Lady in disguise

by Amanda McCabe

  “Oh, yes, that reminds me.” Natasha took a sheet of paper from her apron pocket and handed it to Emma. “I saw Madame Ana in the corridor earlier, and she asked me to give you this.”

  Emma unfolded it, and saw that it was her schedule for the next day. She scanned the list—luncheon with the Tsar and his sister, an afternoon carriage ride in the park with some duchess, a state banquet.

  She almost groaned. Her headache, gone so quickly when she watched the crowd of merrymakers, pressed down on her again. If only she could escape all that, for just one single, solitary day. She was so tired. Her entire body yearned for the freedom that could never be hers. Even if she married Sir Jeremy Ashbey or someone like him, her life would go on in much the same way, in the cocoon of politics and diplomacy and Society and correct behavior. Not even for a moment would she be free.

  Unless…

  Emma raised her head to stare outside the window. She could no longer hear the voices, but she could imagine them, could imagine the flash of the beckoning lights. There might, just might, be a way it could all be in her grasp, even if it was just for a very short while.

  “Natasha,” she said, in her most cajoling tone. “My darling Natasha, I need your help…”

  ———

  “I thought the evening went splendidly.” Lord Osborn leaned back against the leather squabs of the carriage, satisfaction and contentment practically flowing from him. “King Frederick William very kindly remembered me from my time in Prussia, and the Count and Countess Suvarov were everything charming.”

  “The countess’s gown was very beautiful,” Lady Osborn said wistfully. “The Russian style is so very dashing.”

  Jack turned from his quiet contemplation of the street outside the carriage window to smile at her. “But your gown was by far the loveliest one there, Mother.”

  Jane giggled happily. Her usually pale cheeks were suffused with a sunset pink color. This stultifying social life obviously agreed with her.

  Her husband looked at her in a startled fashion. Apparently, both his son and his wife had the power to surprise him tonight. “Indeed, you do look very pretty this evening, Jane.” Then he turned a sharp look onto Jack. “It is just too bad that you never got to make the acquaintance of Count and Countess Suvarov, Jonathan.”

  “I met them in the receiving line.”

  “That is not the same as a personal introduction. They are very important people, and they will be leaving England very soon. It is vital that the count—and therefore the rest of the Russian party—take a favorable impression of our country with them, and that the countess remembers her homeland well.”

  Mr. Thompson had said almost exactly the same thing at their meeting, Jack recalled. “I hardly believe that their not meeting me will alter their views of England. Rather, I think it may improve them.”

  His father’s lips flattened into a thin line. “You may be right at that. But I am sure their young niece would have enjoyed meeting you.”

  “Yes, the poor thing!” Jane said unexpectedly. “It must be so difficult for her, to be always surrounded by old people like ourselves. Such a pretty girl.”

  Yes, Jack thought. A very pretty girl indeed.

  But also an impossibly remote girl, like some fairy-tale maiden in an ivory tower.

  He thought about Lady Emma Weston, so perfect with her snow-white skin, her wealth of dark hair and melting brown eyes. She was one of the most beautiful ladies he had seen since returning from Spain—one of the most beautiful respectable ladies, anyway. He had watched her from a distance all evening, as she moved across the room speaking to various people. She was always absolutely correct, perfectly charming, but Jack could tell she was not completely there in that crowded ballroom. Her gaze seemed distant, her smile frozen, as if her body was present but her mind was someplace else entirely.

  No one else seemed to notice at all, not even her aunt and uncle, or that Sir Jeremy whatever who squired her about. Jack noticed, though—because he felt the same way. Out of place, stultified—lost.

  He wondered what the snow maiden would look like if she laughed, if she took off her jeweled tiara and let the gleaming mass of her hair tumble down.

  “Lady Emma Weston is not married or even betrothed,” his father said, interrupting these enticing visions.

  Jack turned to see Lord Osborn giving him a significant look. He wondered how his father had ever succeeded in diplomacy, since everything he thought was written in his expression.

