Chapter 22

When Helen arrived at the masked ball at Torrington Place, it was nearly midnight, and she was exhausted. After her talk with Alice, the previous afternoon, she had gone back to the hotel to get some rest. However, when she had laid her head on the pillow and shut her eyes, sleep had alluded her. She could not shake off the feeling of guilt she felt, putting the life of her unborn child in danger.

Lavorel helped her out of the carriage and guided her up the steps that led to the grand mansion. She wrapped her cloak around her as she felt the cold winter air as it stung her cheeks. It felt so different from the ball she had been to with Ralph at Belmont Hall on that balmy late summer evening. It was only three months ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

Torrington Place was a large house, built only twenty years before, on the outskirts of London in Greenwich. The sweeping limestone staircase led to a classical portico that was held in place by large imposing Grecian columns. The outside of the house was well-lit, and Helen was in awe of the magnificent classical architecture.

As they approached the doors, they were magically opened by a set of liveried footmen. Once inside the imposing entrance hall, Helen saw that the floor was covered in an elegant geometric design of black and white tiles. The classically designed plasterwork that decorated the walls and ceiling was all painted white, and it looked magnificently imposing. It had been tastefully designed with simplicity in mind. As she stood admiring the sweeping staircase that seemed to float above her with no visible columns holding up the stairs, a footman removed their cloaks. They were then ushered through a door into the ballroom.

The ballroom was a large chamber that ran the full length of the right side of the house. Just like the entrance hall, it had been tastefully designed by the architect. Large, slim rectangular windows that reached from floor to ceiling lined the wall that faced the front of the house. The room was well-lit, and Helen estimated that there must have been hundreds of candles hanging from each of the three large cut-glass chandeliers. The light was cleverly reflected from strategically placed mirrors, providing the exact amount of lighting needed for this evening's entertainments.

Despite the cold, crisp night outside, the ballroom felt warm and stuffy. Lavorel never liked to arrive early for social occasions, and the ballroom was already crowded and full of the sound of chatter and laughter. As Helen looked at the guests, it was apparent that this was going to be no society ball. All the guests wore a mask to hide their identity. A mask would give them anonymity that would allow them to let go of their inhibitions. To be invited to a ball at Torrington Place, one had to have both money and influence. And even though it was a place to meet like-minded individuals, introductions were carefully controlled by the organisers to maintain privacy.

When they entered the ballroom, nearly every eye turned to look at the handsome couple. Lavorel, as always, was exquisitely dressed in black and white evening clothes. Even though he was no longer a young man, he had a distinguished air about him that still made him very attractive. However, Helen knew that the men in the room were not looking at Lavorel, they were staring at her. She was glad she had a mask covering her face, it gave her a barrier to hide the embarrassment she now felt, being the centre of attention.

She was wearing a dress made from a pearly white diaphanous satin that shone with a silvery sheen when it caught the candlelight. The scandalously low neckline framed the expensive and gaudy diamond necklace that Lavorel had insisted she wore tonight. Her hair had been artfully arranged and was held together with silver clips inlaid with tiny pearls. A few long tendrils of her hair had been curled into loose ringlets and framed her face and neck. This accentuated the length of her neck and the delicate translucent ivory skin of her décolletage. All she wore under the dress was a sheer cotton chemise that barely reached her knees. As she walked next to Lavorel, across the centre of the ballroom, she felt conscious of the silky material clinging to every curve of her body. Helen had thought that the red dress she had worn the previous week to the theatre, had been brazenly immodest, but this surpassed it at every level. Even though the gown and diamonds had cost Lavorel a small fortune, the outfit made her feel vulgar and tawdry. She heard a few people whisper her name as she walked past them. The mask had not succeeded in hiding her identity.

They walked across the room arm in arm, until they met a group of four gentlemen standing at the far end of the ballroom. Once they drew near to the group, Lavorel put his hand possessively on her lower back and encouraged her to lean into him.

'Gentlemen,' he said, his thick French accent making his voice as smooth as the satin she wore, 'may I introduce to you the very beautiful, Countessa de Aquileia.'

Despite the masks they were wearing, Helen knew that they were looking at her appraisingly. She could not afford to be shy, she had to play the role of the Countess and behave like that woman would have done in that situation. She looked at the gentlemen, perhaps one of them was Le Renard. She knew that he would be here tonight and that Lavorel would be meeting him. This could be the night that ended her quest. Finding Le Renard, and winning back Georgie's guardianship, had become her priority. She could not live like this for too much longer, especially with the baby she was carrying becoming more noticeable by the day.

'You will forgive us, Countessa, if we do not introduce ourselves,' one of the gentlemen said, as he took her hand and kissed her fingers. 'The masks give my guests a certain invisibility that allows them to indulge themselves without fear of being compromised,' he said smoothly, his lips still hovering over her fingers. 'My dear, you look magnificent tonight. Quite the most beautiful woman in the room. Lavorel is indeed a very fortunate man.'

Helen listened carefully to the gentlemen's voice. Could he be Le Renard? It was difficult to tell. Seven years had passed since there last meeting, and she was not at all sure that it was him. Tonight, she had to assess every man she met and try and work out whether she thought that they could be Le Renard. He was certainly very similar to Le Renard; medium height, well-built and Helen guessed him to be about the right age. However, most of the men in the ballroom matched her description. She needed more proof.

