Oh my, God.
He had the ace!
We won. We won!
I jumped from my seat and nearly leaped into Jeremy’s arms to hug him. “The ace! The ace! Oh, Jeremy, I could kiss you, you ringer!”
His lips hovered just above mine. “You can if you want.” An electric shock rocketed through my body. I stared into his eyes, entranced and oh, so tempted to do it, but he was joking, wasn’t he? He had to be joking.
We were pulled apart by the other players slapping us on the back and congratulating us. “Well-played,” Nigel allowed, while Mary managed a sullen smile that lasted all of about two seconds before she swept up her skirts and exited the tent.
From the corner of my eye, I spied Lacey slinking over to me like a cat. Her Regency gown was made of pale yellow silk, embroidered with tiny beads, and her bonnet was trimmed with yellow bows. She stopped at my side and stared out across the tent. “We won too,” she intoned. “Looks like we’re all tied up, Dr. Knightley.”
Damn it. It was true. The rudimentary scoreboard (which consisted of a whiteboard and a marker) in the grand tent confirmed it. Lacey and Harrison had won their set too. We were tied at ten points each. Migel was close behind us at eight. Jeremy and I grabbed an early dinner and went directly to our room to retire and put an end to our jet lag.
Staking my claim in the tiny lavatory, I slathered green goop onto my face and pulled on my pajamas with classic books all over them. I peeked out the door to make sure Jeremy was decent (he was) before scurrying out of the bathroom and hopping into my little couch bed. I faced the window, hoping Jeremy wouldn’t see me. Green goop was not attractive. There was no debate on the subject.
“What’s happening tomorrow again?” Jeremy asked from the bed, his voice sleepy.
“The costume competition,” I replied, hoping he’d turn off the light...like immediately.
“Oh, yeah. That one should be a breeze. Mitchell made me some great threads.”
“Yes, but we’ll also be judged on how we walk and how we carry ourselves. Remember to keep your back straight and your chin high.” I managed to say all that on a yawn.
Jeremy’s muffled laughter filtered through his pillow. “Don’t worry. I can walk around with a cane and a cravat holding up my neck with the best of them.”
Thankfully, he switched off the light.
Since it was safely dark, I flipped over to face him. “We aren’t going to get a ten, but I’m hoping for an eight.”
“What? Why wouldn’t we get a ten?” I could see in the shadows that Jeremy had lifted up on his elbow and was looking toward me. Thank heavens for darkness.
“No one gets a ten for clothing.” I sighed. “Mr. Periwinkle is the clothing judge. He’s a ridiculous stickler. I doubt he’d give Beau Brummel himself a ten.”
“We’ll just see about that,” Jeremy mumbled, settling back down into the bed.
Smiling to myself, I snuggled onto my side, hoping I didn’t snore. If Jeremy snored, I hadn’t heard it last night. Then again, maybe that was because I was too busy snoring. I doubted he did though. People as beautiful as he was probably didn’t make annoying noises at night. I propped up my head on a plethora of pillows, hoping to ward off my potential snores, and fell asleep dreaming of how Jeremy looked in his breeches.
Chapter 22
Friday
By the time I woke up late the next morning, Jeremy and his Regency clothing were gone. He’d left me a note saying he’d meet me at the venue at thirteen hundred. The venue, of course, was the biggest tent on the lawn. It had been set up with a catwalk, with judges’ tables facing it and small sets of bleachers spread out behind that for the audience.
I ordered coffee and scones up to the room and took my time dressing. For today’s event, in addition to the white stays that I’d bought from an authentic recreator woman I’d met on the internet, I had made myself a gown from emerald green satin. It had an empire waist and white trim and tiny white flowers embroidered all over it. It had taken me the better part of six months to embroider those damn flowers. I’d also managed to procure some authentic-looking period glasses. They had silver wire rims that I’d had specially made. It cost me a small fortune. I was hoping the attention to detail would pay off with a stickler like Mr. Periwinkle. I did not go authentic on the lack of panties. Mr. P was just going to have to deal with it. Though I secretly wondered if he could tell. When Patsy came up briefly to help me pin up my hair and button up in back, she set down her Bloody Mary and glanced around.
