No longer able to control herself, Lucy burst into tears.
“What’s wrong?” Chloe exclaimed. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“I am!” Lucy wiped her eyes with the edge of the sheet. “He’s lovely and almost good enough for you. I don’t want to spoil your happiness. But . . .” She drew a ragged breath. “Gregory didn’t want to talk to me. Or touch me. When changing partners brought us together in a dance, he looked like he wanted to run away rather than take my hand for a few moments. He did run away after the dance. Paid his respects to the Randalls and left immediately after. I . . . I knew his feelings were unengaged, but it hurts that he hates me.”
“How very odd,” Chloe said thoughtfully. “If he’d half forgotten you, his most likely reaction would be indifference, but his behavior was not indifferent. He has no reason to hate you. No one hates you. You are the rarest of creatures, a beautiful girl who is universally liked. Perhaps he likes you too much?”
Lucy swallowed a hiccup. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“No? The man has spent years at war, doing dark and dreadful deeds that we can only imagine. He comes home and sees a girl he’s always liked all grown up into a woman, but she looks so innocent and refined that he feels wholly unworthy.” Chloe paused dramatically. “Afraid of his own passions, he flees for the sake of honor!”
“That is absurd!” Lucy exclaimed.
“Is it?” Chloe retorted. “He might not want to touch you, but I hear he doesn’t mind touching the barmaids at the Willing Wench.” Then she clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes rounding.
“I beg your pardon?” Lucy stared at her friend. “Gregory is doing what?”
Chloe sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you. I must still be suffering from the champagne. In the retiring room I chatted with Helen Merchant. She’s Gregory’s cousin, you know. She said the whole family is worried about him. Since coming back from Spain, he hardly talks to anyone. Polite, but he just slides away. Rides or walks all day, and spends his evenings at the Willing Wench. He can apparently relax with the barmaids, if nowhere else.”
“Drinking and risking the pox?” Lucy said icily. “He won’t even touch my gloved hand, but he’ll have a jolly time with a tavern wench?”
Her tone was so menacing that Chloe said soothingly, “It’s just how men are, Lucy. You’re a lady. You belong on a pedestal. With you, he’d have to be a gentleman, and he’s just not ready for that.”
“That is insulting to both ladies and wenches!” Lucy exclaimed. “Barmaids from the Willing Wench have called on my father for help or spiritual guidance. They are women just like we are. Some are mothers trying to raise their babes. Others need to work if they’re to eat. They deserve to be treated with respect.” Her head swung around to Chloe, her eyes glittering. “And I deserve to be treated like a woman, not a lady!”
“What does that mean?” Chloe asked warily. “The last time I saw that look in your eyes, you sold the pearls you inherited from your grandmother to buy winter garments for the inhabitants of the parish workhouse.”
“Yes, and I’m not sorry.” Lucy’s parents had been shocked, then understanding. Her father had thanked her for the lesson in charity and organized a parish committee to improve workhouse conditions. Then he bought back the necklace and said he’d give it to his first granddaughter when he had one, in the hopes that she’d think twice before selling a family treasure.
“How do you plan to administer justice this time?” Chloe asked, even warier.
“I am going to dress like a barmaid, kiss him in a way he’ll never forget, and then walk away from . . .” Her voice faltered. “I’ll walk away from my dreams of him and move forward with my life. I want to marry and have children, and I’ve had several suitors who would have been worth closer study if my interest hadn’t been elsewhere.”
“Every eligible young man in the shire would come running if you dropped your handkerchief,” Chloe said. “Just don’t toss the handkerchief in Jeremy’s direction!”
“I’d never do that! And if I did, he wouldn’t even notice. I saw how he looked at you tonight. Since you’re now looking at him the same way, it’s just a matter of time.”
“I hope you’re right! But let us return to your comment about going to the tavern and kissing Gregory Kenmore. You were joking, weren’t you?”
