Jo Beverley - [Malloren] Read online

  Bey apparently was in his rooms and alive, but no one had spoken to him since Bryght, and when Elf had knocked, Fettler had politely denied her admission.

  After a flurry of concern, the family had resolutely not spoken of it, and most of the conversation had been about their northern trip. Diana was struck again by the seriousness with which they took their business affairs. Portia shrugged and said that she had enough to do with a child to raise, but Bryght was deeply involved with the northern canal systems, and with plans for them farther south. Fort was in charge of some kind of partnership between himself and the Mallorens to do with wine and spirits. He was also clearly developing his own family’s business affairs, with an eye especially to his younger brother Victor, soon to return from time in Italy.

  Her own knowledge of northern industry, of lead mines and wool production, was absorbed greedily. By the time the meal drew to a close, she realized new wounds threatened. She genuinely liked the Malloren family and their spouses. They already felt like a family of her own, and losing Bey would also lose her this.

  Fort was to her right, and he squeezed her hand. “I’m tempted to call him out for the pain he’s causing you. But then he’d kill me. No,” he corrected her wryly, “that’s not true. He’d let me kill him to save Elf from pain, which of course would be stupid because Elf would enter a nunnery and weep forever more.”

  Elf, on his other side, swatted at him, but she didn’t look amused. “He’s doing the best he can, Fort.”

  “He’s making life into a labyrinth, as usual. I know all your hearts are bleeding, but I have to confess to a degree of satisfaction to see Daedalus lost in his own maze.”

  It was an interestingly perceptive way to view it, and pointed to a truth. Daedalus was the only one who truly knew the way out.

  Chapter 32

  The masquerade came to life on its own, it seemed, designed by a master hand and executed by efficient servants. By the time the family emerged from their meal, the public areas of the house were mysteriously underlit, though at the top of the main stairs an artificial moon shone in welcome. In the entrance hall a solitary flautist played, a haunting, mysterious sound to greet the excited, whispering guests.

  Elf took Diana’s hand and led her to slip among the masked guests. “You want to experience this as it is designed to be experienced,” she whispered.

  “Why?” Diana asked, but Elf wouldn’t say.

  As they climbed the stairs, a Harlequin stepped up beside her. “Diana the huntress? You can hunt me, my lovely.”

  Not the man she was interested in. “Perhaps later, if you find me again, sir.”

  Would Bey be blending with his guests, or waiting in the ballroom as the master of this performance? She pinned her faith to Elf’s belief that he would be here somewhere. He had to be.

  Would she recognize him? She felt she must, but if the disguise was deep enough he might succeed in hiding from her. She began to scrutinize everyone.

  Most people were not heavily disguised, and it was easy to tell they were not him. Some, however, were wearing the Venetian costume of encompassing cloak, hat, and mask which made it hard to recognize the person beneath.

  She studied lips, hands, and voices.

  No, he wasn’t among those around her.

  Aware of nervous cries ahead, she passed through a Grecian arch into the corridor outside the ballroom. No sight of the portraits tonight, for it had been turned into a sort of maze, with twisting passageways just wide enough for one person.

  Daedalus, indeed.

  The walls of the passageways were painted gray, and a gray cover hung over, only high enough to let a tall man pass. Some light filtered through the cloth from above, but it was still an eerily dark, enclosed, serpentine route. Though she knew where she was, and that she was in no danger, Diana still felt pressed in and threatened. She heard giddy female exclamations around her, and manly reassurances.

  All part of the game.

  Elf was just behind her, and whispered, “Just wait till you see this!”

  They stepped out of the maze and into night.

  Not black night. Starlit night, where more ethereal wind instruments played.

  The whole room must have been hung with dense black, and against it, stars had somehow been devised. Larger lights made planets, including Saturn and its rings. In the center, however, hung another huge moon, realistic markings clear and perfect.

  “How is it done?” she whispered to Elf as they moved into the room among gasping guests. She felt cloth beneath her feet, and realized the floor was covered in black, too.

  “A sphere of white glass painted with the shadows of the moon, and with oil lamps inside. We used it at a midsummer night’s ball a few years back, and the maze even longer ago. This is nearly all put together from old stock.”

  But, Diana thought, circling to take it all in, this was the work of a master hand, and he’d been supervising this even as he dealt with all the other matters.

  She explored one of the small grottoes that had been made along the walls, where silver trees and branches glowed under concealed lights, and benches invited.

  “We have those for all the masquerades,” Elf said. “Just give them a new coat of paint.”

  Diana looked at her. “You don’t want me to be impressed?”

  Elf shrugged apologetically. “I don’t want you to think he’s superhuman.”

  “I don’t. Where is he? Do you know what costume he’s wearing?”

  “No,” said Elf. “Honestly.”

  “I’m going to find him.”

