Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Read online

  Then another nasty thought struck her. What had happened to her shrewd business brain? Lady Emma was a married woman. She brought her courtesy title from her family, but her surname would be her husband's. Whoever he was, she must outrank him, or she would have been addressed by his title, not hers. Had Lady Emma Earlsdaughter married a mere Mister Brown? If so, he must have wealth and power. Daughters of earls were not permitted to marry where they pleased.

  If her husband had wealth and power, he might well have strong ideas about honour. That type of man would not take kindly to being betrayed by his wife. He certainly wouldn't be happy to find himself playing second fiddle to the greatest rake in London.

  She was getting in deeper than she could possibly deal with and—

  Uh-oh. Too late. The maid was holding a door open for Emma to pass through.

  Emma was in over her head now and, heaven help her, she was just going to have to muddle through as best she could.

  She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and walked into the room, remembering to take small dainty steps and to plant an aristocratic half-smile on her lips. She was an earl's daughter, at the very least. She had to behave like one, even though she wasn't really sure how an earl's daughter should behave. When in doubt, she would say nothing, but smile knowingly.

  "Ah, Lady Emma. How delightful." A middle-aged lady with an overflowing bosom was making for Emma with both hands outstretched. She was smiling broadly but the look in her eyes was more calculating than friendly.

  Emma was instantly on her guard and schooled her features into a slightly wider smile.

  The older lady took Emma's right hand in both of her own and shook it warmly. "Such a long time since we last saw you, my dear. When I heard that you were attending this soirée after all, I just had to see you and tell you how much we had missed you here in London. When did you arrive? I collect it was in the last few days? I saw no mention of your name in any of the newspapers."

  Adrenaline kick-started Emma's brain. Her response came instantly. "I arrived only very recently and have barely had time to set things to rights. But it is most kind of you, ma'am, to trouble yourself so over me. I declare I do not deserve such a courtesy." Goodness, not only glib, but haughty and high-falutin' as well. Where had all those tongue-twisting phrases appeared from? And that cut-glass accent? Her subconscious was working miracles, it seemed. It had even known, somehow, that she should address the older lady as "ma'am" and so avoid having to use a name. This might be the Lady Mumford who had summoned Emma, but if she were not, it would be a terrible faux pas to call her by the wrong name.

  Emma decided to do a bit of a bulldozer act, to keep the initiative in her own hands. "It is delightful to see you again, ma'am. Tell me, how do you go on?"

  The lady rambled on for some minutes, about the parties and balls she had attended – all of them "such a dreadful squeeze, my dear" – and the problems of servants in London where there were far too many distractions, often involving drink and gambling. "One sends one's footman out to deliver a note and it may be hours, hours, before he returns to his duties. With some sort of lame excuse about losing his way, or having to wait to deliver the note. I said to Mumford only yesterday—"

  Yes. One up to me. She is Lady Mumford.

  "—only yesterday that I was almost certain I could smell alcohol on the footman's breath."

  "Indeed? How trying that must have been, Lady Mumford. Did you dismiss him?"

  "Ah, now, I know what a stickler you are, Lady Emma, and I am sure you would have done so, on the spot. However, Mumford is, er, very particular about his footmen and I did not feel…" Her voice trailed off and she looked at her feet. She was actually blushing, too. Emma began to suspect that Mumford's interest in footmen – handsome well-muscled footmen, perhaps? – was very particular indeed.

  "I quite understand," Emma said hastily.

  And I'm a high stickler, am I? Interesting.

  "It might have been a single lapse," she went on smoothly. "And it is so very difficult to recruit new staff in London at the height of the season, is it not? I collect you gave him a stern set-down?"

  "I, er, yes, of course. He can be in no doubt that he risks his place if he transgresses again." Lady Mumford's smile was tinged with uncertainty.

  Time to change the subject, Emma decided. It would not do to press too hard. Lady Mumford might be desperate enough to start asking awkward questions about Emma. "Is your husband with you this evening, ma'am?" That was safe enough. There were no men in the room, only a handful of ladies standing by a piano with their heads close together. No doubt exchanging scandal.

