More than a masquerade l.., p.1
More than a Masquerade: Ladies of the Order - Book 2, page 1
More than a Masquerade
Ladies of the Order - Book 2
Adele Clee
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Thank you!
Copyright
Books by Adele Clee
Chapter 1
Valentine Masquerade
Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, London
Love was akin to downing badly brewed arrack punch, Rachel Gambit decided. The crowd at Vauxhall’s Valentine Masquerade were drunk with excitement, intoxicated by the prospect of finding a willing mate. Those dancing before the raised bandstand in the Grove had lost all semblance of sanity, all sense of decorum.
Rachel turned to Mr and Mrs D’Angelo, her chaperones for the evening. “A vicar tending his flock is no longer considered an epithet.” She pointed to the gentleman in a cassock, fondling a shepherdess. “He’s out to steal more than her crook.”
Mrs D’Angelo laughed. “Their tomfoolery could amuse us all evening.” She was an attractive woman with golden hair and an amiable spirit. “Making mischief appears to be the theme tonight.”
“No doubt they’re excited to have a night at Vauxhall.” It was a gala event to raise funds before the gardens officially opened in May.
“It’s a shame we’re here for professional reasons.”
Rachel’s heart pounded as she recalled why she’d come to Vauxhall. She had not come hoping Cupid might fire his gold-tipped arrow in her direction. Heavens no! As an enquiry agent for the Order—a group who helped the victims of crimes seek justice—she had come to meet a potential new client.
“You’ll struggle to find Hunter in the crush.” Mr D’Angelo scanned the hordes of dissipated revellers. “Did he give you a clue to his identity?”
“No clue at all.”
She had been told to wear a red gown, red slippers, don a red mask. Lord knows why. Mr Hunter would only hire her to help solve his problem if she passed a series of tests. Her first was to find him in a crowd of eight hundred people. An impossible feat, all things considered.
“Mr Hunter wishes to evaluate my deductive skills,” Rachel added. “He needs to know I can arrive at logical conclusions and can think on my feet.” The man’s situation must be grave indeed to resort to such extreme measures.
“We’ve been instructed to remain with you until you locate Hunter.” Mr D’Angelo pulled his watch from his pocket and noted the time. The formidable enquiry agent of Italian heritage was one of a handful of men who refused to parade in a costume tonight. “Hunter despises tardiness. It’s half-past eight. That leaves you thirty minutes to find him in the throng.”
Panic ensued. While festoons of twinkling lights hung from trees lining every walkway, a man might easily hide in the shadows. It was imperative she focused her mind and began eliminating certain gentlemen.
But where to start?
“You’re acquainted with Mr Hunter.” Rachel directed her comment to Mr D’Angelo. He’d mentioned Mr Hunter’s preference for black meant he dressed as if in mourning. “Might you at least give me a clue as to his height and build?”
“You know I can’t,” he replied firmly. “The tests have some bearing on the reason he needs to hire you. As your safety is important, I need to know you can handle this case.”
“We cannot help you, Rachel.” Mrs D’Angelo cast a wary glance over her shoulder. “Mr Hunter will undoubtedly know if we do. Though I’m sure it’s not breaking any rules if I remind you to use what you know of the man to make informed decisions.”
She knew nothing but his name. That he was a hard taskmaster who always wore black. She turned to the couples dancing in the Grove, to the orchestra playing a lively country tune.
Would a man with a pressing dilemma dance and make merry?
No. Mr Hunter had come to Vauxhall to hire an agent, not to enjoy the festivities. He would be alone. She would wager he was a sedate gentleman who distrusted most people, one focused and regimental. Not one whose gaze wandered at the mere glimpse of a scantily clad shepherdess.
So, she was looking for one man dressed in black.
Ah, but wait. This was supposed to be a challenge. If Rachel didn’t find him in the allotted time, she’d fail the test. Half the men wore black dominos, yet she suspected Mr Hunter was too sombre to prance around in a cape. There was such an air of mystery about him, she suspected he was notably unique.
“Where will you start?” Mrs D’Angelo said, her excitement palpable.
“I eat or sleep when my mind is in a quandary. I’ll begin with the supper boxes, though I doubt I’m looking for a man in a costume.” Serious men did not behave like buffoons.
Mr D’Angelo’s expression remained unreadable. “The supper boxes by the Chinese Temple, or those by the Gothic or Handel Piazzas?”
“The Chinese Temple.”
Having been to Vauxhall once with her previous employer, Madame Dubarry, Rachel recalled the piazzas were a stone’s throw from the orchestra. Mr Hunter would seek to avoid noisy places when conducting his evaluation.
“We’ll follow you as far as the Grand Walk and linger there.” Mr D’Angelo gestured for Rachel to lead the way. “I’ll keep you in my sights until I’m assured you’ve found Hunter.”
“Honestly, there is no need. I shall be perfectly safe.” Madame Dubarry had left Rachel alone during their visit to Vauxhall. The modiste had disappeared down the Dark Walk with a gentleman friend and had not returned for two hours.
