“If you intend to brawl, please adjourn to the ballroom,” Wolford said in a bored tone, his voice gravelly, as if he’d just woken. When he stepped into the room, his disheveled dark hair and heavily whiskered jaw confirmed it. He squinted his green eyes, either at the two of them or at the scant rays of morning light coming in through the window. “I would not want your clumsy skirmish to endanger my collection.”
“Is that what you call all of this?” Jack asked with a chuckle. “I thought you were preparing an exhibition for a museum.”
“Just a few things I’ve picked up over the years.” Wearing a paisley banyan over his shirt, cravat, and trousers, Wolford trudged to the window and closed the curtains. Once the room was immersed in shadow, he released an exhale and opened his eyes fully. Then he poured a cup of tea from the service waiting on his desk, drained it, and poured another.
Thayne executed a chuckle and swept a hand through the air. “You have enough in this room to begin furnishing a new house.”
“My other houses are equally full,” Wolford remarked, as if the matter were mere happenstance. He had been born into a fortune and never wanted for anything in his life. While that fact had once irked Jack when they were schoolmates, the truth was that Wolford wasn’t arrogant about it. He’d never once been a prig, flaunting his possessions. Moreover, neither Wolford, Thayne, nor Vale had labeled Jack a bastard and dismissed him, like most of the others had done.
“There are many elite who would enjoy a tour of your houses,” Thayne continued. “I’m certain it would go a long way in improving your standing. Especially to those who disapprove of your hedonistic display of wealth.”
Jack scrubbed a hand over his clean-shaven jaw, hiding a laugh. If this was Thayne’s method for transforming Wolford, Jack needn’t worry for Lilah’s sake.
Abruptly, he frowned, distracted. He wasn’t worried for Lilah Appleton. The outcome of her venture made no difference to him whatsoever. His being here was a means of satisfying a mere curiosity. Nothing more.
“And there is a salver piled high with invitations from those who thoroughly enjoy my hedonism, in every aspect. I am more of a mind to take pleasure in their company,” Wolford said with a familiar, wicked gleam. His reputation for extravagance encompassed more than a steady acquisition of objects. Rumors of the salacious parties he attended kept his name from being spoken too loudly by those in society.
Leaning back against his desk, Wolford crossed his arms over his chest and looked from Jack to Thayne. “Have you come to admire my latest acquisitions or merely to scold me, as my housekeeper does?”
When Wolford looked to him, Jack jerked a chin in Thayne’s direction. “I believe the marquess has something of a business proposition for you.”
“I . . . yes. I do.” Thayne shot Jack a look of warning before regarding Wolford once more. “I’ve recently acquired a new property, and I am in need of furnishings.”
“I heard all about it at Lady Reynolds’s party last evening. Your dealings with Lady Granworth have become infamous.”
Thayne coughed. “You’ve heard?”
“By now, I’m certain everyone in town is aware that you practically stole the Widow Granworth’s house right from under her nose.” Wolford tsked.
“Oh, that,” Thayne said on an exhale. “There was no thievery involved. I merely made a more handsome offer. I’m certain that is something you both can understand.”
“There is nothing wrong with being a man of action, but I’ve never procured an object on which another person has laid claim,” Wolford added, clearly to antagonize their friend. “Have you, Marlowe?”
Jack had learned at an early age that he had to fight for everything he wanted. The lesson had begun with a need to use his fists until he was old enough to learn that money and intellect held more power. Still, a man ought to know how to use his fists, especially when dealing with dockside merchants. “I enjoy a good challenge. Even so, I still have something of a code of honor.”
“Sod off, the two of you. I’m making no apologies,” Thayne sneered. “Both of you take what you want and never bother yourselves with what you don’t. I merely wanted that townhouse.”
“Hmm,” Wolford mused with a sly grin. Then his gaze drifted back to Jack. “Though the statement makes me wonder why you are here, Marlowe, and not frittering away your day at the toil and strife you seem to enjoy. What has piqued your interest enough to bring you here, to an address that is at the very heart of the haute ton you so despise?”
