The Magnificent Masquerade (18 page)

"Ali! Then I have your permission, ma'am,
to proceed?" he asked with a derisive bow.

She gave an answering curtsey. "Yes, my
lord, do go on."

"Very well, but this is serious, my girl.
Naismith is obviously very annoyed with you, and I can well understand it. I
know that you'll say that this afternoon's incident was not your fault, but
evidently there have been others that were. I myself was a party to two of
them. I'm afraid, Emily Pratt, that you have a way about you that is not
appropriate for your position. You've been here only a few days, but already
you've come to my notice more than the housemaids I've employed here for years.
I've indulged you thus far because you're clever and quick, but Naismith has
made me see that I may have encouraged you in your propensity for
insubordination. If you are to remain employed in this household, I suggest
that you try for a bit more docility."

She lowered her head and stared at her shoes
like a chastised child. "Yes, my lord," she said with all the
docility she could muster.

"Mmm," he mused, staring at her
suspiciously. Everything about her at this moment-her stance, her lowered eyes,
the chastened tone of her voice-bespoke obedience, but there still remained
about her an aura of an untameable spirit. Docility was just not in her nature.
"Oh, bother!" he muttered under his breath. How had he become
embroiled in this business anyway? "All right then, Emily, run along. Just
remember that if Naismith has any more difficulty with you, I won't have any
choice but to-"

"I know," she said, making a little
moue. "Drop me down the coal chute with the rats." She gave him
another quick curtsey. "Good day, my lord."

He watched her hurry off down the hall, the
red-gold braid flapping against her back. She seemed to him to be an utterly
delicious, charming creature, and he hated having had to take an avuncular tone
with her. He was struck with an overwhelming desire to say something to her to
soften the severity of the scolding he'd just delivered. "Emily," he
called, striding after her, "one thing more."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Don't be too upset about the footman
pinching you. It's just that you're too delectable." He grinned down at
her with what he hoped was an air of paternal fondness. "If I were the footman,
I might very well have pinched you, too."

"If you had done the pinching, my
lord," she said, the saucy gleam returning to her eyes, "I might
never have felt the urge to slap." And with a last laughing glint from her
eyes, she scampered off.

He turned toward his office, smiling at the
presumptuous daring of the girl. "The deuced little chit was flirting with
me," he said to himself as he walked down the hall. "What a little
vixen!"

It was too bad he hadn't met her at another
time in another place. If he'd been younger ... if she'd been a duchess ... He
sighed. Life was only rarely structured as a man would like. If the world were
a proper place, this little maidservant would have been born a duchess. She was
perfect for the role. In fact, in a more logical world, she would have been
Birkinshaw's `wild, trouble-making minx' of a daughter, and the daughter would
have been the abigail. The little maidservant fit Birkinshaw's description much
more closely than her mistress. One could much more easily imagine her stealing
her mother's emerald brooch or riding her father's stallion across Hyde Park
than the quiet girl whose spirit only seemed to come alive at the piano. If
anyone was a wild, trouble-making minx it was…

Greg Edgerton stopped in his tracks as the
truth burst on him like a lightning bolt. Of course! It would explain every
inconsistency! Everything about Miss Jessup that had been troubling him, and
everything about the saucy little abigail that was incongruous, could be made
logical by a very simple adjustment: one needed only to switch their
identities. If Emily Pratt was really the Birkinshaw chit, and the quiet Miss
Jessup was really Emily Pratt, then everything that had been happening since
they arrived would make more sense. That was it, of course! He didn't know why
the minx had done it, but he suddenly knew, as surely as he knew his own name,
that the abigail was Kitty Jessup! The mischief-making minx and her abigail had
traded places!

