Chapter 3
Trading Places
Lady Isabella was both frustrated and thrilled. She was frustrated because she could not seem to find the Earl of Balton anywhere, and yet she was thrilled because her assigned chaperone, some doddering old friend of her uncle’s, had been unable to find her. It seemed as if her little trick with the dresses had worked. Poor Camille. She’d have to apologize to her later.
As she wandered the party, being greeted admiringly by guests left and right, a small commotion at the door drew her attention. There, one of her footmen – a tall, dashing young man she had hired on sight – was arguing with another servant.
With some surprise, she recognized the gardener.
“What,” she snapped, striding over, “is he doing here?”
The footman looked scalded. “Forgive me, My Lady,” he said. “I was just about to escort him out –”
“Your Ladyship,” the gardener interrupted, bowing low. “I do sincerely apologize, but I am worried a dear friend of mine is in trouble. She disappeared hours ago and has not returned.”
“What do I care for your woodlouse of a friend?” she sneered. “I have no interest in the meagre little creatures who sneak about this place at night –”
“My Lady,” the gardener said. “She was last seen ascending to repair your gown.”
Isabella faltered. That dress had been a gift from the Marquis of Daltanborough. If something severe had happened to it …
A scream interrupted their talk. There was a hush among the crowd, as every single attendant at the ball turned as one and looked up the stairs.
“Olivia!” cried the gardener.
“My gown!” screeched the Lady.
They glanced at one another, then together they dashed up the stairs.
●●●
Olivia knew she was committing a gross indiscretion. She was alone, in a private room, with not only a man, but the Earl of Balton himself! On top of that, she was pretending to be the daughter of a Duke!
For a moment, the sheer bravado of her deeds overwhelmed her, and she felt so dizzy she had to sit down. Fortunately, the room in which they found themselves was some sort of library, each wall towering with mountains of books. A number of couches and armchairs offered the invested reader multiple options on which to sit. She chose the mahogany window seat. To its right, beautiful glass doors, currently locked, could open to a marble balcony. Perhaps even more discretion could be accomplished there.
At the thought, she placed the back of her hand to her forehead.
“My Lady?” said a concerned Lord Balton. “Are you well?”
She fluttered air onto her face with her hand, and said, “Do you ever … build an idea in your mind of who you are supposed to be, then come to a sudden realization that is not who you want to be at all?”
The Earl eyed her with curiosity and wariness. “I have,” he said at last. “As an Earl, many expectations are heaped on me. Sometimes …” He lowered his voice, then leaned in to whisper to her, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. “Sometimes I fantasize about simply mounting my horse and riding away. Living my life free of regalia and gentry rules and the burden of responsibility. Is that what you mean?”
Olivia could not help but laugh.
“Not at all,” she murmured. “Trust me, my Lord, living one’s life as a nobody is no form of freedom.”
He shifted closer to her on the seat. Their hips were almost touching.
“I would have never guessed that the Lady Isabella Roslyn shared such empathy with the lowly and the unfortunate. It really is a … remarkably refreshing quality.”
Olivia felt her heart pounding. It was strange. Disguised as another, she was voicing emotions to this stranger she had never muttered in her lifetime. Why did she feel he could understand? Was it simply she was unafraid to expose herself, camouflaged as she was? Or was it something else?
She gazed into his eyes, so open, trusting, and concerned. So curious, as if he wanted to explore every part of her as eagerly as she had wanted to explore Paradise Lost.
Perhaps, she thought, even more so.
Curious, she pulled the book out of a fold in her gown and showed it to him.
“Have you ever read this?” she asked politely. She could feel his eyes drifting away from her face and to other parts of her body. Finally, they alighted on the book.
“Oh yes,” he said. “At least twice. Another remarkable and surprising look into the perspective of the different, don’t you think?”
Olivia smiled grimly to herself. He was not in fact lying. He had read it. If he were to find out who she really was, what would he think her? Angel or demon?
But apparently, that was not what he wanted to discuss.
“The literature reading, servant-sympathizing, kind and mild Lady Isabella,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Before this night, we had never conversed. Only seen each other from across a rowdy, bawdy ballroom. Why on Earth did I wait until now to truly talk to you?”
His lips were a finger’s width from hers. Olivia’s mind raced. Somehow, she did not think he, in that moment, wanted to talk.
A sudden boldness took her. She stepped forward, planting her lips on his, heaving her breath so their bodies touched, and their arms encircled each other’s waists. “You are mistaken,” she whispered, pausing for breath.
