Forever Your Earl (3 page)

“Tomorrow will suffice,” she answered, “if that suits you.”

“It does,” he answered. “I'd been planning on spending our evening at Donnegan's.”

“I'm not familiar with it.”

“This gaming hell isn't exactly sanctioned.”

“A gaming hell.” She practically bounced on her feet in eagerness, then stilled. “Do they allow women?”

“No—­so I might have to come up with a new plan.” All this time, he'd been planning that E. Hawke was a man.

“I can get my hands on some masculine attire,” she said. “A disguise.” Far from looking daunted by the prospect of wearing men's clothing and infiltrating a haven of male vice, Miss Hawke looked as excited as a child given free rein in a toy shop. A very immoral toy shop.

“How?”

“I have friends in the theater,” she answered.

“Naturally—­one employment of disrepute gravitates toward another.”

“And yet titled men lead lives of such incomparable virtue.”

“We
are
fond of the theater,” he said drily. “Feeds our appetite for dissipation.”

“Well, my dissipated friends at the Imperial Theater will give me access to their costumes and wigs.”

He lifted his brows. “The Imperial. They're known for their rather . . . unconventional theatrical offerings.” His friend Marwood almost never missed a night at the Imperial. Marwood especially loved the burlettas of Mrs. Delamere, which inevitably skewered the upper classes.

Miss Hawke's quick, wide smile caught him between the ribs. “When one doesn't have a patent, one has to be a bit inventive in order to bring in patrons.”

He set his hat on his head. “Tomorrow night, then. I'll pick you up at the Imperial.”

“Tomorrow night.”

After a pause, he turned and left, all the while aware of her gaze on his back as he strode from the office.

He'd no choice—­this had to be done. He'd have to see this through, whatever it might bring. Yet he couldn't forget the feel of her hand in his. Slim and warm and strong. As he stepped out onto the street, where his carriage waited for him, a thought whispered that he'd just agreed to a bargain with a very pretty devil.

 

Chapter 2

For all our era's claims to probity and integrity—­some of which are true—­it may shock and appall this paper's virtuous readers to learn that there is a high degree of insincerity, nay, outright concealment, that lurks beneath the surface of our society. Those who represent themselves as a certain thing often prove entirely different beneath the surface. Or else they wear disguises of one form or another, all to obscure purposes at which this modest publication can only guess . . .

The Hawk's Eye
, May 4, 1816

A
s Eleanor entered through the side door of the Imperial Theater late the following afternoon, she found everything in the usual state of colorful, barely organized chaos. Kingston, the stage manager, ran hither and yon, clutching his ever-­present sheaf of documents and shouting at anyone and anything that crossed his path. Rehearsals were inevitably pandemonium. Costumed dancers wafted off the stage, complaining in the foulest language about the choreographer's impossible demands. There were only so many joints in the human leg, after all. As the dancers left the stage, they were replaced by a comedic duo in loud trousers and waistcoats, clearly hoping that if their jests didn't amuse the audience, their outrageous outfits might.

The air smelled thickly of lamp oil, sweat, and greasepaint. Chatter and music filled the air. Eleanor stopped in the wings and took a deep breath. Ah, these were her ­people. She'd lived her whole life on the very fringes of respectability, rubbing elbows with theater folk, musicians, writers, confidence artists, and the generally disreputable. It was her other self—­publisher, businesswoman—­that sometimes felt more unfamiliar.

A world apart from Lord Ashford.

As she stood in the wings, watching the comedic duo torture puns, a dark-­haired woman crossed her path, then stopped.

“Here to murder one of my plays, Eleanor?” She planted her hands on her hips.

“You manage that all on your own, Maggie,” Eleanor answered.

Maggie drew her arm through Eleanor's. They slowly ambled through the anarchy backstage. “Did you see the review for
Love's Revolution
in the
Times
? ‘It is the humble opinion of this reviewer that Mrs. Margaret Delamere's latest theatrical opus, while adequately entertaining, suffers from a surfeit of radical sensibility. Once again she challenges our notion that the social orders should remain distinct, a notion that could lead to a revolt not unlike what transpired in France. I can only imagine that such naiveté must be a result of her gender.' ”

“How dare you challenge hundreds of years of rigidly enforced hierarchy, madam!” Eleanor said haughtily. “Surely you must remain content with your lot, particularly as a woman.”

“Indeed, I should.” Maggie sighed. “Or tell 'em all to go to blazes and just keep writing what I want to write.”

Both women chuckled. The life of a writer was never one of ease and accolade—­or money—­but both Eleanor and Maggie had, from birth, been marked by the same curse. Womanhood. It was nigh impossible for their work to be judged of the same value as their male compatriots'. Or, worse, they would be shoved into writing about “proper” and “domestic” topics such as babies and other homespun dramas—­things that interested neither Maggie nor Eleanor.

