Lady in disguise Read online

  Mr. Thompson studied them with his calm, still, gray gaze, his long fingers steepled before him. “Most people would think this would be a quiet time for us, that our work would be finished. But, of course, it is not. It is only just beginning, in many ways. This time is crucial for the future of Europe, for the whole world. Nothing must be allowed to mar it.”

  Jack remained silent, toying with his glass. He waited to hear what might be coming next, what might be threatening this new, tenuous peace, what his task might be.

  Mr. Thompson did not disappoint. He withdrew a small packet of papers from inside his coat and pushed them across the table to Jack. They were of a plain off-white vellum, heavily sealed.

  “These must be delivered to Count Suvarov at the Pulteney Hotel, day after tomorrow,” Mr. Thompson said. “You may wish to dress inconspicuously, Lord St. Albans. Many people are watching the hotel. Many we know of—some we do not.”

  Jack tucked the letters neatly into his own coat. As far as errands went, this was among the simplest he had ever been asked to perform. “Of course.”

  Mr. Thompson nodded and sipped impassively at his brandy. “Colonel Smith-Aubrey was just telling me how invaluable your—help was in Spain and here at home, as well. I hope both you and Mr. Stonewich will be ready to continue to lend assistance when needed.”

  “Of course,” Jack said again.

  Mr. Thompson nodded, as if satisfied. “The visiting monarchs should enjoy their time here, unmarred by any trouble. Perhaps you could help them to achieve that enjoyment by keeping an eye on them? Only informally, of course. Especially the Tsar and his party. The Russians can be so—unpredictable. Don’t you agree?”

  Jack thought once more of the reception he was to attend with his parents tomorrow evening—the reception in honor of the visiting monarchs. This new task seemed fated.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Russians are most unpredictable.”

  ———

  Why did she always seem to end up staring out of windows? Emma thought, as she looked through the glass at the crowds on the street below. She rubbed one finger absently along the rich brocade of the drapery and swayed slightly to the faint strains of some lively, distant music.

  Behind her, in one of the sumptuous drawing rooms of the Pulteney Hotel, the Russian delegation gathered before supper. The Tsar and his sister held court, surrounded by the glitter of the men’s medals and the women’s silken gowns and jewels while Emma, having made her curtsy to them and then been forgotten, drifted over to the window.

  The conversation in this lavishly decorated room was low and muted, respectful, punctuated only occasionally by low laughter. Beyond this glass, though, the night seemed full of life. Full of celebrating people, who waited outside to cheer the Tsar.

  How Emma longed to breathe the fresh evening air! To wander free and laugh as loud and as long as she liked.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool glass.

  “Emma, dear?” She heard her aunt’s voice behind her and felt a light touch on her arm. Her eyes flew open, and she straightened her posture immediately.

  “Yes, Aunt Lydia?” she said, turning to face the room, and her aunt, again.

  “Are you quite all right?” Aunt Lydia asked. She looked all that was proper, as always, in her dark blue satin gown and with every hair in place beneath a peacock feather-trimmed turban. But her brow was creased in concern, and she drew off her glove to gently touch Emma’s cheek. “You feel a bit warm.”

  Emma took her aunt’s hand in her own and said, “I am just a bit tired, Aunt Lydia.”

  “Of course you are. It has been a very long day. But we must do our duty.” Her tone changed subtly but unmistakably from one of concern to one of stoic resolve.

  Duty. Always duty. “Of course,” Emma murmured.

  “It should not be a terribly long supper, though, and then you must go straight to bed.” Lydia reached out to adjust the puff of Emma’s white muslin sleeve. “Now, dear, come with me. Your uncle has someone he would like you to meet.”

  Emma sighed inwardly. It was probably some elderly general or prince, with cold, bony hands and sour breath, whom she would have to sit beside at supper. “Of course,” she said again.

  As if divining Emma’s reluctant thoughts, Lydia smiled indulgently. “Now, my dear, it is nothing like that. This is young Sir Jeremy Ashbey, who I spoke to you about earlier.”