“About what?”
“You did not wait until this night to talk to me. I waited until this night to talk to you. For this chance, above all others, is perfect …”
He smiled, oblivious of course to what she really meant, but completely unbothered by it.
He bent close once more to kiss her.
The sound of breaking glass wrenched them from their reverie.
A black-clad hand had punctured the balcony door, and was now turning the knob to get inside.
Olivia screamed. Lord Balton pointed to a shadowed corner behind a bookshelf. “Isabella, hide there,” he whispered. From an end table, he seized a plaster bust of Queen Elizabeth and raised it in anticipation.
The black-garbed figure burst through.
“Where is the Duke’s daughter?” he cried, raising a loaded pistol.
“Get out of here, you wretch!” Lord Balton shouted as he dived to one side just as the intruder fired his pistol.
The gunshot reverberated through the house. Olivia screamed and came out of her hiding place. The bullet had grazed the Earl’s bicep and left a line of blood. But he was unfazed, and he charged the intruder. He swung the bust at the masked man, but the man jumped aside, and the bust missed his head and landed awkwardly with a thump on his shoulder. The gunman cried out in pain, muffled by his fabric mask, but his gun was still raised, still deadly.
Keeping the gun trained on Lord Balton, he approached the prostrate Olivia. “So there you are. Come with me, Lady harlot, and I will not kill your lover.”
He, too, thinks I am Lady Isabella!
“I’m not the Lady!” she cried, crawling away from him. She felt her lovely, stolen, incriminating dress catching on the floor and tearing as she tried to clamber away.
Lord Balton took a step toward the gunman.
“Ah! Hold, dear Earl,” the intruder hissed. “My first bullet only tasted you. The next will want a meal.”
Just then, the door to the library flew open. The last two people in the world Olivia expected to see burst in: The Lady Isabella, and Thomas.
“Thomas, watch out!” Olivia cried, as the intruder swung his gun from pointing at Lord Balton to aiming at the lowly gardener.
Thomas seized the Lady Isabella and spun her behind him, using his broad and muscular back as a living shield. Olivia watched in terror as the intruder tightened his finger on the trigger …
Thump! Isabella clung to Thomas, who grunted in fear. Olivia shrieked and closed her eyes. Everyone winced.
The gunman was lying unconscious on the floor. He had made the mistake of taking his eye off Lord Balton when Thomas
and Lady Isabella entered, allowing Lord Balton the opportunity to break the plaster bust over the intruder’s head. It lay in a thousand pieces alongside the gunman, whose head already sported an angry red welt.
“Oh, help me,” Olivia cried, then dissolved in tears.
“My gown,” lamented Isabella, nearly fainting in Thomas’ arms.
The Duke of Brexington appeared at the door. With his cunning, clever eyes, he seemed to register in a moment what had happened.
“What did I tell you, Lady Isabella?” he thundered. “I feared for your safety.”
“You,” he ordered, pointing at Olivia. “And you,” he snapped, pointing at Isabella. “Into my quarters, now.”
Much too numb to care that she had been caught, Olivia stiffly staggered to her feet and followed the Duke and Lady Isabella from the room.
The last thing he heard was Thomas say awkwardly, “Good evening to you, Lord Balton.”
“Good evening, Mr…”
“Ashburn.”
“Ah, yes. Mr. Ashburn. Tie this scoundrel up before he comes to, and notify the police immediately.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas said.
●●●
Although this was, of course, not his permanent estate, His Grace visited the Lady’s household often enough to afford a resident office. Olivia had, in fact, been in there to tidy up the room several times.
The Duke threw a log into the smouldering fire, sat at his desk, placed his head in his hands, and for several long moments did not say anything.
Lady Isabella, instead, turned upon Olivia.
“You lying, stinking little thief,” she hissed, as beautiful and frightening as an angry swan. “You stole my gown. And –” She saw the corner of Paradise Lost, poking from the reticule designed to be hidden in a slit of the dress. “And my father’s books. How dare you. You’re fired! In fact, I’ll have you hanged. You can even wear my pretty little gown while you dangle. It’s ruined anyway –”
“Darling niece,” the Duke interrupted. “This young wench’s thievery might just have saved your life.”
Isabella turned to him, startled.
But the Duke spoke now to Olivia. “Correct me if I am wrong, but the assailant mistook you for Her Ladyship, did he not?”
Olivia returned him a trembling nod.
“As did Lady Mariam Horschester?”