“I was not!” Lucy’s jaw set stubbornly. “Kissing has a great deal to do with love and marriage, and I think I need to do this if I am to stop pining for Gregory.” She’d dreamed of him in ways an innocent vicar’s daughter shouldn’t. Those dreams would haunt her if she didn’t prove to herself that there had never been a true attraction, only girlish fantasy.
“That is a truly bad idea,” Chloe said, shocked. “You can’t go to the tavern without being recognized! What would people think? Your reputation might be tarnished beyond repair!”
“I’ll disguise myself. Remember how we used to play dress-up with the old clothes in your attic? One of those gowns and a wig will change my appearance out of all recognition.” She grimaced. “It isn’t as if Gregory looked at me closely enough that he’d recognize me even if I came in my usual garb.”
Chloe pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It’s possible that you can disguise yourself well enough to pass as a barmaid, but still, a tavern!”
“The Willing Wench might be no place for ladies, but it’s safe enough. Just about every man in the parish stops by now and then to have a pint. Our maid Anne’s cousin is in charge of the barmaids there. I’m sure she’ll tell me how to go on. Will you stay at my house one night and help me with the clothing?”
Chloe sighed. “Very well, since you’re determined. We can choose a suitable costume in the morning before you go home. But please, be careful!”
“I’ll be as careful as I want to be,” Lucy replied. Which wasn’t at all the same thing.
“Ouch!” Lucy gasped as Chloe tightened the laces on her old-fashioned corset. Two nights had passed since the holiday ball, and this was the night when she would put her plan into action. “This corset is much tighter than my usual stays.”
“It needs to be tight if you’re to fit into this properly.” Chloe lifted the blue cotton brocade gown and dropped it over Lucy’s head and started lacing up the back.
Lucy smoothed the skirts down, enjoying the fullness. The gown had belonged to one of Chloe’s great-aunts, and the medium blue shade went well with her blue eyes. The style was simple enough that it didn’t look too horribly out of date, and it had dramatically low décolletage. She studied herself with some dismay. “This gown was designed to be worn with a fichu tucked around the neckline. If I don’t wear one, I risk lung fever.”
“You will not wear a fichu! You need to show enough of yourself that men won’t look at your face.” Chloe’s voice changed. “You don’t have to do this. You can change into your nightgown and we can giggle until your mother comes to tell us to be quiet.”
“I do have to do this,” Lucy said immediately. Even to herself, she had trouble explaining her reasons, but going to the tavern and inducing Gregory Kenmore to flirt with her seemed like some necessary rite of passage. She needed to be more than the vicar’s obedient daughter if she was to cut Gregory from her heart and mind. And she needed to believe that she was a desirable woman, not just a prim girl on a pedestal.
“At least the Willing Wench is only a short walk away,” Chloe said with resignation. “But I feel I should go with you.”
“I won’t be alone. Anne’s cousin Daisy has promised to keep an eye on me and intervene if I get into trouble.” Lucy practiced breathing and decided that she could move well enough to carry tankards of ale. “Now for the wig.”
Chloe carefully settled the dark wig on her head again and pinned it in place. It was a provocative tumble of dark waves and curls. Lucy muttered, “It’s hard to believe that people used to wear wigs all the time from choice.”
“At least this wig never had mice l
iving in it. Some of the hairstyle stories my grandmother told me would make strong men faint.”
Lucy shuddered. “Time to see if I look suitably wenchly.” She stepped in front of the long mirror and saw . . . a stranger. A dark-haired and very exposed stranger. Her hands flew up to cover the upper curves of her breasts. “I look like a trollop!”
“That’s what you wanted.” Chloe studied her critically. “That décolletage is truly impressive. Your usual clothing disguises what a fine figure you have.”
Lucy stared at herself in horrified fascination. She had no idea how much of her there was! “It’s the corset, not me.”
“The corset has to have something to push up,” Chloe pointed out with a chuckle. “You need some cosmetics. Your complexion is too pale for the hair, and you look too innocent.” She opened a pouch and produced a hare’s foot. After she brushed color on Lucy’s cheeks, she said, “Use that pot of red salve for your lips.”
