Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip

by Joanna Maitland

  That was a good idea. If she opened it when she was alone, she could sneak the boots back into their place. But there was a flaw in his plan. "How does it come about that I left with Lady Mumford and I returned in someone else's carriage, carrying a valise? There are bound to be questions."

  "Well, I had the beginnings of an idea there, too. What if you met an old friend, a lady, needless to say, someone you had not seen for many years? She invited you to her house and you talked for hours and lost track of time. So now she is sending you home in her carriage."

  "Hmm. Maybe." Emma's mind was whirring. "Yes, maybe."

  "And perhaps you could visit this friend again, and stay a few days?" he added hopefully. "This friend might even send her plain carriage to fetch you?"

  Will was indeed a conniving lover, but his calculations were falling a bit short here. "It won't do, Will. I am a woman of means. Why should I allow myself to be taken to and fro in someone else's carriage? And staying is impossible. My hostess would always expect me to bring my own abigail. I cannot take Bailey to a meeting with a lover."

  "Perhaps your hostess has not enough room to accommodate an abigail?"

  She shook her head again. "It won't work. If this hostess can afford to keep her own carriage, she can certainly afford to find a bed for a visiting lady's maid."

  He sighed. "I am not doing very well, am I?"

  "No, and nor am I. We are neither of us making a great fist of this tissue of lies we are trying to create. It would be better to keep it simple. Wait. I may have an idea," she added with a smile. "What if my long-lost friend were an invalid?"

  "That's good."

  "We were at school together," Emma went on, thinking aloud. "No, no, that won't do. Bailey would know all my friends from school. She has been with me for ever. No, this has to be a friend of a friend. And her name is— Hmm. She cannot be titled. Much too easy to discover where she lives. She must be a reclusive Mrs Something-or-other. Another widow, I think. She is too ill to venture out and keeps a very small household. No, that won't do either. Why on earth would she keep a carriage if she never goes out? Oh this is impossible. I am tying myself in knots."

  He stroked her hair again.

  "I cannot think clearly when you do that, Will. In any case, I must dress."

  "Let me help you," he said with a smile that began to melt her insides.

  She pushed him away. "I don’t think that would be a good idea. Your fingers excel at undressing a lady. I am not at all sure about the reverse."

  He looked a little guilty, for once.

  "Give me a few minutes alone, Will, so that I may at least put on my petticoats. I will need your help with some of my fastenings, however."

  "And your hair? I cannot say that I have much experience as a hairdresser."

  "I will pin it up as best I can." She looked round at the chest and then at the dressing table. "Do you know what happened to my hairpins?"

  "Ah. I had forgot." He plunged his fingers into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of pins. And her sapphires. "I have them here." He laid his haul down on the bare dressing table.

  "Thank you." The jewels she could deal with. But her hair was a real problem. "Is there a hairbrush? Or a comb?"

  "I will fetch them for you," he said, making for the door, "while you make yourself rather, er, more presentable to the world."

  The door closed behind him. Just as Emma was starting to take off her cloak, the door opened again, a little way. Enough to allow Will to poke his head round and ogle her. "I should add that, looking as you do now, you are much more than presentable, my lady," he said, with a grin.

  Emma cast about for something to throw at him. But by the time she turned back, empty-handed, the door had closed and he was gone. Just as well, for his wicked leer had made her laugh as he must have known it would. And laughter was by far the best way of getting a woman into bed. How many other women had he used it on?

  She would lock the door. Not because she was afraid of him – she was not, not any more – but because she wanted to be in control of her own state of undress before she saw him again. She crossed to the door and found there was no key. And no bolt either. The blasted man had chosen a bedchamber with a nightingale floor so that he could keep tabs on her. And she couldn't even lock him out.

  Well, she could do something about that. She picked up a hardbacked chair and wedged it under the door handle. That would show him.

  On the other hand, what made her think he would enter without her permission? He had knocked and waited before.

