“I am persona non grata right now in London. I need to make myself scarce for a few days, perhaps a sennight. I figured you were pretending to be someone else, why shouldn’t I pretend to be you? By the way, just exactly who, or what, are you supposed to be?” The quizzing glass reappeared, as if it could help Marcus decipher Alexander’s identity.
“I am a curate.”
“Hmmm. Well, if you would prefer, you could go back to being Lord Wesleigh, and I could be the curate.”
Sedgewick looked quite alarmed at this notion; if Alexander had been irritating as a guest, what was he in for with Sir Marcus Reddings, dandy extraordinaire? However, Alexander just laughed. “You, a curate?”
Marcus appeared affronted. “I will have you know, Alexander, that my grandmother was a fine actress in her day. Of course, that is all very hush-hush. Mater wouldn’t like that old business hashed up again, but it’s in the blood, nonetheless, it’s in the blood. I could probably give a more than creditable sermon this Sunday, if Sedgewick wanted the morning off.”
“I am sure Sedgewick appreciates the offer, but I think not,” Alexander replied. “I prefer to remain incognito for a little longer, myself.”
“Petticoat trouble, n’est-çe pas? Well, that leads me back to my original offer. I will be you.”
“But you cannot be me. I am supposed to be staying with Lady Smithfield and offering for her daughter. I do not believe that your need for privacy is so great that you are willing to sacrifice yourself on the marriage altar.”
“That would depend,” Sir Marcus responded, casually observing his fingernails. “Just what does Miss Smithfield look like?”
Sedgewick bristled, but Alexander just laughed. He had learned not to take Marcus Reddings seriously. He understood his need for privacy, as well. Marcus acted like a brainless fop, but it was just that, an act. He occasionally did some governmental work that included spying. He was well connected, and no one took him seriously, so he was able to ferret out quite a few secrets.
“Sorry, old friend, I would like to help, but Stonehurst has become a veritable beehive of activity these past few days. Lady Cynthia Sommers is here, as well as Farnwright, and I do not know how many others. It would never work. They all know me and you.”
“But I do not plan on socializing. Can’t you tell I have a horrible case of the grippe?”
Marcus looked healthy as a horse. “Even if you tell them you have the grippe, how do I explain to them when the jig is over that I allowed you to pose as me?” Alexander asked.
“You were testing your young lady’s love for you. If she could fall in love with you as a lowly curate, she passes the test. Otherwise, she’s failed. Any woman with blood in her veins will fall for that one. It’s the kind of claptrap they fill their heads with in those silly Gothic romances they all read.”
Since that was precisely how he was going to explain his deception, and the reason he was going through all of this in the first place, he could not argue that point. He also wondered what Emily would do if faced with Marcus as a potential husband. Would she go through with her plans to marry the heir of a duke?
He realized that at some point in the midst of the game he was playing the rules had changed. He no longer cared to discover Lydia Smithfield’s true character. He was relieved she was as unwilling to marry him as he was to marry her. But, somehow, in the course of this charade he had begun to care about Emily Smithfield’s true character. He found himself entranced by her big brown eyes and vivacious manner. And, if the truth were told, that kiss was quite beguiling as well, to say the very least. But he was stymied by her announcement that she planned to marry Lord Wesleigh. He was beginning to think all he wanted was to marry Emily Smithfield, sweep her away to Venice or Rome, show her London and show London to her. But some romantic part of his soul that he did not know even existed wanted her to fall in love with him regardless of his position or rank. So he had persisted in the charade, even though he knew it was no longer necessary. He had no doubt that his father would not force him into marriage with a lady who was in love with another gentleman. He could return to London today and explain the situation to his father and be free. It was as simple as that. But he was no longer free. He would leave a portion of himself there in Stonehurst, with her. Really, Marcus would be doing him a favor by pretending to be Lord Wesleigh. If Emily still persisted in wanting to wed the heir of a duke, no matter who he was, then, as hard a fact as that was to swallow, she would have made her choice.
