A Mistletoe Masquerade

About the Author

LOUISE ALLEN has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember, and finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past. Louise lives in Bedfordshire and works as a property manager, but spends as much time as possible with her husband at the cottage they are renovating on the north Norfolk coast, or travelling abroad. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations. Please visit Louise’s website – www.louiseallenregency.co.uk – for the latest news!

Dear Reader,

Upstairs and downstairs in the Regency household mirrored each other in numerous ways – although, of the two, downstairs was possibly the more rigid and stratified. And while the domestic staff had to think about their employers and their guests every minute of their working day, the privileged inhabitants of the upstairs world could go about their lives blissfully unconcerned about what the staff thought of them.

Lucas and Rowan think they know what is best for their friends and intend to set their love lives straight by plunging into the looking-glass world below stairs. I hope you enjoy their Christmas masquerade as they battle with the mysteries of the brushing room and the boot cupboard, the etiquette of Pug’s Parlour, the formalities of the Servants Ball and the mortifying insight into the servants’-eye view of their masters’ lives.

Their love affair seems doomed by circumstance, but this is Christmas after all, and under the mistletoe wishes can come true.

Louise

A Mistletoe Masquerade

Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

December 12th 1816

‘YOUR stepmother expects you to marry a murderer?’ Lady Rowan Chilcourt stared at her white-faced friend. ‘I go away for two years and when I come back I find you meekly allowing yourself to be led to the slaughter like some lamb?’

‘Slaughter? Oh, do not say such things, Rowan! And how can I prevent it?’ Miss Maylin turned even paler, although how that was physically possible it was hard to see. ‘We do not know he is a murderer—surely he is not—but the stories are alarming, and Lord Danescroft—Oh, Rowan, if you could only see him for yourself—he is bleak, unsmiling, utterly sinister.’

‘You must say no,’ Rowan retorted as she paced, the skirts of her Parisian carriage dress swaying. This was so typical of Penny: she was the sweetest, most loyal friend anyone could hope for, but she was painfully shy and utterly incapable of saying boo to a goose, let alone to a formidable creature like Lady Maylin. And what Penny’s stepmother lacked in breeding she more than made up for in sheer bullying determination.

‘I cannot decline, for he has not yet proposed. I have not even met him—not face to face. I have only seen him from a distance at receptions during the Season. Not that he stayed very long when he did come. And he never talks to people. Or dances,’ she added plaintively. ‘Or smiles.’

‘I read about his wife’s death at the time.’ Rowan frowned, trying to recall the stories she had perused. Acting as hostess to her father Lord Chilcourt, in the midst of the glamour of the Congress of Vienna, had been an engrossing whirl of activity far removed from the sedate and regulated pleasures a single lady of twenty-four might enjoy in London. The English news had seemed far away and alien.

Even so, Lady Danescroft’s death had been a sensational and scandalous mystery, and as well as lingering on the horrid details of how she had been found by the butler at the foot of the servants’ stair, with her neck broken, the reports had been full of veiled hints and coded phrases. Lady Danescroft had been ‘lively’, ‘well-known amidst the younger set’, and famed for her ‘wide circle of friends of both sexes’.

The Earl of Danescroft had apparently shown no emotion at either the inquest or the funeral, had declined to speculate upon why his wife should have been on the servants’ stair at all in the middle of the night, and had simply become chillier and more abrupt on the subject as time went on.

‘Are they really saying he killed her?’ Rowan demanded. ‘The papers were full of innuendo, but nothing about an outright accusation, let alone a trial.’

‘Not exactly.’ Penny frowned. ‘They say that it is very strange he does nothing to rebut the rumours. He did not go into mourning for her. And—’ she blushed ‘—they say he dismissed his valet the very next day, and the valet was very good-looking.’

‘He did not murder the valet as well, then?’ Rowan asked, half joking.

‘No! Oh, Rowan, do be serious for a moment.’ Penelope dragged a curtain closed to hide the swirling snow outside. ‘I am sure—well, almost sure—he is not a murderer. He’s an earl, for goodness’ sake. But he looks haunted by dark thoughts, seems plunged in gloom, and they say his small daughter is kept locked up all the time. Poor little mite.’ She sat down, dragging a shawl around the shoulders of her gown. Rowan noticed it was at least one Season out of fashion, and not the work of a leading modiste, either. ‘How could I marry a man like that?’

