“Miss Peterson, how lovely to see you.” Lady Felicity smiled and stepped forward, fortunately blocking their view of Lord Bennington. The man took the opportunity to put his person to rights.
But why had Lady Felicity stopped them? Surely it would have better suited her purposes to have them pass by? If he were any judge, Lord Bennington would have been very much happier. The man looked pained. Hell, given his obvious state of…enthusiasm…when they’d come upon him, the viscount was pained. He did not like Bennington at all, but any man had to feel some sympathy for the fellow’s predicament.
Miss Peterson had removed her hand from his arm as if burned. “Lady Felicity.” She cleared her throat. “Lord Bennington.”
Bennington cleared his own throat and nodded at them. “Miss Peterson. Parker-Roth.” He did not meet their eyes.
Lady Felicity laughed. “We’ve been enjoying ourselves, haven’t we, Bennie?”
Bennie’s eyes bulged. At least those were the only organs bulging at the moment. What was Felicity about? It was one thing to make conversation; quite another to recount her detour down the primrose path.
“Isn’t it delightful to stroll in the gardens? To admire the way…things…grow? How a sensitive plant can swell to quite a stalk—”
“Speaking of bio-botany—” If Bennington wasn’t going to stop Felicity—and since the man was staring slack-jawed at her, odds were good he wasn’t—Parks would. “Are you going to the Horticultural Society meeting this week, Bennington?”
For once Bennington looked delighted to have him speak. “Yes. Rathbone is discussing the expedition to the Amazon, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I—”
“The Amazon?” Miss Peterson put her hand back on his arm. “You will be discussing the Amazon?”
“At the Horticultural Society meeting this week, yes.” Why was Miss Peterson so excited?
“I must go.”
It was his turn to stare slack-jawed.
“Miss Peterson, please.” Bennington chuckled. “That’s rich. You at the Horticultural Society meeting.”
She snatched her hand back to put it on her hip. “What is so amusing about my wishing to attend this meeting?”
“Miss Peterson, surely you know the Society is only open to men?” Parks frowned. This was Miss Peterson’s second Season. She must know everything there was to know about the Horticultural Society, given her enthusiasm for all things botanical.
“Of course I know that, but this is different. I have a very special interest in the Amazon.”
“I imagine Parks or I can lend you a book, if you like, Miss Peterson.” Bennington had recovered his habitual tone of condescension. “I know I have some basic texts that should suit your understanding.”
Evidently the slack-jawed phenomenon was contagious. Miss Peterson now gaped at Lord Bennington. But only for a moment. Her jaw snapped shut and her eyes narrowed.
“I don’t believe Miss Peterson cares for your offer, Bennie,” Lady Felicity said.
An understatement. Parks could almost hear Meg’s teeth grind. Surely the woman wouldn’t physically attack the viscount? He should deflect her attention.
“Why are you so interested in the Amazon, Miss Peterson?”
“Because I may be accompanying Miss Witherspoon on an expedition to that location.”
The slack-jawed phenomenon was definitely contagious. “You’re joking.”
She turned her glare from Bennington to him. “I am not.”
“But that’s”—he saw her gaze sharpen, but the words were out before he could stop them—“ridiculous.”
If looks could kill, he’d be dead already.
Chapter 15
Lend her a book would they? Meg glared at the innocent novels that adorned the shelves. A basic text that would suit her understanding? She bared her teeth at The Mysteries of Udolpho. It was a very good thing the beef-witted coxcombs weren’t present or she’d be sorely tempted to improve their understanding by walloping them in the brain box. There were plenty of suitable weapons at hand. Miss Austen’s Sense and Sensibility might do. Or Pride and Prejudice. Actually, the heavier the tome, the more efficacious its application.
“I agree The Castle of Otranto is not great literature, Miss Peterson, but it hardly merits such displeasure.”
“What?” Meg turned. Miss Witherspoon stood next to her. She was wearing a conventional dress today, a garish combination of pea green and puce. She and Lady Beatrice must patronize the same dressmaker.
