The Unlacing of Miss Leigh

Her cousin led her to a table of refreshments. She picked up a glass of claret in hopes it would settle her nerves.

“It will be an adventure,” Henry said.

“An adventure,” she repeated under her breath, downing the claret and taking another.

“Good God,” cried her cousin. “There is Daphne Blane.”

Daphne Blane was the darling of the London stage, a most sought-after leading lady and one who often was seen on the arm of a peer.

“How can you tell?” Margaret saw only a woman in a Grecian costume, with a gold mask covering most of her face.

“There is no mistaking her.” Henry put down his glass. “I must greet her. She will be impressed that I am one of the duke’s guests.”

Without Henry at her side, Margaret’s courage flagged. She ought to flee, run down the Grand Walk to where the wherries waited to ferry guests across the river, hop into a hackney coach and return to Henrietta Street.

Instead, she took another fortifying sip of claret and looked for a corner in which to stand.

A young woman dressed as a shepherdess walked up to her. “Do I know you?”

God forbid anyone know her here, else she never would have come.

The masked young woman grimaced. “Oh, dear, that sounded rude, did it not? It is just you are near my age, I think, and if you should be one of my friends, I should be quite ashamed not to know it.”

Margaret smiled. “I am certain you do not know me. I am Miss Leigh.”

The woman offered her hand. “I am Justine Savard, the duke’s daughter.”

Savard was not the duke’s surname, nor Lady Linwall’s. Was Miss Savard the duke’s daughter by another woman?

Her father would roll over in his grave.

Miss Savard returned her smile. “Are you here with someone?”

“I am with my cousin.” Margaret inclined her head in Henry’s direction. “He is Puck.”

“He is your cousin? I wondered who was speaking with Miss Blane.” Apparently Henry was not the only one to recognize the famous actress.

Miss Savard glanced around again, then caught herself and turned back to Margaret. “I fear my manners have quite gone begging.” She looked apologetic. “I am expecting someone.” Her color rose. “My sweetheart.”

Margaret did not know what to say to this obvious confidence. “I hope he arrives soon.”

“Oh, so do I.” Miss Savard glanced around one more time. “More guests are arriving. Papa’s friends. He and Lady Caroline invited everyone, I think. It is a shame his best friend could not attend. Papa and Baron Veall were schoolmates ages ago—”

“Baron Veall.” The blood drained from Margaret’s face.

“Do you know him?”

“No, I do not,” Margaret said too sharply.

Her father’s vicarage had been on land owned by Baron Veall, and one year the baron and his family summered in the great house there. Margaret had only encountered the younger son. One time.

She’d never forgotten him.

Miss Savard chattered on, “Well, the baron declined the invitation, but—it is the oddest thing—his son did not.”

“His son?” Margaret squeezed the stem of her glass.

“His younger son, the captain.”

Margaret’s legs trembled.

"I pine to know why he accepted. My father would not tell me, but I had the distinct impression there was some negotiation—something clandestine—and I do love a mystery, as long as I can solve it." She looked thoughtful. “Perhaps it has something to do with Captain Veall's injuries. He was hurt terribly in the Battle of Fuentes de Oñoro a year ago—”

Margaret well knew this. She’d scoured the lists of injured and dead hoping not to find his name.

“He’s been somewhat of a recluse ever since. My father called upon him once, but the captain refused to see him. Curious that suddenly he’s attending this party.” Miss Savard clutched Margaret’s arm. “Oh, my goodness. There he is. Not Captain Veall. My sweetheart. I would know him no matter his disguise.”

The man who captured her attention wore a simple black domino and looked to Margaret indistinguishable from the others.

“Is he not handsome, my Mr. Kinney?” She gave Margaret an imploring look. “Will you forgive me if I abandon you? I am so eager to see him.”

“By all means.”

Miss Savard rushed to the man’s side.

Margaret lifted her glass to her lips and searched the guests, both hoping and fearing she would see Captain Veall.

She’d been a little girl with hair in plaits and front teeth missing. He’d been a few years older. She had not even given him her name. He would never know her now, even without her mask, but she greatly desired to discover the man he’d become.

Margaret finished her second glass of claret and tried to determine which of the men in black dominoes might be Captain Veall. She walked back to the refreshment table for another claret. The orchestra began to play in the Grove.

Behind her, a man’s deep voice spoke. “Miss Leigh?”

She froze, then turned. She’d almost forgotten why she’d come.

The gentleman was tall, so tall he filled her vision. His domino, like his hair, was as black as the night, but he swirled the fabric to show its red lining. His mask, unlike any of the others, covered one side of his face, not just the top half.

She felt robbed of breath. “I am Miss Leigh.”

His eyes, a startling blue, appraised her. “I am the gentleman with whom you have corresponded.”

“Sir.” She curtsied.

Through the eyehole of his mask Margaret could see an angry red scar that the fabric did not entirely cover. Neither did it cover the drooping of one side of his mouth. The unusual mask was meant to cover his scars, she realized.

She lowered her eyes. “What do I call you?” He’d merely signed his letters A Gentleman.

“Call me Graham.”