A Difficult Disguise

A Difficult Disguise

Kasey Michaels

writing as Michelle Kasey

Electronic Edition Copyright 2012:  Kathryn A. Seidick

E-Book published by Kathryn A. Seidick, 2012

Original Print Edition published, 1990

Cover art by Tammy Seidick Design,
www.tammyseidickdesign.com

E-Book Design by
A Thirsty Mind
, 2012

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author.

Kasey’s “Alphabet Regency” Classics

Now Available:

The Belligerent Miss Boynton

The Tenacious Miss Tamerlane

The Playful Lady Penelope

The Haunted Miss Hampshire

The Lurid Lady Lockport

The Rambunctious Lady Royston

The Mischievous Miss Murphy

The Savage Miss Saxon

The Ninth Miss Noddenly
, a novella

The Somerville Farce

The Wagered Miss Winslow

Moonlight Masquerade

A Difficult Disguise

The Belligerent Miss Boyton
, the first book in the Alphabet Regency series... “Surely one of the best regency romances of any year... the most enchanting characters to be encountered in years.” 
Affaire de Coeur

“[Kasey Michaels writes with] humor, unforgettable characters and a take on the era few others possess.  Sheer reading pleasure!” 
Romantic Times

Prologue

W
hen titled Britain went toddling off to do battle with Napoleon Bonaparte and his Grande Armée, it did it with stylish English panache (more than a few handy umbrellas to keep the rain off their uniforms) and a patriotic fervor liberally mixed with a healthy appetite for adventure, war being regarded in the way of a highly desirable romantic escapade.

But now, at long last, Napoleon was safely locked up on Elba, and the war was over.

The Prince Regent—Prinny to his friends and, increasingly, Swellfoot to his enemies—who had never spent a long night in the cold rain with an empty belly or fought deadly hand-to-hand combat with a relentless enemy, viewed the victory as the perfect excuse to indulge in his most favorite thing in the whole world: a party of truly monumental proportions.

London’s organized and spur-of-the-moment festivities, which had begun early in the year, intensified in June with the arrival of the Czar, as well as that of Blücher, a hard-drinking man who fast became the favorite of John Bull (as the everyday citizens of the metropolis were called), Prussia’s spartan King Frederick, Count Platoff, commander of the Cossacks who had so successfully harassed Napoleon throughout that man’s ignoble retreat from Moscow, and a host of other luminaries Prinny was hell-bent to impress with his entertaining genius, his outlandish, specially designed military uniforms, and his social largess.

By the second week in June the whole of Regency London was operating at a fever pitch, the usual hustle and bustle of the busy city magnified a thousand times, which was altogether wonderful if a person was in the mood to be entertained.

For the hardened veterans of battles in Salamanca and Badajoz, like Fletcher Belden, who was at the moment propping up the wall in a very hot, very overcrowded ballroom as all around him overdressed men and giggling women cavorted in a frenzy of celebration, all this carrying-on was not only frivolous, it was fast becoming downright dull. Turning his back on the crowd, he sauntered into the card room to try losing his boredom in the bottom of a deep glass.

Chapter 1

“W
ho’ll buy my sweet lavender?”... “Hot codlins! Cherry-ripe!”... “Chairs to mind? Bring out your chairs!”... “Milk-o! Milk below!”

Fletcher Belden groaned once, rolled over onto his stomach, taking his pillow with him, and buried his aching head beneath the soft goose down.

“Cockles! Cockles an’ mussels, alive, alive-o!”... “Old clothes, mum? Old clothes to buy!”... “Cockles!”

The pillow hit the floor with considerably less than satisfying force as Fletcher bounded from the bed and stormed to the brocade bellpull, yanking the inoffensive signaling device so pitilessly that it ended by retaliating, rudely separating from its anchor to collapse in a mantle around the broad bare shoulders of its attacker.