Miss Witherspoon raised her lorgnette and surveyed the selection of reading material. “You were growling.”
Growling? It made her sound like a dog. “I was not.”
“Indeed you were.” Miss Witherspoon transferred her attention briefly to Meg. “I heard you. Fortunately, it was a low growl, so I believe you did not attract any attention.”
Meg glanced around. A man sat by the fireplace, reading a newspaper. Two young women walked past, whispering and giggling. No one was staring at her. She turned back to Miss Witherspoon.
“I was not growling at a book.”
Miss Witherspoon gave her an intense look. “So you do not deny that you were growling?”
“Botheration! I wasn’t—”
“Shh.” The woman put a gloved finger to her lips. “Not so loud.”
Meg glanced around again. Still no one appeared to take special note of her.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Peterson, you seem a trifle testy.”
Meg sighed. Why deny it? “All right, I am a little on edge.”
Miss Witherspoon made a tsking sound and touched her lightly on her arm. “I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with Pinky—or, I should say, Mr. Parker-Roth?”
“Of course not.” Meg turned back to examine the literary offerings again. They might as well have been written in Russian. She could not focus on the titles.
“Well, that’s good at least. No point in letting a man cut up your peace.”
No, no point at all. Perhaps if she repeated that twenty times a day, she would believe it.
Miss Witherspoon dropped her lorgnette so it bounced against her ample bosom. “So, have you considered further about the Amazon expedition? I don’t mean to press you, but time is running short.”
Amazon. That was the seed of her discontent.
“Miss Witherspoon, did you know a Mr. Rathbone is addressing the Horticultural Society meeting this week?”
“Sir Rathbone. No, I didn’t know.”
“He’s speaking about his trip to the Amazon.” Why wasn’t the woman more excited? “I thought it would be very educational. I had hoped to attend.”
Miss Witherspoon snorted. “You can hope to attend as much as Rathbone can hope to get the money to sail across the ocean.”
“You mean he hasn’t already gone to South America?”
“Rathbone? No. He hasn’t a feather to fly with. Still looking for someone to sport the ready cash so he can outfit an expedition, I imagine.”
“Oh.” Now that she thought about it, Bennington hadn’t said the Amazon expedition was completed. “Why can’t he join your group?”
“Too stubborn. Needs to be in charge—which he wouldn’t be if he joined us. Diego, our leader, knows better than to let Rathbone hold the reins. Still, the man is very knowledgeable. It would be worth hearing him speak, if you could bear all his prattle and self-aggrandizement.”
“So you recommend I attend?”
Miss Witherspoon employed her lorgnette again. “You do know that women are not permitted at Horticultural Society meetings, do you not, Miss Peterson?”
Meg shrugged impatiently. “Surely they would make an exception in this case.”
Miss Witherspoon snorted again. “Gravity is more likely to make an exception should you trip leaving this building. No, Miss Peterson, trust me. The Horticultural Society will not make any exceptions.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“As are many activities involving
large groups of men, but there you are. I’m afraid there is nothing to be done about it.”
Meg frowned. She wanted to hear Rathbone speak and perhaps ask a question or two. Books were all well and good, but sometimes there was no substitute for actually speaking with a knowledgeable human being. And if a certain cabbage-headed nodcock happened to hear her and realize she was not an uninformed ninnyhammer, so much the better.
“You are certain not one woman has ever attended a Horticultural Society meeting?”
“Well…” A corner of Miss Witherspoon’s mouth tilted up and she leaned closer. “Perhaps one.”
So there was hope. “Who was it?”
“My friend, Prudence Doddington-Prinz.” Miss Witherspoon glanced around and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “It was just after Wedgwood formed the Society—around 1804, if I remember correctly. Prudence was as determined as you to go—she is an avid botanist and gardener—so she hounded Wedgwood and some of the other men every chance she got, but they remained adamant. No women.” Miss Witherspoon smiled. “Finally, Prudence took matters into her own hands. She went—dressed as a man.”
“She did?” Meg felt a frisson of shock. “And no one suspected?”
