The Madcap Masquerade (7 page)

Theo felt consumed with anger at the injustice of her accusation and the insult it implied. “I have already explained it was not my fault she was invited to this ball,” he said coldly. “Furthermore, for your information, there has never been a question of love between Sophie Whitcomb and me. We are friends, nothing more, as we have been since we played together as children.”

Miss Barrington’s eyes fairly blazed. “Which telling statement only proves you are even more callous than I had judged you to be. For no right-thinking man would subject a
friend
to the kind of scorn Mrs. Whitcomb must suffer at the hands of the so-called
proper
folk of the village—to say nothing of the position she will be in once you tire of her and withdraw your patronage.”

She raked him with a look of such loathing, it was all Theo could do to keep from cringing. “You, of course, will simply have enhanced your reputation as a charming rogue when you end the sordid affair. Men are never called to account for their actions in such matters.”

Theo stared at her. Stunned. Nothing in his background had prepared him to defend his treatment of his mistress to the woman he was pledged to marry—a woman who, by rights, should not even be aware of the existence of the
demimonde
.

The balance of the waltz was accomplished in uneasy silence. Like it or not, Miss Barrington had forced him to take a good look at what he had done to Sophie when he’d made her his mistress. Something he had never before considered. The picture was not a pretty one. Nor did it help that he could see the object of his betrothed’s concern standing alone in a far corner of the ballroom—a plump, purple pariah, shunned by the
proper
folk of the village.

The set finally came to an end and with Miss Barrington on his arm, he exited the dance floor. She was the first to break their long silence. “Well, that’s that then, my lord. I believe I have fulfilled my duty as far as this evening is concerned. If any of your guests should remark on my absence, you have my permission to tell them I retired with a headache.”

She pressed her slender, tapered fingers to her left temple, as if to prove her headache did, indeed, exist. “Since my father refuses to escort me home, I would appreciate the loan of one of your carriages.”

Theo dropped her arm and executed a courtly bow. “Your servant, ma’am,” he said and hailing a nearby footman, requested a carriage be brought around.

A full moon greeted him when he escorted Miss Barrington to her waiting conveyance. A “lovers’ moon” he’d often heard it called. The irony of the term as applied to him at the moment brought a bitter smile to his lips.

“Goodnight, my lord. It has been a most informative evening,” Miss Barrington said, and maneuvering the single step into his carriage without aid, settled herself on the seat facing forward. With a final curt nod in his direction, she tapped on the roof of the cab with her fan to signal the coachman she was ready to be driven home.

Long after the carriage had disappeared down the drive, Theo stood alone at the foot of the steps leading to the entrance to Ravenswood. “A most informative evening” his betrothed had called it shortly after she’d castigated him for his lack of concern for his mistress’s feelings and informed him that he was of no more consequence to her than the beetle she’d squashed beneath her heel in her rush to quit his presence.

And what had he done when the prickly little porcupine loosed her quills at him? Defended himself with all the brilliance and sophistication of a ten year old caught with his fingers in the jam jar, that’s what. But in all fairness, she had taken him unawares; proper young ladies did not normally concern themselves with the fate of their “fallen sisters.” He found himself wondering if, God forbid, he had allied himself with one of those radical Methodist ladies who devoted their energies to bringing sinners back into the fold.

Whatever her reasoning might be, he couldn’t remember ever having spent a more unusual or a more frustrating evening than the one just past, thanks to the puzzling woman he had chosen as his future wife. Until a few hours ago he had believed that, despite his precarious financial position, he was conferring a unique honor on the plain little nobody by offering her his name and the ancient title that went with it. Now he was not so certain.

Difficult as it was to comprehend, he was beginning to think this commonplace daughter of a humble country squire was not the least bit taken with the idea of becoming the next Countess of Lynley. Oddly enough, he found this more challenging than infuriating.

It was imperative that he secure the Barrington money for Ravenswood; since the heiress was apparently not interested in his title, he would simply have to educate her concerning the other advantages that marriage to him offered.

