Lord of the Masquerade by Erica Ridley

Chapter 11

Julian rose from his escritoire when Heath Grenville entered the study for their scheduled appointment. The duke’s first impulse was to spring on his guest and demand to know everything Grenville had uncovered about Miss Thorne.

Instead, he offered his friend a glass of port from the sideboard.

“Any news?” he allowed himself to ask once they were comfortably ensconced in a pair of armchairs. Night had fallen already.

Grenville reached into an inner pocket of his frock coat and handed Julian a folded sheet of parchment. “Broad strokes at this time. I’m working on filling in the details.”

Julian tucked the report into his own inner pocket and handed Grenville a different scrap of paper. “I dropped her off at this address yesterday. An unusual direction for a courtesan. See what you can find out.”

Grenville glanced at the writing and smiled. “You’ll find the answer already in your report. This residence belongs to her first cousin, a Mr. Roger Thorne.”

Julian’s eyebrows rose. “A courtesan who lives with a male cousin? The house and surroundings seemed respectable. Could Mr. Thorne not provide for his relative in some other manner?”

“Perhaps she, like you, chooses to be ‘disreputable,’” Grenville chided Julian. “You were not scandalized by her profession until it occurred to you she might not need to pursue it.”

“I’m not scandalized,” Julian muttered.

Miss Thorne could do as she pleased. His disinclination to imagine her lying with other gentlemen was of absolutely no significance whatsoever.

“For the record,” Grenville continued, “she has not lived at that address in some years.”

“What?” Julian sat up with a start. “Why would she give me a false address?”

“Because she doesn’t want you to know her real one?” Grenville asked innocently.

Julian scowled at him. “What is her current address?”

“I’m investigating,” Grenville assured him.

“It makes no sense.” Julian swirled his port without sipping it. “Courtesans entertain at their homes. Why not share its location with me?”

“Why would she need to?” Grenville countered. “Your reputation for never repeating romantic encounters is universally known. Unless your habits have changed?”

“I never change.”

He had kissed her twice, but he did not yet need to stop. The rule was never to repeat lovemaking with the same individual. No exceptions.

“I should’ve known you’d never relax a rule,” Grenville said wryly. “Or... relax.”

“I relax!” Julian protested.

This assertion was not, normally, the case. However, there was no better way to describe his encounter with Miss Thorne at the market than an extraordinary episode of unplanned relaxing.

“Tell me about the cousin,” he ordered. “When did she cease to live with him?”

“Some years after he opened a gentlemen’s club. Have you heard of the Wit & Whistle?”

Julian frowned. “Maybe I did, once.”

“That is the way of it. The Wit & Whistle was ignored and unfrequented for years. It then briefly became quite popular, before fading back into oblivion.”

Julian shrugged. “I pay no attention to such things. I am not a member of any club.”

“Of course not. You confine all your vices to the six hour period of your masquerade.”

“Eight hours,” Julian muttered.

Grenville grinned at him, making it obvious he’d purposefully provoked Julian into correcting the precise duration of his scheduled weekly amusement, rather than address the implication he rarely left his home.

“Will you be visiting the cousin’s club?” Grenville asked.

“No,” Julian responded.

He wasn’t reclusive... exactly. That was a side effect, not the aim. He simply wished to be in complete control of everything and everyone in his orbit.

Which, yes, did imply he would rather go through the expense and effort of hosting and managing his own parties than he was likely to trust someone else’s plans or judgment.

“There’s no reason to visit the Wit & Whistle,” he informed Grenville. “Miss Thorne wouldn’t be present at a gentlemen’s club.”

“First,” said Grenville, “you may be unaware that while such exclusive clubs are not open to ladies, it is not at all unusual to discover the presence of demimondaines within their hallowed walls.”

Julian drained his port rather than respond. He was doing his very best not to think about Miss Thorne in the arms of other men, at the Wit & Whistle or anywhere.

And he refused to contemplate the potential reasons for his discomfort.

“Second,” Grenville continued, “the doors of this particular club would open to her without hesitation. It appears Miss Thorne was the one managing the Wit & Whistle during its rise and peak of popularity.”

“Miss Thorne... ran a gentlemen’s club?”

“Not just ran,” Grenville reminded him. “Turned it profitable.”

Julian stared at him.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Grenville’s eyes twinkled. “How unseemly of the lower classes to dabble in trade.”

This was a private jest between them. Grenville was heir to a barony, yet solved the ton’s indelicate situations in exchange for coin. Julian had no need for others’ money, but was often teased that he worked more hours than his own servants.

