Love & Folly (15 page)

"Something's amiss," Tom agreed. "Perhaps she's off her feed."

"It's not that."

"Never mind, my dear. She'll come about." Tom drifted to her dressing table, picked up a
silver-backed hairbrush and set it down. "I mean Richard to stop here as long as he likes. He has legal business to
finish as well as the manuscript." He gave her the terse outline of Richard's inheritance and the
problematical consequences.

Elizabeth digested the revelation. "I have every desire to accommodate your friend, Tom, but I'm
no good with strangers and Colonel Falk is a stranger to me, for all that he's Dickon's godfather."

Tom moved to her side. "True, but--"

"I shall have to make small talk," she explained. "When I don't know a man I like to have a fund
of polite phrases at the ready, and the leisure to brood about his interests beforehand. Otherwise I'm lost. I
can think of nothing to say."

Tom smoothed his hands over her shoulders. "I had never supposed you shy with
strangers."

"I am. Dreadfully. I have read the first of Colonel Falk's Spanish satires, however."

"And..."

Elizabeth smiled. "I thought it witty and good-hearted, if a trifle
warm
. I should like to
congratulate your friend. But the question is, do I wish to face a satirist at breakfast?"

Tom laughed. "Richard won't eat you, my dear."

"You relieve my mind. Now, tell me, was I wise to drag the girls south when there's so much
unrest? The Mob were rather thick in Great Portland Street, I thought."

"Were there incidents?"

Elizabeth looked up at him. "I kept the shades drawn. When the crowd saw your arms on the
carriage doors they gave three cheers for Radical Tom."

Tom grimaced. "That should enhance my stature with the Lords." He went to the window that
overlooked the square. It had gone dark. He pulled the curtain to and turned back to her, tassel in one long
hand. "To answer you, I don't know what a wise course would be. The queen's business will keep the Mob
stirred up all summer. Unless you can talk Jean and Maggie into making their come-out next year, you
might as well present them in May. The June levee will be a crush, too, and may provoke worse
demonstrations. We'll have to be careful of the girls."

Elizabeth frowned. "Keep a close watch on them, do you mean?"

He stared. "See that they're protected and amused. Do you anticipate more serious
problems?"

Elizabeth rubbed her brow. "I have the oddest sensation that Jean and Davies have been plotting,
but Johnny says they've not had time alone together. Johnny did me sterling service en chaperon, by the
bye, though it went against the grain."

"So I should imagine, poor chap. At least he may relax his guard now Jean and Davies are
apart."

Elizabeth murmured agreement, and Tom went into his adjoining dressing room. As she dressed,
Elizabeth was still troubled by the uneasiness that had beset her since Davies had come to Brecon. It was too
vague a feeling to put into words.

She was sure Jean and Owen would do nothing wrong, but either or both might well scheme to
do something harebrained.

* * * *

Jean found the map of London in the book room. It was a framed architect's plan and probably
twenty years out of date, but at least it gave her an idea of the relative distance between Grosvenor Square
and Greek Street.

Conveying Owen's precious manuscript to his friend had seemed the simplest thing in the world
in the familiar safety of Brecon. Jean had forgotten how noisy and confusing London was.

She meant to hire a hack. That was the easiest plan, but even that would be difficult, for she was
never left alone.

Until Owen swore her to secrecy, she had meant to tell Maggie of her mission. That troubled her,
too--she could see that Maggie knew something was up and that her twin was hurt by her lack of openness.
Jean hated hurting Maggie, though she could see Owen's logic. The more people who knew of the scheme,
the more likely it was to be betrayed, if only by accident.

So Jean made her plans alone and with an uneasy conscience. Her ignorance of simple things
worried her. Hackneys were not numerous in Grosvenor Square where the householders kept their own
carriages, but she noticed that they were thicker on the ground a few streets over. She meant to walk to
Bond Street and hail a driver there. That would surely throw any lurking informers or Runners off the
trail.

How much ought she to pay the jarvey? She did not know. And what if Owen's friends should be
out when she called? She could not write him to warn she was coming because Owen had said his friend was
closely watched. Was the address Owen had given her a private dwelling? What ought she to wear?