  No time for that. She must dress as best she could. She threw off her cloak and let the filmy silk nightgown drop from her shoulders. I hope this is new, she thought. I would hate to think that one of Will's other lovers had worn it before me. It seemed unlikely, though. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to prepare this bedchamber for her – for her alone, he maintained – so why would he not buy a new nightgown as well? He had said something of the sort, hadn't he?

  She sneaked a quick look at her naked body in the glass. There were some tiny bruises on one breast. Love bites. She remembered those. They had been most arousing at the time. She fancied that Will had one or two on his own body, though she could not quite remember all the things that she had done to him. Or he to her. Her nipples were hardening at the memory of his caresses.

  I must be practical. I have to get dressed and turn myself into something presentable so that I can go home.

  With that, she dragged on her shift and then her stays and petticoats. Next came her stockings. Someone had smoothed them out carefully. Her garters had been placed neatly beside them. In the space of a few moments, she was dressed, all but her lace gown and her hair.

  She stepped into the gown and put her arms through the puff sleeves. The simple act of putting it on made her smile. It was such a precious, magical thing. She reached round to tie a loose bow at the back of the neckline. That would do for the moment. When Will returned, he could help to tighten her stays and neaten the fastenings of her gown. With luck, he wouldn't be too tempted in the process. And in the meantime, she would make a start on her hair, even without a brush and comb.

  She lit more candles. That was better. Now she might see what she was doing. The floor by the dressing table creaked loudly as she went to sit down at the mirror. Goodness, what a racket. She would certainly demand a different retreat if she ever came again. The noise from these shifting floors would drive anyone mad.

  Shifting floors? She took a moment to gaze round the room, telling herself to imagine it without any of the furniture. Would she recognise it if it were bare?

  Yes, she would. She had been in it before, with Geraldine, the Lamb House manager. Her blue bedchamber was the one that was out of bounds to visitors because it would require a fortune to restore its shifting, and dangerous, floors.

  A new idea poked its head up.

  Emma put one of the lighted candles on the hearth and started to feel around under the rug. One of the floorboards was definitely promising. But her fingernails weren't strong enough. She needed—

  Regency hairpins have their uses, she decided, as she bent one into a serviceable hook and knelt down again.

  It worked. The end of the floorboard came up enough for her to peer underneath. There was a nice dry little space, plenty big enough for anything she might want to hide in it. Once the board was put back, no one would have the slightest idea that it had ever been moved.

  She did a little victory dance. Luck was definitely on her side tonight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emma managed to pin up her tousled hair before Will came back with the promised brush and comb. There was definitely a lot to be said for natural curls, she decided. Even using only her fingers as a comb, the effect was not bad at all, although it was nothing like the elegant confection that Bailey had created earlier. For safety, Emma decided, she would keep her hood up until she reached her own room. Then she would drag her fingers through her hair, pull
ing out most of the pins and complaining that they were making her head ache. With a little more luck – Emma was already deeply in debt to Lady Luck tonight – Bailey would not have a chance to see the state of her mistress's hair before it tumbled down her back.

  She clasped the sapphire pendant round her neck. That was the best she could do. She crossed her fingers and hoped she would pass in dim candlelight.

  Footsteps outside. Will? Oh dear.

  She raced across to the door to remove the chair. He mustn't find out she had done that. Though, since this room was to be her permanent retreat in this house, she was entitled to demand privacy. She would certainly ask him for a door key.

  "Goodness, that is splendid," he said as he came in with a brush and comb in his hand. "How did you do that?"

  "Female instincts," she said with a grin. "Desperation helped."

  He laughed. "Do you need any help from me, my lady desperate?"

  Emma turned her back. "Yes. Can you pull my stays tighter, please? And then do up my gown?" She heard him swallow hard. He made no move to comply. "Quickly, please, Will," she urged, hoping he would resist the urge to touch her skin. "I really must be on my way home or I'll never hear the last of Bailey's sermonising."