“You’re sharing a room?” she asked, a saucy little smile on her lips.
“Yes, there was a mix-up at the front desk.”
“I’d apologize, Sweetie, but I daresay I did you a favor.” She winked at me.
I shook my head, but couldn’t help but return her wicked grin.
“We’re not sharing a bed,” I clarified.
She took a long sip of her drink. “I can see that,” she replied, pushing one long finger up into her beehive. “That’s a shame, darling.”
After Patsy finished helping me dress, I hurried down to meet Jeremy in the parlor near the doors that led out to the tents.
Just as he had while trying on the same clothing at Mitchell’s shop, Jeremy looked exactly like Mr. Darcy. Top hat, top boots, buff-colored skin-tight breeches, a startlingly white shirtfront and cravat, his emerald green waistcoat, and his black overcoat with tails. For this particular event, he also had a cane, which any self-respecting Regency gent would have carried as an affectation. He’d even been growing out his sideburns per my suggestion, and the slight curl of his hair under his hat was positively swoon-worthy.
I strolled up to him, wondering what he’d think of me in my Regency gown. He was consulting a timepiece. An honest-to-goodness timepiece.
“Does that thing work?” I asked, nodding toward the watch with unabashed interest.
He started and spun around on his heel, looking ever so much like a Regency buck. I thought about what Ellie had said about being in a living romance novel. She was right. This was fun.
“Yes, it works,” Jeremy said, smiling down at me, the timepiece still cradled in his palm.
“Can I see?” I moved toward him and held out my gloved hand.
He pulled the chain farther out of his pocket and handed me the small gold watch. I leaned down to study it. “This looks authentic,” I said.
“It is.”
I furrowed my brow. “Where did you get it?”
A smile curved his lips. “I scoured the antique district for it. Wanted to look realistic.”
A man who thought to buy a Regency-era timepiece? My heart thumped faster. “Mr. Periwinkle is sure to like it.”
Jeremy whistled. “Knows his stuff, eh?”
I nodded. “Like the back of his hand.”
Jeremy’s smile was contagious. “So, I shouldn’t tell him I’m wearing boxer briefs under this?”
“No.” I swallowed hard. “Keep that to yourself.” That announcement made my mind wander to how tight and form-fitting the boxer briefs were. What color were they? Wait. Why did I care? I needed to change the subject. Stat.
“Mr. Periwinkle also fancies himself a bit of a psychic. Drives Mary and Nigel mad.” There, that was a perfect subject change.
Jeremy’s brows shot up. “Psychic, eh? Should we ask him if we are going to win?”
“No.” I took a deep breath and shook my head vehemently. “I wouldn’t want to give away the surprise.”
He cocked his head to the side and studied my face. “You wouldn’t want to know the future if you could?”
“No way.” I shuddered. I peered up at him from beneath my white and green-ribboned bonnet. “Would you?”
“It might help with my bets on the World Series. Being a Brewers fan is tough. Coulda helped when Chicago finally broke their curse, though.”
“You bet on sports?”
He sighed. “Very small sums of money. I think I lost twenty bucks last time.”
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Hmm. That seemed reasonable. But now wasn’t the time to discuss Jeremy’s World Series’ bets. I needed to keep my eye on the prize. “Let’s go to the tent. I’m going to sneak inside and say hello to Mr. Periwinkle before the competition starts.”
Jeremy arched a brow. “Is that allowed? Fraternizing with the judges?”
“Where Mr. P is concerned, it’s all right. Everyone knows he’s such a stickler for clothing, he’d never give anyone so much as a quarter of a point more or less solely based on his personal feelings.”
Jeremy bowed to me and my heart did a flip. “Then by all means, fraternize.”
We walked outside and made our way across the lawn toward the back of the tent where the contestants were supposed to meet. The other competitors were slowly headed in the same direction. I spent a few minutes sizing everyone up. There were some truly gorgeous gowns and some to-die-for male clothing, too. But we still had a decent chance. I left Jeremy just outside the entrance to the tent. “I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes.”