The last was not a frivolous question. She knew she must hide her flaming hair. Indeed, she would
have tried to procure, a wig if she had had any hope of doing so without being trapped in explanations.
Elizabeth would have thought her a candidate for bedlam if she had tried any such thing.

Lying abed the first night, brooding, with Maggie asleep beside her, Jean decided to tuck her hair
into her old grey bonnet. and "borrow" an enveloping cloak from one of the servants. Not an ideal disguise,
especially if the weather were warm. On the whole, though, she thought the simplicity of the disguise
would work in her favour. That and the unlikelihood of a very young lady going off into the heart of London
on her own.

Days passed--days full of shopping for fabrics and being poked and stared at by dressmakers, of
having to choose between virtually identical hats at the milliner's, of dragging through the Burlington
Arcade in the wake of Anne, Elizabeth, and enthusiastic Maggie, and three laden servants, whilst her sisters
twittered over gloves and ribbands and slippers. Jean's mind was above all that. If only she could dash out,
hire a hackney, deliver the poem, and dash back without being missed. The impossibility of escaping
detection weighed on her spirits like a millstone.

Of course, everyone noticed her preoccupation. The gloomier Jean felt, the more anxiously
Elizabeth and Maggie hovered over her. Elizabeth was sure she was sickening for something and very nearly
sent for Anne's favourite physician. Maggie thought she was missing Owen--true enough--and tried to
divert her. Even Clanross took time from the nation's business to sweep Elizabeth and the twins off one
evening to the theatre. Jean scarcely heard Mr. Kean.

It was after the theatre party that Maggie finally forced a confrontation.

Their new maid, Lisette, left them at last, carrying their gowns over her arm. Maggie was
brushing her hair.

Jean watched her in the mirror. "I think I'll go to bed."

"Not yet."

"Oh, Mag, I'm tired. We can talk in the morning."

Maggie's grey eyes locked on Jean's. "I am not going to sleep until you tell me what's wrong," the
image in the glass said.

"Nothing's wrong."

The reflection's mouth set.

"Oh, Mag, I'd tell you if I could but I'm sworn to secrecy!"

Maggie turned so quickly her low-backed chair almost overbalanced. "It's Owen, isn't it?"

Jean nodded, miserable but mute.

"I think you might tell me," Maggie said after a pause. "I've never betrayed a secret yet.
Besides--"

"Besides, you're. my twin." Jean shivered. "I swore, Mag."

"Then I'll swear, too."

Jean shivered again. "Do you promise never to divulge what I've told? Ever?"

"I promise."

Jean thought of informers and spies. "Even on pain of imprisonment?"

Maggie blinked. She took a deep breath. "I promise."

Jean heaved a sigh and began to describe her mission. The words tumbled out. "And I haven't
been able to get off by myself long enough to do the thing. It's dreadful. At least at Brecon we can go about
the grounds without a maid in attendance."

"We shall have to bribe Lisette," Maggie said calmly.

Jean stared.

"Well, it stands to reason. She's the one who walks with us. Elizabeth said we might go to the
park or that circulating library in Moulton Street whenever we liked--so long as Lisette went with
us."

"You're right." Jean brooded. Her pin money was reserved for paying the hackney. "You'll have
to pay Lisette, then. And what if she's not corruptible?" That sounded horrid. Lisette had been with them
only a week, but Jean thought she was a good maid, if a trifle haughty.

"Perhaps we can fool her--give her the slip."

"I don't know." Jean felt exhausted suddenly, but she was relieved to have an accomplice in
residence and grateful that the accomplice was Maggie. More than grateful. She blinked back unexpected
tears. "Let's sleep on it. Perhaps things will look clearer in the morning."

Maggie jumped up. "Of course they will, sister." She gave Jean a hug. "And when we've done it,
will you promise me something?"

Jean returned her twin's comforting squeeze. "Any thing."

"Promise me you'll enjoy our come-out." Maggie picked up the candle and led the way to their
bedchamber. "Because
I
mean to enjoy it, and I shan't if you don't."

"I promise."

As they snuggled into the cooling sheets, Jean made a mental vow to throw herself into the
coming festivities--even being fitted for ball gowns--with every appearance of enjoyment. Maggie deserved
no less.

