by Martha Keyes
Chapter Eleven
By the time Ruth arrived at The Three Crowns, she was a bundle of nerves, and her head felt like to split. She had removed her glasses during the hackney ride, hoping that it would relieve the vise gripping her head. And while this had certainly provided a welcome reprieve from the obscured vision she had been obliged to endure for the past two hours, her head continued to pound.
Her one consolation was the twenty pounds in her coat pocket. Twenty-one, actually. She smiled as she entered the inn. Despite her protestations that she had only been teasing, Oxley had insisted she take the extra sovereign.
She hurried up the inn stairs and into her room, immediately rushing over to the door which adjoined her room to Topher’s and flinging it open.
She breathed an enormous sigh of relief at the sight of her twin, squinting as he picked up the note she had written to inform him of her whereabouts in case he returned while she was out.
Her relief was short-lived, though, soon giving way to anger. “You!”
Topher turned his head and reared back at the sight of her. “What the devil?”
Ruth took off the top hat she wore and flung it at him. “What the devil indeed!”
He caught the hat and set it on the table. His blinking shock shifted, and he folded his arms across his chest, looking Ruth up and down. His shoulders began to shake.
Her anger flamed, and she fumbled with the knot at her neck. “You may as well get out all of your laughs, for I assure you, I mean to strangle you with this blasted”—she slid the last of the fabric from around her neck and flung the cravat at him—“torture device!”
He covered his mouth, but his eyes were watering with laughter. “I am sorry, Ruthie. I really am. I only laugh because you do make a half-decent gentleman.”
Two hours ago, those words would have allayed her fears; now, they rankled. For all she was glad she had not been discovered in her disguise, she didn’t want to look like a man.
“Where in the devil have you been?” she flung at him. “You nearly ruined us!”
His eyes had widened at her words, a hint of approval in them.
“What?” she challenged him. “If I must dress like a man, surely I am also permitted to speak like one. And you have only yourself to blame.”
His shoulders lifted in defense. “I thought the meeting was for tomorrow.”
“It was!” She plopped down upon his bed, setting herself to the task of removing her boots. “Did you not read the note? Oxley was obliged to move it up a day.”
He had picked up her note again, but his head shot up. “Can’t read a thing without my glasses.”
“Here.” She handed him the folded spectacles in her hand, but he was looking at her strangely.
“Did you say Oxley? As in Lord Oxley? As in the viscount?”
She stared at her brother, doubt assailing her. Had she just acted a deception upon a viscount? He had said he was titled, but she hadn’t thought much of it. “I…I…I don’t know.”
“Gad, Ruth!” Topher ran a hand through his hair. “Did you really go to the meeting impersonating a man?”
Ruth yanked off a boot, her hackles rising. “I did. You left me no other choice. I shouldn’t have been obliged to do anything so frightfully inappropriate if you had only kept your word and been here this morning!” She threw the boot at him, and he caught it with both hands.
“How was I to know that the man would move up the meeting?” He glanced over the boot, rubbing at a spot on the toe. “I thought that I would have plenty of time for study this evening and tomorrow morning.”
Ruth said nothing, only letting out an annoyed huff through her nose. She wanted to throttle him. “You might have at least told me you had no idea of returning last night. We could have spared ourselves the expense of your room at least.”
He set the boot down on the floor. “And perhaps I would have if it had been my intention.” His cravat was too high to tell for certain, but Ruth thought she saw him flush slightly. “I made a friend, and he was good enough to let me stay with him, just two doors down from the evening party I attended. My mistake was in sampling too much of the brandy he had on hand. Didn’t even crack an eyelid open until past noon.”
Ruth narrowed her eyes at him. “How in the world did you manage to gain admittance to an evening party when you don’t know a soul in Town?”
Topher avoided her eye, taking up the boot again and busying himself with rubbing the smudge. “I met the friend before the party, though I shan’t tell you more than that, for you shall only look severely at me and ruin what turned out to be a perfect evening.” His hand paused on the boot, eyes glazing over slightly, while the hint of a smile formed on his lips.
