Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (16 page)

Freddy put on his hat and left the town house, his happy mood much destroyed by his sister’s pigheadedness.

Getting out of Lady Steven’s musicale was easy work for Catherine. Evelyn didn’t want her to come anyway and actually cheered when she was told the bad news. Her mother was only somewhat dismayed.

“No doubt it was your expedition to the museum yesterday. I knew I should never have given my consent.” Her mother touched her hand to her daughter’s head to see if she was running a temperature. She was not. “You poor dear, you must be exhausted. No doubt you aren’t used to all this activity. Evelyn and I, of course, are accustomed to buzzing around like busy bees, but you, my dear, have never kept the same hectic pace as us. We would like to stay in more, but one has social duties that one cannot bow out of gracefully. Now get some rest and I’ll check on you in the morning. I am sure you only need some extra sleep.”

Catherine was already in bed, and she fluttered her eyes tiredly.

“La, look at you,” her mother exclaimed, “barely able to keep your eyes open. Rest now. You must recover tomorrow for our expedition to Almack’s. What would Lady Sefton say if we showed up without you?”

As her mother shut the door, Catherine wondered how upset Lady Fellingham would be if she pleaded the headache tomorrow night as well. She would not be nearly as understanding then. She didn’t doubt that the kind lady would roll her out of bed, pour a medicinal draught down her throat and order her to put a brave face on it. The thought brought a smile to her lips, even as she acknowledged how much she was dreading the evening. She didn’t want to go to Almack’s, not because the patronesses were intimidating or the assembly rooms famously stifling but because she feared dancing with Deverill again. It was too risky. As confident as she had been that she could use him to her own ends, Catherine found herself being drawn deeper and deeper into a web of emotion that she couldn’t control. The visit to the British Museum demonstrated to her just how susceptible she was to his charms. By all accounts, their trip had been a stunning success—and that, of course, was the problem. She had thoroughly enjoyed the outing. Deverill was an enthusiastic tour guide, able to speak with equal familiarity of the Rosetta stone and Egyptian mummies, and he listened to Melissa’s lecture on the pediment statues with a patience that could only be described as endearing.

Catherine was desolate to admit to herself that she genuinely liked Julian Haverford, Marquess of Deverill.

It was, by and large, an unexpected development, and yet, looking back, she could see that it was entirely inevitable. The gentleman had so much to recommend him, from his sense of humor and amiable disposition to his clever conversation and beautiful green eyes, that an inexperienced girl like her had little chance of remaining indifferent. Indeed, she was as bad as Evelyn had been when it came to heaping encomiums on his head.

Practical as always, Catherine knew that she would simply have to halt her feelings for Deverill at liking. To form a
tendre
for him would be fatal. The true state of his emotions had always been known to her. He accompanied her and Melissa to the museum only because she had maneuvered him into it. He was committed to dancing with her tomorrow night only because Lady Sefton had backed him into a corner. He had waltzed with her the first time only because Lady Courtland had asked him to.

Catherine had too much respect for herself to become a besotted fool, and she resolved to redouble her efforts to meet eligible
partis.
Tomorrow night at Almack’s, she would dance and converse and flirt with as many eligible men as possible, and perhaps Deverill, observing her success, would consider his promise to Lady Courtland fulfilled and leave her in peace.

Any satisfaction she might have felt at her resolution was undercut by a pervasive sadness that made her worry that her feelings could not be halted after all. But Miss Catherine Fellingham had no patience for mopey misses, which explained her almost continual annoyance with Evelyn, and she gave herself a stern lecture. You will get over this, she told herself firmly. In a week or two, you will look back on this and wonder how you could have been so melodramatic.