He looked up from his deliberation to find Marcus looking at him expectantly, almost sympathetically. “That bad, is it?” Marcus asked, his voice pitched low so Jonathan could not overhear. “I must say I am glad Cupid hasn’t yet struck me with any of his little pointy arrows. It appears they sting quite a bit.” Raising his voice, he asked: “So after all that cogitation, what decision have you reached? Am I to assist our noble vicar in his duties? Or warm a bed at Lady Smithfield’s house, my frail body wracked by shuddering coughs?”
Before Sedgewick could start sputtering again, Alexander replied, “It looks to me like you should take to your bed immediately. You appear to have contracted a serious case of the grippe.”
The gentlemen settled down to make plans. It appeared Marcus had apprehended Alexander’s traveling carriage while in London. It was a simple matter of having his servants address Sir Marcus as Lord Wesleigh, and that should be all that was necessary, as long as Marcus did not leave the house and did not accept visitors. The only visitor he would accept would be Alexander, who had already told Emily he was acquainted with Lord Wesleigh. When Sedgewick left the room, Alexander clued Marcus in on the true state of affairs, explaining which of the Smithfield daughters he was interested in.
“I love it,” Marcus said, after having heard the whole story. “It has all the elements of a French farce. All we need is a jealous husband.”
“I could do without that complication,” Alexander replied. “So, how long should your business take?”
“Hopefully no more than a few days. There has been a highwayman causing a great deal of commotion in the area. I am here to apprehend him.”
“Yes, I have heard talk of him. He has the local ladies all aflutter. They are going to start lining up to be robbed by him if there is any more gossip about his lovemaking. He even managed to get a kiss from that iceberg Lady Cynthia.”
“That is an accomplishment,” Marcus said. “Do I detect a note of jealousy in your voice?”
“Well, you know I do not take defeat very well. Little did I know that all I had to do to steal a kiss from her was put on a mask and say ‘Stand and deliver.’” Both men laughed, before growing serious once more.
“I do not understand your involvement in this affair. Is not this a job for the local constable?” Alexander asked.
“It seems our highwayman is interested in more than jewelry. It appears he has somehow discovered the route our messenger takes when delivering assignments to the troops on the coast. He has been intercepting them and selling the information to the French. We want to discover who else is working with him.”
Alexander nodded. “I would be happy to assist you in whatever way I can.” Marcus thanked him for the offer, but reiterated that what he needed most was a place to stay. “Well, I guess Smithfield House is as good a place as any to hide out in for a few days. No one in that household should recognize you.”
Except, of course, the duke of Alford, who was en route to Stonehurst as they spoke.
The ladies of Smithfield House had heard the carriages arrive, and were sitting in the drawing room, awaiting the announcement of their distinguished guest. They assumed, it being Tuesday, the day he had written he would be coming, that the duke of Alford would be announced. There was a moment of stunned silence when Wiggins stated in a triumphant tone of voice, “Lord Wesleigh.” Wiggins knew his mistresses were expecting someone else, and it pleased him to surprise them. He always prided himself on knowing more about what was going on
in the household than anyone else, even the mistress.
The ladies may have been able to recover themselves sooner if it were not for the strange sight that greeted them when “Lord Wesleigh” walked in the room. Marcus had changed his outfit to one he thought would better suit his new role. He felt a person in the full throes of the grippe should dress in a more subdued manner. To that end, he had discarded his turquoise and yellow, deciding in favor of puce and gray, with a paisley waistcoat. In order to give the impression that the sunlight was too harsh for his weakened eyesight, he was wearing a pair of green glasses. He held a handkerchief over his mouth and was feebly coughing into it as he walked into the room.
Lady Smithfield was the first to recover. “Lord Wesleigh, what a pleasant surprise, please sit down.” She tried to approach him to lead him over to a chair, but when she got closer he backed up, waving her away.
