Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip

by Joanna Maitland

  Emma tried to speak, but no words came out.

  He offered his arm again. "Shall we walk on, ma'am?"

  Emma glanced behind them as she took his arm. Bailey was following, as instructed, some ten paces away. She would have heard nothing. But what had she seen? Emma told herself it didn't matter. Bailey might rail at Emma in private but she would never betray her mistress's secrets.

  Will wasn't pushing his luck with the handclasp, this time. From a distance, the pair probably looked a model of decorum, a gentleman and a lady taking a morning stroll and exchanging the latest gossip. The veil was a slight problem. Why would a lady wear a veil if her behaviour was beyond reproach?

  It couldn't be helped. In any case, anyone who recognised Will Allmay would also recognise the reason for the veil. Any lady seen consorting with Will May All risked losing her reputation. So of course she would wear a veil.

  "A penny for 'em, Emma."

  "Er, what?"

  "You were miles away, my love. Thinking on happier times, perhaps? And with me, I dare to hope."

  "You, sir, have a great conceit of yourself." Yes, that was good. That was what an aristocratic lady of the ton would riposte.

  "Is that what you think of me? Truly, Emma?" He sounded wounded. Was this more acting? More of the practised rake?

  She sighed deeply. "You know what I think of you," she whispered. Let him work that one out for himself.

  "Hmm. Perhaps I do. Then again, perhaps not. For I do not know why you continue to run from me. You promised to tell me the truth, Emma. Here. Today. Be warned. I shall hold you to your promise, even if it takes all day." His tone said he meant it.

  "Yes, I did promise. And it is hard for me, too. You must understand, Will, that promises matter to me. And not just promises to you. I made a solemn promise, to Sir John, my husband. Almost on his deathbed. He was a good man. He was kind to me, even when he was dying." She scrabbled for her pocket and a handkerchief. Before she could find it, he was offering her his own. Not the one he had used to wipe away the milk, but another, clean and fresh. She took it and tried to smile her thanks. She had no memory of her husband, Sir John, but she was feeling intensely emotional as she spoke of his death.

  "I did not have the honour of meeting your husband, but I know that he was held in high esteem by many men of my acquaintance, including senior admirals. He was a very fine man, I believe."

  "Yes, he was. And he was proud of his name. That is, er, the crux of my problem. He did not ask me to remain a widow, indeed, he insisted I should not, but he did ask me to promise that I should never do anything during my widowhood to bring his name into disrepute. So you see, you must see, why my name must not be linked with yours."

  "Lady Emma, the prey of the worst rake in London?' he said bitterly.

  "Something of the sort," she muttered and instantly regretted her words. Her throwaway comment must have hurt him deeply.

  There was a long, long silence. They walked on, both staring straight ahead. At last, he said softly, "So what do you propose to do now, Emma, lady of promises? You have shared my bed, and more than once, even if no one else knows of it. Do you intend to continue our affair, in defiance of your vow to your husband? Or perhaps it is only the appearance of propriety that matters to you? For the spirit of your promise to Sir John was broken every single time you touched me."

  Emma felt wretched. Yes, his words were hurtful, deliberately so, but she deserved it all. The "vow" to Sir John had seemed to be such a splendid solution, barely a few hours ago. But now she was tying herself in knots of untruths. How could Will ever think well of her when he believed she had broken a solemn promise made on her husband's deathbed? In desperation, she clutched at the first idea that came into her head. "Sir John had an ancient name, it is true, and he was an upright man, but there were plenty of black sheep in his family too. What he most detested was nasty tittle-tattle about members of his family, or about himself. He wished people to think the best of us. He knew perfectly well that it was not always true, that there were hidden secrets and that some of them were very dark. He went to considerable lengths to keep his family secrets secret. Appearances mattered to him, you see. Very much."

  "He would have had you appear to be the virtuous widow even if you are not?"