She recalled the young army officer whom she had formed an attachment to in her first season—a man she hadn’t thought of in years—and took that as proof of her resilience. Now she couldn’t even remember his face. But perhaps the difference was that she and the officer had barely known each other whereas she and Deverill had already spent so much time together. He had demonstrated that he could be kind and—

No, she decided, shaking her head, as if to clear it of all thought. She had mooned over Deverill enough for one day. Now she had more important matters to attend to, and she climbed out of bed, wondering what to wear to a gaming hell. Although Freddy had assured her that one of her evening gowns would be fine, she knew she also had to disguise herself. But how? She examined her wardrobe, grimacing in disgust as she looked at all the dowdy gowns in a row. She pushed them aside with increasing agitation. She would borrow one of Evelyn’s only she would look ridiculous in her sister’s petite gown. Why must she be a head taller than everyone in her family save for her brother?

Thinking about her ridiculous height, she realized the only solution was to borrow clothes from Freddy, who, at an even six feet, was two inches taller than she. If she turned herself into a man, then her tall stature would not draw attention.

After a glance to confirm that the hallway was empty, Catherine strode quickly into Freddy’s quarters and made a beeline for his dressing room. She knew enough about men’s clothing to pick out suitable evening wear: doeskin breeches, stockings, waistcoat, linen shirt. Catherine encountered only three problems with her excellent plan. The first was how to hide her feminine curves. Even when she put the waistcoat on, one could still tell that she was quite obviously female. After a moment’s thought, she began to dig around the room, looking for something she could use to flatten her chest and settling on a long neckcloth. That done, she confronted the problem of how to tie the cravat. She tried one of the simple confections she had seen gentlemen recently sporting, but she quickly learned that there was nothing simple about a cravat. Every time she thought she had accomplished a reasonable knot, it fell apart in her hands. In the end, she realized there was no way around it; she would have to ask Freddy for help.

The last problem was considerably harder to solve. Though her height might be commensurate with a man’s, her feet were not. Freddy’s shoes were at least two sizes too large for her, and when she walked her heel lifted out of the black pumps. This was going to be tricky, she realized, sitting on the bed and considering her options. She had come too far to let a silly thing like too large shoes stop her now. Finally, she decided the only solution was to stuff the toes with cotton. This improvisation made the shoes tighter, and they now stayed on when she walked. There, she thought, well satisfied with her solution.

It was only when she was ready to go downstairs and wait for Freddy that she realized she had overlooked her hair, which was remarkable because it was right there, on top of her head. “Devil it,” she said, annoyed.

Cutting it was not an option. Not only would her mother never talk to her again, but she also feared how it would look. What else could she do? She remembered her father’s collection of wigs. Surely he had one that wasn’t powdered and ancient looking. Catherine ran down the hallway, heedless of how ridiculous she would appear to the servants.

Once in her father’s dressing room, she found exactly what she needed: a brown-haired wig. It was eons out of fashion. For one thing, the hair was too long, easily covering Catherine’s ears. But it would do well enough. She brought it back to her room and began plaiting her hair very tightly. Then she gathered it at the back of her head with dozens of pins before putting the wig on.

She inspected the final product and decided she hadn’t done such a bad job, after all. Surely nobody would recognize her now. In order to test her theory, she climbed quietly down the servant’s staircase and out the backdoor. She then walked around to the front of the house and rang the bell. Caruthers answered.

“Please tell Mr. Fellingham that Mr.—” Catherine broke off as she realized that she hadn’t come up with a name. She thought of her favorite book. “Harold is here. Mr. Jeffrey Harold.”

If Caruthers thought anything was queer, his expression didn’t show it. “Mr. Fellingham isn’t at home, but we are expecting him any minute. Perhaps you would like to wait in the front parlor?”

Catherine accepted this offer and followed Caruthers to the front parlor. Once there, he directed her to take a seat and left. She didn’t have to wait long because within ten minutes she heard Freddy saying, “A Mr. Harold, you say? I don’t know any Harolds. Very well, Caruthers, I’ll take care of it.”

She was already standing by the time Freddy opened the doors. He examined the room’s occupant, but there was no gleam of recognition. Her brother bowed stiffly. “I am afraid, sir, that I do not recall where we’ve met.”

