Lady in disguise

by Amanda McCabe

  “Just you and me. My beautiful wife.” He lowered his head to kiss her, and she practically glowed with anticipation, her lips tingling with the need to feel his on hers.

  Their lips had just barely brushed, her hand tangling in his loosened cravat, when a door banged open and the light from another lamp flooded across the marble floor of the foyer. Emma could have ignored those things, thought them a figment of the glorious dream state that came over her when Jack kissed her, but she could not ignore the sharp cough that sounded. And the tap of a foot.

  Emma drew back from Jack and blinked away the haze from her eyes. Madame Ana stood outside the drawing room door, which she had obviously just shut. She held up a lamp, which showed that she still wore her black silk gown and a black shawl around her shoulders, but her spectacles were gone and her hair slightly loosened. For Madame Ana, this was deepest dishabille.

  Emma feared she herself was even more awry. She stepped back and picked up her shawl, glad that it was dim so her pink face could not be seen.

  “Madame Ana,” she said. “Were you waiting for us? I know we are late…”

  Madame Ana shook her head. “There is a visitor, my lady. In the drawing room.” With that, she turned and marched off up the stairs, taking her light with her.

  Emma glanced up at Jack, who appeared as puzzled as she felt. “A visitor? So late?” she said. “Who could it…” A horrible idea struck her. “Sir Jeremy Ashbey would not have come here, would he?”

  “Surely not. Even lunatics have some manners,” he muttered.

  “Then, who could it be?”

  “There is really only one way to find out, my dear.” Jack took her arm and led her into the drawing room.

  A small fire was lit in the grate, and seated before it was Bertie Stonewich. They had seen him last at their wedding, handsome in his dress uniform, flirting with all the young lady guests and making them giggle. Tonight, he appeared a bit the worse for wear in dusty travel buckskins and boots, his golden hair rumpled. It was obvious he had ridden hard, but his smile was wide and happy. Probably due to the decanter of port that sat, half empty, on the table next to his chair.

  Emma stared at him. He seemed an apparition, swept up from London from Jack’s wild past, and dropped into this new country life.

  “Hallo, Jack, Lady St. Albans!” he said cheerfully, saluting them with his glass. “Nice to see you again.”

  “And nice to see you, too, Bertie,” Jack said, in a harsh voice that belied the words. “But, what the, the— blazes are you doing here?”

  “Oh, just enjoying your very fine port,” Bertie answered. “And trying to talk to that pretty maid of yours, but I must say she is not very friendly.”

  Emma frowned at him, remembering Madame Ana’s abruptness in the foyer. “Madame Ana is not my maid; she is my secretary. I will thank you not to annoy her, Mr. Stonewich.”

  Bertie’s golden brows arched. “Oh, I say…”

  Jack took Emma’s arm, turned her to face him. “My dear, you must be tired. Why don’t you go up to your chamber? I will see to our—guest.”

  Emma nodded. She was tired, and her planned romantic evening did not appear that it would happen, thanks to this midnight arrival. The best she could hope for now was her bed and perhaps a warm milk to drink.

  “Good night, Jack,” she said, and kissed his cheek, softly, lingeringly. “Good night, Mr. Stonewich.”

  “Good night, Lady St. Albans,” he replied happily. As Emma left the drawing room, she heard him say “Join me in a port, Jack?”

  She shook her head ruefully and went up the stairs, following the same path Madame Ana had taken earlier. Natasha waited for her in her chamber to unfasten her altered pink gown and help her into her nightdress. She even had the warm milk, liberally laced with brandy, waiting.

  “Ah, Natasha, you are a marvel,” Emma said, crawling beneath the bedclothes with her drink. “What would I do without you?” Suddenly, she realized what a long evening it had been.

  “Oh, I’m sure you would be just fine, my lady,” Natasha said with a laugh. She shook out Emma’s gown and hung it up in the wardrobe. “Madame Ana said a guest from London was here.”

  “Yes. One of his lordship’s friends.”

