Greystone dared to remove his mask, why then, she would simply punch her former fiancé in the face.
Chapter 2
Outside the parsonage, Jeffrey Branwen surveyed the flower garden with the resignation of a man who had witnessed many such disappointments. His shadow, shorter and rounder than himself, stretched out before him like a puddle of a mourning gown—or a gigantic black thumb. Out of habit he rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to fathom where he had gone wrong with this effort.
In every way, he thought, for his garden had withered entirely. One would find more flowers blooming in a graveyard.
The roses he had tried to coax into bloom had all died during the late summer without offering so much as a single bud. The violets, so adored by his wife Deidre, had accompanied them into the great garden beyond. So had the lavender, the morning glories, and the poppies. A few weeds had poked up when he had admitted defeat at the beginning of fall, but they, too, now browned and drooped. He also suspected the young elm sapling he had installed by Deidre’s bench to provide shade had grown diseased.
He would not think about the vegetable patch, which had fallen victim to slugs so voracious they had all but cleared the ground for him.
“What are you doing out here in all this wind, sir?” a sweet voice called.
Jeffrey turned his head to see his wife coming from the house with his cloak in her arms. “Mourning the departed, my love. I am sorry to say that the last of the roses has sought eternal rest.”
“Ah, well, they will be in good company.” Deidre pulled the heavy wool over his shoulders before she regarded the dead plants. “I am sure they were sorry to leave us. They always are, you know.”
“I am happy it amuses you.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Really, I am an Englishman. We are a nation of gardeners. Why can I grow nothing more than sticks?”
“Perhaps you were meant to be a cane weaver.” She tucked her arms around his waist. “Or a school master.”
Jeffrey narrowed his eyes. “Stop laughing at me.” He glanced down and saw a note in her hand. “Has someone need of their vicar? For I cannot recommend myself as a gardener.”
“It is an invitation.” The smile fled from her pretty face. “We are invited to a masquerade at Dredthorne Hall. There is no signature, but Lady Hardiwick mentioned to me that Mr. Arthur Pickering has leased the property.” She held out the folded paper.
Jeffrey’s first instinct was to tear up the invitation and toss the pieces into the compost barrel. Instead he took it and tucked it into his jacket. “Is there some tea left from breakfast? I am in need of a cup.”
Deidre nodded, and accompanied him into the parsonage, where she prepared a tray and brought it to their sitting room.
Jeffrey inspected the large pile of biscuits she had brought with the pot and their cups. “Ginger nuts?”
“The Sisters Brexley sent a tin for you. They are very good for the digestion,” his wife said as she poured and handed him his tea. “Especially as I did not bake them. That invitation is not going to set well, so do have some. It is too early in the day for brandy.”
“We never drink spirits,” he reminded her.
“If I am to go to that abominable house in a costume and dance, I may begin.” Deidre saw his expression and sighed. “Oh, dearest, must we go?”
Being the vicar of Renwick was more than Jeffrey’s position or calling; he had a spiritual obligation to his parish. As the representative of the church, he regarded his duty as more than simply holding services on Sunday or visiting the sick and elderly. By attending the various gatherings and assemblies he provided a wholesome presence. Often just the sight of him would calm the over-boisterous and discourage the sinful.
The fact that they had been invited to a masquerade did not trouble him; the location did.
Dredthorne Hall had changed hands several times over the last years. Built more than a century past by an affluent merchant name Emerson Thorne, who admired all things French, it had been designed to imitate one of the great chateaus in that country. Enormous, imposing and surrounded by a large estate, the hall had once been regarded as one of the most impressive buildings in England. Then terrible events began to take their toll on Thorne;