  The name sounded rather familiar to Emma, but she could not exactly recall why. She had met so many new people today, with more to come at tomorrow’s military review. “Did you, Aunt Lydia?”

  “Of course I did, miss! I told you that he has been attached to the embassy in Russia, but his family’s estate here in England is very near to the one your parents left you.” Lydia laughed, in patient indulgence of her forgetful niece.

  Oh, yes. Now Emma remembered—Aunt Lydia had spoken of him in the carriage today. Emma had thought it rather odd. Her aunt never spoke of eligible young men. “So, he is here this evening?”

  “Yes, and quite eager to make your acquaintance.” Lydia made one more adjustment to Emma’s attire, twitching her pearl necklace into place, then took her arm to lead her back into the midst of the drawing room.

  Her Uncle Nicholas stood near the fireplace, tall and handsome in his white uniform, his hair still dark and thick, his bearing military-straight. He was talking with the gentleman who stood beside him, whom Emma now studied surreptitiously. This must be the famous Sir Jeremy Ashbey. He was good-looking, she had to admit, almost as tall as her uncle, with pale golden hair brushed into neat waves and a carefully trimmed mustache. His figure was lean in his immaculately stylish evening clothes of dark blue velvet.

  Yes, handsome, like a prince in a storybook. But Emma felt oddly detached as she approached him, as if she were watching herself from a distance, acting out some oh-so-socially correct scene. Surely she should be more excited when faced with a good-looking gentleman who was obviously approved of by her aunt and uncle?

  She pasted a smile on her lips and hoped it looked less strained than it felt. It was probably as her aunt had said—she was just tired, and all this would look very different in the morning.

  Her uncle saw them and reached for her aunt’s hand, raising it to his lips for a quick kiss. His smile for her was warm and personal; it was so obvious that they were delighted to be back together after their long separation. Emma couldn’t help but smile at their happiness, a smile that was genuine now.

  “Lydia, Emma, my dears,” Nicholas said. “I would like you to meet Sir Jeremy Ashbey, who has been here with us in the Grand Duchess’s party for the last few months. He is a most promising young man, and I have enjoyed his company. Sir Jeremy, may I present my wife, the Countess Suvarova, and my niece, Lady Emma Weston.”

  Sir Jeremy gave them both an elegant bow, his eyes a very pale green and slightly flirtatious as they turned to Emma. “It is my very great honor, Countess Suvarova, Lady Emma.. Count Suvarov has been all that is kind since I was appointed here and has spoken of both of you so highly that I have been very eager to make your acquaintance. Though, of course, Lady Emma and I have met before, many years ago.”

  Lydia laughed. “And we have been eager to meet you, Sir Jeremy! I enjoy getting to know any friend of my husband. But I fear he is so fond of us that he tends to exaggerate our charms. I fear you will be disappointed.”

  “Not at all,” Sir Jeremy answered gallantly. “You are both every bit as lovely as he said, and Lady Emma as lovely as I remember.”

  “How very charming,” Lydia said, shifting a bit so that Emma was directly facing Sir Jeremy. “The count also tells me that your family lives very near my niece’s own country estate.”

  “Weston Manor. Yes, I know it well.” Sir Jeremy said. He looked once more to Emma, who still had a very odd sense of detachment from the scene. She remembered Sir Jeremy not at all, even though it seemed he remembered her.

  But her social training
was, as always, at the fore. She forced a polite smile to her face and said, “Yes, indeed. My father’s estate, Holmsby Hall, the seat of the earldom, is now my cousin’s, but Weston Manor was my parents’ favorite place. More like a true home, my mother always said. I fear I have not seen it since I was six years old.” Emma thought she was babbling, yet she could not seem to help it. She always became terribly sentimental when she thought of her parents and their home—even when she was in front of complete strangers.

  Sir Jeremy’s expression only radiated sympathy, though. “It is a very lovely place. I am not at all surprised that your mother was so fond of it. Perhaps we could go for a drive in the park soon and speak more of the country we both have ties to? I have many tales I could tell you of the neighborhood. We could speak of it further at the military review tomorrow morning.”