But Maggie was brave and published her work under her own name, rather than using a masculine pseudonym. Eleanor hid behind her first initial, never outright claiming her gender or refuting it, either.

Because the Imperial did not have a royal patent, like Drury Lane or Covent Garden, it could not perform anything that was strictly spoken word. Few theaters could compete with this two-­sided monopoly. But the Imperial had gotten around this proviso by having music accompany every piece they put on. The works were a cross between operas and plays—­known as “burlettas”—­and often addressed subject matter that other theaters wouldn't dare touch.

Maggie had found a home here for her writing because Drury Lane and Covent Garden—­and the Haymarket during the summer—­hardly ever put on original plays. Yet due to the Imperial's outsider status, Maggie had been welcomed. She and her iconoclastic work were the star attractions.

“Oughtn't you be back at the office, stringing up another aristo on the pillory of public opinion?” Maggie asked as they continued to stroll around clumps of actors and dancers.

“You're mixing your metaphors,” Eleanor noted. “And it's one aristo in particular who brings me here.” As quickly as she could, she told her friend all about the arrangement she and Lord Ashford had made.

“
The
Lord Ashford?” Maggie pressed. “The selfsame one who caused two actresses here to get into a full-­out brawl, hair-­pulling and biting included?”

“The same,” Eleanor answered, filing the idea away. She'd need to see if
The Hawk's Eye
had reported that little incident. If not, they were surely remiss in their duties.

“I've seen him sitting in the boxes.” Maggie pointed out into the theater, where the boxes reserved for the wealthy arrayed themselves like red velvet jewelry cases. During performances, the occupants would be displayed like a veritable treasury of silk, satin, and gems. “Always surrounded by a cadre of toadies. And women, of course. He's got one of those faces I call a corset-­tightener. You look at him, and suddenly air becomes a little more scarce.”

“To me,” Eleanor said, “he's nothing more than a means to sell more papers.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Maggie murmured. “You know my history with aristo rakes. They're as trustworthy as boats made of paper.”

“At least I know how to swim.” It was a shame she and Maggie saw each other as infrequently as they did. But between Eleanor's deadlines and Maggie hammering away at a new play, their schedules seldom aligned.

“If your arrangement with Lord Ashford begins tonight,” Maggie pondered, “what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at home, pretending not to dress up for him?”

“I
do
need to dress for him,” Eleanor said, “but my ensemble involves buckskins and beaver hats, not décolletage and diadems.”

Maggie excitedly pressed her hand to her mouth. “A breeches part! But this is too wonderful! Let me fetch Madame Hortense and Mr. Swindon. They will be beside themselves with glee—­we haven't had a decent breeches part since my
Countess's Deception
.”

Her friend hurried off, and as she progressed through the theater, she grabbed anyone passing by to eagerly explain Eleanor's upcoming transformation. Thrilled squeals rose up from the crowd—­theater ­people were always pleased to pull someone into their mad, idiosyncratic world, and the cast and crew at the Imperial were no exception. Soon, Eleanor found herself surrounded by nearly a dozen chattering figures, pulling her this way and that, deciding just what kind of man she'd be: dark, fair, dandy, rough. She felt like so much clay in the hands of countless giddy sculptors. Far at the back stood Maggie, laughing into her hand.

What would Lord Ashford make of such a scene? Though he kept company with a good many actresses, he likely wasn't as familiar with this aspect of theater life.

Madame Hortense, the angular, middle-­aged woman in charge of makeup and wigs, and Mr. Swindon, the heavyset costumer, shoved their way to the front of the crowd. They both surveyed her critically.

“So this is what a fish at Billingsgate feels like,” Eleanor mumbled.

“Come with us.” Madame Hortense led Eleanor down several flights of stairs, with Mr. Swindon and a whole entourage trailing after them. At last they reached a dressing room, lined with mirrors and tables, costumes draped over every available surface.

“Shoo, all of you!” Mr. Swindon waved his fingers at the crowd. Naturally, this command was met with a host of histrionic cries of despair.

“Let Maggie stay,” Eleanor pressed. If she had to suffer under the eager hands of Madame Hortense and Mr. Swindon, she needed an ally nearby.

“Very well,” sighed Mr. Swindon.

Maggie squeezed her way through the crowded door and shut it behind her. More lamentations followed, muted by the closed door.

Madame Hortense pushed Eleanor into a chair and smiled with calculation. “Now, it begins.”

“God help me,” whispered Eleanor. The things she'd do for a story.