  “I hardly think the exalted count and countess would think me a suitable match for their niece,” Jack answered. “Or even someone suitable to take her driving in the park while she is in London.”

  “You are the son of an earl, just as she is the daughter of one. It would not be an unequal match for her, and it would be a brilliant one for you. Especially as you have not yet shown any preference for any other suitable young lady.”

  It was an old quarrel and not one Jack was interested in pursuing. This was not the right time for him to be thinking of marriage; he did not know if there would ever be a “right time” at all. Fortunately, the carriage lurched to a halt outside his lodgings even as his father spoke. Thus he was spared, at least for the time being, the usual lecture on his duty to his family, his obligation to marry well and set up his nursery.

  As soon as the footman opened the carriage door, Jack leaped down onto the pavement.

  “We are invited to take tea at the Russian embassy the day after tomorrow,” his father called after him. “You will join us?”

  Jack nodded as the door closed again and watched the carriage lumber off down the street, blessedly taking his parents with it.

  Every day, it grew harder and harder to maintain his

  charade. Every day, these quiet moments alone, when he could drop his facade and just be himself, grew more precious.

  He rubbed wearily at the back of his neck and took a deep, fortifying breath of cool night air. It was silent on this little side street, with only the faintest echoes of the celebrating crowds floating to him on the breeze.

  The tea at the Russian embassy would be a perfect opportunity for him to carry on with his task, but if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that was not the real reason why he was going to attend. An image of Lady Emma Weston sprang to his mind. She was sure to be there, and Jack found that he wanted very much to see her again. Perhaps even to talk to her, to begin to fathom what was behind her dark eyes.

  Jack laughed at himself, tilting his head back to the stars.

  Probably what lay behind those fine eyes was— nothing. Only the usual things grand ladies thought of, such as gowns, jewels, parties. All his wild imaginings of her thoughts, her longings, would come to nothing. And it would serve him right, for being so obsessed with a woman he had only seen for a few fleeting moments.

  He stared up at the moon, a silver sliver suspended in the cloudless purple black sky. Lady Emma was rather like that orb—pale, shimmering, perfect and unknowable.

  “You are a fool, man,” he muttered aloud. “You should cease standing about in the street thinking like a lovesick schoolboy and go inside and get some sleep.”

  After all, he had an important errand to perform in the morning.

  Chapter Four

  “Oh, Aunt Lydia, I ache all over.’” Emma slid down beneath the bedclothes, trying to look as pale and fragile as possible. She gave a cough just for good measure.

  Aunt Lydia, her brow creased in concern, sat down on the edge of the bed and laid her cool fingers against Emma’s cheek. “Oh, dear. You are warm.”

  Emma silently blessed the heated flannels Natasha had laid over her face right before Aunt Lydia entered the room. “And my throat is scratchy,”

  “Poor little Emma. You must have caught a chill standing about in the wind yesterday at that interminable review. Perhaps I should send for the physician.”

  The physician! “No!” Emma said hastily. Then, seeing the surprise on her aunt�
�s face, she lowered her voice. “No, I am sure we need not bother the physician. I only need some rest, then I will be fine. I promise.”

  Natasha, who hovered in the background holding a small silver tray, said, “I have made her a cup of tea, Countess, and I’ll stay with her all day.”

  Aunt Lydia nodded but still looked concerned. “You are an excellent nurse, Natasha, I am sure. But I would not want Emma to become seriously ill. I could never forgive myself if I brought you all this way only to have something dire happen. I promised my sister I would always look after you.”

  Emma took up her aunt’s hand and kissed it quickly. “Nothing will happen, dear Aunt Lydia! I only need to sleep.”

  Lydia squeezed Emma’s hand. “Very well. I will look in on you later this afternoon, though, and if you are not better I’ll send for the physician. In the meantime, your uncle and I are lunching with the Tsar, then going for a carriage ride in the park. If you need anything at all, have Natasha send a message to us.”

  “I will. Have a lovely day.”

