Chapter 3
We have it on good authority that the Masked Rogue is a very sad man. A demi-monde, whose name we shan’t reveal, claimed to have seen grief in his gaze during an encounter. Many others have pronounced the same, and we believe that there is some truth to this tale.
Jasper opened the middle drawer of his desk, but instead of picking up the ledger he intended to retrieve, his hand found a black mask. He removed it and stared at it for a while, thinking.
He was the fifth Duke of Amsthorne, and like the last two before him, he was going to die in months. This mask had given him the chance to live as he pleased before their family curse would come to claim him. It saved him from tainting his family’s pristine reputation.
Jasper sighed as he continued to stare at the mask, realizing that he was lying to himself at this very moment. He was a coward who hid behind the Masked Rogue instead of living truthfully. He feared death, and that ought to have encouraged honesty. Now all of London—nay, England—wanted him.
That and the darkness of his curse shadowed every step he took, occupied every space in his thoughts, and consumed his dreams at night.
His father and grandfather died at five-and-thirty from mysterious illnesses, and he was sure the same would happen to him.
Jasper shut his eyes and ground his teeth, his heart aching anew.
Dwelling upon this issue never did him well, and it would not suddenly whim to serve him.
He must continue on the path he was on. Live the rest of his days as he pleased so he would die knowing he controlled what he could.
Placing the mask back in the drawer, he retrieved the ledger and set it atop his desk before gaining his feet, walking to a table by a bookshelf, and picking up a brandy decanter. A knock came as he was pouring a finger of brandy into a glass.
“Come in,” he called, walking back to his desk with his liquor. His aunt, Lady Phoebe Dawson, walked into the room, her dark eyebrows contracting when she saw the glass between his fingers. She never liked it when he drank. She also did not believe the curse.
“Should I have some tea brought in for you?” she asked, coming to sit in the chair before his desk.
“You would do anything to take my brandy away, would you not?” Jasper intoned. Phoebe was the only mother he had ever known. She was his late mother’s sister, and at the time of her passing, she made Phoebe promise to look after Jasper. Or so he was told.
“Quite so,” she replied, placing what looked like invitations on his desk. “Lady Barton invited us to her autumn ball. I am hoping you would attend…” she raised one dark eyebrow, “with Miss Gilmore.”
Jasper’s eyes rolled. The only reason he was paying Miss Gilmore any attention was because of his image as a duke, and to please his aunt. She had chosen her for him to court, and he obliged because he did not have long to live, and her happiness was important to him.
“Must I?” he asked, the corner of his mouth curving upward in jest.
“Yes, Jasper. Miss Gilmore is a very good young lady. She has the qualities to become a duchess.”
No, she does not, he was tempted to argue.
Miss Gilmore was an arrogant chit without an inkling about how harsh life could be.
He had been disgusted with her treatment of Lady Natalie, who was higher in rank, and appeared to be older, too.
He had never seen her behave thusly before, but then she thought he was too far away to hear what she said.
Poor Lady Natalie had ostensibly been too surprised to defend herself, and he was happy to step in as her champion. She was also a delight to look at.
The Londoner was right about his tastes in women. Red hair roused his passion, and many of the demimondaines he knew wore red wigs to please him. He never asked them to, but he had a jolly when they did.
Lady Natalie was natural, and he wondered what she was like, and if he could find her. No, the proper question was if she would be willing to have his company. He would rather spend his days pretending to court her instead of Miss Gilmore.
“Jasper?”
His aunt’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up. “Hmm?”
“I asked if you would attend.”
Jasper nodded. He did not want to argue, and the more the days passed, the more he yearned for peace. He could never have internal peace, but he could have some in his household.
“I also think it is time you make your intentions towards Alexandra known in society,” Phoebe continued. “You should consider marrying her.”
Jasper immediately raised a hand to stop her. “You know I cannot do that.”
His aunt blinked. “Is this because of that silly curse?” Before he could respond, she continued with, “You would be happier if you removed that notion from your mind. There is no curse in this family, and that is all I am saying about that this evening.”
Phoebe had not been present when his father died.
She did not see what Jasper had, and what had ultimately convinced him that this was a curse.
She would never understand how selfish and cruel he would be if he married; to leave a young widow, and perhaps a child who would never know him, would plague his afterlife for eternity.
“I shall give it some thought,” he murmured to placate her, and after studying his face for a moment, she believed him.
“I saw the butler coming to give you a letter but I took it from him.” She set down a missive atop the invitations. One glance at the crest on the seal, and Jasper grinned.
It was from his dearest friend, Oliver Bargrave, the Earl of Ecklehill. Oliver had been journeying about the world for the past two years, and his letters were as rare as they were appreciated.
When he picked up the letter, his aunt decided to leave. She walked to the door, but before she opened it, she turned and said over her shoulder, “Miss Gilmore and I will be shopping tomorrow afternoon. You may promenade with her if you wish.”
“Yes,” Jasper said, opening the letter. “Goodnight Aunt Phoebe.” He heard her chuckle as she left. Shaking his head slightly, he read:
Amsthorne,
I have excellent news, my friend! By the time you read this letter, I will be on a ship bound for England. I hope to return before the snow settles.
I shall keep this letter short because I have much to tell you when I return. I hope you are not planning to marry yet, for I wish to be reacquainted with society. Who better to help me with that?
Sincerely,
Lord Ecklehill
Jasper smiled as he folded the letter. Oliver would return in time for his thirty-fifth birthday, and he will have the chance to bid him a proper farewell. Another knock sounded at his door and when he answered, his butler, Wayne, walked in.
“There is a caller for you, Your Grace.”
“Who is it?”
“A lady, Your Grace, but she would not give her name.”
Jasper glanced at the small clock on his desk. It was past ten and raining. What would a lady be doing in his manor at this time? “Are you certain she did not call upon my aunt?”
“I am, Your Grace. She specifically asked for an audience with you. She is in the drawing room.”
Surprised and curious, Jasper stood to find out who this lady was and what she wanted from him.