  Emma was greatly tempted, despite the fact that she was so strangely unmoved by Sir Jeremy Ashbey himself. She longed to hear more about the home she had only vague memories of.

  She glanced at her aunt, who gave her a tiny nod of approval. “Yes, thank you, Sir Jeremy. I would enjoy that.”

  Chapter Two

  “Which gown will you wear tonight, my lady?” The brisk question echoed through the ornate bedchamber as Natasha, Emma’s lady’s maid, and really her friend since they were both little girls, sorted through the array of gowns hung neatly in the wardrobe.

  Emma shifted her feet in the basin of warm water, sighing at the comforting feel of the liquid lapping against her skin. How could she think about gowns now when she was still tired from standing all day, watching the endless military review under the hot sun? All those different regiments, with all the names she would never be able to remember. It had gone on for hours, along with the English Prince Regent’s terrible jokes.

  She lifted a throbbing foot out of the water and examined it. If her feet became too horribly swollen, they would never fit into her satin slippers.

  Now, there was an idea! If she could not put her shoes on, she could not possibly attend the reception at this Lady Bransley’s house. It would never do to appear in her stockinged feet.

  Yet, even as the fanciful thought flitted through her mind, she dismissed it. Her aunt and uncle would surely insist she attend, even if she had to do it in her bedroom shoes.

  “My lady?” Natasha prompted.

  Emma looked up at her. “Hm?”

  “Which gown would you like to wear? This one…”

  Natasha held up a pale pink silk creation, lavishly embroidered with silver thread and pearls. “Or perhaps this one?” Out came a heavy cream-colored satin.

  Emma glanced at them both without really seeing them. “You choose, Natasha. You always have such perfect taste.”

  “This one, then.” Natasha laid down the satin on the bed and put the pink silk back into the wardrobe. “You can wear the pink one at Lady Hertford’s ball.”

  As Natasha fussed with the gown and matched slippers and jewels to the rich fabric, Emma continued to swirl her feet about in the cooling water, even when Madame Anastatia Oblonovskaya, Aunt Lydia’s secretary, hurried into the room. As usual, Madame Ana, as she was always called, was impeccably neat in her black silk gown, her dark brown hair pulled back in a sleek knot, her gold-framed spectacles balanced carefully on her nose. She was actually not a great deal older than Emma herself, but her air of brisk efficiency made her seem a veritable matron.

  “Good evening, Lady Emma,” she said crisply, flipping through the pages of her ever-present notebook.

  “Good evening, Madame Ana,” Emma answered in a small voice. She knew very well what was coming.

  “Your aunt has asked that I review with you what will occur this evening.”

  Emma nodded politely, but inwardly she thought there was no need for any sort of “review”—she knew exactly what would happen. She would stand in a receiving line for hours, her feet aching even more as she smiled at countless people, inclining her head to some, curtsying to a few. She would make conversation with elderly countesses and statesmen with ear trumpets and a faint smell of mildew about them, would not pay too much attention to any one young man, and would always, always stand up straight and smile.

  Oh, wonderful, she thought wryly. Delightful. I am almost leaping with joy.

  “There will be no dancing tonight,” Madame Ana was saying, writing in her notebook with her little gold pencil. “So we need not worry about suitable dancing partners. Lists of those, of course, will be drawn up before the Marchioness of Hertford’s ball.”

  “Of course,” Emma murmured.

  “Tonight, you will be introduced to the guests by Count and Countess Lieven, the Russian ambassador and his wife, whom you met today at the review. The Prince Regent…”

  “Who, we hope, will not be an hour late, as he was today!” Emma said with a laugh. She remembered the disgruntled impatience, as everyone had been kept waiting by “Prinny” at the military review.

  Madame Ana gave her a sharp look, then went on as if there had been no interruption. “The Prince Regent will attend, as will Princess Charlotte. The Duke of…”

  She went on with a long list of dukes, marquesses, earls and viscounts, and instructions on how she was to greet each one, but Emma only half-listened. She swirled her toes in the now cold water and listened instead to the sounds outside her window. Laughing, cheering crowds had been passing the hotel all day in the obvious hopes of catching a glimpse of the Tsar and his sister. Emma stopped to peer at them from between her curtains whenever she could.

