Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip

by Joanna Maitland

The waltz ended. She dipped a curtsey, as convention required, and he bowed in response. It was not his normal elegant bow, but a rather quizzical move, little more than a nod. If the onlookers clocked the familiarity of that, the tittle-tattle would certainly begin.

  "Where would you like me to lead you, ma'am?"

  "I beg your pardon?" Emma said, puzzled.

  "You will not wish to be seen in my company any longer, I dare say, but I cannot simply abandon you. Are there friends hereabouts with whom I may reunite you?"

  Emma looked around. She could see some of the ladies from the musical soirée, but she had never learned their names. She might try a tactical retreat to the ladies' retiring room? She must not be seen to remain with Will. Much too dangerous for her reputation.

  She was still hesitating when Will glanced over her shoulder, his attention caught by someone in the far corner of the ballroom.

  His mouth twitched a fraction. It might have been a grimace but it was difficult to be sure. "Ah," he said. "My godmother is beckoning to us. She wants to meet you, I collect. May I bring you to her?"

  Will's godmother? "I do not think I know…?" Emma began, with a clear question in her voice.

  "Lady Augusta Sinclair-Smythe. You will not have met her. May I introduce you to her?"

  Emma gulped. But then, why not? Lady Emma was an aristocrat, a respectable widow and as good as anyone in society. She supposed that Will's godmother must be a proper person for her to know. Will would not introduce them if that were not the case. "Certainly." They started to stroll across the floor. "Which is she?"

  "The tall lady in maroon silk with blonde lace."

  Emma studied the woman covertly. There was something formidable about the way she stood and stared out across the ballroom. She had the air of a general reviewing his troops. A single button out of place, and some hapless soldier would be hauled off for a flogging. Emma knew, in her head, that she was immaculately dressed in her gold lace and evening slippers, but her heart was thumping before they had come within three yards of the woman. Close up, Lady Augusta was the general to her fingertips. Her sharp black eyes narrowed as she surveyed Emma from head to toe, looking to find fault, no doubt. Lady Augusta pursed her thin lips before saying a word. Then she turned abruptly to Will and said, "Introduce your companion, William, if you please."

  Not a general. A field marshal.

  Will seemed to take it all in his stride. Emma's hand was still on his arm and she could feel no tension in his muscles. He bowed. "Good evening, Godmother. How very pleasant to meet you here. May I present Lady Emma Groatster, recently come up from the country?" Turning his head slightly towards Emma, he added, "Lady Emma, this is my godmother, Lady Augusta Sinclair-Smythe."

  So that's my name. Groatster? Weird. I've never heard anything like it before. And—

  Lady Augusta extended two fingers to Emma.

  Oh. One of those. Not only domineering, but arrogant with it.

  Puzzling over her strange surname would have to wait, Emma decided. She touched the outstretched fingers with two of her own and sank into a half-curtsey. "Delighted to meet you, ma'am, " she murmured, just loud enough for the older woman to hear.

  "And you, child," Lady Augusta boomed. "William?" She turned to her godson. "I should like Patience to meet Lady Emma. Go and find her for me. She is—" she waved a hand in the general direction of the far side of the ballroom "—somewhere over there. Ah no. She must have seen you. She is coming to bid you good e'en."

  Will's smile looked genuine enough. "How delightful," he said. "I have not seen Patience for an age."

  A slim woman in deep cornflower blue was threading her way towards them. She was dressed, Emma noticed, in the height of fashion rather than in the modest white muslins usually worn by young single women. Her exquisite gown was exceedingly low cut; her guinea-gold hair was piled high on her head, with a single long curl hanging enticingly across her bare breast. Striking, rather than pretty, Emma decided. The Regency probably called her "handsome".

  With a mother like that, she will be either a shrinking little mouse, or a general-in-waiting.

  "Patience, my dear. Here is William." Lady Augusta paused. Then came the obvious afterthought. She turned to Emma. "Lady Emma, may I present my daughter, Miss Sinclair-Smythe?"

  Miss Sinclair-Smythe sank into a very elegant curtsey, with just the correct depth due to an aristocrat whose station was high, but much lower than a duchess. "Delighted to meet you, ma'am."