  What if it was scandal about Emma? She wouldn't know whether it was true or not.

  "He did say he might look in but I have not seen him. If he is here, he will be in the card room, I imagine." Lady Mumford's smile faltered. "They do play very high here," she added. "Not that it would be anything to you."

  So I'm rich, as well. Is that my money, or my husband's?

  "I find I have lost the taste for high play," Emma said solemnly. Let her ladyship make what she could of that. Emma did not know how to play, so she would stay well away from the tables. Unless her wily subconscious could dredge up Regency gambling skills as easily as that cut-glass accent?

  Lady Mumford was suddenly looking decidedly glum. Because of Emma's comment about high play? Were the Mumfords in debt, perhaps?

  In an attempt to humour the woman, Emma said kindly, "Shall we join the other ladies?" She gestured towards the piano. "They look to be having a most interesting discussion, do they not?"

  "Scandal, Lady Emma. Scandal. They cannot get enough of the on dits. Indiscretions. Crim Cons." She shook her head. "I dare swear that young women today are not above boasting about the number and quality of their own lovers."

  Emma threw Lady Mumford a conspiratorial smile and started across the room. Lady Mumford had no choice but to follow.

  "And now he has—" The lady in maroon silk stopped in mid-sentence. "Oh. Lady Emma. How delightful that you could join us."

  Emma nodded graciously. She prayed that someone would give her a name.

  "I think you know everyone, do you not?"

  Emma nodded again, rather vaguely. What else could she do? She was clearly going to get no help with her hunt for names.

  The lady in maroon seemed to have decided it was safe to continue her gossipy tale. "I was just telling our friends here, Lady Emma, the latest on dit about Captain Will. Will Allmay, you know?" Emma must have looked blank. The maroon lady hurried to explain. "Oh, yes. You have been out of town for so long, haven't you? When Captain Will was first on the town after his return from the wars, he had the reputation for being the most fearful rake. No lady was safe from him."

  "No lady wanted to be safe from him," put in a saucy young matron in pale blue. Two others laughed. The maroon lady blushed rosily.

  Emma, the woman who had once believed fervently in faithful monogamy, found herself shocked. Another one. Was the whole of London full of rakes and adulterous wives? However all information could be useful, so she listened carefully and stored it all away. A Captain? A naval captain would be older and richer than an army man. On the other hand, an army captain might be young enough, and fit enough, to be the inexhaustible lover the ladies were describing. Army, then. Probably. And fairly recently sold out.

  The ladies seemed to be expecting a reaction from Emma. She swallowed. "I hope he has not been indiscreet," she ventured. "A gentleman, after all…"

  The pale blue lady took up the story again. "Whatever else they say about Will Allmay, no one has ever accused him of being indiscreet. His liaisons do not last more than a week or two, to be sure, but he always remains on the best of terms with his, er, lady friends. And he never, ever gossips. The ladies, on the other hand… Well, some do like to recount their exploits to a few select friends. He does seem to have rather, er, inventive ideas. And the stories are exaggerated, too, I do not doubt."

  T
he maroon lady drew in a deep breath. Her bosom was almost bursting out of her low-cut bodice. "Exaggerated? Yes, indeed. I cannot for a moment believe that he is quite as much of an expert in…in intimate matters as some of his conquests have suggested."

  She wishes she'd been one of his conquests, Emma realised. Poor Captain Allmay. All these ladies are after him, in one way or another.

  The pale blue lady bent forward and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, "Have you heard what they call him now? His friends in the clubs, I mean?"

  All the heads shook as one. Two of the ladies leaned in more closely.

  "Will May All!" The pale blue lady giggled. "They are envious of his, er, prowess, I suppose." She was blushing a little. "We ladies, naturally, would know nothing of such things."

  "No, indeed," agreed the maroon lady, nodding vigorously.

  Emma noticed that the other ladies said nothing. Some looked more than a little knowing. Had the notorious Captain bedded them all?

