Bailey didn't allow Emma to finish. "Because I know you, missy. Always up to mischief, even when you was a nipper. And what else would you be going to the park for, at such an hour?"
Definitely an old retainer.
Time to push her luck. She'd done OK, so far. And it would be a good idea to change the subject, anyway. "By the way, the porter downstairs. He did not open the door for me." She let the comment hang, and waited.
Bailey did not disappoint. "Typical," she spat. "Filch is always asleep on the job. I suppose he jumped up from his chair the moment you were inside and was swearing black was white, as usual? Sir John always said he was too old for the job. Surely now you can see he was right?"
Filch? Did she really employ a night porter with a name like Filch? Shades of Dickens, several decades too early. Emma swallowed her smile and said calmly, "Old retainers are valuable, Bailey. Surely you know that more than anyone? No, Filch stays in his post as long as he is able and as long as he wishes to." At least she now knew that the servants were hers, even if the house was not. Progress, of a kind.
Bailey harrumphed. "You were about to tell me, m'lady, about the gentleman you are meeting in the park? I take it there is a gentleman?"
"Oh, very well." Emma needed to confide in someone in this alien world, and a faithful old retainer like Bailey was probably the best on offer. "You are right, as usual, Bailey. I am going to meet a gentleman. But it will be a perfectly respectable meeting. You will accompany me." At the abigail's half-smile, Emma added, "You will stay out of earshot, however. I wish to have a private conversation with the gentleman."
"As you wish, m'lady." Bailey did not sound happy at all.
At least there was one consolation. Emma might be stranded here in the Regency, but she wouldn't have to wear that skimpy lace evening gown to meet Will in the park. She would be able to wear something more appropriate, and a lot warmer, for their rendezvous. "Lay out a warm walking dress, if you please," she instructed. "And boots." She was determined that she was not going to freeze in the early spring wind. "I will lie down on my bed for a little rest. Wake me at six. I wish to be out of the house by half-past."
Bailey glowered at her but said only, "As you wish, m'lady. At six."
Emma lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. But she didn't sleep. There were too many clues to piece together and she didn't have much time. She needed to have things straight in her mind, or at least a bit straighter, before she saw him again.
She had no idea yet what her name was, but she did know she was a widow. So all the matrons' chat about her being away from town had an obvious cause. She'd most probably been in mourning. And if she remembered rightly, mourning for a husband was two years, one year in black and one in grey. Lady Emma was wearing colours now, so her husband must have died more than two years ago.
Was this house hers? Possibly, but she'd have to find out for sure. It might be rented or it might belong to relatives. Having her own servants here proved nothing. And where had she been living during her mourning? Did she have a house in the country somewhere? She'd have to find out about that, too. She was going to have to do a lot of careful thinking before she allowed herself to ask any questions.
A devastating thought struck her: did she have children? She'd always wanted children but it had turned out to be a blessing that she and Julian hadn't had any. Bringing up children in a household with Julian as the father would have been dangerous for the poor things. But her Regency husband might have been a good man, for all she knew.
No way of telling. She'd have to wait and see. She would never dare even to hint.
The crunch question, apart from Will, was the gold lace gown. Would she ever get back to her own time? If so, how? It clearly wasn't just a matter of taking it off. Bailey had done that and nothing at all had happened. Perhaps because Emma wasn't in the place where she'd arrived?
Good grief. Am I going to have to start undressing in my own hallway while Filch watches from his porter's chair?
It would have been funny if it hadn't been quite so frightening. If the gown had lost its magic, Emma might be here in an alien time for ever.
No, there had to be a way. She'd just have to work it out.
She went back to the beginning. To leave the museum, she had to put the gown on at precisely seven in the evening, while the church clock was striking. She'd tried a different time and it hadn't worked. So time was crucial. But place? She couldn't be sure because she'd never tried to do it anywhere but the research room.
To leave the Regency, she'd twice gone back to the place where she'd arrived. The time of day had been different each time and it hadn't mattered. The place had been the same, though. The lack of a ministering abigail hadn't stopped her successful return from the ladies' retiring room, either, so people didn't seem to matter.
