Lady in disguise

by Amanda McCabe

  Jack had been standing with his parents for what seemed like a decade, choked by the stuffy, perfume-filled air. They were no closer to the receiving line of the greats than they had been ten minutes ago, but if he leaned slightly to the left he could just get a glimpse of them. Tsar Alexander of Russia, tall and splendid as a storybook king in his white uniform, stood beside his short, pale, strong-featured sister, the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg. Her black satin gown and the black lace veil attached to her tiara stood out starkly against the pastels of the other ladies. The florid-faced, portly Prince Regent stood on her other side, and when he attempted to speak to her, the glance she gave him was positively glacial.

  Interesting, to be sure, but hardly useful. Everyone knew that the Grand Duchess loathed Prinny. Nothing appeared to be out of order here.

  Jack’s father swept the assembly an approving gaze. “An impressive group, are they not, Jonathan?” he said, his own medals and ribbons flashing in the candlelight.

  “Indeed they are,” Jack answered, only half-sarcastically. All those diamonds and yards of gold braid were enough to impress anyone. “We are fortunate to see so many heads of state gathered in one place.” Even if they could all be such blasted nuisances.

  His father gave him a startled look, as if he was surprised that Jack could devise any polite conversation. “Quite right, m’boy. Quite right. We shall never see the likes of this time again.” The line moved forward then, preventing him from pontificating any further. He took his wife’s arm and helped her up the last step into the ballroom.

  Lady Osborn gathered up the train of her silver satin and lace gown and beamed at her husband and son. She had been the peacemaker, the one who smoothed things over, for so long that she was obviously delighted by the evening’s amity.

  “I see that the Count and Countess Suvarov are here,”

  Lord Osborn said. “She is English, you know, the eldest daughter of the Duke of Barclay. And they say the Tsar trusts the Count’s opinion more than any other. If I were just a young man again, with a diplomatic career ahead of me, I would certainly wish to make their acquaintance.” He gave his son a significant look. “In this new order of ours, Russia is certain to be of great importance. Great importance indeed.”

  Before Jack could reply to this, or even puzzle out what his father was trying to say, they reached the guests of honor. He gave his most elegant bow to the Tsar and the Grand Duchess, and to the Prince Regent. After Prinny stood a very handsome couple, both of them tall and dark and even more regal than the Tsar and his sister. This was undoubtedly the Count Suvarov, the man who was to receive the papers Mr. Thompson had given Jack, and his wife.

  Jack, who was very seldom fazed by anything life chose to hurl at him, almost began to feel intimidated by their cool stares. But their hostess intervened before he could do anything ridiculously gauche and schoolboyish. “Count and Countess Suvarov, may I present the Earl and Countess of Osborn and their son, Viscount St. Albans?” Lady Bransley said, in her perfect-hostess voice. “This is the Count and Countess Suvarov and their niece, Lady Emma Weston. Lady Emma is the daughter of the late Earl of Lindsey.”

  Then he saw her. He drew in a sharp breath, suddenly speechless. She was as still and perfect as a marble figurine, her expression exquisitely polite but distant. Yet she was far more lovely than any figurine, or indeed any woman, he had ever seen. She was small and slender, with milk-white skin dramatically set off by deep brown eyes and shining black hair. Her nose was perhaps a shade too long, but her cheekbones were sharp and soaring. The pearl and diamond tiara in her glossy, upswept hair sparkled as she turned toward them, her heavy, ivory-colored brocade gown rustling. The scarlet watered-silk sash of some order that looped over her shoulder shifted, emphasizing the small high hne of her perfect bosom.

  Jack looked quickly away. He was certain it was not the thing to be caught staring at such a lady’s breasts!

  She held her gloved hand out to him and said in a soft, lightly accented voice, “How do you do?”

  Her demeanor was all that was perfectly proper. But he had the distinct impression that she did not really see him. Her dark eyes looked slightly past him, as if she was lost in her own world. A world far away from the crowded ballroom and the people gathered around her.

  Jack wondered how he could join her there, this perfect ice princess in her own dream. He was not particularly vain, but he did enjoy a certain degree of success with women. To be so completely overlooked by one pricked just a bit—but also intrigued him.

