“Yes, yes, of course I am.” She clapped her hands. “I was never more sure about anything. Now come on, there’s no time to spare for idle chatter. You agreed to help me and it’s too late to change your mind.”
Celia helped Julia take off the elegant travelling dress Katrina had made for her. She seemed reluctant to do so, causing Katrina to hope she was having last-minute doubts. But when Julia cautioned her to hurry, Katrina resigned herself to the inevitable and stepped into the gown Celia was holding out for her. In pale blue velvet, the spencer fastened with twisted braid and pretty pearl buttons, and the entire ensemble was edged with an extravagant swathe of swan’s down. The hem had been adjusted to exactly fit Julia, and there was probably a two-inch difference in their respective heights. It meant that her half boots were clearly visible as she moved, displaying more of her ankle than was strictly respectable. But that was the least of her worries. She looked in the mirror and added the plumed casquet bonnet, which concealed most of her hair. The half veil was a bonus in that it hid the fear in her eyes.
She grimaced. “We might have resembled one another when we were younger, but I don’t look a bit like you now.”
“You’re working yourself up over nothing.”
“Nothing, you call it!”
“And you worry too much. You look ravishing, doesn’t she, Celia.”
“Very elegant, milady.”
Julia put on a gown Celia had carried into the salon and covered herself with a plain hooded cloak. It engulfed her body and entirely covered her hair.
“Go with Celia.” Julia clutched Katrina for a prolonged period. “She will see you right for she knows me and my habits better than I know myself.”
Katrina wondered if that was supposed to reassure. “What about you?”
“I shall be fine. Someone is meeting me.” She turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She carelessly pulled off her rings and handed them to Katrina. “Here, put these on.”
“I can’t.” The rings had to be worth a small fortune. The diamond in the betrothal ring alone was the size of a small duck egg. Another ring with the marquess’s crest picked out in diamonds and rubies was intended for her small finger. The jewellery felt heavy and looked unnatural on red fingers raw from so much sewing. She would need to wear gloves at all times to hide the condition of her hands.
“You must. I never go anywhere without them.”
“What if I lose them?” Katrina’s fingers were slimmer than Julia’s and the rings slipped easily over her knuckles.
“Stop making difficulties. You’re far too cautious to let that happen.”
Julia ushered them from the salon. Katrina was quaking with nerves as she approached the carriage. One of the tigers held the door open for her. She was convinced he would immediately sense that something was wrong and cry foul. She half hoped he would. That way she couldn’t be held to blame. But much to her astonishment he merely bowed low and shut the door after Celia had climbed in behind her.
“There, that was easy enough, milady.”
“I’m not a lady, Celia.”
“Best get used to being addressed in that fashion.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Katrina glanced out the window as the carriage made slow progress along Cheapside, convinced she was being watched. Some sixth sense made her skin crawl. She resisted the urge to order the coachman to stop so she could get out and run away. Then she laughed at her own folly. Of course she was being watched. Everyone in Basing Lane had stopped what they were doing to stare at the carriage. “But I really don’t see how I can expect to get away with this for an entire week. Someone’s bound to notice that something’s not right.”
“People see what they expect to see,” Celia said prosaically. “You are arriving in the marquess’s carriage, the marchioness is expected to be inside it, and you look enough like her to fool her own father.”
Katrina laughed, relaxing a little. Celia’s confidence was infectious. “Well, we did that often enough when we were children.”
“I remember it well, milady.”
Katrina wanted to look over her shoulder every time Celia addressed her as such, wondering whom she was talking to. But by the time they reached the coaching inn, the halfway stage on their journey, she was already becoming accustomed to it. She swept through the inn in the wake of the landlord as though she’d been born a marchioness. Not deigning to spare a glance for the lesser mortals assembled there, she took possession of the private parlour that had been prepared for her. As soon as the door closed behind the landlord, she sank into a chair with a long sigh of relief.
