Behind the Mask Read online

  Behind the Mask

  Three holiday novellas

  Linda Winstead Jones

  Black Widow, Copyright 1999, 2013 by Linda Winstead Jones.

  Haunted Honeymoon, Copyright 2002, 2013 by Linda Winstead Jones

  Love’s Light, Copyright 1996, 2013 by Linda Winstead Jones

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Cover design by Elizabeth Wallace

  http://designwithin.carbonmade.com/

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Black Widow

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Haunted Honeymoon

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Love’s Light

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About the Author

  Also by Linda Winstead Jones

  Black Widow

  Carnival

  1

  Venice, 1819

  Was there a more beautiful, more wondrously exotic city in all the world? Audrey strolled, as she had for the past hour, about St. Mark’s Square. She found herself fascinated by the mixture of Byzantine and European style, by the beauty of the Basilica and the Campanile, and the Clock Tower with its signs of the the zodiac and the Moors who struck every hour. The constant movement and her hooded dark green velvet cloak kept her comfortable, if not warm. Goodness knows the faded sunlight that lit this February day did little to warm her.

  Tourists crowded the plaza, many of them English, she supposed. She tilted her chin down so that her hood covered much of her face. Today, please, just for today, she wished to avoid curious glances and condemning stares.

  Her wish was granted. The tourists, enchanted by their surroundings, passed her without a second glance.

  She made her way to the Little Lions Square, which was situated to the left of the Basilica. Three wide steps that led to the raised square were guarded by two red marble lions, each on a pedestal of its own. Audrey sat on the ledge, beside one of the lions, to rest her feet and watch people stroll by. Equally as lost in the beauty of St. Mark’s Square as she was, most of the passersby didn’t even glance her way.

  From her perch, which was relatively comfortable in spite of the cold stone beneath her backside, she gazed in wonder at ancient structures, romantic in shape and ornamentation. Unlike her own home, here there was color and light and constant, sensuous movement. The canals, the people, the birds. Venice was alive and gracious, and she found an unexpected peacefulness in the view before her. Even more, she found peace in her moment of anonymity. Perhaps this trip wasn’t a mistake after all.

  She was so accustomed to hiding in either her London home or the massive and cold Graystone country estate, to closeting herself against the rumors and accusations, that she had almost canceled this excursion at the last moment. It was only for her good friend Isabel that she had changed her mind. They had known each other since childhood, had attended the same school for girls. Though there had been four of them who’d become like sisters, including Pamela and Zuleika, Audrey had always been closest to Isabel. And now, they shared the bond of ill-deserved scandalous reputations.

  The two of them were now staying in the fine palazzo Audrey’s husband had bought more than two years ago, just months before their marriage. Just months before his death.

  At this moment Audrey was glad to be in Venice, out of doors with fresh air on her face, in a place where no one called her the Black Widow. She’d left that behind in London. Here, no one whispered accusations or suppositions regarding the death of her husband a mere three days after their somber wedding.

  The memories of that wedding reminded her that there was another, more sinister reason for her presence in Venice at Carnival time.

  Carnival was in full swing, and Isabel had already begun to enjoy the festivities. The past two nights she’d tried her best to convince Audrey to leave the palazzo and join in the fun, to attend one of the many masked balls that kept the city dancing until dawn. Audrey didn’t feel like dancing. At this moment she imagined she’d never dance again.

  “I cannot bear it,” a slightly accented voice said, the masculine utterance so close that Audrey nearly jumped out of her skin. She lifted her head to look up at a man who stood much too near.

  The dim sun shone behind him, so all she could see was softly curling hair that fell—longer than was fashionable—to his shoulders, and a frame that was long and lean and simply clothed.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked icily. In the past two years she’d become very adept at killing an overture with a biting glance and a few cold words. She used both on this man.

  To no effect. “I cannot bear to see such a beautiful lady so very unhappy.”

  How impertinent! “I assure you, sir, that I am not unhappy. Not that it’s any of your—”

  “Not unhappy,” he said, moving to the side and then sitting beside her on the rim of the raised square. “Look at this face.”

  Without the sun behind him, she saw that the audacious man carried a leather-bound book and a pencil. He opened the book to reveal page after page of thick ivory paper, and when he stopped flipping the pages Audrey was forced to stare at an illustration of her own face. Simply sketched, she saw her features very clearly. Deny it as she might, she did look quite desolate.

  She glanced up, ready to reprimand this insolent man for sketching her without asking permission, but when she looked into his face she was unable to continue. Gad, he was beautiful; as beautiful and exotic and enchanting as the rest of this city. Blue-green eyes set in a classically handsome face were fastened on her in a way that was startling, unnerving in its intensity. The longish dark brown hair suited him, framing his face with soft curls most women would kill for.