“She created a profitable gentlemen’s club,” he repeated, “...and then became a courtesan?”

“The investigation is ongoing,” Grenville replied noncommittally.

Julian tightened his jaw.

Grenville was doing his best. His forte was keeping secrets, not uncovering them. The ton employed him to bury their little details before they became big scandals.

Julian didn’t give a fig about idle gossip. He wasn’t the least bit reputable, and until he’d begun the duchess hunt, such things had never caused him concern. But now that he was on the market…

“What do you think?” he asked. “Am I too scandalous to secure an impeccable bride?”

“You’re pretty peccable,” Grenville admitted. “For as long as you continue to throw masquerades in the manner in which you currently host them, you will continue to receive understandable censure.”

“Ninety-nine percent of my guests have never ventured upstairs,” Julian pointed out. “Most attend for the luxuries on display and the thrill of being scandal adjacent. And none are ever invited into my private quarters.”

“That is as may be,” Grenville said. “But what has it to do with Miss Thorne?”

“Nothing,” Julian said. “Why would my personal life have anything to do with Miss Thorne?”

“Mm,” said Grenville. “I see. Well, if you’re ever serious about mending your infamous reputation, let me know and I shall do my utmost to assist you. In the meantime, I shall carry on with the current, completely-unrelated-to-your-bride-hunt project.”

“Do that,” Julian growled.

Unperturbed, Grenville set his empty glass on a side table and rose to his feet. “I shall send a note when I have something further to report.”

Once his friend had taken his leave, Julian moved to stare moodily out through the window. It would be too dark to see anything but his own reflection, had the footmen not lit the path with dozens of lanterns in anticipation of tonight’s masquerade.

The carriages had not yet begun to queue. It was only nine o’clock.

He removed the report from his pocket and scanned its contents, then read it again, slower the second time. It contained marginally more detail than uncovered in their conversation, most of which centered about the club and the cousin.

Julian didn’t care about that. He wanted to know more about Miss Thorne. She was a conundrum. If he’d thought a modicum of information would sate his appetite, the opposite had occurred. Each new detail begat more questions.

He did have one answer. It seemed that her offer of assistance had not only been in earnest... she had reason to believe herself capable of fulfilling that duty.

But Julian’s masquerades were not some ill-run, no-name club of little standing. To be clear, putting that to rights was indeed a feat—and one her cousin was apparently incapable of achieving—but improving something terrible was far easier than improving something that had already been polished to perfection.

He filed the report in a drawer and then bade his brain to cease thinking about Miss Thorne.

It didn’t work.

Julian was not thinking about her family situation or her managerial acumen, but rather the kisses they’d shared in his carriage. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. In fact, he’d decided very firmly not to.

And then she was right in front of him, being beautiful and maddening and irresistible, and the next thing he knew, the line had gone from “never again” to “we’ll part once I’ve chosen a bride.”

He hadn’t wanted to stop. He would’ve driven about the city for hours, just to keep on kissing her. If she would have given her true address, if she would have invited him inside...

Oh, who was he kidding? Julian had been so discombobulated by their encounter in the market, he’d forgotten to purchase the items he’d traveled there to select in the first place. Of course he would have gone upstairs with Miss Thorne and engaged in any activity she wished.

And of course she would have been aware of his reputation for refusing second encounters. She might have thought that indulging the itch they both longed to scratch would have resulted in losing his interest altogether.

Which was indeed what would have happened. Wouldn’t it?

Heaven knew he wasn’t smitten with her. He was incapable of emotions, soft or otherwise. These fireworks were just chemistry. His attention would wander any day now. It was a miracle she’d distracted him for this long. He wouldn’t go on like this forever.

He was busy. Very busy.

Julian arranged himself at his escritoire and reached for the correspondence he’d been attending to before Grenville arrived.

Barnaby appeared in the doorway.

“Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace,” said the butler. “Miss Thorne is here to—”

Julian leapt to his feet. “Where did you put her?”

“The green parlor, Your Grace. As you requested.”

Julian strode down the corridor, slowing only when the parlor door came into view, so that he could saunter through the door in a sedate and disaffected manner. Because he was sedate and disaffected.

Mostly.

Maybe.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him. His blood pulsed faster. Rather than curtsey—or kiss him—she deposited a square, cloth-covered basket in his hands.

“What is this?”

She swept the scrap of linen from the short, squat basket with all the flair of a magician unveiling a stunning metamorphosis.

“Biscuits!” Her smile lit her face and her brown eyes sparkled with amusement. “In a style that you don’t offer at your masquerades.”

