Anne Mallory - Masquerading The Marquess

They got into the coach and drove briskly until Holt’s house came into view. It looked empty. Oddly, there appeared to be no activity inside or out.

"Let’s continue. I’ll make a social call later and see what he’s about. I sent Finn to Ternberry’s to talk to the servants. Hopefully we can piece this mess together."

They reached the Strand, parked and exited the coach. The driver would rendezvous with them on the other side.

"It’s a beautiful day to be out. I have frequently wondered how the pasty ladies get by without being in the sun."

She relaxed into his small talk and soon found herself enjoying the gorgeous day and being with him.

A man sullenly walked by and Calliope instantly recognized him as George Cruikshank, Robert’s brother. George was also a caricaturist. He was a staunch moralist, the opposite of Robert in personality and decorum. George knew nothing of Thomas Landes’s identity, of whom he would disapprove mightily. The two brothers were as different as night and day.

A small crowd was gathered outside a shop. The ladies were tittering. As James and Calliope neared the window, one of the ladies caught sight of them and giggled behind her hand. The group looked their way and hurried off in the other direction.

James frowned. Calliope was bemused. She glanced down at her gown and touched her wig, trying to figure out what was amiss.

James’s frown turned to a scowl as they neared the shop. "I should have known."

Calliope looked up at his stormy visage and then to the area that had been vacated. Large windows lined the shop and prints were hanging in the windows. They had reached Ackermanns.

Calliope gasped, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Since teaming with James she had been too involved to keep track of the caricatures she had given Robert. Her vendetta with the marquess had slipped by the wayside. James had charmed her with his intelligence, friendship and caring.

Calliope did some quick arithmetic.

Why today? Why today of all days?

Calliope instinctively placed a restraining hand on James’s arm. He gripped it and pulled her along with him.

Her last drawing of James adorned the center window.

"Damn and blast it, I’d like to get my hands around that malicious artist’s neck."

Calliope swallowed, trying to keep her throat from closing.

James was furious, and for good reason. This illustration was her coup de grace, the one that had spoken from her hurt feelings. The moment at the Killroys’ ball when she had thought he was poking fun at her by offering the beautiful flower. Of course, with a new perspective that moment seemed different. She had found it convenient to place the blame for the entire night at his feet. But it was far too late. The damage was done. The illustration was visible for all Londoners to see.

"Maybe the artist made a mistake."

"Right. And the other drawings of me showed that the artist had fallen hopelessly in love," he drawled.

Not a good sign. A tightening sense of dismay enveloped her. "Possibly."

James shook his head. "Do not defend the man, Cal. He is vindictive."

Had he just called her Cal? She was finding it hard to breathe.

"I mean, look at the position he has placed me in. I am offering a flower to that governess in mockery while a crowd of my peers dances and laughs. And look at what I am doing with my hands. I will kill him, I promise."

Calliope swallowed, but there was no moisture in her throat.

He continued his tirade without response from her, still examining the picture with an odd contemplative quality to his voice. "It’s odd where Landes gets his ideas. I’ve never been one to frequent parties. In fact, I only started going because of- Oh, never mind." James smoothed over whatever he was going to say. "Besides, I’d never offer anything pretty to a lady of the ton. It would be quite out of character-"

He stopped abruptly and frowned.

The frown deepened and Calliope felt moisture gather down her back, just as it had the night of the Killroys’ ball.

"Should we keep walking, my lord?"

"My lord?" His look was penetrating and Calliope’s legs readied for flight.

"I think it’s time we get back. After all, you are going to Holt’s and I need to get ready for the Ordines’ ball and there are so many things to do between now and then. I should really stop by and tell my family that I’m well. Do you think we might stop there on the way back?" Calliope knew she was babbling but she couldn’t seem to stop. Especially when she saw the cold light appear in his eyes.

"You are the only woman I have ever offered a flower to. And no one was there to witness it."

"Oh, really, my lord. There must be dozens of women for whom you buy flowers."

He shook his head, anger replacing the shock. "Not a single one."

"Well, I do believe I might have mentioned it to Lady Simpson, and you know how she has the tendency to talk." Calliope couldn’t stop herself. One part of her had stepped away and was looking at the remaining part in horror.

"No, I don’t believe you ever saw Lady Simpson again. But soon afterward there was quite an unflattering rendition of your confrontation with her done by this same artist. I started following his work after it appeared I had become his primary target."

"Then he must have been at the Killroys’ party."

"Yes, I do believe you are right. "

Calliope fought the tears and desire to flee as she stared at him mutely, pain in her heart.

"Why, Calliope? What did I do to earn your scorn?"

A tear slipped down her cheek. "You were the epitome of a haughty aristocrat. And I was just another piece of dirt on your way to the ball."

His face was still angry but he wiped the tear away with his thumb. "Didn’t you run into that with others? The ton is full of such people. Why me?"

Her voice cracked. "Because you were such an arrogant ass. You always riled me. Lady Simpson fired me because of our final interchange." And the reactions he always caused had unnerved her.

"What if I told you that you were the reason I went to all those dull parties?" His face softened a notch.

Calliope shook her head. "No, you thought I was dowdy and beneath your notice. You only took interest in me after you thought I was flashy and loose."

James’s face tightened back in anger. "You have a real cruel streak, Calliope Minton. Thomas Landes is one of the more vicious caricaturists. Let’s go. You will remain in your townhouse while I seek out Holt."