  She was losing him. She could hear it in his voice. Her shoulders slumped. "You put it very bluntly, Sir William," she said sadly, "but I suppose you have the right of it. Yes, he was a man who valued appearances, and convention, very highly. I did not think the worse of him for it. None of us can be perfect."

  He laughed briefly, surprising her. And then he squeezed her fingers. "You are right, Emma. And your late husband was right too. Appearances do matter in the lives we lead. And you cannot afford to have your fair name linked with mine. That is true. But—" he stopped dead and turned to her "—I cannot give you up, Emma. You say that none of us is perfect. But you are. To me. You are the woman who makes me complete. Whatever restrictions you put on our being together, I will accept. I am a fool perhaps, but I cannot live without you."

  And I am beginning to fear that I can't live without you, either, even though we don't belong in the same world.

  The longing closed Emma's throat completely. She couldn't speak. She could only return the pressure of his fingers. They walked on together for a space.

  "When shall I see you again, Emma?"

  "I don't know, if I'm honest. I need to think and I cannot do so when you are with me. Give me a little time, Will. Please."

  "Very well. Shall I see you at the Rutherford ball? Perhaps you will give me an answer then?"

  "I will try to give you an answer the next time we meet. Will that content you?" She was not at all sure she would dare to risk another meeting with this man. Ever. And she felt hollow inside to be misleading him so.

  "It will have to. And now I note that your abigail is hovering anxiously. She clearly believes that you have spent far too much time walking with a notorious rake." He grinned suddenly. It made him look much younger. And devastatingly attractive. "I shall return you to your chaperon. For she is almost certainly right."

  Chapter Nine

  Emma's head was in a whirl, but she had just enough presence of mind to take note of the route home through the Mayfair streets. She needed to know exactly where her house was so that she could find it again. Or give someone her address if they should ask. Besides, if she focused on making a map of London in her head, there should be no room left for thoughts of Will and the incredible feelings he had stirred up inside her. He had said she made him complete; even that she was—

  No, don't go there, Emma. Don't turn yourself into a puddle of lust in a carriage in the middle of a public street.

  As soon as she arrived back at the grand house, Emma fled to her bedroom. Bailey was dismissed. Emma desperately needed to be alone, to think, to decide what to do. Was she stuck here in the Regency? Was there any way of getting back to her own world?

  Was it even her own world any more? Was she Modern woman? Or had she become Regency woman instead?

  I don't know who I am. And it terrifies me. If I can't get back to my own time, back home, what shall I do?

  In the Regency, she was a rich widow, bound by the conventions of high society. She was in love with the most notorious rake in London – that bit was true, at least – but she and Will could never be together in any respectable way. Rakes didn't marry. Rakes amused themselves, got bored and moved on. And because Emma was the virtuous widow of upright Sir John Something-or-other, she could never be seen to dally with Will Allmay in any case. The most they could have would be a clandestine affair, always meeting in secret, always worried that someone would find out and spread the gossip that would be the downfall of Lady Emma the high-stickler.

  Ruin. Do I want to risk that?

  She wasn't sure that she did. Nor that she could cope with it if it happened. She'd always believed in faithful monogamy, even though that was not what she'd had in her marri
ed life. And yet she loved Will. She knew it in her bones. She'd love him in this world or in any other. She knew, too, that she could not expect the same devotion from him, no matter how vehement his protests. He was a Regency Casanova. He was bound to tire of her and move on.

  That hurt.

  But it helped her to focus. There was no happy ending for Regency Emma, just heartbreak, and probably exclusion from society once her reputation lay in tatters. She didn't fancy the life of a Regency outcast, no matter how rich she might be.

  I can't have Will, so I need to get back to my own life. I need A Plan.

  A Plan. That revolved around the gold lace gown. It had to.

  On each previous occasion, starting to take off the golden gown had transported her back to the modern day. Except for this last time. This last time, the gown had been removed and nothing had happened.

  But Bailey was there. Bailey was the one who had removed it.

