SWEET MASQUERADE
It was her.
Jack could scarcely believe it, but there could never be two such ladies in all the world. Yet, what was she, a lady, a fair flower, doing in a dirty alleyway, dressed like a housemaid and, apparently, all alone? His mind reeled with the possibilities and came up empty. What was she up to? He glanced around to see if she was truly alone, or if her guards were with her. There was no one. He really ought to keep an eye on her—heaven only knew what could happen to a lady alone.
He just opened his mouth to ask her what in Hades she was up to, but she stopped him by reaching for his hand and cradling it tenderly in her two small, soft palms. She stood so close that he could smell the lilac scent of her hair.
She was every bit as lovely as she had been at the reception, but without the trappings of her formal gown and rich jewels, she was no longer as remote as the moon. Her eyes, her skin, her very demeanor were transformed—they glowed and sparkled with life, with energy. She was so close to him he could lean his head the merest inch and take a surreptitious breath of her scented hair, brush his hand on her arm.
Delicious.
Lady in Disguise
Amanda McCabe
Lady in Disguise
Chapter One
June 1814
“Emma, dear! Close that window and sit down. You must cease behaving like a gawking peasant this instant.”
Lady Emma Weston sighed at her aunt’s words and at the bang of her walking stick against the carriage floor. That admonishing sound was as familiar to her as her own voice, and she knew it meant she had best obey with alacrity. She took a deep breath of cool, blessed fresh air, then ducked back into her seat and let her maid, Natasha, close the window. They had traveled for so long, for what seemed like eternity, and the carriage had become stuffy and dull, with only the occasional glimpse of passing scenery on the Dover Road to relieve the monotony.
Just like my life, Emma thought wryly. She had hoped the journey to England as part of Tsar Alexander’s retinue to attend the peace celebrations would bring some excitement, some magic into her existence. She had been born in England but had not seen it since she was six years old—since her parents died so tragically young and she went to live with her aunt and uncle in Russia.
Yet, now she realized this voyage was just more of the same, more of the rules and protocols she had lived under in her aunt and uncle’s home. More of maintaining perfect outward decorum, while screaming inside for something, anything, different.
Her aunt—the sister of her late mother and long married to a Russian nobleman—loved her. Emma knew that. Yet Aunt Lydia and Uncle Nicholas had a position to maintain, and it was Emma’s duty to help them do that. She did not mind, truly—they had given her a home when she was young and frightened, had looked after her, cared for her when she was scared and bewildered by her sudden change of homes. But, oh! How she had dreamed of what things would be like once the hated Napoleon was driven from Russia and she could leave her family’s country estate and be presented at the court in St. Petersburg! Books, her only real companions, had fueled fantastical dreams of handsome dance partners, beautiful gowns, dashing sleigh rides and skating parties.
Emma sighed, and shifted restlessly on the carriage seat.
She had the gowns now, to be sure, but not much else. Every handsome young man who dared to approach her was frightened away by her aunt’s stern glances or her uncle’s lofty position as one of the Tsar’s chief advisors.
Now she was on her way to London, one of the greatest cities in all the world! Not only that, but her nineteenth birthday was fast approaching, and she would at last be considered grown up, a lady. The world should be a glorious place for her. But all she saw stretching ahead of her was more rules, more restrictions, more protocol.
She almost sighed again and slumped back against the cushions, but she managed to stop herself in time. A lady maintained proper posture at all times. She always appeared serene and cheerful. She never laughed too loud or danced too long with any one partner.
Natasha reached up to fuss with Emma’s bow-trimmed bonnet and the collar of her blue velvet spencer, while her aunt peered at her closely.
Aunt Lydia, the Countess Suvarova, looked far younger than her fifty-something years, and her green eyes were sharper than those of many a young miss. Or of any sharpshooter in the army, which was a more apt description, since Emma always felt she was caught in the fireline when her aunt looked at her in that way. Aunt Lydia folded her gray-gloved hands atop the ivory head of her stick and continued to watch Emma. Her expression was fond but exasperated, like a mother’s looking at a toddler who had spilled its milk for the fourth time.