The muscles along Jack’s neck, shoulders, and arms flexed with tension. He wasn’t overly interested in Thayne’s bargain with Lady Granworth. All the same, he felt a need to be aware of the happenings surrounding Lilah Appleton. It was, he supposed, the aftereffects of carrying her card with him each day for so many weeks. His promise to Vale had been to send her flowers in order—he presumed—to assist her matrimonial endeavors. So how could he abandon his task without seeing it to completion? Clearly, Jack would have to stay in her life until she found a husband.
Satisfied with the answer, he relaxed and addressed Wolford. “I was wondering if you’d heard from Vale. Your cousin has been on his honeymoon for months.”
“As a matter of fact,” Wolford said. “I received a missive from him yesterday. I’ll spare the two of you his lengthy sermon on the ideal marriage and how he acquired it. I will tell you, however, that he plans to return in a fortnight. And, no doubt, is prepared to encourage us all to find our own brides.”
Jack couldn’t help but notice how Wolford’s comment landed neatly in Thayne’s lap.
“For you to marry, you will need to learn how to please the ton’s matrons first,” Thayne said to Wolford.
Wolford’s harsh laugh ricocheted off of a nymph statue and reverberated inside a tall blue vase. “Now you truly sound like my housekeeper. As I have told her, I will marry when I am one and sixty, after I have lived a full life, just as my father did. And I need no one to nag me about my duties before that time.”
Jack smirked. Wolford was not going to make this easy. Then again, helping Lilah might not be a simple task either. Already she’d stated a desire to marry one man in particular. Lord Ellery. Jack knew little about him. As of yet, there’d been no reason for him to find out more. Now, however, there was a reason.
“What about nagging you about a solid night of card play? It’s been an age since the lot of us sat at a table,” Jack said, needing an excuse to glean information from his friends on Ellery.
Thayne appeared to be waiting for Wolford’s response.
Wolford shook his head. “Sorry, old chap. I’ve already given my word to Stapleton. He’s hosting a soiree and a card game.”
As Jack recalled, Stapleton had been a relative of Lilah’s late uncle. Therefore, it seemed likely that she would attend this party. Perhaps Ellery would as well. In addition, Jack knew that Stapleton and Dovermere weren’t particular friends. Which meant that Dovermere wouldn’t attend. Which also meant that Jack could and without the risk of an encounter.
“I could procure an invitation for you, and we could have that game after all,” Wolford offered.
“Though it may surprise you, I already have an invitation.” It was true that Jack did not attend society gatherings. Yet that didn’t mean he never received invitations. Quite the contrary. Jack received a slew of them every day. He supposed it was because, as Dovermere’s bastard, Jack was a curiosity. Never before had he thought that it would work in his favor. “Gentlemen, it appears our game is on.”
Lilah stared in the vanity mirror as Nellie finished curling the fringe that framed her face. The same face that had failed to tempt even one man to call on her in the past two Seasons. The same face deemed forgettable. And now, she’d promised to use this face to ensure that Juliet gained her home?
In fact, she is going to transform me . . .
“Nellie, what possessed me to make such a claim?”
Her maid’s response was a shake of the h
ead in the mirror. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, miss.”
Nellie had been her maid for over ten years but still harbored some skittishness from when Lilah’s father was alive and browbeating everyone within hearing. She never spoke unless spoken to and rarely offered her opinion. In that way, Nellie was like Lilah. It was as if she was still afraid of bellowed demands for perfection. Afraid to fail.
Lilah was too.
So what possessed her to think that she could become the Original? She more resembled the wilting primroses in the vase by her window seat than a fresh-faced debutante with a certain flair.
“Juliet would need magical powers to turn me into this Season’s Original.” Certain failure loomed. Lilah needed a moment to figure out how to gently ease out of this bargain. Yet before she could think of anything, her cousin walked into the bedchamber.
“Pale-blue satin suits you well,” Juliet said. Then, pressing her lips together, she tilted her head, as if in contemplation. “Though we must try something different with your hair.”
Lilah held up her hand, protecting every curl that the maid had painstakingly set in place. “It took Nellie nearly an hour to arrange my hair.” The maid in question said nothing but nodded.
