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  Double Masquerade

  By

  Lucy Muir

  Fine Lace Books

  Published by Second Wind Publishing, LLC.

  Kernersville

  Fine Lace Books

  Second Wind Publishing, LLC

  931-B South Main Street, Box 145

  Kernersville, NC 27284

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any event, locale or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2014 by Lucy Muir

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.

  First Fine Lace Books edition published

  June 2014

  Fine Lace Books, Running Angel, and all production design are trademarks of Second Wind Publishing, used under license.

  For information regarding bulk purchases of this book, digital purchase and special discounts, please contact the publisher at www.secondwindpublishing.com

  Cover design by Stacy Castanedo

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-63066-002-4

  This book is dedicated to my father, Charles Moore, for his unfailing encouragement, and to my friend and nonfiction coauthor, Kathy Smith.

  Chapter One

  “I have this moment determined upon the gentleman I shall marry,” Catherine Trevor announced to her aunt, Lady Manning, as they sat together in the breakfast room on a fine June morning. Catherine lowered her copy of the latest Gentleman’s Magazine that she might better observe her aunt’s reaction. “He is Lord Edgecombe; the Marquess of Edgecombe, Earl of Northcliffe, Baron Pickering,” she stated impressively.

  “Indeed! That is news, as I had no suspicion marriage was in your thoughts, given that you have refused several eligible suitors. Might I enquire what considerations have led you to this unexpected and momentous decision?” Lady Manning asked dryly, raising her eyes from the correspondence she was perusing over her morning cup of chocolate. Seeing her niece was inclined to talk, the older woman removed her spectacles and settled back in her chair, hands folded on her lavender skirts.

  “What considerations, Aunt Manning? I see from this obituary that Lord Edgecombe attained the marquessate at the age of eight-and-thirty upon his father’s recent demise, that he is still unmarried, and,” Catherine intoned as she imparted the last of her reasons, “he is to proceed to Ellsworth Hall for the August hunting after his period of deep mourning is past.”

  “Most practical considerations,” Lady Manning agreed, watching Catherine for any sign her niece was teasing. “A marquess in residence at a neighbor’s estate bids fair to be accessible. But might I ask what leads you to believe the marquess will be of like mind?”

  “Regarding what does Miss Trevor believe I am of like mind?” asked a tall gentleman of middle years as he entered the drawing room unannounced, the assurance and ease of a lifelong acquaintance apparent in his manner. His garb of carefully tailored riding dress—wide-cuffed cutaway coat, plain buff waistcoat, and dark brown knee breeches—proclaimed the country gentleman, yet there was an understated elegance in the frills of his shirtsleeves and the lace of the jabot below the simple muslin stock that hinted at a more cosmopolitan past.

  “Lady Manning,” he greeted the older woman with a bow, “Miss Trevor,” he added with another bow to Catherine. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled a chair out from the table and sat, looking questioningly at the elder lady.

  “Catherine was not speaking of you, Lord Woodforde, but of another marquess,” Lady Manning elucidated as she tucked a stray grey lock back under her mob-cap. “My niece informs me she has determined this very moment upon the gentleman she will marry, and it so chances he is also a marquess.”

  “Indeed,” Woodforde said with a lift of his dark eyebrows. “May I ask the name of the favoured gentleman?” he asked, turning to the fair-haired younger woman.

  “Lord Edgecombe,” Catherine answered, meeting Lord Woodforde’s brown eyes with a level gaze from her green ones. “Marquess of Edgecombe, Earl of Northcliffe, Baron Pickering, to be precise. He is to arrive at Ellsworth Hall for the opening of hunting season in mid-August. I shall never have a better opportunity to fix a gentleman’s interest.”

  “Other than mine,” Lord Woodforde corrected with an amused smile. “Are you once again in need of reassurance as to your continuing desirability despite your advanced years, Miss Trevor? I shall be glad to be of service.”