‘He sounds like the villain of a gothic sensation novel. But one has to admit it would be an astonishingly good match,’ Rowan pointed out, sitting down in a flurry of fine merino skirts with considerably more grace than her friend. ‘You will forgive me being frank, but—’

‘I am one of the unimportant Maylins,’ Penny interrupted, nodding in agreement. ‘I know. We have all sorts of grand distant connections, but we haven’t any money—and no pretensions either. At least,’ she added scrupulously, ‘we had none until Papa married again.’

They were silent for a minute, contemplating the ambitions of the second Lady Maylin. If she had thought that by marrying a second cousin of the Duke of Farthinghoe she would be catapulted into High Society she had soon been comprehensively disillusioned. But that did not stop her from trying.

‘So why should the Earl’s eye alight upon you?’

‘My godmother is the grandmother of Lord Danescroft. Apparently she has persuaded him that he must remarry for the sake of his motherless daughter and to get himself an heir.’

‘Yes, but you—’

‘I know. I haven’t any looks or money, I’m so shy I go scarlet if a man speaks to me, and I have just had a disastrous Season,’ Penelope catalogued with ruthless honesty. ‘If I looked like you, Rowan—if I had your spirit—I could understand it.’

‘They want a doormat because no one else of breeding will have him,’ Rowan said grimly. There was no point in trying to persuade Penny that she was a beauty. She was not. She had mouse-brown hair, a figure that at the kindest could be called slight, and was so self-effacing it was a wonder anyone noticed her at all. She was also sweet-tempered, caring, wonderful with children and the most loyal of friends. None of these endearing characteristics was of the slightest value in the Marriage Mart, of course.

‘Yes. And because I am such a doormat I know I will say yes if he asks me. No one will support me. Godmama has arranged for me to be invited to the Christmas house party at Tollesbury Court. He will be there, too, and he is going to propose.’

‘What if he does not think you will suit?’ Rowan asked. ‘They might be able to bully you, but surely not him? Earls can do what they like.’

‘Godmama says she has already discussed me with him and he says I sound eminently suitable. She says he is tired of all this horrid gossip and wants a sensible young woman who will not treat him to vapours and who will get on with running the house and looking after the child.’ Penny sighed. ‘It sounds very dreary: I wonder he does not simply hire a superior governess and a housekeeper.’

‘Because they won’t give him a male heir,’ Rowan pointed out with brutal honesty. ‘There must be something wrong with him if his wife was driven to taking the valet as a lover. Perhaps he beat her? Perhaps he squandered her marriage portion? Surely your papa would not force you if such things were the case?’

‘No, he would not. But he says I am being hysterical about the mysterious death, and I cannot get him to see that I have taken Lord Danescroft in complete abhorrence.’

‘Then we must find out something to the Earl’s discredit. Then you will have a logical reason that your father cannot but see is an obstacle to your happiness.’ They fell silent, gazing into the fire. Rowan stretched out a hand and picked up a buttered teacake, biting into it as though into his lordship. ‘Is your stepmother to accompany you?’

‘No. Godmama said that would be certain to put Lord Danescroft’s back up and that she will chaperon me. Even Papa was forced to agree, given what a good match it would be. Stepmama was furious.’

Rowan licked butter off her fingers and pondered the idea that had crept, fully formed, into her head. ‘Remind me who your godmother is.’

‘Lady Rolesby.’

‘Hmm. She has not seen me since before I went to Vienna with Papa. I doubt she would recognise me now—nor would anyone else, come to that.’

‘No,’ Penny agreed. ‘For you have grown so much. You were pretty before, Rowan, and you are truly beautiful now. But what has that to do with anything?’

Rowan ignored the compliment: Penny had always admired her vivid looks. ‘Why, I shall go as your dresser. The servants always know everything—I will hear all the gossip, investigate Lord Danescroft and prove how unsuitable he is for you!’

