A Lady in Disguise Read online

  “You ... er ... knew Mrs. Everard?”

  “That I did. A right and proper .. . what do you think you’re doin’?” Mrs. Becksnaff hustled past Lillian to snatch an enormous silver tray from a maid’s hands. “Get the big one, not this little snip of nothin’. And be quick about it. We don’t have all evening.” Her quick heels tapped on the stone floor as she came back, shaking her head, the silver hanging from her hand. “Excuse me, miss... it’s bedlam as you can see. Tell Miss Addy she’ll have her custard before she’s an hour older.”

  Lillian thanked her, but doubted she heard. Returning up the corridor, she walked up the stairs only to be called back by Thorpe. He stood at the foot, his large hand concealing the plinth of the gleaming wooden bust of Diana that decorated the newel. Even that virgin goddess might have reconsidered her mode of life if Thorpe had asked her to.

  Standing above him, Lillian forgot that she was supposed to be acting the part of a reserved and sensible governess. Instead of waiting meekly to hear his will, she said, “Don’t tell me you left them alone with Lady Genevieve! Aren’t you afraid of finding nothing left but twin puffs of smoke?”

  “I am not afraid, but I confess—softly spoken—that I am hopeful.” He grinned and she could not resist dropping down a step or two. “I cry of your mercy, Miss Cole, to dine with us tonight. If I have not something beautiful to look at occasionally during dinner, I might lie awake all night with galloping dyspepsia.”

  Lillian retreated, stepping up. “Please .. .” she began to say. She had not thought, in speaking first, that he would think his kiss had made her pert and take advantage.

  “You are quite lovely, you know. The color of that dress does enchanting things to your eyes and hair, for you have just that shade of golden brown in them.”

  “You are not keeping your promise, Mr. Everard,” she said.

  “Promise?”

  ‘To speak to me only as a governess. You did promise that.”

  “Yes, I know. But you were about to protest that you are not beautiful, that you never thought of being beautiful, and I might have had to agree with you out of politeness. But, my dear Miss Cole, I shan’t lie even for you.”

  Never, not at a thousand separate routs and parties, not even those that became sad romps, had Lillian ever blushed as brightly as now. She seemed to know that he thought of, perhaps even relived, the moment when she’d clung to him and silently begged for his kiss. “I—I must go to Addy,” she stammered.

  “You’ll join us for dinner, then?” He came two or three steps closer, his muscles rippling beneath the tight fabric of his breeches. “Please?” His black eyebrow went up.

  “No, I don’t think it would please Mr. and Mrs. Grenshaw to dine with a servant. Thank you, though.” A poor excuse of an answer to his smile crossed her lips as she walked away, knowing that in truth she fled from him. When she reached the safety of her room, she stood with her back to the door, her heart beating absurdly fast. Pretending calm, she sat before the window, breathing in gulps of fresh air, but even that fragrance reminded her of him.

  Even knowing she’d been right to refuse Thorpe her company, Lillian hated to disappoint him. Not that he’d given the matter a second thought once she’d said no. She knew by now that Thorpe had no idea that he affected women rather as a mesmerist she’d once seen in London. After a few waves of his hand over her face, he’d made one of Lillian’s dearest friends say she loved a certain man when Lillian knew she’d despised him for years. The fact that they married but a few months later had nothing to do with the case. Thorpe Everard could make her do anything just as if he’d made magic passes before her eyes—including fall into his arms with a passion she’d never known lived in her heart. Thinking of that moment, Lillian groaned and dropped her head into her hands.

  Was she in love with him? Lillian did not know. When he was near her she felt so strange, as if she were another person. Not Lillian Cole, the ostensible child of an impecunious vicar forced to work for her keep, nor Lillian Canfield, the socially acceptable daughter of a wealthy man, but as though she’d changed into a nameless someone without any connection in this world, save the exceedingly tenuous one that bound her to Thorpe.

  A timid rap on her door brought Lillian upright. “Who’s there?”

  A small and serious face appeared around the edge. “It’s me,” Addy said, attired for the night. “I thought you were coming to tell me the rest of that story.”

  “So I shall. Has Burrows come up with your custard yet?” Addy shook her head despairingly. “Well, I’m certain she’ll be along quite soon. They’re terribly busy downstairs just now.”

