Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

“You don’t look in the least French.”

“Sometimes I feel as if I understand men better than you, for all that you’re married,” Emma said. “My expectation is that if I throw on a French accent, babble a few phrases, and appear happy to see him, my true nationality will not matter. I’ll make him believe that we first met in Paris.”

“He’ll never believe that,” Bethany insisted.

“You just said that Kerr admits to being so routinely drunk that he could have had a clandestine encounter with the Empress Josephine without remembering. What’s more, I know the name his intimates call him. I’ll use it to prove our acquaintance.”

“What is it?” Bethany asked.

“Gil. His godmother, the Countess of Bredelbane, wrote me with that bit of information. She writes quite regularly, trying to make up for her godson’s neglect.”

“I’m not convinced,” Bethany said stubbornly.

“From what I’ve heard in the village,” Emma answered, knowing that she was about to shock her little sister, “if one wishes to seduce a man, there are only two tools that matter: alcohol and a scanty gown. Most of the stories I hear have to do with either a drunken man or a naked woman. Or both.”

“Who is telling you such things?” Bethany demanded. “You’d think the village women would have more respect for the delicacy of a young lady.”

Emma snorted. “And if I was so delicate, who would help birth the village babies?”

Bethany scowled. “You know what I mean.”

“The point is that if I can’t get Kerr to drink himself into a fever of lust, I’ll simply unclothe myself, and that will do it. By all accounts, a man cannot resist the sight of the undressed female form. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Suddenly Bethany had a little smile on her lips that made Emma feel a sudden stab of envy. Her little sister’s betrothal dated back to her fifth birthday, just as did Emma’s, but Bethany’s future husband, John, appeared on their doorstep after Bethany’s sixteenth birthday, took one good look at his bride’s brandy-colored curls and blue eyes, and promptly began begging for an early ceremony. That was in sharp contrast to her own betrothed, who had driven out to St. Albans to formalize the betrothal once he was of age, stopped by casually a few times if he happened to be hunting in the district, and hadn’t been seen at all for the past three years.

“You should probably leave your hair down,” Bethany said, beginning to get into the spirit of the thing. “And show lots of bosom.”

“I can do that,” Emma said, pulling pins from her dark red hair. It fell to the middle of her back.

“Frenchwomen always wear maquillage,” her sister pointed out. “You would laugh to see how many ladies in London paint a red circle on their cheek and think it gives them the air of a French comtesse.”

“I already use maquillage,” Emma said.

Bethany peered at her. “Oh. You’ve darkened your lashes.”

“And my eyebrows.”

“You’re locked away in the country,

and you wear the very best gowns and face paints. And yet you look—well, you look absolutely delicious, Emma. Why?”

“I feel better when I am properly dressed. But I do think you’re right. I’ve been without an audience.”

“This is absurd!” Bethany said, reversing herself. “Kerr will recognize you. Be serious, Emma! He may not have visited in a few years, but he’s seen you on at least five or six occasions, and one does tend to examine the face of one’s future bride rather closely.”

“He won’t recognize me with a mask on,” Emma said, grinning at Bethany.

“A mask? You mean Vauxhall?”

“No. I was thinking of Lord Cavendish’s masquerade ball.”

“Oh!” Bethany said with a gasp of excitement. “What a brilliant thought, Emma! I have an invitation.”

“A masquerade will be an excellent arena for our first meeting in years,” Emma said. “I’ll wear that Elizabethan gown and mask that belonged to Great-Aunt Gertrude. Do you remember it?”

“She was our great-great aunt,” Bethany remarked. “Of course I do! Remember how angry Father was when I tried it on and trailed about in the dust? He said the jewels on it were worth as much as my dowry.”

“A few years ago I had it cleaned and stored properly in a wardrobe,” Emma said. “It was far too beautiful to leave as a supper for moths in the attic. It will make a perfect disguise. I’ll go as an Elizabethan lady, and wear the mask that accompanies the dress. It covers most of my face, so I’ll be unrecognizable.”