Chapter 10

10

Friendship is constant in all other things,

Save in the office and affairs of love.

Much Ado About Nothing, Act 2, Scene 1

The party erupted and splintered. Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Lane collapse against Bridger Darrow's side. The masquerade, the punch, the fireworks, all of it was swept away in a rush of shock and horror.

"Ann wouldn't," she heard herself say. The blood was draining out of her head so fast it left her dizzy. Darrow half swiveled toward her, supporting Lane and urging him back to his feet. "She wouldn't," Maggie repeated, this time directly to him. "I know she wouldn't."

"Aunt Mildred will faint dead away if she hears this in the wrong way," said Violet, appearing at her side, materializing out of the crowd. Maggie turned in a circle, taking inventory of the chaos—Miss Applethwaite and a lady that Maggie assumed was her mother had stepped back into the gallery to whisper with other feathered, silken ladies; Winny nudged her way free of the milling guests to join Maggie and Violet; the figures on the balcony had disappeared back inside; music played on inside for nobody; Lane snapped out of his stupor and charged across the veranda, headed back inside, no doubt to find his wife and demand answers.

"I need you to find our family and keep them occupied, more importantly, away from Ann," said Maggie, taking Violet and Winny each by the elbow. Her sisters were ever-energetic coconspirators and disappeared in a puff of perfume and gasps to locate their aunts. Mr. Darrow had torn off after Lane, and so Maggie went with him, running to reach his side.

"Let me handle him," Darrow muttered, eyes fixed on Lane. They all ducked inside, the warmth and the cheery lights and the good smells a sickening counterpoint to the disaster unfolding. "He and I have been through worse than this, he'll come out the other side unscathed, I promise you that."

Maggie didn't like his tone and refused to peel away. Ahead of them by a few paces, Lane charged up the stairs. "Meaning what, exactly? You can't actually believe that was Ann up there! Everyone is wearing masks! It could have been anyone."

"Yes, and the woman was wearing Ann's distinctive mask," Darrow replied hotly. He took the stairs three at a time, and Maggie scrambled to keep pace, lifting her skirt. "Presumably, Ann herself."

They reached one landing, then the next, the darkened corridor ahead leading to the family rooms. By then, she and Darrow had caught up to Lane as he raced through the estate.

"Ann is sick in love with you, Lane, she would never do something like this," Maggie insisted, out of breath.

"It isn't like her," Lane agreed, grimacing, head down, charging like a bull.

"See?" Maggie arched a brow at Darrow.

"But I know what I saw," added Lane with a huff. "That black hair, the mask, that lovely skin…"

"See?" Darrow shot back at her in an undertone.

Maggie stuffed the urge to stomp on his foot as they all reached the carpeted space just outside the antechamber of Ann's private rooms. She ought to stomp on him for doubting sweet, devoted Ann, and for tricking Maggie—just for a second—into thinking he had named her as a lady author he admired and respected. That gruff "you" he had whispered while gazing into her eyes had made her heart twist, only for the delight of it to be dashed an instant later. What he had meant by that "you" she would probably never know, because now they were going to war over no more than a misunderstanding.

Two red vases on enameled plinths flanked the double doors, flowers pouring out of the tops, and they shook, along with the floor, as Lane marched up to the doors and pounded on one with his fist.

"That headache," Lane was muttering to himself. "She did seem in distress, but if it was all a ruse, just a convenient excuse…"

Boom—boom—boom!

Lane slammed his hand down harder on the door.

"I know Ann is within," he called. "As her husband, I demand to see her."

Maggie sniffed and stood to the side, crossing her arms.

"What?" Lane growled, glaring.

"Who would admit you inside after hearing that?" she asked.

"Fine." Lane sighed, gesturing. "You try, cousin."

Darrow towered over her, pinning her with a matching grimace. "My friend's patience is wearing thin, and for good reason."

"Oh, but you are both too hotheaded. Step back," Maggie demanded, she herself going to the white doors and knocking delicately, barely brushing the wood. "Lane's cousin is here. Margaret Arden. May I come inside? I only wish to see that Ann is well and hear what she would say."

There was a brief pause, then the doors to Ann's chamber opened a crack, a pair of arresting brown eyes peering out. They belonged to Ann's sister, Emilia.

