Authors: Marissa Doyle
supper dance, she found herself studying him. He was as prompt as always in finding her a
comfortable seat where she might see as much of the room as possible, and where the glare of candles
would not dazzle her eyes nor a cold draft chill her. And as usual, she let him choose her a plate of
such dainties as were offered, for this duty seemed to please him. Did he gaze at her with an
unwonted tenderness in his eyes, or was he simply shortsighted? She scrutinized him as she spooned
her coffee ice, letting his conversation wash over her as she did.
Unfortunately, her inattention to the matter at hand—the coffee ice—led to trouble. A quick
movement made her look down at her lap, where a small light brown drip looked back up at her like
an accusing eye.
“Oh, botheration!” She set down her glass just as another drip landed next to the first.
Lord Carharrick followed her gaze and at once whisked out an immaculate square of linen
handkerchief. “Please,” he said, offering it to her.
“No, it’s not that bad,” she said. “It just got my gloves, that’s all.” She held them out to him in
demonstration, feeling almost giddy with relief.
Her white embroidered muslin gown had just arrived from Madame Gendreau’s the previous day
and Mama would be irate if she’d dripped coffee ice on it, especially now that they were maidless
once more and Andrews had to help take care of their evening dresses. But the gloves were new, too,
with a delicate touch of embroidery around their hems and her initials worked in fine gold thread. At
least it was not as expensive to replace them as the dress would have been, and white dancing gloves
had to be changed frequently, anyway. But she’d brought only a plain pair along just in case, and these
had looked so well with her dress.
“A pity. They’re very pretty.” Lord Carharrick took one of them from her and smoothed the
embroidery under his fingers. “I wonder …,” he began, then hesitated.
“Yes?”
“I wonder if I might keep this glove to show my—my sister. She has a fondness for pretty gloves,
and I’m sure she’d love to see this one and learn where you got it from.”
His face was slightly pink as he spoke, and Persy found herself warming to him. Not all brothers
would have bothered remembering such a thing about their sisters. Would Charles grow up to be as
considerate? She could just hear him now: “I say, that’s a very interesting spell book you have there.
My sister Persy would be most …”
“How kind of you, to keep your sister in your thoughts. Is she here tonight? I don’t think we’ve met
yet,” Persy said, looking about her.
“No, she’s—she’s not out yet.” Lord Carharrick folded the glove carefully and tucked it inside his
coat. “May I get you another ice?”
Before escorting her back to the ballroom, Lord Carharrick accompanied Persy to the room where
a maid looked after the ladies’ wraps, so that she could change her gloves. They passed Pen and
Lochinvar on the way.
Pen looked at her with a hint of alarm. “Are you all right? Not another ankle …”
Persy paused. Pen seemed really concerned, which was reassuring under the circumstances. She
tried not to look at Lochinvar as she confessed, “No, I’m fine. I just needed a fresh pair of gloves,
because I dripped coffee ice on the first pair. Where did Mama find the embroidered ones? Lord
Carharrick would like to know for his sister.”
Lochinvar cleared his throat quietly.
“Um … Piver’s glove shop, I think,” said Pen. “Let me see.”
Persy handed her the remaining glove. Pen tsked over it. “Did you stain both?”
“Yes. Thanks, Pen, I knew you’d remember.”
Pen and Lochinvar continued back toward the ballroom, and Persy got her fresh gloves. Lord
Carharrick brought her back to Mama in the ballroom and took his usual unobtrusive place nearby.
“You are back late,” Lady Parthenope commented after he left them. “I didn’t think Maria de
Courcy’s supper worth lingering over.” Mama was not overly fond of Lady de Courcy.
“I spilled an ice on my gloves and had to change them. Don’t worry, my dress escaped,” Persy
reassured her. “It was Piver, wasn’t it, where we got the embroidered ones with our initials? That’s
what I told Lord Carharrick.”
“Yes. We shall have to go back for another pair, if you’ll promise to take more ca—Lord
Carharrick? Why did he wish to know?” Mama frowned slightly.
“For his sister. He took one, to show her. She’s fond of gloves, he says.”
A slow smile spread across Mama’s face. “He doesn’t have any sisters. Only a younger brother.
The young rapscallion!” She gave Persy a smug look and patted her hand. “He just wanted to find an
excuse to keep your glove.”
“Whatever for?”
“As a token, of course.”
“A token?” What was Mama talking about?
“A love token.” Mama patted her hand again but mercifully did not say anything more. Persy sat
back and wished she could melt into the floor.
No! This was absolutely the last thing she needed right now. Lord Carharrick couldn’t be falling in
love with her!
But what else could she expect? She’d been flirting with him just dreadfully over the last week or
two, and he seemed to like it.
Lord Carharrick was a very eligible young man, heir to a comfortable fortune and an earldom in the
West Country. He was also a choosy one, as this was his third season without having become
engaged. It would be a feather in her cap to capture such a matrimonial prize.
But she didn’t want to.
She knew that marriage in her social class was as much about fortunes and alliances as it was
about love. She knew that she was lucky to have some say in choosing her husband, rather than having
one picked for her as was done in so many other places in the world. That was what the season was,
after all—a marriage market for the offspring of the aristocracy. Mama and Papa would heartily
approve of her marrying Lord Carharrick, and she knew it.
But she still didn’t want to.
She loved Lochinvar. And since she couldn’t have him, then she wouldn’t have anyone. Oh, why
couldn’t she just go off somewhere and be a teacher like Ally, and not worry about finding a husband?
“Are you all right, my dear?” Mama’s voice broke into her gloomy reverie. “I am sorry if I
sounded harsh over your gloves. Accidents do happen, after all. We shall order you another pair.
Perhaps two pairs.”
“Thank you, Mama,” Persy said dutifully, but she knew how unenthusiastic she sounded.
