“Sir, I humbly beg to disagree,” Mr. Bottlesby said with downcast eyes.
Jane flinched in surprise. Below stairs, the butler was lord in all but name. Bottlesby wielded absolute power over the rest of the staff, swaggering with pride in the servants' quarters. Jane was taken aback by the change in his demeanor now that he was out of his element.
“If you look beyond this girl's disreputable clothing,” Mr. Bottlesby said, “you'll see that they are as like as two peas. In fact, I've been assured that our Jane has presented herself as Lady Sybil many times in the past, with none the wiser.”
Jane's gaze cut to Agnes, who was studying the tips of her beaded shoes with guilty absorption. Jane had sworn her to secrecy.
“Are you aware that not so long ago the penalty for impersonating a member of the aristocracy was branding?” Mr. Roskin's left eye twitched as he glared at her.
“Sir, there's no need to frighten the girl,” Mr. Bottlesby said. “We are a civilized nation. Surely no one's been branded since—”
“No, you're right. Nowadays, they'll just pack her to off to Newgate, like as not.”
Newgate! Jane's vision tunneled, and she forced herself to take a deep breath. If they sent her to prison, away from Ian Michael, it would be worse than branding.
Even though Agnes had warned her not to speak, she couldn't stop the words.
“Sir, my offense took place years ago. Lady Sybil simply asked me to sit for a few lessons in her stead. Her tutor never even knew the difference. Truly, no one was harmed by our childish prank.”
She refrained from mentioning that she had learned enough to pick the lock of literacy. Some members of the upper class took exception to reading and writing among their inferiors.
“There, Mr. Roskin, you see,” Mr. Bottlesby said. “Well-spoken, for all that she's a scullery maid. Even their voices and inflections are similar. I tell you, she can do it.”
“Do what?” Jane asked with a sinking feeling in her gut.
“Perpetrate fraud on the ton of London,” Mr. Roskin said stonily, his already pasty complexion fading to the color of day-old suet. “And if you are discovered, I assure you, no one will dismiss it as a childish prank.”
Chapter Two
“I'll not be party to fraud,” the infuriating maid said with the primness of a bluestocking.
“It's rather too late for such scruples, don't you think? You've already committed the offense more than once,” Humphrey Roskin said. If he could put a bit of fear into her before she agreed to do his bidding, so much the better. Terrified people were always so much easier to manipulate. “If I choose to report your activity, the fact that you were younger when you impersonated Lady Sybil will not matter to the magistrate.”
Roskin had learned intimidation from a master— Lord Somerville himself. .
The earl had threatened Roskin before he left for a season of leisurely hunting at his country estate.
“I want my daughter safely betrothed by Christmas to a gentleman of no small means,” Somerville had demanded. “Do not fail me in this enterprise, sir, or I'll see you transported to New South Wales on the next packet on the charge of embezzlement!”
The earl suspected Roskin had helped himself to the Somerville coffers, but could prove nothing. Still, if a peer of the realm accused him, Roskin would stand condemned.
Justly, too, he admitted to himself. So far all Lord Somerville had was doubt and conjecture. Roskin was satisfied he'd covered his trail well enough that the missing funds would never be found. But he was in no hurry to be shuffled off to a wretched penal colony. So he had convinced Lord Somerville that a wealthy son-in-law was the answer to all his problems.
Then Lord Somerville had made finding that wealthy son-in-law Roskin's problem.
“Sir, I've no wish to be difficult,” Jane said, calling Roskin back to his present predicament. “But what does Lady Sybil say to this?”
“We have no idea where she is,” Mr. Bottlesby admitted softly.
“Or how much of a head start she has this time,” Roskin added. What does one wear in New South Wales this time of year?
“Last one to see her was Agnes, very early this morning,” Mr. Bottlesby said. “Lady Sybil rang you around six, didn't you say, girl?”
Agnes nodded mutely.
Roskin consulted his pocket watch. Half past ten. The little vixen had several hours on them.
“Milady called for a bath, then demanded privacy.” Bottlesby mopped his brow with an impeccably white handkerchief. “Agnes said she wanted to take her time with her ablutions.”
Roskin glared at the upstairs maid. Giving Agnes another tongue-lashing might ease his frustration, but it would accomplish nothing.
“A proposal of marriage is a special occasion, she said.” Bottlesby popped his knuckles nervously. “Lady Sybil told Agnes she wished to make the most of it.”
“Which she has obviously done.” Roskin leaned out the open window and peered down again. A gnarly oak with sturdy limbs near the casements had provided an admirable ladder. Fresh footprints marred the snow at the base of the tree's trunk, then dotted the white lawn in a beeline to the busy St. James Street. Lady Sybil could have hailed a hansom and might be anywhere by now.
Boil the wallaby stew! That passage to Australia was looking more certain by the minute.
“She left the betrothal portrait,” Bottlesby said, waving a hand toward the shrouded canvas on an easel in the corner. “We may be getting ahead of ourselves here. Perhaps this is just a bit of high spirits, what? Lady Sybil must mean to return in time for the ball. Perhaps Jane won't actually be needed.”
