Forever Your Earl (4 page)

“Alas, I already have company for the night.”

“Company of the female variety, undoubtedly.” Medway grinned—­an attempt at ribaldry.

“Of a sort,” Daniel answered distractedly. Was Miss Hawke at this very moment donning her masculine disguise? He smiled to himself. Her theatrical friends would have to work very hard indeed to turn her into a convincing man.

“We could—­” Willsby began, but Daniel had long grown weary of these two pups. They were too young, too far from the real troubles of life.

“I've got my newspaper and my brandy waiting, chaps. On occasion, one does have need of intellectual and spiritual stimulation.”

“Of course,” the two young men agreed readily, unaware of Daniel's disguised insult.

He left them chattering, and proceeded to his favorite chair near the fire.

Jonathan's empty chair stood beside him, silent and accusatory.

The moment he sat, the butler appeared with not only a glass of excellent brandy but also the most recent issue of
The Hawk's Eye,
freshly ironed to keep the ink from staining his fingers.

“Your . . . reading material . . . my lord.”

Daniel took the paper and nodded his dismissal of the servant. The man evaporated like so much mist. Generally, Daniel only read
The Hawk's Eye
when a friend pointed out mention of him in its pages, and then only to scoff at the—­generally—­inaccurate reporting of his activities. Though sometimes the scandal rag got it right, such as his arrangement with one of the theater's latest ingénues last winter, or the substantial winnings he'd collected one night at a gaming hell.

But today, with no mention of him at all, he permitted himself to give the paper an actual read. He prepared himself to be appalled at the quality of the writing—­hackneyed phrases, purple prose, shrill jokes.

As he sipped his drink and read, surprise crept over him. He wasn't a critic, not by any stretch, but this little paper . . . wasn't so bad. In truth, there were parts of it that were actually well written. It had a sense of wit and self-­deprecation, and here and there, buried amongst the insinuations about who was having an affair with whom, genuine bits of art showed through.

Did Miss Hawke write those parts? Or were they penned by someone on her staff? She had control over all the articles. Whether she was the author of the pieces or not, it showed that she did have an eye for quality writing.

As he shifted in his chair, a strange sensation crept through him. Something odd and bright. It was . . . respect.

How could he respect a newspaper that reported scandal, or the woman who published it?

Yet . . . it was there. Buried like coal that was starting to burn. Surely more time in her presence would smother that. He couldn't truly admire a woman who lived like a parasite off the lives of others. Could he?

Regardless, she was a necessary part of his plan, and he had to endure her company for as long as it took to get the job done and find his missing friend.

“Y
ou are squirming like a grub!” Madame Hortense snapped. The more cross she became, the more her accent slipped away from Lyons and toward Lambeth.

“Forgive me,” Eleanor replied, fighting to keep her own tone level. “My daily toilette doesn't consist of being poked and prodded as though I were a cow at an agricultural fair.”

“Bloody hell . . . I mean,
mon Dieu
!” Madame Hortense tossed down her makeup brush. “I have never had to work under such conditions.”

“Me, either,” said Eleanor. For hours, she'd been undergoing the torturous process of being transformed—­superficially, of course—­from a woman to a man. She couldn't breathe, due to the heavy linen strips binding her breasts, while Mr. Swindon had forced her to don an undergarment that came supplied with its own masculine
equipment
. Then he'd treated her as his very own pincushion as he'd tailored a male ensemble to fit.

Eleanor wasn't a wealthy woman. Not by anyone's standards. She'd never undergone the unique, exhausting torment of being fitted for a custom garment. All her clothes were bought secondhand, and any alterations were done by her own needle. But if this afternoon's experience was any indicator, it was a privilege she gladly forwent.

With Mr. Swindon making the final adjustments to her clothing in the sewing room, attention was now being paid to her hair and face. Thus, Madame Hortense's presence.