"Madam wishes to be driven to Greek Street," Maggie said with an artful touch of Lincolnshire in
her vowels. She was dressed in a severe grey gown and plain cape they had borrowed from the
chambermaid, ostensibly for a masquerade. She had tied a neat cap over her tightly braided hair. It scarcely
showed red.

Jean wore her old pelisse and bonnet, also grey, with black gloves and a veil rigged from a black
mantilla the same maid, their sworn ally when Lisette proved deaf to hints, had found in a trunk in the box
room. Jean had tucked her hair up in the bonnet, which was rather hot. She was supposed to be a widow.
She clutched Owen's manuscript in her black-gloved fist.

The driver's small dark eyes appraised both girls shrewdly. He wore a battered hat and a dusty
cape with a wilted posy in the lapel. Jean did not like his manner. She was glad the veil spared her direct
scrutiny.

"'Ow's that? Greek Street?"

"Number 37," Maggie said very clearly. "It is down from Soho Square."

"I know where it is, missy. Wot I don't know is why two gentry morts wants to be drove there at
this hour of the morning."

"My mistress has business to transact, my good man."

The jarvey leered. "Business, eh?"

Jean felt hot blood flood her face. "Not this one," she hissed in an undertone.

Maggie bit her lip.

The jarvey snickered.

"Never mind," Maggie said with a fair assumption of hauteur. "Madam prefers a cleaner carriage.
You may drive on."

"Hoity-toity." The man twisted the reins. "'Business,' she says," He drove on, snickering.

They were attracting attention. Perhaps Bond Street had not been a good idea. Loungers from
one of the coffeehouses made raucous remarks as Jean and Maggie walked past. It was early, before ten, so
the raised walkway was not yet thronged, but wagons and carts and gentlemen on horseback returning from
their morning rides in Rotten Row kicked up a dust in the wide street. The comments of passersby made
Jean blush beneath the veil. She wondered at Maggie's composure.

Just as Jean was about to suggest that they give it up, Maggie waved energetically and a smarter
carriage drew up beside them. The elderly driver, fine as fivepence in a many-caped benjamin, beamed
down at them.

"My mistress wishes to be conveyed to Greek Street, sir." Maggie sounded breathless. "Number
37, and she will pay twice your usual fare if we may have the carriage to ourselves."

"Done," the man said cheerfully. "Fine day for larking about, miss."

Maggie-the-maid helped Jean up into the vehicle. It was large, made to accommodate six or seven
people, and, though the leather seats were cracked with age, the driver had laid fresh straw on the floor.
The brass shone with polishing.

Jean made room for her sister and settled back. As the carriage creaked into motion her
apprehension began to give way to excitement. "You were splendid," she whispered.

Maggie kept her face correctly somber. "Madam has only to command."

Jean stifled a giggle. A lark. It was going to be a lark, after all. Why had she not told Maggie of
her mission sooner? Since she had, everything had fallen into place. The costumes, the timing--they were
supposedly sleeping late after a long evening at one of Anne's musicales--even the mistress-servant roles
they were playing, all had been Maggie's invention.

Jean was used to leading. How comfortable to let her practical twin deal with details. As the
jarvey negotiated a corner and made his skillful way along Piccadilly, Jean considered how often in the past
she had relied on Maggie to fill in the details of her own wild-eyed ideas. Maggie seldom initiated their
adventures but she always came through.

They passed Hatchard's. The traffic was much heavier in Piccadilly than it had been in Bond
Street, and less genteel. Pushcarts and laden waggons jostled hackneys and tilburies, an accommodation
coach, dozens of carriages and gigs, and even a shiny perch phaeton driven by a gentleman whose tiger
stared at them curiously. Ahead, to the east, the crowds afoot grew thicker. The din of vendors shouting
their wares and drivers bellowing at each other took on a deeper menace as the carriage approached Mr.
Nash's new circus, which was still under construction.

"Bloody Mob out for the queen," the drive volunteered in a half shout.

Jean nodded. They had encountered a similar demonstration near Great Portland Street as they
had first entered London in Elizabeth's carriage. Jean kept her eyes on the empty seat facing her. She hoped
Maggie was following suit. It wouldn't do to respond to the remarks that were directed at them. As they
drove on they were hailed by half a dozen male voices. Same of the comments were rude, others
incomprehensible.