  Was that it? Could Emma only transition back to her own time when she was alone? She'd been alone in Will's dressing room, that first time, and alone behind the screen in the ladies' retiring room, too.

  Decision made. She was alone now. She would fetch the gold lace gown, right this very minute, put it on and then start to take it off again.

  Please let it work.

  The gold lace gown was nowhere to be found.

  For once, Emma failed to swallow her frustration. She swore out loud, using the worst oaths she knew. It wasn't enough. She picked up the silver-backed hairbrush from her dressing table and threw it at the wall. That wasn't enough, either. So she seized two little china figurines from the mantelpiece and dashed them into the hearth. They broke into dozens of pieces with a hideous noise.

  Perhaps someone would hear and come running? Oh the joys of being rich and powerful. Servants round every corner, behind every door, ready to satisfy her every whim. Watching every single thing she did, too.

  Privacy? Secrets? Not a chance.

  She waited a beat. It seemed that this time no one had heard, for no one came.

  And Emma was still trapped in an alien world. Tears welled up in her eyes but she wiped them away ruthlessly. She would find an answer. She would.

  The lace gown was the key.

  She marched across to her bedside and tugged the bell.

  ~ ~ ~

  Bailey had taken away the lace gown to mend the tear at the hem, of course. She would not tolerate a visible and very temporary repair in a gown belonging to her illustrious mistress. In fact, the abigail even went so far as to suggest that the damage meant the gown would have to be discarded altogether.

  "No," Emma said flatly. "It is my favourite. I absolutely refuse to part with it. I know I can rely on you, Bailey, to furbish it up like new. You are so very skilled with your needle." She was laying it on very thick, but Bailey controlled everything in Emma's wardrobe. It was in the woman's power to make the magic gown disappear altogether, or perhaps to alter it so much that the magic would stop working. Such a fearsome risk.

  "If you will allow me to say so, m'lady, you wear that gown too often. People will start to gossip, thinking you can't afford to replace it."

  "Let them think what they like. Let them say that I am too penny-pinching to spend my money on the latest fashions. I shall say that I am trying to show a good example. There are so many poor in London, especially now that the soldiers are returned from the wars." A new idea struck her: she remembered some of the beggars she'd seen in Piccadilly. She had found a fine new thread to weave into Her Plan. "I shall set up a charity for wounded soldiers, I think. I shall invite ladies of my acquaintance to donate the money they save by forgoing new gowns. And every time I appear in my gold lace gown, I shall use it to remind them of their duty to the poor and needy."

  "If you say so, m'lady." Bailey's reply was definitely grudging.

  "So I should like to have my lace gown back as soon as may be, Bailey. I shall be wearing it again very soon."

  "If you say so, m'lady."

  Emma smiled encouragingly. "Put it down to my fickle nature, Bailey. And I shan't need you for the rest of the day, so you'll be able to devote yourself to mending my lace, won't you?"

  "But your ladyship is promised to the Rutherford ball this evening—"

  Oh hell! Hadn't Will mentioned a Rutherford ball? But he hadn't said it was tonight. No, she couldn't possibly go. Emma wasn't anything like ready to see him again. Besides, she had to find out about the magic gown; she had to know whether she could transition back to her own time.

  "I've changed my mind about going to the Rutherford ball. I am too tired after everything that has gone on. Pray send up a tray of tea. I fancy that will restore me. Oh, and send up today's newspaper also. I find I am sadly out of touch with life in London." Why hadn't she thought of that before? A newspaper would have a date on it. And lots of detail to help Emma avoid putting her foot in it with all those gossiping matrons.

  "If you say so, m'lady."

  "I will read the newspaper, but I shall leave it until later. I fear I have the beginnings of the headache." She put a languid hand to her brow.

  Bailey looked askance and said sharply, "Lack of sleep, m'lady. You should have gone to bed properly, as soon as you got back. And stayed there," she added, with dark emphasis.

