The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (6 page)

He bowed to the assembled company, seemingly oblivious of the shocked silence that greeted his performance.

“Em, I believe the musicians are ready, Isabella,” said Lord Edward in an uncharacteristic forced tone of joviality. He never would have believed that he could feel pity for his cousin, but at this moment he did. From his seat three rows behind her he could not see her face, but the back of her neck was burning with shame and probably, he thought with a shudder, rage. Anxious to prevent an outburst of violence from her, he stood and almost ran to admit the musicians, who now took their places.

He need not have worried. Beth had no intention of losing her temper, of giving her husband the satisfaction of knowing how he had wounded her. She now knew with absolute clarity what manner of man he was. No, he was not violent. But he was cruel, and he was showing her now how he intended to subdue her; not with blows, but using far subtler methods, lulling her into a false sense of security by his private acts of kindness and consideration, before plunging the knife of contempt and disdain into her in public. She would
not
react! By an enormous effort of will, she turned and smiled at him.

“That was most illuminating, Anthony,” she said. “It must have taken you days to compose.”

“Me, compose? Oh no, my dear. I have no facility for such invention. The poem was penned by Sir John Suckling. It was merely the only thing I could remember at a pinch. Not very good, I own. But anything was better than an endless catalogue of our monarch’s triumphs, do you not think?”

No, she didn’t. He was too clever not to know how his words would be taken by the company, and how that would reflect on their fledgling marriage.
Well,
she thought, as the musicians struck up their first piece, Vivaldi’s Concerto for two mandolins
, I will not allow him to destroy me in this way, make me an object of pity and contempt.

Beth loved music, especially when played by such skilled musicians as these were, but the evocative beauty of the mandolins and the rapt silence of the audience barely registered with her as she sat, outwardly composed, a vacuous smile pasted on her face, while she fought the utter despair that weaved its web around her heart, telling her that she had merely escaped one prison for another, that she would have done better to hold out somehow until she was thirty and could claim her dowry for herself. But the deed was done. She could not undo it, especially as, thanks to Sir Anthony’s trick with the sheets, no one would believe that the marriage was unconsummated, rendering an annulment impossible. No, her dowry was lost, irretrievably so, but she would lose nothing else to this hateful, manipulative man.

Vivaldi gave place to Albinoni, and then to Handel, and Beth clapped politely between pieces. By the interval she had come to her decision. She would not give him the ‘fair weather’ to ‘love three more’ days. Tomorrow she would rise early, no matter how tired she was, and at the first opportunity she would make use of the leaving present her friends in Didsbury had given her, slip out of his house, and ride post back to them. She could not bear to be alone any more, and the loss of Sarah’s company was the final straw. She knew how close she had come to the edge in the past weeks; she would break down completely if she had to continue living in this way. Despite his words, Sir Anthony had no intention of being her friend. He had made that very clear during the course of the day.

As soon as the musicians stood to make their bows, she rose and moved as far away from Sir Anthony as she could, ignoring Richard, who was smiling broadly, overjoyed by the fact that although he no longer had any power over his sister, Sir Anthony looked set on taming her by more subtle means. He hardly seemed to be aware that his wife had left his side, and turned immediately to his neighbour to exchange views on the performance so far.

Many members of the audience got up to stretch their legs, accepting glasses of wine from hovering footmen with trays, and then congregating into groups to discuss the performance so far. Sir Anthony remained where he was. Beth wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep. She was deathly tired, and aware that she would need a good night’s sleep if she were to be able to carry out her plan effectively. She would endure the second hour of music, she decided, and then plead fatigue as an excuse to leave. Once alone with Sir Anthony, she would speak to him as little as possible, and hope he would keep his promise not to touch her until she wished it. This time tomorrow she would be on her way home, and that was some comfort.

She took a glass of wine, and moved to hover at the edge of a group who were comparing tonight’s performance with a musical evening they had attended some weeks ago. She drank automatically, and realised suddenly that her glass was empty. She looked round for a waiter, and as if on cue, one appeared. She placed her glass on the tray and took another. As she raised it to her lips, a slender white hand descended on her shoulder.