Another nod.
“Why?”
“I …” Olivia fumbled for her words. “She believed her Ladyship to be wearing this golden gown. I imagine the intruder thought the same.”
“I see. And why were you wearing this gown?”
She wished she could simply shrivel up on the spot.
“I … Miss Camille ordered me to repair it, and I thought ... with a gown like this … I could attend the ball.”
“Ah! You snake!” thundered Isabella. “You deceitful little cow dropping, how dare you steal my clothes, and even think you could pass for the gentry that walk my fine halls? You filthy, ugly, skinny, spotted little toad –”
“Actually, my Bella, I think that this housemaid – what is your name?”
“Miss … Olivia,” she stammered.
“I think that Miss Olivia looks remarkably like you. Don’t you agree?”
“She looks nothing of the sort,” snapped Isabella, but Olivia took a moment to ponder it. They had the same golden hair, the same slim, elegant frame that each fit so well in the incriminating gown. They even had similar mouths, with full, dainty lips that curled into China-doll-like smiles.
“Perhaps, Your Grace,” she ventured. “Even the Earl of Balton, who had seen her Ladyship before, believed me to be her.”
“Did he now? That’s very interesting. I wonder; does he still believe it?”
“I could not say, Sir. The events following the gunshot were very confusing. I could not imagine whether he could have pieced together the true identity of her Ladyship from those few chaotic moments.”
“Well, of course he did!” shouted Isabella, stomping her foot. “The Earl and I have a profound connection, which …”
Olivia did her best not to smile, but, evidently, she failed, for the look on her face spurred the Lady into further rage.
“Uncle!” she cried. “Arrange for the execution of this upstart at once. I want her strung up like the common criminal she is –”
“Oh, do be quiet, Isabella,” the Duke demanded wearily. More out of shock than obedience, the Lady Isabella hushed her tongue. “Don’t you realize that you, your life, was deliberately and intentionally threatened this night? I have warned you. So long as your father’s life hangs in doubt, you will be in danger. Though the lavish parties and balls may not indicate it, these are dangerous times. My darling, you are in danger. So, too, are you, Miss Olivia, for my niece is perfectly entitled to have you hanged for your crimes. However, I have a proposition that will perhaps suit you both.”
Isabella glared in frank disdain. Olivia had a timid curiosity she would not dare call hope.
“Miss Olivia, I propose you continue to impersonate the Lady Isabella until such time as we receive news of her father’s fate from the Napoleonic front. That way, any subterfuge or assassination attempts will be centred on you, rather than the true Lady. In exchange, your thievery and your deceit will be forgiven. Understood?”
This? This was to be her punishment? To continue to play out this fantasy? Was this what she was supposed to understand?
“I … I do,” she murmured, so eager to contain her joy that she managed little more than a whisper.
“And what am I supposed to do?” Isabella said in a shrill voice. “Pretend to be a maid?”
“Precisely,” said the Duke.
Isabella gasped. For a moment, she was as frozen as a marble statue, unable to move or speak.
“Mr. Ashburn, the gardener, will guide you,” the Duke said. “If he has not figured out the switch already, he will certainly work it out at some point. I am told he is a reasonably intelligent man, for a commoner.”
In her heart, Olivia felt a swelling of pride for her friend. That was high praise, from a Duke. This pride, however, was quickly replaced by pity (and, she acknowledged, some degree of humour) when she realized what that meant: Thomas would be stuck mentoring an angry Duke’s daughter for God knows how long.
She fought, quite strongly, the desire to laugh.
“I will not do it,” declared Isabella, who obviously had returned to her venomous self. She slammed her fist on her Uncle’s desk, quite unladylike.
“You will!” thundered the Duke, rising from his chair. “Because I am your superior. Your only other option is this: you shut yourself up in this place, and hear nor speak to anyone. You can become a prisoner in your own home, or you can gallivant as a housemaid for a time. Which, my free-spirited, ever capricious niece, would you prefer?”
Isabella crossed her arms and scowled. For a time, Olivia thought she would prefer self-imprisonment, simply to spite her Uncle. Then, at last, her curiosity won out.
“Order the gardener a bath,” she sulked. “I will not be seen in the company of an unwashed lowlife, certainly not.”
And with that, still grumbling, she stomped without dismissal from the room.
There was a shadow of a smile on the Duke’s severe face. “You may go,” he told Olivia.
She curtsied and said, “Good night, Your Grace,” and tiptoed from the chamber.
