Olivia and the Masked Duke Page 8

  “And the headmistress refused to step in because Sally’s papa possesses one of the most ancient titles in the land.” Fiona’s lips curled in contempt. “It was not the first time Sally used her position to torment others, either. Livy started Southbridge’s the year before Glory and I did, and during that time Sally tried to bully her. All because Livy stood up for a maid who was blamed for something that Sally did.”

  “Which is why you arranged for Lady Sally to be, ahem, deluged with rubbish?” Charlie asked in neutral tones.

  “To be fair, we did not deluge her with anything,” Livy said. “She and her cronies had a habit of leaving malicious notes in Rachel’s storage cupboard at school. We simply stuffed Rachel’s cupboard full of refuse, and when Sally opened the cupboard…”

  Livy lifted her shoulders. No one had forced Sally to open Rachel’s cupboard, after all.

  “Sally stopped harassing Rachel after that,” Fiona said. “After all, what is worse: reeking of trade…or reeking of garbage?”

  “Indeed.” Charlie looked contemplative. “If I may ask, what prompted the three of you to act on Rachel’s behalf?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? What Sally was doing was wrong,” Livy said with a frown. “She picked on Rachel because she knew Rachel could not fight back.”

  “And Rachel is a sweet, shy girl whose so-called ‘fault’ was coming from a middle-class background.” Fi’s beautiful face was grim. “If that is a crime, then I, too, am guilty. The only reason Sally and her band of simpering simpletons did not target me is because my papa is wealthier than Rachel’s.”

  As Fi’s papa was richer than Croesus and a powerful industrialist, few dared to cross him.

  “While Livy’s papa and mine have titles, both our mamas came from the working class.” Glory held her slim shoulders proudly back. “In point of fact, before Mama married Papa, I helped her to collect fossils to sell at our fossils shop.”

  Having witnessed Glory’s athletic feats, from fence climbing to horse riding, Livy could imagine the other girl scaling cliffs and committing other derring-do.

  “And did you not fear repercussions for your actions?” Charlie inquired.

  Fiona’s look was that of an angel. “They would have to prove we did it.”

  Clearly fighting a smile, Charlie asked, “What about Sally? Surely she had to know.”

  “She retaliated by labeling us the ‘Willflowers.’” Glory shrugged. “She meant the moniker to be derisive, but we could not have come up with a better name for ourselves.”

  “Besides, we had to see justice done,” Livy said. “It was the principle of the thing.”

  “How splendid.” Charlie beamed at them as if they were her star pupils. “You Willflowers are everything I had hoped you would be and more.”

  “You seem to know a lot about us.” Livy narrowed her gaze. “And yet we know little about you or your charity.”

  Fiona, the Society expert, had managed to dig up a few facts about Charlie from Debrett’s, scandal rags, and general gossip. Charlie had been born and raised abroad by her father, a gentleman scholar. Little was known about her until her marriage to the Marquess of Fayne. Even then, the Faynes had lived a private life abroad; after Fayne’s death, his title had gone to a distant relative, and Charlie had apparently travelled extensively before settling in London.

  She was rich, her reputation spotless. Men vied for her hand, but she showed no interest in marriage or dalliances. She appeared to be as she presented herself: an independent widow in her prime, with the power and propensity to live life on her own terms.

  “For the right ladies, the Society of Angels will offer adventure, purpose, and the opportunity to develop their strengths to the fullest,” Charlie said. “All while serving the greater good and seeing justice done. I, myself, will take on the role of mentor and guide, training my charges in a range of exciting and unusual skills.” She looked at Livy, a twinkle in her eyes. “I can promise no needlework will be involved.”

  How does she know that I hate needlework? Livy wondered. What precisely is Charlie’s background to qualify her to be our mentor? And, more importantly…did she say exciting and unusual skills?

  “That sounds capital to me,” Glory declared. “When can we enlist?”

  “As to that, there is a final test,” Charlie replied.

  Glory’s brow pleated. “There’s a test?”

  “I think we’ve already been tested,” Livy said. “Twice, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Nodding slowly, Glory said, “The riddle at the Hunt Academy. What was the other one?”

