by Martha Keyes
Jacques watched her and grimaced his understanding. "We are safe," he said.
Letty's grasp on Miss Cosgrove's hand loosened. "I was sure we would all be killed."
"After I reassured you that I wouldn't allow such a thing?" said Jacques, feigning deep offense. "How very deflating is your opinion of me."
Letty laughed. "What could you possibly do to stop a mob of hundreds? Even with Mr. Vaughan's help?" She looked at Mr. Vaughan, as if to see whether she had offended him. Letty’s head tilted to the side, and her eyes narrowed.
She shot up suddenly in her seat, and her jaw hung agape.
Jacques looked to Miss Cosgrove, but she looked every bit as nonplussed as he felt.
"I know you," said Letty with bursting energy. "I had heard rumors, of course, but never did I think to see you for myself, much less to find myself sitting in the same carriage as you! How very famous!"
Mr. Vaughan's mouth twisted to the side to stop a smile.
"What ever are you talking about, Letty?" Miss Cosgrove asked.
Letty looked at Mr. Vaughan, who nodded, as if to grant permission.
"This," Letty said in a proud voice, "is not a page boy, but rather the glorious and brilliant Lady Caroline Lamb."
Jacques's jaw hung slack as he stared at the young person next to him, who was wearing an amused smile. She wagged her eyebrows at Miss Cosgrove.
"And very much indebted I am to all of you," she said, "for granting me sanctuary."
They were telling the truth, Letty and the young page—or Lady Caroline, rather. Jacques had seen Lady Caroline only once since his arrival in London, with her close-cropped hair, pleasing smile, and sprightly figure. Dressed as she was, though, it had been easy to miss the familiar features. Who would have assumed such a costume, after all?
The coach door opened, and Aunt Emily climbed in. "Praise be to heaven," she said. "I have been fretting this past fifteen minutes that you had all been injured by the mob, but on no account would the Simmons' servants allow the doors to be opened, so I was obliged"— she stopped upon seeing Lady Caroline and looked to Jacques for an explanation.
"Ah, yes," he said, glancing at Lady Caroline. "This young..." he trailed off, unsure how to continue. Did Lady Caroline wish to keep her identity a secret?
"Lady Caroline Lamb, madam," she said with a regal nod, "and very pleased to make your acquaintance."
Aunt Emily stilled in the act of depositing herself on the seat with Letty and Miss Cosgrove, staring.
"Lady Caroline," said Jacques with a twitch at the corner of his mouth, "this is my aunt, Mrs. Emily Broussard, her daughter, Miss Letitia Broussard, and Mrs. Broussard's niece, Miss Cecilia Cosgrove."
Aunt Emily’s mouth hung agape for a moment as she nodded absently at the introduction. The look of confusion on her face was comical. She blinked a few times and closed her mouth.
"We are honored, my lady,” she said, “and we would be more than happy to convey you to your lodgings?” She looked a question at Jacques. “My niece lives not far, in Belport Street, but it would be our pleasure to take you anywhere you wish first—"
"Belport Street?" said Lady Caroline in a curious voice. A mischievous smile appeared on her delicate lips. "That will do just fine, thank you. I shall not trouble you to convey me home—you have done more than enough to assist me this evening, after all—but Belport Street is very near my destination. In fact," she said, tilting her head to the side and putting a finger to her mouth, "if it won't be too great a trouble, Miss Cosgrove, might I step inside your home for a few minutes? I believe I am not expected at my rendezvous for another half hour or more."
Miss Cosgrove's brows went up, but she nodded quickly. “Of course, you are more than welcome.”
Jacques suppressed a smile. What would the Cosgroves say to seeing her step inside with a page boy? The night could hardly have become stranger than it was.
The coach pulled forward, and Lady Caroline filled the unwieldy silence with questions for the Broussards and Jacques. She seemed very interested in their French heritage and Jacques's story of emigration. He gave the same answers he had always given—explaining how it came to be that he and his father had escaped to England with all of their belongings, when so many others had come with only the clothes on their backs.
