Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 25

  Those documents were all from Strangford, the British envoy to Portugal who had been working tirelessly for months to get Prince Joao to formally ally with Britain and embark for Brazil to get out of Napoleon’s clutches. Sebastian had been briefed on all that had happened in Lisbon: Joao’s dithering, the affairs and machinations of his estranged wife, Doña Carlota of Spain, the English blockades and French threats, and now the fleet that was gathering in the Tagus River to carry them all to the New World.

  If Prince Joao could be brought to agree. And he had to agree. Now.

  Portugal had so far been able to maintain neutrality, but those days were coming to an end. She was hemmed in by Spain, now France’s reluctant ally, her warm-water seaport was vital for Atlantic trade and it held as a breach in Napoleon’s Continental hold. Strangford was certain this was one of the most important missions of the wars.

  At the bottom of one of the letters, the signature was not Strangford’s. Sebastian was shocked to see the words Sir William Manning.

  Mary Manning’s father. Sebastian quickly scanned the document, a briefing on a meeting with Joao only the day before, but of course there was nothing about the man’s daughter there. Surely she was back in England?

  But—what if she was not? What if she was in danger here in Portugal? A rush of protectiveness surged through him, a protectiveness he knew he didn’t deserve.

  He sat back on the seat as the carriage jolted along the narrow mountain trail. The letter fell from his hand. He looked out the window to see that the palace complex of Mafra, enormous, silent and dark behind impenetrable stone walls, loomed before them. If only he knew where Mary was, could see her again...

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said quietly. ‘We shall most assuredly avert disaster here.’

  Chapter Seven

  Mary was quite sure she had never been to a more dismal ball. She knew she would have to write Louisa of it and tell her that she hoped London balls were more merry.

  She stood near one of the tall, brocade-curtained windows of the royal ballroom at the palace of Queluz, studying the scene before her. It was a beautiful room, of course, as all the Portuguese palaces were, lavish and splendid, full of gilded furniture and priceless paintings, marble and gold and scarlet brocade.

  And the guests were equally splendid, the ladies in their French fashions of fine muslins and thin silks embroidered with gold and pearls, the hair curled and twined with jewels, the men in their satin breeches and white stockings. Social life at the Braganza court was never exactly sparkling, hampered as it was with elaborate and rigid ritual that was hundreds of years old, as well as fractures in the royal family itself, with Queen Maria mad and her son Dom Joao and his wife, Doña Carlota, estranged. Everyone always took refuge in the latest fashions and in constant whispered gossip.

  There were barely even any whispers that night. An orchestra played in their gallery and couples moved across the floor in an elaborate quadrille, but it all had a strangely dreamlike, automatic air. The people clustered around the walls and in the corners stood close together, as if they felt more secure in tight little groups, but they said almost nothing to each other. The only sound was the music, the whisper of silken skirts over the marble floor.

  On their gold satin-draped dais at the far end of the room, the Prince Regent Dom Joao and his wife, Doña Carlota, watched the dancing with their oldest children, the royal Princes and Princesses, beside them. The princely couple had long lived apart and only came together for ceremonial occasions, so surely for some reason they deemed tonight to be of some importance. Some unity of the royal family had to be shown in the face of the French threat, of English pressure to flee.

  They wore the finest of velvets and satins, yet their faces looked most glum. The royal family were never the prettiest, most jolly of people, but today they looked as if they trudged to their own funerals.

  Mary studied the expressions of the people around her, searching for her father. He had brought her to the ballroom, but then he had vanished with Lord Strangford and the others of the English diplomatic group, and she couldn’t help but worry about what might be happening.

  A cluster of newcomers appeared in the doorway, and Mary glimpsed her friend Teresa Fernandes among them. Teresa was a lady-in-waiting to Doña Carlota, one of the prettiest and most popular ladies at court, and she always seemed to know the latest news. Mary was most happy to see her, to no longer be alone in the crowded ballroom.

  After Teresa made her curtsies to the royal couple, Mary found her by the refreshment tables.

