Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
REDBOURNE CASTLE
H oratio stood before the full-length dress mirror. His face was hidden by a mask worked into the shape of a stag, complete with antlers. The mask was made of thin bronze, molded to the precise angles of his face, and burnished to a sharp gleam. The antlers were real, an eight-pointer that Horatio’s father had hunted. He had always hated the sight of the animal’s majestic head, mounted in his father’s study. It represented to young Horatio the arrogance of mankind, that another life could be snuffed out for sport. And yet he had once done much the same, if not for sport then for no reason that was any better.
“I see Your Grace has decided on the Stag for this year,” Dickens Hall’s dry, rasping voice came from behind him.
The stag turned, Horatio’s unblinking cold blue eyes glaring out from his shining mask. Master Dickens Hall was as tall as his employer with broad shoulders and a score more years. His hair was coal black and his eyebrows thunderclouds. His nose was twisted and his voice choked by the inhalation of smoke. Horatio remembered the raging fire that had done the damage and which had almost consumed both their lives.
“It seemed… appropriate. The beast was denied the chance to make its mark in its world by my father. Why not let it make a mark on ours?”
“I shan’t deign to understand, but very good, Your Grace,” Hall declared with a grunt. “Do I take it that you will be mixing then?”
“You do,” Horatio muttered. “Once again, I will go among society in disguise and see whether the damage done to my name by my father and by… that girl , has been assuaged. Or am I still persona non grata .”
“Or are you unwelcome,” Hall added, ill-understanding the Latin.
Horatio smirked behind the mask. “Precisely, Hall.”
He wore black, a jacket of velvet, night-dark which was only relieved by the silver thread at the cuffs. His boots were polished, unadorned leather. The high collar of the coat buttoned just beneath his chin. The Stag covered his head, leaving no sight of his hair, only his eyes. He had hosted a masquerade ball at Ravenscourt every year for the last five that he had held the Dukedom. A chance for curious members of society to see how the Duke of Ravenscourt lived in his splendid isolation.
But they would not see him.
“Seems a lot of effort for nothing if you ask me. Wouldn’t see me opening the inn and hiding me face away,” Hall murmured, running a lint brush over Horatio’s shoulders.
“The name requires it,” Horatio explained. “I have a duty to it which goes far beyond my personal desires. If it were left to me, I would be happy to live alone. Give me canvas and paint, and I should be content for the rest of my life. But I am a Templeton . Do you know what that means, Hall?”
“Means you’re bloody rich,” Hall said.
“It derives from the Knights Templar. A group dedicated to the upholding of honor and virtue. That is the line I stem from and it is far greater than my mistakes or my father’s anger. Opening my house to these people may help to restore the name in their eyes… But I cannot yet bring myself to stand before them. To stand before their judgment.”
“Well, no one will recognize ye, that’s for sure. And none of the servants will say a word.”
“Thank you, Hall,” Horatio said, turning away from the mirror.
He drifted to the window which looked out over the eastern approach to the castle. The lake situated to the south of the castle was here forced through a narrow channel to form a moat, crossed by a stone bridge of multiple arches. An ancient gatehouse guarded the entrance at the far side and Horatio could glimpse lanterns hanging from the gatehouse and all along the bridge, to illuminate the path to the castle.
Soon, guests would be alighting their carriages at the gatehouse and walking along the bridge to the castle’s east entrance. They would be greeted by masked servants and ushered into the Great Hall where they would be served food and wine while an orchestra played.
A gallery surrounded the Great Hall high up by the roof. That would be where Horatio would retreat once he had walked among the guests for a time. Once the dancing commenced, he would take to his high, lonely hiding place and select his subjects for painting.
“Is everything in place in the Gallery?” Horatio asked distractedly.
“As planned, Your Grace. You may sit up there for hours, painting away,” Hall replied.
“The only part of this ridiculous charade that is worthwhile,” Horatio muttered, bitterly. “Observing those who have come to be observed, but not in secret. Seeing their frailty and their weaknesses. Seeing the humanity which they keep so carefully hidden from each other...” His lip curled. “It makes their company almost bearable.”