“Topher,” Ruth said suspiciously. “Did you meet a friend? Or did you meet a woman?”
He looked up, the fond smile fading, and this time she was certain that his face was redder than usual. “You know the rules, Ruth. You mustn’t ask.”
“And I shouldn’t if you weren’t endangering the real purpose of our time in Town.”
He set the boot down again with a thud. “Well, it’s done! You’ve gone already, haven’t you? So I didn’t ruin it. You have the twenty pounds.” A shadow of doubt crossed over his brow. “Haven’t you?”
She didn’t respond right away. He deserved a bit of suspense after all he had put her through. “I do.” She chewed her lip for a moment, anticipating his reaction when she told him the rest.
He shrugged. “Then that’s that! No need for more of your lecturing.”
“Perhaps.”
He looked strangely at her. “What do you mean perhaps?”
“We have a decision to make.” She sighed, pulling off the second boot and placing it on the floor gently. She already knew what he would say. “Oxley wants me to continue helping him.”
“He wants you to—you mean you as in you the gentleman?”
Ruth nodded. “Until the end of the month. In exchange for two hundred pounds.”
Topher gaped, mouth hanging open, eyes round as dinner plates. “Two hundred pounds?”
She nodded, not meeting his gaze. “Three hundred if he finds success in his aims.”
“Three hundred?” He ran a hand through his hair.
She could already see the light in Topher’s eyes—the possibilities her words had sparked in him. Reluctantly, she gave up the last bit of information. “And lodgings.”
His gaze shifted to her, curious. “Lodgings where?”
Ruth stood and began pacing. “Upper Brook Street. The empty townhouse belonging to his uncle. He plans to come to Town sometime next month—well after we will have left.”
“By Jove, Ruth! That’s capital!” He grabbed her hands, forcing her to stop and look into his face, blazing with joy. “When do they expect us, then? And why are you looking like that?”
“I told Oxley I would send him word of my decision—that I needed to discuss the matter with my colleague.”
He dropped her hands and hurried to the writing desk, pulling out a piece of paper and thrusting a quill toward her. “You have discussed it with me thoroughly and will very gladly accept his offer.” He pulled out the chair in an invitation for her to sit.
She pushed the quill away. “Topher, you aren’t thinking. Do you understand what this means?”
“Yes!” he said on an incredulous laugh. “I do! Lodgings in the best part of Town, more time to enjoy London, and three hundred pounds to bring home to Mama. Easiest answer in the world. Come on, then.” He tried to nudge her toward the seat, and she resisted.
“Oh, yes,” she said waspishly. “It is all well for you, isn’t it? You aren’t the one who must deceive Oxley—or feel the pressure of helping him win a woman. For you this is merely a well-paid holiday. No doubt, you will gallivant around Town day and night, leaving me to hope and pray that I am not discovered, while you flirt and make merry. How should you like it if you were obliged to dress as a woman for weeks? A bit less, I
imagine!”
Her anger seemed to bring Topher back down to earth, and he took her hand in hers again. “Of course I shan’t leave you to yourself. I do hope to see more of Town—of course I do. I can’t possibly sit inside day and night, can I? But I shall support you and be here to guide you—in the art of masculinity.” He executed a deep bow.
It was quite elegant, but Ruth merely folded her arms, refusing to smile.
“Listen,” he said leaving off his teasing again. “I know you are angry with me, and I can’t say that I blame you. I would not have gone out if I had known the way of things. But, in the end, I think that it is all for the best, really.”
She scoffed, but he continued. “Just think! If I had gone to see this Oxley fellow, with my half-baked understanding of things, and if he had requested my continued help—which is not a given, mind you—then we would be in the suds, for I wouldn’t know how to continue helping him. Rehearsing can only take one so far. But now, all is well, for you are fully equipped to carry out the task. And only think what a relief it will be to Mama when we write home to tell her what has happened—and what we will bring home with us.”