  They all appeared to be having such a grand time. They did not have to remember who to curtsy to and who was simply to receive a nod and a small smile.

  Emma wished that she could join them, could laugh and dance and be free for just a moment…

  The sharp snap of Madame’s notebook closing brought her back to reality.

  “That should be the entire guest list for the reception,” Madame said. “The supper before will be a small one, and you will be seated next to Lord Eversworth.”

  Emma remembered Lord Eversworth from the military review. He was seventy if he was a day and had hair growing out of his ears. She had stared at that hair in fascination, unable to hear anything of what he said.

  She shuddered.

  “Thank you, Madame,” she said.

  Madame Ana nodded, then bustled out of the room as quickly and efficiently as she had entered.

  Natasha came and lifted Emma’s feet out of the basin, wrapping them up in warmed towels. “Nye haroshya!” she said. “Your feet are wrinkled like an old crone’s. But at least some of the swelling has gone down.”

  Emma looked down at the top of Natasha’s head, at the neat white cap that concealed most of her pale curls. “Natasha?”

  “Yes, my lady?” Natasha did not look up from her task.

  “What are you going to do tonight, after we have left for the reception?”

  Natasha did look up at that question, to shoot Emma a curious glance before turning her gaze back to the white silk stockings she was smoothing over Emma’s feet. “Tonight, my lady? I will press your gown for tomorrow’s luncheon party.”

  “Surely that will not take all evening!” Emma said in a soft, cajoling tone. “You can tell me.”

  Natasha sat back on her heels, her eyes suddenly sparkling with shy fun. “Well, they say there are illuminations to be seen all over the city, after it grows dark. Some of the other servants are going, and they have invited me. If I have your permission, my lady?”

  “Don’t be silly, of course you may go! It sounds lovely. And the reception is sure to be very late.” Emma sighed wistfully before she could stop herself. “I only wish I could go with you.”

  Natasha looked at her disbelievingly. “You, my lady? But you will be having a glorious time with all the grand lords and ladies and the Tsar himself.” She crossed herself at the mention of the Little Father of Russia.

  Having a deadly dull time, Emma thought. But she just
nodded, and said, “Of course.”

  “We should be getting you dressed now, my lady, or you will be late!”

  And what a tragedy that would be. Emma stood up and shrugged off her velvet dressing gown so Natasha could help her into her light stays and the stiff brocade.

  “There must have been some handsome officers at the military review today,” Natasha chatted on, as she fastened the myriad of small pearl buttons that marched up the back of Emma’s gown.

  “Hm, yes, a few,” Emma said. She thought of Sir Jeremy Ashbey and his smooth, polite, blond handsomeness—and her aunt’s agreement that she be seated next to him at the review. He really seemed to be everything a sensible girl could dream of, being good-looking and well connected. Yet, somehow Emma, no matter how hard she tried, could still feel nothing when he bowed over her hand or smiled down at her.

  Nothing but a strange, vague restlessness.

  Natasha laughed. “Only a few, my lady?”

  “I did not have many opportunities to inspect them closely,” Emma said, with a laugh of her own. “Not with my aunt right beside me the entire afternoon.”

  “Perhaps you will meet someone tonight. Someone wildly romantic.”

  Emma giggled. “Yes. A tall, dark Englishman!”

  ———

  Now Jack remembered why he so seldom attended ton functions with his parents. It was not because he had to maintain his careful facade of careless rakishness—it was because they were so very dull.

  Oh, it was certainly a great crush, to Lady Bransley’s credit. Everyone who was anyone in Society was packed in to the very walls. People were wedged between the potted palms and the banks of heavily scented hothouse roses, dressed in their finest garments and most valuable jewels. Yet, despite the crowd, it was oddly quiet. Everyone spoke in hushed voices, as if in a great, solemn cathedral, craning for a glimpse of, hoping for a word from the visiting royalty.

  The royalty themselves stood in the receiving line with Lord and Lady Bransley, greeting the guests who moved in a slow parade up the rose-twined staircase into the white and gold ballroom.