Lovely Lying Lips by Valerie Sherwood

Author:Valerie Sherwood
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 0-445-30291-0
Publisher: Warner Books
Published: 1983-04-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

But even while Captain Warburton, in that dim screened corridor, was in the very act of snatching off Margaret’s mask, behind them in the candlelit great hall a dramatic sequence of events that capped anything a Huntlands’ Midsummer Masque had ever seen was taking place.

Constance, being whirled about the floor by Ned Warburton, was suddenly anxiously aware that Margaret and her tall captain had disappeared. Even as she quaked with that realization, there came from outside, pounding down the drive, the thunder of hooves, hoarse cries and a couple of wild shots, one of which came through the open casements of the hall’s enormous bay window and cut the rope that held the vast chandelier above the dancers.

The music came to a shrieking halt as the astonished musicians peered down in fright from their little gallery above. Women screamed and the crowd scattered as the heavy iron mass of the great central chandelier suspended above them crashed to the polished floor, sending fifty lighted candles flying. And from outside came simultaneously another shot and a hoarse prolonged cry that ended in a rending moan.

Someone had been hit.

Around Constance now men were running toward the front door from whence the shots had come—with Tom Thornton at their head. Boots were stamping in a desperate effort to stamp out the candle flames before they ignited fragile chemise ruffles or dainty silken skirts. Frightened servants had poured in from the rear and were scurrying about with snuffers, collecting the fallen candles. At least two satin-clad ladies had fainted and were being borne away. Beside her Ned Warburton gave a low curse and would have put her from him but that she would not let him, her fingers closed convulsively over his arm.

For in the midst of that wild scene, Constance was aware of only one thing:

Tony Warburton was back. Constance saw him spring into the room with his right hand on his sword hilt, his long strides carrying him straight for the front door and whatever trouble awaited outside.

In horror Constance swayed against Ned. For in Tony Warburton’s left hand, as if forgotten, he carried a lady’s lace-trimmed black velvet mask—Margaret’s!

And Margaret herself was nowhere in sight.

A kind of blackness came over Constance. She felt she might be sick or that she might faint. As she fought to overcome it, Ned leaned over her in concern.

“Are you ill?” he asked anxiously, for megrims and migraines and fainting fits were common in a day when women wore tightly laced corsets ribbed with bone or steel.

“No,” gasped Constance, her world reeling. “I need air.” She clutched at his cloak to steady herself.

Nothing she could have said could have pleased Ned more, for it was her light weight sagging against him that was preventing him from doing the one thing he longed to do—to make his way to the door and find out what was happening outside.

“This excitement has been too much for you,” he told her masterfully as with an arm supporting her body he made swiftly for the door.

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