He smiled to himself. If the one kiss they had shared so far was any example, he would thoroughly enjoy his role of teacher.

The morning after the ball dawned gray and chilly—more like autumn than spring. With Maeve’s first glance out her chamber window, she decided the likelihood of rain was much too strong to risk a walk. Instead, she stretched beneath the covers, put her hands behind her head and gave serious thought to the disaster she’d made of Meg’s betrothal ball.

What had the squire instructed her to do to insure everyone would think she was Meg? “Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut.” Ten minutes into the wretched ball, she’d raised her eyes and looked at the earl, and nothing had gone right from that moment on.

But how could she have been so foolish as to expect she could successfully impersonate a woman whose personality was the exact opposite of her own?

She rolled onto her side, propped her head on her elbow and surveyed her twin’s tasteful bedchamber. Her gaze lighted on the shelf holding Meg’s collection of beautifully preserved, exquisitely dressed dolls. The only doll she’d ever owned had ended up in the dustbin, headless and sans one arm.

A tambour frame holding an intricately embroidered runner stood in one corner, an easel supporting a partially completed watercolor in another. She’d never sewn a stitch nor painted a picture. The room was filled with the accouterments one would expect a proper lady to collect. By some miracle, despite her vulgar surroundings, Meg had apparently emerged that lady.

Maeve knew for a fact there was not a ladylike bone in
her
body. She was a courtesan’s brat by birth, a bluestocking by nature—neither of which qualified her for any role but that of a sharp-tongued hoyden. A role she’d played to the hilt last evening.

There would surely be repercussions; even a pockets-to-let rake like the Earl of Lynley would have to be desperate to take such a woman to wife. Well so be it. She may have put a crimp in the squire’s plans—and probably her own—but chances were she’d solved Meg’s problem.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had been too keyed up to eat much dinner and had left the ball before supper was served. She doubted Mrs. Pinkert would be in the kitchen at this hour; neither she nor the squire appeared to be early risers. There was nothing for it but to cook her own breakfast—a thing she was accustomed to doing since she was an early riser and neither Lily nor Bridget ever rose before noon.

She washed her face and hands, dressed in a pretty yellow muslin morning dress from Meg’s hoard of bride clothes and found her way to the kitchen without encountering a soul. Apparently the two new maids were the same kind of slug-a-beds as the rest of the household.

Slicing three thick slices of bacon from a slab she found in the larder, she proceeded to cook herself a meal of bacon, toast and coddled eggs. She had just taken her first bite of the hearty repast when a sleepy Mrs. Pinkert opened the kitchen door.

“Lord luv us, Miss Meg, what are you doing in my kitchen?” she demanded. She stared at the heaping plate in front of Maeve, and her bleary eyes widened. “When did you learn to cook? And bacon of all things? Last time I made the mistake of serving you hog meat, you come near to casting up your accounts at the very sight of it.”

“I … I acquired a taste for it while in London,” Maeve stammered.

Mrs. Pinkert poured herself a cup of the tea Maeve had just set to steep and sat down at the table. “There’s something don’t smell right here—hasn’t since you and the squire come through the door yesterday evening.”

She studied Maeve with a jaundiced eye. “I didn’t come down in the last rain, you know. It’s enough to expect me to believe Miss Meg could change her way of eating and take up cooking in the past fortnight. I ain’t such a gapeseed I’ll swallow some tomfoolery about how she managed to change the color of her eyes as well.”

Maeve swallowed hard. “Her eyes?”

“Miss Meg’s is a soft, grayish kind of color with but a hint of green—not green as grass like what’s staring at me out of your face, Miss Whoever-You-Are. Though that ain’t hard to guess, seeing as how my mam was housekeeper here when the squire’s wife birthed her twins and the squire and her divided them up between them like they was a litter of his prize pups.”

Maeve slumped in her chair. “You know then that I’m Maeve, the other twin,” she said. She searched the housekeeper’s face, wary of what the woman would do with the damning knowledge, but relieved it was no longer necessary to maintain her masquerade for someone as sharp-eyed as Mrs. Pinkert.

