“A curate, you say? No, I suppose I have not made his acquaintance after all. Although he did look suspiciously like . . . Oh, well. I guess it’s as you mentioned. He does present a distinguished appearance, even for a curate.”
One of Lady Abernathy’s party came to request Lady Cynthia’s hand for a dance shortly after this exchange, and Emily danced most of the evening as well. However, the conversation she’d had with Lady Cynthia continued to haunt her for a long time afterward. Mr. Williams had been paying close attention to Lady Cynthia, even though he claimed not to know her, and he had been observing someone even after he and Emily had left the assembly rooms. Lady Cynthia, by her own admission, had seen them go out onto the terrace. Had Williams been attempting to avoid Lady Cynthia? Is that why he pulled her into the shadows and embraced her? Was it just a ploy, to avoid discovery by Lady Cynthia?
The more Emily thought about it, the more she was sure that Williams had been avoiding Lady Cynthia. He had become distracted the minute her party arrived, and he had ushered Emily out onto the terrace without a word of explanation, yanked her into the shadows, and kissed her, and then disappeared into the gardens without even a good-bye to his friend Sedgewick. She found herself growing more and more infuriated by the minute. Her first kiss, which had seemed so sweet and passionate, was nothing more than a prop in his scene with Lady Cynthia. She had meant nothing more to him than a hedge that he could hide behind.
“That cad! That disgusting libertine!” Emily said under her breath, startling a gentleman who had approached her to ask her for the next dance. He looked bewildered and turned to Lydia instead, so Emily was free to pursue her own thoughts. She would never speak to Williams again. If he tried to approach her, she would give him the cut direct. She amused herself for a few minutes picturing the bewildered, hurt expression on his face as she proudly refused to recognize him, before realizing that that was a sorry revenge indeed. If she cut him, and never spoke to him again, how would she ever find out what secret he was hiding? Her best revenge would be to reveal his masquerade to the world and watch him reap his just deserts. Yes, that was it. She would solve the mystery of Alexander Williams, for she was sure that whatever it was he was playing at, he was up to no good.
Chapter Six
Jonathan Sedgewick, who was already wishing his first guest anywhere but his own previously peaceful abode, was amazed to receive yet another unexpected visitor. This one, however, did not arrive by public coach. He arrived in a luxurious traveling carriage, with another carriage following behind him with servants and baggage. Jonathan and Alexander, who were taking their ease in the library, heard the commotion and looked at each other in confusion. Before Jonathan could rise from his chair, an apparition appeared in the doorway.
The gentleman was blinding. From his flaxen hair to his shiny Hessians, everything about him was beaming. He was wearing a turquoise jacket of exquisite cut, with a canary yellow waistcoat covered in rosebuds. The huge diamond in his cravat reflected the many colors of his ensemble. “Don’t bother to get up, Sedgewick,” the apparition said, “it is Wesleigh I am here to see.”
“Hullo, Marcus. How did you find me?” Alexander asked, unperturbed.
“The estimable Jenkins. He was quite upset, old man, that you would leave him in London and descend upon the wilds of Stonehurst with no one to see to your sartorial well-being.” Marcus examined Alexander through his quizzing glass. “I see his fears were well-founded.”
“Cut line, Marcus. What are you doing here?”
“I am pretending to be you.”
“What?” Alexander bellowed, jumping up from his seat.
“Your pater told me you had gone to Stonehurst to court a young lady, but then Jenkins told me you went on the public stage, leaving him and the best portion of your wardrobe behind. Simmons mentioned Sedgewick, I put two and two together, and voilà! I came out with four.”
“Is that an explanation? It sounds as though you put two and two together and came out with forty-six. What led you to think you should come masquerade as me?”
“I am persona non grata right now in London. I need to make myself scarce for a few days, perhaps a sennight. I figured you were pretending to be someone else, why shouldn’t I pretend to be you? By the way, just exactly who, or what, are you supposed to be?” The quizzing glass reappeared, as if it could help Marcus decipher Alexander’s identity.
“I am a curate.”
“Hmmm. Well, if you would prefer, you could go back to being Lord Wesleigh, and I could be the curate.”
Sedgewick looked quite alarmed at this notion; if Alexander had been irritating as a guest, what was he in for with Sir Marcus Reddings, dandy extraordinaire? However, Alexander just laughed. “You, a curate?”
Marcus appeared affronted. “I will have you know, Alexander, that my grandmother was a fine actress in her day. Of course, that is all very hush-hush. Mater wouldn’t like that old business hashed up again, but it’s in the blood, nonetheless, it’s in the blood. I could probably give a more than creditable sermon this Sunday, if Sedgewick wanted the morning off.”
“I am sure Sedgewick appreciates the offer, but I think not,” Alexander replied. “I prefer to remain incognito for a little longer, myself.”
“Petticoat trouble, n’est-çe pas? Well, that leads me back to my original offer. I will be you.”
“But you cannot be me. I am supposed to be staying with Lady Smithfield and offering for her daughter. I do not believe that your need for privacy is so great that you are willing to sacrifice yourself on the marriage altar.”
“That would depend,” Sir Marcus responded, casually observing his fingernails. “Just what does Miss Smithfield look like?”
Sedgewick bristled, but Alexander just laughed. He had learned not to take Marcus Reddings seriously. He understood his need for privacy, as well. Marcus acted like a brainless fop, but it was just that, an act. He occasionally did some governmental work that included spying. He was well connected, and no one took him seriously, so he was able to ferret out quite a few secrets.
“Sorry, old friend, I would like to help, but Stonehurst has become a veritable beehive of activity these past few days. Lady Cynthia Sommers is here, as well as Farnwright, and I do not know how many others. It would never work. They all know me and you.”
“But I do not plan on socializing. Can’t you tell I have a horrible case of the grippe?”
Marcus looked healthy as a horse. “Even if you tell them you have the grippe, how do I explain to them when the jig is over that I allowed you to pose as me?” Alexander asked.
“You were testing your young lady’s love for you. If she could fall in love with you as a lowly curate, she passes the test. Otherwise, she’s failed. Any woman with blood in her veins will fall for that one. It’s the kind of claptrap they fill their heads with in those silly Gothic romances they all read.”
Since that was precisely how he was going to explain his deception, and the reason he was going through all of this in the first place, he could not argue that point. He also wondered what Emily would do if faced with Marcus as a potential husband. Would she go through with her plans to marry the heir of a duke?
He realized that at some point in the midst of the game he was playing the rules had changed. He no longer cared to discover Lydia Smithfield’s true character. He was relieved she was as unwilling to marry him as he was to marry her. But, somehow, in the course of this charade he had begun to care about Emily Smithfield’s true character. He found himself entranced by her big brown eyes and vivacious manner. And, if the truth were told, that kiss was quite beguiling as well, to say the very least. But he was stymied by her announcement that she planned to marry Lord Wesleigh. He was beginning to think all he wanted was to marry Emily Smithfield, sweep her away to Venice or Rome, show her London and show London to her. But some romantic part of his soul that he did not know even existed wanted her to fall in love with him regardless of his position or rank. So he had persisted in the charade, even though he knew it was no longer necessary. He had no doubt that his father would not force him into marriage with a lady who was in love with another gentleman. He could return to London today and explain the situation to his father and be free. It was as simple as that. But he was no longer free. He would leave a portion of himself there in Stonehurst, with her. Really, Marcus would be doing him a favor by pretending to be Lord Wesleigh. If Emily still persisted in wanting to wed the heir of a duke, no matter who he was, then, as hard a fact as that was to swallow, she would have made her choice.