Juliet displayed no concern over this news. “Do you want gentlemen to see you or to admire your maid’s skill with the tongs?”
“To see me, of course,” Lilah said, keeping her hand in place. “But as I mentioned, I have a rather vast forehead.”
“Nonsense.” Juliet picked up a brush, nudged Lilah’s hand aside, and proceeded to undo an hour’s worth of work.
When her hair fell across her eyes, Lilah began to panic. “Nellie shouldn’t have to witness the loss of her efforts.”
Juliet ignored her. “Nellie, please bring me a facecloth from the wash basin.”
Lilah could only hear the sound of footsteps shuffling across the carpet. She couldn’t see what was happening to her. Then, soon enough, she felt a slight dampness against her forehead.
“Now, Nellie, pull out the pins. We’re going to start all over.”
Start over? Lilah gulped. “We don’t have time. Surely my aunt is already waiting for us in the foyer.”
“Zinnia is only now leaving her room. Her practice of pedestrianism should give us ten minutes. Plenty of time.” At that point, Juliet turned Lilah on the stool, away from the mirror, and brushed her hair forward and then back. “A simple twist this time, Nellie. We’ll try something more elaborate for the Corbett Ball.”
“Yes, my lady,” Nellie said, her voice possessing more confidence and volume than Lilah had ever heard.
When Lilah could finally see again, her cousin smiled down at her. “I don’t know why you had your hair styled in that fashion for so long. Why, your forehead is nicely sloped and adorned by the slight V of your hairline. With the way that your hair falls naturally, your face subtly resembles the shape of a heart.”
“My mother is always saying that there’s too much of my face”—Lilah tried to turn her head to see the results—“and that it would be difficult to find a girl with a larger head to stand beside.”
“Uh-uh. Not yet. There is one more thing.” Juliet clucked her tongue and then reached into a satchel. She withdrew an ornate brown jar with scroll work on the side, along with a round painter’s brush with a fat cluster of long bristles. Lifting the lid, she dipped the brush inside. “Now, close your eyes, dear.”
Lilah closed one eye. “What is it?”
“Pearl dust,” Juliet answered, her soft breath sending a small flurry of luminescent powder into the air, each particle winking in the light. Then she tapped Lilah’s nose with the brush. “Now, close both eyes.”
This time, Lilah complied.
“That is how I see you—a pearl,” Juliet said with the first stroke of the soft bristles. “Think of how they start as a grain of sand that, after a trial, becomes something beautiful. Your trials are behind you. You must emerge as nature intended. Now, look closely at your reflection, and see what is truly there.”
Lilah opened her eyes and grew nervous when greeted with Juliet’s and Nellie’s smiles. Suddenly, she was afraid to turn around and look into the mirror. What if they were just being kind? What if her forehead was peppered with freckles that formed the shape of a cow or something equally dreadful? Not that she wasn’t fond of cows. She actually enjoyed cheese quite a bit. And butter on her toast. And yes, she realized she was stalling, but it couldn’t be helped. After all, she might look hideous, and there was no time to warm the tongs and start over . . . again.
“Lilah, if you don’t face the mirror this instant, I’m going to drag you out of this chamber and not even permit you to glance at your own reflection all night.” Juliet failed to intimidate with her reprimand when she laughed.
Lilah’s legs wobbled a bit as she stood. And then she turned.
She might have gasped if she could have drawn a breath. Her face was still her face. Her eyes, nose, mouth, and ears all in the same location. Only now, there was nothing to hide them. Had she been hiding them all this time? Hmm . . . she wasn’t quite certain, but she felt a little more than exposed. Was this truly her face?
She took a tentative step closer. Even after all that brushing, some of her curl remained. With her hair parted down the center, the fringe that once covered her entire forehead now framed it in a soft wave of brown on either side. And strangely enough, instead of seeing the vastness of her forehead, Lilah saw her eyes, dark and bright at the same time. Her brows, too, were dark, but arched slightly where they tapered off to a soft point. This was a familiar face and yet new.
