Gilding the Lady

by Nicole Byrd

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Note to Readers

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  GILDING THE LADY

  BERKLEY SENSATION / published by arrangement with the author

  BERKLEY SENSATION e-edition / August 2005

  Copyright © 2005 by Cheryl Zach.

  Excerpt from Seducing the Sage copyright © 2005 by Cheryl Zach.

  Cover art by Leslie Peck.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  All rights reserved.

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  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0511-2

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by the Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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  Titles by Nicole Byrd

  ROBERT’S LADY

  DEAR IMPOSTOR

  LADY IN WAITING

  WIDOW IN SCARLET

  BEAUTY IN BLACK

  VISION IN BLUE

  GILDING THE LADY

  Prologue

  The face . . .

  It was the face that haunted her nightmares—but here, in clear daylight, distinct amid the crowd.

  Clarissa Fallon drew a deep, disbelieving breath. It couldn’t be. A moment ago she had been happily engrossed in the street scene, inhaling the aromas of savory meat and pastry that drifted from a street vendor’s cart, as his call of “Hot meat pies!” rose above the clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels. She had paused on the sidewalk to relish the sparkle of sunlight off the polished panes of shop windows, which displayed enticing wares like a bonnet trimmed with yellow roses, a pair of elegant ecru kid gloves, and a flowing swath of crimson silk draped artfully across a stand. . . .

  And Clarissa herself was free, at last, to consider such once unheard-of luxuries, free to lift her head to meet the eyes of the ladies and gentlemen strolling along the walkway. Free . . .

  And then she’d caught sight of the once-familiar face, and fear pierced her like a thorn lurking hidden amid a nosegay of roses.

  Her brother had promised that Clarissa would be safe now. But the face was here. It was turning, and at any moment, those dark bulging eyes would meet Clarissa’s horrified gaze, and then—

  Clarissa jerked her head aside and fled from the specter that had appeared so abruptly out of the cheerful melee. She pushed her way past two chatting women and ran as if the devil himself waited to snare her soul.

  Behind her, someone called, “Miss Clarissa, wait!”

  Ignoring the cry, Clarissa rushed ahead. Her heart beat so loudly, the blood pounding in her ears, that she could hear nothing else. Even the noise of the busy London street faded, and she was lost in her worst nightmare.

  She ran.

  One

  Dominic Shay, seventh earl of Whitby, sipped a glass of port. His head was lowered, and he didn’t seem to notice when Timothy Galston, standing just to the side of the comfortable club chair, paused.

  “Whitby!”

  Timothy had practiced his tone of righteous indignation carefully in the privacy of his own rooms, and he was annoyed to observe the other man ignore his greeting. They were old acquaintances, and there was no reason for the slight prickle of unease that the earl always seemed to provoke in the younger man, but there it was. Timothy almost had second thoughts about his rehearsed speech, wishing for a moment he could just slip away, but dash it all, the girl was his cousin.

  He cleared his throat and said, more loudly, “Whitby, I’m speaking to you!”

  His perfect features set in an expression of arctic disinterest, the earl lifted his face, his deep brown eyes so dark that they could make one shiver. “Oh, hello, Galston. Have some wine; the sutler has just uncorked a quite tolerable bottle.”

  Timothy waved away such a minor consideration. No, perhaps not minor, but he could not be distracted until he’d aired his grievance.

  “How could you do it? Why shoot down a girl in her first Season, who needs all the advantage she can muster, what with those freckles and the habit she has of smirking—” He paused. No, no, he was getting off the track. “I mean, she’s a perfectly nice girl, with only a moderate dowry to recommend her, and you had no call to say that she dances like an African giraffe that’s drunk too much home brew. The girl can’t help being tall, you know!”

  The earl frowned, but it seemed more in puzzlement than in anger. “Of whom are we speaking, Galston? Some new infatuation of yours?”

  Timothy shook his head. “No, dammit. But she’s my cousin, and she deserves better. You dashed her chance of a good Season with one careless bon mot, and you don’t even recall? Miss Emmaline Mawper, that’s who!”

  When the earl continued to stare, Timothy added, “At Almack’s last night, don’t you remember?”

  The earl shrugged. “I was in a bad mood, old man, wishing I hadn’t allowed myself to be cajoled into looking into that wretched Marriage Mart in the first place. And I’m sure no one remembers one careless comment of mine.”

