After only a few hours, Edwin had assembled a rough draft of the article and, after carefully placing it in his escritoire, called for Henri so he could dress for dinner.
“What dazzling splendor will I be sporting tonight, my friend?” he asked, waving a hand in the air.
“Well,” said Henri, obviously pleased to finally be able to discuss the topic with his employer, “I was not able to obtain any new clothing for you without your presence, but I did purchase some new gloves, a walking stick, a quizzing glass, and some new cravats. I have given the old ones,” he sniffed, “to Cook for cleaning her pots.”
“Henri, I will not look like an idiot wearing all these fripperies, will I? I want to look a man of fashion, but I certainly have no aspirations to becoming a dandy.” Would Titania think he looked like an idiot? Maybe if she hated what he was wearing, she would rip his clothes off that much faster.
Henri chuckled slightly at Edwin’s naïveté, shaking his head. “Edwin, my friend, there is no fear of that. I have merely outfitted you with the appropriate accessories a gentleman requires. You will be unexceptional, a gentleman to the core, with cravats that fit and boots that sparkle. I would not lead you astray, my lord. I know what I am about.” Edwin shrugged, striding toward Henri with his arms spread wide.
Gorgeously attired, Edwin left his house about an hour later. He was wearing his favorite pair of boots, which had been polished to a high shine. His coat fit snugly, encasing his broad shoulders in a dark brown superfine. His cravat—impeccably arranged, no creases—was simply adorned with a topaz stickpin, its square-cut design catching the light and reflecting soft amber twinkles. His breeches were, as fashion dictated, skintight, but fashion did not suffer as it usually did when overfed lords stuffed their sausage legs into the latest creation.
He was looking forward to his evening; he had a dinner engagement with Alistair at their club, and afterward he might head over to Cruckford’s, where the most fervent gamblers flocked.
“Alistair, exactly how and when did you become such a dandy?” Alistair’s waistcoat was a crimson red, his fobs (which were numerous) were various shades of pink, orange, and red, and his coat was a cherry velvet that must have required more than one individual to assist him into it, it was such a formfitting garment. Although Alistair was not as broad as Edwin, his presence lent him an elegance that almost—but not quite—removed the ridiculous aspect of his outlandish costume, and his challenging stare dared anyone to make a comment or criticism.
“My lord,” Alistair replied in a mockingly servile tone, “you are in rare form this evening; dare I hope that your current incarnation is one you will retain? I could not have remained your friend if you insisted on wearing those horrendous clothes that were no doubt suitable for the Americas, but here are positively démodé.”
Edwin laughed, taking no offense at his friend’s acerbity. Or French.
“Alistair, I knew I need have no fear that you would not say what you were thinking. You have not changed that much, even though your outward appearance is quite different.”
Over dinner, Edwin and Alistair discussed Edwin’s impressions of England after such a long absence, Alistair’s work, the war on both fronts, the shipping business, and myriad other topics. Although Edwin was by far the more learned of the two men, Alistair’s dry wit and quick intellect more than compensated for his less scholarly mind. The two were chuckling over some youthful indiscretion involving a dog, an instructor’s wig, and half a dozen turnips when the conversation turned serious again.
“Worthy, my friend, I saw someone whom we both admire today,” Alistair announced, resting his head against the back of his chair. “I paid a call on Miss Stanhope. She is a lovely woman, both her mind—which I believe is much harder working than my own—and her face, which is a continual delight. And her delicious sense of style. I swear, she might almost rival me in beauty.”
Edwin’s mouth tightened as Alistair listed Titania’s attributes. He knew others admired her—the constant throng of men who filled her dance card was a pretty clear indicator—but that his oldest friend was now lauding his chosen lady was too much. He replied in a curt, almost brusque, tone.
“Alistair, you tread on dangerous territory here. Obviously, I cannot forbid you to continue to pursue a friendship with the young lady in question, but I would caution you against forming a deeper attachment. That honor is mine, if she will have me.”
