Masquerade by Nancy Moser

Chapter One

Dornby Manor

Wiltshire, England

Early autumn 1886

“I’ve told you, Father, I won’t marry him.”

Thomas Gleason held a matchstick to the bowl of his pipe and puffed repeatedly, luring the tobacco to ignite. “It’s a good match, daughter. Everyone has heard of the Tremaines, even here in England.”

Heard of their money, perhaps . . .

Lottie remembered the whispered rumors about the Tremaines. She knew her parents hated gossip—or pretended to for propriety’s sake—but now was not the time for her to be timid. “Some say the Tremaines are nouveau riche. The elder Mr. Tremaine is but one generation away from those who peddled their goods on the streets of New York City.”

Her father pointed his pipe at her. “Perhaps. But Tremaine’s Dry Goods has grown to encompass a five-story building within an entire city block.”

Mother shook her head and said beneath her breath, “A glorified shopkeeper.”

Father shot her a glance.

Mother nodded to the maid, Dora, to pour the tea. “We are the ones doing the Tremaines the favor. You are Sir Thomas Gleason,” she said. “The Gleasons have ties to Richard the Second. Our name is listed in Debrett’s.”

A puff of smoke billowed in front of Father’s face. “Now, now, Hester. By seeking a goodly match for our daughter, we’re not negating our own roots. It’s a blessing the Tremaines have shown interest in our Charlotte, especially since they’ve never met any of us. And considering . . . ”

Lottie interrupted. “You act as if meeting me might cause them to change their minds. I may not be a ravishing beauty, Father, but I’ve been complimented many times regarding my appearance.”

“No, no,” her father said. “Don’t take offense. You’re a lovely girl. I was merely pointing out the odd circumstances of . . . our situation.”

Hester coughed and put her ever-present handkerchief to her mouth.

Lottie tried unsuccessfully to squelch her annoyance at her mother’s cough. Hack, hack, hack. Perhaps if Mother spent more time outside, walking the grounds of their Wiltshire estate, her health would improve. But Mother prided herself on indoor pursuits, namely her needlepoint chair cushions. Best in the county, she bragged. Lottie didn’t care for such nonsense. To go to so much work only to have someone sit upon it was absurd.

As was this conversation.

Lottie set her teacup down, rose from her chair, and moved to the windows that overlooked the front lawn. “I don’t see why we have to talk about this now.” Or ever. “It’s my birthday and my friends will be arriving for my party soon and . . . ” She turned to her mother directly. “Speaking of my party, why aren’t you bustling about? A dozen of my friends will arrive in just a few hours, yet if I didn’t know better, I’d think the party was next Tuesday rather than today.”