  All too soon, she withdrew her hand from his and turned to the next person in line, and Jack was forced to move away.

  He could not help but glance back at her just once more. The man at her side, who had been introduced as Sir Jeremy something-or-other, attached to the English embassy to Russia, said some quiet words to her. His pale golden hair and mustache and deep green velvet coat made a picture-perfect contrast to her night-and-snow beauty.

  She nodded and gave him a small smile.

  Well, Jack though with a rueful laugh. Obviously diplomatic work did have its advantages, just as his father said. Perhaps he should rethink his choice of career.

  ———

  “Would you care for a glass of champagne, Lady Emma?” Sir Jeremy asked solicitously, taking Emma’s arm to lead her across the ballroom after they were freed from the receiving line.

  Emma would indeed care for some champagne. She gave a longing glance to crystal flutes full of the golden liquid as a footman passed by with a laden tray. But she regretfully shook her head. Champagne made her feel all fuzzy headed and giggly, made her feel like kicking off her slippers and twirling about, and she knew that would be unacceptable at a time like this. Or anytime in her life.

  “No, thank you, Sir Jeremy. Perhaps some punch?” Her throat was dry, and her lips felt cracked from so much smiling. The tepid-looking pink punch would be better than nothing.

  “Of course. It would be my honor to fetch it for you.” Sir Jeremy left her at her aunt’s side and disappeared into the swirling crowd. His dark green coat was lost in the flash of jewels and bright silks.

  Emma watched him go. He was handsome and eminently suitable, and he was quite charming and attentive. Also, her aunt and uncle seemed to like him, even allowing him to escort her into the ballroom tonight.

  She should be laughing with joy, her heart pattering happily. This was what she had dreamed of, wasn’t it? On all those lonely days in the country, reading all those books, she had imagined what it would be like to meet a handsome suitor.

  But it was not exactly as she had imagined. In fact, it was awfully—flat. Much to her disappointment, Emma felt no different than she had two days ago. The same restlessness still tugged at her heart. She had even been daydreaming about the crowds outside when Sir Jeremy was standing right beside her in the receiving line! Daydreaming so deeply she scarcely saw the people in front of her.

  But her Aunt Lydia seemed happy with her husband beside her, which was good because it kept her from turning her too perceptive gaze onto Emma quite so often.

  Lydia smiled at her now and drew her close to her side. “Emma, dear, you know Countess Lieven.”

  “Of course.” Emma inclined her head to the lady her aunt was speaking with. The elegant countess seemed quite friendly, but Emma felt small and awkward around her. Her gown felt pale and childish beside Countess Lieven’s vivid rose-colored creation and her sparkling parure of amethysts and diamonds. Emma had to resist the urge to reach up and make sure her hair was still tidy, coiled beneath the headache-inducing tiara.

  “Sadly, we have not had much opportunity for conversation,” Countess Lieven said. “I hope you will come to tea at the embassy while you are here, Lady Emma. And you, too, of course, Countess Suvarova. Perhaps the day after tomorrow?”

  “We would be delighted.” Aunt Lydia looked past the countess’s shoulder, a smile of greeting softening her formal expression. “As, I am sure, my husband will be.”
>
  Nicholas came up to his wife and smiled down at her before bowing politely over Countess Lieven’s silk-gloved hand. “Now, what is it I would be delighted to do?” he said, his voice lightly teasing. “What have you embroiled me in now, my dear?”

  Lydia laughed, and tapped at his sleeve with her folded fan. “Only tea at the embassy with the Countess. Nothing too onerous.”

  Emma smiled at the gentle banter, relaxing a bit for the first time all evening. They were obviously in good humor tonight.

  When she was a little girl, Emma would sometimes imagine that one day her husband would be a bit like her uncle Nicholas-tall, dark, with a ready smile to go along with his devotion to duty and family. She had hoped her marriage would be like that of her aunt and uncle, a union of true partners whose love would never waver, even in the face of frequent separations.

  Now, of course, she knew the truth of how difficult those separations, this etiquette-bound life, could be. She knew she did not want it for herself, but she did not know how to escape it, either.