Harrison and Lacey hadn’t made their appearance yet when I snuck into the main tent to find Mr. Periwinkle already sitting behind the white-linen-covered judge’s table, chatting away with Mrs. Cranberry and Lady Waverly-Jones, the other two judges who I knew from the Austen Society. The audience was filing in on the bleachers behind them. Mr. Periwinkle looked up and smiled when he saw me approach. “Ah, Dr. Knightley, you are a sight for sore eyes.”
He was a small man with an elf-like face and a cloud of white curly hair on his head. His bright blue eyes were assessing and he was dressed in a perfect gray wool suit with a matching pocket square. His cane rested on the side of the table. He was never without it. It’s how I knew he would appreciate Jeremy’s cane.
I strolled up to the table, nodding at the two ladies, who nodded back before turning their attention to their own conversation. “I wanted to say hello,” I said to Mr. Periwinkle. “Before things get too busy.”
I also wanted him to see the authentic stitching and embroidery on my gown close-up, but that was a merely a bonus.
“You look quite fine,” Mr. Periwinkle said, rising from his seat and giving me a kiss on each cheek. “Doesn’t she, ladies?”
Mrs. Cranberry and Lady Waverly-Jones eyed me for a moment over the rims of their respective glasses.
“Quite,” Mrs. Cranberry said.
“Undoubtedly,” Lady Waverly-Jones added.
“How’ve you been?” I asked Mr. Periwinkle after the ladies had turned away again.
“Oy. Not looking forward to winter,” Mr. Periwinkle replied. “So difficult to sew a proper stitch in the cold, what with my arthritis.”
I nodded sagely as if I knew all about such things.
“But I’m certain you don’t want to hear about an old man’s aches and pains,” he continued. “Where’s Dr. Macomb? Waiting to make a grand entrance?”
I bit my lip. “He’s here...somewhere.” I had severely underestimated the rampant awkwardness that would accompany my having to tell my Austen Society friends that Harrison and I had split up for the purpose of the competition. But I’d better get it over with. It wasn’t as if Mr. P wouldn’t find out soon enough when Harrison came traipsing out on the stage with Lacey Lewis on his arm.
“Harrison and I have chosen new partners,” I said with a sigh. “He’s here with an actress and I’m here with an old friend.”
Mr. Periwinkle’s forehead puckered into a pronounced frown. He cupped a hand behind his ear. “Pardon?”
Oh, God. Did I have to repeat it?
“She said she and Dr. Macomb have split up,” Mrs. Cranberry nearly shouted toward Mr. Periwinkle.
So much for wondering whether the two ladies had been listening to our conversation. “No. No,” I hastened to add. “We haven’t split up...as a couple. We’re merely participating in the festival with different partners.”
“Oh,” Lady Waverly-Jones said, turning away. That news was clearly less interesting than a break-up.
“Whose idea was that?” Mr. Periwinkle asked, folding his arms across his chest.
I was beginning to wish that I hadn’t snuck in here after all. Embroidery be damned. “It was, er, Lacey Lewis’s idea.”
Lady Waverly-Jones’s head immediately snapped to the side to face me again. She looked down her regal nose at me. “Lacey Lewis, the American actress?”
“Yes, that Lacey Lewis.”
“Who is that?” Mr. Periwinkle said, his lips curled in a frown.
Of course Mr. Periwinkle didn’t know who an American starlet was, but leave it to the pop-culture-obsessed Lady Waverly-Jones to know all about her. Lady W-J loved to brag in the forum about the time she met Madonna, and what good friends she was with Posh Spice.
“Lacey Lewis is here?” Mrs. Cranberry asked, glancing around as if Lacey might be behind her right now.
“Yes, haven’t you seen the paparazzi?” I asked, wanting to back slowly out of the tent.
Mrs. Cranberry’s eyebrows rose. “I thought they were here to cover the festival for the newspaper.”
Mr. Periwinkle shook his head. “You mean to say that some chit asked Dr. Macomb to toss you over and he agreed to it?”
Here we go again. Though I did appreciate that he’d referred to Lacey as a chit. “It’s more complicated than that. It has to do with our boss and publicity for our college.”