“Lady Smithfield, I beg your pardon”—cough, cough—“but I am quite ill. Please do not come any closer, we do not want to risk contagion.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Lady Smithfield retreated to her seat, racking her brain to try and remember the proper etiquette to follow when one had a guest who had a mysterious illness and would not allow one to approach him.
“I think that I shall be forced to spend the next few days in my room, until I recover from this humiliating illness. Perhaps, once I have been introduced to your charming daughters, you could conduct me to my room?”
“Of course, of course. Girls, come make your curtsy to Lord Wesleigh.” As Lord Wesleigh almost backed into one of the tables as the girls approached, Lady Smithfield hurriedly reminded them, “Not too close, mind.”
Lord Wesleigh pronounced himself charmed to meet first Lydia and then Emily. He started to lift his quizzing glass to peruse the girls more closely, when he saw Emily struggling to keep from giggling. Then he remembered the green glasses he was wearing. Never one to fear ridicule, he raised his quizzing glass anyway, and received a magnified view of Emily’s sparkling brown eyes, through a green haze.
The sight appeared to be too much for Lord Wesleigh. He dropped his quizzing glass, shuddered, and in a weak voice, asked, “My chamber?”
“Of course, my lord, Lydia will direct you to your chamber. Lydia, show Lord Wesleigh to the Green Suite, please.”
Lydia, who appeared just as pale as Lord Wesleigh, nonetheless followed her mother’s dictum. She left the room, Lord Wesleigh following. At the doorway of his chamber, feeling compelled to say something, she mentioned that he must be pleased his father would be arriving soon.
“What’s that? My father?” Marcus asked in stronger tones then he had employed thus far.
“Why, yes, he is to arrive today, is he not?” Lydia asked.
“Of course, of course. Just so.” Lydia left him, and Marcus took off his glasses and began a hurried note to Alexander “Williams,” which he dispatched with one of the servants to be delivered to the vicarage.
Soon after Lord Wesleigh’s arrival, Emily took a maid and went for a walk in the village. She had no real errands, but wanted an excuse to get out of the house. She felt after meeting the marquess that she had some thinking to do.
She did not want to admit to herself how disappointed she was with the marquess. She realized now that she had been deceiving herself all along. She had thought, when she offered to marry the marquess in her sister’s stead, that she was being practical and reasonable. Now she realized that she had been hoping the whole time that the marquess would turn out to be someone she could love and respect. “A knight in shining armor,” she muttered disgustedly to herself. She had been as impractical and unreasonable as it is possible for a silly, romantical nineteen-year-old girl to be.
She knew as soon as she saw the marquess that she would not marry him. And she knew Lydia should not be forced to do so, either. So they were in a proper fix. Lydia, if she were allowed, would marry a vicar, and Emily would be maiden aunt to all their little blue-eyed babies. That was a far cry from the life of travel and excitement she’d dreamed of for herself. Unless, of course, she were to marry a certain curate . . .
Emily shook her head. He was a dastardly knave, toying with her affections and who knew what else. She was convinced he was not a curate at all. He wore a ring on his fifth finger that was probably worth a curate’s salary for the entire year. She didn’t know what he was up to, but the more she thought on the matter, the more she was convinced there was something not quite right about Mr. Williams. Unfortunately, there were times when she felt that there was everything right about Mr. Williams.
She sighed and, looking up, saw the man she had just been daydreaming about walking toward her. It was the first time she’d encountered him since their kiss, and she felt her cheeks coloring in memory. He smiled at her; really, it was almost a smirk, as if he knew what she was thinking.
“May I walk with you, Emily?”
Emily nodded, although all her instincts were telling her to flee, to run away as fast as she could from this man, with his twinkling brown eyes and mysterious behavior. She noticed he had called her Emily more than once now, and although she had not given him leave to call her by her first name, she had to admit she enjoyed hearing it on his lips. She would have also felt quite ridiculous making an issue of it, when she had allowed him the greater familiarity of embracing her.