Another invitation to visit Princess Sophia arrived the next day. Charles and Persy were doing a Latin
lesson when it arrived.
“You’re getting awfully chummy with her, aren’t you?” Charles asked as he read the note of
invitation over Persy’s shoulder.
“I wouldn’t go quite that far, Chucklehead. She’s quite old and a member of the royal family,
remember. But she does seem to enjoy our company,” Persy answered as she refolded the note and
put it aside to show Pen.
Charles rolled his eyes as he took his seat. Persy couldn’t resist poking him with a pencil. “What’s
wrong with us going to visit a lonely old lady?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing. But at least you could do something about looking for Ally while you’re there at
Kensington taking tea with royalty. I’m starting to think you don’t even care about her anymore.”
Charles snatched the pencil from her.
Persy rounded on him fiercely. “I do too care!”
“Then why don’t you do something?” He looked at her, all sarcasm gone. “Come on, Persy. You
and Pen have been so busy with dresses and balls and parties. Finding Ally is a lot more important
than those.”
Persy’s throat was suddenly hot and tight. “I know it is,” she said, and slumped in her chair. “But I
don’t know what to do. You’re not a girl. You don’t understand. I have to go to these parties and be
charming and pleasant, because I have to convince someone to fall in love and make an offer for me.
There’s nothing else I can do. And I can’t just saddle up a horse and go down to Kensington on my
own to look for Ally, because I’m a girl. I’m not allowed to go even down to the corner of the street
on my own. Don’t you dare scold me anymore, Charles Leland.” She turned away from him, blinking
back tears.
“Aw, Persy …” She felt Charles pull his chair closer and put his good arm over her shoulder. “I
didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I know you can’t help being a girl. I just wish you were a boy, so
we could go off and look—” He broke off. Persy felt him stiffen like a pointer that had spotted a bird.
“What?” she asked.
“Perse, what if you
were
a boy?” His voice had gone high with excitement.
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, what if you looked like a boy? What if we dressed you up like a boy in some of my
clothes? Then me and you could—”
“You and I,” Persy corrected automatically.
“We could sneak out sometime—couldn’t you tell Mama that you’re ill? Then we could go to
Kensington ourselves and have a look around. The gardens are open to everyone, Papa said, and I bet
we could find a door somewhere to get inside the palace. You could open a locked door, couldn’t
you?”
“Maybe … oh, Charles, I can’t do that!” The excitement his words had sparked in her flared, then
sputtered.
“Do you just want to let Ally rot, then?” He looked hard at her. “Stop thinking like a girl. London’s
ruining you. Two months ago you would’ve said yes right away. Now you’re turning into a—a—”
“Jellyfish?”
“Yes! A jellyfish in gloves and feathers. You’re just afraid of being caught, aren’t you?”
Persy smiled without humor. “Well, yes, I am.”
“But don’t you see? If anyone can do it without getting caught, it’s you. You could open a locked
door into the palace, couldn’t you? I’ll bet you could do that from here.”
He looked so crafty, laying on his flattery like so much sugar frosting, that her smile became
genuine. He saw her smile and grinned. “Bet you could do it from here with your eyes closed!”
“Or else I could distract a guard long enough for us to slip past him and inside.” Persy found
herself getting caught up in his enthusiasm. “Do you think we could do it? Really? I don’t look much
like a boy.”
“Why not? There’s so many people in London, we’d blend right in. No one will notice a couple of
boys larking about in a garden. I’ll bring that boat Grandmama Leland gave me for us to sail on the
pond—there must be some water or something in the gardens there. And if you braid your hair and we
give you a high neckerchief and a hat to hide it, and if you, um, slouch a little”—he gestured
delicately toward her chest—“then we ought to be able to do it.”
Persy looked at him, biting her lip. It was a lunatic idea, and a highly improper one too. What if she
were to be caught wandering around London dressed in boys’ clothes, accompanied only by her
younger brother? It would be a tremendous scandal, and would probably ruin her chances of making a
grand marriage. That decided it for her.
“All right. I don’t know how we will do it, but you’re right, we’ve got to try. Not being able to do
anything about Ally has been making me almost sick,” she finally said.
“Yes! What about tomorrow?” Charles jumped out of his chair and began to dance a jig. A vase of
peonies on the table teetered.
Persy caught it. “Do you think we can be ready for it tomorrow, what with clothes and everything
for me? If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to do it right.”
“Of course we can.” Charles stopped dancing. “We have to tell Pen about it. She’ll help.”
“No!” Persy said. Charles looked at her in surprise, and she continued in a quieter tone. “We
shouldn’t. We need to keep this to just us. She wouldn’t be able to come with us, anyway—three
would be too hard to sneak into the palace. And if we get caught, it’s our problem. We don’t need to
draw her down with us.”
Charles considered. “You’re probably right,” he said. “But it seems funny for you two to be having
secrets from each other. You never have before.”
“I know,” Persy sighed. “I know.”
Step one of their plan commenced almost immediately, to Persy’s surprise. Mama came in a few
moments later to check on their lesson. Charles showed her his neatly written translation of a passage
from Caesar, and while she perused it (though Persy was not sure why, as Mama’s Latin was
extremely rusty) he turned to his sister with an anxious air.
“Why, Persy, you don’t look very well. Are you sure you’re all right?”
Persy stared at him. He winked back, and comprehension dawned on her. “Er, no, now that you
mention it. I do feel a little …” She sighed and slid down in her seat.
Mama put down Charles’s translation and gave her a sharp look. “A little what? Oh, Persy, you
can’t get sick now! There’s a card party at the Gilleys’ tonight that I promised we’d attend after
dinner at the Lyons’. And tomorrow is the Duchess of Gordon’s ball. We can’t miss that.”