He breathed a silent sigh of relief as the coach pulled in front of the Cosgroves’ townhome. Would he ever get used to telling his fabricated story? It had enough truth in it, to be sure, but enough untruth to make him wriggle, even after twenty years.
He disliked watching Miss Cosgrove rise from her seat to leave. He had become uncomfortably conscious of how much he desired to prolong any time with her, and he found himself particularly reluctant to watch her go after the terrifying episode they had just experienced.
"I shall walk you both to the door," said Jacques, rising from his seat while feeling annoyed at his seeming inability to leave things well alone. "There is enough mischief afoot in town that great care should be taken."
"What a splendid idea," said Lady Caroline.
Miss Cosgrove bid her aunt and cousin farewell as Jacques opened the coach door and stepped down onto the flagstones below. He looked up and down the street for any sign of danger, but the only sound was of carriage wheels.
He handed down Lady Caroline, followed by Miss Cosgrove, whose slender, gloved hand seemed at home within his own.
The three of them walked abreast, with Jacques falling behind as they approached the door.
Lady Caroline looked at Jacques with the hint of a smile and then put a hand to the crimson livery she wore. She let out an exasperated sigh. "I think I have left the note I am delivering in the coach. Excuse me—I won't be but a moment." She nodded at them both and turned back to the coach.
Jacques’s eyes narrowed. He was tolerably sure that Lady Caroline had never had a note in her possession. Had she seen through Jacques so quickly that she was simply trying to provide time alone for him and Miss Cosgrove?
Miss Cosgrove fidgeted with the reticule in her hands, watching Lady Caroline. Jacques had the distinct impression that she was avoiding his eyes.
Was she embarrassed? He had wondered whether she had felt regret at the familiar conversation they had shared at dinner a few nights ago—at being found in tears. The last thing he wished was for her to put her mask back on.
She finally looked to him, the light of the sconces on the doorstep reflecting in her eyes. "An evening to remember, I think," he said.
She smiled responsively. "Yes, indeed." She glanced at the coach. "I think you have forever secured Lady Caroline's benevolence."
"Yes," he said, "if only I could achieve the same with you."
Her eyes shot to his, and she seemed to tense until meeting his teasing smile.
She relaxed and looked at him enigmatically. "Perhaps if you had rescued me, as you did her, from impending death?"
He chuckled, meeting her eyes. "A gross oversight on my part." Few things gave him as much pleasure as bantering with Miss Cosgrove.
Lady Caroline returned, slightly breathless, looking back and forth between the two of them with approval. She expressed her gratitude to Jacques a final time, and Miss Cosgrove bid him a smiling adieu.
He watched as they disappeared into the house, knowing he was walking a very precarious tightrope: the force of his growing attraction pulling him to one side, his desire to be true to his identity pulling him to the other side, and an abyss of potential ruin below.
9
When Cecilia and Lady Caroline entered the Cosgrove house, Cecilia felt almost lightheaded at the strange events of the night—at the knowledge that she was to entertain Lady Caroline Lamb herself for she didn't know how long.
The footman they met in the entry hall looked at them askance, particularly upon hearing Lady Caroline speak in a decidedly feminine voice.
She wanted nothing so much as some tea and cold meat and cheese —"For I missed dinner entirely this evening, you know."
Cecilia rang the bell, and within a matter of minutes, they were seated in the parlor together, Cecilia making and pouring the tea, while Lady Caroline talked between bites of food.
Cecilia had heard much about the lively woman in front of her—everyone had, of course. Between her marriage to William Lamb and the scandal with Lord Byron, she was one of the most gossiped about women in society. Contrary to Cecilia’s expectations, too, she was very open about Lord Byron and their falling out. Cecilia found herself fascinated by Lady Caroline and the life she lived.
When an opportunity presented itself, Cecilia found the courage to ask, "But why dress up as a man? You are such a beautiful and accomplished woman that I find it incredible."
