The Proposition (4 page)

It took three more bills to appease Mr. Abernathy, along with the assurance from first one brother then the other that they were very willing to take tea presently at a small side table while the mess was being cleared away.

And that was that. As if by magic, the angry group dispersed. Mr. Abernathy ordered his waiters to get mops. The bobby followed the family out. Edwina was left at the side of a demolished tearoom standing with a tall ratcatcher wearing a tablecloth.

"I thank ye kindly," he said, "fer speakin' up fer me." He ran his hand down the front of his threadbare frock coat, as if straightening an elegant garment. Then he bent forward slightly, adjusting himself into his trousers before his grimy fingers rather indiscreetly fastened the top button.

His trousers had faded to a shade so colorless it was impossible to say if they'd been brown, black, or gray. These were tucked into a pair of hobnail jackboots, the waxy pitch on them cracking from age.

He was in scruffy shape. His thick, dark hair looked to be cut in hanks by an axe. It dangled onto his collar, touched his shoulders here and there; it stayed back from his face in a gravity-defying way that suggested pomade, though, if so, the predominant ingredient in his pomade seemed to be soot. He had a high forehead, or possibly a slightly receding hairline. In either event, the feature lent him an air of intelligence: cunning. His mouth, up against the mustache, was wide, with plump, rather perfectly shaped lips for a man. Chiseled. A pretty mouth on a shrewd piece of riffraff.

This mouth pulled up on one side in what was half a smile, a crooked sense of humor. "And I bain't Coornish, loov. Though Feyther and Mawther was." He wiggled his eyebrows. He was making a joke. Then he smiled more crookedly still—one side of his mouth simply and naturally went up higher than the other, cutting a deep dimple into one cheek. "I be a Londoner now," he explained. "The best ratcatcher from Hyde Park to the borough of Bethnal Green. If ye got rats, I'd do ye fer free."

"Um, no, thank you. So this
is
your profession, catching rats?"

"Indeed. I be the pride of me family, a great success at it, ye see." He laughed softly, perhaps even ironically, then tipped his head, a man blatantly trying to see into the shadows under the brim of her hat.

She bowed her head enough to be a hindrance. In the face of a directness she rarely saw: He showed no fear in revealing himself. As if he had not a thing in the world to hide.

A little foolish of him, she thought, but useful in speech studies. He wouldn't be self-conscious about his pronunciation. On impulse, she said, "I'll give you five bob if you'll come by my house in Knightsbridge tomorrow afternoon and do some speaking exercises for me."

"Yer 'ouse?" he said. His lopsided grin broke slyly back onto his face. He cocked his head to the side. "Alone?"

Boldly, he glanced down the length of her. Edwina cranked her head back. The look he passed over her was purely obnoxious—almost too trite to be insulting. Honest to goodness, what could he possibly think?

Then she felt her cheeks infuse with heat.

She knew what he thought: Gangly. Over-tall. Overeducated. A myopic spinster for whom there was no brim in the world wide enough to hide all that was wrong with her. Edwina was accustomed to people thinking her unfeminine, unattractive. She was, however, unaccustomed to anyone leaping from that judgment to the notion that she was so desperate for the company of a man that she would hire one off the street.

She drew herself up, showing the scallywag her most righteous demeanor. There was a flicker of something, a teasing in his lopsided smile—though, if so, it was the wrong subject on which to tease her.

She scowled. "My house is not empty. I do not live alone, Mr.—" She paused for a name.

He supplied, "Mick."

"You have a family name?"

"Yes, love"
—Ace, loov—
"
Tremore. But everyone calls me Mick."

"Well, Mr. Tremore, I'm not your love. My name is Bollash, Miss Edwina Bollash. And I merely want to study your speech, do a palatographic, perhaps make a gramophone recording. So if you are interested in—"

"Excuse me," said a voice to the side. "I have to ask: Are you
the
Miss Edwina Bollash?"

She turned to find that the two gentleman brothers had not dispersed with the rest. The slightly shorter one, the one who was generous with his billfold, was addressing her.