Lucy stroked on salve, then considered her more colorful image. Clearly she was painted. Nice women didn’t paint. “There’s no mistaking what I am now.”
Chloe bit her lip. “Please don’t go, Lucy. Gregory Kenmore isn’t worth your humiliating yourself like this.”
“Humiliating?” Lucy put a hand on her hip and wriggled. The mirror reflected a brassy, confident woman. Vulgar, but strong. A woman very different from the vicar’s daughter. “I think looking like this is . . . is very freeing.” Turning from the mirror, she donned the plain navy blue cloak she would wear. “It’s going to be an interesting night!”
Chapter 3
Despite her bold words to her friend, Lucy’s nerves were tied in knots as she approached the Willing Wench. It stood near at the intersection of the main London road and the small road that led into Roscombe Village. Only fifteen minutes’ brisk walk from the vicarage, yet she’d never set foot inside.
A lamp hung over the open door of the livery stable. She could see it was well populated with horses, though most of the patrons would have walked here from the village or nearby farms.
Daisy had said to come in the back door, through the kitchen. As soon as Lucy opened the door, she heard boisterous talk and laughter. Not threatening, but . . . very different from what she was used to.
This was her last chance to turn back.
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
A sweating female cook said, “You must be Daisy’s friend come to help out. We need more girls. The place is powerful busy this time of year. What’s your name?”
Thinking quickly as she removed her cloak, Lucy said, “Lacey.”
The cook barked a laugh. “A good name.” She scanned her new barmaid and gave a nod. “You’ll be popular even if you spill ale on the customers’ heads. To work with you, now. Casks of beer and ale at the bar, they’re the most popular. Hot whiskey punch in the cauldron over the taproom fire. Daisy will tell you the rest.” She gestured toward the taproom door, then returned to her own work.
Warily Lucy opened the door, and was met with smoke, noise, and the scent of food, sweat, and hops. Suppressing her desire to bolt, she scanned the room. Men were in groups at tables or standing along the bar. A noisy game of darts was being played in one corner with the bottom of a wine barrel for a target. No sign of Gregory, though he might be blocked by someone else.
Three barmaids were moving around the room, deftly sliding between groups while balancing trays of drinks. There was a real skill to this, Lucy realized. The girls seemed to be enjoying themselves, but they were working hard.
Daisy spotted Lucy in the door. After delivering a tray of drinks, along with a comment that made the men at the table roar with laughter, she came over to Lucy. Her admiring gaze went head to foot. “I can scarcely recognize you even though I knew you were coming!” She nodded at the taproom. “Is all this too much for a well-brought-up young lady like you?”
“I’m no young lady, just Lacey the tavern wench. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” Lucy said with nervous determination. In order to secure Daisy’s help, she’d explained why she wanted to pretend to be a tavern wench. Daisy had rolled her eyes and made a comment about how women were fools for men, but she’d been helpful. Lucy continued, “Is . . . is Gregory Kenmore here?”
“Not yet, lass.” Seeing Lucy’s crestfallen expression, Daisy said, “He usually comes later.”
“What is he like? How does he behave?”
“Very polite. Comes in with his dog, smiles at the regulars, flirts with the barmaids, and then drinks to forget,” Daisy said succinctly.
“Drinks to forget?”
“You see that with men who’ve been to war.” Daisy sighed, looking older than her years. “Work here long enough and you’ll see everything. But you’re here just for tonight, and it’s time to put you to work. You can see we need the help! Follow me.” Daisy led the way to the bar, tossing over her shoulder, “Do your best to keep your bottom out of pinching range! Our lads do like a pretty lass.”
Daisy’s warning was too late. Lucy jumped with a squeak when a man pinched her bottom. Whirling with shock, she saw a farm laborer give her a wide, mildly inebriated smile. “Bring me another pint of bitter, there’s a good girl!”
Lucy managed a quick duck of her head, then took off after Daisy. When she reached the other woman at the bar, she gasped, “How do you stand the pinching?”
“A girl learns to dodge. And it’s not so bad to be admired for a perky rump.” Daisy studied Lucy’s face. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
If she left now, she could be home with Chloe in fifteen minutes.. . .