  “You think wrongly, then,” Timothy retorted. “I’ve heard it repeated twice today already, with more jests tacked on, and Emmaline is in tears, my aunt says. Aunt Mary hauled me out of bed—at any ungodly hour, let me tell you—
to complain, although what she thinks I can do . . . You’re the most eagerly heeded arbiter of the Ton since Beau Brummel took himself off to the Continent to evade his debtors. If you weren’t so damned perfect, with your elegant neckcloths and impeccable tailoring, not to mention that flawless Grecian coin of a face the ladies always swoon over—”

  This time the earl shook his head, and a strand of dark hair fell back. For the first time, Timothy had a clear view of the ragged scar that marred the earl’s left cheek. It started above his temple and ran past his ear and down beneath the erect shirt collar, the jagged line almost—but not quite—hidden beneath the earl’s slightly too-long hair, and damned if that shaggy hair hadn’t started a new fad among the calflings who aped Whitby’s casual elegance . . .

  “Flawless?” The earl’s voice was icy.

  Timothy swallowed. “Oh, that don’t signify. It just adds a touch of the exotic, don’t you know, romantic war wound, and all that—in fact, the ladies love it,” he protested, but he knew his voice wavered. Damn, he always forgot.

  “But that doesn’t alter my contention,” he said, trying to recapture his momentum. “The Ton still looks to you, Whitby, and it ain’t right—you misuse your power over Society’s opinion.”

  “If I have any power, as you claim, it is quite unsought and totally irrelevant.” Whitby lowered his face again to sip his wine.

  Almost tasting his relief, Timothy gulped.

  “Not to the persons you cut down, it ain’t,” he argued. “It’s easy enough to put someone down, much harder to build someone up. Why don’t you do something agreeable for a change?”

  “I assure you, Galston, the next time I see Miss Mawper, I will be charm personified—”

  But a new voice interrupted.

  “Look, a woman—a lady, I should almost say!”

  The earl turned back toward the bow windows of White’s, where several younger gentlemen lounged to watch the street. This was male territory, and any respectable lady knew it and avoided St. James Street with utmost care.

  So why was a young and very pretty girl dashing down the pavement, pursued doggedly by a stout, red-faced female?

  Even Timothy paused to stare. None of the onlookers could make out the words spoken outside the window, but they saw the older woman catch the girl by the arm and her lips move in what was obviously an energetic scold.

  The girl’s expression twisted. Was she a lady or not? She was dressed decorously and with obvious expense, but her attitude to the older woman—mother, aunt, governess, whatever—didn’t seem in keeping with her youth, nor did she seem abashed by her social transgression. In fact, now she jerked away from the other woman’s hold, and while the men watched, entranced, landed a passable left hook into the woman’s rounded midriff. The woman staggered back. The girl’s hands curled into fists, and her bonnet slid off her fair hair as she waited for the woman to recover.

  “Ten pounds on the younger lady!” one of the watchers called.

  “Done. But hardly a lady, I’d say,” another of the gawkers suggested. He added a comment that made the other men guffaw and offer a few disparaging guesses of their own as to the girl’s social status—or even profession.

  The earl frowned. One of the men sitting closer to the window looked up to see it, and beneath Whitby’s reproving glance, the laughter faded. The other men turned back to watch the mill in progress.

  “See,” Timothy muttered. “I told you people listen to you. All you have to do is frown or smile, and the Ton obeys. . . .” He paused to stare out the window at the continuing struggle between the two women. He had accomplished what he’d come for, so why did he still feel dissatisfied? Someone ought to show Whitby just how misguided the arrogant earl was, he thought.

  Outside, the stout woman—apparently thoroughly out of temper—slapped the girl’s cheek, but the younger lady did not give in. She ducked and evaded the next blow. When she glanced up again, her cheek was reddened from the impact, and her eyes were wide with fear.

  Timothy saw that the earl had stiffened. He noted, “I say again, raising people up is much harder than cutting ’em down. For example, I’d bet you a hundred pounds you couldn’t make a lady out of—out of—well, whoever that girl is.”

  “Probably some rich cit’s daughter who hasn’t heeded her lessons in deportment.” The earl shook his head. “Or mayhap some escapee from Bedlam, judging by her barbaric behavior. Can’t make a silk reticule out of a sow’s ear. Anyhow, we don’t even know who she is.”

  “And if I can find out her name? What about the bet?”

  “I can’t change her birth, and I’m sure as Hades no damned governess to give lessons in ladylike conduct.” The earl’s dusky eyes seemed to darken even more.

  But this time Timothy, elated to at last observe a chink in Whitby’s armor, stood his ground.

  “So you admit my point? You can cut down an aspiring miss without a second thought, but you can’t lift an awkward girl with, obviously, no sense of propriety, nor expend any real effort in the attempt? Afraid it will be too difficult a task, eh?”

  Whitby narrowed his eyes.