“I know you ain’t who you’re pretending to be. What I don’t know is what’s happened to Miss Meg since I saw her off in the squire’s travel coach two weeks ago Friday. I’ll not pretend we’re great friends. She’s too fine a lady to take up with the likes of me; her prim and proper governess seen to that, till the squire run the old witch off first year I was here. But Miss Meg’s always kind and polite, and if any harm’s come to her ‘cause of the squire’s conniving, I’ll pull that old buzzard’s tail feathers and stuff ‘em down his blooming throat.”

Maeve couldn’t help but smile at the picture Mrs. Pinkert’s threat conjured up. Furthermore, it was comforting to see she had Meg’s welfare in mind; her twin was sorely in need of champions. “According to the squire and Lady Hermione, Meg is in Scotland visiting her aunt,” she explained.

“Run away from the marriage the squire forced her into, did she? Good for her. Didn’t think she had it in her.”

Maeve nodded. “That’s what it looked like to me. Though Lady Hermione tried to gloss it over by claiming Meg was so shy she couldn’t face the betrothal ball.”

“Well she is that all right. But I’m guessing it’s mostly the Earl himself she’s scared of.”

“I can’t say I blame her there.” Maeve said between bites of toast. “He is utterly despicable.”

“If that means he’s as handsome a rogue as walks the face of God’s green earth—and that he’s too much man for a timid soul like Miss Meg, I say amen to that. Still, the lad has a good heart and he’s a fair landlord, as any as works his land will tell you.”

Mrs. Pinkert raised her cup and took a noisy slurp of tea. “So, Missy, are you planning to stand in for Miss Meg at the altar? From what I’ve seen of you so far, you look to suit the bridegroom a mite better than she does.”

For some reason she couldn’t begin to explain, Maeve felt a flush of heat stain her cheeks. “Good heavens, no!” she exclaimed, staring at the rotund housekeeper in horror. “I have no intention of marrying any man, and if I had, it most certainly would not be the Earl of Lynley.”

“That taken with him, are you? Well no wonder. He’s a charmer all right.” Mrs. Pinkert poured herself another cup of tea. “But beware that she-devil mother of his. You’ll clash with her for sure if you show the least bit of spirit.”

“I have already clashed with her,” Maeve said, ignoring the housekeeper’s ridiculous comment about her being ‘taken’ with the earl. “But I doubt I’ll have an occasion to see the Dowager again. I promised the squire I’d impersonate my twin at her engagement ball and possibly a fortnight after, at which time he assures me she will return from Scotland.”

“He does, does he?” And how is he going to arrange that? He can’t go after her. Lady Tansy MacDougal, his mother’s sister, won’t let him get within a mile of that great pile of stone of hers in the Highlands. She hates the sight of him.”

Maeve felt the first twinges of a headache creep into her left temple. “What are you saying?” she demanded.

“I’m saying Miss Meg just might decide to stay away now that she’s finally made the break—which leaves you, as his other daughter, to pull the squire’s fat out of the fire. Or didn’t he tell you why he’s so anxious for this wedding to come off?”

“Only that it would unite the two estates and give his grandson a title.”

Mrs. Pinkert nodded, sending wisps of stringy gray hair swirling Medusa-like around her plump white face. “There’s that too, but mostly he’s desperate for a grandchild—male or female—and he figures a lusty young fellow like the Earl is certain to give him one.”

“I suppose every man wants a grandchild,” Maeve said absentmindedly, still grappling with the idea that her twin might not be planning to return to Barrington Hall.

“But not every man has all he owns tied up in a land grant what his great grandfather snabbled from the king in exchange for letting his wife warm the monarch’s bed—a grant what says if any generation of Barringtons don’t produce legitimate offspring by the age of twenty-five, the land and all that’s on it goes back to the crown.”

“Good heavens! Does Meg know this?”