Then she thought of Gregory. If she was ever to be free of her dreams of him, she must meet him. Talk to him. Kiss him. None of which he wanted to do with Miss Lucinda Richards. “I’m sure, even if my bottom does end up black and blue!”
“You’ll develop fancy footwork soon enough,” Daisy assured her. “But most of our regulars are good fellows. They work hard, and this is their bit of fun. If any of ’em kick up too much, their mates quiet them down. We get a few travelers from the London road, and now and then one will cause trouble, but this is a safe place to work. And the money is better than being in service somewhere.”
“Can I pour ale on a man’s head if he’s too much trouble?”
Daisy grinned. “Yes, but if you do it too often, Mrs. Brown, the landlady, will charge you for the ale. Come along now, and I’ll show you what’s where. The lads are getting thirsty.”
The next hour was the most educational of Lucy’s life. She learned that a smile and a quip would gain forgiveness for her inexperience and that gently teasing an old man would bring a spark of pleasure to the gaffer’s eyes. She learned how much bread and cheese, or boiled meat and potatoes, to serve when a man wanted food; where the clean tankards were kept; and how to wipe off the mouth of a tankard with a rag if there wasn’t time for a proper washing.
Rushing back and forth was exhausting, but she felt pride in getting better as the evening progressed. She also realized that Daisy was right. The customers were good fellows who liked a pretty lass and wanted to have a bit of fun at the end of a long, hard day of work. There were laborers, tradesmen, and servants, with some more educated patrons as well. They teased the barmaids, but there was no threat to it.
Then Gregory entered and Lucy dropped a tray of full pewter tankards.
It was always a relief to enter the Willing Wench. The name alone made Gregory smile. The hum of men enjoying themselves helped drown out his thoughts, and dogs were welcome as long as they behaved. Santa Cruz was always well behaved. He might be a scruffy brown and white mutt of low birth and unknown breeding, but he was an honorable veteran of the Peninsular War with better discipline than most soldiers.
Gregory nodded toward men he knew, which was most of them. He was draping his cloak over a chair in the corner when one of the barmaids dropped a tray of drinks. He winced at the sound, fighting the urge to throw himself to the ground. It wasn�
��t artillery fire, only clanging tankards.
The offending barmaid was new, he noticed. A pretty, dark-haired young thing with a figure that even a dead man would notice. Gregory liked the barmaids, who weren’t innocents but weren’t Haymarket ware, either. They were friendly, tolerant women who worked hard and liked a good time.
They weren’t mothers who watched with barely concealed anxiety and disappointment in their eyes. They weren’t idealistic maidens with wide, hopeful eyes like Lucinda Richards. He’d been shocked numb when he saw her at the Randalls’ holiday ball. So delectable. So innocent. So hurt when he pulled away from her.
No, not for him, respectable women who expected more of a gentleman than a well-tailored coat. The coat he could manage, but nothing else.
He settled into the chair and waited for a barmaid to approach. When Santa Cruz rested his chin on Gregory’s knee, he ruffled the dog’s floppy ears. It was worth the effort required to bring him back from Spain. Dogs accepted their imperfect masters.
Acceptance was why Gregory liked the tavern. If he wanted to talk, there were people to talk to. More often he didn’t, and no one bothered him. Not like home, where his family’s silent worry about his mental health was palpable.
At some point, Gregory would have to pull himself together and act like a responsible adult. But he couldn’t imagine when that day might come.
“Your usual, sir?”
He glanced up at the musical voice and saw the new barmaid with a tankard in her hand. He blinked. When she was across the room, he hadn’t recognized how very, very good her figure was. A man could bury himself forever in that décolletage and count the world well lost.
With a jolt, he realized that for the first time in longer than he could remember, he was feeling a buzz of sexual response. He wasn’t dead after all.
“Sir?” The musical voice was pitched higher to cut through the noisy voices. “Daisy said a pint of bitter is your usual. Would you like something different tonight?”
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 2
