The Black Mask by Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page A

Rose let her maid undress her and help her into an undyed cashmere dressing gown before dismissing her to brush out her gown. She sat down at her vanity and drew forward a little pot of ink. The letter to her mother took only a few minutes. After sealing it, she took another piece of paper, then sat there biting the end of the feather until the ink dried on the tip.
    “Well,” she said aloud, “the beginning is easy enough.”
    Dear Sir Niles, she wrote in a small, sloping hand. Then the ink dried again as she tried to write plainly, yet without giving anything away, and neatly.
    Do please join me at Lady Marlton’s house between the hours of eleven and noon tomorrow. I shall be quite alone. I wish to discuss matters of a serious nature regarding your activities on this evening and previous evenings.
    Yours faithfully, Rose Spenser.
     
    She studied it critically, finding it cold, businesslike, and clear. If it were true, as Aunt Paige suspected, that he had deeper and warmer feelings for her, he’d come merely to see her again. If not, he’d come out of curiosity—or so Rose hoped.
    Once the letter was sealed, she rang for her maid and gave instructions that the letter was to be delivered as soon as someone could be found to carry it. Giggling, Lucy promised to hand it to the footman herself, obviously thinking my lady’s country cousin had a love affair on hand.
    Sighing, Rose climbed into bed at last. Now she had only to sleep and to wait. But sleep came hard, for over and over she experimented with what she would say. Everything depended on his mood. If he had retreated again behind his mask of irony and indifference, she would not be balked, but she would find her task so much more difficult than if he were still gentle as he’d been tonight. She fell asleep thinking of him.
    * * * *
    “Sir Miles,” Mr. Beringer said jovially, opening the door himself. “I’m so happy you decided to call on me.”
    ‘You’ve hardly left me any choice.”
    “Come. Don’t be like that. We have a mutual interest, and you must consider me a friend.”
    “A friend? Hardly. I choose my friends with care.”
    “I can’t blame you for being hostile. So many people have difficulty seeing on which side their bread is buttered at first. But only at first. Soon you’ll see what a good friend I can be.”
    Like a sheepdog running circles round a belligerent ram, Mr. Beringer escorted Sir Niles into his well-appointed library.
    ‘You live very well,” Sir Niles grudgingly admitted, admiring despite himself the faux paneling and rows of leather-bound books. The red and blue carpet under his feet had the gleam of real silk, while the few candles that lit this splendor were of the finest, whitest wax. The fire that roared in the stone fireplace was perhaps too much for so late in the year, but it gave forth the scent of applewood to perfume the air.
    “That is praise indeed, for I know your reputation as a man of taste. A little brandy?”
    “Thank you.”
    “There, you see. We shall be very good friends ere long.”
    Sir Niles made no answer, but seated himself, his posture easy. Beringer gave him his snifter and took one himself behind the massively carved desk at one end of the room. He adjusted a candle stand with reflector that stood at his elbow to cast more light onto Sir Niles than onto himself.
    “Is it to your liking?” he asked, like any eager-to-please host.
    “Excellent. Better than what they serve at my club.”
    “Again you honor me.” His chuckles spread outward, setting his great stomach to shaking. If one stuck an olive on a toothpick into the point of a turnip and then gave the turnip thin legs, the result would be very like Mr. Beringer. He obviously enjoyed the finer things of life, for in addition to his elegant home, his clothes were quite well made, considering the technical difficulties involved in clothing a turnip.
    Niles drained the glass, grateful for the warmth it created. He’d walked from