  With a single flowing movement he slid from the ladder-backed mahogany chair and lowered himself to one knee by Catherine’s side, taking her hand in his. “My dear Miss Trevor, you cannot be unaware of the high esteem in which I have always held you, given I have sought your hand in marriage a half-score times upon previous occasions. However, I remain undaunted. I beg you to relent and do me the honour of becoming my wife.”

  Catherine, avoiding Lord Woodforde’s eyes, but unwilling to be rude enough to look away, focused on her neighbor’s unpowdered but neatly clubbed brown hair as the marquess bent his head to kiss the back of her hand. What ill-luck the marquess had arrived in time to hear her words to Lady Manning, Catherine thought to herself. Although they had been friends and neighbors all her life, at times Lord Woodforde vexed her when he insisted on taking her concerns lightly. Disliking his teasing at a time she was disposed to be in earnest, she made no answer.

  “She speaks not! Perhaps I have not properly expressed myself. Oh most adorable divine lady of my heart, rescue me from the torments of unrequited love and accept my hand in marriage,” Lord Woodforde pleaded in ardent tones, raising his head and placing his right over his heart while the left still clasped her hand, the wide-cuffed coat sleeve resting on her full blue muslin skirts.

  “You are making yourself ridiculous,” Catherine retorted as Lady Manning sniggered in an unladylike manner, her amusement at her niece’s discombobulation evident. Irritated, Catherine withdrew her hand from Lord Woodforde’s and tapped her foot in vexation at his failure to receive her announcement with proper gravity.

  “That is not the correct form for declining a gentleman’s offer,” Lord Woodforde reprimanded Catherine as he rose from his position at her feet and resumed his chair. “You should inform me how highly honored you are, and that you deeply regret the necessity of refusing me once again. Although, Faith! It is understandable, given I am only the Marquess of Woodforde, Viscount Darrow. Not to be compared to a marquess who is also an earl and baron.”

  Lady Manning laughed aloud, much diverted, and Catherine frowned at them both. “Tease me if you will,” she said with a lift of her head, “but I have determined that if I do not take the matter of finding a husband and establishment into my own hands I shall die a spinster. I am nine-and-twenty, near a score and ten years! Papa’s fear of the roads with carriage accidents and highwaymen keeps us here at Rosemont year-round, and there are no eligible gentlemen of an age, neither among our neighbors nor in Moreton.”

  “That is not quite true, Miss Trevor, for in addition to myself I believe young Mr. Ellsworth has shown interest in you, and I seem to recall a refusal made to Mr. Stone some years ago,” Woodforde reminded Catherine. “The eldest son of a baron is not to be despised, nor yet a gentleman of the church.”

  “Oh, fie, Woodforde!” Catherine responded, her irritation with both her friend and her aunt increasing, “Mr. Ellsworth is a macaroni of the first order as well you know, and I have no desire to be bound to a gentleman whose
interest in matters of dress exceeds mine. As for the reverend Mr. Stone, I doubt I would have made quite as good a vicar’s wife as has the former Miss Applequist. Nor could I truly hold Mr. Stone in proper esteem as a vicar after his attempts to embrace my person outside the assembly rooms at one year’s Hunt Ball.”

  “Did he now?” Lord Woodforde asked interestedly. “Our parson has a boldness I did not previously suspect. I trust you informed him his caresses were unwelcome? Although one might ask why you were outside the assembly rooms with the vicar.”

  Catherine’s frown deepened, lines creasing her high forehead. “Lord Woodforde, I would trust you to grant me better discretion than to dally with a vicar at a Hunt Ball!” she remonstrated. “I had but gone outside a moment to escape the growing revelry and Mr. Stone followed me.”

  Lord Woodforde dropped his teasing manner. “You have always seemed content enough here at Rosemont with your father and Lady Manning and your interests in the gardens, the estate, your music, friends, and the local circle of the Bluestocking Society you instituted. What is your reason for such haste?”

