Andrews Brothers 01 - The Ruse

by Felicia Rogers

  What would the young lady do when she realized that her husband wasn’t the baron? He smiled. She would probably stab a dagger into his heart. The kitchen staff would need to be told to keep all knives from her supper plate.

  He needed a plan and he needed one quick.

  ****

  Streaks of red and gold light peeked through the chink in the shutters. Brigitta shivered and hitched the quilt higher. The fire had died during her slumber and she had no wood to start another. Roland had told her earlier that her life could be easy or hard, it was her choice, and apparently she had chosen poorly.

  Sighing, she unwrapped the quilt and stood. Slippers swathed her feet, the fur lining comforting every toe. The bed still sagged faintly in the middle. She felt of the material, and her hand came away damp.

  Wet gowns lined the furniture. Her stomach growled. Anger filled her at this situation. She was the baroness, not an ordinary person to be trifled with.

  Flinging the door wide, she stomped into the hallway and glared at the livered footmen guarding the door. “I’m going downstairs,” she proclaimed.

  Aghast, they studied one another with their mouths agape. She had gotten five steps along the hall when a hand grasped her arm.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but we have orders—”

  “That’s absurd. I’m the Baroness of Stockport. My bed is soaked, my gowns are wet, and I’m using a quilt for warmth. And I skipped yesterday’s mid-day meal. Now, you can move aside and allow me access to the kitchens, or at the next tour I will scream about these atrocities until the walls fall around the visitors’ ears.”

  The footman released his grip, took a step back, and lowered his head.

  “Thank you.” She lifted her chin with dignity and poise and went in search of the kitchen’s warmth, uttering a word of praise because Chadwick’s staff were ill-trained.

  ****

  “You did what?” drifted Roland’s question through Luke’s closed door.

  The footman’s reply was muffled and Luke drew closer.

  “—she gave me no choice. She threatened to tell the tourists.”

  “Pshaw. What has she to tell? She lives in a noble estate surrounded with servants.”

  “With no bed, food, clothing, or wood for heat.”

  “That is preposterous,” sputtered Roland.

  “Nay, it is not. I checked her rooms—”

  The sound of a slap echoed. “You insolent fool. You will not enter her rooms. You will do nothing unless I tell you to do so.”

  “But—”

  “Leave my sight and return to your post. I will deal with this after I speak w-with…” Roland didn’t finish his sentence.

  The footman didn’t reply, and Luke hastened back to the fireplace and leaned his arm on the mantel. Minutes passed before the door opened behind him. He placed a brooding look on his face and swung to meet his visitor.

  “It is about time, Roland. I called for you hours ago.”

  “Your lordship, forgive me, but when you summoned me it was well past midnight and I assumed you were resting.”

  “Humph.”

  “Please allow me to assist you.”

  “I want to plan a masked ball.”

  “Your lordship?” asked Roland, a worried look covering his face.

  Luke cleared his throat to keep from smiling at Roland’s obvious hesitation. “You heard me. One like Stockport has never seen, nor will see again. One with lords and ladies from surrounding areas. One where the faces of the women are displayed in all their natural beauty, and the gentlemen are covered.” He paused for effect then added, “When can it be done?”

  Roland sputtered and stumbled over an answer.

  “Good. As soon as you have begun preparations, we will discuss the guest list.” Luke paced his room and tapped his finger to his chin.

  “Your lordship…” began Roland.

  “Yes?”

  “Your lordship, at this time a ball would be ill advised.”

  Luke crossed his arms. “Why?”

  “Well, you see, um…”

  “Yes?”

  Roland drew his form upward, straightened his spine, and puffed out his chest. The man was a head shorter than Luke, with a gut that protruded forward and jiggled with every movement. Gold braided velvet stretched taut against his girth. Sweat beaded his wrinkled brow.

  “Your lordship, forgive me, but the treasury can hardly afford a ball.”

  “Oh, you’re too modest. Jarvis has explained what an excellent job you’ve done at procuring funds for the estate.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I believe the event should occur in two weeks time, don’t you think?”

  Roland sighed and rattled his hefty jowls.

  “Good. We shall discuss this further as the time grows near.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Roland backed out of the room and Luke struggled to hide his satisfied smile.

  Chapter Ten

  Letta whistled as she entered the kitchen.

  Brigitta waved at the young lady’s maid. She had just stuffed a sweet into her mouth and her jaws were incapable of speech. Finished chewing, she wiped her hands on a towel and said, “Good morning.”

  Letta shook her head and stared.

  “This must seem rather odd. I mean, me, out of my room, in the kitchen, no less. But I had to come and get something to eat. Besides, my room is so cold that my tongue was freezing to the roof of my mouth. Listen to me prattle on. Do forgive me but lack of sleep makes me addled.”

  Letta nodded.

  “Apparently, the hour isn’t as early as I presumed.”

  “The rooster has crowed, my lady.”

  “When does that infernal creature not crow?”

  Letta smiled.

  Brigitta changed the subject. In between bites, she said, “Letta, I’m afraid my gowns are in disrepair. I would like to order new ones immediately.”

