The Masquerade by Brenda Joyce Page A

to his back, terrified now that Anna was ill. She knew the strain of their deception was becoming too much for her sister. “The journey was a difficult one for someone as frail as she is.”
    Rory led them into an opulent salon of medium size, placing Anna on a sofa. “Leclerc,” he ordered. “Bring me salts!”
    Lizzie knelt beside him, taking Anna’s hand. Rory looked up at her. “Does she often swoon?”
    She hesitated, meeting his gaze, which was as green as an Irish spring day. “Sometimes,” she said, adding another lie to the existing pile of them.
    Lizzie was watching him carefully, and she saw his gaze narrow in suspicion. She sensed he was clever andastute, and she feared he was suspicious of them. “She hasn’t felt well for several days,” Lizzie said quickly, telling herself that he could not possibly suspect the truth. Anna was plump now, as she was five months into her pregnancy, but her gowns were high-waisted. All had been let secretly out, and they continued to conceal her slightly bulging tummy. Of course, in another month or so, she would be very obviously pregnant. Lizzie continued to grip Anna’s hand, hoping she would wake up.
    Rory stared searchingly at her for a moment and then said, “Eleanor, you should summon your physician.”
    “No!” Lizzie cried, and she quickly smiled at him. “It is just a slight flu, really,” she told him. “Anna will be fine.”
    Rory was clearly skeptical, and Lizzie waited in some dread. At that moment Leclerc entered, handing Rory the salts.
    “Thank you,” Rory said, placing them directly against Anna’s nose.
    Instantly she coughed, her eyes fluttering open.
    He waved the salts there another time. As Anna coughed again, now wide-awake, he slowly stood. Lizzie rushed to take his place and sit at Anna’s hip. Still gripping her hand, she met her sister’s gaze. “You have merely fainted,” she said softly.
    “I’m sorry,” Anna managed to say.
    “It’s all right.” Lizzie stroked her brow. Finally, she became aware of her aunt.
    Eleanor stood beside Rory, her face a mask of pure displeasure. She said, “Well? Is the crisis over?”
    Anna struggled to sit up. “I am so sorry, Aunt Eleanor,” she breathed. “Please forgive me.” The color was returning to her cheeks.
    “It is not your fault,” Lizzie said softly. She felt Rory’s gaze and saw him staring far too closely at Anna. Lizziehoped he was admiring her beauty, and not trying to discover their secrets.
    Slowly Lizzie stood and faced their aunt. “I am sorry to intrude this way,” she said with vast dignity. It was hard to be brave, but there was simply no choice. “Mama insisted we come. We knew it would displease you, but we cannot disobey our mother. Now, as you can see, Anna is not well. Please, let us stay—just for a while.”
    Eleanor’s eyes seemed black. “I thought so! There was no spring tour of Dublin! No one tours this city anymore! There was only a deceitful scheme on the part of your mother! I knew it.”
    Rory took her arm as firmly as he had done earlier. “Auntie, your niece needs rest. Clearly she is not well and I know you will not turn her away.”
    “Lydia Fitzgerald has dared to foist two of her three daughters on me!” Eleanor cried in outrage.
    “And is that so terrible, really?” Rory asked her softly. He smiled charmingly at her. “Is it not a boon to have such feminine beauty in your home?”
    “Maybe for you,” Eleanor snorted. “Are you taken with one of them? Elizabeth needs a husband,” she said.
    Lizzie winced, feeling herself blush. Anna suddenly spoke, struggling to her feet as she did so. Rory dashed to her side to help her. “Aunt Eleanor?”
    “Do not get up,” Rory exclaimed, chiding in his tone.
    “I am fine,” Anna said, smiling at him. She turned her anxious gaze on Eleanor, and she became pleading. “Perhaps we can be of some help to you. I play the piano and sing, Lizzie loves to read aloud and she is a fine