The Lady in Disguise

Chapter Two (Part 1)

Sculthorpe Abbey, Cambridgeshire

Several days later...

Daniel Byrne stared at the glass of claret in Sir Anthony Pembroke's outstretched hand. "It's only past two," Byrne chided, though he did take it.

"Well, I found it in the cellars and realized this thing has been waiting to be released for a decade," Pembroke said with a laugh. "Least I could do for the poor bottle. What shall we drink to?"

There was a reason Anthony Pembroke was, despite his baronetcy, without a groat and he suspected a lot of it had to do with indulging in expensive aged claret on a silly whim. Still, he liked him enough to put up with such waste. "To our successful party," Byrne suggested, nodding to his friend.

"Don't bother toasting me," Pembroke said. "I'm only providing the space." He glanced around. "But your staff are excellent. Never seen people hop about so quickly."

"Yes. That's what happens when they're paid well," Byrne said drolly. "Perhaps you'll try that method some day."

"One can only hope." Pembroke rolled his eyes. "I might even hire a servant or two away from you by the end. I suppose we'll see after this nonsense."

"Necessary nonsense."

"I know, I know. Still, I wonder that you need this place at all. Mind you, I'm not complaining, since I'm enjoying your largesse for the duration of this nonsense. But I think you could have done this party at Meadowlark just as well."

"Meadowlark wouldn't work." Byrne's estate in Cumnock was pretty enough and he bought the place for a song, but while his country house in Scotland was good for a lark among the lordlings of the ton, it was much too far for even the lowest families on the rungs to send their darling daughters without complaint.

Byrne wondered, not for the first time, if he should have tried his luck in Scotland. With a name like his, he might have better luck with some Scottish lass of good family. There was always more sympathy between Scotland and Ireland, even among the nobility. They both had a general sense of unease about the English. Their languages, their culture and, in many cases, their very lives had been erased by the men who claimed to rule them for their own good.

But no. That would be too far-removed. That union wouldn't be seen, not by the ones he needed to see it.

And Sculthorpe was a very convenient location for more than one reason. In about two days time, he might finally see his plans in motion...

"The townhouse, then," Pembroke offered. "You've managed many a great party — some might even call them legendary parties — in London."

"My townhouse is still recovering from the last party." And it would be the last of such parties, Byrne vowed. His staff would not abide another, according to them, without resigning en masse. "Besides, it's not right for this kind of party." Byrne supposed his London house did well enough for when the gaming hells closed their doors, when the young men of London weren't ready for their beds and would rather gamble and drink till the sun came up, whatever might happen. But he was bored of that sort of society. They'd served their purposes and, furthermore, he was quite tired of subjecting his servants to the after-party clean-up or his prettier maids to their rowdy ways.

He was ready for a more respectable kind of gathering. Though the people invited to Pembroke's estate weren't precisely the top of society, they were close enough to suit his needs. And the place was also close, as in proximity, to a certain village and a certain other estate that was much grander... though not for long.

"This kind of party," Pembroke lamented. "Proper little misses and parlor games. It's going to be torture, I tell you."

Byrne didn't think it would be any worse than what he endured from the rich, young lordlings looking for a good time. As a man with more money than he knew what to do with, but no connections to speak of, he'd made what he could of their "friendships." But there were barely three among them he found less than tedious. Pembroke was one rare exception.