  “It must be very difficult stretching a dinner.” Lillian looked blank and Addy consented to explain. “Henley said they’ve got to stretch the dinner, but I don’t see how they can. I mean, you can stretch taffy—I’ve seen Mrs. Becksnaff do it—but a goose?” She pressed her lips together as though thinking hard. “I don’t see how they can,” she repeated.

  Lillian laughed as she stood up and held out her hand. “It just means they’re going to add more water to the soup and serve an extra remove or two so everyone will leave the table contented. Perhaps they’ll mince the lobster instead of serving one to each person. Do you understand now?”

  Addy seemed relieved. “I thought they might each take a wing and pull very hard and I thought it might hurt,” she confessed. “I know they have to cut its head off, but I didn’t like to think of them stretching it.”

  “I can sympathize with you. Now, kick off your slippers and into bed. Let’s see, when we left off, Chani was just about to enter into a city of music and laughter....” From behind her came a gentle and ladylike cough. Lillian glanced back over her shoulder. “Lady Genevieve,” she said, rising from the edge of Addy’s bed. “I was—”

  “We are awaiting your presence downstairs, Miss Cole. Did not my grandson tell you I want you to dine with us?”

  “No, he didn’t.” At least, he’d not phrased it that way. Lillian felt more a fool than ever, leaping to the conclusion that his had been a personal request.

  “I am sorry for the misunderstanding.” Lillian couldn’t believe for a moment that Lady Genevieve was actually begging her pardon. “Pray,” she went on, smiling graciously, “pray join us for dinner, Miss Cole. Your conversation will be most welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Lillian answered, too stunned to say more.

  Addy sat up. “Great, can I see your necklace?”

  “May I....”

  “Yes, Great. May I see your necklace?”

  Lady Genevieve had apparently decided to honor her guests by dressing in the most elegant ensemble she possessed. Her gown, though of a self-effacing gray, was lifted from the commonplace by the raised pattern on its surface. The costly white lace around her shoulders made a suitable presentation for a parure of jewels, culminating in a magnificent necklace that gave off a green fire. Her still-delicate hands, half-covered by elegant lace mitts, went indulgently to the clasp. The glittering mass of dark green stones dripped in front of the child who reached out, her eyes dazzled.

  Lillian, too, stared with wonder at the large and perfectly matched emeralds set in golden fretwork. She’d never seen any as fine surrounding the throats of the most titled ladies of society or even those of the least virtuous.

  “You know,” Addy said, twining the necklace around her thin arm and twisting her wrist to see the shimmer. “They look just like the spots on the backs of frogs, don’t they. Miss Cole? Especially when the frogs are wet.”

  Lillian had actually been comparing them to a certain pair of masculine eyes and found the minerals dull and uninteresting by comparison. Nevertheless, she said, “I do believe you are right, Addy. Exactly like wet frog spots.”

  Lady Genevieve said, ‘They were given to me by my husband on the birth of our first son, your grandfather, Addy. And speaking of grandfathers, we mustn’t keep this one waiting. Come, Miss Cole. Addy will forgive you the remainder of
the story you were about to tell until tomorrow night.” Once again, great-grandmother and child exchanged a glance that seemed to take years off one’s age and add them to the other’s.

  “Yes,” Addy said and gave a most unconvincing yawn. “I am too tired to hear it now, Miss Cole. Good night.” She lay down, after handing back the emerald necklace, and cast her lashes down on her pale cheeks. Lillian still saw the glimmer of her eyes between the half-closed lids.

  “As you wish, Addy,” she said, bringing the coverlet up to the child’s chest. “Don’t forget to wake up when your custard arrives.” Addy opened one eye and gave her a glance that Lady Genevieve herself could not have rivaled for sheer irascibility.

  * * * *

  The formal dining salon of the castle was painted in a smoky pale blue. This color, with the white classical motifs molded from plaster on the ceiling and walls, made Lillian feel as though she were dining inside one of Mr. Wedgewood’s cups. But the charm of the room was diminished by the charm of the countenance effacing herself shyly behind Mrs. Grenshaw.

