Gail Whitiker - Regency Disguise - No Occupation for a Lady / No Role for a Gentleman

Regency Disguise

No Occupation for a Lady

No Role for a Gentleman

Gail Whitiker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

GAIL WHITIKERwas born on the west coast of Wales and moved to Canada at an early age. Though she grew up reading everything from John Wyndham to Victoria Holt, frequent trips back to Wales inspired a fascination with castles and history, so it wasn't surprising that her first published book was set in Regency England. Now an award-winning author of both historical and contemporary novels, Gail lives on Vancouver Island, where she continues to indulge her fascination with the past as well as enjoying travel, music and spectacular scenery. Visit Gail at www.gailwhitiker.com

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page Regency Disguise No Occupation for a Lady No Role for a Gentleman Gail Whitiker www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author GAIL WHITIKER was born on the west coast of Wales and moved to Canada at an early age. Though she grew up reading everything from John Wyndham to Victoria Holt, frequent trips back to Wales inspired a fascination with castles and history, so it wasn't surprising that her first published book was set in Regency England. Now an award-winning author of both historical and contemporary novels, Gail lives on Vancouver Island, where she continues to indulge her fascination with the past as well as enjoying travel, music and spectacular scenery. Visit Gail at www.gailwhitiker.com

No Occupation for a Lady No Occupation for a Lady Gail Whitiker

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

No Role for a Gentleman

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Copyright

No Occupation for a Lady

Gail Whitiker

It was important that one dressed appropriately for the theatre, if for no other reason than to spare oneself the embarrassment of being under-dressed should someone of consequence happen to be seated in the box next to you. After all, one never knew when a marriageable viscount or an eligible earl might wander in for an evening’s performance, and with so many single young women looking to find husbands, a girl couldn’t afford to miss a single opportunity.

That, at least, was the justification Mrs Bretton had always given her two daughters for looking their best, and as Victoria Bretton studied her reflection in the cheval glass, she supposed it was not a bad way for an ambitious mother to think. The importance of presenting unwed daughters in the most favourable light possible could not be understated, whether it be at a musicale evening, a grand ball, or at the début of a new play at the elegant Gryphon Theatre, even if only Victoria thought the latter an occasion worthy of attending.

Fortunately, what she saw in the glass was enough to reassure her that it would not be her appearance that fell short of expectation that evening. Her gown of imported ivory silk was in the first state of fashion, and the exquisite pearl-and-ruby necklace lent to her by her aunt served as the perfect accessory. The flashing crimson stones nestled sweetly in the décolletage of her gown, which, as Aunt Tandy had pointed out, was neither too demure nor too daring, and her hair, once likened to the colour of clover honey, had been swept up and arranged in a most sophisticated style by the skilled hands of her aunt’s French maid. She looked every inch the proper young lady society expected her to be.

What would they say, Victoria mused as she turned away from the glass, if they knew what this evening was really all about?

The house was quiet as she made her way down the long curving staircase to the black-and-white-tiled hall. Candles flickered brightly from wall sconces and chandeliers, casting a warm golden glow over the elegant furnishings, while portraits of long-dead aristocrats stared down at her, their critical expressions seeming to offer silent disapproval of her plans.

Victoria paid them no mind. Her concern was with the living, not with the dead.

Besides, they were not portraits of her ancestors. The paintings, like the house, belonged to her father’s brother and wife, an eccentric pair of retired actors who owned a theatre as well as several houses in and around London. They had kindly allowed Victoria’s parents the use of this house for the past two Seasons so that Victoria and her younger sister could make their entrance into society. Victoria had taken her bows last year, and with Winifred doing so this year Mrs Bretton was hopeful that at least one of her girls would end up married by the end of it.

The prospect of returning home to Kent with two unwed daughters in tow was simply too humiliating to be borne.

‘Good evening, Miss Bretton.’ The butler greeted her at the door. ‘James has the carriage ready. Your brother has already gone out.’

‘Thank you, Quince.’ Victoria turned to allow the elderly gentleman to settle a velvet cape about her shoulders. ‘Do you know where my parents and sister are dining this evening?’

‘I believe with Sir Roger and Lady Fulton, miss.’

Ah, yes, the baronet and his wife—a prominent society couple with two sons of marriageable age, the eldest of which Winifred was hopeful of attracting. She certainly wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to spend time with him for something as trivial as a night at the theatre.

After all, what was the opening night of Valentine Lawe’s newest play when compared to the prospect of batting eyelashes at Mr Henry Fulton over the silver epergne?

‘Thank you, Quince,’ Victoria said, careful not to betray even a twinge of disappointment. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, miss. Oh, and your father asked me to wish you … a very successful evening. He said you would know what he meant.’

Victoria smiled. A few simple words, as enigmatic as they were brief, and her spirits rose immeasurably. Dearest Papa. Always her ally, even in this. She thanked the butler and walked out into the cool evening air. The late April day had been unusually warm, but the evening temperatures had begun to drop as soon as the sun went down, making her grateful for the enveloping warmth of the cape.

‘Evening, Miss Bretton,’ the coachman said respectfully.

‘Good evening, James.’ Victoria smiled as the under-coachman helped her into the carriage. They didn’t have an under-coachman at home in Kent. There they functioned with only a cook, two maids, a kitchen helper and a good-natured fellow who served as both footman and groom. If they had to get anywhere, they either walked or used the gig. It was only since coming to London that Victoria had been exposed to such luxuries as personal maids and closed carriages, and the one into which she stepped now was sumptuous in the extreme. The interior was lit by the glow of two small lamps, the walls were lined with maroon silk festooned with gold tassels and the cushions were of plush maroon velvet.