“Beck,” Fletcher roared in an abused tone, fighting his way free of six feet of tasseled bellpull and putting on the burgundy banyan that had found a home on a nearby chair back in order to cover his nakedness. “Beck!”

The doorway to the upstairs hall of the Belden town house opened, admitting both the glaring light of day and a slight brown-haired man of much the same age as his three-and-thirty-year-old employer.

“You bellowed, Fletch? Good God! You look as if you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. But it is good of you to be nasty once in a while; it reminds me of how much I didn’t miss your sharp tongue while you were on the Peninsula.”

Fletcher shot the man a smoldering look as he ran a hand through his tousled blond hair. “Oh, capital! Just what I needed—humor before breakfast. I’m surprised you stay with me, Beck, when you’ve obviously got such a brilliant future in comedy. Perhaps you should reconsider remaining in my employ and take yourself off somewhere to scribble a book. Lord knows everyone else has. George has done all right for himself, although it did bring him Caro Lamb, which can only be considered unfortunate. No, I imagine one Byron is enough for any Season.”

“My, my,” Beck said, crossing the room to stoop awkwardly and rescue the torn bellpull from the carpet, “we are in a mood this morning, aren’t we? Have a bit too much fun last night, my friend? Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy dinner at the Guildhall. Did the Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg order the musicians to stop playing again? That would be too bad, as then you would have been left with little choice but to listen to all those dry speeches.”

“Fifteen toasts, Beck. We were forced to drink fifteen toasts. I think Prinny has run mad. Poor old Blücher was under the table again, and stayed there for most of the night. It took everything I had not to join him.”

“As I understand it, poor old Blücher is always under some table or other.”

Fletcher ignored Beck’s remark and walked to the window that faced the square, threw back the heavy draperies, and slammed the window shut. “There! Perhaps that will keep some of that cursed caterwauling outside, where it belongs. It’s either that or I order every chamber pot in the house emptied into the street via the upper floors. I’m persuaded it would be easier to fall asleep in the midst of battle than to find uninterrupted slumber past dawn anywhere in Mayfair anymore. Why did I go to that ball after the Guildhall? I must be demented.”

Beck, Fletcher saw as he turned about, had seated himself on the edge of the rumpled bed, his stiff left leg extended in front of him, and was peering at him intently. Fletcher waited for the other man to speak, for he was not so incensed that he did not know he was acting like a bear with a sore paw, and decided he would be wise to shut up.

“Would you like some coffee, Fletch? I’ll have to leave you in order to summon a maid to fetch some now that you have succeeded in dealing a death blow to this poor, innocent thing”—Beck pointed out easily, holding up the bellpull and waving the tasseled end back and forth for Fletcher’s inspection—“but if you promise me you won’t do anything rash while I’m gone, I’d be pleased to see to it for you.”

Fletcher sat himself down in a chair facing the bed, looked at the ragged-edged end of the bellpull Beck was waggling in front of him, shook his head, and gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Maybe you ought to use it to bind my hands before carrying me off to Bedlam. I’m afraid, you see, that I just might be losing my grip.”

Now it was Beck’s turn to shake his head. No one knew Fletcher better than he, who had been his boon companion since the two of them had been in short coats. Fletcher Belden wasn’t insane. As a matter of fact, he was one of the most sane, best-humored men Beck had ever encountered, as well as one of the finest, which was why Beck, who could have risen higher in the world than man of business, sometimes valet, and general factotum to his friend, was more than content with his lot.

“You’re just tired, Fletch,” he said commiseratingly. “Think about it. You returned from nearly five years away in the war—having, by the by, distinguished yourself no end with your heroic service; healed your breach with Vincent Mayhew by marrying him off to the woman you’d succeeded in tumbling into love with in the space of a week, a mighty noble deed, even if it did break your heart for a while, and then threw yourself head over ears into a round of peace celebrations that could succeed in accounting for more casualties than the Great Fire. Of course you’re tired. Who wouldn’t be tired?”