Page 80 of His Duchess in Disguise
“His Majesty grows no better?”
The little secretary shrugged. “It is not my place to say, Your Grace.”
“Ah, Hamilton. You were more outspoken as my first mate.”
“Other times, other places, Your Grace. We must don our masks and dance the social quadrille.”
“True enough. True enough, my friend.” Leo leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The carriage swayed, but it was nothing like the HMS Menhiransten as she rode the waves. Nor was he likely to be back onboard a sailing vessel any time soon.
Chapter 2
Miss Emma Hoskins surveyed herself in the dim, crackly mirror. Her sunny blond hair was neatly done up in a figure-eight knot, which was not at all modish but easy to manage on her own. She scarcely needed to wear a corset and was, therefore, able to get away with one that was only lightly boned and that laced up the front.
Her gown was of her own design. The neckline was higher than was fashionable, cut well above her modest bosom. The lace edging was starched and pressed, creating a neat frill that framed her delicate skin. The soft, sprigged muslin of the gown was also starched and pressed in an effort to refresh the fabric that had, in truth, seen better days.
Emma’s skin was lightly tanned, and there was a dusting of golden freckles across her pert nose. She had high cheekbones, a generous mouth that seemed ready to laugh, and her blue eyes were framed in long, dark eyelashes that curled just a little at the corners. These features were set in a delicate, heart-shaped face. The effect was such that she could have easily been cast as an angel or an abandoned castaway had she been inclined to take to the stage.
Alas, such an undertaking was unlikely, even though Emma fancied that she might enjoy it. As the only daughter of Gilbert Haskins, Baron of Calber, becoming an actress was undoubtedly one of her many ambitions that were proscribed.
“Although,” Emma remarked to her mirror, “I’m not sure he would notice. I might as well still be in the nursery with a governess.”
It would hardly be charitable to say that the Baron was a stingy nipcheese, but it would be accurate to say that whatever fortune he had rarely trickled down to Emma. She received a tiny allowance from her mother’s dowry investments, and the occasional largess when her father had won at cards or when betting on the horses. Otherwise, he tended to ignore her.
Since there was rarely a lot of money for new gowns, Mrs. Able, the housekeeper, taught Emma how to mend and eventually how to make her own clothing. The Baron might have been mortified to learn of this, but since he blamed Emma for her mother’s death in childbirth, he avoided her as much as possible. Therefore, he was unlikely to be aware of any domestic arrangements.
She carefully inspected her kid slippers, making sure Rags, her nondescript, pint-sized terrier, had not nibbled any holes in them and lightly hopped down the grand front stairs just as she had done since she was ten–at least when no one was looking. Emma liked the way her soft slippers tapped on the marble stair, and the spring in her ankles as she jumped down from one step to the next. Usually, Rags was right there with her, his shaggy coat displacing the dust on the steps. But he was shut in his kennel tonight so that he would not try to follow her.
At the bottom of the stairs, she shook out her skirts, making sure that the point lace on the hem had not picked up any dust or dog fur. Then she stood in the foyer to wait because one of her father’s recent economies had been to dismiss the butler.
In a few minutes, a very fine coach drew up in front of the house. Emma mustered up her dignity and walked down the steps from the front door in a proper, sedate manner as was appropriate for a young lady of nine and ten years of age.
A liveried attendant let down the steps to the coach, opened the door, and offered his hand to assist Emma up the steps. Although she did not need it, Emma placed one gloved hand in his. “Thank you for your help,” she said, with a sweet smile. It was all she had to offer, although she was sure that the man really expected a coin for his efforts. However, he let his eyes flick down and up, taking in her attire, and said, “You are welcome, Miss.”
Once she was inside the coach, her Aunt Alicia made the introductions. “Emma, this is my dear friend, the Honorable Janet Pearthorne. Janet, my niece Emma Haskins.”
Aunt Alicia’s friend was dressed all in black, from the lace scarf draped over a high comb to the immaculate little kid boots that peeked from beneath the hem of her lovely silk gown. It was clear that the friend was in heavy mourning.
“Ah-lee-cee-a,” said Janet Pearthorne drawing out the syllables, “She is wearing a walking dress.”
“What do you propose, Janet? We shall be late. There really is no time.”
“We shall make time.” Again, the woman spoke in soft, drawn-out syllables that made the most of each word. “It would be better to be slightly late than to give offense. I believe she and I are of a size. I have a sweet rose silk that I had set aside for Jemmie’s homecoming.” There was a little tremble in her voice, and she dabbed at her eyes.
Aunt Alicia’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you certain? What if she soils it or spills something on it?”
The Honorable Mrs. Pearthorne shrugged. “Then, she does. I do not believe I shall ever be able to bear wearing it. Just as well that it should do someone some good.” And she dabbed at her eyes again. “Dear me,” she added with a smile, “You must have such an impression of me. I do not ordinarily go about crying.”
“It is quite all right,” Emma said. “I can clearly see that you are in mourning.”
“Yes, well, actually it has been long enough that I could simply be in black gloves, but I find being in mourning rather useful. I do miss Jemmie dreadfully, but being a widow gives one a certain amount of personal freedom. I have been writing my memoirs,” she added, leaning toward Emma as if imparting a confidence. “My publisher assures me that I am likely to gain some interest. Jemmie and I were living in Calais when Napoleon began his campaign. While I cannot impart anything of confidence, my publisher thinks our personal adventures will garner interest. Even though it is difficult to write of those times, for a little while I can imagine that Jemmie and I are together again.” She dabbed at her eyes once more, then gave them both a bright smile.
Without waiting for anyone else to say a word, the little widow tapped on the roof of the carriage. The driver pulled over to the curb, then opened a little aperture that let him peer back into the cab. “Yes, m’lady? Did you forget something?”
“I did. Or I might. We need to stop by the townhouse for just the briefest moment. You can walk the horses up and down or whatever.”
The man harrumphed, and there was the sound of spitting on the sidewalk. “Old family retainer,” Mrs. Pearthorne said. “And one of the members of my husband’s regiment. He lost a foot in the same skirmish that cost Jemmie his life.”
Amazingly, considering that Janet Pearthorne never stopped talking, they were in and out of her townhouse in less than half a candle mark. It turned out that she and Emma were indeed of a size, so the rose-colored silk did not need to be altered.
