Unmasked

For a moment the nightmare threatened to invade her mind once again, and Mari shuddered. Rashleigh…But she would not think of Rashleigh and the horror of the past. That was dead, gone, buried. Rashleigh himself was dead, after all, murdered in a London rookery two months before.

Marina shivered a little to remember the events of that night. She had never discovered how the Earl had tracked her down to Yorkshire seven years after she had escaped him. Foolishly she had even started to believe that she would be free forever, so when his letter had arrived, threatening blackmail, she had been almost sick with shock. She had known at once that she had to confront Rashleigh for the sake of all those he threatened to expose. He knew all her secrets and could have her hanged for them—he knew that she was a runaway slave and a thief, and worst of all, somehow he knew the true identity of Glory and the girls who rode with her, and he was threatening to tell the authorities and have them arrested if Mari did not meet with him.

She had had no choice if she wanted to save those she loved. She had traveled up to London; had arranged to meet Rashleigh at the Hen and Vulture. She had had a private room waiting in a tenement across the street, had told him to wait a few moments before he followed her, but he never came. And then she had heard the cry go up that he had been found stabbed to death in the alley outside.

Mari had not stayed to hear more. She knew that if people once knew her history as Rashleigh’s slave and his mistress, if they found out that the Earl had threatened her with blackmail, she would not stand a chance. All the secrets she had tried so hard to hide would come tumbling out and all the people she cared about would be ruined. She knew she had the best motive in the world for murdering Rashleigh and no one would believe her innocent. So she had run from him for the second time in her life.

Well, Rashleigh was dead now and no one else could trace her. She had reinvented herself years ago; covered her tracks too well to be discovered. She was not even sure how Rashleigh himself had managed to find her again, but now that he was dead the secret had surely gone with him to the grave.

Mr. Osborne had been the opposite of the Earl of Rashleigh in every way. He was gentle, moderate, kind. She had invented the memory of a paragon, the kind of man who would never hurt her or threaten her or give her cause for grief.

“Indeed,” Mari repeated, smiling at the portrait that she had picked up in a pawnshop for two shillings. “Mr. Osborne was a shining example amongst men.”

“Lady Hester is taking breakfast in her room this morning, madam,” Jane said referring to Mari’s companion of the past five years. “She says that she is a little fatigued but will join you for a stroll on the terrace at ten of the clock, before you go to the garden party.”

“That would be delightful,” Mari said, but mentally she was shaking her head slightly. She knew Hester’s ailment and it was not mere tiredness. Lady Hester Berry, the spoiled cousin of the Duke of Cole, was bored, and boredom led her to drinking in alehouses, picking up low company and worse. No doubt this morning she was still half cast away.

Jane was collecting Mari’s cup and tidying the tray. She always enjoyed a gossip in the mornings.

“Frank says that there was another attack last night, madam,” she said. “That gang, the Glory Girls…”

Mari paused, unfolding the newspaper slowly to give herself time. “What did they do?”

“They stopped Mr. Arkwright’s banker on his way back to Harrogate and took Arkwright’s money.”

Mari raised her brows. “All of it?”

“A tenth of the profits, madam.” Jane’s eyes were bright with excitement. “A tenth was the money that Arkwright had promised his loom workers and then refused to pay. They say that the Girls gave it back to those who had been cheated of it. Heroines they are, madam!”

“They are criminals,” Mari pointed out. “They break the law.”

Jane’s face fell. She preferred the romance of robbing the rich to give to the poor, rather than the harsh reality of the penal code.

“Yes, madam,” she said. “Of course.” Her voice warmed with pride. “But begging your pardon, ma’am, I do think that our girls are proper heroines! I know it’s not for you to encourage highway robbery but they only hurts those as mistreat the weak and needy.”

“Quite,” Mari said. “You need not think that I disapprove of the Glory Girls’ principles, Jane. I merely remember that highway robbery is a capital crime.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jane dropped a respectful curtsy. “Shall I return in a little while to help you dress, ma’am?”

“Thank you, Jane,” Mari said. “I shall read the newspaper for twenty minutes or so and then I will be ready.”

Jane went out and Mari listened to her footfalls receding along the landing. She did not pick up the paper again. Instead she reached for the letter that had lain untouched on a side table until then. Hester always laughed at the way that Mari left letters unopened for hours when she fell upon hers with excitement the minute that they arrived. But then, Hester fell on life with eagerness whereas Mari had always been rather more careful.

She unfolded the letter. There was a single line of writing, printed in capital letters.

I know all about you. I know what you did.

There was no signature.

Mari did not react to the letter in the manner in which nine out of ten people would have done. She did not turn pale or cry out. Instead she narrowed her eyes, tapping the letter against the fingers of her other hand.

I know all about you. I know what you did.

