Robert closed his eyes, his mind tumbling to that dark place again—of a time and events he had carefully buried and not thought about for almost a decade. One that becoming involved with the search for Timothy Surrey had dug up again, spading it into the light.
For years, Robert had convinced himself he had simply been naïve, but he had come to understand he had also been stupid, believing Yeatman’s lies about his family, especially his father. He had accepted the idea that Yeatman could offer opportunities in the company of important men who would improve Robert’s place in the world. All he had to do was follow their instructions, provide them with a little pleasure...
Even then, Robert had already been well aware that some men preferred the intimate company of other men. He knew more than a few and considered them friends, decent men who were forced to live half-hidden lives. Although most of society, especially among the elites, paid little notice to their activities, the law still stood against them, and the molly houses that catered to them were secretive, with assignations only by prearrangements.
Robert also knew about the Bow Street raids—notoriously the raid of the White Swan on Vere Street in 1810—which had resulted in prison sentences and, in some cases, executions—an era that had driven most of the men deep underground. And, at five and ten, Robert could easily consent under the law to sexual activity, although that particular type was still illegal. This was why he believed Yeatman remained a secretive man.
What Robert had not known or understood when he followed his tutor to London, however, was that Yeatman specialized in a different type of assignation. His clients were not the men who sought out companions at the molly houses. They were not interested in consenting men—their violence and abuse had another root, and they paid well for Yeatman’s particular gifts. The Eton tutor had become adept in finding men of age who looked younger. Whose will to object, to protest against authority had been eroded—mostly by the good vicar himself. Robert had fit both categories. And unlike his brother Thomas—who had seemed to be an old man right out of the womb—Robert was still four years from his full height, not yet shaving, with wide blue eyes.
Yeatman had told his clients that Robertwasstill a child. That he relished the rod of correction and was obedient.
The next six months, Robert had aged a decade.
Six months in hell, until Bill Campion had spotted him for what he was—a captive—and spirited him away into the depths of the emporium, secreted away until Robert could heal.
His family still did not know. Robert planned to maintain that silence until the day he died. His mother adored him, and his father—Robert now knew—would have protected his second son on the dueling field if it had come to that. Still would, if those events came to light. Robert fully intended they never would. Indeed, he thought he had hidden them from himself—
Until Lady Eloise Surrey had asked for help.
Robert returned to the desk and slipped the three letters into a drawer. No more woolgathering. The clothes and other items—and Fletcher—were due at his rooms this morning. There was still time to get everything settled before he had to meet with his father. As he had mentioned to Eloise, today would be long and hard. Time to get started.
*
Wednesday, 20 July 1825
Madame Adrienne Chenevert’s shop
Half-past ten in the morning
“Are you certainyou wish to go through with this?”
Eloise looked at the array of items on Adrienne’s kitchen table. Henna. Kohl. White powder. Blue powder. Brushes. Bowls. A pot of red, waxy goo.
Scissors.
In for a penny, in for a pound.She sank down onto the chair behind the array. “Yes. I cannot stay in your rooms. Your shop will be his first stop when my father realizes that I have left the house. We both know it will be easier for me to rent a room as a man than an unmarried lady.” But Eloise picked up the pot of red goo, and her voice dropped. “I have never worn rouge a day in my life.”
Adrienne plucked the pot from Eloise’s fingers, returning it to the table. “You said you wanted to be transformed. Unrecognizable. What better way than to turn the prim and pristine spinster into a young dandy who fancies face powder and fine shoes?” She ran her fingers through Eloise’s long, thick curls. “Are you ready?”
Eloise nodded, and Adrienne reached for the scissors. The first snick made Eloise squeeze her eyes shut. The second made her flinch. Even the third made her muscles tense, but by the eighth, she had begun to relax. She did trust Adrienne—and she truly wanted to do this. She glanced down at the growing pile of hair. “If it all goes wrong, I suppose I could become a nun.”
Adrienne paused to laugh, then abruptly kissed the top of her friend’s head. “When I am finished, the last thing you will want to see is the inside of a convent. Now stop squirming.”
Three hours later—cut, curled, and colored—Eloise stared into the Venetian mirror in Adrienne’s hidden room. A gift from one of the modiste’s many benefactors, the glass in its elaborate frame remained hidden because of its value, a worth Eloise could see as she peered at the crisp image of the stranger before her. She turned, and so did he, and Eloise’s breath locked in her chest.
Adrienne placed a hand on her shoulder. “Preen a little, my dear. And breathe.”
“He’s such a”—Eloise let out a sigh—“a Pink.”
Her friend snorted a laugh. “Hardly. Think Blade. Young. Fashionable, but not mature enough to be a Beau.” Adrienne poked Eloise between the shoulders. “Don’t slump. Your posture must be perfect. And don’t be afraid to look people in the eye. Women look down to be demure. Men do not look away. And remember to keep your voice in your throat. You already have a low voice for a woman. Just don’t get excited. You tend to squeak a bit.”
Eloise turned on Adrienne—“I do not!”—and heard the shrillness in her words. “Damn.”
When Adrienne finally stopped laughing, she pulled a cane from one of the cabinets and handed it to Eloise. “Use this to draw their eyes away from your face. It’s a delightful affectation. Thump it on the ground. Twirl it. Sway it side to side.”
Eloise tested its weight, then posed with it, looking in the mirror.
Adrienne’s voice sobered. “It can also be a good weapon in a tight spot.”
