Forever Your Earl (5 page)

“My God, Eleanor,” Maggie breathed. “You're a damn pretty boy, but a boy just the same. I'll have to keep most of the women at the theater—­and some of the men—­away from you.”

Eleanor turned her face from side to side. So this is what she would have looked like if her father had gotten his wish and she'd been born male. Too bad the poor sot was deep beneath the earth now, or else she'd show him what he'd missed out on.

What would Lord Ashford say when he saw her? Or would he even recognize her? The idea that he might actually mistake her for a man was a delicious anticipation. She'd love to catch him off guard, knock a little of his polish off.

The door to the dressing room banged open and Mr. Swindon bustled in, his arms full of clothing. The moment he saw Eleanor, he let out a little shriek and nearly dropped the garments.

“Oh, but this is marvelous!” He hustled forward, his eyes never leaving her. “Just exquisite. Well done, Miss Hawke. And hosannas to you, madame,” he added when Madame Hortense cleared her throat loudly. “Forsooth, we have a genuine artist dwelling beneath the roof of this humble theater.”

“He means himself,” Maggie whispered, leaning close, and Eleanor had to stifle her laugh.

“Now for the second part of your metamorphosis.” The costumer held out his arms, covered with clothes.

“I'll need some guidance,” Eleanor said. She'd undressed men before, and watched them don their garments, but the process of getting dressed in masculine attire eluded her.

So Mr. Swindon helped her step into a man's combination. He strapped pads on her calves to help bulk up those muscles, then gave her a pair of white stockings that climbed up past her knees. She stepped into a pair of buff-­colored knee breeches. This was followed by a long-­tailed linen shirt and a cream-­on-­white embroidered waistcoat. Mr. Swindon hid her lack of Adam's apple with a very tall collar and neckcloth, which threatened to cut off Eleanor's supply of air.

After she stepped into a pair of sleek low men's pumps, Eleanor let the costumer help her into a dark blue coat. Its shoulders were heavily padded, the width of the skirts a little wider to conceal her hips. She was given a pocket watch and a pair of gloves, along with a top hat perfect for an evening out.

“And
voilà,
” Mr. Swindon said, his French accent far more convincing than Madame Hortense's.

Again, Eleanor looked into the mirror. She stood, agog, at her change. She'd entered the Imperial Theater as a woman, but now she was a young man of means and fashion. For several moments, all she could do was stare at herself.

Who
was
she? She felt oddly lost within this masculine persona, as if Eleanor had disappeared and a strange man had taken her place. Except the strange man was
her.

“Oh, Eleanor,” Maggie said on an exhale, her face aglow, “just think of the trouble you could get into.”

“That's right,” Eleanor said after a moment. “I'm a man now. I can do . . . anything.”

The power was intoxicating. No wonder men walked around looking so smug. The world belonged to them.

And now she was about to enter that world. With Lord Ashford beside her. Eleanor smiled. Oh, it was going to be quite a night.

B
are-­chested, Daniel stood before his mirror and dabbed shaving lather onto his face with a boar bristle brush. Once he'd sufficiently covered his cheeks and jaw, he ran his straight razor along the planes of his face, scraping off any whiskers that had emerged since this morning. Each stroke of the blade made a soft, rasping sound, and the aroma of sandalwood wafted up from the lather. He wiped the razor on a towel and continued the process, revealing more and more of his skin. A familiar, comforting routine.

He ignored Strathmore's sigh. His valet never approved of the fact that Daniel insisted on shaving himself—­even though Strathmore had been in his ser­vice for over ten years and not once had Daniel permitted the valet to attend to his shave. Daniel's father, the old earl, hadn't approved of Daniel's practice, either. But, for God's sake, Daniel was a functioning adult, capable of looking after the state of his own facial hair. At least he relented and permitted Strathmore to pick out his clothes. But he put the clothes on himself. None of this being buttoned into his breeches nonsense.

As achievements went, it was ridiculously minor, but that was the odd hallmark of a title and wealth. Theoretically, he was one of the more powerful men in the country, yet when it came to matters such as one's toilette, a nobleman reverted to infancy. As if the responsibilities of his rank were too onerous to bear up under the weight of tying his own cravat.