Chapter
Seventeen

Greg Edgerton had been fatherless since the age
of fourteen and had, by this time, become accustomed to taking charge of all
matters in his household. When decisions had to be made, everyone in the family
deferred to him. When something was amiss, it was left to Greg to set to
rights; when something was confused, it was left to Greg to straighten out.
Setting things to rights and straightening things out had become a habit with
him. Therefore his first reaction to the confusion of the Jessup affair was
that it was up to him to set the matter straight. But a second reaction quickly
followed. Why not let Toby straighten out this coil himself? He thought. It was
just the sort of prank Toby might have devised if he'd been in the girl's
place. Toby would undoubtedly take devilish delight in setting the matter to
rights. Greg had no doubt that Toby would be greatly relieved to learn that his
betrothed was indeed the wild-spirited girl she was reputed to be. And in the
process of setting matters to rights, Toby and his bride-to-be would develop a
bit of intimacy that would scarcely have been possible if they'd met in the
ordinary way. Developing a feeling of intimacy with that roguish little imp
would be a most delightful experience for his brother. Greg almost envied him.
Dash it all, he thought, I do envy him!

Perhaps it was this feeling of envy that caused
Greg to hesitate. Although he didn't know why, he found himself unwilling to
reveal the truth to his brother just yet. Before he embarked on this course of
action, he needed to give the matter some additional thought. For one thing, he
was peculiarly reluctant to give the girl away. He was enjoying the feeling of
being the only one in the household (besides the false Miss Jessup and the true
one) to know the truth. And for another thing, he wasn't certain why Miss
Jessup had embarked on this deception. He would certainly like to know what her
intention was. Perhaps it would be wise to defer any action until he discovered
just what her motive was. No, he concluded, I won't tell Toby just yet.

The most obvious motive for Kitty Jessup's
masquerade, he reasoned, was that she wanted to look Toby over carefully before
committing herself to the betrothal. If that was her reason, perhaps he should
give her that opportunity. The chit had gone to a great deal of trouble to
contrive this scheme. Why not watch and wait ... and see how it would turn out?
If in the end she decided she liked Toby well enough to submit to the
betrothal, Greg couldn't help wondering how the minx would go about revealing
her true identity. And conversely, what would she do to extricate herself from
this coil if she decided that she disliked him? Greg found himself greatly
fascinated by the possibilities, and he decided that he would not cheat himself
of this delicious opportunity to watch the developments from the vantage point
of his new awareness.

The next couple of days proved disappointing to
him. He saw nothing of the real Kitty at all. Naismith was evidently keeping a
close watch on the girl and occupying her with so many tasks belowstairs that
she had few opportunities to show her face in those areas of the manor where
Greg might come upon her. For the first time in the two decades that Naismith
had been in the family's employ, Greg found himself wondering if the butler
might be too severe with his staff. If he didn't catch a glimpse of the
mischievous abigail soon, he'd be forced to ask Naismith the whereabouts of the
dungeon in which he was hiding her.

Meanwhile, however, other household matters
were beginning to come to Greg's notice. One was that his sister was leaving
her bed and coming downstairs with surprising frequency. During these
appearances, Alicia's conversation was remarkable for its lack of complaints
and its diminishing reliance on descriptions of symptoms. At tea, especially
when Dr.Randolph was present, it struck Greg that his sister was looking almost
pretty!

A second matter that caught Greg's attention
was his brother's attitude toward Miss Jessup-the false Miss Jessup, as Greg
now thought of her. Though Toby still teased the girl unmercifully, his taunts
were far less cruel than they'd been at first. In fact, they often seemed to
Greg to be more flirtatious than unkind, but the girl didn't seem to find them
so, for she often paled and turned tearful when he twitted her. Greg was sorry
to see her so upset. She was a lovely creature who didn't deserve to be made
unhappy.

The sham Miss Jessup was evidently exerting a
beneficial effect on all of them. Alicia hinted that it was Miss Jessup who'd
instigated the change in her "condition," Mama was charmingly
animated in her company, and Toby seemed to be much less bored by being at home
than was usual for him. In addition, the girl's evening performances on the
piano were a rare treat for them all. Even Toby began to sit still for them and
to watch her with astonishing attention. Greg couldn't help wondering where the
real Miss Jessup had found her and how she'd convinced so upright a young lady
to participate in this deception.