Also suited to Eleanor's financial situation, she didn't have a lady's maid. She dressed herself and did her own hair. Madame Hortense was in the process of tugging on and pinning up Eleanor's long hair, and none too gently. It was a wonder how the actors submitted themselves to this process every night. Not without sustaining external and internal injuries.

Concerned that she'd insulted Madame Hortense, Eleanor exchanged worried glances with Maggie, who was perched on a nearby stool. For all her rough methodology, Madame Hortense did have a dab hand with makeup and hair dressing. Her work for the stage was amongst the most admirable in London.

Since the woman was doing her a tremendous favor, Eleanor oughtn't be churlish about it.

“I
am
sorry, madame,” Eleanor said, reaching out and taking the older woman's hand. “As you can see, I'm an unrefined sort of female, and unused to such attentions. The only time I can sit still is when I'm writing.”

“That's very true,” seconded Maggie. “When she's not at her desk, she dances around like a child denied a trip to the privy.”

Madame Hortense huffed and tugged her hand from Eleanor's. She edged backward. Clearly, she needed further assuaging.

“When I learned that I would need to disguise myself as a man,” Eleanor continued, “I came straight to the Imperial. Not simply because I knew Maggie but because I knew that, of all the cosmetic artists in the whole of this city, no one could possibly match you in skill. The work you did in creating that demon for Maggie's
Curse of the Midnight Prince
stole my breath. I was convinced that an actual demon trod upon the boards, not an actor. Half the women in the audience wanted to flee in terror.”

Madame Hortense pressed her lips together, but a flush of gratification spread across her cheeks.

“And,” Eleanor went on, “your ability in transforming women into men for breeches parts . . .” She shook her head. “Had I not looked in the program and seen the actresses' names, I would have demanded physical proof that they were indeed female.”

For a moment, Madame Hortense did not move or speak. But then she slowly nodded. “It's true. I am the best.”

“Then please, I beg of you, forgive me and continue on with your excellent work.”

The woman sniffed. Then she moved back to where Eleanor sat in front of a lighted mirror and proceeded to tug her hair into ruthless submission. Madame Hortense shoved more and more pins into her hair—­she'd look like a shedding hedgehog later when the pins were removed—­and Maggie sent Eleanor a tiny glance of approval.

As Eleanor submitted to more of the makeup artist's attentions, Maggie suddenly asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would Lord Ashford approach you and offer to have you accompany him on his nightly escapades, for the strict purpose of you writing about him? There are some aristos who seem to enjoy the attention, but Ashford doesn't strike me as one of them.”

“Nor me,” Eleanor answered. “I've been going over and over it, and I still haven't come up with a logical answer.” She winced as Madame Hortense jabbed another pin into her scalp. “I cannot figure what the benefit is to him. He's got an agenda—­I'd bet my printing press on it.”

“Is it wise, then, to accept his proposal?”

“No,” Eleanor answered bluntly. “But opportunities like this don't simply stride into my office in their polished Hessians every day. Nothing's stopping him from going to
The Well-­Informed Londoner
or
Pauley's Miscellany
.” Her two biggest competitors would relish the chance to write an in-­depth series about one of the country's most eligible and notorious bachelors. “If I pass up the chance, I may as well bid a fond farewell to my paper and take up some truly degrading work, like writing burlettas.”

Smiling, Maggie made a rude noise, accompanied by an equally crude hand gesture. Still, concern edged her voice as she pressed, “You
will
be careful, won't you? I know his type. They're as trustworthy as adders.”

“I will be at all times on my guard.” Eleanor fought to keep still as Madame Hortense stretched some kind of very fine net over her hair, containing the whole of it.

“And don't fall victim to his seductions, either,” Maggie added.

Eleanor laughed. The idea was ludicrous.

From working on her own paper, Eleanor had been provided ample evidence that associations between noblemen and commoner women seldom—­if ever—­did well. Numerous females had been left with babes in their bellies and no means of supporting themselves when the attentions of their seducers had turned elsewhere. Usually those men found themselves upper-­class wives, got on with the business of being aristocrats, and forgot about the lower-­class women whose lives they had torn asunder.

