Free The Black Mask by Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page B

floor, he all but tripped over his man, asleep in a chair. “Letter for you, Sir Niles,” he said, sitting up suddenly and blinking owlishly at the candle his master held.
    “Letter? You’re dreaming, Baxter. Go to bed.”
    “Never on duty, Sir Niles.” He shifted in the armchair and pulled a white square of paper from between the cushions. “Here, sir. All present and correct. The bloke what delivered it intimated there was a lady waiting on pins and needles for an answer.”
    Though permitted considerable freedom of expression by his master, Baxter knew a sore point when came to Sir Niles’s reputation with the females. Unlike the other gentlemen’s gentlemen’s masters, Sir Niles never confided either triumphs or disappointments to his valet’s sympathetic ear. Frequently, he knew only of the beginning or termination of an amour when told the particulars by one of his colleagues. This naturally injured Baxter’s pride.
    By the judicious offer of beer, he’d solicited the name of the lady who had sent the letter. But Miss Rose Spenser didn’t sound the sort of female Sir Niles usually chose for an inamorata. No, Baxter didn’t care for what he heard from the footman. Miss Rose Spenser sounded like the sort of girl a man like Sir Niles married, and Baxter liked holding bachelor household. “Women,” he frequently averred while lifting a pint, “women get into things.”
    ‘Very well, Baxter,” Sir Niles said, reading the script “Get to bed, man. I’m rising at six to ride with Buzzy Harbottle in the Park.”
    He read the note with close attention, weighing each word. What could she know of his activities as the Black Mask? Nothing. He dismissed the idea she’d somehow divined his secret. He read the note again. No. Whatever she wanted to discuss, it wasn’t that.
    Later, sitting by the window, he moved the window curtain aside. He didn’t know which was Rose’s window. For all he knew, her bedroom was at the front of Lady Marlton’s house and didn’t overlook their gardens at all. Yet often, especially late at night, he would look toward the other house, wondering if Rose were also sleepless.
    Niles pondered whether he should call on Rose as she asked or if it would be safer to send some excuse. Something about her made him want to do foolish things, an unneeded distraction at this time in his life when he was so close to completing his vengeance.
    When he’d come upon her in Lady Fitzmonroe’s unreal garden, sitting there with her eyes closed like a goddess awaiting her worshippers, it had been like a dream. And, as in a dream, he was free to do what he most wanted to do. Fortunately, they’d been interrupted before he could commit any foolish act.
    Niles found it difficult to analyze why Rose Spenser, of all women, had this effect on him. True, she was lovely. Her clear, porcelain skin, brightened by pink cheeks, was set off by rich curling hair, almost coffee-colored. Yet beauty alone had never interested him. As much as her appearance, her candor charmed him. Her sweetly serious eyes looked at him so straightforwardly. Too many girls simpered and were either naturally shy or told to be so by their mamas. But Rose looked right at him and did not approve, it seemed, of what she saw. That had pleased his taste.
    At the same time, however, he had to admit she seemed to lack fire. She disapproved, but coldly. Just as well, perhaps. If Rose possessed honesty, beauty, and passion , he would be doomed to love her. As matters stood, however, he flattered himself he was safe. She came nearer to being his ideal than any woman he’d ever met, but he would not settle for only part of his dreams.
    Niles fell to thinking of the raid on Beringer’s house and of his near apoplexy when the duchess walked in. By a lucky chance, what had seemed an unexpected complication turned out to be an asset. He had always intended to deprive Beringer of his foul livelihood, but had been reluctant to expose him