She pondered the conclusions she'd reached. Was it time that mattered in the twenty-first century and place in the nineteenth? Plus wearing the gown.
She needed a plan. Perhaps she could go down to the hall in the lace gown and send Filch off on some kind of errand? Then as soon as she was alone, she could start to take off the gown. It had only needed a sleeve before. If it worked, she'd be long gone before Filch got back.
And what would the poor old man do? Her household would imagine their Lady Emma had been abducted, or worse, wouldn't they? Filch might be thrown into the gutter to starve.
As a plan, it wasn't nearly good enough. But perhaps she could build on it. Later.
What about Will? She was to meet him in Green Park, by the milk maids. And say what? He had demanded an explanation for what he called her "diabolical hide-and-seek". She wanted to tell him. She wanted to trust him. She did trust him. But there were limits to how far trust could be stretched, even for lovers. Especially when one of them was bound to have the mindset of an unreconstructed Regency male. If she told him the truth, that she was actually a visitor from two centuries in the future, he'd think she'd flipped. Even if he didn't say she was mad, he would certainly never believe her explanation. So she needed something much more plausible than the truth. But what?
It was almost six when the idea came to her.
Chapter Eight
Emma wasn't surprised to discover that the walking boots were an excellent fit. Presumably Lady Emma was rich enough to have all her footwear made to measure. The walking dress, in dark leaf green, was more flattering than she expected, with plenty of petticoats underneath to keep her warm.
Emma looked at herself in the pier glass. Not bad. She wouldn't be out of place, dressed as she was. Except for the early hour, of course. Would any aristocratic lady be seen in the park with a gentleman so early in the morning, except for nefarious purposes?
There was nothing to be done. She had promised; and promises had to be kept. She could only hope that no one would recognise her.
Fingers crossed again? Her inner voice was trying to sound a warning but she refused to listen. She was going to meet her lover, the man of her dreams – literally, she realised – and her heart was singing at the prospect of being in his arms again. Even if they couldn't find somewhere private for an embrace, she would settle for being able to touch his hand and to hear his beloved voice. In all her time in the modern world, she had never known longing like this.
She smiled at her reflection. It was the secretive, cream-pot smile of a woman about to meet the man who could ignite her passions with just a single glance.
At her back, Bailey harrumphed. She had probably understood that smile, too, and definitely disapproved. But she said only, "You'll need a spencer as well, m'lady, to keep the wind off. I know you prefer the cream one with this gown, but if I might suggest…"
Emma turned. Bailey had two spencers over her arm, one cream and one in a rusty brown colour. Emma raised an eyebrow.
"If you wear the cream spencer, you'll have to wear the matching hat. Or else your straw bonnet with the dark green ribbons. But if you was to wear this spencer—" she held up the brownish one "
—you could wear the matching hat. The one with the veil," she added, with emphasis.
Bailey was not only an old retainer, she was clearly also a born conspirator, and fiercely loyal even when she didn't approve of her mistress's shenanigans.
Emma nodded gratefully and said, "That's an excellent notion, Bailey. That is precisely what I shall do." She wouldn't be the first Regency lady to wear clashing colours. She had seen plenty of fashion plates with much worse combinations than dark green and rust.
It was only when she reached the front hall, very much the aristocratic lady in rusty spencer and matching veiled hat, and with her abigail two paces behind, that she realised she didn't have a clue how to get to Green Park. Because she had no idea at all where she was starting from. Even if she knew the name of her street, and she didn't, not yet, she might not be able to find her way because she was only vaguely familiar with this part of London. Lady Emma, needless to say, would have known it like the back of her hand, but poor Emma Stanley didn't have the faintest.
She was chewing her lip when the front door opened and Filch slipped in.
The old porter, apparently fully recovered from his earlier embarrassment, straightened and bowed to her. The expression in his eyes was eloquent. Did everyone in this household know what she was doing?
