Lady in disguise

by Amanda McCabe

  What was happening here?

  Emma stepped away from him, careful to remain in the shadows of the terrace. Her confusion was better hidden in the dimness. “In trouble for being here without an invitation,” she said, in the wild hope that her suspicions were unfounded. “Perhaps your employer is even here and will see that you have borrowed his clothes! I would not have you lose your position because you came here to see me. And how did you know where to find me?”

  Jack rubbed his hand across the back of his neck and gave her a rueful smile. “Well, it is really rather a humorous story when you think about it in a certain fashion.”

  Emma took another step back. The cold spread across her shoulders and down her back. She did not know what he was going to say, but she was pretty certain she did not want to hear it. “Humorous?”

  “Yes. You see, I am not truly a secretary.” His smile widened, became cajoling.

  Not a secretary? Perhaps that was not so bad. Her cold muscles relaxed. She, after all, was not a lady’s maid. “Then what are you?”

  He stepped toward her, his face turning wary and guarded. “I am a viscount.”

  That she was not expecting. “A—viscount?”

  “Viscount St. Albans, at your service, my lady.” He gave her an elegant bow, as if they had just been introduced in the ballroom.

  “You are the son of Lord and Lady Osborn!”

  He nodded slowly.

  “But I met them at Lady Bransley’s reception.” Emma felt trapped in a very strange dream, her thoughts spinning as she tried to adjust to this new reality. Her Jack was not a secretary; he was a viscount, the son of people she knew. She remembered Lord Osborn saying she should meet his son, and she had met him. He was Jack.

  Had he seen her at the reception? Had he planned to meet her, to somehow deceive her?

  She glanced over her shoulder, through the glass doors into the ballroom, seeking escape. Even as she looked, though, she knew that no escape would be found among those blithe, bejeweled dancers. She was trapped here, with this Jack who was not Jack, her cold feet rooted to the marble terrace. She remembered what Natasha had said about Maria’s card reading, the dark man who would disrupt their lives. Could it be—Jack?

  She turned back to Jack, who watched her, perfectly expressionless. It was as if he wore a mask over his handsome features, one that was just as attractive but totally void.

  “Then you knew all along who I was,” she said. She had wanted to shout, but her voice came out as a murmur. She was only able to conjure up one explanation. “You were sent to spy on me.”

  Jack flinched. “No, Emma…”

  “You know my name. But then, you knew it all along. Who sent you to spy on me? My uncle?” Her voice rose to a higher pitch.

  Jack shook his head, a flash of something like consternation peeking from behind that mask. “Of course not. No one sent me. I was not spying on you.”

  “You lied to me!”

  “You lied to me, as well—Tonya. But I would never accuse you of spying on me.”

  Somewhere, deep in Emma’s mind, she saw the rationality of that. She had lied to him. But she was just too confused and hurt to acknowledge that voice. The beautiful charm of her perfect day with Jack had been snatched from her, leaving her bewildered and pained, faced with the wealthy lord her handsome secretary had suddenly become.

  “That doesn’t matter!” she cried. “How can you come here now and—and…” Words failed her. She had none to express what she was feeling. She stepped away again, pressing her hands to her queasy stomach.

  “Emma, please, listen to me! This is not what you think. Sit down on this bench here, and listen to me.” He moved toward her, his hands outstretched, reaching for her.

  Emma didn’t want him to touch her, not right now, not like this. “No!” She took another, larger step back. Unfortunately, she had forgotten the potted topiary behind her. She barely felt the edge of its stone container at the back of her knees before she toppled backward into its sharp, leafy embrace.

  The clatter of the stone, the sharp sound of rending fabric filled her ears, and pain shot from her arm when it collided with the terrace. She screamed, startled.

  “Emma!” Jack shouted, his voice echoing as if coming from a long way away. He knelt beside her, gathering her into his arms. “Are you hurt?”

  He half-pulled her to a sitting position. She felt a rush of cool air against her leg, bare where the skirt had torn. She looked down and saw her white silk stocking and pink garter.