  “Madame Ana did not seem very happy to meet him.”

  “I’ll speak to her in the morning.” Emma leaned back on her pillows, letting the warm lassitude of the brandy wash over her. “I do wonder what he’s doing here, though.”

  She also wondered if Bertie had come to try to lure Jack back to the wildness of Town life before their married life had even started. And she wondered what Jack would do if he had.

  ———

  Jack closed the drawing room door behind Emma and leaned back on it, watching Bertie impassively. “What are you doing here?”

  Bertie put his glass down and stood up, the tipsy n’er-do-well falling away. “Bad timing, I know. You are no doubt enjoying your wedding trip with the delectable Lady Emma, but it cannot be helped. There is to be a meeting in London, day after tomorrow, and your presence is required.”

  A meeting? Jack said nothing, just folded his arms across his chest, but his mind raced. What meeting could be so urgent that he was required to be there? They were in peacetime now. Mr. Thompson had assured him that it was a perfectly convenient time for him to be away from London. What could have happened in the few days he had been here?

  And how could he leave his “delectable” wife now?

  They were just beginning to come together. And Sir Jeremy Ashbey’s presence was bothersome. Jack was almost certain the man would not try anything, but he made Emma uncomfortable. He should not leave her alone.

  For the first time, two duties warred for preeminence in his heart. Two loyalties, equally strong, pulled at him.

  Bertie watched him closely. “Is something amiss here?”

  Jack shrugged. “Not amiss, exactly. But it is something I cannot like. Sir Jeremy Ashbey, who had hopes of marrying Emma himself, has come into the neighborhood. He was at the supper party this evening and watched her in such a way that it made her uncomfortable.”

  Bertie nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think the man will—try something? Try to hurt Lady Emma, take some revenge on her for spurning him?”

  “I do not know what he might do. I do know that Emma will not feel at ease about being alone now.” Jack frowned. “Did they say what the meeting was about?”

  “You will have to discover that for yourself, I fear. Perhaps I can help you, though, Jack my friend.”

  “You, Bertie? How?”

  “You should only be gone for a few days. In the meantime, I could stay here and keep an eye on the situation for you. I already have my orders.”

  Jack laughed, but it sounded dry and humorless even to his own ears. “So I should leave you here to harass my wife’s staff?”

  Bertie shrugged. “How was I to know the woman was a secretary? And all I did was give her the tiniest pat on the bottom as she walked past. The way she screeched and shouted Russian curses at me, you would have thought I tore that hideous black dress off of her!”

  “Madame Ana is very proper. If I leave you here…”

  Bertie held up his hand in a gesture of surrender. “I will be the very picture of gentlemanly rectitude, I vow! And this Ashbey fellow will not dare to come near Weston Manor. I promise you that.”

  Jack nodded, reluctantly, but what else could he do?

  He was needed in London. And at least with Bertie here he would know Emma was protected. It was not much; it was not the same as being here himself. But it would have to do, for now.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will be counting on you.”

  “You saved my life in Spain,” Bertie answered, very seriously. “I will protect your wife with my own, if need be.”

  “You had better. Now, is there any of that port left? Or did you drink it all in your usual greedy way?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Emma awoke
, startled by some noise. She slowly sat up against her pillows and looked out the window. The gleaming half-moon was low in the sky, which meant she had been asleep for some time. Her head still felt thick and misty with dreams and brandied milk.

  What was the sound that woke her? Her gaze darted around the chamber, yet she saw nothing amiss. There was another noise, a sort of shuffling, and she realized it came from the room next to hers. Jack’s room.

  He must have come up from the drawing room, but that meant he had been there with Bertie Stonewich all this time. What could they have been talking about?

  She would just have to go in there and ask.

  She must still be tipsy, she thought, as she pushed back the blankets and climbed out of bed, crossing the room to the door connecting her to Jack. Either that or she was dreaming and none of this was actually happening. Whichever, she somehow did not care.

  She reached up to rap on the wood but changed her mind and tested the knob instead. It turned under her touch. She slipped into the room and closed the door behind her.