Besides . . . “We're speaking of Lord Ashford. The nobleman who could have his pick of any woman he wants. The most desirable. The most beautiful. The last woman who'd attract that interest from him would be me, a lowly and unglamorous
journalist
.”

“Ah, don't go trolling for compliments,” Maggie chided. “Besides which, there's no better way of manipulating someone than through sex.” Cold cynicism glinted in Maggie's eyes, and, beneath that, a deeper hurt Eleanor knew her friend would never acknowledge.

“I will keep my eyes open and my legs closed,” Eleanor vowed.

Though she was no virgin, she was at all times careful when it came to matters of sex. She'd learned long ago how to keep from conceiving, and marriage held no appeal, not when she was master of herself and answered to no man. Independence was the gem she clutched close. If her past lovers had been disappointed by her unwillingness to shackle herself to them, then it was a disappointment they'd had to suffer.

She had her work, and control over her body and her purse strings. Not many other women—­aside from Maggie—­could claim the same.

“And now,” Madame Hortense declared, “it's time for the wig—­the
perruque,
” she corrected herself, as if remembering her pretense of being French.

The woman removed a wig from a wooden, head-­shaped block. The hair had been styled into a fashionable, tousled crop of light brown curls, exactly the style popular with the younger set of men.

Eleanor held still as Madame Hortense settled the wig over her head, then adjusted it before pinning it into place.

“Her hair's shorter,” Maggie conceded, “but she doesn't look much like a man. More like one of those ladies who wore their hair
à la victime,
” she added, referring to the women of the last century who had cut their hair short to emulate the guillotine's unfortunate prey.

“But I am not finished!” Madame Hortense snapped her fingers in Eleanor's face. “Close your eyes until I say to open them. Same for you, Maggie. Then you will both see the wonder of my skill.”

Eleanor shared a smile with Maggie. Theatrical ­people never were at a shortage for self-­esteem. But she obeyed Madame Hortense's command and shut her eyes.

It was a full half hour she waited. In the interim, the cosmetic artist applied all varieties of rather itchy items to Eleanor's face and rubbed countless pungent-­smelling things, which had to be paint, onto her skin. Something even went onto her top lip. It wasn't a comfortable process. Rather arduous, in fact, made even more so by the fact that her journalist's curiosity burned to know just what, exactly, Madame Hortense was doing.

As the process went on, Eleanor distracted herself by describing everything in her mind. She'd certainly include this procedure in her article. Readers might be intrigued by what it took to change a female into a male.

Women might complain of the excessive amounts of time and effort it takes to attend to their appearance—­applications of creams, unguents, blemish reducers, freckle-­lighteners, perfumes, and a cornucopia of other nostrums and humbug all pressed upon the fairer sex, the object being the attainment of unattainable physical perfection. This, of course, also includes corsets, bust improvers, bust-­reduction binding, curling papers and irons, and the heavens know what else, all done in the name of representing our “best” self to the world at large, should our own natural appearance fail us—­which it inevitably does.

And while the natural-­born male might have a decidedly less labor-­intensive toilette, I would caution any of this paper's female readers from attempting to exchange their gender for another, for their activity is nearly as tedious and uncomfortable as our own feminine preparations.

“Now lift the curtain and look,” Madame Hortense announced.

Eleanor opened her eyes and gasped. So did Maggie.

“That can't be me,” Eleanor said, yet her voice came out of the face reflected back at her. She reached up to touch her face.

Madame Hortense swatted her hand away. “Don't undo all my hard work!”

The transformation was startling. All from the application of a bit of paint and false hair. Rather than a woman of thirty-­two, a young man in his early twenties stared at her in the glass. Through artful shading, her nose looked broader, her jaw and chin more square. Madame Hortense had given her fashionable side-­whiskers that matched the color of her wig. Eleanor even sported a shading on her top lip that suggested a morning shave starting to lose its battle as a mustache started to grow in.