Lady in disguise

by Amanda McCabe

  “Indeed.” They walked along in silence for a moment before Bertie added, “Lady Emma is a most intrepid young lady. Very-unexpected.”

  “Yes,” Jack answered shortly. Quite unexpected.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emma watched listlessly in the dressing-table mirror as Natasha lifted a wreath of pink rosebuds from the florist’s box and pinned it in Emma’s upswept hair. Every flower was a perfection of pale pink color and sweet perfume, entwined with a strand of pearls that matched her mother’s necklace and earrings. The jewels, jewels she usually loved to wear because they made her think of her mother, lay waiting in their cases. Her pink silk gown, freshly pressed, was spread across the bed like the lightest sunset cloud.

  Emma saw none of this splendor. She didn’t even really see her reflection in the mirror. She kept going over and over the memory of that man she had seen in the park. Had it been Jack? Or was her mind leaving her, making her insane so that she saw Jack in every dark-haired man she passed? It was probably just wishful thinking. She would never see him again, and even if by some miracle she did see him, what could come of it? Her aunt and uncle would never allow her to marry a secretary.

  One thing she did know was that, Jack or no Jack, she could not wed Sir Jeremy Ashbey. Their brief encounter in his phaeton, that look on his face when he told her of their childhood meeting, had frightened her. She had thought perhaps there was nothing behind his perfect, polite, handsome exterior. Now she knew that there was, but it was not something she wished to know further.

  Anyone who could be so intent over a meeting that took place twelve years ago between two children was just— odd.

  Now, Jack would never have done such a thing…

  “No!” she cried aloud, slamming her palm down on the dressing table. The hairbrushes, pots and bottles rattled. Rice powder spilled in a shimmering fall. She could not think about him any more.

  “My lady?” Natasha said in alarm. She lifted her hands from the wreath she was still pinning and stepped back. “Is something amiss? Do you not like your hair this way?”

  Emma closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. Now her perplexity, her foul mood, was affecting everyone around her. It had to cease. “No, Natasha. It looks lovely. You are always so clever. I just—I am tired.”

  “You do look a bit pale.” Natasha opened one of the small cases on the dressing table and rummaged about until she came up with a little silver box. “Do you want to use some rouge tonight?”

  Emma’s interest was piqued. “I did not know I had rouge! Does Aunt Lydia know?” Glad of a distraction, no matter how small, she opened the box and dipped her fingertip into the sticky pinkness. “It is just like Lottie wore.”

  “Who is Lottie, my lady?” Natasha asked curiously.

  “What? Oh, no one. Just someone I met once.”

  Natasha’s eyes widened. “Someone who wears rouge all the time?”

  “I don’t know if she wears it all the time,” Emma said.

  The bedchamber door opened and Aunt Lydia stepped inside, just in time to hear those words. “I should hope you do not know a woman who always wears rouge, Emma,” she said. She stepped behind her niece, so Emma was faced with her full reflection. Her pale gray satin gown and sapphire jewels flashed and sparkled, making her more the majestic Countess Suvarova than the stern but affectionate Aunt Lydia of the night before.

  “No, of course not, Aunt Lydia,” Emma answered.

  Natasha came back at a gesture from Aunt Lydia to finish Emma’s hair and fasten her jewelry.

  “But perhaps you could use a touch of it this evening,” Lydia said, straightening her long kid gloves over her arms. “You seem quite pale. I hope you are not truly becoming ill!”

  “I feel quite well,” Emma answered. “I do need to talk to you, though. About Sir Jeremy…”

  “Later, my dear. There will be plenty of time for that later. Right now, you must finish dressing, or we will be late for this ball.”

  “Yes, Aunt Lydia. Of course.” Emma faced her reflection full on again, watching Natasha put the finishing touches on the wreath.

  Lydia suddenly bent down and pressed a careful kiss to Emma’s cheek. “You look lovely tonight, Emma. Your uncle and I are so proud of you.”

  Emma smiled weakly. “Thank you, Aunt Lydia.”