  A candle burned on Jack’s bedside table, showing Emma the plain, dark furniture deemed suitable for a lord’s chamber, so different from her own gilt and satin. At first she did not see Jack, but his coat, waistcoat and cravat were tossed over the back of an armchair.

  His evening pumps and stockings were piled on the carpet.

  As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw him. The shuffling noise she had heard must have been the draperies opening, for he stood by the window, peering out, one hand holding the velvet fabric. He stood as still as marble, as quiet, as—alone. He stared out at the moon and the stars like some solitary, eternal god, pondering all the weight of humanity that had been placed on his shoulders. As if he were not part of this world, her world, at all. As if he was beyond her touch.

  His very stillness made her hesitate and glance back at the door she had just shut. Maybe it was a mistake for her to be here at all. He obviously had something weighty on his mind, and she was not sure why she had come anyway.

  But it was too late for turning back. “Emma?” he said softly, without moving.

  “Er, yes. It is I.” She left the wall and moved to his side, joining him by the window. The evening light fell across his face in a pale gold wash. He was still her handsome Jack, but he seemed tired. No, not just tired, weary. He gave her a small smile and held his hand out to her. His skin was cool, and she held it tightly between her two palms, trying to warm it.

  “I thought you would be asleep,” he said. “It is very late, and we had a long evening.”

  “A long evening? A supper party?” She gave a little laugh, trying to make his smile widen. “La, I could have danced until dawn, I could have sung and marched…”

  “All right, so my merry-making wife is not tired!” he said, and took his hand from hers to put his arm around her waist, drawing her close to his side. “But it is late.”

  “You are up late as well,” Emma pointed out. “What did Mr. Stonewich want? It was obvious that he came here upon some errand, despite his silly behavior.”

  “My dear, you are too right. But let us not talk of Bertie tonight. Let us just enjoy the moon. It will fade away all too soon.”

  Emma leaned against Jack and looked out at the sky. It was deepest black, sprinkled with a few diamond stars and full of moonglow. The edges were growing faintest blue, though, heralding the distant dawn.

  “Fading or not, it is lovely.” For some reason, the night scene made her think of Russia. Her bedroom in their country home had possessed a cushioned window seat, and many an evening she had sat there, looking out at the scene. It had sometimes been thick and soft, with nuts dropping from the trees and water rippling off the pond where she liked to row. More often, it was covered with thick, smooth snow, purest white, with icicles glistening from the trees. Yet always, always there had been the moon, watching her, waiting, unchanging.

  It watched her still.

  “When you spoke to me of your time in Spain, Jack, of how you would watch the sky and dream of a better future, I understood what you meant,” she said, still looking at the moon but sensing that he was listening to her, paying close attention to her words. “I often felt the same, though my war was cold, not hot, like Spain. So very cold.”

  “Where did you spend the war, Emma?” he asked.

  “When it looked dangerous, as if Bonaparte might be coming closer, my aunt and uncle sent me to their country estate for safety. It was safe enough, off the path of the terrible invasion, but we were sometimes hungry even there, unable to bring in supplies at all. There was the household to feed, and Natasha and I did our best, yet the Russian winter was hard. Particularly that year, which was colder than what anyone could recall in living memory, and we often had no news. We did not know where anyone was. My aunt and uncle were with the Tsar, but I could never be sure of their safety.” Emma did not like to think of those bleak, dark days. When the memories were locked away silently in her heart, she could almost persuade herself that they had not happened at all.

  Tonight, though, they seemed closer to her. Maybe it was the contrast of that lonely, cold time to this warm, soft happiness, these days of peace. It made her new life, her marriage, her home, even this dear moon all the more precious.

  Jack’s arm tightened. “You were hungry?” he said, his voice appalled.

  “Only sometimes. Natasha and I would go out to find food, and I learned to make bread from the most amazing ingredients!” She tried to laugh, as if digging in the snow for forgotten roots and stretching flour with straw was a lark. Here, with her feet warm and her stomach full, it almost seemed it was. “You would not have imagined it of your spoiled little wife, would you, Jack?”