‘Oh, Rowan!’ Penelope’s unremarkable face lit up. ‘Would you? Could you? I don’t expect there is anything to find out about him really, but it would be so wonderful to have someone with me to confide in. But what are your plans for Christmas? Surely your father cannot have intended for you to simply go home alone?’

‘No, Aunt Moore in Yorkshire is expecting me.’ Rowan grimaced. ‘I will write and tell her I have been invited to a house party full of eligible young men and she will be delighted. My handwriting can be atrocious if I try—she will not be able to read where we are going.’

‘I am supposed to leave in ten days. Is that enough time, do you think?’

‘To learn to be a dresser? Surely it must be? How hard can it be?’

‘Miss Maylin? You cannot be serious—have you met her mother?’ Lucas Dacre, Viscount Stoneley, crossed one booted foot over the other and stared at his friend. ‘She’s the most vulgar, scheming creature in creation.’

‘Stepmother, I understand. But how do you know her? You’ve hardly been back in the country ten days.’ The Earl of Danescroft raised an eyebrow. It was the greatest show of emotion he had exhibited since he had wrung Lucas’s hand three days before. Lucas kept his own face bland, hiding his anxiety at the change in his friend. The last time he had seen him, five years before, he had been his groomsman and had danced at his wedding.

Now Will was gaunt, unsmiling, his expressive brown eyes shuttered, and all the joy had gone out of him. It was hardly surprising: Lucas had spent several hours at his club, buried in the newspaper archives, familiarising himself with the scandal Will obviously had no wish to speak about.

He had not been surprised to discover that Belle had proved to be as careless with her husband’s heart and honour as she had with his money. He had tried to hint at her character when he had seen Will becoming attached—it had led to the only row they had ever had and he had held his peace from then on. I told you so was not going to be helpful now.

‘I went to a reception at Fotheringham’s last night. Frightful bore, but I promised Mama I’d look them up when I was in Town. Lady Maylin was such a sight—all purple satin and plumes and vulgarity—that I asked who she was. Then I overheard her in loud conversation with her cronies. Such a catch she had engineered for her dear Penelope. Such wealth, such a lineage. I removed myself—if I had known she was talking about you I would have stayed longer behind my potted fern.’

The Earl grimaced. ‘My grandmother has assured me she will not be invited to Tollesbury.’

‘Your grandmother, if you will pardon my saying so, must be all about in the head if she thinks a daughter of that house will be suitable for you.’ Or deserving of you, Lucas thought bitterly. Will needed someone to love him, not a gold-digging nonentity who just happened to be sufficiently on the shelf to swallow the scandal in return for the title and the wealth.

‘I am assured Miss Maylin is not at all like her stepmother. And she is apparently good with children. Louisa needs a mother.’ Will might have been describing the appointment of a governess. There was no animation in his voice, no emotion.

Lucas felt the anger stirring inside him. This was the friend who had always seemed to be laughing, the man who had helped him out of scrapes more numerous than he could count. His best friend—the brother he had never had—who deserved someone to cherish him, someone to bring the laughter back. Someone to thaw his heart.

‘And if she proves not to be what she is reported to be?’ he asked harshly.

‘Then I would not offer for her.’ Will looked surprised he needed to ask. ‘I cannot settle for anyone who would not be a suitable mother for Louisa.’ He shook his head. ‘But there is no fear of that: I trust my grandmother’s opinion.’

‘I’m going with you.’ Damn it, all he can think about is whether his new wife will make a good mother to the child. What about himself? Wasn’t he hurt enough last time?

‘But you haven’t been invited.’ Then Will shrugged. ‘No doubt it will be easy for you to secure an invitation. Even though you’ve been in the West Indies all this time no one will have forgotten you. And they will be unsurprised to see you again, now you have come into the title.’

‘They’ll have forgotten me sufficiently not to recognise me, I hope. At least so long as they see me where they would not expect to.’ Lucas smiled, flexing his fingers. He imagined them curling around Miss Maylin’s greedy little throat, but he kept his tone amused. ‘I shall go as your valet, Will—below stairs they know all about their masters’ and mistresses’ dirty linen, and I’ll wager are more than willing to gossip about it. After a few days there I’ll know every secret your Miss Maylin has to hide, believe me. And if Perrott will entrust me with his blacking recipe, you’ll have a decent shine on your boots into the bargain.’