  Livy looked at Charlie. “Getting here unchaperoned, I presume?”

  “Very good,” Charlie said appreciatively. “From the moment we met, I had an intuition that the three of you would be a perfect fit with the Society of Angels. I do hope I am right.”

  “If evading chaperonage is the bar you set, then our success is guaranteed,” Fi said airily.

  “I’m afraid the last trial is not quite that simple.” Picking up her tea, Charlie took a sip.

  “You are planning to attend the Edgecombes’ masquerade?”

  The Earl and Countess of Edgecombe’s masquerade was one of the biggest events left in the Season, the coveted invitations issued only to the crème de la crème. The Willflowers were going and had even coordinated their costumes.

  “Yes.” Livy canted her head. “Will the last test take place there?”

  Charlie’s lips curved above the rim of her cup. “Indeed.”

  9

  That Friday evening, Livy stood by a row of potted palms with Glory and Fi, taking in the glittering masquerade. Guests wore elaborate costumes in every hue, their jewels and ornaments sparkling beneath three enormous chandeliers. The mirrored walls amplified the sea of bodies and the whirl of the dancers over the parqueted floor. The strains of the orchestra could scarcely be heard above the gaiety of the crowd.

  Livy’s heart thumped with anticipation, but not because of the ball.

  Because of the mission.

  “Is it time?” she said under her breath.

  “Be patient,” Glory whispered back. “When their favorite waltz plays, Mama and Papa will dance, leaving us under the watch of Aunt Hypatia.” She slid a look at their three chaperones, who were nearby chatting with guests. “Fi and I will keep Aunt Patty distracted, and that is when you make your move.”

  Through a bit of maneuvering, the Willflowers had managed to whittle their chaperonage down to one set of parents and an aunt. Glory had mentioned to her mama that the other girls’ parents were tired from social demands. This was based in truth: Livy had overheard Papa say to Mama that he would enjoy a quiet evening at home. Ever the sympathetic soul, Glory’s mother had volunteered to take all the girls to the masquerade, and Livy and Fi’s parents had accepted, offering to return the favor in the future.

  The fewer chaperones the better when it came to Charlie’s final challenge: to retrieve a diary from the Earl of Edgecombe’s study. According to Charlie, Edgecombe had stolen the diary from a young governess named Marie Jardine and was using its contents to blackmail her into having an affair with him.

  The despicable blackguard, Livy thought indignantly.

  It had taken all of her willpower to be civil to Edgecombe at the receiving line. On the surface, he was a handsome man with auburn hair and patrician features, yet his predatory behavior made Livy’s skin crawl. When he’d run a smirking gaze over her, calling her a “pretty chit,” she’d wanted to growl at him. It had fueled her resolve to recover Miss Jardine’s diary.

  A smooth male voice cut into Livy’s thoughts. “Ah, if it is not The Three Graces.”

  She turned to see Lord Ian Sheffield making an elegant leg to her and the Willflowers. He was dressed as a courtier from another century, his guinea-bright hair hidden beneath a powdered wig, his fit figure garbed in blue velvet, lace cascading at his collar and cuffs. After exchanging niceties with Glory’s parents, Sheffield turned to Livy.
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  “Allow me to guess,” he said with a charming smile. “You are Aglaea, the Grace of Beauty?”

  Botheration, did all my costume planning go to waste?

  Livy and her friends were wearing matching gold demi-masks, white sleeveless robes that fell in a straight column, and tasseled gold cords knotted at their waists. Dark wigs fashioned à la Grecque covered their hair. The only difference between their costumes lay in the large, gilded charms suspended from leather thongs around their necks: Fiona’s was in the shape of a spindle, Glory’s a measuring rod, and Livy’s a pair of scissors.

  Livy had thought the theme of their costumes was rather obvious. However, since arriving at the ball, everyone had mistaken them for The Three Graces.

  Livy heaved a sigh. “I am not Aglaea.”

