“And underpaid.”
“Tragically so.” He leant closer, his expression one of mock concentration. “Now, the pièce de résistance.”
Lottie turned her head, and found him nearer than she expected. His grin had softened into something boyish and conspiratorial.
“Close your eyes,” he said. “And do not move.”
She obeyed. His hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face to the light. His thumb rested at the edge of her jaw, warm and steady, while his other hand traced the gentlest line above her upper lip. The whole thing was absurd and the sensation ticklish, but it was strangely tender. Lottie held her breath, quite certain that Mr Charleston of Wiltshire was a doomed man.
“There,” Jasper said quietly.
When she opened her eyes and turned back to the looking glass, she burst out laughing. “I look like a poorly paid poet!”
“You look,” Jasper said, trying and failing to keep a straight face, “likeMr Charleston,earnest and underwhelming. A young man of uncertain parentage and big boots.”
Lottie rose and gave a stiff little bow. “What ho,” she intoned gravely, pitching her voice an octave lower. “Whisky. Dreadful weather. Damnation.”
Jasper clutched the edge of the dressing table and wheezed. “God preserve us! Charleston sounds like he’s been raised by a vicar and sheepdog.”
She straightened and puffed out her chest. “I shall limit myself to proclamations and observations. Nothing too emotional. ‘By Jove!’ when the cards go poorly. ‘What larks!’ when they do not.”
“Excellent,” Jasper said, gasping through laughter. “Your voice is not entirely disastrous, provided you never string more than three words together. And if anyone addresses you directly?”
“I shall squint, nod, and mutter something about Parliament.”
“And if they press the point?”
“I shall excuse myself on account of gout.”
Jasper wiped his eyes. “You are dangerously convincing. You have spent far too much time with your father.”
“Please.” She began to pace the room, hands clasped behind her back in a fair imitation of Lord Tolliver. “I have been preparing for this role my entire life.”
She stopped before him, chin high, chest puffed, every inch the absurd little gentleman. “Mr Charleston of Wiltshire. Fond of cards, indifferent to bathing, and constitutionally incapable of remembering his mother’s birthday.”
She thrust out her arm. “Shall we, cousin?”
Chapter 21
Charlotte Tolliver—or rather, Mr Charleston of Wiltshire—descended from the carriage.
Bellamy’s stood before her, all gaslight and glass, golden letters gleaming against the darkened sky. She adjusted the brim of Jasper’s beaver hat a little lower over her brow and drew the borrowed greatcoat closer to her chin.
“Remember,” Jasper murmured as they approached the entrance, “say as little as possible. Look indifferent to everything. And for the love of all things holy, do not curtsey.”
“I never curtsey,” Lottie muttered, though she had very nearly done so upon alighting from the carriage.
A liveried doorman regarded them with the weary suspicion of a man who had seen one too many drunkards attempt admittance. His eyes swept over Lottie, pausing a moment too long upon the ill-fitting coat, and narrowing at her moustache.
“Evening,” Jasper said breezily, offering a nod of effortless entitlement.
Lottie gave a solemn nod and added, in what she hoped was a masculine baritone, “Dreadful weather.”
Jasper coughed discreetly into his hand.
The man inclined his head and stepped aside.
Inside, the club was exactly as Lottie had imagined, and she drank it all in with poorly concealed fascination: ornate cornices, dark wood panelling, velvet armchairs, brandy bottles behind glass, and an air of cigar smoke, exclusivity, and vague disdain. Gentlemen lounged in various states of idleness. Lottie followed Jasper, resisting the urge to adjust her hair.