Alistair rolled his head forward, clutching his wineglass a little closer to his chest. “I did not realize the lady had already ensnared you. I thought you had sworn off women—at least respectable ones—after the experience with the Lady Who Must Not Be Named?” He took a long swig of wine, draining the glass, and then looked inquiringly at Edwin, who was casting his friend a predatory glance.
“What I said before and what I say now are two distinct matters. Leticia hurt me, but she did not break me. I intend to ask the lady to marry me as soon as a few details have been sorted out.”
Alistair, by now having poured himself another glass of wine, drained that as well and set it down on the table in a particularly deliberate motion. It was clear that although both men were disguised, Alistair was in worse shape than Edwin, having drunk at least half again as much as his friend and with many fewer pounds to his frame. His chocolate-brown eyes were now bloodshot; his usually perfectly styled hair was rumpled, as he had raked his hand through it several times in the course of the evening. He spoke after draining his glass again.
“You cannot expect to throw down a challenge like that and have me walk away. When have I ever backed down from anything? The only times I even considered it,” he said, his face getting drawn and somber, “was in battle, watching my friends die and I could do nothing for them. But enough about that,” he continued, gesturing to the waiter for yet another bottle of wine. “Let us drink to the lady. That, at least, you will allow me, I am certain.”
Edwin smiled, raising his glass to the thoroughly foxed man sitting opposite him. He himself was rapidly approaching a mild state of inebriation, a situation that had not occurred since that awful night following Leticia’s betrayal.
“To love, broken noses, friendship, and the banishment of bad memories.” Edwin’s elegant toast was somewhat diminished by his simultaneously falling off his chair, landing with an audible plop as his large frame hit the polished floor. Alistair blinked widely at him for a moment, then slid off his own chair, still clasping his wineglass delicately between his fingers.
“To love and friendship, then,” he toasted, gesturing toward Edwin.
When the two had become so thoroughly tipsy that one of them no longer cared what his cravat looked like and the other did not mind wearing it, they staggered home to collapse into their respective beds, each thinking on a certain young lady with more wit than hair.
Despatch from the battle front, April 1813
Masquerades, disguises, secret identities: all these things may, oddly enough, reveal a person’s true nature. Is it any wonder the ton revels in such playacting? It is only then that they may show themselves as they truly are.
Take a lady, for example, specifically a singular lady; yes, she appears to be a lady, but is it truly a lady’s nature to hunt down a husband with all the battle genius of a modern-day Hannibal?
She is armed with only a few weapons: skill on the pianoforte, a trim ankle, an intriguing profile. She has no army, no artillery, and no horses, save the dainty little mare that takes her riding on Rotten Row. But she is no lady, for she is determined to succeed and will take no prisoners. She is audacious, forthright, strong, and determined. If the definition of a lady is that she is all that is polite, subservient, and gentle, then may I be so bold as to submit that there are truly no ladies.
Unless we change the definition of a lady by winning the battle, the fair sex will be required to hide their true natures in perpetuity.
Wish me luck. I am off to the wars.
A Singular Lady
Chapter 12
“I look ridiculous!”
Titania stood in front of the mirror, Sarah behind her trying to lace her up. Ladies in the eighteenth century—at least the specific one who had owned her gown—had a much smaller bosom and a larger waist than she. She looked as if she had been squeezed, bottom up, from a sausage casing. It was not the most elegant outfit, but Titania realized that having her bosom so thoroughly exposed and almost right under her chin was not necessarily an impediment to filling her dance card.
Having stuffed herself into her dress enough so that she would not cause a scandal on the streets, she and Sarah began to work on her hair, which would be powdered and assembled in an intricate arrangement with flowers, looped pearl strands, feathers, and maybe, Titania thought with a rueful grin, there’d even be room to exhibit some of the more pressing bills she had been sent lately.
As Sarah cursed and combed, Titania’s mind was preoccupied with the mysterious knight. Who could possibly be so bold as to assert he would “fulfill her every wish”?
