Lady in disguise

by Amanda McCabe

  “What a grand welcome!” she said, standing up on tiptoe so he could kiss her cheek. “Did you just arrive here, too?”

  He drew her against him. “No, I have been here for a while. I just wanted to wait for you.” They really should go in; his parents were waiting. But this moment felt so good, he wanted to hold onto it for just a bit longer. “Did you have a good day today?”

  “Oh, yes, lovely. Your mother came to the hotel and helped us with wedding preparations. She is truly a lovely woman.” Emma leaned closer and whispered. “She says your father is a great deal of bluster but is really harmless.”

  Jack threw back his head and laughed. “Did she, indeed? Well, I daresay she is right. I am glad you liked my mother. I hope you will be good friends.”

  “I am sure we will. And how was your own day?”

  Jack thought of his meeting with Mr. Thompson, of the papers that now rested beneath the floorboards of his sitting room. Of the man’s guarded congratulations on Jack’s marriage, his thoughts on how useful it could be to have such a connection to the unpredictable Russians—his warnings that Emma must never know what was truly happening. Warnings Jack had repeated to himself dozens of times.

  “My day was fine,” he said. “Bertie and I went to TattersalTs, and then lunched at the club.”

  “Tattersall’s?”

  “A horse showroom of sorts.”

  “Indeed? Well, I must say my own day was a great deal more fun than looking at smelly horses! But I hope you found what you were looking for.”

  “Oh, I did.” Jack drew her closer and pressed a kiss to her fragrant hair. “I most certainly did.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was her wedding day. Emma stood by her bedchamber window and stared down at the street. Even at this relatively early hour, there were people gathered there. Vendors of warm gingerbread and roasted almonds were setting up shop. It was not as crowded as it would be later in the day, but it was quite enough to be interesting.

  Could it have been only a very few days ago that she had first stood just here, peering down on this same scene, and thought that her life would never change? That it would go on in the same stifling, etiquette-bound manner as before. That even when she married, it would be the same existence under a different name.

  Now here she was, on the very edge of a new, unknown life, one she could never have imagined when she slipped out of the hotel disguised as a maid. She could never have imagined a man like Jack waited for her.

  A man like Jack. What exactly was a man like Jack? And what could their life together hold?

  Emma tapped her fingertips on the windowsill, still looking at the people on the street, yet not truly seeing them. Instead, she saw the supper of the previous night, a supper that had all the appearance of so many other suppers in her life. She liked Lady Osborn, and she even rather liked funny, pompous old Lord Osborn, but their conversation was quiet and full of politeness and careful questions.

  But then Jack had given her a secret glance across the table, waggling his eyebrows comically at some stuffy anecdote his father was telling. She had been nearly overcome by a fit of giggles and had to cover her mouth with her napkin to hide it.

  Life with Jack would surely never be dull, never be totally what was expected even as they fulfilled their duties in Society. She was happy about this wedding, about this match, truly she was.

  Why, then, did a tiny, niggling doubt still worry at the back of her mind?

  Emma remembered the tiny flicker in Jack’s eyes before he had told her he spent the day at Tattersall’s with Bertie, the way he glanced away for the tiniest second. He was always so very jovial, so lighthearted.

  Too lighthearted?

  She stepped back away from the window with a self-conscious laugh. Why was she thinking this now? It was her wedding day! She was meant to be joyful, not conjuring up doubtful ideas out of sheer air. Perhaps it was only the fabled bridal nerves.

  Jack could only be what he appeared, what he said he was. Even though he had lied to her the day they met and had never explained what he was doing wearing rough clothes…

  No! She would not think of this any longer. There was too much to do. She liked Jack, he liked her and they were to be married. That was that.

  She sat down at the dressing table and reached for her hairbrush.

  There was a knock at the door. Thinking it was Natasha, she called, “Come in!”

  But it was not Natasha; it was Madame Ana who came in, bearing a tray of chocolate and toast. She was clad in her usual black silk and spectacles, but there were no lists in sight and her lips were set in what looked like— could it be uncertainty?