  The young girl reminded Lillian very much of Sarah East who, through no fault of her own, had ensnared the affections of Lillian’s erstwhile fiancé, the Earl of Reyne. Like Sarah, this girl owned masses of golden hair, perhaps a shade lighter, and had the face and figure of one of the less blood-thirsty Grecian goddesses. However, the resemblance ended directly Lillian made contact with the fair unknown’s gray eyes. For whereas Sarah East had been notable for a happiness that glowed from within, this girl moved uneasily from foot to foot, and a line had come between fair brows that should never know such a thing. The single restless glance that Lillian intercepted seemed to seek for an escape, only to fall once again on her aunt, and from there, helplessly, onto the carpet.

  Lillian walked directly up to her. “I’m so pleased to meet you. I am Lillian Cole, Addy’s governess.”

  Again the hunted glance went to Mrs. Grenshaw, who prodded, “Say how de do, Nora.” The blonde mumbled something that might have been a greeting. Mrs. Grenshaw smiled meaninglessly. “I’m afraid the journey tired her.”

  Approaching behind Lillian, Lady Genevieve said, “I made sure the gentlemen would have joined us by now. I told Becksnaff to interrupt them.”

  “And here we are. Grandmother,” Thorpe said, hustling in. He paused only to carry her hand briefly to his lips. “May I say you cast all other women in the shade?”

  “You may say anything you like, if you’ll only sit down. If that soup’s cold, you may lose Mrs. Becksnaff and—must I say it?—Becksnaff himself. And how we are to get on without him I cannot think! How do you manage without a butler, Mrs. Grenshaw?”

  Lillian, across from Nora, the numbers being uneven, all but choked on her first spoonful of soup. This was carrying war into the enemy camp, indeed! A glimmer of what might have been glee flared in Nora’s eyes. Lillian realized that if this was war, there might well be an unsuspected ally on the other side.

  At the far end of the table from Thorpe, Mr. Grenshaw seemed to be pursuing the same subject he’d mentioned in the private salon. “And the first returns should be... well, it’s not too much I think to say that they’ll be astronomical. Astronomical!”

  “Most interesting, sir.”

  “I told Brunswick you’d be interested. Now, as he told me, his friend at the Admiralty—”

  “Perhaps, sir, we might continue this discussion after dinner. I know the ladies will hardly enjoy themselves if we two monopolize the conversation with business.” Thorpe drank as though putting period to the effusions of Mr. Grenshaw. He then said, “It’s a pity, Miss Ellis....”

  Lillian saw Nora startle. Slowly, as though afraid of what she might see, Nora turned to face Thorpe. To Lillian’s lasting surprise, Thorpe’s spell seemed to fail. If anything, Nora looked more terrified than before. “I—I—”

  Thorpe smiled gently. “It’s a pity, Miss Ellis, that you did not arrive yesterday, as today we all explored our ruined castle. Are you interested in such matters?”

  “I—I—no, not very.”

  Mr. Grenshaw guffawed. “Nonsense, nonsense. Weren’t you in raptures over that old pile of stones in Brindley? ‘Course you were. The old castle’s much finer than that.”

  The servants came to take away the soup, leaving in its place the covered platters that hid the rest of the meal. “May I help you to this lobster, Miss Ellis?” Lillian asked, as that dish was closest to her.

  ‘Thank you,” the girl whispered.

  “No, indeed,” Mrs. Grenshaw interjected sharply. With an ingratiating simper around the table, she continued, her voice pitched low, “You know shellfish makes you break into spots. Ask for some of the goose.”

  Lillian noticed that the goose was closest to Thorpe. She was already puzzling over the bizarre reaction Nora had to him. If lobsters made her come over spotty, it seemed strange she’d not yet fainted over Thorpe. Perhaps very delicate young ladies responded with terror to his virile power. Lillian was relieved to find that she herself was not so dainty as all that.

  “May I offer you some?” Thorpe said, carving the breast. “And what would please you, Miss Cole? Goose as well?” She nodded her acceptance and could not but be aware that his gaze lingered on her. She put up her hand, wanting to touch her hair, but years of proper training forbade it. Nevertheless, she knew her color had risen.

  “Have you ever noticed, sir,” Thorpe said to his former father-in-law, “that there is nothing more becoming to the ladies’ complexions than candlelight?”