Whoever it was, she decided, was just going to have to flush her out like a quail from a hedge. She was in no mood for games; she had enough to gamble on even without this late entrant to the table.
“You are as done as I can make you, miss,” Sarah harrumphed.
Titania gathered up her gloves, fan, and reticule and marched downstairs, attempting to keep the panniers of her gown from scraping the walls of the narrow corridor. Thibault gasped as she made her way gingerly down the staircase.
“Titania!” he squealed, forgetting to maintain his blasé affect in the shock of his sister’s appearance. “You look...marvelous!”
“Do you mean marvelous in a good way, or marvelous in a you-are-an-oddity kind of way?”
“Difficult to say,” he drawled, seeming once again to remember he was—in his mind, at least—an elegant young man of fashion. “You look so un-you, it is remarkable. And if I were a better kind of brother, I would insist that you wear something to cover your top, since you are practically obscene. But I am not, and you would not anyway, so, yes, you look marvelous in a wonderfully anachronistic way.”
Titania raised her eyebrows at Thibault. “Anachronistic? And who, pray tell, has been teaching you words that do not include references to sighing, ferocious animals, or atrocious waistcoats?”
Thibault scowled as his sister stared pointedly at his waistcoat, a brand-new monstrosity that seemed to have every shape represented: circles, squares, triangles, rectangles, and, Titania was almost certain, a parallelogram lurking right near Thibault’s collarbone.
“My dearest sister,” Thibault said, drawing himself up to his full height (only four inches taller than Titania, but he never let her forget them), “you seem to be under the misapprehension that you are more of a word on fashion than I. May I inform you,” he said in an icy tone, “that no less a personage than the Prince Regent has been noticed casting his quizzing glass to this very waistcoat?”
“Yes, I imagine he would,” Titania replied dryly. “Whom are you going as? Not as you are—it is a masquerade, not a circus performance.” He started to stick his tongue out at her, then apparently thought better of it.
“It’s a surprise, Ti, and you will not guess what we are going to be! All of us—the twins, Percy, even Cedric—are going, and we are certain to have the best costume. And there is a prize for the best one, we have got to win!”
Titania leaned over and ruffled his hair, something she could not resist doing when he was acting like the boy she adored, not the incipient fop she tolerated. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, shouting as he ran, “You will not see me, Titania, but I will certainly see you! How could I miss those?”
Luckily for Titania’s modesty, his last words were drowned out in the slamming of his bedroom door. She turned to Miss Tynte, who had quietly descended the stairs herself while the siblings were baiting each other, and who was now regarding Titania as if she were one of the exotic species at the zoo.
“My dear, have you forgotten something? Perhaps the top of your bodice?”
“This was perfectly acceptable in my grandmother’s time.” Titania looked doubtfully down at herself, wondering if it was too late to run upstairs and put on a nun’s habit.
“So were men wearing red-glass heels and more makeup than someone on the stage,” Miss Tynte replied with an acerbic tone. She glanced at the hall clock, then shook her head. “It is late, Titania. Let all of us—you, me, your bosom—get to the party.”
Titania hiked her gown up to cover herself a little, but it did not help much. There they were, resplendent in all their soft, white glory. She shrugged, and the gown slid back down. She met Miss Tynte’s eyes, and they both began chuckling.
“This is truly absurd. If my friends here and I do not get noticed by some eligible bachelor, I will have to hide my head in shame.”
“It will not be your head that should be ashamed if that happens, Titania. Should you call for the carriage?” she asked with a pointed look.
“Mmm, yes, I should. Stillings?” The butler came up at a brisk pace, then halted abruptly. He started to quiver all over, Titania presumed, with disapproval.
“Yes, miss?” Stillings’s eyes were fixed about a foot above Titania’s head. Apparently he did not want even to look at her.
“Stillings, please ask Wilton to bring the carriage around.”
“You are going out...like that?” he blurted out, his face almost a caricature of shock. Titania cleared her throat, casting an amused glance at Miss Tynte.