  Diana set off to circle the room, studying faces as best she could in the dim light, listening to voices, above all letting a secret sense hunt for him. In one corner she found a Grecian temple on a dais, unilluminated as yet, and wondered briefly what part that would play. She went on her way, hunting, hunting …

  Pausing to look up again at the miraculous moon, she found that from this side, a ghostly face smiled down. The man in the moon looking amused at human folly.

  “A shame to have to use an artificial one, when there’s a real full moon sailing the skies outside.”

  A painful shiver of delight spiking down her spine, she turned slowly. He was all in black, and she couldn’t tell any details except that his mask was a black mirror of her own, so that his paler skin made a crescent moon amid total darkness.

  “How did you know about my mask?” she asked.

  “Am I not the omniscient éminence noire?”

  “Is that what you are? The costume?”

  “Not precisely. I’m lord of the night. Literally and figuratively. I even have stars.” He raised his hands, and with astonished delight she saw that he wore a large, glittering jewel on every finger.

  She thought of her own naked hands with regret, but before she could comment, he said, “Come, let us play the part of gods, and start the celebration.”

  He sounded light in spirit, and there were those rings. Could she hope? She went with him, dizzy with anticipation, frustrated by uncertainty, then surprised when he turned behind a secret panel and ran lightly up some dark stairs to where musicians sat.

  At his command, the winds ended their faerie music and an introduction to the minuet began. He drew her down the gallery away from the musicians and their candles, then parted a dark cloth so she could see the moon straight on, and the clever containers that gave the star effect. It didn’t steal the magic. As long as he was by her side, the magic could never end.

  She could also see the dancers, as he’d implied, from a godlike eminence.

  “It pleases you?” he asked.

  She turned to him. “It pleases me.”

  So tempting to say more, but he was still a mystery to her, and she would not throw away this moment. Instead, she dared to slide an arm around his waist then turned back to watch the merrymakers down below, him warm by her side, his arm around her now.

  She’d never experienced this before, this comfortable twinning in
the peaceful, private dark, unthreatened for the moment by urgent problems.

  But then, as the first dance came to an end, she realized something, and had to speak. “Could de Couriac be here?”

  “No. All the guests have had to unmask for a moment as they entered, and Stringle—the man who captured you—is there to check.”

  “Didn’t people object?”

  “They were told it was for the safety of the king. That’s him, by the way, in the Roman armor with the gilded helmet. And for this event, all other entrances are guarded. You are safe.”

  It was his safety that worried her, but she did not say so. Instead, knowing him safe, she returned to happy thoughts. “I could stay up here forever, here with you.”

  Dangerous thoughts. She wondered how he would react.

  He held her a little closer. “Sometimes the gods are kind. I apologize for avoiding you today. We could have spent the day—”

  “Don’t. Don’t put yourself always at my service.”

  But did he mean it was the last day? That he’d let her leave tomorrow?

  He turned to her. “I am always at your service. Are you not at mine?”

  Breath caught. Where was that leading? “Of course. But sometimes I need to be alone. I would grant you that freedom, too.”

  He raised her hand and kissed it, and at the look in his eyes, her heart burst into speed.

  Surely that meant—

  A trumpet blew.

  Diana jumped with surprise and looked down to see that the Grecian temple was illuminated now, and the grassy sward held an adult and children sprawled around in sleep. They all wore wings. Cupids?

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  He was laughing, perhaps a little wildly. “My special surprise for you,” he said unsteadily, “but come too soon. I must have lost track of time here with you, love.”

  “Love?” she said, but he had taken her hand and was hurrying her to the stairs.

  She pulled back. “Stop. What were you going to say?”

  He pulled her close and kissed her quickly. “It will keep. Come. You will enjoy this.”

  With a helpless laugh, Diana let him take her downstairs, back into the crowded ballroom, but once there, they were stuck. Everyone was pressing toward the temple, seeking the best view. Short of rude violence, they could not get close.

  “You see,” he said, and she still heard laughter, “efficiency exploded to pieces. You were supposed to be in pride of place.” He moved backward instead, and swung her onto a gilded bench in a grotto. Then he leaped up beside her, and they had a wonderful view.

  His lightness in movement and expression, the look in his eyes just before they were interrupted, all made her tremble with hope, made her long to demand that he complete what he’d been about to say. Now.

  But she could wait. And perhaps this was all part of it, for Cupid was the god of love …

  From somewhere came the pure voice of a castrato.

  “The sun was now descended to the main,

  When chaste Diana and her virgin train …”

  A woman dressed exactly as Diana herself was walked out, accompanied by four handmaidens in Grecian dress, all wearing classical full-face masks.

  “… Espied within the covers of a grove,

  The little cupids, and the god of love,

  All fast asleep, stretched on the mossy ground,”

  The actress Diana took up the song in a rich contralto.

  “Fell tyrants of each tender breast,

  Sleep on, and let mankind have rest.

  For oh, soon as your eyes unclose,

  Adieu to all the world’s repose.”

