The Irresistible Lady Behind The Mask (Historical Regency Romance)

by Emily Honeyfield

  Priscilla nodded. “I suppose everything just takes the Lord’s own time.”

  “Can’t rush it, even if we try, Miss,” Gwen said with a smile. “Do you honestly think Lady Chaplin will make you buy another dress?”

  Priscilla stood up with a sigh. “With my mother, I have learned to never underestimate her. Clearly, we did not find the dress that she wanted.”

  “Yes, with it being her wedding she should have a say,” Gwen said with polished smarm that Priscilla would never match, or even attempt.

  Priscilla giggled. “Might not want to say that too loudly.”

  “I always listen for the clinking of her heels before I speak,” Gwen informed Priscilla with a wink. “If you don’t need my assistance today, then I may go to see my mother.”

  Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “Is she doing well?”

  “Yes,” Gwen said in a rush of breath. “I didn’t mean to sound so alarming. She just has had a bit of nerves lately. The doctor says she just needs to stop worrying so much.”

  With a shake of her head, Priscilla whispered, “Fine thing to tell a mother.”

  “That’s what I said,” Gwen whispered back as if it was a secret. She drew herself up. “I had better go get things sorted before I head off.”

  Priscilla gave her a smile. “Good luck with the housekeeper.”

  “Oh that old bat doesn’t scare me a bit,” Gwen said loudly then whispered, “She might scare me a little.” Gwen flashed Priscilla a grin then was swiftly out of the room with a wave.

  Priscilla shook her head and gave herself one last look over in the mirror. She hoped Gwen had a better day than she was in for. Priscilla imagined herself as impervious as she turned to go downstairs and face her mother over breakfast.

  She left her room with a sense of foreboding, as if at any moment something dreadful might wait around the corner, or maybe that corner, or that one over there. Yet nothing impeded her progress down the hall or the stairs. Priscilla sighed heavily as she stepped onto the marble floor at the base of the stairs.

  “So much for ghastly kidnappers lurking to swoop me away,” Priscilla said under her breath.

  A deep chuckle caused her to turn around and see the doorman at his station. “Wary the ogre on the way to the dining hall,” Jensen called.

  Priscilla felt her face warm with embarrassment. She lifted her hand in a wave at the man. He had been with the family for just a few years, but Priscilla liked him. He was a kind soul, and he liked a good joke as much as she did.

  “If he means to take me away from all of this, I might willingly go with him,” Priscilla told the doorman with a smile.

  Jensen chuckled again, the deep sound resonating around the entrance hall. “Ogres are a mean lot, Miss. Might want to wait for the next unscrupulous lout.”

  “You make a good point,” Priscilla conceded. “I suppose I shall have to eat breakfast with my mother and father no matter what this morning.”

  Jenson gave a nod of his head. “Probably for the best.”

  Priscilla did not know about all of that, but she certainly did not seem to have much in the way of choice. She turned herself toward the dining hall with resignation. There was nothing she could do to halt the passage of time, and she might as well get used to it.

  The estate where Priscilla and her family resided was East House, which was what her very unimaginative grandfather had named their estate. It stood in the outskirts of London in a sprawling network of other estates for the landed gentry who wished to be near London but not in the heart of it. Priscilla rather liked the fact that they were close enough to be involved in all London had to offer, but far enough away to pretend the unpleasant nature of London did not exist.

  The doors to the dining hall greeted her with a solemnness that rivaled the church doors before a sinner. She knew she had to go in but it did not make the act of doing so any less costly to her. A male staff member by the door gave her a bow as she approached, and pulled open the heavy oak doors for her.

  It was very much like a large castle gate being pulled aside to allow Priscilla to enter. Whether she was champion, emissary, or prisoner remained to be seen. The occupants of the dining hall looked up with expectant boredom.

  Priscilla gave her mother and father a bright smile that she had practiced so much of late that her cheeks hurt. “What a nice morning! Hello Father, Mother.” She dipped her head to each of them respectfully.

  The Earl of Chaplin regarded her with a slight curve to his lips Her father always seemed to have a smile lurking just behind his expression as if he were forever amused by the world, but of too good a breeding to show it. “Good morning, Priscilla. Join us for breakfast.”

  As if that was not the whole point of her coming to the dining hall, Priscilla gave him a pleased smile. “Thank you, Father.” She sat down at her usual seat to her father’s right side, across from her mother.

  “I saw in the paper that there was some unrest in the city,” Priscilla said as she tested the waters to see her parents’ moods.

  Her mother gave her a disapproving look. “What business has a lady reading such drivel?”

