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Almost a week later, on a very particular Tuesday, Verity was admitted to Lord Maschelly’s townhouse, under the banner of secrecy and a pale moonlight. The butler promptly and with no fuss or frown directed her to an excessively large room with hardwood floors, bare of all furniture except a long sofa flushed against the wall below a set of French windows. A sense of unreality suffused Verity to know this was happening. The last several days had been spent in an agony of half dread and half hope. Somehow, she had expected that the earl would rescind their bargain. But he had been true to his promise and had sent very explicit arrangements the day after she’d seen him at Lady Springfield’s ball.
She was to visit his townhouse three nights per week in disguise. For two nights, he would teach her about fighting, and one session would be her teaching whatever insight she held on refinement and gentility. He would send an unmarked carriage for her every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday evenings by eight pm. It was less likely there would be any notable ball or events to happen on those days, and if there were any, she would need to be inventive and escape their confines. He would be the one to send the carriage with a coachman he trusted, and that should mitigate the chance of discovery. Verity had felt embarrassed for having not thought so far ahead.
It would have been impossible to summon her brother’s carriage to take her to clandestine meetings three days a week without him discovering it. The servants were loyal to him and would have felt obliged to inform her brother of her shenanigans.
She would meet this coachman at the mews behind her townhouse. She should dress simply, in servant garb if she could, and slip through the kitchen’s back entrance to lessen any chance of discovery. Of course, all this would be accomplished once her mother and brother had ventured out for the evening.
Luckily her brother had gone to his club tonight, and from experience he would not be home until well into the morning of the next day. Her mother had retired to bed early, and there was no occasion she would visit Verity’s room. They were not close, at least not since the “distasteful incident.” But Verity had still pushed several cushions under the blankets on her bed, and at a cursory inspection it might pass for her sleeping form.
“You are to change into that clothing,” the butler said mildly, indicating the neatly folded pile on the sofa. “A young maid, Grace will assist you whenever you are here, my lady. She will escort you to your chamber and attend you there. When you are finished, please see yourself back to this room. My lord will be with you shortly.”
An odd warmth suffused her. Lord Maschelly had thought to provide her a lady’s maid, and a chamber. It seemed the man had thought of everything.
“Thank you,” she said warmly to the butler.
His eyes lingered briefly on the veil, he bowed, then melted away as if such encounters were ordinary.
A young girl of about sixteen years entered shortly, bobbed, and said, “I’m Grace, milady. Milord said I’m to assist you in any way you wish.”
“Thank you, Grace. Could you take me to my room so we may prepare?”
Verity took up the folded clothes and followed the girl from the room, down the long hallway, and then up the winding staircase to a chamber. It was a very elegant room done in brocaded blue and silver flowered wallpaper, a large four poster bed dominated the room, and a chaise longue rested close to the dancing fireplace. The room felt warm and inviting and smelled like roses.
Soon her gown, chemise, corset and laces, and pantaloons were removed, and Verity was dressed in men’s clothing. The shock of it had almost stolen her breath. Grace had assisted her in binding her breasts, until to Verity’s mind, she could pass as a young lad. Then she had donned a fitted white shirt, a dark brown waistcoat, and black jacket and trousers. The trousers clung to her frame a bit too snugly, but the jacket fit perfectly. Next a white muslin cravat was tied around her throat. Atop her head, a short dark wig was fitted with pins.
Verity belatedly realized that she was dressed as a fashionable young gentleman, and as she stared at her reflection in the cheval mirror in the room, she laughed. All sense of her identity had been suppressed, and a pretty but dignified dandy stared back at her. Grace seemed pleased with her work.
“My lord is waiting for you, milady.”
Verity nodded and made her way down the stairs, and to the large exercise room. There the earl waited, similarly dressed in dark evening clothes-black jacket and trousers, white undershirt, a s
ilver waistcoat, and an expertly tied cravat. The man even had on a top hat and a cane.
“My lord,” she murmured, then attempted to clear the huskiness away.
Admiration flashed in his eyes. “You make a credible young man.”
The pit of her stomach felt strange and fluttery. “I gather we are not starting our lessons tonight?”
He came toward her. “What do you expect?”
She searched for the hidden meaning in the cool expression staring at her. “To learn to fight.”
“And what does that mean, Lady Verity? To learn how to form a fist? Punch someone? Know when to retreat and run if necessary?”
Perhaps. “Yes.” A blush warmed her skin at her naivety.
“As like most young ladies of the ton, I gather you have been cossetted most of your life. Have you ever seen someone fight?”
“No, of course not,” she said in a horrified tone.
“Tonight I am taking you to a club.”
“A gentlemen’s club!” she gasped. “My lord…that…that is simply too—” she objected, considerably surprised.
“Improper, outrageous?” he demanded with a mocking smile. “I assure you I am still a bit perturbed by our arrangement.”
Casting him a glance of acute suspicion, Verity asked, “What is at this club?”
