Immediately, she had visualized the possibilities. And she’d been right. The red silk, against a stark white bodice and underskirt, was captivating. She’d used just the right lines, in a devilishly clever composition, forcing the eye to travel exactly where Elizabeth wanted it to go.
Lord St. Evert must have purchased the remaining fabric and created, not a waistcoat, which might have been within the realm of reason. No, some demented tailor had made it into a pair of knee breeches. He was a large man, well over six feet. It would be impossible not to notice those dratted red-flowered unmentionables.
Elizabeth frowned. If it wasn’t disgraceful enough—he must don a mustard-green coat, which made the breeches stand out even more. Best of men, indeed! He was a great gangling macaroni who even wore his hair long, as her grandfather used to do, pulled back, but without white powder. If Beau Brummell saw Lord St. Evert’s conglomeration, he would raise a fuss so loud that the atrocity would be broadcast in every London paper by morning. Elizabeth, of course, would be found guilty of fashion-treason by mere association. She wondered if it was too late to thrust herself into the bushes and hide there until everyone left?
Her brother nudged her. Lord St. Evert bowed. This was the part of the introductions where she was supposed to smile sweetly and curtsey. That would mean wiping away the fury and disdain that must be clearly written on her face. Hang it all! He was accompanying a countess, a lady whose widely known reputation bordered on dangerous. One simply could not afford to offend her by fleeing. Elizabeth could not fight six generations of good breeding. She curtseyed.
On the way up from her curtsey, she decided Lord St. Evert should be invisible, nothing more than a young girl’s nightmare. She smiled genially at Lady Alameda as if there were no other person present.
The countess turned to her nephew. “Why St. Evert, how perfectly marvelous! The two of you appear to be a matched set.” She fanned herself coyly.
Elizabeth felt the heat of her distress burning up her cheeks.
Robert laughed. “What are the odds! Did you notice it, Izzie? Captain Ransley, I mean Lord St. Evert, is wearing the same cloth as you.” Her brother slapped them both good-naturedly.
Did I notice? Are you completely daft? “Kindly refrain from calling me Izzie when we are in company.” It was the only almost genteel thing she could think to say.
The corners of Lord St. Evert’s mouth played dangerously close to a grin at her expense. Elizabeth strained not to frown outright. She would not suffer a lined face for this cockatoo’s sake.
The gigantic lout did not take her subtle warning. “It would seem we have the same tailor, Lady Elizabeth.”
Robert chuckled again. “Oh no, quite impossible. You see she—”
She pinched her brother’s arm with some urgency to stop him from bungling everything. “What my brother means is, naturally, I don’t employ a tailor. As a general practice, ladies require the services of a seamstress or a modiste.”
“Ah.” Lord St. Evert nodded, as if such an elementary point rivaled illuminating instruction from Plato.
Robert nodded amiably. “As to that, my dear old fellow, you ought to have your tailor shot at dawn. Your ensemble leaves something to be desired. Never say you went to Mr. Weston for that coat?”
Lady Alameda fanned a little harder. “Exactly what I told him. Shoot your tailor.”
Lord St. Evert did not appear abashed in the slightest by this criticism. “Heavens no. Wonderful little chap. Found him down by the docks. Works for a tenth of the price Weston demands.”
“Claimed to be a tailor, did he?” Robert tilted his head skeptically. “Do you suppose he might be blind?”
Lady Alameda covered the corner of her mouth with the tip of her fan. “I believe St. Evert puts a rather high value on blindness. Do you not, my lord?”
The man remained impervious. “You mistake the matter. He’s a perfectly fine tailor, most accommodating. Made everything exactly as I specified.” He glanced at Elizabeth, waiting for her response, as if daring her to point out the glaringly obvious fact that a drunken sailor would have given the tailor more agreeable specifications.
She had no use for this nonsense. It was time to escape Lord St. Crazy’s proximity. “Certainly, no one can fault your tailor’s taste in fabric. It’s an exquisite silk.” She smiled and inclined her head with far more graciousness than she felt. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. But now, I’m afraid we must be—”
Robert held her in place. “Izzie, wait, there’s more. I was rehearsing to Lord St. Evert our predicament.”
“You what?”