  “A lady should be aware of the world around her, Evelyn,” her father said to her mother.

  Lady Chaplin sighed at her husband. “You encourage her too much to keep her nose pressed into books. It is very hard to be ladylike with ink on one’s nose.”

  “A man who marries a gentile woman should expect her to have a good head on her shoulders,” Lord Chaplin retorted. There was that ever-presenting half-smile again, Priscilla noted.

  Lady Chaplin narrowed her eyes at Lord Chaplin. Priscilla felt like they were not done arguing, but Lady Chaplin’s eyes swung around to her and Priscilla was grateful that a maid chose that moment to come by and offer her some drink. “Oh thank you,” Priscilla said with gratitude to the young maid.

  The maid looked a bit surprised at how grateful Priscilla was, but she quickly bobbed her head and was off again to the kitchen. Priscilla’s father served her some of the meal as was customary. The maid’s interruption had caused the conversation to lull, which Priscilla thought was just as well.

  That is until her father said, “I saw the papers as well. I think that it all harkens back to those factories and the newer additions to the gentleman ranks of society.”

  “How so, Father?” Priscilla took a sip of her tea and waited patiently as her father seemed to gather his thoughts.

  Lord Chaplin leaned forward on the table as he did when he became truly engaged in a topic. His elbows firmly planted on the table, his hands clasped in front of him as if begging his audience to heed his words, Lord Chaplin said, “The factory owners have come into their lands through sudden spoils. They have no grounding in history or family. They need to be tempered.”

  “But why should it be that owning land makes one have to give up their livelihood? I have heard you speak of this before and you seemed rather fixated that they keep working instead of relinquishing their factories once they own land.” Priscilla set her teacup down, firmly passing the torch back to her father as she watched him with curious eyes.

  Lord Chaplin laughed and shook a finger at Priscilla. “At least you do listen to something I say.”

  Whatever her father would have said next was pushed aside as Bridgitte stormed into the dining hall. Priscilla’s younger sister always came into any room like a force of nature. Some days her entrance was sunlight and gentle breezes, but today it was a thunderstorm full of crashes and stomps.

  “My maid tore my favourite dress!” Bridgitte screamed the proclamation as if calling for the maid’s head on a platter. Everyone at the table cringed as her voice shrilled up into the higher octaves.

  Lady Chaplin scolded, “Calm yourself, Bridgitte. We do not throw tantrums over clothing. A dress can be mended or a new one purchased. Your reputation is not as easily fixed.”

  Bridgitte had the good sense to look embarrassed as she sank into her seat next to their mother. �
��Forgive me. I just became overwhelmed with grief. It was my favourite dress.”

  “One should try not to let one’s emotions rule them,” Lord Chaplin said firmly, then he added in a softer tone, “I know it is hard for ladies to control their emotions at times. You must forgive your right of birth on that.”

  Bridgitte frowned. “I just wish to eat and forget it all.”

  “That is probably a good call,” Lord Chaplin assured his youngest daughter as he served her a plate of food.

  Bridgitte thanked him and then glanced over at Priscilla. “You look nice.”

  “Thank you,” Priscilla said, wondering if it actually was a compliment. After all, Bridgitte was not one to throw out compliments without thought and Priscilla looked much as she did every morning. “Did your maid do something different with your hair?”

  Bridgitte’s hand went to her hair self-consciously. “Why? Is something wrong with it?” Lord Chaplin arched an eyebrow at the discussion and went back to drinking his coffee.

  Priscilla assured her, “No. Not at all. I just do not think that I have seen you wear your hair like that before. It is rather lovely.”

  “Oh,” Bridgitte said as if she were trying to work out Priscilla’s aim. Priscilla guessed that perhaps talking to Bridgitte over breakfast was not going to be her best bet.

  “Mother and I are going to look at dresses. You should come,” Priscilla said with a smile at her sister.

  Bridgitte’s lips dipped into a frown again. “I thought you had a dress.”

  “Mother thinks that she can find a better one,” Priscilla informed her sister. The two of them shared a look. The only thing they could agree on was that their mother was singularly impossible. Perhaps having Bridgitte along would help them bond over their shared misery.

  Lady Chaplin chimed in, “You should come, Bridgitte. It would be fun to have both my daughters on an outing. After all, once Priscilla is married it may be some time before we can do so again.”

  There was that look, Priscilla noted. Bridgitte’s face had taken on a sour undertone that their mother seemed to overlook or not notice. Priscilla noticed it though. She wished she could make her sister see that it was really a compliment to her that their parents did not think Bridgitte need such aid as an arrangement.

  Bridgitte nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Of course, Mother. It sounds very enjoyable.”