  She bit back a sigh and turned her attention to the conversation around her. Perhaps she was not giving Sir Jeremy a chance, she told herself. They had not even had their promised drive yet.

  “There is someone I would like you to meet,” Countess Lieven was saying. “In his younger days he was quite invaluable in England’s diplomatic service, or so my husband tells me. Now, alas, he is retired, but my husband and I have enjoyed his company and that of his sweet wife since we have been in London.”

  She lifted her elegant hand and summoned a gentleman to her side. He had obviously been quite handsome in his youth and was still distinguished despite an expanded girth and receded hairline. Emma vaguely recalled him from the receiving line, but she had been lost in her daydream then and could not quite remember his name. Her aunt would surely scold her soundly for that lapse, though, so she smiled and prayed that someone would mention his name before she had to address him.

  “Lord Osborn, of course you have met the Count and Countess Suvarov and their niece, Lady Emma Weston,” Countess Lieven said, rescuing Emma from her dilemma. “They are relations of our Tsar, and quite indispensable to our country.”

  “A great honor to meet you,” Lord Osborn said. He bowed first over Aunt Lydia’s hand, then Emma’s. “We are indeed privileged to have such lovely ladies grace our city with their presence.”

  “You are too kind, Lord Osborn,” Lydia said.

  “No, indeed, Countess Suvarova. No, indeed. Merely honest.” Lord Osborn gave Emma an oddly speculative glance. “I should so much like you to meet my son. He is conversing with our hostess at the moment, but perhaps later?”

  “We should like that, Lord Osborn,” Emma answered, since the man was still looking at her. “Countess Lieven tells us that your wife is also very charming.”

  She watched him as he made some reply and wondered if his son was as carefully polished, as artificial, as the father was. If so, she wasn’t sure she could face him just now. Her tiara was giving her a dreadful headache, and it was all she could do to keep smiling and making light conversation.

  Sir Jeremy came to her rescue with a glass of punch and an offer to escort her to view their hostess’s prized new Titian painting. She moved away on his arm, waved on by her aunt and uncle.

  It was only much later that she remembered she had not met Lord Osborn’s son, after the evening was at long last over, and Sir Jeremy was assisting her into the carriage.

  “I beg you to remember your promise to go for a drive with me, Lady Emma,” Sir Jeremy said, looking intently into her eyes. “I would so like to renew our old acquaintance.”

  “Of course I will not forget. Good evening, Sir Jeremy,” she said, smiling politely.

  He pressed a quick kiss to her gloved hand before the carriage door shut between them and the vehicle jolted into motion.

  Emma leaned her aching head back and closed her eyes, relishing the quiet, the peace. No one was looking at her, no one expecting anything from her for the first time in hours. It was lovely.

  She opened her eyes to look out the carriage window. Were all Englishmen like Sir Jeremy, she wondered? It was a fine thing she had not met Lord Osborn’s son, then, for she had met quite enough young Englishmen tonight. She probably should have married a Russian while she had the chance!

  Emma giggled at that thought. Who exactly would she have married? No one had asked her.

  “Did you enjoy the reception, Emma?” her aunt asked.

  Emma looked across the carriage to where her aunt and uncle sat, their arms linked. “Oh, yes. It was very nice.”

  Her uncle chuckled. “I think that is what they call a ‘polite falsehood,’ Emma. It was tedious for you, I know.”

  Emma laughed. “Perhaps just a bit, Uncle Nicholas!”

  “Well, you behaved very charmingly, as always,” Nicholas said. “I received so many compliments on my lovely family.”

  “On your lovely young niece, perhaps,” said Aunt Lydia. “Emma is so admired wherever she goes. I should not be surprised if we saw Sir Jeremy Ashbey on our doorstep very soon. Perhaps even tomorrow!”

  Emma smiled at her aunt and uncle, but inside she sighed.

  Chapter Three

  Emma was exhausted, but she could not sleep. She lay in the middle of her enormous bed, staring up at the embroidered underside of the canopy. Her head and feet throbbed, and her vast bedchamber was so silent that she wanted to shout just to fill it up.