  Timothy’s surge of confidence faded just a little; he tried not to gulp.

  “If you learn her name, if she has any pretension to gentility at all, I will see that she is the toast of the Ton. Are you satisfied?”

  Grinning, Timothy looked up just in time to see that the matronly woman had finally succeeded in pulling the still-struggling girl back up the street. They were almost out of sight.

  One of the men in the window groaned as his mate urged, “Pay up!”

  “Oh, very.” Timothy tried not to laugh in the earl’s face. “I’ll let you know her name when I find it out.”

  And he hurried out of the club to follow the two women.

  Clarissa Fallon was sitting in the broom cupboard. Again.

  The kitchen cat, a handsome tabby with black and gray markings, had slipped in behind her when she’d darted into her hiding place. Purring, he twined around her feet.

  “Shhh,” Clarissa told him, rubbing his favorite spot just below his ear. He settled beside her, tucked his paws neatly beneath him and watched her with large golden eyes.

  Clarissa rubbed the sore spot on her arm where the governess had pinched her when she had grabbed Clarissa in the street, then hugged her knees and tried not to make a sound. She could hear the heavy footsteps of her frustrated governess, Mrs. Bathcort, as the woman tramped by outside the closed door.

  “Clarissa! Oh, where is that wretched girl now?” The woman stomped past the cupboard. In a moment, Clarissa heard the squeak of rusty hinges as the pantry door swung open. She knew that her governess’s gaze scanned only barrels of flour and sugar and bins of root vegetables, finding no runaway there. Clarissa had indeed considered taking refuge in the cold pantry, which was larger, but the door was too noisy. Now she thanked her stars that she had chosen the other cupboard nook. But would the formidable Mrs. Bathcort check the broom cupboard, too?

  Clarissa held her breath. She’d hidden here two days ago, when the governess’s scolding had been too much to bear, and had not been found. Perhaps Mrs. Bathcort thought it not large enough to hold her. The cupboard was narrow and tall and usually crammed with brooms and mops. But the maids had taken most of them away, and until they returned from cleaning the upstairs, there was enough room to insert one skinny female whose petite frame made her look younger than she really was.

  And the small space gave her the illusion of safety, of obscurity, of being hidden away from the peril she had thought no longer threatening. In fact, the whole house had seemed a castle when her brother had first brought her home, but today, in the briefest of moments, that comforting sense of security had been shattered. Shivering at the memory of her near-encounter on the street, Clarissa tried to think what she should do.

  She must not panic, not again. Her wild flight down London’s unfamiliar streets had only gotten her into more trouble. Trying for calm, she
drew a deep breath. It was her downfall. The cupboard was not just small, but dusty. As Clarissa inhaled the musty air, her nose tickled. She tried to contain the sneeze, but—despite her best effort—it exploded.

  Startled by the sudden sound, the cat bounded to its feet and scratched at the door.

  Oh, bloody hell.

  The door swung open, and light flooded the narrow cupboard.

  “There you are, you miserable girl!”

  The cat sprang out, causing the governess to shriek in surprise. Another hiding place gone. Clarissa climbed out reluctantly.

  “Stand up straight, my girl, shoulders back—how many times have I said it! But keep your eyes down, a lady does not put herself forward, but at the same time she must look the dignity of her station.”

  Clarissa tried to obey. She would never remember all the finicky rules that the governess had tried to impress upon her. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to!

  Now the governess observed Clarissa rubbing her still-tickling nose on the back of her hand.

  Mrs. Bathcort scowled. “Clarissa! Where is your handkerchief? You are not six years old, for pity’s sake. And as for your disgraceful performance on the street, how am I ever going to teach you how to be a lady if you keep running away from me, not to mention your abuse of my person, and your total lack of ladylike remorse? Actually, I wish you were six—I could just take a cane to you and be done with it! Perhaps that would make you listen!”

  Clarissa shivered, but she lifted her chin defiantly. “I been caned by stronger arms than yours,” she said, knowing that her tone was rude. “And it ain’t going to happen again, never. For one thing, I’ll claw your eyes out if you try. And for another, my brother said so.”

  “Your brother can take his misguided instructions and—” There was a pregnant pause.

  Oh, dear. Clarissa felt just as much chagrin as the woman whose scowl had suddenly been replaced by a totally insincere smile. Her brother stood just a few feet away, and the look he bestowed upon Mrs. Bathcort made Clarissa—almost—feel sympathy for the woman. Matthew Fallon looked as if he were on the deck of a ship again, gazing down on some hapless ensign who had fouled a line. His glance was icy, and when he spoke, his tone even colder.