  “I am not dissatisfied with my life here,” Catherine admitted, looking around the comfortable breakfast room with its mahogany gate-leg table and Chippendale chairs. Narrow gold trim edged walls papered in plain colours, and festoon curtains of ivory damask draped the east-facing windows, framing a magnificent view of the famed Rosemont gardens, currently in their June glory. “But I have realized that were my brother to succeed my father’s title before I wed, I should most likely end my days living here raising his ill-mannered brood while his lady wife sighs and recounts the details of the multiple ills that prevent her from the task.”

  “I see,” Woodforde commented. “Your brother’s recent visit to Rosemont Park with his family must have raised these concerns in your mind. Methinks, my dear, you have allowed a temporary irritation to spur you to an ill-considered remedy. Have you thought, Miss Trevor, that Lord Edgecombe—marquess though he may be—might be old, fat, gross or foolish in his manner, or perhaps even another macaroni such as the very Mr. Ellsworth you despise for his excessive attention to dress?”

  “Or he might be of unkind disposition, Catherine,” her aunt interjected. “I do believe that is the worst of faults. You would do better, niece, to take Lord Woodforde as husband. He is at least a known quantity.”

  “I know Lord Edgecombe’s age to be eight-and-thirty, but I must confess the other possibilities had not occurred to me,” Catherine replied, looking much struck by the cautions. She sat in silence a moment as she contemplated their words. “Should the marquess prove to be fat or a macaroni I must bear with it, but should he prove to be gross, foolish, or unkind, well, then I must reconsider your offer, Lord Woodforde,” Catherine pronounced after due consideration.

  “I shall remember those words,” Woodforde promised with a smile. “Such over-mastering passion for my person must lie behind them! But I ask you again, what is your haste to make a match? It cannot be your looks, for aged though you may feel, the years have touched lightly upon you,” the marquess pronounced with an admiring look at Catherine. Although faint lines could be discerned at the corners of her green eyes, her complexion was still fine and the golden lights in her fair hair undimmed.

  “It was seeing this notice,” Catherine answered, pointing to the open page of the June 1784 Gentleman’s Magazine that lay where she had set it down on the breakfast table. “One must seize opportunity when it comes. Lord Edgecombe is to arrive here this autumn. The country, country styles, country pursuits, are in fashion at the moment, but one never knows when they will go out of fashion again and few gentlemen will find their way this far from London.”

  “There are times,” Lady Manning interjected, “that I might wish you read less of the Gentleman’s Magazine, niece. Barely two months past a piece about the history of hot air ballooning had you planning your own ascent, earlier this very morning another article had you deciding to obtain a hare as a companion, and now an obituary has you planning your imminent betrothal.”

  “We have discussed balloon ascents, but a hare as a companion?” Woodforde asked with interest. “That is most unusual.”

  “Yes,” Catherine replied, distracted from her marriage concerns. She picked up the magazine and leafed through the pages. “Ah, here it is. Page 412. It is penned by a gentleman who presents himself as ‘W.C.’ He describes his experiences with keeping hares in his house in great detail. They sound the most delightful creatures,” she commented, folding the magazine to display the piece in question and handing it to Lord Woodforde, “In future I misdoubt I shall be able to partake of one at the dinner table.”

  Woodforde scanned the first paragraphs. “Most interesting indeed,” he commented, returning the magazine to Catherine. “I can tell you that ‘W.C.’ is William Cowper; I have encountered his work before and this is very much in his style. I have not yet had the leisure to peruse my copy of this month’s magazine, but I shall make a point of reading it later. Cowper is a thoughtful and discerning gentleman whose essays and poems I have read with pleasure.

  “But now, much as I would like to stay and continue these most interesting discussions, I must take my leave. I am on my way to Moreton this morning to attend to some business and after that I must ride out and see some of my tenants. I only stopped to bid you good morning on my way to speak to Lord Trevor about a problem in my brew house.” He stood, shoving the chair back to the table. “Lady Manning, Miss Trevor,” he said with a bow. “I bid you good day.”

  “Lord Woodforde, good morning,” Catherine and her aunt replied in unison.

