The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding 2)

The young women waited until the peasant throng was past before they joined their trailing ranks, unremarked upon in their serviceable attire. Jemima had packed a dark, plain print gown, and a modestly trimmed poke bonnet appropriate for a governess in her bag. They were most important, and strangely what she missed most from the old life she had left behind. She’d always loved the country rambles she and her father embarked upon in all weathers, when they’d discuss his collection or the importance of one of his latest finds. It was only in the last few months that rheumatic difficulties and his club foot had prevented him from accompanying her as he once had.

Pain at these happy memories swamped her, but then her throat grew dry with fear as they neared the house. Her nemesis lived here. Was s

he walking into his trap? If he saw her, would he know her? But she would simply be a servant. She would be invisible to him while he was merely a collaborator in a foolish prank or wager that would enrich Lords Deveril and Daniel at the expense of the potential happiness and dignity of their respective wives.

Jemima hated to think of it in these terms. She hoped Lady Deveril would never learn of her husband’s double life. The young girl who’d gushed her praise on the staircase at the theatre didn’t deserve that. Like most debutantes, she was starting married life ill-prepared and ignorant of the ways of men—of desire. She had stars in her eyes. She believed Lord Deveril, the handsome lord of the realm. He’d flattered her, and made her feel the most prized woman in all the world. Lord Deveril was good at that. When he’d first made Jemima his mistress, she’d believed he had eyes for no one else. He’d spoken of his passion for her in terms that didn’t preclude the possibility he might one day make her his wife. For a short time, in the beginning, she’d naïvely believed the love he professed for her suggested he’d be willing to endure the societal barriers to make her legally his.

Didn’t that show how much she’d had stars in her eyes, despite the fact she ought to have known better; especially after her sham marriage to Mr. Graves?

Beside her, she could hear Miss Galloway singing God Bless Ye Merry Gentlemen in a strong Irish brogue, and wished she’d be quieter. Anything that brought attention to them—such as an Irish accent in a Kentish village—could be dangerous.

Then they were gathered on the snow-covered gravel drive at the bottom of the portico steps, the family having come outside to listen. From her position in the straggling ranks, Jemima could see the cold smile of Lord Griffith, his stiff clapping, and beside him, Lady Griffith, an elegantly attired, neat woman of middling age, surrounded by her children.

Jemima swallowed and looked at her feet, prodding Miss Galloway to do the same. “You mustn’t be noticed, else the whole plan will come to nothing…and you won’t get the pretty necklace Lord Daniel is going to buy you,” she added for good measure, though she had no idea if Lord Daniel was promising anything to Miss Galloway for her collaboration in this.

Miss Galloway obediently hunched her shoulders, lowered her voice, and blended in more thoroughly with the country crowd.

A country rustic, brushing past Jemima, caught her eye as she glanced up. He carried a shovel and his cap pushed low over his head. The wassailers were in full voice once more, the darkness of the mid-afternoon relieved only by the white blanketing of snow that surrounded them.

“Slip around the western side of the house when the folk return up the driveway,” said the rustic, whom Jemima was astonished to notice was Lord Daniel dressed in disguise. She glanced across at Miss Galloway, who was warbling like a nightingale, but he put his finger to his lips. “She’ll get too excited if she knows it’s me. You’re more than a pretty face, Jemima. You’ll get her inside for me, won’t you? If anyone can carry this off, it’s you.”

Jemima searched in vain for Lord Ruthcot though she considered it unlikely she would see him during her intended brief sojourn here.

Which meant she would never see him again. She wished the thought didn’t depress her spirits. He’d obliged her by proposing this crazy idea, but he enjoyed a lark like his fellow bored, idle aristocratic friends. Beyond a simple thanks, she owed him nothing.

Her thoughts went no further in this direction, for coming out onto the portico now was Lord Deveril with his pretty new bride clinging to his arm. Jemima stared at the pair, taking in painfully the bright, trusting smile the young woman slanted up at him. She looked…in love. And Lord Deveril, in turn, smiling down at her, looked equally smitten.

Jemima saw him transfer his gaze from his wife’s face to scan the crowd. He was looking for her. Looking to see if he could identify her. Identify his long-standing mistress, whom he was planning at this moment to smuggle into the house so he could continue his adulterous affair under the same roof his innocent, loving, hopeful new wife would be sleeping.