"I know of no other," she answered.

He shot his near-duplicate a smug look, then held out his hand by way of introduction. "My brother, Emile Lamont. I am Jeremy Lamont of Sir Leopold Lamont's family, of Brighton and lately of London." He offered his card as he nodded toward Mr. Tremore. "So you speak this chap's language?"

She nodded.

The thinner, and somehow more snide, brother asked, "You are the same Miss Edwina Bollash who is renowned for her skill in teaching"—he left a pause—"shall we say, less than graceful young ladies how to enter gracefully into society? The one who did the Earl of Darnworth's daughter?"

"Did
her?"

"Turned her from that—that
thing
she used to be into the elegant creature who married the Duke of Wychwood last month."

Edwina was rather proud of this particular feat, but she never, never took public credit for her work. It demeaned the accomplishments of the young ladies themselves. "I can't imagine where you heard such a thing, though it is true that I tutor private students in elocution and deportment, if that is what you are asking." She opened her reticule, offering her own card in exchange.
Miss Edwina Bollash. Instructor of Elocution and Deportment. Philologist, Phonetician, Linguist. Expert in Social Graces and Polite Behavior.

"You groom the ugly ducklings of society into swans of the upper class. All the rich mamas were whispering about it in Brighton this summer," said Jeremy as he shot a look of significance, a raised brow, at his thinner, more skeptical version.

Emile Lamont laughed. "Come now. You can't be serious," he said to him.

His brother protested, "I am. And you are absolutely wrong. Why, she could take this very fellow here and make him into a gentleman in a fortnight. I would bet it." Turning to her, "Couldn't you?"

"Make him into a gentleman?" The idea startled a laugh out of her.

"Yes. Change the way he speaks—being a gentleman is hardly more than talking properly, wearing decent clothes, and few polite manners."

"It's a good deal more than that, I'd say—" She glanced at the beggarly-looking fellow, who now watched her with the same interest he might have given to a houseful of rats.

"Yes, but you could do whatever it took," Jeremy insisted. "I know. I've spoken with Lady Wychwood. She confided that you helped her, that you picked her clothes, had someone come in for her hair, taught her how to move, even how to intone her voice."

Emile Lamont let out a derisive snort. "Lady Wychwood
was
a lady," he said. "That was no trick. I still say there is no science that can make—well, a silk purse out of a sow's ear. And I still say"—he poked the air in front of his brother's face for emphasis—"that anyone who can't speak the Queen's English properly may as well be shot, for there is no hope for their ever living a decent life. They are nothing but a drain on society."

"You see? You see?" his brother exclaimed. His face reddened. "I have to live with this arrogant fellow! Have you ever heard such a thing?"

In Jeremy's defense, she said to his brother, "You're quite wrong. You can change the way a person speaks. Heavens, you can teach a parrot to talk."

"But not well."

"Well enough."

"She could do it well enough," Jeremy said. "You see? It can be done."

There was a pregnant moment, in which his brother seemed to contemplate their discussion—after which he raised one eyebrow and smiled. "Let me buy you each a cup of tea." He smirked then added, "You, too, Mr. Tremore. For I have an idea. I can see a way here for me to win back my money from my brother and then some."

Edwina allowed herself to be sat at a table to the side of the cleanup, facing the strangest trio of men she could remember in a while. Two rich, idle young gentlemen who had little to do beyond bicker. And a robust-looking ratcatcher wearing a tablecloth.

As a waiter walked away with their orders, Jeremy said, "Emile, I know what you were thinking—"

"You like to think you do—"

"You were thinking that this man was born poor and will die poor, that his poverty is in his blood. But I say it's in his speech. And I'm willing to back my opinion with a wager you will be hard-pressed to refuse." He took a breath, then leaned intently toward his brother. "I'll bet you a hundred pounds that she"—
he pointed at Edwina—"can turn him"—he jabbed a finger in Mr. Tremore's direction—"into a gentleman by simply fixing the way he talks and teaching him some manners."