  That made him laugh again. "She dares, does she?" he asked, starting to tighten her laces. He sounded fairly relaxed, she decided gratefully.

  She needed to prolong this easier mood. "She dares, all right," Emma said lightly. "She admires my sanctimonious butler for the care he takes to discharge his Christian duty as the moral guardian of my household. She enjoys his sermons and prayer meetings." She forced a laugh. "So when she sees me meeting an unsuitable gentleman in the park, she makes her disapproval more than plain."

  He had finished with her stays and was working on the fastenings of her gown. That was a lot safer. Emma's tension lessened a little. "A servant who has known one from one's cradle is bound to be outspoken, of course."

  "Of course," he agreed. "And no matter what she says or does, you could not dismiss her, could you?"

  Emma shook her head.

  "What about your earrings?" he said, glancing across at the dressing table. "Surely Bailey will expect you to be wearing them?"

  "I have them safely in my reticule." To emphasise the point, Emma picked it up and dropped it back onto the dressing table. It landed with a satisfying clunk. "I shall say I took them off because they were tangling in my hair. She won't be surprised. She was fussing with them earlier."

  "Good. We seem to have covered everything." His gaze lingered on the neckline of her lace gown. It was not outrageously low cut; only a little of her bosom was on display. "Including you, sadly," he added with his infuriating grin.

  "You go too far, sir," she said primly.

  "I fear I do not go far enough." He reached for her cloak and wrapped it round her shoulders. "Sanding will drive the carriage back to town. Much as I should like to accompany you, I must think about your reputation."

  And my sanity, Emma thought. What would happen with just the two of us in a closed carriage for all those miles?

  His smile told her he was reading her mind. But he said only, "Let me escort you downstairs to your carriage, m'lady."

  With that, he picked up the battered valise containing her walking boots, and opened the door that would lead her back to Lady Emma Groatster's respectable London life.

  ~ ~ ~

  Emma did not sleep on the journey back to London in spite of the comforts of Will's carriage and the hot brick at her feet. She had more important things to do, working out the story of the invalid friend. She had decided that the lady would be a mere Mrs Smith, married young and widowed at an early age. Mrs Smith, sadly, suffered from a wasting disease which meant that she had difficulty sleeping, so she had been very eager to welcome Emma, even in the early hours of the morning. The poor lady could rarely leave her house because of her infirmities. But, on her very good days, Mrs Smith enjoyed a drive in the sunshine. As a result, she could never bring herself to dispense with her carriage. She had insisted on using it to send Emma home after the pleasant hours they had spent catching up on old times and old friends. And she was equally insistent, for the sake of exercising her horses as much as anything else, that Emma should use the Smith carriage to visit her in the future. Emma had not had the heart to refuse an old friend. And she had promised to go again soon.

  Would the story convince Bailey?

  First things first. Emma had to get into the house and fool Bailey about where she had been and what she had been doing.

  She must not take a bath until the love bites had gone, she realised. For if the abigail saw those, she would know at once what her Lady Emma had been up to. She might guess anyway, for she was very sharp. But she was loyal to a fault. She would never betray Emma's secrets.

  In private, however, her moralising might well become unbearable.

  It was still dark when the carriage reached London. It was too early for heavy traffic, but Emma soon recognised the difference in the air. The fresh country smells of trees and damp rich soil had been replaced by less pleasant odours: dung, and decaying rubbish, punctuated by the occasional acrid note of burning flambeaux. She would soon be home. And she was ready.

  The carriage slowed to round a corner. A few moments later, it came to a stop. Emma gathered herself together, pulling up her hood to shadow her face. The carriage door opened a little way. Sanding's voice said, "Shall I ring the doorbell for ye, m'lady?"

  "No, no," Emma replied in an urgent whisper. Then, in a more normal voice, "I do not wish to wake the household at this hour."