"You," Emilia murmured, nodding toward Maggie. "You may enter."

Before Lane could block the way, Emilia's fierce little hand reached out and grabbed Margaret by the wrist, dragging her inside while the men blustered and protested.

"Let me in!" Lane thundered. "I should like to speak to my wife!"

"She heard you," said Emilia tartly, slamming the doors shut and locking them.

Emilia was quite a bit younger than Ann, though they possessed the same radiant beauty. Long black loops of hair hung over Emilia's ears, pinned to the larger mass with starbursts of gems and clusters of silk flowers. Maggie couldn't help but wonder if Emilia was the one Lane had seen on the balcony, for she so resembled her sister. But she saw no fear or guilt in the girl's eyes as she wilted back against the locked doors. All of Emilia's ferocity evaporated; her lips drew down in a hard grimace.

"Ann was hoping you would come," Emilia whispered. She passed a shaking hand over her face. "The windows are open, and we've all heard the uproar in the house. It's horrid what people are saying about Ann."

"Why me?" she asked as Emilia led Maggie deeper into the series of rooms. They were done in vibrant blue and purple, a profusion of leafy plants erupting from every corner.

A voice answered from the next room, interrupting Emilia's reply.

"Because I require a friendly face," called Ann. "Allies, you see, and those whose sympathies do not necessarily align with a man's opinion."

"Dear Ann," said Maggie as they passed through a square arch and into a shadowy bedroom. "Are you well?"

"Well? I'm furious!" Her friend was not strewn across her bed in distress, but rather fists-balled and planted near the balcony. It was the scene of the debacle, Maggie assumed, for it looked out onto the lawn and the pond farther across the grounds. "Furious and unwell."

Her voice faltered, and Maggie went to her, supporting her with one arm around her waist. Ann pinched the top of her nose and hissed. Ann's tagalong cousin rose from a bench near the window. Like Ann and Emilia, Ruby had brown skin and black hair, though hers was somewhat curlier. She didn't share Ann and Emilia's forthright beauty. She was mousier and darting, and when she spoke, her lips protruded forward, giving the appearance of a bunny nibbling clover.

"I've had the most unforgiving headache all evening and retired to sleep. Of course, I did not want to miss the gift from my parents, but I assumed fireworks would only worsen my condition, and now everything is ruined."

Maggie helped her to an overstuffed chair near a writing desk and Ann slid into it, staring up with reddened eyes.

"Ask," Ann grunted. "You must want to."

"You love Lane with all your heart," Maggie said at once. "There's nothing to ask."

Relief like sunshine broke across Ann's face. "Then there's hope," Ann replied, voice thin and wavering. "It cuts deeply that he has jumped to a conclusion. But then, I hear it was a woman with black hair and my mask."

"How did she come to have it?" Maggie asked.

Ann froze, her eyes sliding to the balcony again. "I wish I could tell you—"

Emilia, who had been lingering near the archway, made a strangled sound. "Think, didi, you must think! You know how these Englishmen are, if your story is not perfect and provable in every way then you will be blamed and ruined!"

"I know that!" Ann leapt to her feet, her voice powerful and full of pain. "Don't you think I know that? I have combed over every step I took this evening, every word I spoke, and breath I breathed, and the best I can remember is handing my veil and mask to someone at the stairs before I came here to rest." She paused, sinking down onto the chair again. "It could have been any of the staff, for these upper halls must have been empty for most of the night."

"That does somewhat complicate things," Maggie replied. "Yet we can trace that claim, yes? We can speak to your staff, and they will know where the mask and veil were taken. Indeed, it could have been a servant on the balcony. Can you think of anyone who resembles you? Even a little?"

Again, Maggie's eyes traveled to Emilia and then Ruby, and she studied them subtly, detecting nothing there but concern and fear. Both girls were dressed in lavish gowns, though she couldn't remember seeing them among the crowd attending the fireworks. It would be something to ask Ann about privately, for it would be rude to cast suspicions about while the girls were standing there.

"Fanny has black hair and my height. She is one of my maids," Ann said. She looked heartened by the promise of investigation. "I like to believe she would come forward and admit to the dalliance to spare me this humiliation, but I suppose everything and everyone must be questioned now."