  ———

  The grand ballroom at Lady Hertford’s mansion was decorated to look like a forest, albeit one where hothouse roses and orchids grew. Thick, glossy greenery lined the walls, entwined with sweet smelling pastel flowers. Tall branching candelabra stood everywhere, casting their glowing light and wispy white smoke into the crowd. And since Lady Hertford was Prinny’s current mistress, that crowd was considerable. Everyone of any importance in Society, or anyone who wanted to be of importance, was gathered there, listening to the orchestra hidden behind a wall of palms, sipping champagne, exchanging on-dits.

  Everyone except Tsar Alexander and his party.

  Jack stood with his parents near a set of tall glass doors that opened onto a moon-washed terrace, half-listening to the conversation his father was having with one of his old cronies.

  He took a slow sip of his champagne, studying the room over the edge of the crystal flute. A country dance was forming on the floor, and he saw Bertie leading an elegant redhead to their places. Sir Jeremy Ashbey, the insufferable man that Jack had seen driving with Emma that afternoon, stood across the room. He was talking with Lord Castlereagh, but he, like Jack, watched the door with stealthy interest.

  What an insufferable prig the man was, Jack thought, taking a deeper swallow of the champagne.

  He turned away from Sir Jeremy and thought about the meeting with Thompson this afternoon. It had been brief, but rather unsettling. There had been word from their agents in France that all was not as stable as the allies might wish. Not by a long way.

  He should be thinking of that, not Emma. But somehow, he knew he just had to set things right with her. How he was to do that, though, he did not know.

  He hoped he would know what to say when he saw her. And that would be—now.

  The ballroom doors opened, and Tsar Alexander and his sister stood there, a picture of contrasts, he in his white and gold uniform, she in her black satin and lace gown. The entire congregation fell into a hush; even the music stilled. Everyone dipped into bows and curtsies, and Prinny and Lady Hertford hurried forward to greet the latecoming guests of honor.

  As the Tsar and Grand Duchess moved into the room, the people who stood behind them became visible. Count Suvarov, in a dark green uniform, had his wife on one arm, his niece on the other.

  Jack almost choked on the champagne he had just swallowed. She was so preternaturally lovely, in a gown of pink silk trimmed with white satin ribbons, a wreath of flowers threaded in her dark hair, her double-strand pearl necklace gleaming against her skin. Her gloved hand rested lightly on her uncle’s sleeve, and her head inclined at a regal angle as Lady Hertford greeted her.

  But she did not look like his Emma. She looked as she had the first night he saw her, at the reception. Her smile was polite yet fixed, her face a pretty mask. She seemed to be staring into herself, at something no one else could see.

  Jack wanted to rush to her, to take her in his arms and hold her until all her coolness melted, to tell her a silly jest and make her laugh, to make her come back to him.

  He took one step in her direction, but that blasted Sir Jeremy was quicker. As Jack watched, the other man stepped to her side and gave her a bow, saying something to her.

  It seemed to startle Emma. Her eyes widened as she saw Sir Jeremy, and she took a tiny, almost imperceptible step toward her uncle.

  Count Suvarov glanced down at her and gave her an indulgent smile. He patted her hand and urged her toward Sir Jeremy. After a small hesitation, she nodded and gave Sir Jeremy a quirk of her lips that could be construed as a smile. As Jack watched, she moved to the dance floor with Sir Jeremy, to take their places in the set that
was just forming.

  To all outward appearances, Emma seemed perfectly poised and at ease. She made an elegant curtsy to Sir Jeremy, then held her gloved hands out to him. Jack, though, knew her. He saw the stiffness of her shoulders, the white cast of her face. As Sir Jeremy turned her in a slow circle, Jack noticed that she leaned back slightly, her grasp straining at Sir Jeremy’s.

  She was miserable, and Jack could not bear it for another minute. He put his empty glass onto a passing footman’s tray and, ignoring his parents’ bewildered questions, set off across the ballroom.

  ———

  Why, oh why, had she agreed to dance with Sir Jeremy? After their drive, after all her determination to tell her aunt and uncle she did not care for him? She should have refused, should have said she did not intend to dance tonight, but she had not. And here she was, with her hands caught in his.