Filch waved towards the door and said, "Your ladyship's carriage is here. I gave the coachman Miss Bailey's instructions." He swung the door wide and waited for Emma and the abigail to pass through and down the steps to the waiting carriage.
Saved by the bell. No, saved by Bailey. She'd obviously decided that her lady shouldn't risk being seen walking through the streets at such an hour. First a veil, then a carriage.
A closed carriage was a life-saver. No one would see her and no one was likely to recognise the carriage, since there was no crest on the door. Emma pushed her shoulders back and started for the steps. "Thank you, Filch," she said and was rewarded with a beaming smile. "And thank you, too, Bailey," she added in a low murmur. As soon as they were both seated, the abigail with her back to the horses, naturally, Emma asked about those mysterious instructions to the coachman.
Bailey allowed herself a knowing little nod. "Couldn't have you walking through the streets at this hour, m'lady, now could I? I told them you were unable to sleep after all the excitement of last night's soirée and arriving home so very late, and so you'd decided to go for an early drive to see if some fresh air would clear your head. When we arrive at Green Park, you'll just decide, on a sudden whim, that you'd like to go for a stroll. With your faithful abigail behind for propriety's sake, naturally. The carriage will return for you in, er… How long do you think this head-clearing walk might take?"
Emma had to grin. "I think an hour should be enough." Bailey nodded, satisfied. "But if it isn't," Emma added mischievously, "I can always send you back to tell them to wait a little longer."
~ ~ ~
The carriage reached Piccadilly and the park much too soon. Emma had intended to work out exactly what she was going to say to Will, but now, before she had concocted a single satisfactory sentence, Bailey was pulling the check string and telling the coachman that her ladyship had decided to take a walk in the fresh air. "Her ladyship wishes you to return here in an hour," Bailey instructed.
Emma heard only the sound of her blood drumming in her ears. In a moment, she would have to walk into the park. And meet her nemesis. The word came into her mind unbidden. Nemesis? Downfall? Was that what Will was? Yet, in his bed, she'd felt he was her soulmate.
"Have you changed your mind, m'lady?" Bailey asked. Fellow-conspirator she might be, but there was a hopeful note in her voice.
That decided it for Emma. She had promised herself, long ago, that she was not going to be a coward any more. She stood up and shook out her skirts. "Certainly not," she said curtly. "A lady does not break her word."
Bailey said nothing. She simply twitched Emma's veil into place as the door swung open.
"I think," Emma said, loudly enough for the footman to hear, "that I should enjoy a glass of fresh milk this fine Spring morning. Come, Bailey, let us find the milkmaids." A plausible enough tale. Probably. "Er, do you know where they likely to be, at this time of the day, Bailey?"
"Well, I can't be sure, m'lady, not ever having been asked to find fresh milk at this hour of the morning, but I believe they're usually over that way." Bailey pointed along a path that led away from the road and towards several clumps of trees.
Would Will be waiting among those trees? Had he been watching for her arrival? Was he watching now? He must not be allowed to think that she lacked the courage to face him. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and began to march along the path.
Half a pace behind her, Bailey whispered, "You're supposed to be out for a morning stroll, m'lady. May I suggest it's best not to look too, er, purposeful?"
The abigail was quite right. Emma let her shoulders relax and reduced her pace to a gentle stroll. She even began to fiddle idly with her gloves. "These gloves are not right," she said. "The thumb is too long. I think they should go back to the glover. I hope I have not already paid for them?"
Bailey failed to smother a smile. "I'll see to it as soon as may be, m'lady."
"Good."
It wasn't good at all. She could see the milkmaids now. And yes, there was a shadow by the trees. Emma was pretty sure she recognised the shape. Will was waiting, as he had promised. A few yards more and she saw him clearly. He was wearing morning dress, a beautifully tailored blue coat, pale pantaloons and shiny Hessian boots. The modern part of Emma's mind said he looked good enough to eat.