  Finally, unable to lie still for another minute, she pushed aside the bedclothes and climbed down from the bed. She padded on her bare feet across the floor to pull the heavy satin curtains back from the window.

  Outside, it was an entirely different world. People still thronged the park across the way, laughing, dancing, chatting, moving in one great mass beneath the lights of the Chinese lanterns strung in the trees. Emma opened the sash and leaned out, listening to the strains of some sort of rough music. Snatches of song and laughter floated up to her.

  She leaned her chin in her hand and watched the crowd, soaking in all the excitement, all the life. How she wished she could be a part of it! She would so love to dance, to laugh, to flirt with some handsome swain. Just to have a conversation that was not fraught with etiquette would be a veritable heaven.

  As she sat there, her gaze darting from one scene to another, a young couple passed on the fringes of the crowd, hand in hand. The man pulled the girl into his arms, twirling her about to the tune until she giggled. He kissed her cheek, softly, tenderly, and then they vanished back into the throng, replaced by a laughing, robust husband and wife, who trailed behind them a brood of rambunctious children.

  Emma almost cried. It was all so sweet, so beautiful, so—elusive. She wanted to seize all that emotion and pull it into herself, to make herself a part of it. But she knew that could never be. That park might as well be as far away as the stars.

  Still, she ached for it, longed to leave her luxurious chamber behind. She leaned farther out of the window, trying to see more…

  “Whatever are you doing, my lady!”

  Emma was so startled by Natasha’s cry that she almost tumbled over the windowsill. She grabbed onto the curtains and pulled herself back, looking over her shoulder at the wide-eyed maid.

  “Natasha!” she said. “Don’t shout so. You almost frightened me to death.”

  “What else should I do when I see you about to hurl yourself out the window?” Natasha rushed forward to pull Emma completely inside by the sleeve of her nightdress, then she closed and locked the window. The music and laughter were abruptly cut off, leaving Emma in satin-swaddled silence again.

  “I was not about to hurl myself anywhere,” Emma protested. “I was merely—watching.”

  “Without your dressing gown or slippers?” Natasha clucked disapprovingly and picked up Emma’s discarded bedroom slippers. “You should be in bed, my lady.”

  “I could not sleep,” Emma said, sitting down on a ch
air to put the slippers on. “I have a headache.”

  “You are probably hungry.” Natasha fetched the tray she had banged down on the table so abruptly when she came in to find Emma on the verge of “suicide.” There was a glass of milk and a plate of dainty cucumber and salmon sandwiches.

  Emma’s stomach rumbled at the sight of the food, reminding her of all the scrumptious lobster patties and mushroom tarts she had not eaten at the reception. After all, a lady did not make a glutton of herself in public.

  “You take such good care of me, Natasha,” she said, reaching for a sandwich. “You have ever since we were children.”

  “Someone must, my lady.” Natasha busied herself finding a warm Indian shawl to drape over Emma’s shoulders and smoothing the rumpled bedcovers. “You do not eat enough. You need to keep up your strength.”

  Emma gave an unladylike snort. “It is much too difficult to look elegant and dignified when one is cramming a lemon tart into one’s mouth.” She thought ruefully of all the banquets that had gone mostly uneaten in the name of elegance and dignity. “Tell me, Natasha, did you go to the illuminations tonight?”

  Natasha turned away from fluffing up the bed pillows, her face all aglow with a smile. Emma sometimes forgot that Natasha was really so young, not much older than Emma herself, she was usually so fussing and motherly. But at this moment she looked young and carefree.

  “Oh, yes!” Natasha answered. “It was—was choo dyes niy, my lady. I have never seen anything like it. It sparkled like heaven must.”

  Sparkled like heaven. Emma sat back and closed her eyes, trying to envision it all.

  “It is happening tomorrow night, too,” Natasha said. “If you do not need me, my lady, I thought I might go again.”

  Emma opened her eyes. “Certainly you may go, Natasha. I am sure there will be some banquet or ball I must attend. I won’t need you until late.” She felt a twinge of envy, but she hid it quickly behind a smile. She did not want to dim Natasha’s fun with her own bad mood.