  “What has happened? I heard a crash!”

  Emma twisted around in Jack’s arms and saw their hostess, Lady Hertford, standing in the open doorway to the ballroom. Her face was shocked but also somehow— thrilled.

  Other guests crowded in behind her to see what was happening. Emma felt frozen, unable to move, unable to think, unable even to comprehend the depth of what was happening. She was sprawled across the terrace in Jack’s embrace, her gown torn, in front of everyone who mattered, both here and in Russia. And all she could think was that Natasha would be unhappy that her careful coiffure was ruined.

  As she looked, an arm in a green uniform sleeve reached out and gently moved Lady Hertford to one side. Her Uncle Nicholas stepped to the front of the crowd.

  Emma had seen her uncle stern, had heard his infrequent lectures. Despite his affection for her, he had never been one to let her little contretemps go without punishment, as Aunt Lydia sometimes did. Yet she had never seen him as he was at this moment, completely expressionless, his face gray. Like a statue—a vengeful statue.

  Emma’s frozen limbs were finally able to move. She struggled to stand, hardly aware of Jack’s touch as he helped her. “Uncle Nicholas! I never meant to…” she began. But her throat closed when he merely flicked her one glance before turning the full force of his glare onto Jack.

  Nicholas’s right hand reached for his left and pulled off his glove. He flung the white kid into Jack’s face.

  Jack flinched, but he did not turn away from Nicholas, nor did he move. He still stood there, his arm around Emma.

  The crowd gaped in rapt silence.

  As did Emma. She found her mouth was open in shock, but her mind could not command her muscles to close it. This whole scene was moving from bad to horrible, and she did not know how to stop it. She was glad of Jack’s arm, or surely she would have fallen.

  “You have insulted my niece,” Nicholas said, his voice icy. “My seconds will call on yours.”

  A duel? This could not be! “No, Uncle Nicholas!” Emma cried. She tried to step forward, but Jack’s arm tightened.

  “I will meet you, Count Suvarov, if that is your wish,” Jack said. Emma wondered wildly how he could sound so very calm in the midst of a disintegrating world. “But I feel I must tell you that I have just asked Lady Emma to be my wife, and she has consented. We were on our way to seek your permission, when unfortunately Lady Emma lost her balance and fell over this plant. I am sorry for the awkward circumstances, but we are very happy and beg for your consent.”

  Nicholas’s stony expression cracked just a fraction. He turned to Emma. “Is this true, Emma? Have you consented to marry this—young man?”

  Jack bowed. “I am Viscount St. Albans, Count Suvarov. I am sorry we have not truly met before.”

  Nicholas did not look away from his niece. “Well, Emma?”

  Emma hardly knew what to say. Marriage? To Jack?

  She stared wildly from Jack to her uncle, trying to find words, any words.

  They had all fled, though, and all that came out from her throat was, “Um—argh.”

  The crowd parted a bit, and Aunt Lydia swept through, her head held high. She stopped next to her husband, her gaze sweeping over the assembled players. Beside her were Lord and Lady Osborn. Lady Osborn seemed horrified by the attention focused on her family, but Lord Osborn seemed—triumphant. Even though he tried to hide it with a suitably stern expression.

  “Well,” said Lydia,
placing her hand lightly on Nicholas’s arm. “What is this I hear of a betrothal?”

  ———

  Jack looked out boldly at all his audience, his arm tight around Emma’s shoulders. He tried to appear cool and disdainful, as if he had planned this entire scene and things were progressing exactly as he wished. As if he had meant all along to become betrothed tonight.

  The truth, of course, was that he had had no idea what would happen when he saw Emma again. Usually he greatly enjoyed designing plans and stratagems, as he had when he was in the army, but tonight all he had known was that he must see her again. Nothing beyond that. Nothing like what was happening to them now.