“I have my orders, Miss Gambit.”
Mr Daventry—the master of the Order and a man one did not cross—was a little protective of his female enquiry agents. Which was rather ironic, considering he’d hired them to catch criminals.
“Very well.” Rachel cut through the row of elm trees lining the Grove. She stopped by a lit brazier to warm her hands and gather her composure.
Needing to scour the crowd without looking obvious, she raised her hand-held mask. It narrowed her peripheral vision considerably. Hence why she didn’t see the drunken fellow in a black domino approach from the flank.
“Come with me, pretty lady.” The dandy grabbed her arm and tried to drag her back to the Grove. “Come and dance with Freddie.”
Why did rolling drunks always speak in the third-person?
Having spent five years living with two wicked reprobates, Rachel wasn’t the least bit startled. “Get your hands off me, Freddie. Go away, else I shall be forced to stamp on your feet and crush your toes.”
“You’ve crushed my heart. Why not my toes?” The fellow burped, assaulting her with his brandy breath. “Come on, lovely. Dance with Freddie.”
For a fleeting second, Rachel wondered if this fop was Mr Hunter playing a prank, but a dangerous man wouldn’t be so pathetic.
“Go away, Freddie.” Rachel hit him on the head with her mask. She had to get rid of the sot before Mr D’Angelo charged in and broke the poor man’s fingers. “My brother is two steps behind and will likely kill you.” She gestured to Mr D’Angelo, who looked like he might rip out the man’s throat with his bare hands. “He shot a man last week near Primrose Hill, straight between the brows. Blew his brains across—”
Freddie clasped his hand to his mouth and retched. Then he took to his heels to hurl into the nearest bush. Rachel cast the D’Angelos a confident grin before continuing her search for Mr Hunter.
Of the innumerable booths situated along the colonnade, all were crammed with patrons, bar one. A young man, no older than thirty, with dark brown hair and a handsome profile, sat alone. He stared absently at the wine in his glass while twirling the stem between long, elegant fingers. Like the hard taskmaster she’d expected, he possessed a powerful, athletic physique, though something about the way he gazed at the glass roused her pity.
The man was like an unnamed island in a vast sea—a lonely figure amongst an ebbing crowd. Was that why Mr Hunter wished to hire an agent? Did he long for a partner to share the burden?
She straightened, her pulse thumping a steady beat in her neck. If she approached the wrong man, she would fail her first task. Was Mr Hunter watching from the shadows? Or was he the gentleman in the booth, absorbed by the hue of his claret?
A waiter approached. The stranger gestured to the empty seat opposite before removing his pocket watch and inspecting the time. Then Rachel caught a flash of a red waistcoat, and every instinct said this solitary figure was her prospective client.
Her legs turned to jelly, but she raised her mask and approached the booth. If she made a mistake and lost her position with the Order, she could always return to the pawnbroker’s shop or find work with another modiste.
She swallowed deeply. “I pray you’ve ordered for two, sir.”
The gentleman faced her, and she almost gasped. There should be a law against men having eyes so blue they looked like the soul of the heavens. Eyes so uniquely blue, they hypnotised a woman into forgetting her own name.
His intense gaze slipped slowly over her mask, cloak and gown. He moistened his lips before speaking. “We have a duty to crush the snakes underfoot.”
Merciful Mary! Her heart skipped a beat. So this was Mr Hunter, the man who trusted no one, the man who played a hard game to test a woman’s mettle.
He stood, straightening to a commanding height a little over six feet. Heavens. Rachel felt like throwing her hands in the air and asking the Lord what the hell he was playing at. Never, and she meant never, had a man made such an impact. Part of her hoped she failed the next test. How on earth was she to deal with this devil?
“Would you care to sit, Miss Gambit?”
Even his voice held the husky notes that made women swoon. And yet there was nothing warm about his manner or expression. Bronzed skin covered a face of steel. The planes were hard and rigid. Those mesmerising eyes turned frosty, so cold it chilled her blood.
“Are we to dine, sir?”
“We’re not here to partake in pleasantries.” His assessing gaze moved to the flamboyant black feathers adorning her mask. “Though this will be the shortest interview ever conducted.”
“Why?” Had she made a dreadful faux pas? “Do you have a problem with my feathers, sir?”
“You failed to follow instructions.”
She had followed his instructions to the letter.
“I was told to wear a red mask. This is a red mask.”
“It’s brown with black trimmings.” His sigh echoed his annoyance. “You might think me a pedant, Miss Gambit, but people have died deviating from the rules.”
She thought him a pedant, and a miserable ogre to boot.
“The mask is russet-red, not brown. No rules were broken because you did not stipulate the colour of the trimmings.” She offered a serene smile as she lowered her mask. “But rest assured, I shall rectify the problem immediately.”
Rachel gripped the tip of a black feather and ripped it from its bindings, then removed all the feathers and let them blow away in the breeze.
“There. Now we have a red mask without feathers.” Well, he wanted a woman who could make swift decisions. “Does that meet your strict criteria?”