Her heedless brother had the good sense to look at least a trifle chagrined. He adjusted his collar. “Yes, well, I explained most of it.”
“Most?” It was almost a whisper. Her mouth went horridly dry. Had he told this mountainous fop the whole revolting tale? If so, they might as well grab a paddle, for they were surely headed up the river tick. After the rest of the ton got wind of it, her chances on the marriage mart were over. She collapsed her fan and gripped it tightly at her side. One of the tines snapped under the pressure.
Robert tried to reassure her. “He understood the matter completely and generously offered to help us.”
Elizabeth whipped the fan open and began cooling herself in earnest, regardless of the flapping tine. This was a nightmare. A nightmare. She would soon awaken. Some wretched lark would be trilling something that would make more sense than her brother’s incredible disclosure. “How?” She mumbled, her voice cracking under her mortification. “What exactly?”
“When I told him our address and about the modesty of our rooms, he and his aunt insisted we stay with them for the remainder of the season. Didn’t I tell you? The best of men!” Robert draped his arms around Lord St. Evert and Elizabeth, patting them both warmly. “What could be better?”
What, indeed? She shook her head and managed a feeble smile of gratitude. She understood how Marie Antoinette must have felt when they moved her to the tower. Things were not going according to plan.
Chapter 3
Crawling Through the Eye of the Needle
LADY ELIZABETH felt like an orphaned waif sent to stay with wealthy relatives. She stood beside Robert in the white-marble entry of Lady Alameda’s enormous London manor house. It was breathtaking. Four towering Doric columns vaulted up several stories to a domed glass ceiling containing six oval windows, each adorned by paintings of naked cherubim. The walls were oyster white, simple, clean, understated elegance. A subtle plaster relief of Orpheus and the nine muses graced the wall opposite the staircase, and Grecian water bearers climbed the walls beside the marble stairs. As footmen unloaded their trunks and baggage, Elizabeth tried to appear staid and unintimidated.
“Extraordinary house.” Robert gawked like a bumpkin. “Most generous of you, Lady Alameda, to invite us to stay. Can’t tell you enough what a boon this will be.”
Their hosts, Lord St. Cleave and his aunt, smiled patiently at them. The lady inclined her head. “You must think of Alison Hall as your home for the season.”
Lord St. Evert clapped Robert on the shoulder. “You are most welcome. Glad of the company.”
Elizabeth noted that, apparently, Lord St. Evert did not feel the necessity to extend his warm welcome to her. What did it matter? He was nothing more than an overly large, overly ripe leprechaun anyway, what with that absurd waspish coat and apple-green silk pantaloons which, although they were both green, did not complement one another at all, the coat being a bottle-green stripe. Making the entire outfit even more ridiculous, he wore a vivid blue waistcoat. All he needed to look a complete fop was to pouf out his overly long hair. Elizabeth sniffed and caught Lady Alameda scrutinizing her.
“You are twins, are you not?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
“How odd.” Lady Alameda tapped her cheek. “You don’t look at all alike.”
Surprised, she and Robert turned to one another, assessing th
e validity of her comment. Elizabeth saw in her brother the same black hair reflected in her mirror everyday, the same china-blue eyes, and a slightly larger image of her own nose, complete with the annoying bump in the middle marring its straight line. They were similar in almost every respect.
Robert nodded genially. “Oh, I see what she means. I am a full inch taller. I suppose that’s what comes of being male and female. When we were babes, no one could tell us apart. The tale goes that Papa threatened to paint our names on our foreheads. Naturally, now that we are older, there are bound to be differences.”
“You seem nothing alike to me. Hardly twins. Opposites, I should say. Rather like a guileless puppy” —she gestured loosely toward Robert—“and a... Valen, what is the name of that night-hunting creature? Is it a marmot?”
Elizabeth sucked in her breath. She didn’t know what a marmot was, but she felt certain it was an insult, no two ways about it. Obviously, the lady must have taken her into dislike. Elizabeth had no idea how to respond.
Lord St. Evert glanced briefly at Elizabeth and shook his head as if warning her not to say anything. “My dear aunt, surely you cannot mean a marmot? We have no marmots in England. They prefer the mountain climes. Cold-blooded, you see.”
Most definitely an insult.