  Lydia squeezed her hand once more, then left the room in a rustle of silken skirts. Emma waited several long, tense moments until everything was silent in the corridor.

  “Is it safe now?” she whispered.

  Natasha put down her tray and went to peek outside the door. “All is clear, my lady!”

  “Thank heavens! I am roasting under here.” Emma flung back the blankets and stood up to pull her voluminous nightdress over her head. Underneath, she wore a plain gray muslin gown and white apron. She twirled around, watching the skirt flare around her legs. “How do I look?”

  Natasha’s expression was most doubtful. “Not very much like a maid, my lady.”

  “Pooh! People only see what they expect to see.” Emma turned to the dressing table mirror, and twisted her long plait of hair up into a knot at the nape of her neck, skewering it with hairpins. “If I wore a crown they would expect to see a queen. Since I’m wearing an apron, they will see a maid.”

  Natasha just shook her head. She had agreed to go along with this plan last night, but her every movement spoke of her reluctance.

  “Oh, Natasha,” Emma said, in a wheedling tone. “I will not speak to anyone. I will just look around a bit and then come back. What could possibly happen?” She laughed and kissed Natasha’s cheek hastily before grabbing up a gray knitted shawl and an old reticule. She hurried from the room, with only a quick smile tossed back over her shoulder at Natasha.

  The back staircase of the hotel was blessedly deserted, and it was only a moment before she was out on the crowded street, her heart singing as it never had before. Her very fingertips and toes tingled with excitement!

  Emma moved seamlessly into the flowing mass of people, borne away on their surging tide. She was swept through the gates of Green Park, surrounded by waves of laughter and good cheer. She soon found herself laughing along with them, laughing until her sides ached, even though she had no idea what the joke might be.

  Someone pushed a tall tankard of some foamy, amber-colored liquid into her hand. “Here y’go, love. Compliments of the Prince Regent.”

  “God bless Prinny!” another man shouted, then downed his own tankardful.

  Emma took a long gulp of the mysterious liquid and promptly gagged on the sour taste. “God bless Prinny, indeed,” she murmured, then almost clapped her hand to her mouth in consternation. She had promised Natasha she would speak to no one, for fear someone might comment on her accent.

  But the people around her did not even notice. “Now, that’s the finest ale to be had in London,” the man who had given her the tankard said.

  Ale, hm? Emma looked down at the stuff with new interest. She had never had ale before. Her aunt said only English peasants drank it, just as only Russian peasants drank rough, homemade vodka.

  This is a day for doing things you have never done before and will probably never do again, she told herself. So, drink up!

  She tilted the tankard for another sip and found that it improved on closer acquaintance. By the time she finished it all, it even tasted rather good. Not like champagne by any means, but not so bad.

  Perhaps she ought to try one of those sausage things the man over there was selling…

  ———

  His errand complete, Jack stepped out of the servants’ entrance to the Pulteney Hotel and into the fine summer’s day. The hand-off of the documents had gone very quickly. Jack had just handed them to a secretary while Count Suvarov, writing at a nearby desk, had hardly glanced up. But even though he seemed not to pay attention, Jack had the distinct sense the man missed nothing. Nothing at all.

  He took a deep breath and looked around him. The weather was perfectly ordered for a time of celebration, with a blue sky, studded only with the tiniest and puffiest of white clouds, and bright sunshine. Crowds hurried past him, jostling. They bumped right up against him as he walked down the street and turned past the park. No one paid him any heed, as he was dressed simply and cheaply today, as Mr. Thompson had instructed. If he had been Viscount St. Albans, people would have given him a wide, respectful berth. As plain Jack, though, he warranted no such consideration, which suited him just fine. There was something exhilarating in just moving along, being part of this extraordinary day.

  And his plain attire did not deter the flirtatious glances a redheaded shopgirl was sending him. Jack grinned and leaned back idly against the brick wall of a shop. His errand was accomplished, after all, and he had the whole day ahead of him.