Emily, having no idea that Lord Edgerton was observing
her with new eyes, was conscious only of her increasing discomfort whenever
Toby was present. Every time he came into a room in which she sat, she felt
herself tremble. If he said something to her unexpectedly, she jumped. She
didn't know why he had so devastating an effect on her. A little scene that had
occurred the previous afternoon was typical: Toby had been bound indoors by
rain for the third day in a row and, having discovered her sitting on the
window seat in the Blue Saloon staring mournfully out at the leaden sky, had
asked her (in a tone she interpreted as bored desperation) to play a game of
skittles with him. "It will help pass away a few hours," he said,
shrugging.

Emily was not flattered by the implication that
he was seeking her companionship as a last resort. "Isn't that a child's
game?" she asked in her most superior manner, intending to give him a
proper set-down. "One would think that at your advanced age you'd have
outgrown your interest in it."

"Yes, one would, wouldn't one?" he replied
lightly, ignoring the insult and fondly tweaking a curl of her hair. "But
you know I'm just a boy at heart."

"Yes, that's quite true." She brushed
his hand away. "A boy of not more than twelve."

"If I were a boy of twelve, you'd not
refuse me, would you? I'd go bail you're the sort who's invariably kind to dumb
animals and helpless children."

"You sir, are far from helpless, even if
your mental age is no more than twelve." She rose regally. "But,
since I am a kind sort, I'll agree to play skittles with you for a bit."
Chuckling triumphantly, he led her to a large billiard room in the west wing of
the house. The room, which had been Toby's playroom in his childhood, was now
rarely used. Emily had never seen it before. She stopped in the doorway and looked
about her with interest. There was a billiard table in the far comer, a huge
toy chest under the windows, and a structure of climbing bars and ropes against
the wall to the right of the doorway where she stood. But what caught her eye
at once was a rocking horse standing in lonely splendor in a dark corner. Never
in her life had she seen so beautiful a plaything.

While Toby went promptly to the toy chest to
remove the nine pins and wooden balls that the game of skittles required, Emily
crossed the room to the rocking horse and gazed at it admiringly. It had
evidently been carved by a true artist, for everything from the flare of the
nostrils to the arch of the braided tail had been shaped with loving care. Even
the colors of the paint-the dark red of the horse's coat, the rich black of the
mane, and the blues. greens, and gilts of his saddle and appurtenances- managed
to exude a magical glow despite the fading caused by the dust of years.
"Oh!" Emily breathed. "How lovely he is!"

"Lovely?" Toby, kneeling on the floor
near the windows where he was setting up the nine pins for the game, looked up
in surprise. "It's only my old rocking horse. One would think you'd never
seen one before."

"Not one as beautiful as this."

He got up and went to her side. "Good God,
girl, you look positively wistful. Do you want to ride him?" She smiled
and shook her head. "No, of course not. I was only thinking how much my
little ... that is, how the little girls of Miss Marchmont's lower school would
love a play thing like this."

"Then let's send it to them. I'll have
Naismith see to it." Emily gasped. "Oh, no! I didn't mean-! I
couldn't let you give it away. You should keep it for your own children ... the
ones you'll have some day."

He grinned down at her. "You mean our
children, don't you?"

She felt her heart give a sudden thump. "I
don't mean anything of the sort," she answered, turning a deep red.

His smile broadened as he took her arm to lead
her to the skittle alley he'd set up. "Don't trouble yourself about it, my
dear. I'll send the horse to your Miss Marchmont, and when we have our first
child, I'll have a new rocking horse made so magnificent that it will put this
one to shame."

"I wish you would stop talking
fustian," she murmured, putting a hand to her burning cheek.

It was not until after she'd beaten him soundly
at skittles that the color in her face returned to its normal pink. Later, when
she learned from the butler that the horse had been sent to the Marchmont
Academy that very afternoon, she was almost moved to tears. And, as additional
evidence of Toby's devastating effect on her, the recollection of his words,
“when we have our first child," kept echoing in her ears through half that
night.