  “I have offended you,” he said softly. “When I’m drawing I tend to forget that there are rules about approaching beautiful women.” He smiled, a wide, real grin that lit up his face and his eyes. “I am afraid I have never been very good with rules.”

  His carefree manner and lighthearted voice made her wish to forget all the rules herself. Being a proper lady and an obedient daughter, following the rules that had always been a part of her life, had gotten her into this mess in the first place. Looking at the sensuous face so close to her own reminded her that if she was going to accomplish what she must while in Venice, she would be forced to put the proper lady aside. At least for a while.

  “May I see?” she asked, tipping her head to peer at the sketchbook in his hands.

  He was glad to show her his work, and she very quickly came to the conclusion that he was quite talented. Face after face passed through his hands as he carefully turned the pages; faces young and old, comely and plain. Somehow he managed to capture much more than mere features. She could see the laughter in a little boy’s eyes, the excitement in the face of a tourist who gazed up at some Venetian wonder, the love that shone from a young woman and
her beau. He caught the fire of a small group of Venetian patriots at the Cafe Florian, as they railed against the Austrian occupation. And then there was her own sketch, a study in sadness and loneliness.

  “I do look rather... gloomy,” she admitted when he showed her that particular sketch once more.

  “Perhaps we should try again,” he said in a low voice, his words softly accented and somehow intimate. Already his pencil was poised over a clean sheet of paper; and before she could answer he began to quickly sketch her features. When she looked down at the book in his hands he quickly chastised her, ordering her to look at him and only him.

  It was no chore to comply.

  When this was over he would ask for her name. She looked boldly into his eyes, without fear or trepidation. And what would her answer be? My name is Lady Graystone, but you can call me Black Widow, if you like. Many do, behind my back of course. You see, they think I killed my husband. Poison or marital intimacies more adventurous than a man of his advanced age could bear—how do you think I killed him?

  He muttered something beneath his breath, a sentence in Italian that was so fast, so faint, that she had no chance of deciphering it. Judging by the fervor, it might be a curse or a prayer.

  The second supposed weapon with which she did away with her husband was a more ridiculous notion that any of her accusers suspected. If they knew Sir Harry Graystone’s widow was still a virgin, surely a new round of gossip would begin. She had more than gossip to worry about, didn’t she? If Sir Graystone’s nephew knew that the marriage had never been consummated, would he be able to have the marriage invalidated? She’d been worrying about the possibility for months, since Norton Graystone had reappeared in her life to torment her.

  There was no one she could ask without fear that word would spread to the wrong person. What was she to do, go to her solicitors and ask? Alert them to the fact that the marriage had been in name only for those three horrendous days? And what of the future? If she ever decided to marry again, she couldn’t very well allow her new husband to know the truth, to find out on their wedding night that his widowed bride was a virgin.

  While the idea of taking a man to her bed didn’t exactly excite her, neither did the possibility of spending the rest of her life as lonely as she’d been for the past two years. Since her husband’s death, she’d closeted herself in silence and a cool reserve that had served her well. It kept the curious and the hateful at bay, it became a shield she hid behind when the looks and the whispers became too much for her to bear. But some days she was afraid the mask of the remote, cool woman was becoming a part of her. What if the day came when she couldn’t take the armor off? What if she became what she pretended to be?

  If not for Isabel, that complete transformation might have already taken place. While she did have a few friends left in spite of the rumors, only Isabel remained not only resolutely but at times violently defensive of Audrey’s innocence.

  But Audrey knew she couldn’t rely on Isabel forever. She wanted warmth in her life, children to love. If she ever wanted a family of her own she would have no choice but to take a husband, which was why when she left Venice, she would no longer be a virgin.

  Isabel had told Audrey enough about the mysterious Count Dante for her to know he could be the perfect solution to her problem. A moment of cloaked indiscretion, a quick coupling in the Palazzo Bottini on the final night of Carnival, her virginity taken by a masked man who would see her face no more clearly than she saw his. It was the perfect solution.

  And if she didn’t manage to attract the infamous Count Dante on that night? Well, she imagined any masked lord would do. In spite of herself, she shivered.

  “You are cold,” the turquoise-eyed artist said as he closed his sketchbook and stood. Since he didn’t show the new drawing to her, she imagined it hadn’t pleased him. Perhaps she didn’t make a very fascinating subject, after all. She expected him to walk away, to search out a better subject.

  Instead, he offered his hand to her. “Walk with me.” It was an order. She detested orders from the lips of any man, but this was one she didn’t care to refuse.