  Letta opened her mouth to reply when voices and footsteps approached. Brigitta placed her finger across her lips and slipped into a dark corner.

  Two scullery maids filtered into the room, their arms full of vegetables from the kitchen garden. Excitedly, they chatted. “Have you heard the news? There’s to be a masked ball.”

  “A masked ball at Stockport?”

  “Aye, a masked ball.” The last was said with a breathy sigh as the maid twirled, landing against pots and pans and creating a cacophony of sound.

  They paused briefly when they noticed Letta, but that didn’t persist long. They washed and chopped the vegetables as they continued chatting.

  “The ball is to occur in a fortnight, which is hardly enough time to gather supplies. Why, we’ll have to coax the poor hens now or we won’t have enough eggs.”

  “Clarice, do you see nothing but the work? What of the magic, the adventure?”

  “How can you be so elated? You’re a mite happier than seems expected.”

  “Clarice, don’t you see? Fine liveried footmen from other estates will be in attendance. We might meet the man of our dreams and be whisked away to another place, maybe even a palace, one with fairies.”

  Knives thumped against a cutting board and vegetables splashed into a large cook pot.

  “Maude, your notion of fancy will send you into the arms of a beast. Besides, fancy servants and new estates will only bring servitude in a different shire.”

  Maude laughed and Clarice rifled through the larder. Extra pots thumped on the cast iron stove. Heat in the room increased from comfortable to unbearable. Brigitta looked to escape. Letta must have noticed her plight, for she pulled the two scullery maids aside and distracted them while Brigitta slid out of hiding.

  Upstairs, she lifted her chin and passed the gawking footmen. Inside her room she plotted. Letta arrived shortly thereafter and, taking one look around the room, she gasped in veritable horror.

  “My lady!”

  “Oh, Letta. Come.”

  “But my lady! Yo
ur gowns! Your bed! Your mattress! They are all ruined.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Now that the subject has been thoroughly discussed, I need your help.”

  “My help, my lady?”

  “Do stop repeating me, Letta, or this will take all day to communicate.”

  Letta nodded.

  “Good. Did I understand correctly that there is to be a masked ball at Stockport?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “No doubt the baron will continue to sequester me in my suite. Therefore I need to devise a scheme to leave my room.”

  “You will need a gown also, my lady.”

  “Very astute, Letta. That is where I need your assistance.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. As there is no seamstress among the staff capable of handling this project, I will need you to travel to the village and engage a seamstress to create a gown for me.”

  “But—”

  “I want the gown to be of palest blue silk, almost so pale it appears white. I will also need gloves and dancing slippers.”

  “But, my lady—”

  “And a ribbon to weave through my hair.”

  “But, my lady—”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “How will I pay for these things?”

  “You will let the workers know my true identity. That I’m Brigitta Blackburn, that I hail from their midst, and that I have the power to help them, and if they assist me without comment I shall not forget them. And if that doesn’t work, just open an account in my name.”

  Letta widened her eyes, her expression one of grave civility. Brigitta understood her concerns but saw no other way. If only she could gather a private audience with her husband, all would be well. The masked ball was the chance she’d been waiting for.

  ****

  Jarvis arrived in the library. His gangly form reminded Luke of a billowing reed and he smiled.

  The valet didn’t speak until Luke nodded. When he did, he seemed uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot and wringing his hands. “Your lordship, I have word.”

  “Good.”

  “Roland is worried. So many people believe Chadwick is the baron and that the baron is married. He is unsure how to proceed with your request.”

  “Anything else?”

  Jarvis rubbed his temple. “And Brigitta plans to attend.”

  Luke clapped his hands. “Excellent.”

  “Will there be anything else, your lordship?”

  “I will require a disguise.”

  “A disguise?”

  “Yes, and make sure Roland believes I will be unable to attend.”

  “My lord?”

  “When we draw nigh to the event, you will tell him I feel ill, but I wish for the ball to go ahead as planned.”

  “As you wish.” Jarvis bowed and turned toward the door.

  “Jarvis, before you leave, I need you to deliver a letter to the village. I’ve taken the liberty of writing the address down on this slip of paper. Make sure you don’t lose it.”

  Jarvis bowed and left the room. Discreetly, Luke followed. Jarvis rounded a corner and smacked into Roland. After the necessary apologizes, Jarvis said, “Roland, sir, the baron asked me to give you a message.”

  “Yes?”

  “I fear he has taken ill.”

  Roland’s eyes widened and he gasped.

  Luke smacked his forehead. Had Jarvis not listened to a word he’d said?

  The valet continued, “There is nothing to be concerned about. It is naught more than the changing weather from London to Stockport. Takes a bit of getting used to.”

  “What of the masked ball?”

  “He insists the ball go forward as planned.”

  “This is good news.” Roland paced and tapped his finger to his chin.

  “I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jarvis bowed and hurried away. Roland murmured, “Chadwick will be pleased. Now he can attend without fear of discovery.”

  Luke’s felicity couldn’t have been greater. Roland’s continued duplicity proved true, which meant his own plan should work perfectly.