Ten days later

It was important to remember one’s place. Miss Maylin’s dresser, a young lady calling herself Daisy Lawrence, clutched the morocco jewel case to her midriff and stood amidst the shabby valises and the old trunk that made up her mistress’s luggage. In front of her the dressers serving Lady Meredith Hughes and the Honourable Miss Geraldine Mather were already supervising the footmen. The impressive sets of matching luggage in their care were carried up the stairs to the guest bedchambers with respectful attention.

They had arrived after she had, but here at Tollesbury Court, as everywhere in polite society, servants took the precedence accorded to their employers. Miss Penelope Maylin was very far down the social ladder indeed, which meant that her dresser waited with patience until her betters had been attended to.

Fires blazed in the hearths facing each other across the flagged floor at the other end of the vast baronial hall. You could have roasted an ox in either, Daisy thought, but at this end of the chamber Cook might safely store the evening’s ices and jellies with no fear of them melting. Her toes in their jean half boots were frozen, and she could only be thankful that she did not suffer from chilblains. Yet.

Between the fires the guests were being greeted by their hosts and passed on to the care of the Groom of the Chambers, who was organising footmen to lead them to their rooms. It all took time, and a knot of people formed between the hearths while they shed cloaks and muffs and chatted amongst themselves. There, too, rank was plain. Miss Maylin stood uncomfortably close to the heat, too meek to dodge around the formidable bulk of an older lady who was determined to get as close to her hosts as possible.

Penny—Miss Penelope, Daisy corrected herself—was roasting, whilst she was freezing. At this rate she was not going to be upstairs in time to have anything unpacked by the time Miss Penelope got to her room, desperate for a change of clothing and a cup of tea. On top of that, hairpins were sticking into her scalp, her head ached from the severity of her braided hairstyle, and she was as badly in need of that tea as her mistress. But it would surely be her turn next: the other women were vanishing upstairs, dressing cases in hand, without a backward glance at their humble colleague.

There was a stir near the front door, another draught of icy air around Daisy’s ankles, and footmen bearing down on her with yet more luggage. Shiny, expensive luggage. Lots of it. Drat. Fuming, she stood aside to let all six of them past. And sauntering along in their wake, a handsome dressing case in hand, was an individual Daisy had no hesitation in recognising as a very superior valet indeed.

He was tall, he was dark, he was lean, and he moved not like a man who spent his life polishing boots and arranging neck cloths, but like one who was at home in the saddle. He was unsmiling, his regular features handsome enough if you liked that sort of thing, she thought critically, watching from the side of the stairs. Then he saw her. Daisy frowned as a pair of deep blue eyes swept over her from head to foot in a comprehensive and very male assessment. Impertinent wretch! Her lips were parted as she almost spoke the set-down aloud, and then in the nick of time she remembered who and where she was.

Her teeth snapped shut, catching the tip of her tongue painfully. Eyes watering, Daisy stood in fulminating silence as the valet passed. And then he winked at her. Nothing else on his face moved except for that one lid, and then he was vanishing up the stairs, long legs taking them two at a time.

She had just been winked at by a valet. A valet! It was the outside of enough. And this would be just the start. She had half a mind to—

‘This all there is, then?’ Six foot of liveried footman was standing at her elbow. ‘Where’s yours?’ She pointed to a pair of even more battered valises. His lip curled. ‘Right, then. Jim, you take those up to miss’s room in the North Turret and we’ll take the others. For some reason,’ he added over his shoulder as they climbed, ‘your mistress has got the Pink Suite. Very nice, too. Seems a bit odd, though—one of the best suites in the place and she’s no one much, is she? Still, I expect they’ve got their reasons.’

Yes, they have indeed, Daisy thought grimly as she followed. And it will take more than some pink suite to ensnare poor Penny in their plans if I’ve got anything to do with it. Impertinent upper servants and chilblains must be endured. This was all her own idea, but she knew who to blame for it. Oh, yes indeed. The Earl of Danescroft was going to regret the day he decided that Miss Maylin would make a conformable and grateful wife.