  ‘A rather quiet party, isn’t it?’ Mary whispered as Teresa handed her a glass of punch.

  ‘You should see Her Highness in her own rooms,’ Teresa whispered back. ‘She paces back and forth, muttering, writing letters to her parents in Spain, then burning them. She does not know what to do.’

  ‘Have you heard anything about the French? About what is happening?’

  Teresa shook her head. ‘Rumours, of course, but nothing certain. Have you? Has your father said what the negotiations are accomplishing?’

  ‘Not at all. I seldom see him now.’ And she worried he had so little rest. Over the rim of her glass, Mary studied the gathering, the dancers who moved through the automatic figures of the stately court dance, the stifling heat from the fires, the crowds in their stiff gowns and satin coats. Everyone’s face looked pale, watchful, frightened, no matter how much they tried to pretend this was a normal evening.

  The doors at the end of the ballroom opened and a new group entered. Everyone looked towards them with something like relief, gratitude at the interruption.

  Mary hoped it was her father and turned to study the men who waited for the footman to announce them. Suddenly, time seemed to slow and blur, and the crowd vanishing around her. For it was Sebastian Barrett who stood there, the tallest of the group, handsome and watchful in his black-satin court coat.

  Mary swallowed hard and looked away for a moment, sure she must be imagining things. But when she turned back, he was still there and it was truly him. He looked startled to see her, as well, and he gave her a bow. Or perhaps it was not even a bow for her.

  Mary didn’t know where to go, or what to think. It had been so long since she had seen him. She had worked so very hard to forget him and had thought she had mostly succeeded. Now here he was again and she felt just as confused as ever. Just as young and silly.

  ‘I must find my father,’ she murmured to Teresa.

  ‘Are you ill, Mary? You look so pale suddenly. Is it this dreadful punch?’ Teresa cried. ‘Here, let me help you. I need to find the ladies’ withdrawing room myself. We can find my brother Luis and have him see us home.’

  Mary nodded. She wanted desperately to be out of that overheated ballroom, to be away from Sebastian. She let Teresa take her arm and lead her towards the door, the door which was blessedly empty now. She couldn’t see Sebastian and the others, they had vanished into the crowd. She shivered, hot and cold all at the same time.

  She and Teresa curtsied hastily to Doña Carlota, who watched them with cold, narrowed dark eyes. Dom Joao leaned over as if to say something to her, but she looked away, smiling at the liveried footman who stood behind her chair.

  As Mary turned away, she saw Sebastian waiting to make his bows to the royal couple. But he did not watch them. He watched Mary and a small smile touched his lips.

  She hurried away, wishing the marble ballroom floor would open and swallow her whole. Behind her, she heard a sudden rustle move through the room, across the brocaded and jewelled crowd, and Doña Carlota hurried away from the dais, not even looking at her husband.

  Mary wondered if the French were near and her worries about her own heart fled.

  * * *

  It was her. Miss Mary Manning.

  Sebastian had hoped to catch a glimpse of her there in Lisbo
n, perhaps even to talk to her again. To make sure she was well, to tell her how he still regretted his youthful folly. To tell her—he wasn’t even sure what he would say, what could make it better. He only knew he wanted very much to try.

  But now that he really did see her again, he really had no words. All those years of only flirtations had seemingly left him ill prepared for sincerity.

  Miss Manning was even lovelier than she had been in London and looked not a day older, even in the stiff formality of the pale-blue satin ballgown trimmed with gold lace, her hair piled high and bound with a lace band. But back then she had a pink glow to her cheeks, a shy smile. Now she seemed pale, solemn, very still and perfectly composed. Her beauty had deepened into that of a woman.

  Yet her eyes didn’t hold that same light of hopeful innocence that had once drawn him in. He felt a sharp regret, a sudden, burning need to make her smile like that again.

  He only had that one look at her, glimpsed through the thick crowd, before she vanished. The ballroom was packed with people in their court satins and velvets, the sparkle of jewels, the faint sound of music, yet no one spoke. They only looked at each other with frightened eyes, moved aimlessly from one group to another.