Catherine smiled widely and thought of something to say. She knew that she must disguise her voice as cleverly as she had her person. “It was at Lady Sefton’s ball. Your friend Pearson introduced us.” Much to her surprise, she discovered that a respectable baritone was readily available to her. She watched Freddy struggle to recognize her.

“Of course,” he said, offering his hand, though he clearly had no recollection of meeting a Mr. Harold at Lady Sefton’s or anywhere else. “How do you do?”

Catherine laughed happily as she shook his hand. “Freddy, you clunker, it’s me.”

He jumped back at the surprise and hardly seemed to believe his eyes for a second. “Catherine? My girl, you are a complete hand. You had me thoroughly taken in.” His admiration for her accomplishment dimmed as he examined her outfit. “Wait a second. Are those my brand-new breeches? Devil it, girl, have you no respect for the sanctity of a man’s dressing room?”

“Pooh respect, Freddy. I need your help with this.” And she showed him the neckcloth. “I haven’t the faintest clue on how to tie one of these. I thought I had done a decent facsimile of the mail coach, but it came undone before my eyes.”

Freddy looked at the strip of fabric she held out. “I don’t know how to tie those. Why do you think I have a valet?” But seeing her disappointed look, he tied the cravat into a simple knot that, although it wasn’t the height of fashion, held together. “There,” he said, standing back to admire his handiwork.

“What do you think?” Catherine said, turning around to give Freddy the complete view. “Do I look like a young buck out on the town?”

“Not bad at all.” He nodded appreciatively “I am impressed. And I think you have Caruthers fooled, though if you don’t, he’d be the last one to let you know.”

“See?” said Catherine. “This won’t be so bad. We’ll be in and out before anybody is the wiser.”

“I am still not convinced, but I know better than to argue with you,” he admitted. “I must change my clothes before we leave. Shall we say a half hour?”

Waiting a half hour seemed interminably long to Catherine, who wanted nothing more than to be on their way. But she realized that Freddy was doing her a great service and knew it went very much against the grain, so she nodded agreeably to his offer and sat down again. At one point, Caruthers came in to offer her tea, but she declined. She would much prefer that he fetch her book from the study, but she knew that to ask him such a thing would very much give up the game. And she didn’t want to do that quite yet, for she hadn’t even begun playing.

“This is not where Papa goes to gamble, of course,” explained Freddy in the carriage ride over. “Most gentlemen prefer to play at their clubs, where they know and trust everyone.”

“Is cheating a common thing?” Catherine asked.

“It could be, I imagine. But a gentleman doesn’t cheat. His honor depends upon it. Great men have been destroyed by the suspicion alone.”

“I wish rumor would destroy Mr. Finchly,” she muttered.

“Who?” asked Freddy.

“Just a wretch who is dangling after Evelyn. I daresay she can take care of it.” Catherine looked out the window. She loved London at night. It glittered. “Now tell me about faro. Is it very difficult?”

Freddy, never really one to enjoy gambling, explained faro as he understood it until the coach stopped. He climbed down and offered his sister a hand before he realized how odd that looked—his helping another man off a carriage.

“Now, Freddy,” she said as they were about to go in, “don’t worry about a thing. I can handle myself. Just stay close and we’ll muddle through this.” She tried to sound calm but in truth her heart was racing with excitement. She had never done anything as daring as this before and it felt good. Frightening, of course, but very good.

Once they were inside, Catherine began to relax. She examined the faces around her and realized that she knew some of the patrons. She had never held a long conversation with any of them, but they had been introduced at least once if not twice or three times. Mixing with the well-dressed members of the
haute ton
were elements of a less savory segment of society.

In truth, the gambling hell wasn’t what Catherine had expected, for the room had a decided elegance to it, despite the fact that it erred on the side of ostentation, with its gilded mirrors, gold lamps and silver wallpaper.