Roskin eyed the covered canvas. No one had seen the portrait on which Giovanni Brunello had labored in secret for the past six months.
“Art,” the Italian master had declared with much r-rolling, “must bloom in seclusion before it is thrust into the cold light of the oh-so-critical world's eyes.”
Six months. Personally, Mr. Roskin was impressed that the smooth-talking foreigner had managed to make Lady Sybil sit still that long.
He strode to the canvas and pulled off the sheeting.
Bottlesby and the two maids gasped.
The rendering was a perfect likeness of Lord Somerville's daughter, and if Roskin weren't so upset he'd have to admit it was also a dead ringer for the scullery maid. Chestnut hair framed her oval face in soft curls. Brunello had captured Sybil's laughing hazel eyes, and a sly grin tugged at her too-thin-for-fashion lips. There was no hint of artistic flattery in the representation of her features. Which meant Lady Sybil must also possess carnation-sized br**sts with pert pink n**ples, a slightly rounded belly and a tuft of curling dark hair at the juncture of her long legs.
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” Bottlesby chanted.
That was not the first sentiment that sprang to Roskin's mind, but he bit his lip to keep the expletive from spewing out.
At least Australia's supposed to be warm this time of year.
There was a cream-colored envelope on the ledge of the easel.
Roskin ripped it open and read the missive silently. Bottlesby continued to murmur, “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”
Roskin’s neck heated. By now it must be the same shade of scarlet as the sealing wax the blasted girl had used on the letter.
“It's official. She's run off with Brunello,” Roskin said.
Bottlesby turned to go. “I'll form a search party.”
Roskin caught him by the arm. “You'll do no such thing. We have no idea where to look, and we must proceed with discretion. If we raise a hue and cry, it will make no difference, even if we should find her in time. The damage will already be done in the minds of the ton.”
“Oh, yes, quite. I take your meaning, sir.”
Bottlesby bobbed his head like a sparrow, but truly, he had no idea. Scandal might be weathered if one were well connected, which Lord Somerville was. Or well moneyed, which he was not. But worse than scandal, the impending betrothal would certainly be called off. If that happened, Lord Somerville faced financial ruin.
And Humphrey Roskin would face ruin of his own.
It should have been so easy. When Lord Somerville had introduced him to Lady Sybil, Roskin had been quick to name her a marketable asset.
He revised his assessment in short order.
Lady Sybil might be fine to look upon, but her acerbic tongue and mettlesome temper quickly overbalanced her attributes. She belonged on the London stage, not before a gentleman's hearth.
Yet Roskin had managed to wangle a match for her with Viscount Eddleton. A wealthy young gentleman with excellent prospects, since his uncle, the Duke of Pemworthy, was languishing in the last stages of consumption and had no son to inherit his title. Eddleton might be called "His Grace" before the next Season was out.
Arranging the match would smooth over Lord Somerville's suspicions and secure his enduring goodwill.
And his daughter's enduring wrath. Sybil despised having her fiancé chosen for her.
“We haven't much time.” Roskin dragged a hand over his face, causing his jowls to droop more than usual. Lord Somerville was driving in from his country house to escort his daughter to the annual Christmas Ball hosted by the Marquess and Marchioness Hartwell. There'd be hell to pay when he discovered Roskin hadn't been able to keep Sybil from folly. “If the lady doesn't appear at Lord Hartwell's ball, she may as well not ever show her face in London society again.”
“Then Lady Sybil must attend,” the scullery maid declared. “I assume you wish me to go in her place.”
“Splendid,” Mr. Bottlesby said, a tight-lipped smile slicing his face like a spade mark across a potato. “Now it's only for tonight, you understand.”
Roskin's head jerked at that. “Maybe not. Who knows when we'll find the real Lady Sybil? This pretty deception may stretch into weeks.”
Or months. Or years. If Sybil really wanted to run off with her artistic lover to Italy or some other outlandish place, they might never find her.
And good riddance!
“You'll have to accept Lord Eddleton's suit,” Roskin said. “He's planning to propose to Lady Sybil tonight.”
The girl went pale as chalk. “I thought I'd only have to dance a few sets and make small talk. Then maybe plead a headache and leave early. I couldn't possibly fool Lady Sybil's fiancé.”
“I don't see why not. They've never even spoken. This is an arranged match,” Roskin explained. His arranged match, and no one, least of all a scullery maid, was going to muck things up. “The paperwork's been drawn up. The proposal is merely for form's sake.”
“Still, a woman wants to accept her own proposal of marriage,” Jane said. “I don't think—”
“We don't need you to think. Good God! It's a woman's featherheaded thinking that's got us into this mess!” Roskin said, mentally cursing the absent Sybil. “You only need do as you're told.”
Jane stood straighter and looked him squarely in the eye.
Blast and damn! She did favor Lady Sybil out of all knowing. The resemblance was uncanny.
“No.” Her voice was quiet but firm.
“No?” Roskin's brows shot skyward.
“No,” she repeated, louder this time.