The Madcap Masquerade by Nadine Miller

lady.
    Maeve knew for a fact there was not a ladylike bone in her body. She was a courtesan’s brat by birth, a bluestocking by nature—neither of which qualified her for any role but that of a sharp-tongued hoyden. A role she’d played to the hilt last evening.
    There would surely be repercussions; even a pockets-to-let rake like the Earl of Lynley would have to be desperate to take such a woman to wife. Well so be it. She may have put a crimp in the squire’s plans—and probably her own—but chances were she’d solved Meg’s problem.
    Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had been too keyed up to eat much dinner and had left the ball before supper was served. She doubted Mrs. Pinkert would be in the kitchen at this hour; neither she nor the squire appeared to be early risers. There was nothing for it but to cook her own breakfast—a thing she was accustomed to doing since she was an early riser and neither Lily nor Bridget ever rose before noon.
    She washed her face and hands, dressed in a pretty yellow muslin morning dress from Meg’s hoard of bride clothes and found her way to the kitchen without encountering a soul. Apparently the two new maids were the same kind of slug-a-beds as the rest of the household.
    Slicing three thick slices of bacon from a slab she found in the larder, she proceeded to cook herself a meal of bacon, toast and coddled eggs. She had just taken her first bite of the hearty repast when a sleepy Mrs. Pinkert opened the kitchen door.
    “Lord luv us, Miss Meg, what are you doing in my kitchen?” she demanded. She stared at the heaping plate in front of Maeve, and her bleary eyes widened. “When did you learn to cook? And bacon of all things? Last time I made the mistake of serving you hog meat, you come near to casting up your accounts at the very sight of it.”
    “I … I acquired a taste for it while in London,” Maeve stammered.
    Mrs. Pinkert poured herself a cup of the tea Maeve had just set to steep and sat down at the table. “There’s something don’t smell right here—hasn’t since you and the squire come through the door yesterday evening.”
    She studied Maeve with a jaundiced eye. “I didn’t come down in the last rain, you know. It’s enough to expect me to believe Miss Meg could change her way of eating and take up cooking in the past fortnight. I ain’t such a gapeseed I’ll swallow some tomfoolery about how she managed to change the color of her eyes as well.”
    Maeve swallowed hard. “Her eyes?”
    “Miss Meg’s is a soft, grayish kind of color with but a hint of green—not green as grass like what’s staring at me out of your face, Miss Whoever-You-Are. Though that ain’t hard to guess, seeing as how my mam was housekeeper here when the squire’s wife birthed her twins and the squire and her divided them up between them like they was a litter of his prize pups.”
    Maeve slumped in her chair. “You know then that I’m Maeve, the other twin,” she said. She searched the housekeeper’s face, wary of what the woman would do with the damning knowledge, but relieved it was no longer necessary to maintain her masquerade for someone as sharp-eyed as Mrs. Pinkert.
    “I know you ain’t who you’re pretending to be. What I don’t know is what’s happened to Miss Meg since I saw her off in the squire’s travel coach two weeks ago Friday. I’ll not pretend we’re great friends. She’s too fine a lady to take up with the likes of me; her prim and proper governess seen to that, till the squire run the old witch off first year I was here. But Miss Meg’s always kind and polite, and if any harm’s come to her ‘cause of the squire’s conniving, I’ll pull that old buzzard’s tail feathers and stuff ‘em down his blooming throat.”
    Maeve couldn’t help but smile at the picture Mrs. Pinkert’s threat conjured up. Furthermore, it was comforting to see she had Meg’s welfare in mind; her twin was sorely in need of champions. “According to the