  Emma responded with a curtsey of her own, though not as deep as Miss Sinclair-Smythe's. It was unnecessary to extend her hand. She murmured, "Delighted," and smiled a company smile.

  The young woman – she could not be termed a girl, for she must be somewhere in her mid-twenties, Emma reckoned – passed quickly from Emma to Will.

  "William, it seems months since we have seen each other." She did not ask what he had been doing since their last meeting, Emma noticed, wondering if the young woman knew about Will's reputation. Salacious gossip was not usually shared with unmarried females, but with a mother like Lady Augusta, anything was possible.

  Miss Sinclair-Smythe pushed between Emma and her mother in order to grasp Will's hand firmly in both her own and reach up to kiss him soundly on the cheek. "We have missed you," she said quietly, offering her own cheek for him to return her kiss. He did so, without the least show of reluctance, Emma noticed. There was a moment of slightly awkward silence and then Patience said, rather too gaily, "Oh, listen. They are playing another waltz. How lovely."

  Poor Will, Emma thought. He doesn't stand a chance with these two.

  At the same moment, Will was bowing and offering his hand to Patience. "Will you do me the honour, Patience?"

  "Oh, go along," said Lady Augusta, flapping a hand. She looked, to Emma's mind, like a purple penguin trying to shoo away an amorous rival. "You young things need to become reacquainted. Meanwhile, Lady Emma and I shall join the chaperons and have a comfortable coze. Go along with you now, do."

  That puts me in my place. Among the chaperons and the dowagers, indeed? Well, I am not that much older than her precious Patience and I don't think he lusts after those guinea curls half as much as he lusts after my red ones.

  Emma had no more time for her own thoughts. Lady Augusta had been talking non-stop as they walked across to the chaperons' corner and it was risky not to pay attention. The woman was clearly quite determined to keep Emma away from Will Allmay and to swamp her with gossip and inanities. Her questioning, when she finally got round to it, was sharp. "Do you ride, Lady Emma?"

  "Yes," Emma replied, without stopping to think. "To be sure, I do. Everyone rides, do they not?" she added, trying to sound off-hand. Emma had ridden regularly before her marriage and had enjoyed it very much. Julian, who did not ride, had convinced her to give it up. They should enjoy their hobbies together, he said. And, blinded by her own misplaced love and what she thought was his love for her, she had done as he asked. It was only long afterwards that she realised it was all about control. If she was doing something that he could not, and doing it well, too, he would be failing to control every aspect of her life. That, for Julian, was totally unacceptable.

  Lady Augusta was prattling on about riding in the park. Emma, lost in her own painful memories, had not been paying enough attention. "…enjoy riding out with Patience. You will make a remarkable couple, you so, er, red, and she so fair. What horse do you ride? A grey, I suppose, with your colouring?"

  Emma suddenly had a mental picture of herself, in the flowing skirts of a Regency riding habit, mounted on a grey horse. Side-saddle. Side-saddle? But she didn't know how to ride side-saddle. "I…I have not brought my horses to London, ma'am."

  Lady Augusta waved a dismissive hand. "No matter. You may borrow one from our stable."

  I have to stop her before this ends in disaster. "Thank you, ma'am, but no. I do not ride in London." She thought rapidly. "You will understand that, while I was, er, in the country for so long, I did not r
ide. It would have been inappropriate to do so," she added, pompously. Let Lady Augusta make what she liked of that. The newly-widowed and highly conventional Lady Emma would certainly not ride out for pleasure while she was in mourning. "As a result, I am somewhat out of the way of it. I would not wish to disgrace myself by making a first appearance on horseback in company with your daughter who is, I imagine, a fine horsewoman."

  Lady August simpered. "She is said to have an excellent seat, it is true. And I am sure you have, also. Or you will have, once you have taken to it again."

  "Perhaps your daughter would enjoy a carriage drive with me instead?" Emma suggested, in desperation. She had to do something to escape the prospect of riding side-saddle for the first time in her life. In the Regency. In public. What if she fell off? Lady Emma the high-stickler would be the laughing stock of London society.