  He had thought he would never marry, or at least not for a long while, after the situation England was in had stabilized and he was no longer needed for Mr. Thompson’s work. But standing here now, with Emma at his side, facing the world together, felt so very right. It felt the way things should be, as strange as that was.

  Jack tightened his hand on Emma’s shoulder and felt it tremble as if she was chilled. He glanced down at her and saw that her face reflected none of his own surprised gladness. She was as white as her pearls and stared at her uncle with an unreadable expression.

  Jack frowned and looked at Count Suvarov. The man appeared a fraction less infuriated after Jack’s announcement of an engagement but no less stern or unbending.

  His wife also watched the scene with narrowed, suspicious eyes. She seemed poised to swoop in and rescue her niece from his evil clutches.

  He would not let that happen. Now that he had seen Emma again, he could not let her go. They could make a betrothal, a marriage, work. If he only had time to think of a plan.

  If only he could talk to Emma alone.

  That was not going to be possible just yet, though. “Countess Suvarova,” he said, bowing to Emma’s aunt and giving her what he hoped was a charming smile and not a pained grimace. “It is true that I have the great honor of begging for your niece’s hand in marriage.”

  “Do you, indeed?” the countess said coolly. “And who might you be?”

  Jack’s father stepped forward with a jovial laugh. “This is my son, Countess! The Viscount St. Albans.”

  “The son you have been telling us such glowing tales of?” Countess Suvarova said, with a disdainful little sniff that said exactly what she thought of those tales.

  Jack thought it best if this little farce ended. He slid his hand down to Emma’s elbow and led her closer to her uncle. She moved stiffly, like a marionette, still not looking at him.

  “Count Suvarov,” he said, “is there someplace where we might have a more private conversation?”

  “I think that would be in order,” answered the count.

  “You may use the library,” Lady Hertford offered. Her face was shining; this ball was obviously turning out to be even more exciting than she had hoped. “I will show you the direction, and my servants will make certain you are not disturbed.”

  “Thank you, Lady Hertford.” The count followed her into the ballroom, not glancing back to see if Jack followed.

  Countess Suvarova took Emma’s other arm and drew her, gently but inexorably, away from Jack. Emma went to her with that same dreamlike stiffness. “Come with me, Emma,” she said. “We will find the ladies’ withdrawing room and see what can be done to repair your skirt.” She turned her basilisk stare onto Jack again. “I believe my husband is expecting you—Lord St. Albans.” Her tone managed to be polite yet convey doubt that that was indeed his name.

  “Of course, Countess.” He bowed to her again and watched as she led Emma into the house. Jack’s own mother trailed behind them, her hands fluttering uncertainly.

  His father stepped up to him and clapped him heartily on the back. “Congratulations, m’boy! I knew that given time, you would find the right lady.”

  Jack gave him a quelling look and went to follow Count Suvarov. Just inside the ballroom doors, a cold prickle, just like the tip of an iceberg, touched the back of his neck. He had often had that feeling, that inkling of some sixth sense, in Spain. It meant that something was not right.

  He touched the chill spot on his neck and glanced over his shoulder. Standing near the glass doors, halfway behind one of the flower arrangements, was Sir Jeremy Ashbey. And he stared at Jack with a coldness and a hatred Jack had never encountered before, not even in battle when he stood bayonet to bayonet with a Frenchman. Jack’s hand reached instinctively to his side, feeling for a sword that was not there.

  Jack wondered if the man was mad. Anyone would be angry at losing a woman like Emma, of course, but that stare spoke of something more, something unfathomable.

  Sir Jeremy took a step back and melted away into the milling crowd. The chill faded from Jack’s skin, but he still felt unsettled deep in his gut.

  There was nothing he could do right now about Sir Jeremy, though. He had to settle a betrothal. He turned away and moved out of the ballroom into the silent darkness of Lady Hertford’s library.

  Count Suvarov waited for him there.

  ———

  Betrothed!