Lady Caroline smiled impishly amidst chewing and then swallowed a sip of tea. "It is diverting, of course," she said, "but also entirely liberating. As Lady Caroline, people expect something very particular when they see me. But as a man—even a page boy—I am allowed a great deal of license. I am entirely free to act as I please."
Cecilia's mouth broke into an understanding smile. "You manage to make it a very attractive prospect."
Lady Caroline shrugged. "If you harbor any doubts, the only solution is to try it yourself sometime."
Cecilia's heartbeat quickened at the thought. "But what if one is discovered?"
Lady Caroline lifted both hands with her palms up in a careless gesture. "I have given up fretting over the things that are said about me. I have found that, no matter what I do, I am condemned by some. So I may as well enjoy myself, don’t you think?"
Cecilia's eyes widened slowly. She could hardly imagine such indifference to opinion—such freedom. Lady Caroline did what she pleased, without regard for who praised her for it or who criticized her for it.
Even now, as Cecilia watched her with awe, Lady Caroline sipped her tea unconcernedly, dressed as a page boy—as though there were nothing more natural in the world.
She was truly free.
* * *
Cecilia looked at the long-sleeved muslin Anaïs had set out for the day and thought of what the maid might say if she were asked to dress her mistress up as a page. Or did Lady Caroline dress herself for such ventures?
A smile played across Cecilia's lips as she imagined herself dressed in such clothing. Would she be recognized? She wished she had thought to ask Lady Caroline what other costumes she had donned—had she ever dressed as a gentleman?
Anaïs knocked and entered, holding a freshly laundered fichu and a letter. "For you, mademoiselle."
Cecilia took the letter and glanced at the seal, which she had no difficulty recognizing as Lady Caroline's. She broke it open and read hungrily.
My Dear Miss Cosgrove,
Permit me to express to you my deep gratitude for your kindness toward me two nights since. You took me in—a stranger—and you fed me and entertained me with delightful conversation. I hope that you will allow me to call upon you tomorrow to convey my thanks in person.
Your affectionate friend,
Caro
Cecilia smiled as she folded the letter up. She couldn't pretend not to be flattered that Lady Caroline wished to continue their acquaintance. She liked the woman. Despite all the rumors of her obsession with Byron—her madness for him—she had achieved something Cecilia found herself coveting very much: indifference.
Cecilia was exhausted from months of seeking to satisfy the expectations of others. What she wouldn't give to be free of the burden of society's opinion! It seemed an impossible dream.
* * *
Cecilia paused at the doorway of the breakfast room, fortifying herself at the prospect of breakfasting with her parents.
Her father was already halfway through his plate of mutton, her mother pouring herself a cup of tea, and Tobias nowhere to be seen.
Naturally. Tobias had the freedom to go where he wanted, whenever he wanted, with no questions asked of him.
She sighed and took her seat at the table, causing her father to look up.
"Ah, my little Cecy," he said affectionately.
She smiled back at him, placing a napkin on her lap. She liked when he called her by her nickname.
He raised his brows at her enigmatically. "You have been quite busy, haven't you? Wooing marquesses and vicomtes and heaven knows who else!"
Cecilia's cheeks burned. "You're mistaken, Papa. I haven't woo'd"— she said the word with a touch of revulsion —"Lord Moulinet. Or anyone, for that matter."
"Indeed," said his wife, "Cecilia has assured me that she is quite set on having the marquess."
Cecilia's brows snapped together. Her mother must have imagined Cecilia's side of the conversation. She felt her anger rising while her hands began to shake slightly with nerves.
"Perhaps you are misremembering, Mama. And who knows? Lord Retsford's affections might transfer without warning. It would be entirely consistent with his reputation, which I admit gives me pause. He is quite old, too." Seeing her parents' displeased expressions, she felt the need to provide justification for her feelings.
"Just the other day, Letty and I came upon him in the park, and he seemed to take no small interest in her." She felt her nerves compelling her to keep speaking, as if it might delay the reactions she feared.
Her father set his wrists down on the table edge, a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, with an expression of alarm. "Letitia Broussard?" He scoffed. "The marquess isn't fool enough to trade you for her."
