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Chapter 1
Alice Grant,Countess Nightingale, had never been particularly vain regarding her auburn hair. Still, her shoulders were tight, her eyes nearly squeezed shut as Mrs. Clarke stood behind her, scissors poised to cut off the first few locks.
“Are you certain, my lady?”
As much as Alice wished she could keep her hair, she was rather more fond of her safety—and the safety of her son—than her looks. For that reason, the hair had to go.
“Just do it,” she said, shutting her eyes completely.
Theshripof scissors cutting hair sent an uncomfortable tingle up her spine. Another cut, and Alice didn’t open her eyes. A third, and this time the curl recently detached from her head bounced against her back before hitting the floor.
Alice scrunched up her face but otherwise tried to hold as still as possible. The end result was going to be hard enough to face; she didn’t need to make it worse by wiggling in her seat so that her housekeeper couldn’t do a fine job of it.
“There,” Mrs. Clarke said after only a few minutes. “That’s the worst of it. Just let me even up the ends a bit.”
Alice hazarded a glance, opening a single eye no more than a sliver. She could only see a blurry reflection in the mirror. Drawing in a breath—while also being careful not to move and ruin Mrs. Clarke’s work—Alice opened both eyes and truly looked at herself.
All her beautiful hair.Gone.
Or at the very least, most of it. Where before she’d had long auburn locks falling about her shoulders, now a red frizz framed her face. She scowled at her reflection. How could it be that the very color of her hair looked different now that it had been cut short? It made her dozens of freckles stand out far more blatantly as well.
Mrs. Clarke took hold of Alice’s head and turned it to the right. Alice held the new position as her housekeeper snipped the hair about her ear and then angled Alice’s head the other direction so she might do the same on the left side. Mrs. Clark left Alice’s hair long enough to cover the tips of her ears and create the windswept look on top that was all the rage among the gentlemen of thetonjust now.
“There.” Mrs. Clarke angled Alice’s face forward once more. “All evened up. Pomade, if you please.” She held her hand out.
Alice reached across the dressing table and picked up the small jar she’d kept when her husband had passed away. She turned it over slightly between her fingers. Of all her late husband’s personal effects that she’d systematically gone through, what was it about this small jar that had caused her to keep it? Most of Lord Hoskins’s belongings she’d given away. Alice handed the small jar to Mrs. Clarke. Perhaps, somewhere deep inside her subconscious, she’d already begun formulating this plan well before it had come to the front of her mind and she’d decided to act on it.
Mrs. Clarke opened the jar, and the smell of wax with a hint of sandalwood wafted toward Alice. Instantly, she was transported back to a time of wordless dinners, evenings sitting on the settee while her husband sat on the opposite side of the room in a wingback, sleeping in her bedchamber forever alone.
Alice blinked and willed the memories to retreat into the past where they belonged.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Clarke asked.
Alice stared at her reflection. So caught up in remembering her past life, she’d not even felt Mrs. Clarke finger-comb the pomade through her hair. It was the perfect amount of height and casualness that so many men sought.
“I believe every gentleman shall envy my hair and demand to know the name of my barber.”
“Well, don’t send them my way,” Mrs. Clarke said emphatically, closing the jar once more.
Alice laughed slightly, turning back to her reflection. She angled her chin one way and then another. The change truly was remarkable. She reached for the thickly rimmed glasses Mr. Clarke had secured for her two days ago. He’d seen to it that flat glass was put in the frames so that they would help hide her identity without ruining her ability to see. She slipped them on, completing the transformation. That was, complete all except for her dress, but her new clothes were not yet ready.
“And the ingredients for the white paint? Have they arrived?” Alice asked, still taking in what she saw in the mirror.
“Just this morning, my lady.”
A bit of a disguise for when she was Lady Nightingale, and a bit of a disguise when she was Mr. Allen. The two would look nothing more alike than cousins. She was determined.
“I think this might just work,” Alice said to herself.
Mrs. Clarke shook her head. “It had better.” The elderly woman pursed her lips, her brow dropping, as did her voice. “Are you certain you wish to go through with this? Just think of what will happen if you are found out.”
Alice sat up straighter. “Think of what will happen if I don’t.” Alice could see Mrs. Clarke’s uncertainty in her reflection through the mirror. She turned and faced her housekeeper fully. “You know as well as I do that men act one way among polite society and another way entirely when they are at home or among their associates.” Her father and late husband had both proven as much. Her father, Mr. Grant, had been jovial and most charming among society. But at home, he was belittling and overbearing. Her late husband, Lord Hoskins, had been fashionably disinterested and much sought after for his wise insights among society. But at home, he was dismissive at first and, after she’d produced an heir, uninterested in her in the extreme.
“This is our best chance at happiness, for Joseph and for myself,” Alice insisted. She turned back toward the mirror, surprised all over again at the reflection that met her. “After all, the only true way to get to know a man is tobecomeone.”
The door leading into Alice’s bedchamber wobbled slightly, then the doorknob turned, and the door flung fully open. Joseph careened into the room heading straight for her, Ponto trailing directly after him.
“Mama! Mama!” He saw her and pulled up short. He blinked, then scowled. Ponto did the same, listing his small puppy head to the side, mimicking Joseph almost exactly.
