Read Online The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) by Julia Brannan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Julia Brannan
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bed? To sleep, I mean,” he added. “I know you’re very tired.”
Beth was flabbergasted. He was talking to her as though they had just returned from a pleasant evening at the opera. The whole situation took on an unreal aspect, and she wondered vaguely if she would suddenly awaken in her own bed to find this whole day had been nothing more than a bad dream. She looked at the man she had thought of until now as Sir Anthony Peters. He had removed his wig, and she saw for the first time that his natural hair was long and dark. The lamplight picked out chestnut highlights in its thick glossy waves. His face was still white, but in places the tan of his natural skin was showing through and his nose was red and swollen at the bridge. It was broken, she thought with satisfaction. His star-shaped patch had disappeared, presumably washed away by the flow of gore, and his face was smeared, although his nose was no longer bleeding. His accent was still unmistakably English, and Beth was confused absolutely.
“Who are you?” she said.
He sighed, and sat down. He looked unutterably weary suddenly, and she was reminded of her own fatigue. Only the sense of the danger she was in was keeping her alert, but she could feel the tiredness creeping in at the edge of her consciousness, dulling her senses. She had had less than five hours sleep in three days, and he looked as though he had enjoyed about the same amount of rest.
“I thought you had guessed who I was,” he said. “Although how, I don’t know.”
“Your scar…” she said. Her eyes flickered towards his right hand automatically, and he looked down, seeing the ridged white line that marred the tanned flesh of his hand.
“Ah,” he breathed, as realisation dawned. He never thought of it, he’d had it for so long, since he was a youth. Clearly he was growing careless, he thought with alarm. Or complacent at his easy success so far. It was small lapses like that that could lead him and others to the gallows.
“You’re very observant,” he said wryly, relaxing into the chair and stretching his legs toward the fire. “And you have a good memory.”
“I find fear clarifies the memory like nothing else,” Beth said.
“And you were very afraid that night, I remember. I’m sorry for that, but I had no choice.” He spoke matter-of-factly. “I suppose you remember exactly what all the others look like too, down to the last eyelash.”
“I think I would recognise some of them again, yes,” Beth said, consciously speaking slowly to still the shake of her voice so that he would not be able to tell that she was afraid tonight, as well. “But you were different.”
“In what way?” He was interested. Small things could be important.
“You were obviously the leader. And from the great pains you took to hide your face, I thought that we may have met before, and that you were afraid I might recognise you. So I tried to memorise as much as I could about you, so that if I saw you again in another guise, I would know you.”
“And presumably denounce me to the authorities. Although you didn’t denounce the others, did you? You could have gained great favour from your brother if you’d delivered up a nest of Jacobite traitors to him, you know,” he said. He looked across at her, a foolish-looking flawed clown with his streaked make-up, the rouge still forming two perfect circles on his cheeks, and she wondered how he could look so ridiculous and yet be so intimidating. He was tired as well, she thought; maybe if she could keep him talking, she could edge past him to the door and make a run for it. It was worth a try. Was there anyone else in the house? Her mind raced. One servant had opened the door for them. Maybe that was it. It was late, the others would surely be in bed.
“I had no wish to gain the favour of my brother,” she replied with sincerity, “least of all by betraying a lot of men who….” She stopped, deciding against what she had been about
Beth was flabbergasted. He was talking to her as though they had just returned from a pleasant evening at the opera. The whole situation took on an unreal aspect, and she wondered vaguely if she would suddenly awaken in her own bed to find this whole day had been nothing more than a bad dream. She looked at the man she had thought of until now as Sir Anthony Peters. He had removed his wig, and she saw for the first time that his natural hair was long and dark. The lamplight picked out chestnut highlights in its thick glossy waves. His face was still white, but in places the tan of his natural skin was showing through and his nose was red and swollen at the bridge. It was broken, she thought with satisfaction. His star-shaped patch had disappeared, presumably washed away by the flow of gore, and his face was smeared, although his nose was no longer bleeding. His accent was still unmistakably English, and Beth was confused absolutely.
“Who are you?” she said.
He sighed, and sat down. He looked unutterably weary suddenly, and she was reminded of her own fatigue. Only the sense of the danger she was in was keeping her alert, but she could feel the tiredness creeping in at the edge of her consciousness, dulling her senses. She had had less than five hours sleep in three days, and he looked as though he had enjoyed about the same amount of rest.
“I thought you had guessed who I was,” he said. “Although how, I don’t know.”
“Your scar…” she said. Her eyes flickered towards his right hand automatically, and he looked down, seeing the ridged white line that marred the tanned flesh of his hand.
“Ah,” he breathed, as realisation dawned. He never thought of it, he’d had it for so long, since he was a youth. Clearly he was growing careless, he thought with alarm. Or complacent at his easy success so far. It was small lapses like that that could lead him and others to the gallows.
“You’re very observant,” he said wryly, relaxing into the chair and stretching his legs toward the fire. “And you have a good memory.”
“I find fear clarifies the memory like nothing else,” Beth said.
“And you were very afraid that night, I remember. I’m sorry for that, but I had no choice.” He spoke matter-of-factly. “I suppose you remember exactly what all the others look like too, down to the last eyelash.”
“I think I would recognise some of them again, yes,” Beth said, consciously speaking slowly to still the shake of her voice so that he would not be able to tell that she was afraid tonight, as well. “But you were different.”
“In what way?” He was interested. Small things could be important.
“You were obviously the leader. And from the great pains you took to hide your face, I thought that we may have met before, and that you were afraid I might recognise you. So I tried to memorise as much as I could about you, so that if I saw you again in another guise, I would know you.”
“And presumably denounce me to the authorities. Although you didn’t denounce the others, did you? You could have gained great favour from your brother if you’d delivered up a nest of Jacobite traitors to him, you know,” he said. He looked across at her, a foolish-looking flawed clown with his streaked make-up, the rouge still forming two perfect circles on his cheeks, and she wondered how he could look so ridiculous and yet be so intimidating. He was tired as well, she thought; maybe if she could keep him talking, she could edge past him to the door and make a run for it. It was worth a try. Was there anyone else in the house? Her mind raced. One servant had opened the door for them. Maybe that was it. It was late, the others would surely be in bed.
“I had no wish to gain the favour of my brother,” she replied with sincerity, “least of all by betraying a lot of men who….” She stopped, deciding against what she had been about
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