  It could not be. Madame Ana had never displayed the tiniest hint of uncertainty since the day she came into Aunt Lydia’s employ years ago.

  “Good morning, Lady Emma,” she said. “Natasha is assisting the florists belowstairs, so I brought your breakfast. Is there anything I can help you with?” Madame Ana put the tray down on a table and brushed her hands together, folding them at her waist. Without her notebook and gold pencil, she seemed awkward.

  For the first time, Emma was not scared of her. Not a great deal, anyway.

  “Thank you, Madame Ana,” she answered. “I should dress, I suppose. There are so many things to do this morning.”

  Madame Ana’s shoulders straightened. She was once again in her element. “Countess Suvarova is already with the dressmaker, discussing last-minute alterations. As I said, Natasha is helping the florists, and the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg herself is conferring about the arrangements of the drawing room for the ceremony. More chairs will have to be brought in. The count has spoken with the vicar. All is in readiness for this afternoon.”

  All was in readiness? Then, what was there left for her, the bride, to do? She pulled the brush through a knot in her hair. “Oh. Well. That is splendid.”

  “Here, let me do that, Lady Emma.” Madame Ana took the brush and neatly separated Emma’s hair into sections, smoothing it carefully. “And Countess Lieven is downstairs in the small salon. Since Countess Suvarova is so busy, perhaps you could go see her when your toilette is complete?”

  “Countess Lieven? Oh, yes. Certainly.”

  ———

  The countess waited in the luxuriously appointed small salon where Emma had met Jack two days ago, with a tea tray and a newspaper to occupy her. She was beautifully attired, as always, wearing a morning costume of topaz-colored silk and a tall-crowned hat trimmed with dark yellow and gold-green feathers. Two days ago, Emma might have felt pale and prissy in her white muslin dress and blue Indian shawl beside Countess Lieven, but not today. Today was her wedding day.

  “Good morning, Countess Lieven,” she greeted the lady, coming into the salon to sit down across from her guest. “What a pleasure to see you!”

  Countess Lieven smiled and tucked the paper into her reticule. “I hope I am not calling too early, Lady Emma. I know it is not at all the hour for calls, but I thought perhaps I could be of some assistance with the arrangements.”

  “That is so very kind of you! But I believe everything is taken care of.”

  “Of course. Countess Suvarova’s great style and efficiency are known even here in London! I am sure it will be a lovely affair.” The countess laughed. “It is already being talked of as the wedding of the Season, despite its diminutive size—or perhaps because of it. People who were not invited are quite eaten up with envy.”

  Emma had realized that people would be interested, but not that interested. After all, she had been in England only for a few days and knew almost no one. “Indeed?”

  “Oh, yes. No one thought Lord St. Albans would ever be caught in parson’s mousetrap. Every young miss has set her cap for him, with no success. Yet, here you have snatched him from beneath all the young ladies’ noses, after so brief a time. You must tell me what your secret is.”

  Emma could definitely understand that the ladies would find Jack attractive. She did, after
all. But she was not so sure she liked the suggestive arch of the countess’s brow. It hinted of sophisticated suggestions that Emma could not even begin to comprehend. “I have no secret, Countess Lieven. Lord St. Albans and I are simply fond of each other and think we will do well together.”

  The countess took a small sip of her tea. “Yes, certainly. Well, you are a fortunate young lady. I am certain that you will be more than able to settle the ‘Firebrand Viscount’ down. He will not be an easy one to tame.”

  To tame? Whatever was the woman talking about? Jack was not some unbroken colt. “I am sure.”

  Countess Lieven gave a silvery little laugh. “You will not know what I am talking of, of course, being so new to Society in London. But the viscount has been so very— amusing since he returned from the Peninsula. It has been in all the scandal sheets.” She took up the publication she had been reading from her reticule and laid it on the table, giving it a little pat. “So, of course, everyone is agog that he is to wed.”

  Emma stared down at the paper, almost as if it could reach out and bite her. “Of course.”