"Not me and not my sisters," Margaret assured her. "We are your steadfast allies in this, Ann. I promise it." Gently, she looked to Ann's relations, adding, "And, of course, you have Ruby and Emilia."

"It's like a mystery from one of Emilia's novels!" Ruby burst out, swishing her mouth to the side as she huddled against the wall.

"Hush, stupid, nobody has perished," Emilia replied. "You are always bursting out with the most ridiculous notions. But even so, we will be determined in our pursuit of the truth. Ann deserves no less."

And Maggie would find a way to bring Lane and Darrow around, too, for their word would matter. Ann nodded along to their words, distracted. "I thank you all, but it is very troubling, for there is the problem of the man that was with her. He must be located, too."

"Tell me everything you can recall," Ruby pressed.

"From a distance I could see that he was quite large, and I believe his hair was dark," said Maggie, conjuring up the image of the couple embracing. "It was so quick and shocking, it's hard to remember many details. His description could match so many of your guests…"

Ann made a wretched sound, tears gathering in her golden eyes. "How could Lane believe I would dishonor him in this way? And on our wedding day! I can never leave this room, Maggie, not without dying of shame."

"The shame is not yours," Emilia insisted, wringing her hands.

"That's right, and now we must resolve to prove your innocence, if we can. Aunt Eliza has connections in London, there could even be a story in the Evening Gazette to clear your name. But if we are to tell the story—the true story of what happened tonight—we must know what happened." Maggie squeezed Ann's hands, then left the desk and chair, pacing near the balcony.

Ann drew in a shaking breath. "If anyone can tell my story, it is you."

"I thank you for that, Ann, but we will require facts. We must be able to explain the whole scandal, who was involved, and why. The mask and the veil—have your things been recovered?"

"No," whispered Ann. "I found nothing on the balcony. Those figures might have never been there at all, just ghosts, figments sent to shatter my life and happiness."

"Nothing is shattered yet," Margaret insisted. She couldn't have Ann giving up, though she understood her hopelessness. "As impossible as it may seem, you must stay strong, Ann. Your resolution will only strengthen your claim of innocence."

"It is not a claim! It is the truth!"

They were out of time. Muted voices could be heard gathering strength outside Ann's chamber door. Emilia went to investigate, returning quickly. "Mrs. Richmond is here, and she sounds impatient."

Winny and Violet must have stalled as long as they could.

"I will speak to her," said Maggie with a confidence she hardly felt. "Stay here, Ann, and let no one inside unless you trust them. Aunt Mildred—Mrs. Richmond—is terribly old-fashioned, and her sister will have been buzzing in her ears about reputations and gossip and all sorts."

"She will open these doors!" Aunt Mildred could be heard screeching. "At once! At once! Where is Lane? Bring him here to me."

Ann rose and gathered Maggie's hands in hers, then pulled her into a strong embrace. "All of my hopes go with you." Returning to the desk, she snatched a piece of parchment from inside a drawer, dunked an obliging quill in ink, and dashed off a note. She fanned it to help the ink dry, then blew on it, folded the note, and pushed it into Maggie's hands.

"Can you deliver this to Lane?" she implored, wiping her red eyes. "Please…"

"Of course, Ann. Have Emilia stay close to the doors, she can pass along whatever she hears of my conversation with Mrs. Richmond."

"Why?" asked Ann, studying her closely. "Why help me?"

Maggie shook her head. "You made a game of my spilled pages when you could have cast blame, and it is a simple thing to return that kindness. Thanks to you, my reputation among the wealthy men here has been salvaged. Which is heartening for my aunt, who is determined to marry me off to one of them."

Ann's note reminded her of the other message she had seen being delivered that evening, the tiny scrap folded and tucked under the vase. Recalling it made the back of her neck prickle with significance; someone was sneaking love notes and arranging clandestine meetings, and could that have anything to do with the scandalous balcony kiss?

More knocking. More screeching. Maggie hastily crammed the note for Lane into her neckline and trotted to the door. "Right," she said to the three ladies in a stage whisper. "I will rally Lane as best I can and search out your lost mask."

"Fanny should have had it," called Ann from a slumped position at the desk. "Lord, I hope she doesn't have anything to do with this."

