servant agreed,
happy to be overlooked. “I mean,” he added swiftly, realizing what
he’d said, “it wasn’t nonsense, I don’t believe, but only that I,
um, that is...”

“You were about to say something, Aunt
Nellis, I believe?” Christine put in helpfully, for the afternoon
was plodding along on leaden feet and she thought her aunt might be
about to lend some slight diversion to the long hours. She wasn’t
to be disappointed.

“Yes, yes, I was, thank you, dearest
Christine. It has been over a week since his lordship invited us to
dine with him and then sent his regrets at the last minute,” the
older woman pointed out for what had to be the fiftieth time in ten
days. “It begs the question, you know.
Why
hasn’t he made an
appearance?”

“Perhaps he is unsure as to which fork to
use and does not wish to open himself to ridicule,” Christine said,
wishing her aunt would move on to another subject. She was looking
for diversion. She had more than enough reminders of Vincent
Mayhew’s determined avoidance of her without her aunt’s dredging
his name into the conversation every second minute.

Aunt Nellis went on, undaunted by her
niece’s mild sarcasm. “He was looking quite odd that first evening,
you know, Christine. I’m sure, now that I look back on it, that he
must have been sickening for something. That would explain his
hiding himself away, wouldn’t it?”

“Lazarus has assured me that the earl is not
ill, Aunt,” Christine said wearily to save time, still standing at
the long window where she had spent most of the afternoon watching
the snow melt.

Aunt Nellis sniffed dismissively. “Of course
he would, my dear. After all, he’s in the man’s employ.”

“And what does that have to do with
anything?” Christine asked, knowing her aunt would tell her,
whether she wished for the information or nay. More important to
her was the thaw taking place outside.

She watched as a heavily loaded branch
swayed in a slight breeze, then shed its mantle of snow onto the
ground. Already there were high spots of winter-brown grass visible
in the distance. Soon there would be no excuse for remaining at
Hawk’s Roost. Then what would she do? Would he really let her go
without ever meeting with her again?

“What does it have to do with anything?”
Aunt Nellis repeated, aghast. “Why, it has everything to do with
it, of course! Don’t you understand, Christine? The earl could be
ill with some horribly contagious disease.” Her voice filled with
horror. “Possibly even the
plague
! And we’ve both been
exposed to contagion!”

Lazarus was stung into speech. “Of all the
silly, shatter-brained—”

“Lazarus!” Christine interposed quickly,
knowing the servant was about to make a muck of things. “Didn’t I
just hear a bell in the distance? I do believe the earl requires
your presence. We’re fine here, and it wouldn’t do to keep him
waiting.”

“Yes, miss, of course,” Lazarus said
hastily, throwing her a grateful look before scurrying out of the
room, cravenly fleeing the scene of his near insubordination as
Nellis Denham glared impotently after him. She had so counted on
the man’s help, but he had proved to be a dead loss.

“The plague, Aunt?” Christine scolded once
the servant was gone. “Really, I do believe you are allowing your
imagination to get the better of you.”

“Well, he could be,” Aunt Nellis grumbled,
picking up her teacup. She focused all her attention now on her
main target, her niece. “And don’t be so smug. You didn’t see him
that first evening, all wrapped in that cloak. I’ve been giving it
a lot of thought, and he could be hiding his face—so that we can’t
see the ugly pox, the running sores. Why, he could be dead, for all
we know!”

Christine sat down on a chair facing her
aunt and picked up her own teacup, willing her hands not to shake.
Her aunt had set her mind to racing. Could Vincent really be ill?
She hadn’t thought of that. Yet aloud, she said, “You can hide a
multitude of things in the countryside, Aunt Nellis, but I doubt
that you can keep a dead earl a secret for very long. Please pass
me that plate. Those cheese sandwiches look very appetizing.”

Aunt Nellis did as she was bid, then
remained leaning forward, her protuberant hazel eyes narrowed. She
pushed on, willing to try anything to achieve her end. “I don’t
really
believe the earl is ailing, Christine,” she admitted
conspiratorially, winking at her niece. ‘I was only trying to
surprise Lazarus into spilling the truth, but you innocently
thwarted me there.”

“The truth?” Christine repeated hollowly,
beginning to believe she had underestimated her aunt’s propensity
for imaginative thinking. “What truth?”

Aunt Nellis looked first left, then right,
as if she were making sure no one had secreted themselves in the
room in order to overhear anything she might have to say. She
lowered her voice a full octave, saying importantly, “I think
there’s something very havey-cavey about our absent host,
Christine, my dear. As a matter of fact—
I don’t believe he’s an
earl at all!
”

“Not—not an earl?” Unaware that, for the
most part, she had spent the past few minutes doing little more
than repeating anything her aunt had said, Christine frowned,
trying to understand this latest flight of fancy. “Then—then what
is he, if he’s not the Earl of Hawkhurst?”

Aunt Nellis’s eyes were narrow slits, her
expression cunning in the extreme. “
He’s a murderer!
” she
whispered excitedly, feeling she had at last hit on the perfect, if
slightly melodramatic, tack.

Christine felt her face pale. Her Aunt
Nellis knew? How could she know? “A murderer?”