He continued. “I saw one or two in the mountains of Europe. They look something like a hedgehog crossed with a badger.” He smiled genially at Elizabeth. “Lady Elizabeth is far too noble a creature for such a comparison.”
His elucidation failed to assuage Elizabeth’s injured emotions, and she couldn’t help thinking he had put several double meanings into his description.
“A hedgehog? Really?” Lady Alameda refused to let the matter lie. “I wouldn’t have thought it. Marmot. The very name sounds so sleek and dangerous, a predator to be reckoned with.” She winked at Elizabeth. “Not a mean, waddling badger, surely?”
Elizabeth could not tell if she was being gammoned or if her character was being roasted and served up on a platter. Either way, she heartily wished to be somewhere else.
Robert nudged her. “Tell you what, Izzie. I’ll trade you my puppy for your marmot. I’d much rather be thought sleek and dangerous.”
With a wry grin, Lord St. Evert tilted his head, watching her expectantly.
She took a deep breath as she struggled to find an effective rejoinder. When she could not, she gave up. “I will make you a bargain, Robert. You may keep your drooling puppy and take my waddling little hedgehog as well. I shan’t be requiring either.”
“Well done.” Lady Alameda smiled at her. “Still, I think it is too bad that a paltry creature bears such an interesting name, is it not? Perhaps, in the dark of night, the wily marmot doesn’t waddle at all. Perhaps it leaps out of trees and falls upon unsuspecting rabbits, ripping them to shreds with its pointed teeth.” The countess smiled cheerily at them, as if discussing the merits of a fine piece of lace rather than the violent and bloody demise of a hare. “It’s possible. After all, one cannot always judge by appearances.”
The very idea was so preposterous that Elizabeth shook her head to clear it. Leaping hedgehogs, indeed. Egad! She and Robert had moved in with a bedlamite.
Lord St. Evert flicked some lint off of his green-and-white striped sleeve. “I believe you’ll find that marmots would rather dine on grubs than unsuspecting bunnies.”
“Oh, Valen, do use a little imagination.” Lady Alameda waved away his skepticism. “Entertain possibilities. Consider what might be.” She directed their gazes to the ceiling with her spiraling palm. “It is so much more fun than always staring through the peephole at what is.” Her reverie drew to an abrupt halt, and she clapped her hands together. “Now come! Let me show you to your rooms.” She started up the circular stairs. “Lady Elizabeth, I have situated you just down the corridor from your brother.”
As they headed up the stairway, Valen waited, as was proper, for Elizabeth to pass. She couldn’t help inquiring in a hushed undertone, “Your striped coat, my lord, it is very, er, unique. Does it signify membership in a club, perhaps, such as the Four-in-Hand Club, whose members wear the yellow and blue striped waistcoats?”
He glanced at his sleeves as if surprised to discover that it was, indeed, striped. “Why, Lady Elizabeth, how very astute of you to notice. You have guessed correctly. It signifies that I am part of a very exclusive organization dedicated to protecting helpless, unsuspecting bunnies.”
To give him credit, he delivered his reply with the utmost earnestness. So much so that it wasn’t until he developed a wicked smirk that she realized she’d been neatly trumped.
“We call ourselves the Marmot Hunting Club.”
Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. Then she recovered herself and sniffed as if someone had just fouled the air. “How odd, to form an organization to hunt a species that does not exist in England. You have my sympathy, my lord. It must be a very dull sort of club.”
He appeared to be repressing an excessively evil grin. “Bound to pick up speed—we’ve just had word of a sighting.” He smirked at her pointedly.
Elizabeth fought not to grind her teeth. Ladies do not display their tempers. However, if it was true that a person could look daggers at another, she was giving it her best try, for she was completely nonplussed and could not think of an appropriate setdown.
Naturally, she did what she knew best to do. She stuck her nose in the air and flounced up the stairs, following after his insane aunt. Honestly, she began to wonder if Marie Antoinette didn’t have an easier time of it in the tower, excepting, of course, the part about the guillotine.