  The pale blue lady suddenly straightened and blushed scarlet. She was looking past Emma's shoulder. With an expression of horror in her eyes.

  Emma felt a tiny touch on her arm, between her long evening glove and the puff sleeve of her dress. Her insides went up in flames. Instantly. For a split second, she fancied she could smell the sea. She did not need to turn to know who was there. She could only pray she was not blushing.

  "Why, Lady Emma," said that well-remembered voice. "How delightful to see you in Town again at last. I hope I find you well?"

  She turned. He was wearing immaculate black evening dress, its stark simplicity leavened only by a curious gold pin in the folds of his snowy cravat. He looked magnificent. Emma swallowed hard. She dipped her head and dropped a small curtsey but she did not offer her hand. She did not dare risk another touch, even through her kid glove.

  The maroon lady gushed forward and seized his hand before he could finish bowing to Emma. "Good evening, sir. How kind of you to join us. We were only this moment speaking of— That is, we were saying…um…that Lady Emma is blooming and we are so pleased that she is returned to London society. No doubt you would agree, Captain? Oh." She clapped a gloved hand to her mouth. "I beg your pardon. I was forgetting. It is Sir William now, is it not?"

  Sir William? Captain? Emma's heart sank to her flimsy evening slippers.

  She should have known. With her luck as a picker of men, it was bound to be him. And none of his liaisons lasted more than a week or two?

  A bubble of hysterical laughter gathered in her throat. She managed to swallow it, but only just. She kept her gaze fixed on the hem of her gown.

  Will May All? He certainly believes he May All with me.

  But I swore I would not allow another philandering bastard to control me. Never again.

  Chapter Five

  It took Emma long, heart-thumping minutes to extricate herself from the gossiping women. She had learned exactly what he was now: a naval captain, recently created a Knight Companion of the Bath for outstanding military service. For her own survival, she had to get away from him.

  Because she knew the kind of man he was.

  Also what he was not, she realised with sudden insight. He had greeted her as an acquaintance, when he arrived in the music room. So – not her husband.

  Better?

  No, worse. For it made conventional Emma Stanley into an adulteress.

  With a final, and pretty lame, excuse, she made for the door and the succession of corridors leading back to the ladies' retiring room where she had first made her entrance. It seemed safest to assume that returning to her modern life, like making the transition from modern to Regency times, required her to go back to where she first came in. She had done that the previous time, via the dressing room. If absolutely everything had to be the same this time, though, including the ministering lady's maid, she could be in deep trouble. Would she have to rip her hem again, deliberately?

  I'll be Lady Emma the Accident-Prone instead of Lady Emma the Stickler.

  She found herself laughing out loud, but it was nothing to do with mirth: she was on the verge of hysteria. She was truly frightened. Frightened of where she was, frightened that it might not be a dream after all, frightened that she might never wake up. What if she were trapped here in this alien world? What if—?

  What-ifs get you nowhere, Emma Stanley. Go back to the retiring room, go behind the screen and start taking the gown off. That should do it. And if it doesn't, you can cross that bridge when you come to it.

  She turned more corners. This was the way the maid had brought her, wasn't it?

  No. She hadn't been down this corridor before. She was lost.

  Emma swallowed hard, trying to keep herself from shaking. She mustn't lose her head. She had to think.

  There had to be someone around, a servant, or another guest, who could direct her to the ladies' retiring room. She just had to find someone. Anyone at all would do.

  She looked around and behind her. The corridor was totally empty. Fine. She would find another corridor, other rooms, other places. There must be people in this great barn of a house.

  She hurried on. Round another corner and another. It seemed to be a maze. But finally she thought she recognised a huge oriental vase on a carved wooden stand. Yes. She had seen that before. There couldn't be two as ugly as that, surely? It had been quite near the entrance to the retiring room. Round this next corner, perhaps?

  At that moment, the door opposite the oriental monstrosity opened. She heard the murmur of voices from the gloom beyond. Then a single word, quiet but incisive. "Emma."