  “Pardon. Then you must be Euphrosyne, the Grace of Pleasure.” Sheffield waggled his brows. “For in your presence, we mortals can feel naught but joy.”

  “Guess again,” Livy said impatiently.

  “Allow me to give you a clue, my lord.” Fiona held up her golden spindle. “While I spin the thread of life, my second sister measures the length.”

  She gestured at Glory, who cheerfully waved her measuring stick.

  Turning to Livy, Fi said, “My third sister here determines the span.”

  Livy lifted her golden shears, opening and closing them in a snip snip motion.

  “Ah…you are The Three Fates. How clever.” Sheffield’s smile faltered for only an instant. “As you have the power to determine destiny, Lady Olivia, will it be mine to secure a spot on your dance card?”

  As it would be ungracious to refuse the gallant request, Livy held out the card that was secured to her wrist by a ribbon. Sheffield signed it with a flourish before departing.

  “I should have stuck to my original plan and dressed like a crone,” Livy said in disgruntled tones. “No one is going to guess that I am Atropos in my current attire.”

  Livy had volunteered to be Atropos, the deadliest, and thus the most interesting, Fate. She had wanted to dress up the way the character was often portrayed: as an aged hag with missing teeth and an arresting stare. Fiona, however, had put her foot down.

  “As your bosom chum, I could not allow you to don a scraggly grey wig and apply blacking to your teeth,” Fi said with a shudder. “We may be on a mission, but we cannot overlook the eligible parti here tonight.”

  I can overlook them, Livy thought.

  The only gentleman she wanted was not here, and she did not give a farthing about attracting anyone else. She hadn’t seen Hadleigh since their encounter in the orangery. When she’d fished for information from Papa, he had mentioned that Hadleigh had been absent from their mutual club and the usual places.

  Was Hadleigh now intent upon avoiding her and her family? Thinking back, she regretted that she’d angered him with the mention of Sheffield. The attempt to make him jealous had been a stupid and childish thing to do. When she had the opportunity, she would apologize to Hadleigh and patch things up somehow. She told herself that the current break from him was probably for the best…and tried to believe it.

  “More importantly, we needed matching costumes,” Glory was saying in a hushed voice. “If we look interchangeable, at least from afar, it will be harder for Mama, Papa, and Aunt Patty to keep track of us.”

  For the next hour, Livy did the pretty and danced with various partners, including Sheffield. It was difficult to make polite chitchat when her mind was on the important task ahead of her. Finally, the favorite waltz of the Duke and Duchess of Ranelagh and Somerville played. As Glory’s parents headed toward the dance floor, Glory cleared her throat.

  “Aunt Patty, I wanted to ask you about a painting on the other side of the ballroom,” she said. “I believe it is an allegorical representation of one of the Greek goddesses, and I am trying to figure out which one.”

  “How fascinating.” A proud bluestocking, Hypatia Newton was dressed as an owl in a feathered brown frock, her eyes bright behind her spectacles. “Let us take a closer look, girls.”

  Hypatia steered a path through the crowd, Fi and Glory flanking her and keeping her occupied with questions.

  Looking back at Livy, Glory mouthed, “Go.”

  With a nod, Livy headed in the opposite direction. As she reached one of the arched entryways, a familiar awareness tingled over her nape. She spun around and surveyed the ballroom.

  When she did not see Hadleigh, she expelled a breath.

  You just imagined the feeling, Livy.

  Straightening her shoulders, she hurried toward Edgecombe’s study.

  Ben arrived at the end of the hallway in time to see Livy disappear into Edgecombe’s study.

  What the devil is she up to? he thought grimly.

  When he’d spied her furtive exit from the ballroom, he’d known that she was up to something. What in blazes could she want in Edgecombe’s study? The fact that he, himself, was here to find the source of a deadly drug was a coincidence that filled him with unease.

  In his younger days, Ben had run in the same pack as Edgecombe. Indeed, the two of them plus Viscount Bollinger and the Honorable Simon Thorne had been dubbed the Four Horsemen for their destructive rakehell ways. Their wealth and family connections had insulated them from repercussions, their notoriety even gaining them admiration among the fast set. Yet Ben knew his fellow Horsemen for what they were: jaded sensation seekers who cared only for their own pleasures.