  Sanding pulled the door wide and offered his hand.

  Emma needed a free hand for her skirts. She set the valise on the floor by the door and allowed Sanding to help her down. Turning to retrieve the bag of boots, she noticed that there was a second man on the box, holding the reins. "Oh," she gasped, surprised. "I had not expected a groom as well. But I suppose someone has to mind your horses while you help me down."

  "This late, Cap'n said as 'twas safer with two, m'lady."

  "Oh, but—" Surely Will had not wanted any of his grooms to know who his visitor was? This groom now had precise details of where she lived.

  "Not to worry, m'lady," Sanding said in a fatherly way. "Yon lad won't talk none. He be dumb."

  She glanced up at the groom again. He was slouched comfortably in his place, minding his horses and paying no attention at all to the passenger. Possibly a simpleton as well as dumb? He looked a big lumbering fellow under his old-fashioned tricorne hat. It warmed her to think that Will had given employment to such an unfortunate. It would have been an act of pure kindness.

  "Your valise, m'lady."

  "Thank you, Sanding. You may leave me now." She straightened her shoulders and mounted the steps. She didn't look back, though there was no noise of the carriage driving off. Sanding was probably under orders from Will to see her safely inside the house first. She turned the door handle and pushed gently. It opened as noiselessly as before. Emma prayed the sudden inrush of cold spring air would not wake Filch from his slumbers.

  She slid inside. Yes, she could hear snoring. Luck seemed to be on her side. She turned to close the door, concentrating hard to avoid making any noise. The carriage had not left. Sanding had climbed back onto the box but had not yet taken the reins from the big groom, who did not appear to have moved at all. Sanding was looking over his shoulder, watching the door. He seemed to be speaking quietly to his companion all the while. Probably reassuring the simpleton that they would soon be home, Emma decided. She smiled up at the old steward – though, in the dark, he probably did not see – and pressed the door closed.

  Filch's contented snoring continued without pause. Emma looked round quickly. She needed a light. There were two small oil lamps burning, one by the door, the other on the table at the foot of the stairs, along with a pair of unlit bedroom candles. She would take the lamp, rather than lighting a candle, for, in addition to
the reticule dangling from her wrist, she would have to manage the valise and her skirts up two flights of stairs. It was much too difficult to shield a flickering candle as well. She crept across the marble hall, less concerned about noise this time since she was wearing evening slippers rather than boots, picked up the lamp and scurried up the stairs.

  She made it safely up the second flight and into her bedchamber, closing the door behind her. She leant against it and let out the breath she seemed to have been holding since the moment she arrived in the front hall. She had been so anxious not to be detected. But she had made it. So far.

  First things first. She put the lamp on the table by the door and glanced around. Phew. No sign of Bailey. Emma stuffed the valise under the bed and pushed it well out of sight. Her abigail had the ears of a cat. She might appear at any moment, even though it must be nearly five in the morning.

  Next, her hair. Emma tiptoed across to the wing chair by the fireplace and sank into it without stopping to take off her cloak. Now for the next part of her performance, even though she had no audience. She tossed back her hood and began to push her fingers through her hair, right down to her scalp, groaning theatrically as she did so. Hairpins flew in all directions. A couple pinged on the hearthstone. Most dropped silently onto the carpet, or the chair. She closed her eyes and leant back. She had done it. She groaned again, for good measure.

  "You have the headache, m'lady?"

  Emma jerked upright. Bailey was standing in the open doorway to the dressing room. She looked, as ever, neat as a pin. Did the woman never go to bed?

  "Oh, Bailey. You should not have waited up."

  "It is my duty, m'lady," Bailey said firmly. "And I was comfortable enough. There is a chair in the dressing room."

  "But no fire," Emma said, concerned. "You must have been cold. It is quite cold, even here." She gestured towards the hearth and the dying embers.

  "Let me ring for a maid to make up the fire."