There it was. The thing that Ruth couldn’t ignore. The reality of two—or perhaps three—hundred pounds. It was food in George’s adorably round belly. It was a doll for sweet Joanna. It was books for Charlie and John to study, now that their understanding had surpassed the ones they had been able to keep. It was a new pair of shoes for Mama to replace the ones that were wearing through on the balls of her feet.
But it was in exchange for a lie. If the reality of what two hundred pounds could buy for the Hawthorn family was one side of the coin, the other side was the reality of Ruth’s deception—the man she would be misleading, even if it was in pursuit of his best interests and hers. Mutually beneficial. Was it better to risk her family’s well-being or to mislead a man while helping him?
Her family couldn’t do without food. But Oxley need never know of her deception—not if she took care not to give herself away. If she could do it for an hour, she could do it for longer. The way was paved. And besides, she had already deceived him. It wasn’t a choice between deceiving and not deceiving—merely between continuing the deception or ceasing it.
And then there was the little matter of the attraction she felt to him—the fact that she wanted to see Oxley again. That alone told her she should refuse his offer. But how could she let such a ridiculous, girlish fancy deprive her family of such a sum? She couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. This was about so much more than her. And it was business.
“Fine,” she said, lifting her chin resolutely and taking a seat in the chair. Her hand shook as removed the top of the ink pot and dipped the quill in it.
Topher clapped her on the shoulder. “Bless you, Ruth! You shan’t regret it! And neither shall Oxley.” There was a pause. “I wonder if he would be willing to pay half in advance?”
Ruth sent her brother a glare from her position, hunched over the letter. “Well, you shall have to continue wondering, Christopher Hawthorn, for I have no intent of asking him such a thing.”
Chapter Twelve
Philip was just sitting down to dine when a letter was brought by the last penny-post of the day. By now, he recognized the Swan’s handwriting—or Ruth’s, rather. He smiled slightly at the sight of it. It matched the man—lean and youthful.
He opened the letter, feeling a bout of nerves at the thought that it might contain a refusal. He had known he was out of his depth with Miss Devenish, but he hadn’t realized just how near he was to drowning—or that he could be taught to swim—until the meeting with Ruth that afternoon.
He breathed an audible sigh of relief as his eyes ran over the words happy to accept. Thank heaven.
It was a risk, keeping the services of Ruth, of course. He was placing his trust in someone he hardly knew and, if the man wasn’t as trustworthy as Philip had taken him to be, it would mean humiliation on a level Philip had never experienced. He would make it clear in his response that he still required complete discretion.
No one could ever discover he was using the Swan’s services—Miss Devenish least of all—but not even Finmore. Philip well knew how easy it was for one confidant to innocently take his own confidant—or two—and before one knew it, what had begun as a secret was common knowledge and appearing in the betting books at White’s. It was exactly how his mother’s liaisons had changed from a private family affair to ton gossip.
But he didn’t think Ruth would serve him such a trick. Philip had seen the way Ruth’s eyes had widened behind his spectacles at Philip’s offer. It would be foolish for the man to throw it away by breaking his word. Three hundred pounds was a neat sum, certainly. But it would be well worth it if Ruth helped him win Miss Devenish. It was an investment.
Philip knew a bit of impatience to begin. Understanding of a subject that had long troubled him was finally within his grasp. He had to admit, too, to a certain amount of curiosity regarding Ruth. The man was an enigma. How did such a young man—and one whose appearance made him difficult to take seriously—come by his knowledge and wisdom?
But the journey to Oxley Court couldn’t be helped, and Philip wasn’t one to shirk his duty.
When she and Topher had first transferred their belongings to Sir Jacob’s townhouse in Upper Brook Street, Ruth had been uneasy. She had visions of the master of the house returning to Town prematurely and finding Ruth attired in her wrapper and shift. Her worries were slightly eased when she discovered that she and Topher would be inhabiting spare bedchambers rather than those of the master, and once she had instructed that Lucy be the only servant to enter her bedchamber when she was at home, she was able to relax. She needed one space at least, be it ever so small, where she had no need to pretend.
