Regency Masquerade (8 page)

When
he reached his room he looked around for Fanshaw before remembering he had told
him not to wait up.  Oh well, surely he could manage to take off his own boots
for once. He undressed with careful concentration, not that he was by any means
drunk by Jove, no, just a little tired.  The faint glow from the fire showed
the curtains still open around the bed and – he froze.  There was a girl’s face
on the pillow, a girl actually sleeping in his bed!

 His
mind confused by the claret, he didn’t stop to think who it could be or how she
had got there.  There was only one reason a woman would be in his bed and his
first reaction was to throw her out.  Before he had even moved however, he had
second thoughts.  Why not take advantage of what was offered for once?  It had
been so long since he had slept with a woman.  Casting caution to the winds he
leant across the bed and kissed the soft lips.

Startled
grey eyes opened and the mouth was wrenched away from his.  A strong hand thrust
him back and a voice cried “
No! My lord
!” in a shocked, fierce,
horrifyingly familiar tone.

In
a flash, Carleton was standing back from the bed, his face white with shock.
“Oh God! I’m sorry – I didn’t – I thought – Oh my God!” he repeated, gathered
his clothes up in one arm and fled.

Frances
stared after him, her heart thudding like a hammer.  What in the name of heaven
had he been thinking?  He’d looked devastated at her reaction, but how could he
seriously believe she would just fall in to his arms?  It took a while for her
jangled brain to realise Carleton had not been horrified because he thought he
had kissed a woman, he thought he had just kissed Peter Francis.

The
disaster ran round and round in her mind like a mouse in a cage, trying to find
a way out. For a brief moment she considered packing her bags and climbing out
the window, but that smacked of bad melodrama.  On a more practical note, her
boots and breeches were still in the care of Fanshaw, she would have to leave
in the morning.  Could she pretend she did not remember what had happened? She
fell into an uneasy sleep.  Morning came eventually but no further solution had
occurred to her by the time she had packed her bags and made her way down to
the breakfast room.  To her great relief it was empty. Her stomach was
churning, and she helped herself to coffee, unable to face the thought of
food.  What could she say to him?

Carleton
came in.  Frances went bright red and could not meet his eyes. “I’m sorry!” she
exclaimed, “I’ll go straight away.”

“I
suppose that’s the only thing to do,” Carleton replied, his voice harsh with
strain.  He cleared his throat and continued jerkily. “Will you believe me when
I say I did not know it was you?  I had forgotten we’d changed rooms and when I
saw you ... I thought -” he stopped. He could hardly say he’d thought Peter was
a girl! “God knows
what
I thought, but I didn’t think it was you,
Peter!”

“I
know,” the words came out in a whisper.

“My
God, if I was another type of man I could laugh about this and pretend it was
all a jest in poor taste!”  He paused again. “You won’t – won’t speak of this
to anyone?”

“Never!” 
Frances cried, looking at him for the first time.  His appearance shocked her. 
Dark circles under his eyes proved hours of sleepless worry and the tension in
every line of his body showed the rigid control he was now exerting on
himself.  His face was white and drawn, and when she met his eyes she saw
agonised shame, and what really shocked her, a touch of fear.

Carleton
had not slept for self disgust. It had been a frighteningly short time before
the horrifying thought had slid into his mind that perhaps he
had
known
it was Peter, perhaps there was a terrible reason why he had no wife or even a
mistress.  What would he have done if Peter had kissed him back?

The
fear lurking in Carleton’s face brought Frances up short, even though she did
not fully understand it.

She
shook her head decisively, “No, it is not fair! You don’t deserve this.”

Carlton
stared at her, not daring to even imagine what she was leading up to.

“Richard,
this will be a shock, but not as great a one as you have had already,” she
tried to smile and failed.  “I must tell you the truth about myself, I have
been deceiving you.” She took a deep breath. “I am a woman, not a man.” 

Carleton
looked at her in disbelief.