“Yes, Stillings. Is something wrong?” She blinked as innocently as she could. Stillings squinted for a moment, took another look at the ceiling, and exhaled.
“No, miss. I will go call the carriage.”
Titania and Miss Tynte collapsed in giggles as soon as he had left the room.
THE RUMBLE OF THE WHEELS was the only sound inside the carriage until Titania spoke.
“‘They do not love that do not show their love.’”
“Hmm, what?” Miss Tynte blinked as she refocused her eyes.
“Shakespeare.”
“I know who wrote it, Titania, I taught it to you. Why are you quoting it?”
Titania leaned forward, reaching for Miss Tynte’s hand. “Show their love. What do you think he meant by show your love?”
Miss Tynte arched an eyebrow. “Probably not what you were thinking when you put that gown on.”
“No, really. I was not thinking about my appearance. Do you think it could mean that love demands a show, even if it might be dangerous?”
Her friend regarded her warily. “Dangerous how?”
“Dangerous as in...danger. Like risk. Do you think love is risky?”
“Anything that carries such a possibility of failure is risky, Titania. But I think Shakespeare meant that love demands acknowledgment. That you have to state it, somehow, for it to be valid. What brings this on, anyway?”
“Oh, Thibault was asking me for help with his work.”
“He was, was he?” Miss Tynte’s voice held a distinctly skeptical tone. “Which of his courses is this for?”
“Oh, look, we are here! Look at all the bright lights—this house is stupendous!” Titania stared out the window, truly impressed with the ducal residence, but also just as pleased not to have to answer Miss Tynte’s questions.
There were plenty of other guests arriving, so it was some time later that the two ladies actually descended the carriage steps. The butler cast one scandalized glance at her chest, then dragged his eyes up to her face. “Your name, my lady?” he exhaled breathlessly.
Trying hard to ignore the glimmerings of saliva glistening on his lower lip, Titania replied, “The Duchess of Devonshire, please.”
“The Duchess of Devonshire,” the butler declaimed, his butlerly demeanor now firmly back in place. Titania descended the small set of stairs placed at the door into the ballroom, a fabulously large room decorated in shades of black and
gold. Her hosts were the only people present not in costume, so it was easy for Titania to spot the duke and his duchess, an oasis of two normally dressed folk among the sea of harlequins, queens, pirates, and mermaids. There were quite a lot of mermaids, actually, Titania noticed, and most of them had eschewed wearing much on their upper bodies as well, leaving her a bit more relieved as to her own appearance. Thanking her ancestors for having the sense to wear flat shoes (even if her panniers might mow down unsuspecting guests), she glided over the highly polished floor to greet the duke.
“Your Grace”—Titania curtsied—“I am Miss Titania Stanhope, Baron Ravensthorpe’s daughter. I have not yet had the opportunity to thank you in person for the kindness you showed to my brother and me when my father died. Thank you, sir,” she finished, looking up into the older man’s eyes. A pair of lively gray eyes met hers, laugh lines creasing as he smiled warmly back at her.
“My pleasure, Miss Stanhope. Your father was a good friend. I had heard you were recently arrived in town for the Season; I have been escorting my daughters to Almack’s faithfully every Wednesday. Why have I not seen you there yet?”
“Your Grace,” Titania replied in an awkward tone, “I have not sought out vouchers for that establishment, although I know it is expected for any young lady making her debut; but my parents’ history, and my father’s later...excesses virtually require that the patronesses exclude me, and I would not want to embarrass them or myself in requesting entrance.”
The duke frowned, his bushy eyebrows drawing together over the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps, my dear, one of my wife’s friends might be able to assist you. You should not be tainted by your father’s wicked reputation, no matter how well deserved,” he finished with a laugh. “The sins of the fathers should not always be visited on the children, now, should they? I will see what I can do.” He touched her briefly on the arm and moved away with an elegant grace that spoke of his ease among society.
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