“There we are, milady.” Celia briskly removed Katrina’s spencer. “That was easy enough.”
“That was only the beginning. I have to face Lady Marshall soon. I’m willing to wager that she’ll see straight through me.”
“Nonsense!”
Katrina wanted to ask Celia where her mistress was now, whom she was with, what she was doing. Surely she knew. She was unswervingly loyal, which was why she was helping with this deception with no indication that she disapproved of it. But Katrina wouldn’t put her in the position of having to betray a confidence. If Julia had wanted her to know where she was going she would have told her. Besides, Katrina had a feeling she would need to rely heavily on Celia as the week progressed, so it wouldn’t do to set the maid against her by asking intrusive questions.
Katrina picked at the food supplied by the inn, too nervous to have any appetite. Far sooner than she would have liked, they were back on the road.
“Perhaps you will drink some of the spring waters whilst you’re here, milady,” Celia remarked as the carriage made its way sedately through Tunbridge Wells.
She had probably only spoken because she could sense Katrina’s apprehension increasing with every mile they travelled. Grateful for the maid’s sensitivity, Katrina made an effort to appear more confident than she felt.
“It’s a great shame that the springs aren’t thermal, nor nearly so copious as those at Bath. I should have enjoyed bathing in them otherwise. Never mind, I understand they’re impregnated with iron, which is supposed to be good for one.”
“They also have a fine souvenir industry, ma’am, known as Tunbridge ware. I remember visiting some of the shops when her ladyship called here several years back. They make trinkets that are patterned in coloured woods.”
“Then perhaps I shall buy one as a present for Julia.”
The conversation and passing scenery had distracted Katrina and she gave a little shriek when she realised that the carriage was now passing along the driveway to Upton Manor, Lady Marshall’s palatial home.
“Courage, milady.” Celia patted her hand. “You’ll be fine, just so long as you appear confident and don’t permit your anxiety to show. My mistress is never anything other than entirely sure of herself in company.”
Good advice but not so easy for Katrina to follow. She and Julia closely resembled one another in physical appearance but that was as far as the similarities went. Julia bore the self-confidence of a woman born into privilege whereas Katrina, although made to feel part of the family in many respects during her formative years, couldn’t even claim the status of poor relation. She was a servant’s daughter and never likely to rise above that status. Julia was charming to other women, flirtatious with the men, totally at home in mixed company and never at a loss when it came to finding exactly the right light remark to suit any situation. Katrina suspected that she would fail spectacularly in that regard, especially if the gentlemen sought to flirt with her.
She took a footman’s hand and alighted from the carriage, tilting her chin in a defiant manner. Flirtatious behaviour notwithstanding, for the next seven days she would emulate her friend to the very best of her ability. No matter what it took.
She’d do it for Julia.
Lady Marshall descended upon her as she entered the grand vestibule. Katrina recalled her visiting Julia’s parents’ estate. But that was over ten years ago a
nd naturally Katrina had never been introduced to her. Even so, she remembered her as being kind-hearted and not above herself. She was quite elderly now but her eyes remained bright and there was a kindly twinkle in them as she extended a hand towards Katrina, who sank into a deep curtsey.
“My dear, marchionesses ought not to bend their knees quite so deep to their lessers.”
“Forgive me, ma’am, but I could never look upon you as my lesser.”
Lady Marshall chortled and kissed her cheek. “You are as beautiful as ever,” she said, screwing up her eyes and peering myopically at her. Katrina was grateful that the plume on her hat had fallen across her face, making closer scrutiny difficult. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”
Katrina forced herself to smile. “I believe it does.”
“And your husband couldn’t spare the time to join you? Not even for a day?”
“No, unfortunately not. He sends his regrets along with his very best wishes. He’s ensconced in Brighton with His Royal Highness and some dignitaries from India.” Katrina flapped her hand in a manner she’d seen Julia adopt on many occasions. “I prefer not to think too deeply about what they get up to down there.”