Aunt. Lane. Maid. Mask. Maggie tried to repeat it to herself to cut through the bramble of worries in her mind. She had to keep Aunt Mildred from behaving rashly, which seemed an impossible task even for a talented storyteller.

Carefully easing outside, Maggie came nose to knuckle with Aunt Mildred's fist as she raised it to knock on the door again. She ducked to the side, nearly colliding with one of the flower-stuffed vases outside the chamber.

"Good heavens! Margaret!" Her aunt tumbled backward into the frazzled grasp of Eliza.

All the ladies of her own blood had assembled there—Aunt Mildred, Aunt Eliza, and her sisters. Mildred's lady's maid was there, too, soothing her mistress frantically with a fan in each hand. Maggie's first instinct was to study the faces of her sisters; unhelpfully, Winny looked frightened enough to fall down, and Violet was red-faced and sweating, dashing off a quick headshake to tell Maggie…something.

"How is she?" Violet at least asked, venturing a thoughtful question.

"Pleased with herself, I'm sure, I'm sure!" squawked Aunt Mildred, adding a third fan, her own, her graying golden curls blown this way and that. It was disquieting to see how quickly her aunt had turned against Ann. Disquieting but not entirely surprising. Maggie didn't appreciate the way Aunt Mildred spoke about Mamma, and now she didn't approve of how she discussed Ann. "Now we are all talking about her, which is all the young lady ever desires."

"My, that is unkind, aunt," Winny murmured.

"It is kinder than she deserves!" their aunt added, whirling on poor Winifred.

"Have compassion; she is not at all well," Maggie announced, clearing her throat, raising her voice above the commotion. She hoped Emilia was listening closely at the door. "In fact, she…she…" Five stunned faces stared back at her. Lane and Mr. Darrow were missing, but perhaps it was best they could not add their suspicions to the moment. It was hateful to lie, but this was no ordinary circumstance. They needed time to prove Ann's innocence, and collecting sympathy for the bride would strengthen their chances. When she was a child, her papa would sit her under the shading branches of the tall elm in their back pasture, and, while she twiddled with the rabbit paw fluff of a gray willow bud, read from Much Ado About Nothing . He did all the voices. Little Maggie liked Beatrice best, naturally, for she was quick, clever, and never backed down.

Papa gave the friar character a wheezing, soft voice, and she could easily hear her father's voice in that impression, saying: "Your daughter here the princes left for dead. Let her awhile be secretly kept in, and publish it that she is dead indeed."

"She is not well," repeated Maggie, remembering Hero's feigned illness and death. "She…is…" Maggie swallowed, locking eyes with Violet, who increasingly looked like steam might pour out of her ears like a kettle while she awaited the final word. "Sick."

"Sick?" Aunt Eliza scoffed. "I do not believe it."

"No! Yes! She is absolutely ill. Very ill." Maggie smoothed her hands nervously down her bodice. You're the storyteller, oh brilliant one, so tell a story. "I have never seen a lady brought to frailty with such suddenness, with a brow dampened by fever, chills racking her body, her vigor utterly sapped. Dutiful Emilia waits at her side, but we must fetch a doctor. I recall that she complained of a headache to Lane and that is why she retired, but it appears her condition has deteriorated."

"Ridiculous," Aunt Mildred said, but slowly, as if doubting her own mouth. And Eliza, for her part, had gone quiet, brow furrowed with worry. "Fetch Lane here, then, and we will hear all about this so-called headache."

"I will gladly find him," Maggie volunteered brightly, already going.

Her aunt took a few steps, finding herself walled in by Violet and Winny. "But—"

"Do not disturb Ann!" she called once more over her shoulder as she turned the corner of the hall and broke into a run. It was up to Violet and Winny to keep their aunts out of that room. If any pair of stalwart ladies could do so, it was them. She felt confident that if Lane could be persuaded to Ann's defense, the rest of the house would do the same. As she went, she heard muted grumbling from her aunts wondering after Lane's valet, after Ann's maid, and so forth. Maggie did not give them a chance to call her back. She returned to the grand staircase, hearing at once a commotion on the level below. The foyer was packed with guests preparing to leave, but milling and confused, no doubt afraid to appear rude by leaving without first giving their regards to the hostess. Maggie ignored them, choosing to hurry in the direction of the raised voices, both of them belonging to men.