  Lady Genevieve, between Lillian and Mr. Grenshaw, said sharply, “Some of us are past caring, eh, Mrs. Grenshaw?”

  That lady replied, “It certainly does wonders for Nora. Look at how her hair seems to shine so much more than it does already, which I’m sure is brighter than any other girl’s I’ve ever known, except for my poor darling Emily. Do you remember, Thorpe, how lovely she was the night of that ball you gave here in her honor? I don’t wonder at your falling in love at first sight. There were plenty that would have cut you out, if you’d given them a chance. I don’t know how many people have told me that Nora’s the spit of Emily.”

  “Yes, there’s a certain resemblance,” Thorpe said, when some answer seemed expected of him. Lillian saw, however, that he was far from pleased. But in another moment, he was again the charming host. She wondered if he ever longed to be rude.

  * * * *

  She found out, after dinner. The stilted conversation around the table seemed in retrospect to scintillate compared with that in the withdrawing room after the ladies had left the two gentlemen to their wine. Lillian, used to huge meals served in society more to display the wealth of the provider than to feed his guests, had eaten moderately.

  The same could not be said of Mrs. Grenshaw. She had once even grabbed at a plate as the servant came to remove it, trying to take a third helping. Entering the drawing room, she’d sat in a stuffy corner, as far from the open windows as she could get. Now, she began to doze, her head falling to her shoulder, knocking her turban, which was faded and several years out of the fashion, to one side.

  Though Lillian approached Nora, the girl did not seem to want to talk, showing a face so unhappy that Lillian retreated instinctively. She looked out instead onto the moonlit scene beyond the windows, the rolling hills beneath the silvery light resembling the waves of a painted ocean. Behind her, Lady Genevieve brought out an enormous embroidery hoop and began jerking her needle through the fabric with unnecessary force.

  When Thorpe and Mr. Grenshaw emerged, the latter strode over to his wife. Giving her a push, he said, “Ursula, you forget yourself.”

  Lillian could see most of the room reflected in the window. She knew when Thorpe came up behind her. In an undertone, he said, “I’m sorry, now, that you changed your mind.”

  “Changed my mind?”

  “Not to dine with us. Though few houses in England could offer such company. Have you ever heard such wit?”

  “Ce
rtainly it is rare to find so many people of like mind in a single room.” More seriously, Lillian said, “I have never seen a girl more beautiful than Miss Ellis, save one.”

  “Please,” he said, holding up his hand. “Don’t you praise her to me as well. I have heard little else for the last hour; but you know, you were there. I have eyes, but everyone keeps telling me she is beautiful. Except for my father-in-law who wishes to discourse on the beauty of bank notes. Finally, I was driven to the vulgarity of telling him I have seen enough.”

  Still gazing at the reflection of the room behind her, Lillian said softly, “Here he comes.” She saw Thorpe’s lips twist, but when he faced the rotund gentleman his customary smile was once more in place.

  “I find,” Mr. Grenshaw said importantly, “that I neglected to mention one other trifling circumstance in connection with that matter we were discussing just now.”

  “Sir, I have given my answer. No circumstance, especially a ‘trifling’ one, is likely to change my mind now.”

  “Come, Thorpe; you’re a reasonable fellow—”

  “Reasonable, yes. But I do not care to be taken for ‘light of mind.’ “ Lillian could not see Thorpe’s face, but it must have been fierce. Either that or something in this comment deflated Mr. Grenshaw as though Thorpe had popped him with a pin.

  “I—I’m sure I never thought so, my boy.”

  “No?” Thorpe answered, as if the matter were of no importance. “I can’t imagine where I heard it then.”

  Mrs. Grenshaw, watching all this with tense fascination, suddenly said, “Nora, play the pianoforte. Go on. You’ve been taking lessons for two years; now show us what you’ve learned. I know Thorpe will be happy to turn the pages for you.”

  Nora revolved like an automaton, seated herself at the rosewood and gilt instrument, and began to play. Lillian herself had been called an accomplished pianist, and had heard many splendid performers, both amateur and professional. But a player who performed to perfection technically yet displayed absolutely no interest in either the music or the audience was new in her experience. There were no wrong notes, yet the music did not please. They might as well be listening to some machine that played only through being driven by puffs from a steam engine.