“I don’t like it, Dr. Knightley. I don’t like it one bit,” Mr. Periwinkle said, his arms still tightly folded over his chest. The older man had a decided frown on his face.
“I know. I know,” I said, but I was tired of defending Harrison’s choice.
“There’s something that I need to tell you, Dr. Knightley.” Mr. Periwinkle leaned in close and whispered, “Something I...see.”
My throat went dry and my hands went clammy. Oh no. The man was a psychic. A vision of him telling me that Lacey and Harrison were going to run off together flashed through my brain. I was sure of it, and it was the last thing I wanted to hear. The very last.
“I’d better get back,” I said lamely, glancing at the entrance to the tent and the sweet freedom it represented.
“You need to hear this, Dr. Knightley.” Mr. Periwinkle said, the look on his face so serious that it scared me a little. “It’s important. It has to do with your future.”
The way he said future reminded me of a horror movie. How, precisely, did one politely turn down news of a psychic vision? There was nothing in Emily Post about this one. “No thank you,” seemed too weak. Covering my ears and yelling, “You’re freaking me the hell out,” seemed a bit too much.
“I’m...good,” I said before realizing that the interpretation of good in this particular American-to-English context was lost in translation.
I took a step backward, prepared to run for it if I had to, but Mr. Periwinkle’s leathery hand grabbed mine and held me there. “Dr. Knightley,” he breathed. “The man you’re going to marry is in this competition.”
I made it to the back of the tent just as the music was beginning to play, heralding the start of the fashion show. I’d half-run, half-galloped there, conduct severely unbecoming for a Regency miss, and was heaving like a horse by the time I slid into place beside Jeremy in the line of couples.
“Are you all right?” he asked, taking my arm and looping it through his.
“I’m fine,” I said, a wide smile on my face, despite my breathing difficulties. As soon as Mr. P had said my husband was at the competition, a wave of relief unlike any other had flooded through me. Harrison and I weren’t going to break up. We were going to get married!
Of course, I refused to put too much stock in what a supposed psychic told me, but at least he hadn’t said I was going to die an old, lonely spinster. That would have been disconcerting, whether or not I chose to believe it. I was still feeling confident moments later when Lacey and Harrison showed up to take their spots toward the back of the line. Harrison was wearing the flesh-colored breec
hes we’d picked out together, a sky-blue waistcoat to match his eyes, and a chocolate-brown overcoat. Lacey had on some sort of over-the-top turquoise gown that I refused to look at too closely, but I presumed was hideous.
I turned to look at them past the rows of ringlets and cravats and gave Harrison a big wave. He smiled and waved back. We might be in head-to-head competition at the moment, but soon it would all be over and Lacey would be gone and we could put our differences aside. It would be Christmas and we’d be getting engaged. Next year would be filled with a lot of wedding planning and parties. Ooh, I’d probably need a separate planner just for all of that. The thought filled me with joy.
The first couples had already paraded across the stage. The idea was to emerge from behind the curtain together. An announcer would declare which characters you were meant to be, and then you would each take a turn walking down the makeshift catwalk that had been assembled in front of the judges’ table. The lady walked first, then the gentleman. Jeremy and I had been over it a hundred times. But I had to admit that butterflies were fluttering through my middle after I returned from my successful (no tripping!) walk and watched him prepare to go.
He inhaled a deep breath and then took off strolling, his back ramrod straight, his cane in front of him, as if he’d just stepped out of the pages of Pride and Prejudice. By the time he made it to the end of the catwalk and performed a saucy little twirl and turn-step with his cane, the crowd was cheering and clapping. Even the dignified Lady Waverly-Jones had the hint of a smile on her face.
Jeremy’s walk back to where I stood was just as successful, and by the time he took my hand and we turned to take a final simultaneous bow, I was filled with pride. It turned out Jeremy Remington was a perfectly charming Mr. Darcy, and I was his Elizabeth. The man you’re going to marry is here. The import of those words hit me like a punch in the gut as I looked up at Jeremy, who was grinning from ear to ear.
Oh my God. Harrison wasn’t the only possibility.
Hiring Mr. Darcy (Austen Hunks Book 1) Page 18