The difficulty was that she had done so many things. She had stolen from the Earl of Rashleigh. She had run away from him. She had lied to create an alternative life for herself. She had been present at the scene of Rashleigh’s murder. She was party to a conspiracy that robbed the rich to give to the poor…

She had no idea to which of these incidents the letter writer was referring.

She dropped the letter onto the bed, slipped from beneath the covers and went across to the window, drawing back the curtain and standing beside the open sash. A slight breeze caressed her face and flattened her nightdress against her body. The wind was warm and smelled of hay and summer. Jane had been right, it was a beautiful day for a garden party and Mari’s friend Laura, Duchess of Cole, certainly knew how to entertain. The event would be the talk of the county for months.

From her window, Mari could see across the lawn to the hothouses where she cultivated her rare and exotic plants. Frank was already hard at work opening the vents in the greenhouse roof and plying his watering can along the row of seedlings. The mellow south wall behind the hothouse separated Mari’s land from the deer park of Cole Court. There was a charming white-painted door in the wall through which she often walked when she went to see Laura. Sheep were grazing beneath the spreading oak trees of the park and beyond the grounds the river curled slow and shallow. Nothing else moved in the landscape. A faint heat haze was already rising from the grass.

The view was peaceful but despite the warmth of the day, Mari wrapped her arms around herself as though seeking comfort. She could feel something malevolent in the air. Someone was watching—and waiting.

The letter had disquieted her. Of course it had. That was only natural. Now she thought about it, she realized that the timing of it could not be a coincidence, coming so soon after Rashleigh’s death. He must have told someone else her whereabouts. The nightmare was not over after all. She should have known better. She should have known that a runaway slave always had to keep on running.

She knew what would happen next. There would be a demand for money in return for silence and she would have to decide what she was going to do about that. Giving in to bullies and blackmailers had never been her style, though she wondered a little wearily when she would ever be free of the past. She could never forget it, of course, but she could try to live with it, to carry the burden of her history, to keep the secret. If only there were not others so intent on reminding her….

She gave herself a little shake. These blue devils were very unlike her. She was anxious at the prospect of the opening of the new garden and the enforced mingling with the Duchess’s guests, of course. She disliked grand social occasions. And then there had been Jane’s mention of the Glory Girls’ activities. But there was no intimation that the authorities were any closer to identifying the group of female desperadoes who occasionally—very occasionally—terrorized the rich and miserly to redress the balance for the poor and needy.

And the letter…Well, she would just have to wait and see what happened there. Hester would help her. They always helped one another. Hester and Laura were the only ones who knew all her secrets.

With a decisive step, Mari crossed the room to ring the bell for Jane to come and help her dress. It was going to be a beautiful day. The new garden would be a raging success, the Duchess’s guests would be suitably appreciative and at the end of it life in Peacock Oak would settle back into the same peaceful routine it had possessed for the last few years. Nevertheless, Mari felt a chill.

Someone was coming. She could sense it. Someone dangerous.

CHAPTER TWO

Wood Sorrel—Secret sweetness

“IT HAS BEEN A HUGE success, I think,” Laura Cole said, later that day. She slipped her arm through Mari’s and together they walked down the slope from the wooded garden, past the cascade with its secret mossy pools, past the fountain fringed by weeping willow and down to the formal gardens at the back of the house. Cole Court glowed pale in the evening sunshine.

“I am so tired,” Laura said. She pulled a face. “And my feet hurt. These gold slippers were such a foolish choice for today! But—” she squeezed Mari’s arm “—thank you, dearest Mari, because the whole thing has been marvelous.”

“I am glad that you have enjoyed it,” Mari said. She glanced at her friend. “If it comes to that, you have worked quite hard yourself, Laura, in entertaining your guests. I do not envy you that. Give me plants anytime.”

“Oh, some of our guests have been dire,” Laura agreed. “So rude! I heard Lady Faye calling you quite the little artisan, Mari. What a poisonous, patronizing toad of a woman she is. And then she was pushing poor Lydia into John Teague’s arms all day when all he wished to do was speak with Hester.” Laura cast a look around. “Where is Hester? Has she gone home already?”

“You know she takes hours to prepare for a ball,” Mari said.

“Dampening her petticoats, I suppose,” Laura said. Her rather plain face broke into a mischievous smile. “Oh, what a cat I am! You know that I love Hester dearly, but the gown that she wore for Lady Norris’s rout last week was barely decent. Can you not speak to her, Mari?”

“No,” Mari said. “I am not her mother.” She laughed. “I have tried, Laura, but you know that Hester goes her own way.”

“I suppose so,” Laura said, sighing. She paused to admire a display of roses growing against the pale red brick of the old walled garden. “Frank tells me that you grew these roses from old cottage garden stock. Are they very ancient?”

“Hundreds of years old,” Mari said.

“They look so pretty with the lavender,” Laura said. “My own little cottage garden!”