  She turned and moved around the next couple, remembering the little skipping steps only from instinct. As sometimes happened at these grand galas, her mind wanted to drift away to more interesting places, leaving just her body to move through these oft repeated pleasantries. Unfortunately, tonight her mind would not drift far enough to allow her to imagine that it was Jack she was dancing with.

  The figures of the dance brought her back to Sir Jeremy. As they clasped hands again and moved closer together, he said, “I so enjoyed our drive today, Lady Emma.”

  “Mm,” Emma murmured, and gave him a polite, vague little smile.

  “It is always good to meet an old friend again, after such a long parting. I feel so fortunate that you came back to England now.” His gray gaze was bright as he looked down at her and strangely anticipating, as if he expected a certain reply from her.

  Emma wasn’t exactly sure what that reply should be. And—old friends? She didn’t think that was true. She just nodded.

  “I would be honored if you would allow me to escort you to Carlton House the day after tomorrow,” he said, his hands tightening on hers.

  Carlton House? Oh, yes, the Prince Regent’s home. They were meant to attend a grand supper party there. She was actually looking forward to it, she had heard such extraordinary things about it. But she certainly did not want to attend with Sir Jeremy.

  He did not seem to expect a refusal or indeed any reply at all. He gave her a charming smile, as if all was decided.

  Emma glanced over to where her aunt and uncle stood, but they were conversing with Lord and Lady Os-born and paying no attention to her. She was entirely on her own, in a ballroom filled with dozens of people.

  “I think my aunt and uncle have already made plans,” she managed to say through her dry throat.

  His smile widened, taking on an indulgent, confident air that she found particularly unpleasant. “I am sure they will not object to your attending the supper with me.”

  Emma wasn’t sure what to say. It wouldn’t be the thing at all to start a quarrel in the middle of a dance, but she could not let Sir Jeremy go on thinking of her in—well, in whatever way it was that he did think of her.

  Fortunately, she did not have to say anything just yet. The dance separated them again, and she moved around the next couple in line. As she skipped and twirled, her gaze scanned the people who stood around the edges of the dance floor, talking, laughing, drinking champagne. They seemed as if they belonged here; they seemed as if they had no cares in the world, beyond perhaps a snagged hem or dancing pumps that pinched.

  She wondered if she could possibly trade places with one of them, just for a while—much as she had traded places with an imaginary lady’s maid.

  Then she saw him, threading his way through the crowd to stop just outside the periphery of the dancers, not six feet away from her. He wore an exquisite evening coat of midnight blue velvet and pale gray satin breeches. His white-as-snow cravat fell in perfect folds over his cream-colored satin waistcoat, anchored with a sapphire stickpin. But Emma saw all this, took note of it, in only a peripheral fashion. She could see only his eyes, bluer than the sapphire stone. Eyes that stared right into hers.

  Jack. It was truly Jack. It could be no one else. It could not be her imagination, as the man in the park today had been. She saw him so very clearly, his jaw working as if he tried to say something. Her heart pounded painfully, and she could scarcely breathe.

  If she took just a step or two, she could even reach out to touch him.

  She stumbled over her feet, the trim satin slippers feeling suddenly as big as boats. She would have fallen if the man next to her in the dance had not grasped her arm and drawn her back to the proper position. She took his hand and performed the turn, looking back over her shoulder at the first opportunity.

  He was not there.

  She scanned the crowd again, searching for any sign of him. He seemed to have vanished. Yet, she had seen him! She was certain of it. Her daydreams were never that vivid.

  She clasped hands with Sir Jeremy again and turned. As she moved to face the crowd, Jack mercifully reappeared, moving from the group to the edge of the floor, closer than before. He gave her a crooked little smile.

  Jack. A sudden joy leapt from her heart into her throat, a warm rush of feeling unlike anything she had ever felt before. She had been in such despair these past two days, had felt she had lost something so infinitely precious, something that could never be replaced.

  Now here he was! Right in front of her, not a figment of her dreams. She wanted to run to him, to throw her arms around him and never let him go.