Loathing and disgust for both of them—Lord Deveril and Jemima herself—weighed her down. She prayed she could do what she had to do before being a party to such awfulness. Lady Deveril didn’t deserve this. If Jemima could help ensure her youthful dreams weren’t shattered by the discovery of her husband’s double-handed behavior, it was the very least she could do. As for the years that stretched ahead, Lady Deveril would at least have the security of a wealthy husband who, for the moment, admired his wife’s assets whereas Jemima…

She pushed her shoulders back and took a deep breath. Jemima intended enriching herself with the legal gains of having herself discovered a lost treasure, but only to the point where she could live independently, immersing herself in a life of scholarship. Living alone, but in communication with fellow scholars, she’d do all she could to forget her twelve months as the mistress to two men.

When a giggling Miss Galloway and she were ushered through a side door by the light of a lantern, Jemima was sure her own nervousness would eclipse her friend’s excitement.

They were led into a small room with a table laid with festive fare purloined from the feast the family had enjoyed and this, to Miss Galloway, was almost more exciting than anything. Jemima had the distinct impression as she watched her set upon the pigeon pie and duck leg that Jemima had the more generous benefactor. Indeed, many women in Jemima’s position—helpless and dependent—would think themselves the most fortunate among their sisters in a cruel and harsh world. Lord Deveril had never been cruel. He’d been the most generous of men, the most sensitive of lovers, though he’d guarded her jealously. Jemima hoped he would be as diligent in guarding the happiness of his wife when he discovered his mistress gone.

“Ain’t this the best lark ever!” Miss Galloway now said happily, wiping the duck fat from her fingers before setting upon a piece of suet and apple pudding. “I never had such a good feed in all me born days.”

Yes, Jemima had certainly had the better arrangement if Lord Daniel was apparently so parsimonious with the luxuries he afforded Miss Galloway.

“And now with the dancin’ tonight, Lord Daniel had to buy me a new dress, didn’t he? That were luck I weren’t lookin’ fer.”

Jemima stared. “Dancing?” she asked, just as Lord Deveril himself entered, swooping upon Jemima and snaking an arm about her waist. “Dancing indeed, my love. In order to win the bet, you ladies have to attend tonight’s ball.” He kissed Jemima quickly to stay her protest. “I was afraid you’d not agree to come if you knew, but I’ve arranged for suitable clothing. In fact, I chose your gown myself. You’ll not be disappointed, my sweet.”

This was even worse than Jemima could have imagined. He’d have chosen something magnificent. Something that would make her stand out. And she’d be in the same orbit as Lord Griffith. What could she do?

Deveril was asking her a question, she realized. No, telling her something. She tried to attend though her heart was hammering. Surely she could make her way to the Blue Room and find the tablet and disappear before tonight’s ball?

Lord Deveril squeezed her shoulder. “Did you hear what I said, my dear? You seem quite overwhelmed.”

Jemima nodded. She and Miss Galloway would come under the guise of being country cousins of Lord Daniel’s. Some elaborate excuse was being concocted. She made her smile sweeter as she pretended enthusiasm. Regardless of her own fear and plans, she had to attend to what he was saying if she were to carry this off, but it was getting harder. She clenched her fists beneath the table and tried to hide her panic.

Deveril looked at her strangely. This wasn’t like her, he was saying, frowning. His face swam before hers, and she stood up shakily and turned her back on him, pushing him away when he tried to put an arm about her.

Of course, she would do it. She nodded, perhaps she managed to smile. Yes, she would perform like a trained monkey, or maybe something more exotic. A strutting, preening dog, or a bird. What did it matter? He required something of her, and regardless of how distasteful or potentially dire or damaging, she had no choice but to accede to his wishes. He was his lordship, and she was but his mistress. His minion.

Naturally, she voiced none of this aloud. She simply followed him, silently and meekly, from the room where she’d eaten her dinner to the bedroom where he’d laid out on the bed a magnificent ensemble: a ruby-red embroidered net overdress and a shimmering gold petticoat, with a choker of diamonds and a filigree of silver and diamonds for her hair.