“Were you looking at those soldiers, Emma?” she asked.
“Indeed, no, Aunt Lydia!” Emma protested. She hadn’t been watching the Tsar’s outriders in their handsome green uniforms—she knew that was a waste of time. Aunt Lydia would surely never approve of any of them, even if Emma did see one she liked. “I was looking at the scenery.”
Aunt Lydia glanced briefly out the window, at the passing hedgerows and meadows. “It does not look like something that would engage your interest.”
“I have not seen England in a very long time. And anything is better than being on that ship, with only water to look at.”
Lydia’s expression softened. “Poor Emma. We have been traveling a very long while. And we have not seen your uncle since he came to England with the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg in March. But we will soon be in London, and things will be more interesting for you there.”
Interesting if one enjoyed state dinners and balls where one could only dance with elderly relatives, Emma thought. She just smiled at her aunt, though, and said, “Of course. It will be wonderful to see Uncle Nicholas again.”
Lydia gave her a sly little glance. “A young man called Sir Jeremy Ashbey will be there, as well. Your uncle has written to me about how much he likes him. Perhaps we will meet him at the military review tomorrow.”
Emma looked at her, puzzled. Whoever was Sir Jeremy Ashbey? An Englishman her uncle knew? She could not recall her uncle or her aunt ever mentioning him. “Sir Jeremy Ashbey?”
“Perhaps you heard of him when you were a child. His family’s estate marches with the one your parents left you, Weston Manor.”
Since Emma’s parents had died when she was six and she had been in Russia ever since, it was hardly surprising that she did not remember him being mentioned. She shook her head.
“He was attached to the British embassy in St. Petersburg but returned to England with the Grand Duchess’s party. Your uncle writes that he is very impressed with his manners.”
Emma felt a faint stirring of interest and trepidation, perhaps even dread. This was the first time her aunt had ever spoken of any young man, except to warn Emma to stay away from them all. Who was this Sir Jeremy Ashbey, and what did her praise of him mean? Surely if her aunt and uncle liked him, he lived a life just like theirs—bound by duty.
Her questions would have to wait, however, for they had at long last reached the edge of London itself.
Emma leaned over as far as she dared to watch the city move past the window. London was very different from St. Petersburg with its gold and cream and pale blue colors and canal-laced streets. The colors here were darker, the houses narrower, the streets crowded with excited merrymakers. The carriage jostled as it struck the uneven cobbles of the city streets.
She was rather disappointed by the lack of bright colors, but she was enthralled by the shop window displays. They passed drapers, stationers, confectioners, booksellers, all with windows full of shimmering, enticing goods and draped with flags and bunting. She wondered if she could persuade her aunt to agree to
a shopping expedition later.
Yet, even more enthralling than the shops were the people. People in simple attire stood on the walkways alongside well-dressed individuals, jostling to watch the carriages pass, hoping for a glimpse of the Tsar himself. One little girl, an adorable cherub in a pink muslin dress and tiny straw bonnet, looked so amazed and wide-eyed that Emma could not help but wave at her.
The delighted child waved back.
“Emma!” Aunt Lydia cried disapprovingly. “Do not wave.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Lydia.” Emma folded her hands demurely in her lap, but she could not quell her growing excitement.
London was truly splendid, so full of glorious life and energy. If only she could walk about and explore it all, really take it all in! She wanted to smell all the strange scents, talk to people, hear them. Not just peer at them from inside the carriage.
All too soon they reached their destination, the Pulteney Hotel, where the Tsar’s beloved sister, the Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg, waited to greet him and where the entire Russian delegation would stay.
Emma accepted the footman’s arm as she stepped down from the carriage after her aunt. Her gaze swept over the magnificent building, whose sparkling windows overlooked what her aunt said was called Green Park. Crowds gathered at the edge of the park cheered and shouted.