But was it enough to transform her into an Original?
Lilah began to worry, conjuring the most ludicrous scenarios for this evening.
“Well, what do you think?” Juliet asked, unknowingly putting a halt to a terrible, imagined disaster involving an apple, a wayward arrow, and a collective gasp from the entire list of attendants.
“To be completely truthful, I’m not entirely sure. It is as if another version of me is looking at me from the other side of the mirror.”
Juliet reached down and squeezed her hand. “If that is true, then you are both going to be late for Lord Stapleton’s party if we do not hurry.”
In that same moment, a breathless Myrtle appeared at the doorway. “Pardon me, but her ladyship wishes me to tell you that time is not—”
“Our ally?” Lilah supplied with a grin, feeling a measure of relief in her aunt’s predictability.
Juliet turned to Lilah. “I forgot my fan. I shan’t be more than a minute.”
Her cousin disappeared through the doorway. With Myrtle nervously shifting from foot to foot in the hall, Lilah didn’t dally. Just before she left, however, she looked over her shoulder. “Thank you, Nellie. You were splendid this evening.”
“Thank you, miss. So were you.” Her maid’s eyes turned liquid instantly as she bobbed a curtsy. Not wanting to be afflicted in the same manner, Lilah slipped away.
Downstairs in the foyer, Aunt Zinnia offered a rare smile. “My dear, you look beautiful. I knew your eyes were somewhere beneath that fringe.”
With Juliet upstairs, Lilah was alone with her aunt. She gave into her fears. “I don’t want to disappoint her, Aunt Zinnia. If I fail—”
“You are uncommonly brave.” Her aunt touched a gloved fingertip beneath Lilah’s chin and lifted her face, as if for inspection. Then she nodded. “I’ve no doubt that you will cause a stir this evening.”
With so much riding on the outcome of this Season, Lilah was sure that any failure would be all the more catastrophic.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Marlowe, be a chap and spot me a hundred quid,” Pembroke whispered, his voice slipping down through his hawkish nose in a high squeak. The man was all nose, arms, and legs, with an overblown cravat to hold him together. “Remember that time at Eton when I warned you about those blighters who were set on a tussle with you?”
Standing
just outside Stapleton’s game room, Jack looked at Pembroke with disgust. Not for the man’s appearance—after all, that couldn’t be helped—but because this viscount mistakenly believed he was entitled to Jack’s hard-earned money. Pembroke hadn’t even bothered to ask for it. Although the response would have been the same. An unequivocal no. “Your memory is faulty. I distinctly recall you leading the charge.”
Pembroke averted his gaze as he withdrew a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his nose. “Yes . . . er . . . well, I did alert you nonetheless. And as I recall, you were successful in fending them off. Which might not have been the case, if it weren’t for me.”
“If anything,” Jack began with a wry laugh, “you should be paying me for not pummeling you, as I did the others. Then again, I recall you were a rather fast runner. And you scream like a little girl.”
Pembroke sniffed, then stormed away, leaving Jack with his memories. Those years at Eton had been difficult, but not because of the weekly threats of death and dismemberment. Having grown up doing odd jobs, from chimney sweep—until he’d grown too large—to errand runner and hawker, he’d become a scrapper. Ready and able in any situation.
Shortly into his stint at school, Jack had learned that he could use his skills to earn money. Some of that money had been earned through brawling and wagers, though most of it was in developing an enterprise. He’d started a small business, employing the village boys to shine shoes and buckles, before selling them at a higher price back to his fellow students. The aristocratic requirement to uphold appearances at all times was quite profitable, as well as educational.
By the time Jack left Eton, he’d begun other enterprises outside of school. It turned out that he was born with a knack for trade and investments.
And he’d be damned if—after all his hard work—he was going to give his money away to ignorant fools like Pembroke, who chose not to think for themselves.
“Tell me something, Marlowe. If you didn’t come to play, then why are you here? You’re as surly as Thayne this evening,” Wolford said with a grin as he handed Jack a short glass of amber liquor. “I think Pembroke is off somewhere, cowering in a corner and biting his fingernails.”
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