Calliope was drained, her emotions too raw to argue, so she allowed him to lead her to the carriage waiting at the end of the street.

The ride home was tense and silent. She couldn’t remember ever feeling as miserable.

They walked to the door.

"I don’t want you stepping a foot outside this house. Understood?" James said it as he was turning around to go back to the carriage.

"My lord. You must come inside." One of the footmen made an urgent motion toward the hall.

James frowned, but the uncharacteristic, jerky motions of the footman must have convinced him because he followed.

"Upstairs, quickly. "

Something was wrong. Calliope ran to keep pace with the two men as they vaulted up the stairs.

They reached her room and the footman opened the door. Suddenly Calliope didn’t want to look in, afraid that a loved one’s still body might be inside.

The sharp intake of breath from James caused her to look around him.

Stephen was lying prone on her bed, white as death.

"Stephen!" Calliope said as they rushed to his side.

Stephen was haggard, his face damp with unhealthy perspiration. He didn’t acknowledge Calliope’s cry; his lashes lay still on his cheek. James nudged her aside and ran fingers around Stephen’s face. Stephen’s heartbeat was strong and his chest rose normally.

"He’s alive. Where has he been?"

" A street urchin brought him in a hack, my lord. She made certain he was brought in, then she took off before we could detain her. Slippery little thing. And the driver couldn’t tell us anything."

James looked down at Calliope and saw tears running down her cheeks. She looked as if her life depended on Stephen waking up and speaking.

"Have you called a doctor?" he asked one of the footmen.

"No, milord, he arrived minutes before you returned. I wasn’t sure if that was what you would want, what with everyone thinking he was dead and all."

James nodded. "Good."

Calliope looked at him, aghast. "James, we must call a doctor. Look at him. He’s at death’s door."

"Stephen’s heartbeat is steady. Quite frankly, I’m more concerned that whoever did this to him will try to finish the job if they know he is alive."

Calliope stood and poked him in the chest, punctuating her words. "I can’t believe you are going to let him lie here unattended. We don’t know the extent of his injuries and if he catches fever, he may die."

"An hour or two should not matter. " He turned to see Grimmond in the doorway holding blankets. "Grimmond, cover him and have the lads warm bricks. Have Cook prepare broth that can be spooned down his throat when he awakens."

James looked into Calliope’s eyes. "I need to talk to Holt first and determine his involvement in this whole affair. Then we will call a doctor. Holt has contacts everywhere and I don’t know any medical man who wouldn’t be inclined to talk to him if pressured. Believe me, Stephen would want it this way."

"Fine, then leave."

She dismissed him and went back to tending her patient. She made soothing noises and spread her fingers across Stephen’s brow. She had betrayed him and was now acting as if their roles were reversed. James felt like shaking her. He remembered his words to her outside.

"She is not to leave this house," he ordered the footmen.

He saw her body tighten, but she made no comment as James headed for the door.

There was no use staying here and trying to appeal to her. His time would be better used questioning Holt. James knew when he had been abandoned.

Calliope’s emotions caught up with her for the second time, and she allowed them to spill. What a watering pot she was becoming. When she had spotted Stephen, it was like having an old friend return in the middle of a crisis. He was her lifeline. But all she really wanted was for James to return. Foolish of her.

Seeing that caricature had brought reality back like a slap in the face. James was the Marquess of Angelford, nobleman and lover. Not Mr. James Trenton, friend and suitor.

And what was this about her being cruel? She wasn’t cruel. She was just… She just gave what she got. They deserved it.

She hated the nobility. Didn’t she?

Sleep. Maybe it would bring a new perspective. She would definitely feel better after a nap.

Calliope made Stephen comfortable and drew up a small armchair and quilt.

She wished Deirdre were here. She needed her sister’s advice and comfort. But Deirdre wasn’t there, so Calliope sank into the soft fabric and laid her head against the cushions.

When had things gone so wrong? When had life become so complicated?

Calliope stared at the ceiling, too tired to sleep. Why had she created so many illustrations of James? Probably because she was already half in love before she knew him.

Being in constant proximity to him these past few days had only made her fall the other half of the way. And fall hard.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks. Yes, she admitted to herself, she was in love with James Trenton, the Marquess of Angelford. And it hurt. He was not for her. He would never be for her.

She had proven inept in proper society when allowing her real personality to show. She wasn’t cut out for their circles. The Killroys’ ball-what a travesty. It had been quite an awful experience to live through, but she had rendered a bucketful of marketable caricatures. And she had retained her dignity.

Thank goodness for Terrence. If he hadn’t lent her his carriage she would have been forced to walk the entire way home that night. And walking home would have been…

Calliope bolted straight up. Terrence’s card. The ornate one with the seal that had slipped from his pocket. She had dismissed it as the seal of his father’s baronetcy. No wonder the falcon ring design had seemed familiar. She had seen its like before.

From where had Terrence gotten the seal? Calliope jumped off the seat, wiped her cheeks and hurried to change. She had to question Terrence and she had better dress as Margaret Stafford.

With renewed energy, Calliope changed into an outdated outfit and grabbed her father’s cane. If anything untoward should happen, it would be a useful weapon. Not that Terrence was in the least threatening. No, he had probably unknowingly picked the card up. Calliope just needed to find out from whom he had gotten it.