It was easy enough to find the source of the upheaval. One masquerade and the whole of England is turned on its head, thought Maggie, who couldn't imagine what further mischief had been made that night at Pressmore. The estate always retained an aura of magic and strangeness, surrounded by the wild gardens that seemed always to encroach and creep upon the house, but she had never in her wildest dreams expected one evening of merrymaking to devolve into scandal and chaos.

She slipped down the stairs, turning left, racing down a plush, carpeted hall hung with art of pastoral children frolicking with lambs. Their painted expressions were awfully doleful given the subject matter, lending the scenes an eerie discordance. Someone had put out most of the candles in the hall, and the shadows felt entrenched. A bit of light spilled out from an open door toward the end of the corridor, the origin of the voices. She couldn't have been prepared for what she found upon arriving, for there inside were Lane and Mr. Darrow, huddled over a small, dark-haired young woman with her hands and feet bound, her cheeks streaked with tears fresh and old.

Given the lingering scent of tobacco, an unidentifiable but pleasant musk, and the lack of bonnets and ribbons, this was a chamber for a male guest. On the bed beside the young servant was a familiar blue mask with moons and a veil.

"These confounded knots!" Mr. Darrow was shouting. "Only a drunk could achieve this kind of muddle."

"Let me try," said Lane, kneeling on the bed behind the young woman.

The servant spotted Maggie snooping from the doorway and wailed, "Miss! Miss, please, you must go to my mistress, she must know I never meant for this to happen. Please! Don't turn me out, please…" She dissolved into blubbery tears while Lane and Mr. Darrow struggled to release her.

Maggie charged over to them, placing a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. Her eyes drifted to the veiled mask. Well. That was one question answered.

"Christ," Mr. Darrow swore, throwing himself across the room. He opened a cupboard on the writing desk, fetching a small knife for letters, and returned to the girl, slicing through the bindings with quick, decisive strokes.

Freed, Ann's lady's maid slithered onto the floor, hugging herself and crying.

"There, there," said Lane, straightening his waistcoat and jacket as he stood. He gave Maggie a helpless look, and she tended to the girl, kneeling beside her and taking the poor creature's hand.

"Forgive me, forgive me," the girl, Fanny, was repeating. "I should never have let Mr. Darrow entice me here, 'twas foolishness, all foolishness…"

At that, Maggie glared up at Darrow. "Mr. Darrow?"

"Not me, " he muttered, palming the knife with a growl. "My worthless swindler of a brother. It is he who is meant to be bound up in this room, not the girl. Now he is God knows where, and I would bet my last farthing this evening's mayhem is his doing."

A dark shadow fell swiftly over Darrow's face. Another figure appeared in the doorway, this one belonging to Lane's devoted, gray-haired valet. He was out of breath, pale, and bowed so quickly he nearly fell flat on his face. "Pardon the interruption, sir, I was trying to locate Fanny on Mrs. Richmond's behalf. It appears your wife has fallen ill and—"

"Ill?" Lane bounded across the chamber. "Then I must go to her, man, and now." He cast a glance over his shoulder at Maggie and Darrow, but he was already halfway out the door. His care for Ann in the midst of the great confusion touched Maggie; their reconciliation was not a lost cause.

"Look after Fanny," Lane was saying, off and away before Maggie could stop him and soothe his anxieties. He and his valet disappeared, leaving her cradling Fanny's hand on the ground while the maid sobbed quietly and Mr. Darrow stared down at them. Maggie snapped her eyes shut, realizing she had failed to give Lane the note from Ann.

"How quickly did this sickness come upon her?" he asked, tearing her out of her frustration, the high arch of one brow suggesting deep suspicion.

Maggie stood, taking him aside and lowering her tone. "It is a lie I concocted to keep my aunt from turning Ann out of the house."

" Margaret, " he chided, hard, forgetting himself. " Miss Arden, rather. Is that not a risky gambit, given the circumstances?"

Maggie drew back from him, cool. "Someone had to take her side." Her gaze swiveled to the bed, the cut bindings, and the blue-and-gold mask. "And I'm glad I did, for it is becoming more and more apparent that there is mischief afoot, mischief meant to slander and demean her. Where, sir, is your brother?"