  His voice.

  An arm snaked out and grabbed her hand before she could make a dash for safety. "Emma, is something wrong? Why did you run from me? Why do you keep disappearing?"

  There was no answer to that. Not one that he would believe, anyway. Desperate, she tugged her hand out of his grasp. Touching him was sheer torture.

  He allowed her to put a little distance between them. A sad smile quirked one corner of his mouth. "Anyone would think you were afraid of me," he said, in a voice that stroked her skin as gently as the caress of a flower petal.

  Emma's muscles were starting to melt. Any moment, she would collapse in a heap at his feet.

  His gaze was fixed on her face. "But that is not possible." His voice dropped even further until it was barely a rumble, deep in his chest. "Not after how we have been to each other. With each other."

  Emma forced herself back against the corridor wall. For support. "Do not say such things," she hissed at last. "Would you ruin me, sir?" She glanced to right and left, as if expecting one of the gossipy matrons to materialise and denounce her.

  He shook his head sadly. "I would do nothing to upset you in any way, Emma. You know that. You know how much I want you, how I…we…" He let his voice tail off. In that moment, something changed.

  He looked up and down the corridor. It was totally empty. Then he made sure that the door opposite the oriental vase was firmly closed. As he turned back to Emma, he dropped his hands to his sides, palms open and pleading.

  "Emma, my darling, you must help me. Please. I do not understand how you can make love to me at one moment, and flee the next. Is it something I have done? Tell me, my dear. I can't go on like this. This diabolical hide-and-seek of yours is like to drive me stark mad."

  He seemed to be telling the truth. There was a stricken look in his eyes. Mixed with something that could have been longing. But what on earth could she say to him?

  "I…I… Forgive me, but I cannot explain things now." She glanced down the corridor. Someone might appear at any moment. "Not here. I—"

  "Then let me take you somewhere else. Where we can be alone. And safe." He reached out to take her arm.

  She wriggled away from his questing hand. "No! Nowhere is safe here."

  He was frowning now. And he was clearly going to argue.

  "I will meet you," she said in desperation. "Early tomorrow. In the park."

&
nbsp; "Which park?" he bit out. "Or would you have me tour them all?"

  Which park? How should I know which park would be safe for a lovers' tryst? "Er… You choose. You are more practised than I in the art of dalliance, are you not?"

  That definitely hit home. She saw his eyes darken. He clearly did not like to be reminded of his reputation as a rake.

  "Not Hyde Park. Too many ex-soldiers out exercising their horses first thing. No. Green Park. By the milk maids. We can meet as if by chance."

  Emma nodded. She found she could not speak.

  "I shall wait for you there. Do not fail me. Have I your promise?"

  What choice did she have? "Green Park," she whispered. "Tomorrow. As early as I can." Then it was all too much. She fled round the corner. There, as she had hoped, was the door to the ladies' retiring room, her refuge from Will and, she fervently hoped, her passage to the modern world.

  The retiring room was empty. She closed the door firmly at her back. There was no key, but she would not have dared to lock it anyway, now that she knew the dangers of locking rooms from the inside. She scurried behind the screen before anyone else should come into the room.

  Please let it work, even without the ministering abigail. Please.

  Emma took a deep breath and started to remove the golden gown.

  ~ ~ ~

  The chiming of the church clock was balm to Emma's shredded nerves. She grabbed a chair and collapsed onto it, dropping her head into her hands with a groan.

  It's over. I'm back. I'm safe.

  She laid a hand on the tattered golden gown, safely spread across the research room table. It had not changed, or moved, not even a fraction.

  It's over. Thank goodness.

  But it wasn't over. She had made a promise to her lover. If she did not arrive at their rendezvous, what would Will do? He had said she was driving him mad. And he had certainly looked as if her disappearing acts were getting to him. He wouldn't do away with himself, would he?

  No, of course not. He's a rake. He may be temporarily infatuated with Lady Emma – me! – but he'll recover once he realises she's not coming back to him. He'll give up and find another lover. It's what rakes do.