  “Well, my dear Lady Emma, since there is nothing I can do here, I will be off on my errands. I will see you at the ceremony!”

  “Good morning, Countess Lieven. Thank you so much for coming,” Emma said, with automatic politeness.

  After the countess left in a cloud of exotic scent, Emma poured herself a cup of tea and reached for the paper. She riffled past the fashion plates to the page of on-dits in the back. Lady R. seen dancing five times with Lord T. at the Duchess of M.’s ball. Miss A. turned down seven suitors last Season, only to wed some poor nobody of a vicar.

  Lord St. A., better known as “Firebrand,” after breaking the hearts of all the young misses and many of the demi-mondes, as well as racing his curricle to Brighton and fighting with Lord S. at White’s, has succumbed to the charms of Lady E. W., fresh from the frozen north. Much to the great surprise of everyone at Lady H.’s ball, where the announcement took place.

  Hm. So Jack was a rake. And a heartbreaker.

  Emma stared down at the paper for a moment longer, then tossed it onto a table floor and left the salon.

  She would not think of that now. Those words had nothing to do with the Jack she knew. She would be happy. She would. By Jove, it was her wedding day!

  Her wedding to a rake. She laughed aloud, surprising a maid dusting in the corridor. This was all really too much like some novel.

  ———

  “ ‘Firebrand Viscount!’ How utterly ridiculous.” Jack snorted in derision as he tossed the paper to the table next to his coffee cup. It jarred the porcelain, causing a splash of ebony liquid to fall across the paper and obliterate the article with a great stain.

  Exactly what the rag deserved.

  They had all been speculating about his romantic life ever since he returned from Spain, as if they had nothing better to think about. And while the bits about the race and the fight were true enough, the “heartbreaking” certainly was not.

  He just hoped Emma did not read such silly stuff. He should not be reading it himself.

  Emma! He was to see his bride, to join their familes, in only two hours. His heart, which had felt still and closed for so long, gave a little leap at the thought.

  He pictured her face, imagined the way her small, soft hands felt in his. Soon she would be his wife, and he could see her, be with her, all the time.

  And Jack, who had once dreaded the very mention of the word marriage, found that he did not truly mind the thought of that one little bit.

  Chapter Twenty

  “You look beautiful, my lady! Just like a princess in a story. Like Vassilissa,” Natasha said, attaching the last of the pins that held Lady Osborn’s veil to Emma’s pearl and diamond tiara.

  Emma fidgeted with impatience. She was not allowed to look in the mirror until her toilette was complete, and the suspense was terrible. “Oh, can’t I see now, please?”

  Aunt Lydia laughed and handed her a pair of long white silk gloves? “Put your gloves on, my dear, and then you may see.”

  Emma tugged on the close fitting gloves, helped by Madame Ana, and smoothed them over her elbows. The scalloped hems almost touched the blue silk cap sleeves of her wedding gown. “There. Now?”

  “Now.” Aunt Lydia turned her toward the full-length mirror.

  For a moment, Emma thought she was peering at another person, a stranger who had come silently into her chamber. Then she realized that the stranger was herself, a prettier, taller, more grand self than she could ever have imagined.

  Her dark hair was drawn back sleekly, crowned with the tiara and iced with the elaborate pattern of the veil. The edges of the lace fluttered over her shoulders and the pleated bodice of her gown. Her mother’s pearls gleamed at her throat and ears.

  Emma reached up to touch her cheek, which had been carefully powdered by Natasha and glistened like another pearl. She was a grand creation, indeed. Yet she almost wished for her gray maid’s dress again, so that she could recognize herself as the girl who had danced with Jack in the light of the illuminations. So that Jack would recognize her as that girl, too. As his Tonya.

  Lydia hugged Emma carefully so as not to muss her gown or her own violet satin creation. “You are so lovely, my dear. Just like your mother.”

  “Really?” Emma turned to her aunt, clutching at her sleeve. “Do I truly look like her?”