  Emma knew that ego-stroking was the only answer to the Bailey problem. "You are right, Bailey. And to please you, I will take myself off to my bed once I have drunk my tea. And since I shall not be going out this evening, you will have all the time in the world to mend my gown. There. Will that satisfy you?"

  "If you say so, m'lady." Bailey left without another word. It seemed that more ego-stroking was going to be required.

  Emma fell on the newspaper as soon as the maid had delivered the tea. Her guess hadn't been bad at all. Waterloo was indeed long over, for it was April, 1817. With a sigh of satisfaction, she poured herself a cup of tea and began to leaf through the paper. There was bound to be useful information here, and probably gossip as well.

  One little paragraph seemed to leap out at her: "We are pleased to report that Lady E… G… has returned to London at last and has put off her blacks. Lady E… was welcomed warmly at the F… soirée last evening and was seen to be in excellent health and spirits."

  Emma gulped. It's me. Or rather, it's Lady Emma. It has to be.

  Lady Mumford had said that Emma's return had not yet been reported in the papers. Well, it had now. Someone had been quick off the mark after last night's party. In return for payment, no doubt.

  But, much more important, Emma had another clue to her identity in the Regency. She might not know what her surname was, but she did know it began with G. Progress.

  She settled down to learn all she could. She would study the paper for a while and then she would have a snooze for a few hours. Later, if she was hungry, she'd have a light meal sent up. Being a rich aristocrat definitely had some advantages. There was no point in getting stressed about what was to come, since she had hours and hours to wait.

  ~ ~ ~

  Emma checked the clock for perhaps the hundredth time. As she looked away again, it began to strike twelve. It had a very sweet-sounding chime.

  Confident that Bailey would not now appear again until morning, Emma quietly opened the clothes press and took out the precious gown. Her abigail had done a marvellous job on the damaged hem. Even though Emma knew the mend was there, it was almost impossible to detect it. Certainly no stern matron's eye would ever be able to find fault with the gown when Emma wore it. As she would.

  If I stay here. Only if I stay. And I don't want to, do I?

  She ran a hand over the delicate lace, wishing yet again that she knew precisely how the magic worked. Did she have to be alone? Did the time have to be the same as when she arrived? Or the place?

  It was hopeless. She was marooned, with nothing at all by way of life raft.

  The gown seemed to glow beneath her fingers. Was it trying to tell her something? To encourag
e her to try once more?

  She took a deep breath, shrugged off her silken bed robe and began to put on the lace gown. She would have trouble doing up all the fastenings at the back, but that probably didn't matter. After all, when she'd been at the museum, she'd been transported into the Regency, just by putting one arm through a sleeve.

  After a bit of a struggle, the gown was on and the tapes at the back of the neck were tied. Sort of. She'd even managed to do a makeshift bow with the under-bust tapes, which were much more difficult to reach.

  Thank goodness for modern bras. We modern women have so much practice reaching round to fastenings in the middle of our backs.

  She was putting off the moment of decision and she knew it. She had to stop letting her mind wander down procrastination avenue. She needed to concentrate on finding out how to make the gown work its magic. It did work. So how?

  She ran her fingers gently over the draped skirt, hoping for inspiration. And it came, after a fashion. What time had it been when she arrived in the front hall? Ah yes, she'd asked the porter and he'd said— What had he said? She couldn't remember.

  An instant later, her mind cleared miraculously. Bless it, her lace was working again. He'd said it was half-past three.

  She glanced again at her clock. Almost half-past twelve. So, three hours to wait. At half-past three, or just before, she would steal down into the hall and start to remove the lace gown. Filch was bound to be asleep in his porter's chair so he was unlikely to hear her. And since no one else would know what she had done, no one would be blamed for her disappearance. Very neat.

  And if it didn't work – please, please let it work, she prayed – she would be able to creep back upstairs again unseen. Probably.

  Unfortunately, her plan wouldn't tell her whether it was time, or place, or both together that mattered. But what choice did she have? She had only this one night to try to get away. So she had to do everything as before.