  The way Bridgitte said it made it sound like anything but something pleasant. Priscilla took a sip of her tea, willing it to bolster her for the coming day. Surely something good had to come of all her perseverance. Was it not her father who said that if she stuck with something, eventually she would master it? Apparently, that sentiment did not apply to sisters.

  Chapter 2

  The smell of the river was not as pleasant as one might assume. He stood on the embankment above the Thames and watched the murky waters flow. They rushed and bubbled against the manmade reinforcements along the banks, perhaps pondering and grumbling that men thought they were so clever.

  There was a saying amongst some of those he visited that lived near the Thames that said “one doesn’t anger the river.” George supposed that was good advice, whether you meant it to do with flooding or your wife’s wrath. George’s eyes wandered over to some dock workers putting crates on a barge.

  He had to meet with his brother Nathaniel soon. It would take a good half-hour to walk to the pub where they had agreed to eat together. It was rare that Nathaniel got away to come to London, and as much as George looked forward to the visit, he also dreaded it.

  Nathaniel brought memories that George would rather keep at bay. He sighed down at his watch. There was no point in putting off the inevitable. He turned away from the river and the dock workers. He left the hum of the river behind as he walked off towards the heart of London.

  As he walked he counted how many of the buildings he had been in. He had set a broken leg there, then broken a fever there, and there was a baby born in the building just behind that one. George smiled as he remembered the faces of the people he had helped, their kind words and their worries eased.

  The pub where he was due to meet his brother was just a street over now. George slowed his pace. He did not like arriving early. It made him uneasy to be the first one to arrive, the one standing around waiting like a buffoon.

  He rounded a corner and saw the sign for the pub ahead. It had a boar’s head and two overflowing steins on it. The craftsmanship of the sign was what had first appealed to George. He had seen some very dodgy work on shop signs, but this sign was a work of art.

  He admired the sign as he walked underneath it. He let the sign leave his sight with a sigh as he grasped the cool metal of the doorknob. The door opened to reveal a dimly lit interior.

  George had to blink his eyes several times to adjust them to the difference. When he could see again, George was greeted with a friendly wave from the barkeep. A waitress that looked vaguely familiar stopped in front of him. “Doctor Rowley,” she said, the slow drawl in her voice both inviting and a warning.

  “Forgive me for blocking the entrance. My eyes are not accustomed to being out of the sun, I think,” George said with a well-practiced chuckle and smile. It was easier to use his professional tone, and people took it as him just being friendly. He was just about to ask after Nathaniel when he spied him at a corner table. “Ah, there is my brother,” George said as he took his leave from the barmaid with a dip of his hat.

  Nathaniel looked much like George, with his brown hair and eyes and tall frame. The easy smile that graced Nathaniel’s lips spoke of days spent persuading others to see things his way. George took the hand that Nathaniel held out to him. “George, it is good to see you.”

  George nodded and tried not to wince at the way his older brother gripped his hand. “And you, Nathaniel.”

  “Sit, sit,” Nathaniel said magnanimously, as if the bar were his personal study and he had free rein there.

  George sat down as the barmaid bustled over with two tall steins of beer which she sat on the table with a smile at George. He shook his head at his brother after the barmaid was off to another table. “Could not wait for me?”

  “I know your tendency to run late, so I took the liberty of ordering drinks and pies.” Nathaniel gave George a shrug.

  He was not truly put out by his brother’s overbearing ways. After all, George was hungry. It had been a long day already and the morning was only just burning off.

  “You look tired, George,” Nathaniel noted as he gripped his stein with strong fingers and lifted it with ease.

  George knew better than to try to one-hand the steins. The Boars head steins were quite large, and George took the safe route of using one hand to lift, and one hand to steady it. “Being a doctor means working odd hours, Nathaniel. I have simply been up since the wee hours with patients. And what of you? The estate keeping you busy?”

  “It usually does,” Nathaniel said with a nod. “But I fear that it is you who may be overworking yourself.”

  George waved off the old conversation. “If you have come to try and guilt me into taking a vacation then it is wasted breath.”

  “I told Father as much myself, yet he insisted that I at least try to get you home for a spell.” Nathaniel gave George a helpless lift of his shoulders. “He misses you.”

  The thought of that tugged at George’s heart. “How is he doing? I mean, truthfully?”

  Nathaniel’s easy smile faded just a bit. “He is well health-wise. The doctors are keeping him fit and active, not that Father would be kept idle even if they tried to tie him down.”

  “He seemed sullen the last time I was home,” George said as he remembered his father sitting in the garden for hours on end.