Horatio dismissed his butler and stripped off his masquerade clothes, hanging them carefully, the Stag placed on a shelf in a wardrobe until the hour of its use. With that, he walked the stone halls of Ravenscourt, untouched since his father’s day and largely unaltered since its time as a medieval fortress. Light crept in through narrow, leaded windows or it was contrived artificially by lamps and candles. The air was cool in the medieval gloom of stone walls, ceilings, and floors.
He emerged eventually into a stable yard, dismissing the stable lads who came to help him and saddling Thunder himself. The old warrior was nearing the end of his days but was still strong enough to carry his master for a walk every now and then. Horatio patted the stallion’s neck as he mounted, letting the horse find its own way out over the cobbles and through the stone arch to the walkway beyond. A small, bow-backed bridge crossed the moat, and a path beyond led into trees.
Amid the cool afternoon breeze, Horatio followed the path, edged in ferns and long grass, overarched by birch and maple. He was solemn, staring ahead and lost in thought. This was another of his rituals, alongside concealing his face behind a mask and painting his guests in secret from the Gallery. Before undertaking his annual duty to the family name, he rode out into the woods that had been allowed to cover the Ravenscourt estate.
The air smelled and tasted green. He could hear a woodpecker somewhere and the croak of ravens, the famous ravens that gave the castle its name. A rabbit emerged fifty yards ahead, paused with twitching ears for a moment before darting into the brushwood. A fox wove in and out of the undergrowth, well used to the sight of both rider and horse, unafraid. Horatio breathed deeply, realizing that he hadn’t fully relaxed since the preparations for this year’s ball had begun. He felt his shoulders slump and breathing suddenly seemed easier.
Out here, he could momentarily forget the past. Forget his crime and that which had been done to him. Here, he was at one with the natural world. It brought him peace, though he did not believe there was another person in this country who shared his feelings. Those who considered themselves his peers saw nature as something to be conquered, tamed, and harnessed. They turned wild country into gardens, twisted out of all recognition. It disgusted him and he refused to maintain the gardens that had once belonged to Ravenscourt. Instead, nature ran rampant and that was good.
But he could not forget entirely the path that had led him to this spot. The path that had begun in his father’s study all those years ago when he had been stripped of title and wealth. The Horatio that had left Ravenscourt that day was already a different man. Afraid of the unknowns facing him and more alone than he had ever been.
The ride took him through the woods and as far as the tall hills that bordered Ravenscourt to the south. He reached a crossroads. In one direction, the path wove into the dark hills and onto the high moorland beyond. To the right, it would take him to Woolstone, his former home where he had borne the courtesy title Marquess Somerset. That house had been taken away by his father and sold. Horatio had bought it back when he inherited the Dukedom and it had remained empty ever since. He had not been able to bring himself to set foot there, haunted by the memory of the life that had been stripped away from him by cruel fate.
Thunder took the opposite direction without being prompted, the path which followed the line of hills before rejoining the main Uffingdon road and returning to Ravenscourt.
Hours had passed.
Horatio walked anonymously among his thronging guests. The brushstrokes of music could just be heard over the babble of conversation that filled the Great Hall. He glided through the crowd, observing the masks and noting those that he found particularly pleasing. He would identify those individuals later from the Gallery and capture them in paint.
His eyes trailed a silver wolf whose wearer bore a pelt woven with fine silver threads. A woman with midnight hair wore a raven disguise, the feathers gleaming like oil in her lustrous tresses. A tall man with golden hair, his mask the visage of a lion, stepped into his path. His sharp eyes, framed by the beast’s bared teeth, caught Horatio’s own.
“Well met, good sir. Have you by any chance caught a glimpse of our host?”
“Well met, indeed. I have not. At least, I do not think so. But how can one tell?”
Between the bared fangs, he saw the man consider this and then nod thoughtfully. “Baron Northover,” he offered, extending a hand encased in fine gloves.
“Viscount Shipton,” Horatio replied smoothly.
Northover furrowed his brows. “Forgive me, my lord, but that is not a name I am familiar with.”
“I am newly come to this county. My estates are in Cornwall.”
It was a fiction, one as fragile and deliberate as the thin glass of the champagne flute in the stranger’s spare hand. The only home he had ever known in Cornwall was the Ship Inn, previously owned by Dickens Hall before it had been consumed by fire.
Northover smiled, though his lips barely moved. “Ah, well, allow me to welcome you to the good county of Wiltshire then.”