  ‘This is awfully joyless, eh, Seb?’ Nicholas Warren said as he came to Sebastian’s side. He took a glass of wine from a waiter’s tray, making a face on the first sip. ‘I suppose we can’t blame them, though.’

  ‘I don’t think the Portuguese court has ever been known as an especially mirthful place,’ Sebastian answered. ‘But now they are faced with leaving their homes...’

  Nicholas murmured an agreement. ‘At least there are still a few pretty ladies to look at, eh?’

  For an instant, Sebastian wondered if Nick had spotted Miss Manning. ‘Are there?’

  ‘That one, for instance.’

  Sebastian looked towards where Nick gestured with his glass. It wasn’t Mary he saw there in the doorway of the ballroom, but one of Doña Carlota’s ladies-in-waiting. She was pretty, it was true, and younger than most of the court ladies, with curling dark hair and brown eyes, but she didn’t have Mary’s delicate sweetness. She went up on tiptoe to whisper to a man beside her, a gentleman just as dark and lithe as she was.

  Nicholas sighed and Sebastian laughed at him. But as he started to turn away, another lady joined the pair in the doorway and he realised with a jolt of pleasure that it was indeed Mary. And now she smiled at last—as the dark gentleman bowed over her hand.

  Mary laughed at whatever he said to her and Sebastian found himself scowling. He quickly made himself smile again, as he had learned to do so often in the last years, but still he wondered who the blighter was that could make Mary smile.

  ‘Oh, I say—I remember now. Surely that’s Doña Teresa Fernandes, whom we met when we presented our credential to the court?’ Nicholas said. Before Sebastian could stop him, he made his way across the room to Doña Teresa’s side, as unerring on his path as a bee.

  Sebastian followed, realising this could be his chance to talk to Mary again at last.

  ‘Ah, Senhor Warren!’ Doña Teresa cried, fluttering her lace fan. ‘And the Lord Sebastian, yes? It is good to see you again.’ Nick bowed over her hand and she laughed. ‘Have you met my brother, Dom Luis Fernandes? And my English friend Miss Manning, who I am sure you must already know.’

  ‘I am most honoured to meet you both,’ Luis said, with an elaborate, courtly bow. Sebastian realised the man, the one who had made Mary smile, was too damnably handsome. ‘You must have come to liven up this dreadful ball, yes?’

  As Nick said something, Sebastian realised that Mary watched him, her calm, cool grey gaze never wavering. She did not smile, nor did she frown. He wondered if she even remembered him at all. ‘We have met, yes, in England. A long time ago. Lord Sebastian was in the Army then, I remember.’

  ‘So I was,’ he answered quietly. ‘It is kind of you to recall, Miss Manning. I have long wanted to see you again.’

  ‘Have you?’ she murmured.

  ‘What an exciting life it must have been, Lord Sebastian,’ Luis Fernandes said. ‘You must find Lisbon most dull after the battlefield.’

  ‘I doubt life could ever be dull for Lord Sebastian,’ Mary said. ‘I do recall many found him most charming indeed in London. Not that everyone would have agreed...’

  Sebastian gave her a little bow, as if to acknowledge her small hit. He deserved worse. ‘I hope I might be allowed to try to change your mind, Miss Manning.’

  ‘I doubt we will have the time. Or indeed the inclination,’ Mary said. With one more cool, sweeping glance over him, she pointedly turned away. ‘I think our carriage should be here by now, Teresa? I am quite weary, and must beg to go home.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Doña Teresa said quickly. ‘It has been a long evening. Luis, will you see us out?’

  ‘It shall be my great pleasure,’ Luis said, offering his arm solicitously to Mary. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Senhor Warren, Lord Sebastian. I am sure we will see much of you at court now.’

  ‘Perhaps at the next ball!’ Teresa said.

  ‘I am sure they will be too busy to dance, Teresa,’ Mary said with a smile. With that, she took Luis’s arm and strolled out of the ballroom, her shoulders very stiff and straight.