  Then he heard a scream coming from a nearby alleyway. He went from idleness to motion in an instant and broke into a run.

  Chapter Five

  Emma had never had a more splendid time in all her life.

  She walked and walked, down streets and courts crowded with people. Sometimes the traffic was so thick that she couldn’t pass, but she did not care. She was too enthralled by all the wonderful, marvelous life around her—and by the ale she had consumed—to care about much of anything.

  Usually, when she went to the shops or the theater, she was surrounded by servants and escorts so that no one dared come close to her. She always felt that some invisible wall protected her from the touch of other people, from ordinary conversation.

  Today, it was not that way at all. She was jostled on all sides by people, people of all sorts, and she rather liked it. Servants, tradesmen, soldiers, even well-dressed ladies and gentlemen pressed together in the streets, all united in the joy of the downfall of Boney and the union of the allied monarchs. For the first time in her life, Emma felt a part of the world and not set above it, gazing down in sad wistfulness.

  She drank more ale when she became thirsty, ate sausages and a meat pie and cakes purchased from street vendors, and stopped to peer into the shop windows. She ogled gloves and slippers, books bound in rich leather, boxes and bottles of scents and powders.

  Munching on a paper full of hot roasted almonds, she stopped to examine a modiste’s colorful display. Swaths of silks and satins were draped together in a rainbow of richness. Her gaze was caught by a violet-colored velvet, and she thought idly that it would make a lovely pelisse, perhaps trimmed in sable against the harsh Russian winter.

  Then she realized that she did not have the coins to buy such a fabric, and the mantua-maker would hardly be likely to extend her credit in her current guise. In fact, she would probably be quickly bundled right back out the door if she dared set foot in there!

  Emma laughed. It was a strange and delicious sensation to know that the polite world, a world that bowed and scraped before Lady Emma Weston, had no use for her now. It was enormously liberating. She could do anything she wanted, anything at all, and no one would notice. No one would frown in disapproval or whisper about her behind their fans. No one would even care.

  She grinned in delight. It was a most amazing sensation to be completely unimportant.

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  Emma looked over to see a young woman stan
ding next to her. She wore a plain blue muslin dress and a pert straw bonnet set back on her head and tied with cherry-colored ribbons. Emma quite admired her cropped red gold curls and reached up to touch her own heavy knot of hair. It would be so delicious to be free of its weight! If only her aunt wouldn’t notice that her hair was missing… “Very pretty,” she agreed.

  “Cor!” the girl said, her eyes widening at the sound of Emma’s faint accent. “You aren’t English, are you?”

  Emma felt her cheeks flood with warm, chagrined color. Once again, she had forgotten her promise not to speak to anyone! “I—no. Not really. I am a maid to a— a Russian lady. One who is with the court of the Tsar.”

  “Really? What a treat! My sister and me were wanting a glimpse of that Tsar. A handsome cove, ain’t he?”

  Emma had never heard His Highness referred to as a “cove” before, handsome or otherwise. She almost giggled. “Oh, yes. Very handsome.”

  “Well! Fancy my meeting someone who has met the Tsar. My sister will be ever so jealous.”

  Before the girl could say anything else, a new wave of people surged past them, carrying her off. Emma pressed back against the shop window until everyone passed, then she turned and went the other way. Her almonds were all eaten, and she was feeling a bit dizzy from the unaccustomed ale. If she could just find a place to sit down for a while, a bench or a low wall, she would feel much better.

  She ducked into a quiet, narrow alleyway between two shops and leaned briefly against the rough bricks to catch her breath. The walls of the buildings on either side were so close that it was quite dark, and it didn’t exactly smell like a rose garden, but it was deserted. Emma’s head was spinning with all the excitement, and she was glad of the sudden silence.

  Pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders, she walked further down the alley, the click of her shoe heels on the cobblestones the only sound.

  Suddenly, a rough hand snaked out from a recessed doorway and snagged her arm. “What’s this, then?” a deep, hoarse voice said.