But Mr Hunter wasn’t interested in the mask or the errant feathers. Instead, he fixed her with his impenetrable gaze. “Are you always so impulsive, Miss Gambit?”
“This is my first assignment for the Order. It’s imperative you hire me. I don’t have time to dither.”
Any other man would have smiled, not Mr Hunter. He looked as if he’d rather gouge out his eyes with a letter opener than hire an agent. He pointed to the ornate bench, a blunt instruction to sit.
Rachel slid into the booth and placed her reticule beside her. Mr Hunter sat opposite, though he cursed beneath his breath when their knees touched.
“I suppose I should be grateful for your honesty.” He sounded like the most ungrateful wretch alive. “I trust you’ll not have a fit of hysterics when I afford you the same courtesy.”
Rachel raised her chin. “Sir, I survived a shipwreck and spent ten hours clinging to the debris. It will take more than your blunt opinion to rattle my nerves.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “A shipwreck? When did this unfortunate event occur?” It was obvious he doubted her word.
“In the spring of 1817. I was aboard The Canton, journeying from Bombay. Unfortunately, we were caught in the mother of all storms and floundered on Chesil Beach off the Dorset coast. My name is on the list of survivors should you wish to check the records.”
“You were sixteen?” He must have made a quick mental calculation.
“Yes.” Mr Daventry had surely mentioned her age. “I turned four and twenty a few months ago. I assume that’s acceptable.”
“Acceptable, not ideal.” He rang for the waiter. “Did your parents survive the shipwreck?”
Emotion bubbled in her chest at the mention of her parents. She missed them terribly. “They died together in an accident in Bombay. My father worked for the East India Company. The Company put me aboard The Canton with other families returning to England.” It had been a long voyage marred with sickness and storms, omens for the tragedy that followed.
Mr Hunter remained silent for a few uncomfortable seconds. “You came to live with relatives in England?”
“I came to live with my godmother, Lady Hanaway.”
It should have been a respite from her trauma. A safe haven. Instead, it was akin to entering the nether regions of hell. Like the gate in Dante’s underworld, the entrance to Lady Hanaway’s home should have carried the same warning—abandon all hope, those who enter.
The waiter appeared with his receipt pad and silver tray.
“What will you drink, Miss Gambit?” Mr Hunter spoke as if it were another test. So much for not passing pleasantries.
“Thank you. I shall have fruit punch.”
“No, you won’t.” He ordered a bottle of burgundy. “I need a woman who doesn’t fall over herself after one glass of wine. I need a woman who can think even when her judgement is impaired.”
“You wish to get me drunk, sir?”
Good grief. The man meant to test her to her limits. It was a pointless exercise. Rachel’s mind had turned to mush the moment he said he needed a woman. The moment she imagined satisfying a hunter.
“Exactly the opposite. I need you to drink without losing all rationale.”
“Sir, you’ll have to look to the dockside taverns for such a woman.”
“Should you pass the other tests, I shall train you to take your drink.”
Train her? Would he host an intimate party for two? Would he smile and laugh while they rolled about the floor in a drunken stupor? Oddly, she was rather keen to find out.
The waiter returned. Mr Hunter sampled the wine, paid the bill, then dismissed the fellow. He poured the ruby-red liquid into her glass and pushed the vessel across the pristine white tablecloth.
“Is there a reason you asked me to wear red tonight?”
“Take a mouthful of wine, Miss Gambit. Feel the heat as it slips down your throat.”
She brought the glass to her lips and sipped the wine. It tasted rich and earthy, carried the faint aroma of cherries, and warmed her all the way down to her toes.
“You didn’t answer my question, sir. Why insist I wear red?” Did he like playing the dominant master? Did he want her to know she was here purely to serve his needs?
“So I can find you in the dark.”
Perhaps the wine had made her head fuzzy. Perhaps this man knew how to play havoc with her senses, and his sensual drawl was nothing more than a means to intimidate. She stole a glance at the lamps glittering in the trees, fearing what fate awaited her on this chilly night at Vauxhall.
“Tell me what you have in your reticule, Miss Gambit.” His demand sent her mind careering completely off course.
“Is it a requisite to you hiring me?” Surely a lady was entitled to some privacy.
“Women are secretive by nature. Do you have something to hide? Are you carrying a laudanum tincture so you might take a nip when under pressure?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then let me see what you’re carrying.”
Rachel fought to curb her temper. She snatched her reticule and dumped it on the table but then decided to play a little game of her own.
“What do you suppose is in there, Mr Hunter?” She took another courage-boosting sip of wine. “Let’s see if your intuition serves you well.”
He shifted in his seat. “I’m not the one on trial.”
“If I’m to risk my life for a man, I wish to be assured of his mental agility.”
“Rest assured, I possess the stamina and agility of a man in his prime.”
Her pulse fluttered in her throat. From the hard angle of his jaw and the breadth of his chest, Mr Hunter was a perfect specimen of masculinity.