  Lady Augusta seemed to hesitate, for once.

  Emma made the most of her chance. "When Miss Sinclair-Smythe returns from her waltz, I shall suggest it." She turned slightly so that she could see the couple on the dance floor. "They move most elegantly together, do they not?" she said, trying not to sound grudging. Patience did dance beautifully with Will, probably better than Emma did, for Emma had not had years and years of instruction.

  "Yes, they do make an elegant pairing. I have long thought so."

  Really? An aristocrat's spinster daughter and the greatest stud in London? What's going on here?

  "Do you think, ma'am, that Miss Sinclair-Smythe might enjoy a drive with me?" Emma said again. "At a time to suit her, naturally. We might make an arrangement for a day when the weather is warmer?" And a day a long way in the future, Emma hoped.

  "The weather seems set fair and warm enough," Lady August pronounced. "Tomorrow would be very suitable. Patience is free in the afternoon, I collect. You will call for her at four? You may drive round the park. Most of fashionable London will be there, as you know."

  What could Emma do but agree? She had been railroaded by a master of the art.

  Emma found herself smiling inwardly at her own choice of words. Lady Augusta, a Regency woman, knew nothing about the railroads to come.

  ~ ~ ~

  Emma was claimed for many more dances, by gentlemen who greeted her as old acquaintances. She learned the name of only one of them, but she discovered nothing about how any of them might have met her.

  She did catch the odd glimpse of Will on the dance floor, usually with older married ladies, and once, later, dancing a second time with Patience, but he did not approach Emma again. Was he angry with her for staying so quiet while they danced? He couldn't, surely, have expected them to discuss intimate matters in such a public place? Anyone might have overheard.

  He had promised that he would agree to any conditions she chose. And he knew that one condition was the preservation of her reputation. Was that why he was keeping his distance?

  By three in the morning, Emma had had enough of being a society lady and holding a fixed smile. Besides, her feet ached. Silken evening slippers, she had discovered, provided no support at all. So, since Will clearly had no intention of resuming their conversation, she would leave. The question was: how? Should she find a spot where she could be alone to take off the lace gown? Or should she summon her carriage and return to her London house? If she went back to her own time, she'd be able to research Lady Emma, now that she knew the surname to look for. It would be fascinating.

  It would be cowardly. You're trying to find an excuse for leaving, because you're afraid of being alone with Will.

  She was honest enough to admit, to herself, that it was true. And she didn't want to be a coward where Will was concerned. She wanted to be alone with him, preferably somewhere with neither onlookers nor clothes, and she ought to give him a chance to seek her out.

  Honesty won out over the lure of research. She could pursue her researches at any time, after all. But there might not be many chances of being alone with Will.

  Decision made, she put a hand to her mouth to conceal a pretended yawn and strolled casually down to the entrance hall. The main door was standing partly open so it was quite chilly, especially after the heat of the ballroom. Several liveried footmen were standing to attention under the eagle eye of a black-clad butler. She had only to raise an eyebrow and one of the footmen hurried across for her orders.

  "Summon my carriage," she ordered crisply. She did not give her name. It was the butler's job to know who everyone was, wasn't it?

  The footman bowed. "Your ladyship's carriage. At once." He bowed again and started for the door, presumably to issue the necessary summons.

  Emma did not wait to see what would happen. It was too cold, dressed as she was. And a lady would never loiter in a hallway, in any case. She swept off down the corridor in search of an antechamber where she might wait in comfort. Alone.

  She soon found an empty saloon with a welcoming fire in the grate. Leaving the door ajar, she crossed to the fireplace and sank into a wing chair, holding out her gloved hands to the flames. It was wonderful to take the weight off her feet, too. She decided she would call for a warm foot bath as soon as she got back home.

  Home? Since when was she thinking of Regency London as her home?

  "Your ladyship's carriage is at the door." The footman had appeared without a sound, her velvet evening cloak draped over his arm. He shook it out and held it for her.

  Snugly wrapped in her cloak, she made her way to the front door. The hallway was empty of guests. No one who mattered was there to see her leave.