  She laid her hand in his and he helped her to her feet, and together they walked away from the small square. The movement did warm her, but so did the body at her side. He did not touch her, but still she felt his warmth and his presence.

  “I do not even know your name,” he said as they walked briskly past loitering tourists.

  She glanced up at the profile of the handsome man who looked as if he should be posing for portraits, not drawing them. She’d known this moment would come, and she made her decision without regret. “Audrey,” she said simply.

  He smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Audrey. I am Giovanni Valentino.”

  “Artist,” she added. “And a very good one, from what I’ve seen.”

  He cut his eyes to her with a smile that was guaranteed to capture any woman’s heart. “And you are a fine, elegant lady, in Venice for Carnival.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Giovanni Valentino stopped his brisk walk and looked down at her, his eyes taking in everything. Her expensive walking shoes, her sea-green gown, her velvet cloak. “What else could you possibly be?” he whispered.

  No man had ever looked at her this way before, with subdued fire and an intensity that warmed her much more than the winter sun ever could. She liked it; she liked it so much, she was terrified that no one would ever look at her in the same way again. If he knew the truth...

  “A lady’s companion,” she said. “My mistress is quite old, and naps the afternoon away, leaving me free to explore the city. She only requires me in the morning, and occasionally in the evening when she prepares for one masquerade or another.”

  “A lady’s companion,” he repeated.

  The clock struck three, startling her. Her time in St. Mark’s Square had passed much too quickly. “I really should return to the palazzo. It will soon be time to prepare for tonight’s ball.” She took a step back, not at all anxious to turn away from those piercing eyes.

  “Do you attend any of these masquerades yourself?” he asked.

  Her heart leapt. “I haven’t yet, but perhaps I should.”

  He smiled. “Tonight?”

  She nodded once. “Perhaps.”

  Even from this distance she could feel the force of those eyes upon her. “Perhaps I will see you,” he called, raising his voice so she’d be sure to hear every word.

  Audrey hurried to her waiting gondola, glancing over her shoulder only once. Giovanni Valentino didn’t move away, didn’t turn his back on her and saunter off looking for another subject. He watched intently even as the gondola pulled away.

  2

  Audrey glanced anxiously past dancing figures, stepping this way and that on the chance that she might see Giovanni Valentino concealed behind some lady’s voluminous costume or a wide Grecian column. How on earth could she expect to spot him in a crowd like this one? Everyone was masked, though it was possible to distinguish a great deal about the people in the throng around her, in spite of their costumes. The size and shape of each dancing figure could not be disguised, and hair was sometimes distinctive, if the head wasn’t covered by a hood or a large, gaily ornamented hat.

  After searching for several unbearably long minutes, she found a quiet corner where she could sulk in relative peace. There were a number of masquerades in the city. Even if the artist was looking for her, and even if he happened to be looking at this particular event, he’d never find her in this crowd. Her hair was covered with a lavender satin turban that matched her gown, and the upper half of her face was covered with a white satin mask. Even if he was searching the city, which he most likely was not, he’d never recognize her.

  As she brooded, Audrey decided that she should’ve allowed Isabel to attend this masquerade alone. Her friend was on a quest of her own, and was nowhere to be seen, at the moment.

  How silly she was to be looking so anxiously for Val
entino! He’d flirted with her in St. Mark’s Square, as he most likely flirted with countless women every day. She’d been captivated by nice eyes and a winning smile, by a handsome face and a few kind words. How pathetic. She clung to those kind words the way a starving man might clutch a loaf of bread.

  “Would you care to dance?” a drunken man in a silk costume of many colors asked, tottering on unsteady feet before her. His English was perfect, proper and unaccented, marking him as one of the many Londoners here for Carnival.

  “No, I would not.” It was unlikely he could feel the force of her glare through the mask, but she made sure her words were sufficiently cold.

  The man stumbled back and away, his smile vanishing. “Oh,” he muttered, surprised. “I know who you are.” He bumped into a woman in blue, and when he turned and asked her to dance she happily accepted. Like the others, they cavorted without a care, laughing too loudly and dancing crudely and much too close. The jester only glanced over his shoulder once to look at the woman who had refused his offer.

  Spinning dancers parted, and Audrey saw a hooded man headed in her direction with a determined step. With a sinking heart she prepared herself to rebuff yet another unwanted advance. She should’ve stayed home. There was no reason for her to attend a single ball until the final night, no reason for her to subject herself to this public humiliation until it became absolutely necessary. On that final night she’d offer herself up to the infamous Count Dante. That was her only reason for being in Venice; to rid herself of the evidence that her marriage had never been consummated.