“My
name is not really Peter but Frances, with an “e”.  All that I told you about
myself is true except for that.  I disguised myself as a man for my own safety,
so I can travel freely and earn my living,” she explained carefully, still
looking at him.  “For most of my life, even when I lived with my father, I was
dressed as a boy more often than a girl.”

Unconvinced,
Carleton shook his head, “I just can’t believe it.”

“I
know it is difficult in these clothes,” Frances agreed.  “I’ll go upstairs and
change into a dress, if you will give me ten minutes then come up to my room?”

Carleton
looked at her speechlessly, then nodded.  As she left the room, he walked over
to the window in a daze.  What on earth had he let himself in for?  Peter (he
still thought of him that way) had admitted to him he was an adventurer.  Was
this some kind of horrible trap to extort money from him?  He did not want to
believe it, but had everything been an act?  No it was I who kissed him, he
reminded himself, still hardly able to bear the thought.  Had ten minutes
passed yet?

 He
had to go and see for himself, find out the truth about his sex at least,
before he could even start to make any sense of the rest of it.

Frances
raced upstairs, thinking only of how she must wipe that terrible look from
Richard’s face.  Her fingers were trembling so much she could barely manage to
unlock her bag.  Eventually she got it open and scrambled hastily into her
green gown.  She slipped on the brown wig and dusted a little powder on her
face, then stepped into her white slippers as a knock came at the door.

“
’Tis me, Carleton.”  He wondered fearfully what he would find when Peter opened
the door.  He heard the key being turned in the lock and then stepped
cautiously into the room.

He
could scarcely believe his eyes. A young woman stood before him.  Peter, no
“Frances” had gently rounded shoulders, unmistakable breasts and a neat waist. 
Her face looked different too, softer under the curled wig.  Needing further
reassurance he reached out to touch her.  Gently he ran his fingertips down her
soft cheek, then down the side of her throat then down to cup her breast with
his hand.  He could feel it round, heavy and warm through the flimsy material
and realised that at least was true, this was definitely a woman!  He looked at
her again and stepped closer.

Frances
had just realised, rather belatedly, that perhaps her bedroom was not the most
sensible place she could have chosen to prove she was a woman.  She spoke
quickly, putting up a hand to hold him off.  “I realise this must be very
confusing for you my lord.  Will you please leave now, and let me change back
to Peter?  I will come downstairs and talk to you in a few minutes, I promise.”

Carleton
stared down at her, grappling with his feelings, uncertain as to whether he
wanted to hit her or kiss her, or may be both!  It was painfully obvious what
sort of woman she must be, to live that kind of life. 

Made
uneasy by his continued silence, Frances spoke again, “Let me go, please.” Deliberately,
she raised her chin and squared her shoulders like Peter Francis.  “The answer
is still “no” my lord.”

Carleton
flinched and stepped back. “I have no idea whether I am coming or going,” he
admitted slowly, “My head is still spinning, I need some time to think.” 

“Unless
you would prefer to be alone, could I suggest we go riding?” 

“That
sounds the safest idea under the circumstances.  I’ll send word to the stables.” 
He turned on his heel and walked out quickly, shutting the door firmly behind
him.  He leant against it for a second, fighting a mad desire to rush back in
and – too late.  He heard the key turn in the lock.  It was probably for the
best, he was scarcely thinking clearly at the moment.  Her voice came to him
through the door as if she knew he was still there. “Just don’t forget I’m a
man my lord, for Heaven’s sake do not order me a side saddle!” 

Half
an hour later, two horses were saddled and waiting down in front of the stables
and Carleton was growing anxious.  She was coming wasn’t she?  Or had the
suggestion been a ruse so she could quietly leave?  The thought that she might
have gone was like a blow to the stomach.  As he was about to send someone to
find out, Frances came hurrying into the yard.  She was dressed as Peter
Francis in rather faded but clean riding breeches and boots, her stride long
and crisp.