She could hear the discordant sound of the orchestra as the musicians began to warm up their instruments ready for the dancing. 'The dancing is about to begin,' the gentlemen who still held her hand said to the rest of the group. He turned to Lavorel, who's hand still lingered at the base of her spine as a sign of his ownership. 'Would you mind if I had the first dance with the Countessa?' he said his voice as smooth as velvet.

'Of course,' Lavorel said, as his hand slipped slowly away from her. 'I will be able to dance with the Countessa later.'

Helen thought that it was a little odd that Lavorel made no objection to her dancing with another man. Usually, he would not have been able to hide the jealousy in his voice. But tonight, Helen could not even detect a trace of resentment when he spoke.

As this was no ordinary ball, the first dance was to be a waltz. Once they were in the middle of the dancefloor, he stood holding her close to him, so the full length of her body was flush against his. It made her feel very uncomfortable, but she had to relax and play the part of the Countessa. She focused her mind. She was there to find the identity of Le Renard, and nothing, especially her conscience, could get in her way.

Judging by Lavorel's willingness to let her dance with him, Helen judged him to be very important. Perhaps some carefully worded questions as they waltzed would help her find out a little more about the masked man. The music started, and he expertly steered her across the ballroom.

'You dance divinely,' she said to him, giving him her most dazzling smile.

Even though the gentleman was an expert dancer and spun her around the ballroom with practised ease, Helen could not help but compare him to Ralph. She felt none of the elation she had felt with Ralph as the gentleman twirled her around the edge of the ballroom. She had to concentrate and not let her mind wander. Even if she got out of this alive and successfully identified Le Renard, they would not have a future together. He had made his choice when he had agreed to marry Miss Hepworth.

She knew from experience that gentlemen liked to talk about themselves and asking leading questions was an excellent way of extracting information from them. She had to focus and push Ralph's image to the back of her mind.

'It is a beautiful house,' she said, as they continued to dance, 'do you own it?'

'What makes you think that I am the owner of Torrington Place,' he said coolly.

Helen was finding it difficult to read the man's expression. The mask that he wore covered his eyes and his smile gave away no emotional information about the man underneath.

'The way that Lavorel treats you,' she said, smiling flirtatiously and moving her right hand, so it slipped around the back of his neck.

'And, how is that?' he replied. Helen sensed amusement in his voice. Perhaps she was starting to break through his guard. It was hard to tell.

'Lavorel made no objections when you asked me to dance. Normally, he would have refused. He is quite jealous, you know,' she said lightly.

The gentleman laughed softly. 'Yes,' he said, quickly losing the amusement in his voice when he spoke, 'but he will not mind sharing you.'

She was standing so close to him that she could see his eyes glisten dangerously through his mask, and she felt a frisson of fear run through her. He was a dangerous man, and she was playing a very deadly game with him. Helen's left hand moved across and rested on his shoulder, as both his hands slowly moved down towards the swell of her hips. They were no longer twirling around the ballroom but swaying gently in time to the music. She was surprised that Lavoral had not come and dragged her away. He must be a very important man indeed, and one Lavorel respected or even feared.

He was standing so close to her that she could smell the scent of his expensive cologne combined with the brandy that he had been drinking.

'Just for a waltz,' she said, trying her best to sound coquettish, 'or do you have something else in mind? Something a little more intimate.'

Now that she was close to him, she was trying to make a comparison with what she remembered from her brief meeting with Le Renard. She had already guessed him to be the right age, and he was definitely the right build, but he was a few inches taller than the man she remembered.

'Let us see where the evening takes us,' he said softly, in her ear.

Helen thought that he could at long last, be letting his guard down. However, she was still uncertain. She found the mask frustrating as it really did hamper her ability to read him.

'I know who you are,' she whispered seductively in his ear.

'Do you, Countessa,' he said, as his cheek rested against hers. They had now come to a stop in the middle of the dance floor.

'Lord Melrose,' she whispered, brushing his ear with her lips.

Helen knew from the way he reacted that she was right. When he did not reply, she began to elaborate. 'Lavorel told me all about you.'

'What did he say?' the gentleman whispered back.

'That you own Torrington Place,' she said, 'and that you are the richest and most powerful man in London. Lavorel would never have agreed to anyone else dancing with me.'

'Bravo, Countessa,' he said, as his lips grazed her cheek.

'I like rich, powerful men,' she purred softly.

'And I like beautiful women, who know their own mind,' he said softly.

As the music drew to a close, he walked her back to the group of gentlemen that included Lavorel. She felt pleased with the progress she had made. She had eliminated Lord Melrose as a potential candidate for Le Renard.

However, it still struck her as odd that Lavorel was not in the slightest bit jealous when she returned to his side. He behaved perfectly normally and did not question her about her outrageously wanton behaviour on the dancefloor that he must have witnessed.

'Gentlemen,' Lord Melrose said, cutting through her thoughts, 'we have business to discuss.' He turned to Helen. 'Countessa,' he said smoothly, 'you are more than welcome to wait for us in a private salon if you do not wish to stay in the ballroom.'

Helen nodded. She would rather be alone with her jumbled thoughts than in the crowded ballroom by herself.