Some achieve greatness…
And some have greatness thrust upon them.
—William Shakespeare,Twelfth Night
Chapter Ten
When a body is falling, the uniform force of its gravity acting equally, impresses, in equal particles of time, equal forces upon that body, and therefore generates equal velocities.
—Isaac Newton
Our plan was audacious. Bold. Categorically dodgy.
If we were discovered, there would be hell and more to pay. But Isaac Newton allegedly said no great discovery was ever made without being bold. I wrinkled my nose. The quote wasn’t exactly that, but I was sure it was what hemeant.One can’t achieve greatness, in discovery or otherwise, without some measure of brashness.
So here we were…being brash.
I swallowed hard. Hopefully, not foolish.
St. Clair—Tarik—had been resistant at first, and it had taken hours to convince him that my plan could work. We were going to hoodwink theton.My own disguise had worked so well at Cambridge that I figured a similarsmallerdisguise could work to give him access to the bottomless coffers of the aristocracy, to get what he wanted and needed to achieve his dream.
Not that he knew thatIwas in disguise, but semantics.
As a socialite, I had excellent insight into how people worked, having navigated thetonfor three seasons prior, and presenting a convincing argument to Tarik was as easy as breathing to me. Within moments, he was hooked by the possibilities, though he remained dubious, arguing that he was a commoner with no significant income to his name and people would see right through the charade.
I’d countered that he conducted himself like an educated gentleman, thanks to his formal instruction at Cambridge, spoke multiple languages, could converse on any subject, and it was only a matter of clothing and the right introductions to high society…which would be facilitated byme,Lord Ansel’s lovely and charming cousin.
Tarik had balked at the cost of a fashionable new wardrobe, the façade of his new identity, which I said I would handle. Luckily, I convinced him to consider it as an early investment into his club, which I would hopefully recoup as a minor stakeholder in his business. Tarik had relented only after a very lengthy argument where I held that this was in no means charity and was in both our best interests. I admired how much pride he had—he hadn’t seen it as a handout. He’d insisted that if his venture failed, he would repay it as a loan.
I had graciously conceded the point.
In truth, I was helping myself as well—because this term at university would not last past June, but if there was an academic and social club that women could look forward to being welcomed at, that made any future of mine better. The idea of a hospitable place where my ideas could be heard asmyself—awoman wearing a dress and not having false facial hair or spectacles to disguise my appearance—was every female scholar’s dream.
Certainly, women with literary interests had formed their own informal movements, like the Blue Stockings Society, which focused on female education, charity, and cooperation, but they existed at the fringes of men’s spaces, in drawing rooms. Their voices weren’t as amplified as they deserved to be. And while some educated men of letters supported them and participated in their literary conversations, it wasn’t a conventionally accepted thing.
What Tarik was trying to do was nothing short of remarkable, and I wanted to be part of it. The concept of his club was truly innovative.
And it deserved to have a chance of success.
As my carriage came to a halt on Bond Street in a flutter of ruffled skirts, I caught a glimpse through the window of my tutor standing like a statue in the gentlemen’s part of the shop and felt a glimmer of relief that he’d come. He looked totally out of place in his well-worn, serviceable brown tweed, but at least he was there. Roz had set up a rendezvous with his cousin, Lady Rosalin, to meet him at their family’s dressmakers to have clothing sized and ordered.
“Here we are, my lady,” Anna said, handing me my reticule as the coachman opened the door. Though Anna knew ofmyruse as a student at Cambridge, I did not confide in her about my audacious plan with Tarik. While I could take responsibility for the consequences of my own schemes, I could not in goodconscience expose Tarik to someone he didn’t know or trust.Itrusted Anna, but this new subterfuge didn’t involve only me—and the more people who knew about it, the riskier things became.
“Thank you, Anna.”
Hit suddenly by nerves, I lifted my chin and bolstered my flagging confidence. Still, I felt nervous to meet Tarik as myself, even though I’d gotten to know him so well through my alternate identity.Rosalinwas a stranger to him. I felt naked without my mustache and spectacles, and I desperately wanted to make a good impression.
I wanted him to be intrigued by me. Therealme. Because I greatly esteemed him.
Even if he didn’t know it. He was everything I’d yearned for and never found.
Hope fluttered in my chest on gossamer wings as I smoothed my fingers over my dress again and fussed with an errant lock of hair that would not stay put. Goodness, would he even think I was pretty? My cheeks warmed. I knew it was a shallow thought, but that didn’t negate its lingering presence in my brain. What if he thought I was unattractive? I blinked. Did Tarik evenlikegirls? I didn’t want to be presumptuous.
Enough, Rosalin. Either he will like you or he won’t.
Inhaling a deep breath to quell my lingering fears, I strolled into the shop with Anna at my heels.
“Lady Rosalin, how lovely to see you!” My family’s longtime modiste, Madame Marchand, greeted me happily with a kiss to each cheek as was the French custom. She was a well-knowndressmaker for many affluent ladies in theton,and her husband, Monsieur Marchand, was a renowned tailor for the gentlemen. They owned the largest dress shop on Bond Street, which was divided into two boutiques with separate entrances. Their fitting and sewing rooms encompassed the middle.