Something wonderful was going to happen here, Emma thought, as she took in the whole colorful scene. No place so splendid as this could ever be ordinary. “It must,” she whispered wistfully. “Or I will surely shrivel up and die.”
“Emma,” Aunt Lydia said, as she straightened her muff on her arm and planted her walking stick firmly on the marble steps. “Do cease talking to yourself and come along, dear. Your uncle will be waiting.”
Emma tore her gaze away from the crowd and followed her aunt into the hotel. “Yes, Aunt Lydia,” she said obediently. But her mind was already busy with plans.
———
“… wouldn’t you say so, Jonathan? Jonathan!”
Jack Howard, Viscount St. Albans, looked up from his dinner plate, startled by his father’s suddenly loud words. In truth, he had not been paying heed to his parents’ conversation at all. He had been thinking of the appointment he must keep, the very important appointment, after he was released from this family supper.
He took a quick swallow of wine and said, “I beg your pardon, Father?”
The Earl of Osborn’s lips compressed into a tight, disapproving line. “I would appreciate it if you would pay more attention when I am speaking to you, Jonathan. I do not talk just to listen to myself.”
Jack thought that might be a debatable statement. He remembered childhood scolds where his father would go on for hours, not even noticing his son’s glazed, far away expression. Things had not changed much over the years, either. Jack was now nearly thirty years old, a veteran of the Peninsular campaign and still bored by his father’s pontifications.
He almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all but then thought better of it and just said, “No, sir. Of course I was listening. I merely lost myself for a moment in the glories of Cook’s mint sauce.” He prodded with his fork at the congealed greenish mass on his lamb cutlet. The Howards’ cook had been with them for many years and did a divine trifle, but sauces were not her forte.
His father peered at him suspiciously. “Are you trying to be funny, m’boy?”
“Certainly not,” Jack muttered. Trying to be funny here would have been a complete waste of time.
“Good. Because I do not approve of levity during supper. Your mother works very hard to select these menus for us, and we should take the time to properly appreciate them.”
“Oh, I do not mind…” Jane, Lady Osborn, said, her delicate voice floating down the table for the first time since the soup had been served. She was still a lovely woman, with silvery curls and bright blue eyes, but she always seemed to melt into the wallpaper of whatever room she happened to be in.
“Nonsense, Jane!” her husband boomed, and she subsided back into her chair. “Now, Jack. Tell me what thoughts you were so engrossed in that you could not pay attention to our conversation. Some mischief, no doubt. As usual, since you returned home from Spain.”
Jack could hardly tell his father the truth. He had to maintain the facade of careless licentiousness, that he had so carefully built up since returning to England— even if it pained him deeply to be thought of as nothing but a useless fribble. He shrugged and gave his father a reckless grin that hinted of plans he could not speak of in front of his mother.
Lord Osborn frowned. “Ah, well,” he said. “ Tis of no matter what you do tonight, I suppose. For you will join your mother and me at Lady Bransley’s house tomorrow evening.”
This was certainly the first Jack had heard of it. “Lady Bransley’s?”
“Yes. Surely even you have heard of the occasion, even though I doubt you ever read any serious newspapers. Lady Bransley is hosting a reception in honor of the visiting monarchs.”
“It is an honor to your father’s diplomatic work that we are invited,” Jack’s mother said.
Lord Osborn puffed up like a proud pigeon, the pearl buttons on his waistcoat swelling. In his youth, before he ascended to the earldom, he had worked for the diplomatic corps in France and Prussia. He was immensely proud of those days and would speak of them endlessly to anyone who would listen. It was a great bone of contention between himself and his son, for he had always exhorted Jack to follow in his footsteps, to no apparent avail.
If only he knew.