CHAPTER TWO

‘ROWAN, this is going to be ghastly!’ Penelope cast herself down on the chaise and fumbled blindly in her reticule for a handkerchief. Her cheeks were unbecomingly flushed from the heat of the great fire and her eyes were suspiciously moist. ‘Lord Danescroft is here, and he is even more forbidding close to than I ever dreamt.’

‘You must call me, Daisy,’ Rowan reminded her, casting an eye at the door. It was securely closed. ‘Or Lawrence if you are going to pretend to be starchy. When did the Earl arrive?’

‘Just before you went upstairs. I saw you waiting at the other end of the hall, and then they took your things up after his.’ Penny blew her nose and looked around at the rose-pink draperies and the gilded furniture. ‘What a beautiful room. Do you think they made a mistake, putting me here?’

‘No, I think this is a room suitable for a young lady an earl is about to propose to,’ Rowan said, provoking a little gasp from Penny. She put away the last of her friend’s meagre store of silk stockings and turned to lift the lawn petticoats out of the valise. ‘I did not see his lordship, but I have seen his valet, the impertinent wretch. He winked at me.’

That at least made Penny smile. ‘Well, you do look very pretty. That severe hairstyle suits you. Let me help you with those; you shouldn’t wait on me.’ She reached for an unopened valise, but Rowan gave her a little push towards the chair.

‘No, you must act the lady and forget who I really am. If anyone observes any undue familiarity—’ There was a tap and the door opened. ‘Ah, the tea—put it there, please.’ Rowan gestured to the table beside Penny’s chair and waited until the maid left with a bobbed curtsey. ‘You see—you never know when they are going to pop up. Mind you, they gave me a very odd look when I asked for two cups.’ She poured, handed Penny her tea, and sank down on the padded fender. ‘Bliss.’

Penny was still looking miserable, even after two cups of tea. ‘Lie down and rest,’ Rowan ordered, ‘and I’ll shake out your evening things and put away your day clothes.’

By the time Penny was undressed and tucked up in bed, the simpler of the two evening dresses unpacked and hung up and the rest of the accessories laid out, Rowan was beginning to feel considerable sympathy for her own dresser, the unflappable Alice Loveday. She was used to finding everything to her hand, just when she needed it, but trying to recall exactly what Penny would need required more effort.

Done at last, she glanced at the clock—more than enough time to put away the day clothes and go to her own room and organise her modest wardrobe, before changing and coming down again to organise Penny’s evening toilette.

‘Oh, rats!’

‘What?’ Penny sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide.

‘Look at the hem of your pelisse! All muddy splashes. And your boots.’

‘That was when I got out of the carriage,’ her friend apologised. ‘A stone slab tipped under my foot and sprayed up dirty water.’

‘Oh, well. Time to explore below stairs,’ Rowan said, feigning more confidence than she felt. Intensive study of the Maylins’ servants’ quarters in the company of Miss Loveday was not, she strongly suspected, going to be much help when confronted with the complexities of Tollesbury Court. Nor was her own experience very relevant. Her father’s position with the diplomatic mission meant that they had a steward who dealt with every domestic detail, leaving Rowan to make final decisions on menus, flowers and draperies and very little else.

‘I need the brushing room and the boot boy. I will not be long.’ Fortunately she remembered to use the back stairs, emerging slightly dizzy from its tight twists into organised chaos below. After being comprehensively ignored for several minutes, Rowan stepped firmly in front of a footman, his arms clasped around two filled flower vases. ‘Where will I find the boot boy?’ she asked crisply.

‘Back there—first on the left past the pantry,’ he replied, blowing ferns away from his mouth.

After some false turns she located the pantry, then the boot boy in his cubbyhole, panting slightly as he leathered a pair of tall boots on a jack. ‘These are for Miss Maylin, the Pink Suite. And where is the brushing room?’

This time she found her way more easily, having spotted some of the landmarks already. It was thankfully empty, so Rowan was able to turn up the lamps against the winter gloom and explore the racks of mystifying brushes and leathers until she found something that looked stiff enough to remove mud without damaging the nap of the cloth.