“May I be so bold as to caution you against drinking too quickly?” Lady Winter said. Beth took a small sip of wine rather than the huge gulp she had intended, and turned to meet the concerned gaze of the lady and her husband. Charlotte hovered in the background.

“I see you are nervous, my dear child, as indeed was I when I was newly married to the inestimable Lord Winter.” The inestimable Lord Winter smiled smugly as his wife continued. “It is the most exciting time for any young woman, when she has found her perfect partner and is about to embark on a lifetime of bliss. But it is also a time when it is too easy to become intoxicated by imbibing too much in an attempt to allay one’s nerves.” Lady Winter glared at Beth’s glass as though it contained a demon, and Beth resolutely took another sip, to let the lady know that although she would take the advice on board, she was not about to relinquish her drink altogether.

“Lord Winter and I would like to take this opportunity to wish you the greatest of happiness in your marriage.” She forbore from saying that she felt Beth would need more than good wishes if she were to make a success of this union. “Will you be joining us for the dancing when the music has ended?” The poor girl looked exhausted, although Lady Winter was too well bred to comment on this.

“I would rather not, unless my husband wishes it,” replied Beth submissively. “I must confess to being a little weary. We are to spend tonight at his house, where we will stay for a few days until we sail for France.”

“An excellent plan! It will give you the opportunity to become better acquainted in a tranquil environment before the distractions of the voyage take your attention from each other a little. Lord Winter and I did exactly the same thing, and it formed a solid foundation for the happy life we have since enjoyed together.”

Beth wondered vaguely if she would have been expected to call her husband ‘Sir Anthony’ in public for the next twenty years. It was irrelevant now, in any case.

“Yes, I think that is my husband’s intention.” She took another sip of wine and attempted to move away, intending to find Caroline and Edwin. It had struck her suddenly that if she were to leave London tomorrow, she would be unlikely to see them for a long time, if ever, depending on the view they took of her desertion of Sir Anthony. The realisation came like a blow to her, and she felt a need to at least exchange a few words with them, even if she could not divulge her plans.

“Of course,” fluttered Charlotte, moving forward to unintentionally block Beth’s escape route. “Sir Anthony is the most delightful man. He reminds me greatly of my own dear Frederick…oh, I am sorry…” Her voice faltered, and she raised a scrap of lace to her eyes, swaying slightly as she remembered the lost bliss of her own short marriage.

Beth was aware of a sudden commotion around her husband, who was now standing by the open door, taking a little fresh air and making desultory conversation with Thomas Fortesque, father of the beautiful Lydia.

“Oh, you clumsy fool!” Sir Anthony’s voice shrilled petulantly, and she looked across, as did several other people in the vicinity. She saw that the remark had been addressed to an unfortunate servant, who had managed somehow to spill claret over Sir Anthony’s hand whilst attempting to serve him. The poor man blushed scarlet and attempted ineffectually to mop at the stain with a napkin.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, man! My glove is ruined, quite ruined!”

Beth raised her eyes to heaven and turned her attention back to Charlotte, who had gone quite pale, and was being assisted to a seat by Lord Winter. She realised that she couldn’t walk away from Charlotte without the poor woman thinking she had mortally offended her cousin, and as she had no desire to return to her husband’s side to listen to him bewail the catastrophic ruination of a glove, she stayed where she was, waving her fan over the unhappy widow and listening with half an ear to the commotion.

Lord Edward had now joined Sir Anthony.

“Would you like me to dismiss the fool, sir?” he asked coldly. The waiter’s complexion changed from scarlet to white in an instant, and Beth raised her head. She would intervene if necessary; she would not have a man’s life ruined over a trivial accident.