  He turned her in his arms, staring down at her as if he had never seen her before. “I had no idea, Emma.”

  “I do not like to speak of that time. It is all very long ago.”

  “You are truly the bravest person I have ever met.”

  Emma stared up at him, astonished. Her, brave? She had faced only what everyone in Russia had. Her own life then had been positively easeful compared with the people on the front lines. Compared with Jack himself, battling on the sun-baked Spanish ground. “I only did what I had to. I was not as brave as you. You fought; you faced death every day. You volunteered to protect your country.”

  “I volunteered to annoy my father.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am his heir. No one expects or even wants firstborn young peers to be risking life and limb in battle, but I did it anyway. I took pleasure in his blustering chagrin, and I admit I had dreams of glory, too. Of course, I found precious little of that, but I was very young and foolish. I could not know what I would really find.”

  Emma felt like crying, like stopping up her ears so she could hear nothing of this. She could not. All she could do was whisper “What did you find?”

  “What must have been found in Russia, too. Starving people, a land torn apart by a war not of their own making. Young men full of foolish ideas. Young women forced to forage for food. But I found one other thing, as well.”

  “Did you?”

  “I found myself. Not the selfish young pup I had been, but my true self. And do you know what I found of myself, there under the hot sun?”

  Emma shook her head wordlessly.

  “That I was not so very bad after all. Yet not nearly as courageous as those foraging girls.” His hands slid up to hold her face between them, cradling her, cherishing her. “Not as brave as you, making your way alone in the winter.”

  She put her hands over his, holding him to her. With his support, she was brave. But that winter she had been scared to death. She wanted to forget it, to forget it all and make Jack forget, too. “Kiss me,” she commanded, standing on tiptoe and tilting her head so he could reach her easier. “Jack, please, just kiss me.”

  He smiled at her crookedly. “I am always happy to oblige a lady.”

  This
kiss was as sweet as the others they had shared, but there was something else beneath—something urgent, desperate even. As if this was the one embrace that could save them. Save them from what, she could not say, and yet they clung to each other, moving closer and closer until there was not a beam of moonlight between them.

  Jack’s mouth slanted over hers. He tasted of port and of something deeper and darker, almost like a bitter chocolate but not exactly. It was just something that was Jack himself. It was rich and intoxicating and perfect. For a moment, Emma was sharply aware that she herself was a mess, rumpled and smelling of sleep. She wished she could run back to her room, tidy herself and start all over again, but that wish was quickly lost when Jack’s hand slid along her ribcage to gently, ever so gently, touch her breast.

  “Oh!” she gasped, surprised by the sensations that simple touch evoked. It tingled and burned like—like stars bursting in the night sky.

  His hand moved back to her waist. “Sorry,” he muttered hoarsely, kissing the side of her neck, the soft spot just beneath her ear.

  “No, no. I like it.” She took his hand and placed his strong fingers back where they had been. “Please, Jack. Do that again.”

  He raised his head to look at her, dazedly, question-ingly. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She had never been more sure of anything. “Oh, yes.”

  He kissed her again, with a wild desire that stole the very breath from her. When his lips broke from hers, it was only so he could bend and catch her behind the knees, sweeping her up into his arms.

  They fell back onto his high, velvet-draped bed together, a tangle of limbs and cloth and sighs and exclamations. Emma never even noticed when the moon vanished from the sky, and only blue-black darkness was left.

  Chapter Thirty

  Emma stirred when she heard the housemaids walking by in the corridor outside the bedchamber, their ash buckets clinking as they went about the work of cleaning grates. She hoped they would leave her chamber for last, as they usually did, so she could sleep until the palest pink light at the windows turned yellow and bright. She was so tired, deeply tired. Sleep was still pulling her back down when she heard a mutter beside her, felt the gentle dip of the mattress as the person who muttered rolled closer.