  “You are Elizabeth’s very image.” Lydia smiled, almost sadly, and adjusted the fall of Emma’s veil. “She was the truest Diamond London had ever seen, and all the swains wanted to marry her. But she would have none but your father.”

  “Just as you would have none but Uncle Nicholas?”

  Lydia laughed. “Exactly! And as you would have none but Lord St. Albans. Your mother would be so proud to see you today.”

  “Would she?”

  “She loved you more than anything. I know I have not spoken of her enough to you. It has pained me so much sometimes to think of her. We were as close as two sisters could ever be. Now, though, perhaps you can come to know her better, once you are settled at Weston Manor.”

  “Weston Manor?” Emma felt as if she was behaving like a trained parrot, asking such dull questions, but everything was moving so very quickly. A marriage and her old home, too? Her head was spinning.

  “Of course. Did Lord St. Albans not tell you?” Lydia giggled like a girl. “Well, I am sure you two have had other things to speak of! You are going to Weston Manor for your wedding trip. It is all arranged.”

  Much to Emma’s shock, she started to cry. Little hiccoughing sobs that could be of sudden joy or sudden trepidation, she did not know.

  “Emma, Emma! What is amiss? Do not cry, you will muss yourself.” Lydia pulled a handkerchief from her beaded reticule and used it to dab at Emma’s tears. “Tell me what is wrong. Do you not want to go to Weston Manor?”

  “I do want to go there! I do not know why I am crying. I am just so—so happy.” Emma blew her nose inelegantly as Natasha rushed forward with a powder puff. “And I will miss you so much. You and Uncle Nicholas. And Russia, too, that wonderful old freezing place.”

  “As we will certainly miss you. We will see each other again, though, and we will write all the time. Now that this terrible war is over, your uncle will be more settled at home.” She leaned forward and whispered, “And we will be expecting grandchildren very soon!”

  Emma gave a choked, embarrassed little laugh.

  “There, now, that is better.” Lydia patted her cheek. “Only smiles are allowed at weddings.”

  Natasha handed Emma her flowers, a neat little nosegay of white roses and blue forget-me-nots. Emma clutched her hand around its silver holder as if it were a lifeline holding her up in this sea of unfamiliarity, unknowability.

  “Are you ready to go downstairs now?” her aunt asked, turning to face the mirror and adjust her own attire. “Your uncle will be waiting to escort you down the aisle.”
r />   Emma took a deep breath. “Yes. I am ready.”

  ———

  The crème de la crème of the ton was gathered in the large drawing room of the Pulteney Hotel. Baskets and vases of fragrant white roses and orchids were banked along the silk-papered walls, creating a country bower, a garden enclave in the middle of the city. A string quartet played quiet strains behind a large potted palm, and candles cast a glow on the elegant satins and velvets of the guests as they made their way to their places on the gold and white chairs. The Tsar and his sister, Prinny and

  young Princess Charlotte, all sat in their own small box slightly above the fray.

  Jack stood with his back to the elaborate marble fireplace, decorated for today as a makeshift altar, dressed once again in the heavy red wool of his uniform. He accepted the congratulations of the guests, the last-minute, Polonius-like silly advice from his father, with a careless grin and a laughing joke. Inside, though, he was reeling.

  This was his wedding. His wedding. Any moment now, those doors would open and his bride would appear. His bride, his Emma.

  Up until this moment, during the two dizzy days of their engagement, it had not seemed exactly real. Oh, it had seemed real that he and Emma were together, that they would be wed. But now he saw that he would be responsible for her for the rest of their years together. What if he disappointed her, what if she was made unhappy by the fate they had been dealt?

  Battles, swordplay, guns, he knew. Marriage—he was lost.

  There was no time to panic, though. Bertie, his supporter, drew him to his place before the vicar, and the drawing room doors opened.

  Emma stood there with her uncle, looking as stunningly lovely as she had at the reception where he had first seen her. And as much like the ice princess, her posture straight and perfect, her pale blue gown and white lace veil the color of a winter morning in Russia.