  Her attendants joined in harmony as they plotted to break Cupid’s bows and arrows, and carried out the deed. Then they joined hands and danced.

  “Our victory’s great,

  Our glory is compleat,

  No longer shall we be alarmed.

  Then sing and rejoice,

  With one heart and voice

  For Cupid at length is disarmed!”

  Cheers started up in various parts of the ballroom, and the clever actors repeated their piece until people knew it well enough to join in.

  At the front of the stage, the actress playing Diana encouraged her impromptu choir by calling out the next words ahead of the singers.

  “Ye nymphs and ye swains,

  Who dwell on these plains,

  And have by fond passions been harmed.

  Secure of your hearts,

  Now laugh at his darts,

  For Cupid at length is disarmed!”

  As the ballroom rocked with the noise, Bey was shaking with laughter so the bench rocked beneath Diana’s feet. Laughing too, she grabbed a branch of an artificial tree, grateful to find it solid.

  “Now what could anyone have against love?” he demanded. “But you’ll see,” he added with a brilliant glance at her, “love triumphs as it should.”

  Diana gripped the branch harder, but if Bey looked at her like that, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be balanced again.

  They were eye to eye, and moving toward a kiss when a male voice broke into the song. She looked and found that Cupid, perhaps feeling left out by the third repetition, had leaped to his feet. He, too, wore a full face mask, this time of a placid youth.

  “Oh cruel goddess!” he sang, in a voice that was strong but not as skillful as the actress Diana’s. “But I scorn to moan. Revenge be mine!” He shook his gilded bow.

  “Lud,” Diana remarked, “I think he’d play Mars better than Cupid, but then, this matter of love is a battle, I suppose.”

  She glanced teasingly at Bey, but he was now intent on the stage.

  “Still one unbroken dart remains.” Cupid seized it from the ground, and nocked it in his golden bow. “I lance it through …”—the unsettlingly blank mask scanned the audience—“what heart? Come then, my lords, my ladies,” he continued in a speaking voice, “who wants to feel the bite of love, to have more love in their heart?”

  Unease crept across Diana’s shoulders, and suddenly Bey leaped down and moved forward. She tried to follow, but the crowd closed after him. In fact, everyone pushed forward trying to get closer to the god of love.

  Some were cheering, some were jeering, but they all wanted to be part of this fun.

  With a muttered curse she returned to the bench.

  She saw Bey then, cutting ruthlessly toward the tall figure in the gilded Roman helmet, who stood directly in front of the dais. The king.

  Trouble?

  The whole room seemed to be inviting love or jeering at the thought, and the Cupid egged them on. The other actors stood back, letting him play the audience, his arrow of love still seeking a target.

  Diana suddenly focused on the Cupid’s shouting voice. Foreign. She’d assumed Italian, like most opera singers, but could it be French? And his voice was not well trained.

  De Couriac?

  Bey was near the king now and she wanted to scream a warning. But of course he knew. That’s why he’d gone.

  But de Couriac wanted to kill him.

  She heard the king laughing and cheering with the rest. Heard him call, “Shoot me, god of love. I can’t have too much love for my queen, what, what?”

  As people cheered, the Cupid obediently turned the arrow in the king’s direction.

  Chapter 33

  Diana instantly saw from the way it flexed, that the bow was real. That was when she remembered that she, too, had a real bow and arrow. Doubtless one of the few usable weapons in the room.

  Bey had reached the king now. What would he do? Pull him to the ground and cover his body with his own?

  Heart pounding fit to burst, she pulled off her bow and nocked one of her silver arrows, wishing she’d had some more training with it. Wishing she’d had more of Carr’s lessons in firing under stress.

  Her hands were shaking and sweating enough to slip.

  Perdition! She wiped them on her linen gown.


  The king stood there, inviting the shot, and Cupid drew the string a little farther back. There was a moment of quiet, as if perhaps people suddenly wondered …

  Then Bey stepped in front of the king, arms spread, light dancing on his starlight rings. “Your pardon, sire, but I think I have the greater need of love.”

  A ripple of excited comment passed through the room, cut through with shock. Bey had his back firmly to the king.

  “Though in fact,” Bey said in apparent good humor, “you are supposed to shoot the goddess Diana, are you not?”

  “But you invited me to shoot you, my lord,” the Cupid said.

  The mask altered sounds to some extent and Diana found herself horribly uncertain. It would be terrible to make a mistake.

  With a pistol she might try to knock the weapon from his hands, but she wasn’t that good with a bow, and this was a scarcely tried weapon. She could hit a man somewhere with it, she was sure, but that was all.

  It must be de Couriac, though. Why else would Bey be shielding the king?

  Bey began to move forward, arms wide, inviting the shot, eclipsing the king even more. She silently berated him, but of course he could do nothing else. The king above all must be protected, and no innocent could be allowed to suffer.