Page 2 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

“Just walk,” she commanded, her faint French accent slipping through her tone.

He nodded, threading his arm through hers and leading her through the tall glass doors. He pressed them closed with his free hand, securing them in the privacy of the plant room. The windows stretched all the way to the ceiling, arching overhead and emitting a wash of silvery moonlight over the planters. It was warm here despite the season, but he instinctively drew his aunt closer anyway.

She seemed thinner beside him than before. She had worn more perfume than usual that evening, and it tickled his nose. He would have recognized the smell anywhere—the bouquet of pears and violets that she had always preferred to wear.

“I spent yesterday afternoon with Morland going over the plans for the conservatory this year,” she explained, pointing at the small workbench by the door where someone had left a note. “Shall I proceed without you, or would you like to look over our designs before we commence with the planting?”

“What grows here is not my concern,” Gabriel replied sincerely. “Why have you begun preparing this house so soon? You only returned from Italy three days ago. You should rest from your travels.”

He paused for a moment.

“Does this mean you are staying here for the entire Season? Why not return to Wide River with me? It is not good for you to be alone.”

“I would not be the first dowager to live alone. And I am not so old that I cannot manage without you,” she protested.

She had been the eldest child in her generation. Gabriel’s mother had been the youngest. There had been sixteen years between them, and they’d had six other siblings. They were all dead now—every last member of the Corneille brood except Elisabeth. Though, of course, she was a Bamford now, and had been a Bamford for thirty years.

“A big house to myself is what I require. I despair when I am being inactive.”

“You and I have that in common.”

“Among a great many other things, my dearest nephew.” Elisabeth smiled tenderly, and Gabriel refrained from checking her. She was his only remaining nephew, which made him the dearest by default.

“We like the same people, for one thing,” she continued. “You would have so liked my traveling companions in Italy.” She slowed to a stop and freed her arm, opening her other hand. “They were the ones who helped me decide to purchase you this.”

In the palm of her gloved hand there was a small glass object. He could not tell immediately what it was, only that it perfectly occupied the space between Elisabeth’s fingers and her wrist. Some parts were clear, and others were tinted blue, red, yellow, and purple.

“It’s a bird,” he realized aloud, taking the small crystal sculpture from her with care. “A very expensive bird, from the looks of it.”

“There was an artisan in Venice who worked with glass. We visited his workshop. He told us his family has worked there in that workshop for three centuries.”

“Then he was likely a charlatan as well as an artisan.” Gabriel laughed as Elisabeth elbowed him in the side. “I am playing with you. This is a very nice birthday gift. Thank you. It should do nicely in the reading room, on the mantle.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, angling the sculpture so she could see. “Can you not tell what bird it is?”

“No. I have never seen a bird like this. Blue, and red and yellow. It cannot exist here in England.”

“The shape of it,” Elisabeth said, emphatically. She traced the bird’s outline. “The wings, the head, the legs... It’s a little crow... Petite corneille... I had it made especially for you. It took the man weeks to perfect. I watched him working sometimes. He let me stay and watch. He was very kind.”

Gabriel recognized the shape now that she had explained, and he did not know whether to smile or cringe. “Crows are not this colorful. They are black to the core,” he replied to her in French.

“My little crow,” Elisabeth said in French. “Do you remember that I used to call you that, when you were so small, and your hair was so black against your skin? Just like your mother’s and my father’s when they were children?”

“I remember,” Gabriel said, nodding, though he tried not to follow the memory all the way. He clasped his hand over the crow, forcing a smile for his aunt, though his heart had sunk into his stomach. “The youngest crow from the youngest crow. This was a thoughtful gift. I will cherish it.”

He looked her in the eyes as he promised her this. But his aunt was looking elsewhere. She had grown more distracted in the last five years. Doctor Retcher had diagnosed her with melancholy, as though that wasn’t just some Shakespearean nonsense.

It was good that she had the conservatory to focus on. Gabriel held the bird tighter and bid her to return to the party with him, pulling her close to him again as he led her out of the plant room.

The ballroom was ripe with laughter and dancing. Through the holes in his mask, the room seemed smaller than it was. He could barely see beyond the knot of gentlemen crowding him. They were masked as well, but unlike some of the other guests, they had not tried to conceal their identities from one another.

The masquerade ball had been Gabriel’s idea. He had hoped a mask would allow him a modicum of anonymity, at least temporarily. And maybe it had worked somewhat. But friends and acquaintances had found him from the first to congratulate him on his birthday, and he could always feel the eyes of the other guests on him.

Elisabeth’s Venetian crow was burning a hole in his trouser pocket.

“I was surprised to hear that you had returned to London for the day, Your Grace,” one baron said just then, a man he remembered from his days at Oxford. “Did you not spend your thirtieth birthday in Surrey?”

“What’s there to do in Surrey?” someone chimed in from his left. “His Grace is better here in London with us. Prinny is always boasting what a good time he has with His Grace. There is no gentleman more daring than the Duke of Hartmere. I heard it with my own ears. And the Prince is right.”