A Masked Deception

Was she in the habit of such behavior? Brampton wondered. Was he the only man she had disguised herself for? Did she live a double life-the demure, irreproachable Countess of Brampton in public, a high-class little whore in private? No, that must be going too far. He passed a shaking hand across his forehead. There could not be that much duplicity in her. It was his Meg he was thinking of! But then, half an hour before, he would not have dreamed it possible for Meg to dress up and act like his little French angel. My God, that was Meg he had made love to!

Brampton closed his eyes and tried to force his whirling thoughts into some order. A loud cracking sound brought his eyes open again. The fan lay in two pieces in his hands. He tossed them on top of the other contents of the box and pulled himself wearily to his feet.

Meg! His angel! His wife! His hopes for a beautiful marriage had died in the last half-hour. The woman he had loved and longed for did not exist. There was only a woman he did not know. Physically, he knew her intimately. And they had shared the same home for several months. But he did not know her. He had married her so that she would bear his heirs. And after almost daily intimacies, there was no sign of a pregnancy. Did she know how to prevent that, too, the little schemer? Brampton laughed harshly and returned to his own room, leaving the box of clothes open on his wife's bed.

He lay down on his bed, though for many hours he did not close his eyes. He fell into an uneasy doze at dawn and awoke in a foul mood and with a crashing headache when Stevens brought him his shaving water and pulled back the heavy draperies from the windows.

There could be no continuation of business that day. Brampton wrote hasty notes to his man of business and the engineer he had hired, instructed his valet to pack his bags and have his curricle ready to leave in one hour's time, and proceeded to dress himself and eat what breakfast he had appetite for.

He was on his way a little before the appointed time. He estimated that he should be at Brampton Court soon after the luncheon hour. What a different homecoming he was contemplating this morning, though, from the one he had looked forward to yesterday. Then he was going home to his perfect Meg, his little porcelain doll, to try, ever so gently, to win her love. Now he was going to confront a bold, two-faced little schemer with her duplicity, to demand an explanation, to mete out punishment. She was certainly going to discover how hard his hand could be before he decided which of his estates would serve as the most cheerless place of banishment for her.

The Earl of Brampton drove his curricle into the courtyard of his country home through a drizzle that seemed to herald a heavier rain later on. It suited his mood to perfection, he thought grimly, making no attempt to prevent droplets of rain from dripping off his hair and down the back of his neck. He jumped down from his high perch, handed the ribbons to a groom who had come ru

"Where is her ladyship?" he asked the footman who took his damp hat and gloves.

"The countess is not at home, my lord," the footman replied, his voice expressionless, his posture stiff. There had been some gossip belowstairs about the goings-on of the morning, and he did not at all like the sound of his lordship's voice or the expression of his face.

"My mother?"

"The dowager Countess of Brampton is in her room, I believe, my lord."

"Thank you." Brampton took the stairs two at a time and knocked on his mother's door. Perhaps she would know where he could find his wife. He was in no mood to postpone this confrontation until she chose to put in an appearance.

"Enter," his mother's voice said from inside the room. She was reclining on a chaise longue, a lace handkerchief held delicately to her forehead. Her lady's maid stood behind her, holding her vinaigrette.

"Ah, Richard, my dear," she said languidly, "thank heaven you are home."

"What is it, Mama?" he asked, his brows knitting.

The dowager paused in the middle of her big scene and surveyed her son. He was obviously blue-deviled over something. He could not have heard yet, though, surely, or he would not be standing so still in the doorway. It flashed through her mind that marriage had not brought much happiness to her favorite son. And yet Margaret was a gem of a wife, even if she was not as flashy and elegant as some of the girls of the ton. And why had there been no a

"It's Margaret," she said faintly.

"Meg?" Was that a look of alarm that momentarily flashed into his eyes. "Is she ill, Mama? Hurt? Where is she?"

"Gone!"

"Gone? What are you talking about, Mama?" The earl strode impatiently into the room and stood over the wilting form of his mother.

"Gone to Portsmouth, Richard. Don't ask me why, my dear."

"Why in thunder has she gone to Portsmouth, Mama? You make no sense at all. Who accompanied her?"

"Devin Northcott, Richard."

"Dev? Why?" Brampton had gone very still.

"Betty, my vinaigrette, please!" The dowager waved a hand vaguely in the direction of her maid. "I think maybe you should go after them, Richard."

Brampton stood rooted to the spot for a moment.

"When did they leave?" he asked with dangerous calm.

"Maybe half an hour ago, dear," she said.

Ten minutes later, the earl was galloping through the gates of Brampton Court, having taken time only to change into a dry coat and to saddle his fastest horse. But already he was soaked.

Margaret rose to her feet as Brampton stood in the doorway of the private parlor at the Crown and Anchor I

"Richard!" she cried. "What brings you here?" But the glad smile died from her lips as she realized that he was not looking at her. He stood, dripping rainwater onto the carpet, his blue eyes arctic, gazing at Devin.

"I shall see you outside, Northcott," he said very quietly. "Now!"

"I say, Bram," Devin said awkwardly, and he removed his hand from Margaret's shoulder as if he had suddenly realized that it was still there, "you ain't a

"I suggest you move immediately," Brampton said through his teeth. "I should hate to make a scene inside a public i

"Hey, Bram." Devin was begi

"Out!" Brampton said. His eyes had not once shifted from Devin's.

"Richard," Margaret began, "I think there has been some misund-"

"Silence, ma'am!" he thundered, his eyes still not shifting, his voice cold as ice. "You will remain here until I come for you, and silent until I speak to you."

Margaret's face turned chalk-white and she swayed noticeably to her feet. She put a shaking hand to her mouth.

Devin's eyes narrowed. "Can't have you talk like that to a lady," he said, "even if she is your wife. Let's go, Brampton!"

The earl stepped to one side to allow his adversary to pass through the doorway ahead of him. Devin almost collided with Charles, who came bouncing in.

"Anxious to get going, Northcott?" Charles asked cheerfully. "Are the other ladies not down yet? Hey, Dick, where did you spring from?" He stopped in momentary amazement and then burst into amused chuckles. "Who's next?" he said. "Mama and the three girls? We should have quite the family gathering by nightfall."