  Lady Manning looked after their neighbor with a thoughtful expression as he left the drawing room. “Woodforde has a fine address and a fine figure,” she commented to her niece as the marquess’s tall form receded down the hall. “You could do much worse than accept his offer if you are truly determined to marry.”

  “My dear aunt!” Catherine exclaimed. “You know well that his offers are but jests. Woodforde would be quite discomposed should I accept,” she added, smiling at the picture the thought conjured up. “He is so excessively devoted to the memory of Lady Woodforde that I doubt he will ever truly consider putting another in her place. Nor would I desire the task of trying to live up to his memory of his first wife’s perfections, even should he someday determine to marry to give his daughter a mother. I always felt quite the schoolgirl in Lady Woodforde’s elegant and assured presence.”

  “You could still do much worse than choose Lord Woodforde as a husband,” Lady Manning insisted. “Whether he makes the offers half in jest or no, he would marry you should you accept. And you cannot accuse his daughter of being ill-behaved, although I must agree with you that I find your brother’s children to be so.

  “Perhaps,” Lady Manning mused, “I should have tried harder to persuade my brother to agree to your having a season in London when you were of an age. I confess I had little inclination for it myself, but perhaps I may have done you and your mother’s memory a greater disservice than I comprehended at the time. Had you had a London Season, no doubt you would have made a creditable match years ago.”

  “Do not trouble yourself, Aunt,” Catherine assured Lady Manning as she poured herself a second cup of chocolate, “I had no desire for a season in London. Perhaps I was deficient in womanly graces, but the thought of having to endure sitting for hours every afternoon while my hair was prepared in the elaborate styles that were then de rigueur was insupportable to me. I cannot express how happy I am that those hair dressings have gone the way of hoops these past few years and are no longer necessary except for formal occasions.”

  “I must agree with you there, niece, as I too disliked hoops and those elaborate head dressings,” Lady Manning said with fervour. “A turban is much simpler and more becoming to a woman of my years, I think.

  “But, Catherine, it remains that you did not make a match during your youth. Should you still hold to your determination
to marry Lord Edgecombe after meeting him, bringing him to the point may not be as simple as you envision,” Lady Manning cautioned. “Even should he prove to be fat or a macaroni, do not think you will be without rivals. Undoubtedly Miss Louisa Ellsworth will undoubtedly have her own plans for an unattached marquess residing at her father’s home.”

  “Yes, and do not forget Miss Amy Applequist and Miss Stillington-Fyfe.” Catherine added, referring to two other young women of marriageable age living in the vicinity. “I realise it will not be a simple task to attach Lord Edgecombe’s interest, but I must try. I cannot make myself less than my nine-and-twenty years, but I have some advantages. I can at least afford some new gowns.

  “Aunt Manning,” Catherine said with sudden resolution, “I must go to Moreton this very morning and see about ordering a new wardrobe. Shall you come with me?”

  “Do you stop at Moreton Manor to call upon Mrs. Turner?”

  “But of course!” Catherine said as she rose from her chair, her spirits rising at the thought of seeing her closest friend, “and I have no doubt you will find Lady Ashe there as well. I believe Lady Ashe spends more time at her daughter’s home than her own. She quite dotes upon her grandchildren. Would that my brother’s were as well-behaved!” Catherine added with heartfelt emphasis.

  “I shall order the landau brought round,” Lady Manning said, picking up her letters as she also rose from the table. “If you are going to the haberdasher’s you will no doubt have parcels to convey home.”

  Moreton Manor, the home of Squire Turner, was a well-situated if modestly sized house, located near town but yet far enough away for a good-sized orchard and adequate woods for game. Catherine’s childhood friend, Sarah Ashe, daughter of Baron Ashe, had married the squire, and although the life she led as Mrs. Turner did not compare to what her life had been as the daughter of a baron, she had never regretted the match.

  “Lady Manning, Miss Trevor,” Mrs. Turner greeted her friends formally as they entered the hall, taking Catherine’s hands in hers and pressing them in her delight at the visit. “Lady Manning, you will find my mother in the nursery with the children. I am certain she will be delighted to have your company.”