Her aunt nodded vigorously, the bit firmly
between her teeth as she saw she had her niece’s full attention.
“He’s killed the real earl and now he’s taking his place. He uses
Hawk’s Roost as the center of his highwayman activities, riding out
under cover of darkness to murder innocent people traveling the
highways, then returning here to play the innocent, reclusive
nobleman, with nobody the wiser. That’s why he met me that first
night still wearing a cloak. He had just returned from one of his
bloody expeditions. We’re sharing a house with a
murderer
!
Think on it, Christine. It fits. It all fits!”

Relief raced through Christine’s body,
making her want to giggle. She slowly lowered her teacup to the
table, then sat back to stare, wide-eyed, at the now widely
grinning woman. “Aunt Nellis,” she said, tight-lipped, “I think
you’ve been snowbound too long.”

Her aunt instantly bristled. “I would
appreciate it, Christine, if you would refrain from making fun of
me. I’m deadly serious.”

“Yes, I know,” Christine answered, at last
unable to hold back her laughter. “That’s what makes it so funny.
The earl is a highwayman. Really, Aunt. What would he possibly find
on the road that he doesn’t possess in abundance right here? This
house is a virtual treasure trove.”

Aunt Nellis leaned forward even further,
putting one tip of her paisley shawl in danger of dangling into her
teacup. It was now or never, and hang the consequences! “Adventure,
Christine,” she breathed, her expression avid. “Excitement.” Her
features flattened. “Rapine—pillage.”

For the first time in her life Christine
hated her aunt. How dare she accuse gentle Vincent of such things!
Her palms itched from the urge to reach out and slap the
animalistic look from the woman’s face.

“No! How dare you! He isn’t anything like
that! He’s good, and kind, and decent!” she shouted, jumping to her
feet to return to the window, placing her back to Aunt Nellis as
she wrapped her arms about herself, shaking in her fury.

Behind her, Aunt Nellis dropped her head
into her hands, silently begging Christine’s forgiveness, yet
knowing she had been proved correct. She had seen the looks that
had been traded back and forth between her niece and Lazarus,
noticed the quick cessation of whispered conversations between them
as she entered a room. Christine had been acting oddly ever since
the coach accident, and these drastic changes couldn’t all be
attributed to a simple bang on the head.

The girl had been with the mysterious earl,
Aunt Nellis was now thoroughly convinced of it. Christine had seen
him, talked with him, met him behind her aunt’s back, defying every
principle of correct behavior that Nellis Denham had spent her life
instilling in her.

The older woman wrung her hands in an agony
of hurt and indecision, not knowing what to do next. Should she
confront her niece with what she knew? Should she keep her own
counsel, especially since she was sure that whatever relationship
the earl and Christine had had, it was over now? If nothing else,
she could thank the earl for his belated good sense. Still, should
she, could she, stand back and watch as Christine continued to curl
in on herself, her unhappiness a tangible thing?

They had to get away from here, to London,
as soon as possible.

Aunt Nellis silently cursed the weather,
that was taking its own sweet time ridding the landscape of snow,
only to replace it with foot-deep mud that would clog the highways
for at least another week.

She likewise cursed the mysterious earl, who
had dared to lead her niece into possible scandal and probable
heartbreak.

She had to get Christine shed of this place,
of this man, before they destroyed her.

Slowly, feeling all the weight of her years,
Nellis Denham rose and walked across the room to stand behind her
niece. “Christine,” she said softly, gently, touching her hand to
Christine’s back, “he isn’t for you. He knows it. Now you must
accept it.”

“Oh, Aunt Nellis!” Christine wailed, turning
about to throw her arms around her aunt, who clasped her tightly
against her comforting bosom. “I love him. I love him so much!”

V
incent watched in
silent wonderment as the fingers of his left hand slowly moved
upward in his lap, curling around the white queen. The fingers
didn’t quite touch the wood, but they were even closer to that
point tonight than they had been yesterday. If his improvement was
this marked after only ten days of exercise, within another week he
should be able to make a fist.

“Amazing,” he marveled, unaware of the beads
of perspiration standing out on his brow, or the tightness of his
straining muscles, uncaring that this particular feat had taken him
twenty minutes of physical agony and all his concentration.

Removing the chess piece with his right
hand, he stood, ready to face the next test. Walking over to stand
a foot away from the wall, he pushed his left arm out toward the
wall by shifting the muscles on his left side.

The arm moved stiffly, as if it were not
really a part of him at all, but on the third attempt the knuckles
on the back of his hand touched against the wall and held there, as
the pain in his damaged shoulder threatened to send him crashing to
his knees.

He took a deep breath and commanded his
fingers to begin crawling up the wall, first by moving one finger,
then the next, in awkward imitation of the spider he had seen
climbing there that had given him the idea for this exercise in the
first place.

His progress was measured in quarter inches,
his elbow bending slowly, his left side pushing forward to help in
the ascent as his shoulder muscles screamed in protest. He stood on
tiptoe as the pain shot through him, searching for release from the
unbearable tenseness, the shrunken muscles in his upper arm and
chest feeling like taut bands that were being stretched to the
point of snapping.

He stopped, his fingers now almost elbow
high, and took another deep breath, knowing that lowering his arm
would prove to be as painful a journey as raising it had been. But
he had gone at least an inch higher than he had that afternoon and,
although its slowness was infuriating, he was making progress. Only
last week he had been unable to touch the wall at all, his left arm
only swinging against his side like a badly hung garden gate in an
autumn breeze.