“Remember,” he called after her. “You sleep in the master quarters tonight.”
But Olivia remembered. She was not concerned that an assassin might be after her, or that political intrigue might claim her throat before the morrow had dawned. For tonight, she would be sleeping in a bedroom fit for a queen.
Once her door was safely locked behind her, she let out a whoop of joy.
●●●
Lady Isabella, meanwhile, begrudgingly went to call the gardener – Mr. Ashbin, Askton, something of the sort – out to the patio to speak to him.
Before she could get him in private, however, the Earl of Balton, who had been waiting with him, called to her, “Miss! Please, Miss! Is the Lady Isabella all right?”
Thomas opened his mouth in confusion, but Isabella silenced him with a glare.
Though gritted teeth she responded: “She is well, but fatigued. The Duke has sent her to bed. He recommends your return to the ball. Now, Mr. whomever, come with me.”
She seized the startled and baffled gardener by the hand and led him out the door, the Earl’s gaze following hopefully after her.
“Mr. Ashburn,” he said, when they were on the private patio.
“What?” she snapped.
“My name is Mr. Ashburn.”
She glared at him. “You could not begin to fathom how little I care,” she said.
Thomas glared right back. “Oh, I think I can,” he replied. “You care as little, I’d imagine, as you do for Miss Olivia. Which is why I’m wondering why you would allow Lord Balton to believe she is you.”
Isabella was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps her Uncle was right about the gardener’s intelligence. Yet, she could not let Mr. Ashburn know that.
With as much disdain as she could muster, Isabella explained the dangers she was facing, and the Duke’s plan to attend to it. Thomas listened at first with surprise, then disbelief, and then, finally, anger.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I will not allow Miss Olivia to be subjected to the power-hungry failings of your class.”
“Your Miss Olivia does not have a choice,” sneered Isabella. “It is this or the gallows. She stole from me, you see, a gown worth more than you’d make in a year.”
Thomas was stunned. “That was why she was wearing …”
He suddenly wilted.
“I could never make her happy,” he said.
“Of course you couldn’t,” Isabella said. “Men don’t make women happy. They make them rich. That’s their total function.”
Thomas gave her a sour look.
“So, what does this have to do with me?” he asked.
“You are to be my guide, of course. You shall, ah, school me in the ways of being common. You should consider yourself lucky. Most men would kill to spend such time with me.”
“Too bad the last one failed,” Thomas muttered under his breath. Isabella heard him, but found it too amusing to take offence.
“Look, Mr. Ashburn,” she said. “Do you accept or not?”
Thomas sighed, worrying his hat in his hands. At last, he said, “If I help you, and keep your secret safe, will you let Olivia free at the end? Would she be safe from punishment, for the past, and for any mistakes she makes in her impersonation?”
“That is the way of it,” the Lady said.
“Yes, my Lady. I shall do it.” He said this like a man confessing to a felony.
“Great,” she said and clapped her hands in anticipation. “So, what do we do first?”
A menacing smile crept across his face. “First,” he said, “I show you where you sleep.”
A wave of disgust surged through Isabella. Where did the servants sleep? She found that, though she had had them her entire life, she hadn’t the faintest idea. Were there perhaps mounds of dirt behind the gardener’s cabin? Maybe they set up little tents, making sure to hide their existence by constructing them well after she went to bed and dismantling them before dawn.
She was quite relieved, therefore, when they started walking back through the house.
“Ah, through the servant’s door,” Thomas admonished her as she took a step towards the grand entrance. Scowling, she changed her course, and veered to the tiny wooden entrance, hidden beneath the back stairs. Grimacing, she touched the greasy knob and went inside.
Once in, Thomas pointed to a long, winding staircase that disappeared into the zenith of the house. At first, she thought he jested, but his wry, condescending look soon proved it otherwise.
Up they wound until Isabella found herself growing dizzy with fatigue. Though she hated to do it, she had to take Thomas’ hand to make the final ascension. There, in the tiniest, windowless garret, on a mattress of straw, was where she was supposed to sleep.
“Good night, your highness,” Thomas mocked, before bowing from the room. Isabella could hear him sniggering all the way down the stairs.
She assessed the room before her. “Well,” she sniffed, “the humidity will be good for my hair.” Then she collapsed on the “bed” and cried her sorry, made-up eyes out. It seemed she had barely closed her eyes to sleep when the scratchy voice of Mrs. Mason clawed upon her door until she awoke to do her chores.
Regency Romance: Each Other Page 3