“I wanted to apologize for my abrupt departure the other evening.”
Although Emily’s cheeks now felt as if they were on fire, since his words could not help but recall their actions directly prior to his departure, she felt this would be the perfect opportunity to get some answers to the questions that were plaguing her. “It did seem rather sudden. I could not help but think you were avoiding Lady Cynthia for some reason.”
“Now what reason would I have for avoiding such a beautiful young lady?”
“That is exactly my question, sir. She said afterward that she thought she recognized you.” Emily looked up at Alexander, fixing him with an accusatory glance she felt sure would signify to him that she knew he was up to something. To her dismay, he just laughed, and said, “My nanny always told me that everybody has a double somewhere. It appears Lady Cynthia has encountered mine. Now let us quit this subject. I find that when I am with you, I have no desire to discuss other young ladies. Do you not have any shopping to do, so that I will be forced to carry your parcels for you?”
“No, I should really be returning home.”
“Yes,” Alexander replied, removing a speck of lint from his sleeve, “I hear you have a guest in residence.”
“How did you—”
“News spreads quickly in a small village such as this. So what did you think of the marquess?”
Emily found herself reluctant to discuss the subject with Mr. Williams. “He seemed polite enough, I suppose. He certainly did not fit your description of him.”
“I was not aware that I gave a description of him.”
“Well, perhaps not, but you could have at least mentioned his tendency toward—” Emily paused, seeking the most politic word.
“Yes?” Alexander prompted.
“Well, he seems to be rather given to dramatic effect.”
“Perhaps you are right. I thought you were more interested in his pocketbook than his character.”
Emily looked reproachfully at Alexander, the hurt evident in her expression. “I think I would prefer to walk alone.”
“Emily, I am sorry. I did not mean that. I was just jealous. It was a rotten thing to say, and I apologize. Can you forgive me?”
The word “jealous” had the amazing effect of making her forget that he was hiding some dreadful secret and was a dangerous man. She just knew that she, Emily Smithfield, was capable of making this gorgeous creature jealous. It was a delightful sensation, and in the afterglow of that remark she would forgive him practically anything. However, in the next moment he did something that brought all the doubts and anxiety rushing back.
They had ne
ared the end of the High Street, when they heard the sound of a carriage approaching. Emily, looking over her shoulder, noticed the coat of arms was the same as that on Lord Wesleigh’s carriage. However, before she had an opportunity to say so to the gentleman walking beside her he had disappeared. She looked all around, but she did not see him anywhere. In desperation, she called to her maid: “Bess, did you see where the gentleman I was walking with went?”
“No, miss, I was watching the carriage. Did he go off and leave you?”
“It appears so. Never mind, let’s go home.”
Alexander did not know what course to take. His initial reaction was to hide, lest his father recognize him, but as he recovered from his surprise, he wondered if he should just confess all and call it quits. Then again, he was no longer the only one involved in this masquerade—there was Reddings to consider as well. Alexander walked back to the vicarage slowly, weighing his options. When he arrived, he was handed the message from Reddings informing him that his father was on his way to Stonehurst.
“Thanks for the warning, old chap, but you are a little late,” Alexander mumbled to himself. He crumpled the note in his hand, standing and thinking for a moment. He finally shrugged and went to the library to read. There was little he could do but wait. It was up to Reddings to carry the day. Alexander would find out soon enough if the masquerade was at an end, and if he went bumbling into the Smithfield’s house with his father sitting in the drawing room, he was liable to do more harm than good. No, he would wait. And if he did not hear anything by nightfall, he would contact Reddings surreptitiously under cover of darkness.
Emily returned to the house, irritated once more by Williams’s cryptic behavior. This was the second time he had disappeared in the middle of a conversation, and she was more determined than ever to find out what reason there was for his bizarre actions. She wanted nothing more than to go to her bedchamber to think, but her mother called out to her from the drawing room as she walked by.
Incognito Page 6