“Nor will I,” he said coldly.

The cursed things smelled absolutely delicious.

Miss Thorne plopped onto his bespoke Chippendale sofa as though it had been made for comfort rather than aesthetics. She patted the cushion beside her as if she were the hostess and he the guest she was graciously allowing into her parlor.

Stiffly, he placed the basket on the hand-carved tea table before the sofa and took his seat beside her. Not because the Duke of Lambley followed anyone else’s orders, but because it was the most convenient seat from which to share fresh-baked biscuits.

...and efficient proximity in the event he decided to haul her into his lap and kiss her.

“Shortbread,” she informed him.

Yes, he could see that it was shortbread.

Shortbread was the sort of treat one might find in a country house in Scotland. Not the sort of confection one might expect in a ducal ballroom where exquisite refreshments were presided over by a talented team of French chefs.

“They’re circles,” said Miss Thorne.

“I see that.” He raised his brows. “Is there a reason for the round shape?”

She beamed at him as though she’d been awaiting this very question. “Circles are the perfect shape. Every angle is the correct angle. And biscuits of this size—scarcely larger than a guinea—need not be cut or trimmed. They are already the ideal size to pop into one’s mouth. Try it!”

He did not. “And the colorful dollops at the center of each?”

“Spring fruits. Only the very best,” she added with a straight face. “Hand-selected by the sixth duke of—”

“There are five shades of pink or red, three shades of purple... One cannot even tell which fruit is which.”

“I should hope not,” she said cheerfully. “The mystery is part of the magic. Your guests do not show their true identities. Why then should their biscuits?”

“Because they’re biscuits,” he growled.

It was a clever idea. He could already see the appeal of each guest filling a small plate with half a dozen shortbread guineas and exclaiming in delight to discover this one was that flavor, and so on.

“You’re pretending to hate the idea,” she scolded him.

He glowered at her.

“Before you say it’s not pretentious enough for your set because they’ll only eat buttered tellines simmered by a Parisian chef—”

“Aix-en-Provence,” Julian murmured.

“—allow me to counter by pointing out that an exalted Aix-en-Provence-ian chef should be capable of duplicating this recipe, and that the very conceit of biscuits with secret identities is by definition pretentious. Pretentious and delicious. Try one,” she coaxed. “Unmask its flavor.”

He lifted one that looked like blackberry and placed in his mouth.

It was not blackberry. It was elderberry. The surprise was indeed as satisfying as Miss Thorne had promised.

The biscuit itself was of the ideal diameter to pop into one’s mouth with ease and grace. The creamy dollop of tartness on top was the perfect balance to the sweet, crumbly shortbread. It was a superlative biscuit.

“How does it taste?” Miss Thorne asked eagerly.

“Insufficiently pretentious,” he informed her. “Un-French. I think these were made with asymmetrical elderberries.”

She clapped her hands. “You love it! I knew you would! Your guests would too, if you let them.”

This did not require a reply. She already knew he would reject all changes. He helped himself to what looked like a gooseberry biscuit.

It was strawberry-rhubarb.

Miss Thorne leaned forward. “Perhaps no one has ever told you, so allow me to be the first. Relinquishing a minute fraction of control does not diminish your power nor compromise your self. It is still your house and it remains your masquerade, regardless of the menu one finds at the refreshment table.”

“And it is my reputation at risk,” he added.

She rolled her eyes. “Ah, yes, your reputation for debauchery and complete disregard of polite society’s rules. Are your guests really going to be offended if individual biscuit flavors are unlabeled and the shortbread does not come from France?”

“Deeply offended,” he told her. “Mortally offended. I shall be at the top of all of the scandal columns by morning.”

“You... what?” Miss Thorne’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. “Tomorrow morning?”

“You did not expect me to eat four dozen bite-sized biscuits by myself, did you?” He was not giving in just to please her. He was proving her wrong. He was still in control.

“I...” She blinked at him.

“We’ll put them on the tray nearest the dance floor. That is the most frequented of all the dessert tables. There aren’t enough to last for more than a quarter hour, but that should be enough time to gauge the general reaction. If I hear so much as a whisper of complaint against these shortbread guineas—”

“You won’t,” she promised. “Anyone who dislikes ‘masquerade biscuits’ shall be deposited in the Thames before they can ruin the experience for other guests.”

“You’re ruthless,” he said. “I like it.”

She brightened. “You do?”

“Haven’t you fathomed out by now that it is you I like?” He gave into temptation and pulled her into his arms.