  Will had not come to find her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After her soothing warm footbath, Emma slept very soundly in Lady Emma Groatster's bed. When she eventually woke up, she had to ring the bell to find out what the time was.

  Bailey must have been waiting for a summons. She appeared in less than a minute with a cup of chocolate and some sweet biscuits.

  "What time is it?" Emma asked, yawning.

  "Just after noon, m'lady. At least this time, you have slept properly, as a lady should. You do need your sleep if you stay out dancing and, and suchlike, until so very late." Clearly, Bailey was in fusspot mode.

  Emma grinned. "I'm not at all sure what kind of 'suchlike' you think I may be guilty of, Bailey. I did dance a great deal, as it happens. But I can assure you that no 'suchlike' took place." Well, nothing very much, apart from dancing a waltz where she was held very closely against the hard body of the greatest rake in London. "My poor feet are not used to so much dancing," she added, with a laugh.

  "You should have known that before you started." The abigail certainly believed she had the right to tell Emma off if she did something that Bailey thought unbecoming. "One minute you are sitting in seclusion, as a proper widow should, and the next you're dancing the night away. With a selection of ne'er-do-well 'gentlemen', I have no doubt."

  "You go too far, Bailey," Emma said, trying to sound stern. "It was a ton ball. Only the cream of society was admitted, as you very well know. My dancing partners were all gentlemen, I assure you."

  Bailey grunted. "Even him? He was there, I suppose?"

  Bailey was partly confidante and partly mind reader, Emma decided. And there was no point in trying to lie to her. She was too sharp, and too well used to Emma's ways. It would be impossible to pull the wool over her eyes for long. "Sir William was at the ball, yes. And before you ask, Bailey, I will tell you that I danced with him once only. He presented me to his godmother, Lady Augusta Sinclair-Smythe, and then he left us together. I did not speak to him again."

  Bailey nodded knowingly.

  Emma began to wonder why she was telling Bailey so much, or why she felt the need to make excuses for her conduct to a mere servant. She had done nothing wrong. Since she was acquainted with Captain Sir William Allmay, and everyone who mattered knew that to be the case, it would have been highly impolite for her to have refused to stand up with him.

  One single dance. Why such a fuss?

&
nbsp; Because the dance was a waltz. Accepted in the late Regency, yet viewed as more than a little daring, because the gentleman got to hold the lady in his arms. Against his body. Breast to breast. And worse.

  Time to change the subject. "What is the weather like?"

  Bailey answered by crossing to the windows and pulling open the long heavy curtains. Sunshine streamed in.

  "Excellent," Emma said. "I have arranged to go driving in the park. At four o'clock, or a little earlier. Pray ensure that the carriage is ready in time, Bailey."

  Bailey narrowed her eyes. "Certainly, m'lady. Will you be wanting the open carriage? Or perhaps the closed carriage is more to your taste? The one without the crest?"

  Emma laughed out loud. Bailey's suspicions were totally unfounded, for once. "The open carriage, of course, Bailey, for such delightful spring weather. And I dare say you will make sure we have plenty of rugs, in case the wind should be chill."

  "We?" The abigail's eyes narrowed even more. Was she speculating about what hands might get up to under cover of a fur rug?

  "Yes, indeed. I have arranged to drive out with Lady Augusta's daughter." She watched with inner glee as Bailey's expression morphed in an instant from suspicious to inscrutable. Emma managed to give her abigail Lady Augusta's Mayfair address without laughing again, but it was a close-run thing. "I shall collect Miss Sinclair-Smythe at four o'clock precisely. Tell the coachman that I do not want to be even a minute behind my time. I shall be ready to leave from half-past three."

  "As you wish, m'lady."

  "And in the meantime, Bailey, I shall take a bath, I believe. Followed by a light luncheon, here in my chamber."

  Bailey nodded. "As you wish, m'lady. And which gown would your ladyship desire to wear for this outing to the park?"

  Ah. She'd lost that round. And she'd been doing so well, she'd thought, playing the part of the haughty aristocrat. Emma, the costume specialist, might have a pretty good idea of what a high-born lady would wear for driving in the park, but she had absolutely no idea which day gowns Lady Emma Groatster possessed.