Lord Oxley’s note—for Topher had confirmed that it was indeed the viscount Ruth was helping—had assured them that his uncle was apprised of their presence in his townhouse and would be thoroughly offended if they refused to make use of his carriage and horses. And as Ruth considered her situation, she had to admit that some adjustments to her wardrobe needed to be made, which would require her venturing forth from the house.
Spectacles were the first item of business which needed addressing. While the prospect of having a crystal-clear view of Lord Oxley’s pleasing countenance was as appealing as it was dangerous, Ruth simply couldn’t continue wearing her brother’s glasses. It would be to court clumsiness and hamper her ability to do what she had been hired to do—a chance she couldn’t take. If she was going to earn hundreds of pounds, she needed to be entirely devoted to Lord Oxley’s success.
When she and Topher sallied forth from Upper Brook Street to visit the nearest optician in Sir Jacob’s carriage, she felt on edge, once again fighting the near certainty that she would easily be identified as an impostor. She was no longer wearing Topher’s glasses, which had come to feel like a secret weapon of sorts—the keystone of her entire disguise. But they arrived at the optician’s and were greeted by the bespectacled shopkeeper, who gave no indication that he found anything amiss in Ruth’s appearance.
He immediately took her over to his collection of quizzing glasses, his bristly gray brows rising when she told him that she needed a pair of full spectacles—preferably ones with regular glass in place of lenses.
“But why?” He blinked at her through thick lenses of his own, which made his eyes appear like those of an insect.
Ruth hesitated, realizing how ridiculous her request sounded.
“For our sister, sir,” Topher interjected. “She has the silliest obsession with spectacles. She saw the ones I wear for reading, you know, and we promised her we should bring her a pair of her own, though she has no need for them. What eight-year-old does?” He put a hand on the optician’s shoulder with a charming smile. “But you know what silly flights of fancy women take into their heads at times.”
Ruth shot her brother an annoyed glance, and the optician chuckled, leading
them over to his collection of spectacles. “I have just one pair with ‘blanks,’ as I call them. They were only ever meant to be for display, and I’m afraid the glass is set in the least popular pair of frames we carry. They have sat now for nigh on a year.” He picked up a pair of glasses with bulky frames of a chocolate brown. “Made of horn, these ones, and a very dark horn it was, as you can see. Most people prefer the less conspicuous silver frames.”
Ruth felt Topher’s shoulders shake beside her, his hand covering his mouth as he looked at the frames.
“Thank you, sir.” Ruth took the pair and set them on the bridge of her nose. She breathed a silent sigh of relief as she set the earpieces in place. They didn’t squeeze her head like Topher’s had. And how glorious it was to look through plain glass! The fact that her vision was framed in a blurry, dark oval due to the combination of narrow lenses and thick frames was certainly not ideal, but she would become habituated to it quickly, no doubt.
The optician offered her a handheld mirror, and she startled slightly at the sight of her face in the reflection. The spectacles certainly couldn’t be described as unobtrusive, but she was pleased—and displeased—with the way they added to her masculinity. They would draw the attention away from her lashes, at least—indeed, it was impossible to even see they existed if she set the spectacles slightly down on the bridge of her nose. The frames would draw all the attention, and better she look a fool than be suspected a woman.
She glanced at a pair of daintier, silver frames with a wisp of envy. She would certainly look more like a woman in those.
But that was not her aim, no matter how much her silly vanity begged her to embrace her femininity in the company of Lord Oxley. Indeed, it was the very opposite of her aim.
“I shall take them,” she said, handing the horn rims to the optician.
She traded a few coins with the man and pulled Topher away from a particularly ornate gold quizzing glass frame, bidding the shopkeeper adieu.