Page 9 of Taken By the Broken Duke
“I do not.” The Baron’s gaze drifted over the room. “And I have yet to meet anyone who does. Many claim to, but their stories differ wildly. Some say he is of great stature with a mane of dark hair and the eyes of a Viking. Others say he is short. Some say he is a foreigner and talks with the accents of an Arab— though that particular tale stretches credulity. He is a man of mystery, that much is certain.”
“I confess, I know nothing of him either, I owe my invitation to a friend,” Horatio gave a faint chuckle. “But I am intrigued. I think I shall seek out anyone who might know more.”
Excusing himself with practiced guile, Horatio melted back into the glittering throng. He felt secure in his anonymity, as though he were invisible. Many glanced at him for the elaborate mask he wore. Some stopped him to compliment his costume and engage him in conversation. Each time, Horatio was gracious and polite, giving away nothing about himself while gleaning much about his guests. It was a diverting game, particularly as he was building an image of himself in the eyes of these people.
Yet, beneath the guise of charm and wit, there simmered a quiet vigilance.
None spoke of the scandal that had driven therealhim into exile. The whispers had faded, buried by time—or so it seemed. The killing of the Duke of Marlingford was a forgotten story, as was the purported assault on Lady Meredith.
His gaze swept the room. He saw no sign of the Kimberley family. Perhaps they had forgotten him too.
Or perhaps they were watching him as he watched everyone else.
The very notion curled in his chest, sharp and persistent. Underneath the veil of civility and artifice, Horatio knew better than to believe in the erasure of sin. He doubted the Kimberleys had forgotten him—he would never forget them.
Time wore on, and the restlessness in his chest grew. The hall was too crowded, the press of bodies too close now, the weight of his own vigilance too heavy. Finally, he resolved to retreat. The Gallery above, quiet and shadowed, offered the distance he craved—a place to watch unnoticed and to think.
He made a final circuit of the room, his sharp eyes picking out new details in the costumes and the conversations that swirled around him. Satisfied, he slipped toward the rear of the Great Hall, where the light dimmed and the chatter faded. A row of stone arches flanked the grand staircase, their ancient curves concealing a narrower stair that led to the upper levels.
As he neared those shadowed arches, something flickered in his periphery. A movement—fleeting, almost imagined. He slowed his steps, letting the shadows settle. Then, as he drew closer, the darkness seemed to peel away, revealing what it had once hidden...
Horatio froze mid-step.
He was gazing upon a tall, slender young woman with bronze hair and alabaster skin. Her hair was pinned delicately atop her head, framing a swan-like neck and a face of pale beauty. A mask dangled loosely from one hand, sculpted into the shape of a bird. Her gown was unlike the vivid costumes in the hall—it bore the hues of muted greens and earthy tones, a subtle palette that set her apart, like a forest sprite among the garish peacocks of the ton. She was looking out from the arches at the gathered guests with an air of trepidation on her face, her lips faintly parted.
Though her visage bore the marring lines of such unguarded emotions, she remained as pure and alluring as a goddess.
He could do nothing but watch, transfixed. Each breath felt too loud, each moment precarious, as though she might vanish if he moved. He inched closer, barely daring to disturb the air between them, praying she wouldn’t notice his presence.
But then she turned.
Their eyes met, her emerald gaze cutting through him like the edge of a blade. She startled slightly, and he hastily offered a bow. When he straightened, he noticed the tiniest of movements upon her shoulder—something white and stirring. His brows rose in disbelief.
A mouse.
His eyes flicked between the creature and the woman, his astonishment barely contained. She followed his gaze, then gasped, her hand flying to her shoulder. But the mouse flitted between her fingers, perhaps unnerved by the sudden movement.
“Archie!” the woman squealed as the mouse leaped to the frame of a tapestry hanging on the wall behind her.
Archie?
From there, it scurried to the floor and darted away. She dashed after it but it was too quick, disappearing into the shadows.
“Archie! Oh no! This cannot be happening!” the woman cried.
Horatio blinked, startled into action. “I believe I know where the little fellow has gone,” he said quickly, his voice low but firm. He gestured toward the staircase hidden behind the arches. “If he keeps to the shadows, he will find his way to the Gallery. It is of solid stone and there is no other way out. Come—I will help you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Juliet was glad of the mask that she had been given by Aunt Margaret. It was an old piece that had previously belonged to Frances, and though it did little to complement the rest of her costume, it served its purpose well in hiding her face. She was also glad that when Aunt Margaret was announced at the door of the Great Hall, it was only Frances and Edith who were announced alongside her. A whispered word to the doorman had kept Juliet’s name absent.
Perhaps these people would not remember the illness that Judith Semphill had suffered, the illness that so many were afraid of. Perhaps they would not remember the testimony that a young Juliet had given, which had led to a duel and a death. Still, she was glad she needn’t find out tonight.
As they strolled into the Great Hall, she felt eyes upon her nevertheless. Frances glided through the room like a swan, instantly garnering herself a circle of young men. Edith drifted to the periphery of the room along with Juliet—until her motherspotted her. Then, with a roll of her eyes, she obediently followed her mother in mingling.
For a time, Juliet drifted by the edges of the gathering, ignored and paying little attention. The room was grand but the towering stone walls and high vaulted ceiling were oppressive. It shut out the warm, summer night sky and the gentle breeze that Juliet had felt before they had entered the castle.
Worse, it was the home of a man who was a recluse because of her.