  He was not proud of the fact that he’d once been one of them. When he had tried to get his marriage back on track five years ago, his first act had been to sever ties with the Horsemen, who’d been a bad influence on him and his duchess. Now to see Livy venturing into Edgecombe’s lair…

  A sense of foreboding clenched Ben’s gut. Since the exchange in the orangery, he had avoided Livy. Losing her had been hard; hurting her would be a far worse consequence. One he could not live with. Yet now his concern for her safety propelled him down the hallway. Casting a quick glance around to ensure that he was not seen, he twisted the knob and entered the study. He closed the door, muffling the sounds of the masquerade.

  He scanned the luxurious male retreat dominated by heavy wood furnishings and studded leather upholstery. A fire crackled in the stone hearth by the seating area, and a large desk sat next to floor-to-ceiling windows framed by voluminous red drapes. No sign of Livy.

  He crossed the room, the thick Aubusson muting his steps. Striding behind the desk, he crouched and said sardonically, “Good evening.”

  Livy stared up at him from her hiding place beneath the desk. She was wearing a sleeveless white robe, her bare arms hugging her raised knees, her eyes huge in the holes of her golden mask. She looked like a naughty nymph caught in the act of mischief.

  “Hadleigh?” she breathed.

  He held out a hand, hauling her from the cove. “Expecting someone else?”

  “Um, no. Not really.” She averted her gaze as she straightened her costume.

  He noticed the golden shears suspended around her neck and, amidst his roiling concern, wry humor twinged. It figured that she would choose not only to be one of The Three Fates but the most lethal.

  “I suppose there is an excellent reason for you to be here,” he said. “Other than testing the limits of your own life span, Atropos?”

  She beamed at him as if he’d paid her the greatest compliment. “You know who I am.”

  “I would know you no matter your disguise,” he said sternly. “What I wish to know is what you are up to in our host’s study.”

  “There’s, um, a perfectly reasonable explanation…”

  She trailed off as voices sounded just outside the study.

  Devil take it. Ben scanned the room, identifying the best place of concealment. He dragged Livy over to the curtains and behind the roomy folds. Pressing himself against the wall, he held her securely against him, her back to his chest.

  “Don’t move,” he whispered in her ear.

>   He felt her shiver as the door to the study opened.

  10

  As male voices entered the study, Livy felt a tremor travel from head to toe. Partly the tremor had to do with the fear of discovery: she’d found the diary, now hidden in the concealed pocket of her petticoat. Mostly, though, the shivery feeling had to do with the fact that her backside was nestled against Hadleigh’s front. His arm circled her waist, holding her snugly against his muscular form.

  “Don’t move,” he’d whispered in her ear.

  As if I would ever want to, she thought dreamily.

  The perils of the situation faded in Hadleigh’s presence; he made her feel safe. He always had. Even if they were caught, he would protect her. She knew this to the core of her soul, and her fear dissipated. In its place, a wicked excitement sparked.

  Conversation filtered through the thick layers of velvet. Thankfully, the men didn’t sound too close to their hiding spot. The voices seemed to be coming from the seating area at the other end of the room.

  “I say, Edgecombe,” a nasal voice said. “This is a damned fine cigar. French?”

  “Undoubtedly, Stamford,” another man replied. “Edgecombe h-here is a true connoisseur, and thus likes his cigars the way he likes his t-tarts.”

  As the men guffawed, Livy’s cheeks heated. I don’t think they’re talking about pastry…

  “Thorne has the right of it,” Edgecombe drawled. “A good French light-skirt is the antidote to domestic drudgery.”

  “An eager bit o’ muslin is a fine way to lift a man’s spirits,” a fourth man agreed.

  “More than just his spirits, I daresay,” Stamford said with a snicker.

  The men laughed again, and Livy shuddered with disgust. She would call these men swine, but that would be an insult to pigs. Hadleigh’s arm tightened around her.

  “It will be over soon,” he murmured into her ear.