"She is very agreeable, Papa, and—"
"And as for his being old," her father continued, seemingly oblivious to her speaking, "why should that concern you? It only means you will outlive him to enjoy the benefits of the marquessate without the duties of a wife."
Cecilia's cheeks flamed red.
"Or perhaps," she said, unable to contain herself, "I wish to marry someone whose wife I enjoy being, rather than someone whose death I look forward to with impatience."
Both her mother and father looked at her with bemused expressions, but her father's jaw set, and the vein in his forehead protruded. "Or perhaps," he said in a biting tone, "you would do well to remember that you are still reliant on me for a dowry."
Cecilia's nostrils flared. "You would refuse me my portion if I marry anyone of less rank than a marquess?" She blew air through her nose as she stood, walking to the breakfast room door, where she turned her head to say, "Surely you are capable of coming up with another way to force your will upon others, Papa. The tactic is hardly original."
She closed the door behind her, chest heaving and eyes squeezed shut. It had been quite some time since she had been angry enough to throw one of the fits her family knew her for.
She had known just how to obtain what she wanted since she had been a little girl. If she was ever told no, if her will was ever crossed, she had but to fly into a rage for her father to capitulate.
But the anger coursing through her was different today. It was an anger bred of exhaustion, helplessness, and discontent. It was anger directed at herself as much as at her parents, for she knew that she had played no small part in the expectations which had grown up like weeds around her. She had watered those weeds, encouraging her parents to expect a brilliant match for her, ensuring that the possibilities afforded by her allure and beauty never left the forefront of their thoughts.
And now she was reaping the rewards of her own vanity.
She stalked down the corridor, clenching and unclenching her fists, suppressing a desire to scream.
The bell of the front door rang, and she stopped, listening.
Lady Caroline's now-familiar voice met her ears, muffled though it was.
Cecilia had not expected her so early in the day. But Lady Caroline was flighty and eccentric enough that it hardly surprised her.
Cecilia's eyes lit up with energy, her fingers still shaking with suppressed frustration. Who would better understand her predicament than Lady Caroline?
By the time the footman closed the door
to the morning room behind him, leaving Cecilia and Lady Caroline to themselves, Cecilia was nearly in control of her emotions. Or so she thought.
"My oh my," said Lady Caroline, her head moving from side to side as she looked at Cecilia, "you are even more beautiful in a rage. What has happened to make your eyes so bright, and your cheeks that particular shade of pink?"
Cecilia let out a large breath and shut her eyes. "Only that I am so tired. So very tired"— she punctuated each word with a pause —"of being what everyone wants me to be." She looked at Lady Caroline and smiled wryly. "I have found myself daydreaming of page boys and livery more than once since the other night." She laughed softly. "Words I never thought I would say."
Lady Caroline tilted her head to the side and tossed her shoulders up. "And what is keeping you from doing it?"
Cecilia frowned and then gave a light shrug. "Fear, I suppose."
Lady Caroline made a dismissive hand gesture. "That is no reason at all!" She paused and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "What if we did it together?"
Cecilia's brows shot up. "And where would we go?"
The mischievous smile grew. "Where have you always wished to go but never dared as a woman?"
Cecilia let out a puff of air. She had never considered it because there had been no utility in doing so. But surely the options were not as limitless as Lady Caroline implied. "As a page boy?'
Lady Caroline frowned a moment. "We need not dress as page boys. I chose that costume for a very particular reason." She suppressed a smile at whatever memory her words had triggered. "We can be gentlemen if you wish."
Cecilia's pulse quickened. Gentlemen? Her skin tingled.
It wouldn't be difficult to obtain some of Tobias's clothes. Surely they wouldn't be the snug fit they were on him, but...
"A prize fight," Cecilia said suddenly. "I wish to see a prize fight."
Lady Caroline looked at her with approbation. "Then a prize fight we shall see." She stood and began pacing, her fingers softly rubbing her dainty lips. "I will discover where the next one is taking place, and we shall go." She turned to Cecilia. "It will be quite an adventure, I think."