“Indeed it is,” Lord Osborn said. “King Frederick William of Prussia himself requested that I receive an invitation. The Tsar and his sister will be there, and Count and Countess Lieven, as well as Count and Countess Suvarov. It is very important that you attend with us, Jonathan.”
It fell in with Jack’s own purposes perfectly. But he could scarcely show that to his parents. A useless dandy would hardly be looking forward to such a stuffy and proper event. He shrugged again and swallowed the last of the wine in his glass. “If you wish, I will attend with you,” he said in a bored tone.
Before his father could answer, the dining room door opened quietly, and Spencer, the butler, slid inside.
“Yes, Spencer, what is it?” Lord Osborn said impatiently. He had obviously been working up to a good lecture on Jack’s expected behavior at the reception and was not happy to be cut off.
“I do apologize for interrupting, my lord,” Spencer answered smoothly. “But Mr. Stonewich has called for Lord St. Albans.”
“Oh, yes. We have very important things to do this evening—the theater and such.” Jack rose from his chair with alacrity, grateful for the interruption. He kissed his mother’s cheek and said, “Wonderful to see you, Mother, as always. I will meet you both here before the reception tomorrow evening. Just send word of the time to my lodgings.”
Before his father could swallow his bite of lamb and begin bellowing, Jack hurried out of the dining room into the foyer, where Bertie Stonewich waited.
“There you are, Jack,” Bertie said, examining his reflection in a tall, gilt-framed mirror. He straightened his pale blue cravat and smoothed his neatly pomaded light gold hair, the very image of a Society dandy. “We’re supposed to meet everyone in an hour. I hear it’s devilish impossible to get into this new gaming hell!”
“So sorry for the delay, Bertie old boy. I was just finishing supper with the parents.” Jack grabbed up his hat and walking stick and almost pushed his friend out the front door to the waiting carriage. He couldn’t take the chance, no matter how remote, that his father would follow him into the foyer and continue the lecture.
Once the vehicle moved out into the flow of Mayfair traffic, Bertie’s vacuous facade fell away and his previously empty gaze hardened. “They do not suspect, do they?”
“Of course not,” Jack answered. “I never realized before that I possessed such acting skills. I ought to be treading the boards, truly. They
think I care for nothing but the cut of my coat and winning my next wager. In fact, they had to practically beg me to attend Lady Bransley’s reception with them tomorrow night.”
Bertie arched one brow. “The Bransley reception? That was a bit of luck.”
“Yes,” Jack murmured. “A bit of luck indeed.”
———
The town house foyer Jack and Bertie were ushered into was dark and dusty, with a shabby carpet and no paintings on the brown-papered walls. It was quite a contrast to the rich environs of Jack’s parents’ house, and any stranger happening to glance into it would not be at all impressed. But for those in the know—as Jack and Bertie were—this bland foyer concealed some of the inner workings of England’s great military machine.
They did not have a long wait before a footman, dressed in inconspicuous dark livery, showed them into a library. This room was also plain, but a cheerful fire burned in the grate, and comfortable leather-upholstered chairs were drawn up about a round table. Already seated at that table were two men, the colonel of Jack’s regiment, for whom he had performed many surreptitious “errands” while they were in Spain, and a tall, slim older gentleman, plainly dressed and somber faced. Jack had met this man once or twice before soon after he arrived home in London, but he knew him only as Mr. Thompson. Not, in all likelihood, his true name. Yet he seemed, for all his quietness, to be in the know about everything of importance in the kingdom.
“Ah, St. Albans, Stonewich,” Colonel Smith-Aubrey said. “Right on time, as usual. Brandy?”
“Yes, thank you, sir,” Jack answered. As he and Bertie took their seats, the footman poured the snifters of brandy and departed, closing the door silently behind him. The four men were left alone in the cocoon of the book-lined room.
“Very sorry to take you away from all the celebrations, but no rest for the wicked, eh?” the colonel said, with a little chuckle.
“No, indeed, sir,” Bertie said, reaching for his drink.
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