Behind him, Strathmore laid out his ensemble for the evening, selecting everything with the care the valet always displayed. It was almost a shame for Daniel to take credit for wearing his clothing, when it was all Strathmore's expert eye.

In keeping with the valet's understanding of occasion and fashion, Strathmore had selected a burnished-­bronze silk waistcoat and a deep-­forest-­green coat. Elegant, but not overly so, since Daniel wasn't attending any sanctioned Season event tonight. Just the right amount of restraint and flash for a gaming hell.

Finished with his shave, Daniel rinsed his face, patted on some tonic, and slipped on a fine white shirt, tucking the tails into his knee breeches.

Miss Hawke would likely be doing the exact same thing right about now. Dressing herself in men's clothing in readiness for the evening. Was she afraid of entering an exclusively male realm? Excited?

The latter, most likely. Miss Hawke didn't seem the type of woman who feared much. She'd seemed out-­and-­out thrilled by the idea of posing as a man and visiting a gaming hell. Bizarre woman. Yet he couldn't remember any of the ladies at any of the assemblies or picnics or other gatherings displaying half her enthusiasm. Either the young, husband-­hunting girls had an air of frantic, desperate merriment, or the older women could barely contain their ennui at yet another Season.

It felt strange—­unreal—­to dress as he did every night, knowing that Jonathan was somewhere out in London, likely not dressing for an evening of elegant, yet wild, entertainment. But Daniel suppressed his guilt, the way he had to before each night's revelry. He needed to keep up the pretense while looking for Jonathan.

When Daniel had been out searching for his old friend, Jonathan's young sister Catherine had occasionally accompanied him. Jonathan wouldn't respond to Daniel alone. Catherine was the baby of the family, a late addition that Jonathan had doted over. She was all that mattered to him, even in his descent.

It was wildly inappropriate for a single man and a young girl not yet out to be in each other's company, especially in public, but Catherine had insisted. They'd visited docks, staked out brothels, gaming hells—­all the places Jonathan had been rumored to be seen. And all to no avail.

If only Lord and Lady Holcombe, Jonathan's parents, weren't all but useless. Even when their heir, Oliver, died, leaving Jonathan the next in line, they'd been unable to do anything besides wring their hands and whine about the hurt to their own reputation.

Yet Daniel would have far preferred searching for Jonathan with Lord Holcombe to potentially hurting Catherine's reputation, but there had been no choice, especially after she'd come to him, begging for help.

Catherine wasn't even out yet. He hadn't seen her at a public assembly or ball—­and certainly not at a gaming hell.

As he now fastened the row of silk-­covered buttons on his waistcoat, a tap sounded at his door.

“Enter.”

The apologetic face of Edinger appeared. “Forgive me, my lord, but the Marquess of Allam is below and requests a moment of your time.”

Daniel frowned. Why would his godfather visit him at this hour, far past the time most paid calls? However, Allam was of the older generation, and now claimed the privilege of age by ignoring social custom.

“Send him up,” Daniel instructed. He usually didn't have company when dressing for the night, but he hadn't seen Allam in weeks and didn't want to keep him waiting.

“Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed and disappeared.

In a few moments, the tap of a cane in the hallway outside announced his godfather's approach.

“Lord Allam, my lord,” Edinger announced, and bowed the older man in.

The cane and white hair were Allam's only concession to the advance of years. Otherwise, he was as tall and lean as he'd been since Daniel had stood only as high as his knee. Same hawkish features, same upright posture, same sharp gaze. Very much like his son Marwood, one of Daniel's closest friends—­besides Jonathan.

“Allam,” Daniel said, coming forward to shake the other man's hand. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

“If it was expected, it wouldn't be much of a surprise,” Allam answered, returning the handshake.

“One thing that hasn't changed—­you still enjoy taking me to task.” Daniel waved toward a nearby chair. “I can ring for some tea or brandy.”