He gave a nicely judged start of surprise at the sight of the two women – it seemed he was a good actor, too – and came forward to greet them, raising his beaver hat. "Why, Lady Emma. Good morning. What a pleasant surprise. There are not many ladies who frequent the park at this hour, especially after such a late night."
Now it was Emma's turn. "Good morning, Sir William. I could say the same for you, could I not?"
His eyes smiled down at her. "I am always up betimes, ma'am. All those years at sea, I fear, have created a habit I cannot break, so when I am in London, I ride out early or take a brisk walk in the park. Today my favourite mare is lame so I am on foot. Were you going anywhere in particular? May I escort you?"
Neatly done, Will Allmay. But I suppose you've had lots of practice. All those lovers, and so many, many assignations. Emma waved a careless hand towards the milkmaids. "Oh, I have no particular destination in mind. I simply wanted some fresh air and a little exercise. London becomes so hot and dusty later in the day, even this early in the year. If you were planning to take a turn round the park, I should gladly accept your escort, though I am not, perhaps, as brisk a walker as you." She smiled archly up at him through her lashes. A moment later, she realised that her flirtatious move had probably been wasted. He could not have seen it through her veil.
So how had he recognised her?
"Bailey, you may fall behind for a space. I shall walk on Sir William's arm."
Emma made to lay the tips of her fingers on his sleeve, but he took her arm and tucked it into his, so that her forearm was held tight against his ribcage and only her gloved fingertips peeped out into the open air. She could feel the warmth of his body, burning through the layers of his clothes and hers. He was on fire. And so, heaven help her, was she, in the middle of a public park. Emma felt her face beginning to heat and was grateful once more for her veil. His moves were all deliberate. He must know exactly the response that his nearness was conjuring up.
"Fie, sir, 'tis unseemly to hold me so tight," she protested in a sharp undertone. She did not attempt to pull away, though. Any signs of struggle could bring Bailey up at the run. Or, worse, any gentleman who happened to be watching.
Will relaxed his grip, a little. "Unseemly it may be, Emma," he said with a distinct laugh in his voice, "but practical, nonetheless. Every time I let go of you, you disappear. So you will c
oncede, I hope, that I have cause for my behaviour?"
That was taking the conversation in a direction that Emma wanted to avoid. So instead of replying, she said, "Tell me, sir, how is it that you recognised me from such a distance? I had thought that my veil would protect me from prying eyes."
"There is no veil that could prevent me from recognising you, my love." His voice had dropped to a throaty whisper that shivered along her bones. "Your shape, the way you move, the way you carry your head… Indeed, I swear I would recognise you even if I were blind."
Emma gulped. "Now that, sir, is a compliment too far," she said airily, trying to force a chuckle. He must know that his declaration of love, in such a public place, was making her very uneasy. "Such exaggeration. No lady of sense would ever believe a word you say."
"You may believe it, Emma. Every word. But I would not have you put out of countenance, so I will say no more here. May I procure a glass of fresh milk for you?"
She smiled her thanks, for he was granting her a moment without touching him, a moment to collect her wits. But all too soon he was back, offering a glass of milk. "I'm afraid you will have to raise your veil, my love."
Emma swore inwardly. Why hadn't she thought of that? Stupid, stupid.
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Rich aristocrats were known to be fickle. She waved the milk away. "I have changed my mind," she said, trying to sound pettish. "It looks so foamy. What is more, it is warm from the cow. I had forgot that. It would not be refreshing. I suggest you drink it yourself."
He gave a snort of laughter. For a second, she thought he would challenge her, but then he tossed off the whole glass in a single swallow. "Excellent."
There was a speck of foam on his upper lip. Emma had a sudden urge to lean into him and lick it away. Slowly. Tenderly. She managed to stop herself from swaying towards him. But only just.
His eyes were sparkling down at her. He'd kept a straight face, but he knew. With exaggerated care, he set the empty glass on the grass, pulled out a snowy handkerchief and slowly wiped the milk from his mouth. "Yes, excellent. You have missed something…ah… quite special." His gaze was fixed on her mouth. Oh yes, he knew all right.
Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Page 7