“Oh, aye.” Eileen’s eyes began to sparkle. “The Duke of Gleneden. Scots, he is. I heard Mrs. O’Hara say at luncheon today that when she was in England last, she heard that every young miss in England and Scotland longed to become his duchess—and not only for his money and title. I should imagine it’s surely the same for any woman in our fair isle! The Black Scotsman, he’s called.”
“Really.” Maura feigned indifference. “And what other reason would these women have for wanting to marry the man other than his wealth and title?”
Eileen fairly giggled. “Ye will know when you see ’im, milady.”
Maura raised her brows. “How can you be sure?”
Eileen chuckled. “Oh, I doubt ye will miss ’im, masquerade or no. His hair is as black as yer own. He towers over every man ’ere, why, a giant he is. A fair handsome one, which is why the ladies take to ’im so!
“He and the baron have been out at the streams fishing most days, as the baron and his father used to do,” explained the girl. “According to Mrs. O’Hara, he takes to the ladies as much as they take to ’im!”
That was precisely what Maura had been counting on. By now her strategy was well conceived; it involved both daring and dread. Daring because of her deceit to the baron, as well as the fact that she must play a part she had never played before; dread that if her plan failed, she might never have another chance such as this.
A short time later Eileen applauded Maura’s costume with clasped hands and a delighted laugh. Maura turned to the mirror almost reluctantly.
She had fashioned her costume with an almost defiant determination. Her skirt was of crimson satin, its ragged hem barely covering the top of her riding boots. She wore no petticoats. Maura noticed dimly that she felt remarkably unencumbered. A crimson and white striped scarf covered her head. Her hair flowed in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back, nearly to her waist. She’d tucked a loose, gauzy, peasant cut blouse into the skirt, cinched tight by a wide leather belt, and borrowed a cutlass from among those in the baron’s costume room.
But it was the blouse that gave Maura pause. Not wanting to be trussed up twice over, she had discarded her corset for the night. She wore a sleeveless, black leather vest over it. Eileen had tightened the laces of the front of the vest quite tight.
One fleeting glance at her reflection and her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened in consternation. Her breasts swelled high and round and full, straining against the nearly sheer white cloth. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “Oh, my.” She longed to snatch up the coverlet and sling it over her shoulders.
But that would have been so very counterproductive.
Eileen left with a smile. Maura jumped when a knock on the door sounded a few minutes later.
“Maura?”
She slipped a small silken pouch—different than her other—held by a black ribbon, over her head and between her breasts. She opened the door to Murdoch, dressed as—very apropos—a butler. She stepped into the corridor. He blinked when he saw her costume but made no comment. “We are late,” Maura said hurriedly. “We should go.”
Murdoch closed the door. “You have the pouch from Toothless Nan? The—”
“Yes, yes, I have it.”
“You realize, Lady Maura,” Murdoch said worriedly, “if we cannot discover who he is, one of us will have to query the baron.”
Maura said nothing. Somehow she sensed that she would know exactly who he was, no matter his costume. But she didn’t say so. Instead she said, “Remember the plan. When I do not appear downstairs promptly at seven to—”
“Yes, yes. I know where to find you.” Murdoch’s tone was unmistakably grim. “And now I must warn you, Lady Maura, that if all does not go as planned, do not hesitate to do what you must to prevent him from—”
“Yes, yes, Murdoch, I shall!” Maura was impatient.
Just before they ascended the stairs that led to the ballroom, Murdoch laid a hand on her arm. His gaze searched hers questioningly. “Are you certain,” he said quietly, “this is what you want?”
Maura’s eyes darkened. “Pray do not ask that, Murdoch. It is what I must do. You know that I promised Papa.”
He sighed. “I know, child. But there is an old Irish proverb: ‘If you dig a grave for others, you might fall into it yourself.’ That is what worries me.”
“I shall be fine, Murdoch. Truly.”
In the ballroom, the baron, dressed as King Henry VIII, greeted them heartily. There was food, but Maura could scarcely eat. Her gaze roamed the room.
She spied a jester. A small-statured man dressed as Napoleon. No, that was definitely not the duke. Eileen had said he was tall.
Maura’s palms were damp. She would never have called herself vengeful. And it wasn’t revenge that filled her chest. Fear, excitement, all the chaos in the world. She spied a priest garbed all in black. Eileen’s words echoed in her mind.Takes to the ladies, he does.Now that would have been irony indeed, if he chose to dress as a priest!
Growing restless, she began to walk the perimeter of the ballroom. Her gaze seemed to scour every inch. They’d missed the introduction of the duke. Why did this have to be a masquerade? She or Murdoch would have to ask his whereabouts after all.
Maura felt her mouth pinch tight. She sought to soften it. She’d conjured up a far different vision of the duke than Eileen had described. Oh, aye, she could well imagine his appearance. She pictured him as his pirate ancestor. A scurvy, slimy runt of a man. With yellow, rotted teeth—what teeth there were left! No doubt Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden, was surely the ugliest man to walk the earth. On that thought, she stopped short.