  Sebastian watched her go, unable to look away from her. Dom Luis was very solicitous of her indeed, taking her lace shawl from a footman and draping it over her shoulders as she smiled at him. She would surely never deign to smile like that at Sebastian again.

  ‘So that is Sir William Manning’s daughter again,’ Nicholas said. ‘She doesn’t seem any fonder of you after all this time, Seb. Not that I can blame her...’

  ‘No, nor can I,’ Sebastian answered quietly.

  ‘But you have changed, my friend!’ Nick said with too much heartiness. ‘She will come to see that very soon.’

  Sebastian tried to laugh, but he feared it came out much too strained. Perhaps he had changed—he had grown into himself, into doing his duty. Not that it could make Mary Manning smile at him again.

  And his diplomatic skills obviously still needed much honing indeed.

  Chapter Eight

  It is now. Come at once.

  Mary stared down at her father’s crumpled note in her gloved hand. Such a small, short thing, delivered by a pageboy who immediately ran off when he thrust it into her hand. But she understood it. It changed everything in a moment. Yet she had been ready. She had been taught to be ready all her life.

  The carriage jolted to a halt again, making Adriana wail into her handkerchief. Mary quickly stuffed the note into her reticule, next to her latest letter to Louisa in London trying to explain life in Lisbon, and she peered out the window. What would her friend think of such a wild scene?

  It was no surprise that the journey from their house to the docks, which would usually take no more than about an hour, was at such a crawling, maddening pace. The maze of alleyways and narrow lanes that wound down from the hills of Lisbon to the river below were crowded with carriages and carts, all piled high with crates and trunks, all inching forward in the churned, sticky mud left by the days of rain. A few brave souls had taken the journey on foot, running past with their belongings balanced on their shoulders, but most of them were trapped in lumbering vehicles.

  And time was running out. The British fleet waited to escort the royal convoy out of Lisbon before the French moved in. Mary had to reach them in time.

  They inched forward again, and the box Mary held between her booted feet, the box holding their most valuable papers, slid away. She reached down to pull it back and almost hit her head on the cases piled on the opposite seat. Her hat fell down over her eyes, momentarily blinding her. All she had to guide her were Adriana’s quiet sobs and the cries and shouts from the street, muffled by the windo
ws.

  Mary gave a choked laugh and quickly pressed her hand to her lips to hold it back. There was too much hysteria all around them already. She wouldn’t give in to it, too.

  She pulled off her hat and tossed it on top of one of the boxes. Adriana sat next to her, Mary’s jewel case in her lap, and she looked as pale as milk as she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a prayer.

  ‘Almost there now, Adriana,’ Mary said reassuringly. ‘We’ll be able to board right away, I’m sure.’ She wondered wildly if Sebastian Barrett would be there when she did and how she would feel to see him once more. But there was no time for such thoughts now and she shook them away. But he lingered at the back of her mind. Damn him.

  Whether they would be able to embark right away was another story altogether. Mary peered outside again, at the slate-grey sky that arched above the tiled roofs and church spires. If it started raining again...

  ‘I hope so, senhorita,’ Adriana whispered.

  ‘And just think—in a few weeks we shall be in Brazil!’ Mary said, determined to stay cheerful. ‘I’ve been reading about it a great deal in the last few days and it sounds most intriguing. It will be winter here very soon, but there it’s all golden sunshine and bright blue skies. White sand beaches, which I’ve never seen before. I’m sure they can’t be like the rocky beaches at Dover! And the fruit—I can’t wait to taste it. I’ve never had a mango.’

  Mary knew she was babbling, but surely that was better than a heavy, pressing silence where there was nothing to do but think about what was really happening around them—a whole city was fleeing.

  It seemed to help. Adriana opened her eyes. ‘Mangoes, senhorita?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And pineapples. I’ve lived in many places before, but never anywhere like this,’ Mary said. ‘I brought my books about Brazil. Perhaps we can read them on the voyage and then it won’t seem quite so strange when we get there.’