“Very wise. And I dare say we shall do well enough without him. A maid will show you to your room, and when you feel refreshed do join us for tea on the terrace. There are already some people here anxious to reacquaint themselves with you.”
That was precisely what Katrina was worried about.
* * *
Her chamber was sumptuous. And enormous. A huge bedroom and adjoining sitting room. Her entire premises at Basing Lane would easily fit into the bedchamber alone. Celia bustled about, busying herself with unpacking.
“Lord and Lady Ainsworth and their daughters Isabel and Christina are already here,” she said, answering Katrina’s unasked question. “They all attended your wedding. Lady Chester is here with her son Charles, who’s always had a soft spot for you. You always encouraged him because…well, because—”
Katrina grimaced. “Because I can’t help myself.”
“Precisely, milady. I would suggest that you treat him kindly today but keep your distance.”
“That I shall certainly do.” She shuddered at the games she was required to play, the rules to which no one had troubled to explain. “Who else is here?”
“Mrs. Nugent. Her husband is in trade, some sort of financial guru. Not quite up to snuff but clever enough with money that it opens society’s doors for him.” Celia gave a disdainful sniff, causing Katrina to stifle a giggle. Servants were often more snobbish than the masters they served. “She has a remarkably pretty daughter called Emily who’s only just out and a son Peter who’s down from Eton for the summer. Both children are here but Mr. Nugent isn’t yet in residence and no one else is expected until tomorrow.”
“How have you found this all out so quickly?” Katrina asked, curiosity overcoming her anxiety.
“Us servants have our uses, milady.” She helped Katrina off with her spencer and poured water into an ewer. “The footman who brought up the bags told me,” she added, grinning. “Best wash your hands, allow me to tidy your hair and then go on down. The sooner you get it over with, the better you’ll feel. Wear those pretty cream lace gloves and put your rings on the outside of them. They will help to disguise your hands. And keep that bonnet on. The veil will give you something to hide behind.”
Too nervous to do anything other than comply, Katrina unwillingly left the room and descended the stairs on quaking legs. She stepped out onto the terrace and all the ladies stood and curtsied. She was the most senior-ranked person currently present, but she still wasn’t prepared to be greeted in such a fashion. Of the gentlemen there was no sign.
She reminded herself that she was Julia Dupont, Marchioness of Lanarkshire, and smiled at the ladies before taking the seat nearest her hostess.
Let the deception begin.
“It hardly seems like two weeks since we were all at Lady Harley’s house party,” remarked Lady Chester. “And now, here we all are again. We have been so much in one another’s company that it’s almost as though we are family.”
Katrina swallowed, her heart racing at twice its normal rate. She smiled and somehow forced a noncommittal reply past the lump in her throat. So Julia had deliberately deceived her. She had seen all these people recently. Not at crowded soirees but for an entire week at a party such as this. Why in the world hadn’t she said so?
Presumably because she knew Katrina would never have agreed to attend this one if she had.
“Lady Harley’s treasure hunt was certainly diverting,” Lady Ainsworth said.
“Indeed it was. I’ve never seen its like.” Well, that was true enough, Katrina thought, fanning herself and wondering what the devil else she could possibly say on the matter. “It was quite out of the ordinary.”
“As are you, Lady Dupont.” Lady Ainsworth tilted her head and regarded her closely. “You look altered. What can be so different about you, I wonder.”
“Oh, I have a new modiste. The most amazing creature. She has entirely altered my look.”
“Where is she to be found?” asked both ladies together.
Katrina told them.
“Such a humble address,” Lady Chester said doubtfully.
“But well worth the inconvenience. Besides, she will not be there for long. I intend to make her my protégée.”
“And start a fashion for veiled bonnets.” Lady Ainsworth’s eyes rested upon Katrina’s headwear. “How clever of you.”
“I was becoming too dull and needed to shake myself out of my usual routine.”