“My
apologies for keeping you waiting my lord, I overslept,” she cried gaily.  “Oh
what beautiful animals! Which one may I ride?”  The groomsman led forward a
beautiful roan gelding with a proud head and liquid amber eyes.  They all
talked horses for a while, though Frances admitted freely she did not know as
much as the other two men. 

Carleton
had a big black stallion which was snorting impatiently to be off.  “Right my
beauty? Let’s go then.”  The black danced for a minute as he got him under
control and they trotted out of the yard at a brisk pace.  Frances rode well,
if not superbly, but he found he couldn’t take his eyes off her.  Now that he
knew she was a woman he wondered how he could have been so blind before.  While
they had been in the stable yard he had been in an agony of trepidation that
the groom would recognise her for what she was.  Certainly the flattened chest and
squared shoulders were a powerful aid, but it was also the way she moved and
the care she took with her mannerisms.  People saw what they expected to see.

He
felt as if his head was split in two.  Half of it saw the young man whose company
he enjoyed and whose skills he admired and the other half saw a young woman
with smooth skin, an enchanting smile and beautiful eyes.  He realised that
those same eyes were smiling quizzically at him now “Shall we gallop?” she
called.

For
answer he dug his heels into Diabolo’s sides and they flew off, hooves pounding
on the turf.  Frances followed on her roan but they could not match the pace of
the other two and soon fell behind.  His lordship obviously knew his grounds
better than she did, and she was content to follow, enjoying the speed and feel
of powerful muscles beneath her.  Eventually the pair ahead drew up and she
brought her horse to a stop beside them.

“That
was wonderful,” she cried breathlessly.  They moved on at a walking pace to
cool the horses.  For a moment neither spoke, each busy with their own
thoughts.  Frances broke the silence, her eyes straight ahead.

“Before
I go, I owe you an explanation.  What I tell you will be the truth, but of
course it is up to you to decide if you believe me or not.”  She looked at him
then but he merely nodded for her to continue.  “As I told you, my name is
Frances, but I know of no other.  My father indeed had so many names over the
years I could scarce keep track of them.  I think he was of gentle birth for he
always knew how to go on in polite company and I know he went to school here at
Eton, but there was no money and we always lived off the cards.”  She paused to
reach forward and pat her horse’s neck.

“My
mother died when I was a small child and even before that I think we moved
around a lot.  Often it was easier for me to be a boy, for my own protection as
much as anything, and I learned how to shoot and fence and ride, but I don’t
have many feminine accomplishments – apart from French and Italian of course. 
Do not misunderstand me, it was a wonderful life and I have no regrets,” she
added with a touch of defiance.  Carleton looked as if he would protest this,
but he thought better of it and motioned for her to continue.

“As
I told you, my father died a few months ago and it was at his request that I
came to London, to follow up a name he had given me, someone who might be of
assistance to me.  I
had
planned to lay low until I could find this
person, I did not intend to get caught up in
your
affairs at all my
lord, but then I did and I must admit it was very exciting,” she smiled
tentatively at him. “And then, as you know, the Comte Duverne struck down my
servant and is hot after my blood so I took refuge here with you, intending to
do no more than be a companion to you as Peter Francis until I could plan my
next move.”  She shrugged her shoulders, “The best laid plans eh? I will not
trouble you any further, I will go as soon as we get back to the house.”

Carleton
surprised both of them then by leaning forward to catch the roan’s bridle. 

“I
will not let you go,” he said rather fiercely.  Both horses had stopped and he
kept his grip on the reins so that their legs were nearly touching.

Frances
looked at him levelly.  “What do you mean, my lord?  Whatever you may think of
my behaviour, I am not a whore.”  He flinched at this and she continued.  “’Tis
true I am a gamester and an adventuress if you like, but I have been no man’s
mistress, ever!” A spot of scarlet burned in each cheek as she said this.  “I
know the world would say I might as well be for coming here with you
unchaperoned, but most people would have damned me long ago for the life I have
led. But they would be wrong!”  Carleton felt more than a little shocked by
this plain speaking, especially when he realised he had been thinking those
very things himself.