T
here was no sense of peace like the peace one found at White's. Daniel entered the gentleman's club and was immediately met by a silent footman, who took his coat, hat, and gloves before fading discreetly away. A butler appeared, solemn as a high priest, and greeted him with muted reverence.

“Is there anything I can fetch you, my lord?”

“Brandy, and the latest issue of
The Hawk's Eye
if you have it.”

“I will have to check to see if we stock that particular . . . periodical. If not, I'll send one of the footmen out to purchase a copy.”

Daniel nodded and moved on to the main parlor. Large, comfortable leather chairs were like oysters, holding pearls of British aristocracy. In the heavy, prosperous quiet, men perused newspapers, each with a glass of spirits close at hand, or they murmured amongst themselves, discussing racehorses or the fate of the nation.

Pausing at the doorway to the parlor, Daniel inhaled the scents of his birthright—­leather, furniture wax, tobacco. All familiar aromas, and comforting in their way. He'd been coming to White's since he'd reached his majority, though he'd expressed an interest in Brooks's, as its political leanings were more in keeping with his own Whig tendencies. His father, of course, had forbidden it. Now that his father had passed on, it was habit that kept Daniel coming back to White's.

Not just habit. He used to meet Jonathan here, where they'd talk of the events of the day, or sit in companionable silence, content to simply exist without pressures and demands and societal roles.

Daniel kept returning, a strange hope always tugging at him that he'd walk in and one day simply find Jonathan in his favorite chair, looking well and free of the shadows of war. Every time, Daniel was disappointed. His friend was never there.

Right now, a little calm before tonight's storm would serve Daniel well. He had no idea exactly what this evening with Miss Hawke would bring. Oddly, whenever he thought of it, of her, a hum of excitement would pulse through him. When was the last time anything other than a night's carousing truly excited him? There was his clandestine, crucial mission. Yet the eagerness he felt now seemed far different from that objective.

He needed a drink. But before he took more than three steps into the main parlor, two young gentlemen hardly back from their Grand Tour appeared and clung to his side, like well-­dressed barnacles.

“Ashford!” the blond one exclaimed. Lord George Medway, heir to the earldom of Newholm. “Missed you at the Lashams' rout last night.”

“It was deuced fun,” said the other young man. The Honorable Fred Willsby, second son of Viscount Swinhope. “Danced all night.”

Daniel thought of the rows and rows of white-­clad girls, all eager for a dance and the possibility of any matrimonial intentions, and the sly-­eyed widows and wives, searching for a way to break up the monotony, and he felt very, very tired. It wasn't the sort of evening that interested him. He'd once preferred wilder nights, but that had changed when Jonathan had disappeared. Now, everything felt thin, hollow.

“I had another engagement,” he said distractedly.

The two lads perked up. “Tell us, do,” pressed Medway.

What the hell—­he had enough status to be honest. “I was ensconced in front of my own fire, reading about Herschel's latest astronomical discoveries.”

The two young men looked baffled. They exchanged glances, as if trying to confirm whether or not Daniel was having them on. After all, it was the height of the Season, certainly not the time to stay at home with a book when there were so many other pleasures to pursue.

But after leaving Miss Eleanor Hawke's office yesterday, Daniel had found himself oddly restless. Edgy. The thought of attending a ball, or the theater, or any of the countless other social gatherings—­both respectable and less so—­had felt strangely flat and shrill. He'd actually enjoyed his badinage with Miss Hawke yesterday, and the brief glimpse into another world. One far away from routs and assemblies. Odd—­before Jonathan's vanishing, he'd always loved those things.

Dedication and ambition had shone in Miss Hawke's eyes—­things he seldom saw outside of Parliament. And of the females he knew, most were looking for husbands, protectors, or lovers. None of them was so extraordinary as to own and publish a newspaper.

In his peculiar, dissatisfied mood, Daniel had rejected all potential amusements last night. Even Edinger, his butler, had been shocked to find him at home. Instead of going out after meeting with Miss Hawke, Daniel had indulged himself with his favorite pastime—­the scientific arts. And he'd found the night far more enjoyable than he'd expected.

Did Miss Hawke care about the sciences? Or was she too involved in the world of scandal to take note of the planets or electricity?

“But you'll be at the Fallbrookes' ball tonight, surely,” Willsby enjoined.

“That's tonight?” The Season was overstuffed with a surfeit of gatherings and entertainments, most engineered to match girls with potential suitors. He ought to employ a secretary to manage his social calendar, but he had a man of business as well as stewards for his estates. Hiring a man just to tell him what parties to attend seemed like a phenomenal waste of everyone's time. “I have another engagement scheduled for this evening.”

“What is it?” Medway asked eagerly. “Perhaps we might attend, as well.”