“No, no, of course not! You over react, my lord,” said Sir Anthony, apparently failing to see the irony in his comment. “It was an accident. I dare say I am partly to blame. But even so…if you would be so good as to fetch me another pair of gloves from my room, I daresay we can forget the incident.” The servant disappeared as if shot from a cannon, leaving Sir Anthony holding his hand away from his body to stop the stain contaminating the rest of his outfit, and regarding his stained glove with a despairing eye. Beth wondered vaguely why he didn’t remove the glove and throw it away, but then Charlotte started to revive and she was too busy assuring the woman that she was not at all offended by her cousin’s swoon and that she did indeed hope to have such a happy relationship with Sir Anthony as Charlotte had had with dear Frederick.

By the time she looked up again many of the company had retaken their seats in anticipation of the music continuing, although her husband still waited by the door, presumably for the servant to return, Beth assumed. She supposed she should go over and show some concern for his distress. She was newly married, and would be expected to have
some
feelings for the over-dramatic idiot. And the less resentment she showed of his cavalier attitude towards her, the easier it would probably be to leave his house without arousing suspicion in the morning. She would search out Edwin and Caroline once the music had finished.

She moved towards him just as the servant appeared and handed Sir Anthony a fresh pair of gloves. Now he removed the stained glove and wiped at his right hand to remove any trace of liquid which had soaked through, before putting on the fresh one. She had expected his hands to be white and soft, but they were not. Beth looked at the strong brown hand of her husband, seen for the first time, mesmerised by the scar that snaked across the back of it from the wrist to his fingers. It bisected the knuckles of the middle and index fingers, and was disturbingly familiar.

Sir Anthony pulled on the new gloves and then looked round, suddenly aware of her proximity. Her brow was furrowed in puzzlement and she was still staring at his hands. He looked down himself, wondering what was engaging her attention, and in doing so he missed the sudden look of comprehension that crossed her features as she remembered where she had seen the scar before. All the emotional turmoil of the day was transformed immediately into an incandescent uncontrollable rage, and whilst he was still examining his hands, she crossed the space between them and hit him in the face with her closed fist, putting all her force into the blow.

“You bastard!” she cried, causing half the room to look in her direction. There was a sickening wet crunch and blood exploded from Sir Anthony’s nose.

Even as the blow landed, Beth’s common sense was telling her that she had made a mistake. Unlikely as it was that two such different men would have exactly the same scar, that had to be the case. It was impossible that her dandified husband could also be the Scotsman who had threatened her with a knife in a back-alley room in Manchester. Behind her in the room, several people started to get to their feet. She opened her mouth to apologise, half expecting him to faint at her feet.

That was undoubtedly what the court fop would do, but in this circumstance he dared not react as Sir Anthony would. She knew, and how she knew he had no idea, but if he did not shut her up now, his life would be worth nothing. Thanking God that he was by the door, he staggered towards her as though about to collapse, then, seizing her arm in a grip so tight that any incriminating words she had been about to utter became a cry of pain instead, he swung her out into the hall. Before she could react he pushed her back against the wall, pinning her against it with his weight.

“I am sorry, my love,” he murmured, then brought the heel of his hand up sharply under her jaw. The wall behind her stopped her neck from snapping back and being broken by the force of his blow, and added to the concussive effect. She became instantly limp, and he stood back a little to allow her to slide down the wall, before slumping against it himself, his handkerchief pressed to his nose.

Several people now appeared in the hall, curious as to what had transpired.

“Oh, oh, what can I say? I am so ashamed!” Sir Anthony cried out in a voice somewhat muffled by linen. Someone produced a chair for him to sit on, and he sank down gratefully, whilst several women bent over the prostrate form of his wife. One of them produced a smelling-bottle, and he prayed he had hit her hard enough for it to have no effect in rousing her.

“What on earth happened, sir?” Lord Edward spluttered, clearly upset that such an undignified scene had taken place in his house, while secretly enjoying the diversion. Alone of the company, he was not enjoying the musical performance.

“I have not the faintest notion,” Sir Anthony whined. “I was waiting for the servant to bring my gloves, as you know, when a most attractive maid passed by. I merely waved and smiled at her. I had no idea my wife was in the immediate vicinity, or that she would react in such an extreme manner. I do believe she has broken my nose!” He did indeed believe she had; the pain was intense, and the blood soaking into the fine linen showed no signs of abating.