Oh, my. She had to interrupt. "No, no. I appreciate your faith, but I can hardly take on such a large project—"

"How long would it take?"

She blinked. "I don't know. More than a fortnight, certainly. And it would be expensive—"

"What if we covered your fees and costs?" Throwing a nasty grin at his brother, he added, "The loser, of course, would have to reimburse the winner."

She blinked again. "I don't know." She glanced at Mr. Tremore. He was listening carefully, wary but curious.

He was certainly an interesting case. Perfect in any number of ways. The clear pronunciation, or mispronunciation actually. He loved words. He could mimic accents. Moreover, a man who simply said what he had to say would make faster progress than one who hesitated or hedged.

Emile Lamont tapped his long, thin fingers, then after a moment lifted an eyebrow speculatively. "We'd have to find a way to determine who had won the bet," he said.

His brother pulled his mouth tight, till his lips whitened. "I win if he becomes a gentleman."

"Yes, but who will decide if he is a gentleman or not? You? Her? No, no. You'd simply clean him up, dress him up, then
call
him a gentleman."

"Well, we're not going to let
you
be the judge, if that's what you're suggesting."

Emile Lamont shrugged, as if he had won the bet already because his brother could not find a way to validate the end result.

"We will find an arbitrary judge, an objective third party," Jeremy protested.

"Who? One of your friends?"

"Well, not one of yours."

"Mine would be more impartial, but never mind. It can't be done, and you'd cheat anyway." Emile shrugged again, losing interest.

The bet was off.

Then on again: "Wait—" He sat back, smiling as he tented his fingers. "I have an idea." It was a wicked idea, she could tell by the way he narrowed his eyes. "The Duke of Arles's annual ball," he announced. "It's in six weeks. If you can pass him off there as—oh, say, a viscount." He laughed. "Yes, a viscount. If
you can bring him, have him stay the entire evening with everyone thinking he is a titled English lord, if no one catches on, then you have won." He laughed heartily.

Edwina almost laughed herself. She felt light-headed all at once. The Duke of Arles was her distant cousin—though there was no love lost between them. Arles had inherited her father's estates twelve years ago, leaving her with whatever she could eke out on her own.

Passing an imposter off at his annual ball would infuriate her cousin.

She stared down into her teacup. Yes, it most certainly would. Why, it would make the old goat apoplectic.

The notion took on a strange, unexpected appeal. Arles's annual ball was a hurdle she always enjoyed surmounting, though in the past she had always done so legitimately: seen girls made comfortable there who deserved to be comfortable in the presence of the duke and his friends. But passing off an imposter. Well, it was absurd, of course. And if people found out, it could be damaging. She was allowed her little life on the fringe of society partly because she had been born to society, but partly too because she didn't challenge
it.

But, oh, to fool the duke and know she had fooled him for the rest of her days. Yes—

No. No, no, it was a dangerous idea. But in imagination, it was amusing to consider. In fantasy, the idea made something inside her give a joyous jump. A small, vindictive lurch in her chest that was surprising for its liveliness. What a thought: Old Milford Xavier Bollash, the fifth Duke of Arles, mocked by his plain cousin for whom he had no use.

She looked at the mustachioed man in front of her. He swilled tea like a pint of lager, grasping the teacup whole in the palm of his hand. He drained his cup, then raised his hand, clicking his tongue and snapping his fingers to get the waiter's attention. When the waiter looked over in alarm, Mr. Tremore pointed, a downward poking gesture with his finger, and called, "We'd 'ave s'more, Cap'n."

Dear Lord. His manners were a nightmare. He was unwashed, threadbare, and coming apart at his buttons.

Yet there was something about him. His posture was straight. His teeth were good. Excellent, actually. A shave, a haircut, some good, clean clothes. And a trim, at the very least, of that feral-looking mustache. Why, there was no telling. He would probably clean up rather well, which, with the girls at least, was always half the battle.