That night Elizabeth hid in her room, taking supper on a tray, begging to be excused owing to her exhaustion from the day’s labors. In truth, she simply had no wish to subject herself to any further teasing and humiliation and felt certain she would suffer precisely that were she to go downstairs. Elizabeth had a plan, and she would stick to it. The sooner she accomplished her objective, the sooner she and Robert might remove themselves from this barmy purgatory.
Chapter 4
All Is Not As It Seams
THE MORNING began by harkening back to deep winter. Gray mist seeped in around the casements, hanging gloom in the corners of the room with its chill fingers. Not a good day for a young lady to go for a stroll with her maid, and even less suitable for her to leave the house alone. Valen watched Lady Elizabeth leave Alison Hall from his upstairs window. She should not command his attention so thoroughly, but he could not remove his gaze as she furtively glanced back to make sure she had not been seen.
He knew what she was. She had evidenced it on that very first day. Uncanny that such an arrogant chit should be Robert’s twin. A pity.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “The old long coat, Biggs. I’m going for a walk.”
His former sergeant looked up from folding a pile of linen and glanced pointedly at the moisture collecting into rivulets on the windowpane. “Oh aye, Capt’n. A glorious day for a stroll. And will you be wanting something to keep the sun off yer face?”
“Excellent thinking. The old brown hat with the wide brim.”
Biggs moaned.
“Be quick about it, man. My quarry is getting away.”
Valen had a fair notion where Lady Elizabeth might be headed with such furtiveness. She wore a dark hooded cloak, as if she were merely a lady’s maid on an errand. Clever girl. His worn brown coat marked him as a nobody, a person of no consequence. Ironically, she would look right through him, just as she counted on her own disguise making her invisible to members of the ton. He hurried down the stairs. The drizzle and fog made it a perfect day for a hunt.
Lady Elizabeth set a bracing pace toward the Strand, and seemed to know precisely where she was going. Valen kept a cautious distance but had no trouble following her. Her height aided him on that score. When she crossed from the church of St. Clement and headed down Water Lane, there were very few passersby, and he had to be more discreet rounding each co
rner.
The establishment she entered stood in row of crumbling brick warehouses. Black paint peeled off the wooden first floor façade, and new paint on the window proclaimed the inhabitants to be Smythe and Sons, Purveyors of Fine Goods from Around the World. As he peered through the glass, he noted that Mr. Smythe looked neither old enough to have a son in business, nor young enough to be a son, unless the elder Smythe was a man in his dotage.
Izzie, as he’d taken to calling her by Robert’s pet name when he thought of her—a dangerous indulgence—threw back her hood and spoke with animation to Mr. Smythe. Valen pulled up the collar of his coat and adjusted the brim of his hat so that he did not appear too obvious as he watched them through the glass.
Smythe shook his head and gestured toward the bolts of cloth standing in bins against the wall. Lady Elizabeth, Valen schooled himself to remain formal when regarding her, shook her head vehemently. He caught bits and pieces of their conversation.
“Must be unusual... willing to pay.” She plunked her reticule down on the counter. Not a wise move, Izzie. Valen caught the predatory gleam in Smythe’s eye. The foolhardy chit would be lucky if the proprietor didn’t knock her on the head and take her money without troubling himself to make an exchange. Without thinking, Valen wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his short sword, but Smythe did not make any untoward movements. Instead, the fellow excused himself and disappeared behind a curtained doorway.
Izzie glanced impatiently about the cluttered room. When her gaze wandered toward the window, Valen stepped out of view. A moment later, the sound of her muffled exclamation drew him back to the glass. To his great relief, she appeared to be exclaiming with delight over a bundle of shiny dark green fabric. And now, her effervescence would cost her top price. She should have restrained herself.
Izzie pulled three guineas out of her reticule and handed them enthusiastically to Smythe. Predictably, Smythe shook his head. Ah, as Valen suspected, after her effusive display the fellow would demand at least six. It caught him by surprise when she shrugged, put the three guineas back in her purse, and turned to go as if it were the end of the matter. Smythe was as nonplussed as Valen was. It had been obvious she wanted the cloth. Lady Elizabeth was not three steps from the door, and only four steps from discovering Valen peering in the window, when Smythe called to her retreating back. She stopped, but didn’t turn. The merchant unrolled the green fabric onto the counter and called to her again.
Cut from the Same Cloth: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt Book 3) Page 2