Horatio seized the opening. “Do you by any chance know either the sight or sound of our host?”
“I do not.” The Baron’s gaze drifted over the room. “And I have yet to meet anyone who does. Many claim to, but their stories differ wildly. Some say he is of great stature with a mane of dark hair and the eyes of a Viking. Others say he is short. Some say he is a foreigner and talks with the accents of an Arab— though that particular tale stretches credulity. He is a man of mystery, that much is certain.”
“I confess, I know nothing of him either, I owe my invitation to a friend,” Horatio gave a faint chuckle. “But I am intrigued. I think I shall seek out anyone who might know more.”
Excusing himself with practiced guile, Horatio melted back into the glittering throng. He felt secure in his anonymity, as though he were invisible. Many glanced at him for the elaborate mask he wore. Some stopped him to compliment his costume and engage him in conversation. Each time, Horatio was gracious and polite, giving away nothing about himself while gleaning much about his guests. It was a diverting game, particularly as he was building an image of himself in the eyes of these people.
Yet, beneath the guise of charm and wit, there simmered a quiet vigilance.
None spoke of the scandal that had driven the real him into exile. The whispers had faded, buried by time—or so it seemed. The killing of the Duke of Marlingford was a forgotten story, as was the purported assault on Lady Meredith.
His gaze swept the room. He saw no sign of the Kimberley family. Perhaps they had forgotten him too.
Or perhaps they were watching him as he watched everyone else.
The very notion curled in his chest, sharp and persistent. Underneath the veil of civility and artifice, Horatio knew better than to believe in the erasure of sin. He doubted the Kimberleys had forgotten him—he would never forget them.
Time wore on, and the restlessness in his chest grew. The hall was too crowded, the press of bodies too close now, the weight of his own vigilance too heavy. Finally, he resolved to retreat. The Gallery above, quiet and shadowed, offered the distance he craved—a place to watch unnoticed and to think.
He made a final circuit of the room, his sharp eyes picking out new details in the costumes and the conversations that swirled around him. Satisfied, he slipped toward the rear of the Great Hall, where the light dimmed and the chatter faded. A row of stone arches flanked the grand staircase, their ancient curves concealing a narrower stair that led to the upper levels.
As he neared those shadowed arches, something flickered in his periphery. A movement—fleeting, almost imagined. He slowed his steps, letting the shadows settle. Then, as he drew closer, the darkness seemed to peel away, revealing what it had once hidden...
Horatio froze mid-step.
He was gazing upon a tall, slender young woman with bronze hair and alabaster skin. Her hair was pinned delicately atop her head, framing a swan-like neck and a face of pale beauty. A mask dangled loosely from one hand, sculpted into the shape of a bird. Her gown was unlike the vivid costumes in the hall—it bore the hues of muted greens and earthy tones, a subtle palette that set her apart, like a forest sprite among the garish peacocks of the ton. She was looking out from the arches at the gathered guests with an air of trepidation on her face, her lips faintly parted.
Though her visage bore the marring lines of such unguarded emotions, she remained as pure and alluring as a goddess.
He could do nothing but watch, transfixed. Each breath felt too loud, each moment precarious, as though she might vanish if he moved. He inched closer, barely daring to disturb the air between them, praying she wouldn’t notice his presence.
But then she turned.
Their eyes met, her emerald gaze cutting through him like the edge of a blade. She startled slightly, and he hastily offered a bow. When he straightened, he noticed the tiniest of movements upon her shoulder—something white and stirring. His brows rose in disbelief.
A mouse.
His eyes flicked between the creature and the woman, his astonishment barely contained. She followed his gaze, then gasped, her hand flying to her shoulder. But the mouse flitted between her fingers, perhaps unnerved by the sudden movement.
“Archie!” the woman squealed as the mouse leaped to the frame of a tapestry hanging on the wall behind her.
Archie?
From there, it scurried to the floor and darted away. She dashed after it but it was too quick, disappearing into the shadows.
“Archie! Oh no! This cannot be happening!” the woman cried.
Horatio blinked, startled into action. “I believe I know where the little fellow has gone,” he said quickly, his voice low but firm. He gestured toward the staircase hidden behind the arches. “If he keeps to the shadows, he will find his way to the Gallery. It is of solid stone and there is no other way out. Come—I will help you.”