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That was what he deserved, he supposed, for playing truant from the estate work that should have taken up the bulk of his afternoon. But Madame Esmerelda’s task, assigned late the previous evening, had tied his mind in knots.
It had not taken him long to figure out how to sing without humiliation. But the subject matter…
“Good things about Ned,” he’d labeled the mostly blank page. And then he’d numbered one through fifteen down the side of the page. It was precisely the method he’d employed earlier that day, when he’d labeled a page “Possible Explanations for Swallow Migration (Taking into Account Known Patterns).” Except he hadn’t stared at that page for half an hour without the slightest inkling of how to proceed. He’d filled that sheet of paper in minutes.
Things that were good about Ned. Hmm. It would have been much easier, and more satisfying, to sing a song about things that were wrong—desperately wrong—with Madame Esmerelda.
Across from Gareth, his man of business quietly and efficiently sorted through correspondence. William White was young for his position—scarcely older than Gareth—but intelligent and well-versed in modern innovations. His dark hair had been clipped close to his head. He bent over the desk industriously. No doubt he imagined Gareth was addressing matters of similar gravity. Gareth had no desire to disillusion the man.
Two tasks left. He didn’t have to complete them; he could walk away at any time. But if he did, Ned would continue to consult the woman, and worse—if he gave up, she would win.
He couldn’t let her do that. He just had to start writing.
Ned is not so bad to see.
There. A first line. It had a nice trochaic meter to it, if he did say so himself. It wasn’t, perhaps, the greatest compliment one man had ever delivered to another, but he wasn’t about to wax rhapsodic over Ned’s curly brown locks. Gareth had a certain amount of dignity to maintain, after all.
Now all he needed was a rhyme.
Ned is not so bad to see.
That’s because he looks like me.
It wasn’t quite true, of course; Ned had a few years yet to grow into the breadth of Gareth’s shoulders. But it rhymed and had meter. And it was a compliment.
The only problem Gareth saw—well, perhaps not the only problem, but at least one major one—was that when Madame Esmerelda said to write his cousin an ode, she hadn’t intended Gareth to identify all the ways he and his cousin were similar. She demanded he turn Ned to gold. Transmuting Ned into Gareth would be unlikely to pass muster, and the thought of being forced to repeat the song horrified him.
Reluctantly, Gareth crumpled the sheet of paper in front of him.
“White.”
His man of business looked up, his pen arrested mid-dip in the inkwell. “My lord?”
Tell me all the good things about my cousin.
No. That would be cheating. He’d carved his own elephant. By God, he’d write his own ode to Ned.
“What rhymes with ‘trusting’?” he asked.
The ever-efficient White didn’t even need a moment to think. “Lusting. Disgusting.”
Gareth took another leaf of paper from his drawer and began to write.
My cousin Ned is not disgusting.
Even if he is too trusting.
Also not the most complimentary of couplets. Gareth gritted his teeth and crumpled this second piece of paper.
“My lord.” White’s tone was cautious, undoubtedly chosen to keep carefully within the bounds of his station. “Are you writing a poem?”
“No.” Gareth scowled at the desk in front of him.
First, he wasn’t writing it. He was failing to write it. Second, it was an ode rather than a poem. And third, even if he were writing a poem, he saw no point in letting the man know. Because if he shared one irrelevant detail with his staff, they would expect others. Pretty soon, Gareth would be nattering on about all sorts of things.
Like the fact that he was writing the ode to his ridiculous cousin. And soon he’d whine that he had been coerced into writing it by the most annoying woman ever to walk the face of the planet.
And the last thing he wanted to discuss with his man of business was Madame Esmerelda. Because after he’d raved about how impossible she was, he might add that when she’d left his carriage the previous night, he’d been too struck by that sudden mischievous grin on her face to do anything but imagine her in the gown she should have chosen, shoulders exposed to his touch, skirts puffed out by multiple layers that he could remove one by one to reveal petal-smooth skin…
White still watched him, interest sparkling in his eyes.
For one stupid second, Gareth thought about telling the man everything. The thought of confiding in him—a servant, a lesser man—sent shivers down his spine. He silently damned Madame Esmerelda again. “I am not writing a poem,” Gareth said stiffly.
“As you say, my lord.” White turned back to his work.
His oppressive tone had worked. It always did. The last thing he needed was to start seeing unasked-for good in those around him. He liked being solitary. He liked not confiding in anyone. And damn it, he had no desire to change.
THE LIVERIED FOOTMAN—or footboy, Jenny supposed she should call him—delivered the message to Jenny’s door just before ten in the morning. For a moment, she hoped it came from one of her regular clients, expecting to schedule an appointment to see her. There were several she hadn’t seen in months, and she wondered how one client in particular, a shy, unassuming woman named Mrs. Sevin, had fared with her husband.
But the words were written in a precise hand that could only have belonged to Lord Blakely.
Have finished ode. Musicale tomorrow at 7 PM. You will attend. -B.
He assumed she was his to command. What if she had made an appointment for that time? Jenny wished she had, so that she’d be able to prove that she had a life separate from his, that she existed for a reason besides satisfying his whims.
The note was accompanied by a bulky brown package tied with heavy twine. The boy—really, he couldn’t have been any older than seventeen—pushed the bundle at her. An errant hank of blond hair had escaped from under the boy’s white wig. He tried to look composed. But no matter how stiff and straight he held his spine, he could not hide the fact that his red velvet uniform was much the worse from traversing the streets. Dots of muck—possibly manure—flecked the tails of his coat. He still cut a finer figure than Jenny.
She took the package. Harsh bits of twine cut her fingers as she pulled at the hard knots, and the paper crinkled, creased, and finally gave way. The package contained a gown. And some other things—silk stockings and heeled shoes and a proper corset. The dress was carefully folded, but Jenny could already see it would pose a problem. It was a complicated gown, with tapes and laces and gold-colored piping outlining seams between red-and-cream stripes.
She sighed. Lord Blakely was generally observant and reasonably intelligent. What had happened?
“Is there to be a reply? His lordship told me I was to bring any such back.” The boy was too well-trained to fidget. Instead, he stood unusually still, his back held in a rigid posture of attention that would have suited a sergeant better than a seventeen-year-old.
Jenny flipped the note over and scrawled her response on the back.
Unfortunately, I cannot wear this dress. Enjoy your evening. Yrs, etc.
She handed the note—and the package—back to the servant.
He gave an undignified gulp and shook his head. “But that’s for you.”
Jenny shook her head. “Not anymore, it isn’t. Now it’s for Lord Blakely. Do you think he’ll look well in it?”
Those well-trained eyes blanked in evasive consternation.
“No, you’re right,” Jenny said. “The gown’s too short for him.”
Boyishly puffy cheeks swelled in affront. The idea of laughing at Lord Blakely strained his mental abilities. Jenny sighed. Apparently, Lord Blakely’s predisposition toward dour looks was not an inherited
condition. He spread it like some unhealthy contagion.
“Return it,” she said. “I’m not keeping it, and he’ll want to know.” She gave him a smile to soften the blow. Perhaps those could be contagious, too.