  Her social training was too deeply engrained, though. She could not quite bring herself to make a scene. But as soon as this dance, this dratted dance, was over, she would go to him. Her very fingers and toes tingled with impatience.

  When Sir Jeremy reclaimed her to lead her down the line of dancers, she could not stop herself from giving him a wide smile of pure joy.

  He looked startled, then gave her an answering smile. She did not even truly notice.

  As she automatically performed the final steps, her thoughts whirled. Jack was here. Here. Her happiness overflowed within her. Yet even as she bubbled with anticipation, one question rose unbidden to the back of her mind.

  What was a secretary doing in Lady Hertford’s ballroom? Dressed in the first stare of fashion, apparently accepted by everyone around him?

  She shook her head. He surely had a proper explanation for it, for everything. Maybe he was in disguise, just to get to see her. If she could only get out of this dance and hear it from him!

  The final notes of music sounded at last, and Emma dropped into a curtsy to Sir Jeremy. As she rose, he offered her his arm.

  “Shall I escort you back to your aunt and uncle, Lady Emma?” he asked solicitously.

  “No!” Emma cried out without thinking. She could never look for Jack with Aunt Lydia’s sharp eyes on her. She saw Sir Jeremy’s startled expression, and modified her tone. “I—I have to go to the ladies’ withdrawing room first.”

  As she expected, he flushed at this and averted his gaze. “Oh, er, of course, Lady Emma. Shall I escort you there, then?”

  “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. I know the direction.” She disengaged her hand from his arm and bobbed him another quick curtsy before hurrying off into the enveloping crowd. She did not even look back.

  She walked as quickly as she could without running in an unseemly fashion around the edge of the room, standing on tiptoe to peer over shoulders, giving distracted greetings to people who spoke to her. She tried to avoid her aunt and uncle, who would not let her stray from their sides again without a good reason.

  But she could not see Jack anywhere.

  As she passed the half-open doors to the terrace, a breeze moved over her shoulders and neck. She paused there to plot her next move, to peer very carefully around her.

  “Psst!” she heard. Was the breeze picking up, whistling noisily past the doors?

  “Psst!” it came again, more insistent. It did not sound like the wind this time. It sounded like—a
voice.

  She pushed the door open wider and slipped out onto the terrace. The shadows out here, beyond the glow of the ballroom, were deep. She peered around, staring past potted plants and marble statues.

  “Hello?” she called softly.

  A hand reached out and caught hers, pulling her behind a tall, potted topiary. She gasped in surprise, but the sound was swallowed when a pair of lips pressed lightly against hers. Her hand reached out and encountered the lushness of a velvet coat, the warmth of hard shoulders beneath. A familiar soapy, spicy scent crept into her senses.

  After a second of startlement, she knew the truth. This was Jack who was kissing her; Jack who was in her arms.

  His lips slid from hers. Emma did not open her eyes. This seemed real, but if by some chance it was another dream, she wanted to hold onto it for as long as possible. She opened her eyes only when she heard him give a rueful laugh, felt the rumble of it under her palms. He looked down at her, that half-smile on his face, his eyes as blue and warm as she remembered. She curled her hands into his coat.

  “Hello—Tonya,” he said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Emma reached up to touch Jack’s face, to assure herself that he was real. His skin was warm through the thin kid of her gloves, the line of his jaw and cheekbone strong.

  He was real!

  He was right here in front of her, illumined by a strong, pale beam of moonlight that silvered his dark hair. He had never looked more beautiful than at this moment.

  “Jack!” she cried, and flung her arms around his neck to press close to him. “How did you find me? What are you doing here? You could get into such trouble if you are discovered!” The questions rushed from her lips before she could stop or even slow them.

  His arms tightened on her waist but only for a moment. At her words, his hands slid to her shoulders to hold her away a bit. “Trouble?”

  A small, cold finger of uncertainty touched the back of Emma’s neck. She had just assumed that Jack had come to the ball in disguise to find her, but now the simple perfection of that assumption began to show its frayed edges. She had told him she was a maid—how would he know to look for her here? He did not seem at all surprised to find her in her gown and jewels. And he seemed completely at ease in his grand attire, surrounded by grand Society.