“Well, you’ve certainly done that. I hardly knew you.”
That was what worried her.
* * *
Amos’s patience had its limits. He’d been royally entertained in a tavern down by the docks this last sennight by a whore who could do astonishing things with her tongue. But even her company was starting to pall. Besides, she knew her worth and was severely depleting his already stretched funds. It was time for action. He’d been watching Katrina’s premises every day and there’d been no further appearances by her wealthy client. If fact, there’d been no clients at all. And no sign of Katrina.
But he knew she was in there. He’d seen her moving about and had also followed one of the girls who worked for her. She’d told the butcher that her mistress had a mind for mutton stew and he wasn’t to palm her off with no gristle, mind, or he’d have her to answer to. That had been two days ago and the time had come to act. He’d wait until dusk, though. Not that anyone around these parts would balk at seeing some woman being removed forcibly by a man claiming to be an enraged husband. Still, better to err on the side of caution.
Besides, there was the matter of the two girls who worked for Katrina to be taken into account. He’d toyed with the idea of seducing at least one of them and making an ally out of her, but he was in no mood for coaxing timid misses into spreading their legs. Now he regretted not acting. They were bound to kick up a racket. He’d have to overcome them, tie them up or something to give him time to get away. After that they could do what they liked.
To see his plan through he’d need a carriage. More blasted expense. He’d take Katrina to the tavern he’d been frequenting. He’d have her himself, multiple times and in ways she’d find as unpalatable as they were painful—nobody took a blind bit of notice of feminine screams at the Dog and Duck. Once he’d broken her spirit, let her know who was master, he’d set her to work with the rest of the whores. He liked that idea. It smacked of poetic justice.
Lost in pleasant reflection about the evening to come, it took him a moment to realise that a grand carriage—the same bloody carriage with the marquess’s crest on the doors—was making its way into Basing Lane. He swore violently. He should have thrown caution to the wind and made his move yesterday. The marchioness descended from the carriage and made for Katrina’s establishment, her eyes focused directly in front of her.
A short time later she reappeared. The footman assisted her into the vehicle and it moved away. Before Amos could decide what to do next, a smaller unmarked carriage pulled up and Katrina appeared in the doorway of her salon. She was wearing a cloak with the hood pulled over her hair, covering most of her face, but Amos would know that body anywhere. Feelings of sheer lust and fierce possessiveness ripped through him as she paused for a moment on the threshold. After a few seconds she stepped into the waiting conveyance and the coachman immediately moved his horses on. Off to an assignation with her lover, no doubt. Anger and unadulterated jealousy consumed Amos. He’d waited all this time only to see her go off with another man.
The streets were busy, the progress of the carriage slow. Amos followed on foot and was almost able to climb up behind but decided against it. He could hear voices from inside the conveyance. Katrina wasn’t alone and he’d give much to know who was with her. But he couldn’t risk taking a look. A footman was riding beside the coachman, and Amos’s presence would be noticed in an instant. He hadn’t exercised so much caution just to blow it all in a rush of blood to the head. He endeavoured to hail a hackney so he could follow Katrina and establish the name of her protector. Just his luck! Although Cheapside was usually alive with the damned things, when he needed one most, none was available.
All Amos could do was watch, boiling with rage, as the carriage gained the north road out of London and finally picked up speed.
Chapter Four
Leo couldn’t abide the thought of an entire week at a house party, nor see the necessity for it, so he granted himself a two-day respite before setting out for Tunbridge Wells. Since he wasn’t supposed to be back in England, he was unable to risk being seen in public. But he was nothing if not resourceful and was sufficiently half-sprung on the morning of the third day to congratulate himself upon spending very little of the intervening time in pursuit of gainful occupation.
“Don’t get this at all,” Boscombe grumbled, seated beside Leo as he drove his curricle towards Tunbridge Wells. “If you ask me, it’s all a massive waste of time.”
The Perfect Impostor Page 4