  Chapter Eleven

  Two weeks passed in a flurry of activity. Bakers and butchers from local towns offered their talents. Seamstresses and tailors busily filled orders. Every noble, wealthy merchant, and important landowner within a day’s ride agreed to attend the festivities.

  “Jarvis, I’m officially surprised.”

  “Your lordship?”

  “I can’t believe all these acceptance letters.”

  “They will be easier to believe this afternoon.”

  “I suppose you are correct. When the lane is filled with barouches, sulkies, carriages, and other means of transport, it will be impossible to deny.”

  As if drawn into existence by Jarvis’ words, the first hoofbeats clopped along the lane. Luke lunged from his desk and hurried to the window. The open-air barouche shuddered to a halt, horses stamping, and footmen rushed to help those within.

  Ladies filed from the barouche and twittered their fans. Gentlemen lifted masks and covered their expressions.

  “Your lordship, are you sure this is what you want? Perhaps it would be better if you present yourself formally instead of pretending to be ill. Chadwick and you are not so different in expression and build. It has often been commented amongst the staff and the villagers that perhaps you two are actually twins, so I believe most people wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “Except for my wife,” said Luke, with a grin lifting the corners of his lips.

  “Yes, your lordship, your wife might notice.”

  “Besides, if I took your advice, what would I do with Chadwick? Would I confess his duplicity before the guests? No, I believe I should stick to my original plan.”

  “Pardon, my lord, but I don’t understand how you benefit by allowing Chadwick to continue the ruse?”

  Luke pondered the question. How did he benefit? The only advantage to him was time. Time to review his feelings, time to pursue an investigation, time to acquire the appropriate paper work.

  An image of Brigitta swirled through his mind and he fought a sigh. “Jarvis, some things are not easy to explain.”

  “Perhaps not, your lordship.”

  “Keep your eyes open at the ball. I expect a full report.”

  Jarvis bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”

  The valet left. Luke dressed and stood before the mirror. The tailed, double-breasted coat covered a white linen shirt. His breeches were buckled neatly atop his silk stockings, and his dancing shoes gleamed. He tied the mask over his eyes and placed a hat over his short hair.

  Studying the effect, he was happy with what he saw. Even the staff who knew him would have a hard time distinguishing him. Whistling under his breath, he lifted his cane and walked toward the ballroom.

  ****

  “You can’t possibly expect me to miss the biggest event Stockport has ever had!” exclaimed Chadwick, pacing his suite of rooms.

  Horses and carriages converged on the estate. The line of vehicles wound to the village and escorted people to the door only to leave and return with more guests.

  “Sir, I urge you to listen to me. Your brother is sequestered in his room with illness. If you show up and pretend to be him, then he will learn of our deception.”

  “And what do I care if he knows? I can make up some story that the people mislabeled me and I didn’t wish to embarrass them by correcting their misconception.”

  “Sir, you must heed my warnings. Perhaps you should retire to the village for a nice game of Faro.”

  “Encouraging me to gamble, are you, Roland? That is completely unlike you. Are you really so worried about Luke?” Roland didn’t answer and Chadwick continued, “You shouldn’t be, you know. Luke will accept whatever I tell him.”

  “That is what I fear,” whispered Roland.

  Chadwick laughed. “You fear I will place the blame with you. Well, fear not. I have no
intention of giving you the credit for my hard work. The plan was mine and the actions were mine. I made the money for the estate, of course I spent it as well, but that is of little consequence. Now, I want you to find me the best outfit I have. Have one of the maids secure me a mask. And after you do that, then I want you to escort Brigitta to the hall. Perhaps I will be able to rile her and we can rectify our situation yet.”

  Roland bowed and left.

  ****

  The material of the evening gown was thin, almost translucent. The short sleeves and low neckline bared more flesh than she was used to. The high waist squeezed her middle and she drew in a sharp breath. Long elbow-length gloves complemented the ensemble. Letta swept Brigitta’s hair upward and arranged it so several ringlets lay against her face.

  “My lady, you’re beautiful.”

  Heat rushed to Brigitta’s cheeks, and she said, “Thank you.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what is your plan?”

  Normal etiquette dictated that she chastise the maid, but excitement welled inside her, and since she had no one else to share with, she said, “My plan is to find the baron and speak with him. I’m sure if he will but give me a chance to explain my erratic behavior, then we can begin to enjoy our marriage.”

  Letta twisted her head and peered at the door. Whispered words flowed through the wooden panels.

  “What do you think they are saying, my lady?”

  “I believe they are devising a way to keep me in my room, but no matter. I will escape and enter the ball if I have to descend from my window in full view of all the carriages.”

  “My lady!”

  Brigitta shrugged and pride swelled in her breast that she was able to shock the maid. She gnawed at her lip as the door opened and Roland walked inside.

  “Letta, leave.”

  Letta curtsied in her direction and scurried from the room. Brigitta stood tall and lifted her chin with a regal air.

  “Roland, so nice of you to arrive in time to escort me to the ball.”

  “My lady, I do apologize for having kept you waiting.” He held his arm out to her and she gasped. “My lady?”