  Sir Jeremy Ashbey stared after St. Albans and Lady Emma as they left the terrace, surrounded by shocked and titillated crowds. He would have followed, too, but he felt frozen in place, unable to move an inch or even arrange his facial expression into suitably bland and uninterested lines.

  That—that bastard had announced he was engaged to Lady Emma. Yet, that could not possibly be! She was engaged—or as good as engaged—to Jeremy. She had been meant to be his ever since they were children! He had waited patiently for her these many years, had laid the careful groundwork by attempting to befriend her powerful uncle.

  Now someone else, someone who could have known her for only a day or two, had swooped in and stolen her from beneath Jeremy’s very eyes.

  Stolen her.

  How come fortune smiled so on men like St. Albans and left steady, faithful men like himself behind? First his father’s death, then his mother’s illness and now this. Emma had been so close to his grasp. On their drive in the park, he had seen the fondness in her eyes before perfect maidenly modesty made her turn away. They had been so close until this.

  It could not be borne. It would not be borne!

  His feet unfroze at last, and he whirled about to follow St. Albans into the house.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The ladies’ withdrawing room was blessedly empty JL when Aunt Lydia shepherded Emma into it. All the chattering, primping young women had fled to the ballroom, to dance, talk—and giggle over the sensation of Lady Emma Weston’s very sudden betrothal.

  Lady Emma Weston herself would like to have had the time to consider that betrothal, she thought, but that would have to wait until she was alone in her own hotel chamber. Right now, she had to face her aunt.

  Emma sank down onto a white satin settee and watched as Aunt Lydia locked the door behind her. She strode over to one of the mirrors and proceeded to straighten her skirt and her sapphire necklace, her movements jerking. Emma hated this suspense. It made her stomach churn and her palms itch. What was going to happen? What was her aunt going to say?

  Was she truly betrothed to Jack, who suddenly was not just her Jack but a viscount! And how did she feel about that? Was she still angry at his ridiculous deception?

  Was she—happy about it?

  The uncertainty made her stomach churn even more. For something to do, so that she would not have to look at her aunt, she stripped off her gloves and laid them over her lap, smoothing them and folding them.

  The silence stretched on and on, thick in the perfumed, candlelit air. It startled Emma so much that she dropped her gloves when Lydia said, “What happened, Emma? And how do you know this Lord St. Albans so— intimately?”

  Emma, who started to reach down to pick up the gloves, snapped up straight. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She did not know what to say. Should she make up some tale? What could it be?

  “Do
not try to tell me that you just met him this evening, because that will not wash,” Lydia said. “I saw the way you watched him. Yet Lord Osborn says his son rarely accompanies them to social events. Respectable events.”

  Emma stared down at the now crumpled gloves and swallowed hard past the dry lump in her throat. “I met him when I—went out the other day.”

  “What?” Lydia whirled from the mirror to stare directly at Emma. “Why did you not tell me you had a titled escort that day? Why did you not introduce him to your uncle and me? I would have thanked him for keeping my heedless niece safe!”

  Emma shook her head. “It was not like that! I did not know he was a viscount. I thought he was…”

  “Was what?” Lydia asked, when Emma faltered.

  “A secretary,” Emma whispered. She peeped up at her aunt carefully.

  Shock froze Lydia’s elegant features. “Do you mean to say that this young man was out on the streets masquerading as a secretary?”

  Emma nodded. Now all the truth was out—or most of it, anyway. Her aunt was sure to forbid the betrothal. Emma was still mad at Jack, to be sure, but she did not necessarily want their connection severed. Not until she had had time to think, time to speak with him again, alone. Time to sort through all her jumble of strange feelings.

  She almost expected her aunt to scold or shout. She did not expect her to burst into laughter, yet that was exactly what happened. Lydia covered her mouth with her gloved hand, but still the laughter came, a great, rushing river of mirth.

  Emma stared at her in utter amazement. She had been working herself up to defend Jack, to argue for giving him a chance. But she did not know how to respond to laughter. She did not even know why her aunt was laughing.