Allam lowered himself into the chair, his movements precise and controlled. “None of that. Helena expects me home for dinner within the hour. After thirty-­one years of marriage, I've never disappointed her.”

“At least where mealtimes are concerned.”

His godfather sent him an icy glance before the cold veneer fell away and a grudging smile creased his face. “She is the center of my Ptolemaic universe,” he conceded fondly.

As Daniel tied his cravat, emptiness spread through his chest. He'd known Allam and his wife his whole life, and had never met a ­couple whose esteem and affection rivaled theirs. Not even his own parents had shared as strong a bond. Once, as a young, romantic boy, he'd believed he'd one day meet a girl he could love the same way Allam and Helena loved each other. But those dreams had soon turned as brittle as autumn leaves, ground beneath the boot heel of reality into a fine powder.

He'd learned at a young age that earls didn't marry for love.

“But that is precisely why I am here,” Allam said. “Your father's been dead for five years, and since none of those halfwits you call friends have the capacity to advise you properly—­”

“I might point out that your own son is one of my friends.”

Allam waved his hand dismissively. “Cameron has his own obstacles to overcome.”

“Perhaps he could benefit from your counsel better than I can.”

A shadow passed over Allam's face. “Once, he might have listened to me. Now . . .” He shook his head. “Don't distract me from the topic, lad. I've risked being late to dinner and my wife's wrath to speak to you.”

Daniel continued to work on the knot of his cravat as an anxious Strathmore hovered nearby, ready to swoop in lest Daniel's neckcloth-­tying skills proved anything less than impeccable.

“The suspense has me riddled with terrified anticipation,” Daniel said.

Allam rapped his cane on the floor. “None of that fashionable irony! It's as if your entire generation has been infected with the disease of disaffection.”

“Maybe because we find so little to engender true interest.”

“Bloody rot,” Allam returned hotly. “The world hasn't altered so much that one can't still feel a sense of wonder. Hasn't there been anything that piqued your curiosity beyond the superficial?”

A smart retort died on Daniel's lips as he recalled Miss Hawke at her desk, and her pacing the length of her office, a whirl of motion and thought. She had pierced the fog that had chronically enveloped him. But for all their closeness, he couldn't tell Allam about her.

Can't, or won't?
Part of him wanted to keep her private, his own secret to enjoy alone.

The secret he bore regarding Jonathan held no enjoyment for him at all. And the two were soon to be inexorably linked.

“It's another Season,” Daniel said instead. “There's no end to the amusements available.”

“I'm not talking of amusement,” Allam replied. “I'm talking of something bigger, something more consequential. Like marriage.”

Daniel crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a dresser. “Ah, here it is.” He should have guessed his godfather's purpose in coming here tonight. Every few months, Allam dropped hints, and Daniel subsequently ignored them. But it seemed as though the time of hints was over, and a more direct approach was being undertaken.

“Shortly before your father went to his Maker,” Allam said, gripping his cane, “he made me promise that I would see to the perpetuation of his title. And I made that promise.”

“I know my duty.”

“Do you? I see your name in the scandal sheets. All this gallivanting around, but to what end? How many Seasons have come and gone, and you haven't once declared your intention toward any girl.”

“I might not care for any of the girls,” Daniel answered.

“You don't have to
care
for them, only esteem them enough to give them your name. And in exchange, the girl will give you the heirs you need.”

“What a romantic prospect.”

Allam rolled his eyes. “You aren't a novel-­reading chit, for God's sake. Helena and I were lucky, it's true, but you have more at stake than something as inconsequential as romance.”

Daniel rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, where a headache brewed. This had been a deeply disturbing issue for him since before Jonathan had gone missing. “I understand that the young women on the marriage market are just looking after their own security. I cannot fault them for that. But . . .”

Allam leaned forward. “Yes?”

Spreading his hands, Daniel said, “Didn't it trouble you? Before you met Helena and were just another young buck attending assemblies. As soon as you enter a room, you're seen as the heir, or the title, but never . . .” He struggled to find the words. There were few ­people with whom he could speak as candidly as he could with his godfather. “Never as
yourself.
”