“No one. In fact, Prudence attended the meetings all that year. She only stopped, she said, because she got tired of hearing all those puffed up cocks crowing and strutting about.”
“I still cannot imagine how a woman could pass herself off as a man.”
Miss Witherspoon shrugged. “I am sure I could not do so. I am too short and too, well, generously endowed. But Prudence is more like you—thin and boyish. Without many curves. I imagine it wasn’t too difficult for her.”
Meg straightened. Mr. Parker-Roth had appeared to enjoy her meager curves in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. And the other men she’d lured into the bushes…
She couldn’t be certain what the other men thought. Except for Lord Bennington, they’d all been quite willing to leave the shrubbery when she’d suggested they return to whatever social event was in progress. Bennington had clearly been more attracted by her connections than her charms. But Mr. Parker-Roth—
Mr. Parker-Roth had been completely immune to her charms from the moment they’d met at Lord Tynweith’s house party until he’d been forced to play knight-errant and rescue her from the viscount. She should face facts. His actions in Lady Palmerson’s parlor had been nothing more than an attempt to make the best of a bad bargain. And the interlude in Easthaven’s garden? The same. He must know Emma and Charles—even his own mother—thought they should wed. He certainly didn’t act as if he enjoyed his encounters with her.
“Miss Witherspoon, I have decided. I will definitely be accompanying you to the Amazon.”
“Are ye sure this won’t get me in trouble, miss?”
“Don’t worry, Annie. No one will know you helped me.”
Meg stared at the clothes laid out on her bed while Annie, one of the younger chambermaids, fidgeted by the door. It was just luck she’d overheard the girl talking about her brother who was a footman in Lord Frampton’s London house. It had taken a little persuasion, but now she had a complete outfit of male attire. She hoped it fit. If it didn’t, she was out of luck. The Horticultural Society meeting was tonight.
One thing was clear—she would not be wearing a corset. How was she to keep her meager curves in check?
“Did you bring an extra cravat, Annie?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Good.” There was no point in delaying. “Help me off with my clothes, will you?”
She’d told Emma and Charles she wasn’t feeling well—which was true. Her stomach was a leaden knot in her middle. Could she really pass for a man? If she were discovered—
No, she would not consider that possibility.
She shed her dress, corset, and shift, and pulled on the male drawers and pantaloons. It felt very odd having fabric between her legs and hugging her thighs. She took an exploratory step. She liked the freedom of movement male apparel gave her.
She glanced in the mirror. Oh, dear God—her hips and thighs! She had never seen them so exposed. They had never been so exposed, except when she slipped in and out of her bath. And now she was going to walk out onto the streets of London like this?
She really was going to be sick.
She swallowed her nerves and studied her reflection more closely. Her hips did not look like any man’s she’d ever seen. Annie’s brother’s coat had better hide them well. And her small charms bounced quite alarmingly.
“Time for the cravat.”
Annie wrapped the cravat round Meg’s chest three times, pulling the cloth tight after each circuit, but not so tight that it restricted her breathing. She pinned it there and then wound the remaining cloth around Meg’s body to her waist, helping to further muffle her shape.
Meg pulled on the shirt and waistcoat and studied the effect in the mirror. Not bad. She was ready for the other cravat.
“Can you tie a Mathematical, Annie?”
“Yes, miss, I think I can, but…” Annie chewed her lip.
“But what?”
“Your hair, miss.”
“My hair?” It was a mess, spread out over her shoulders. She’d braid it and pin it up under—oh. “I don’t suppose men would be wearing hats at the Horticultural Society meeting, would they?”
“Not likely, miss.”
Meg stared at the long, light brown waves. She liked her hair. It was one of her better features.
It would have to go.
She sniffed. There was no point in crying. It was only hair. Surely it would be vastly more convenient to have it short in the Amazon. And she was definitely sailing with Miss Witherspoon and her friend. Mrs. Parker-Roth had told Emma who had told her that Parks was planning on returning to his estate at the end of the week.
“How are you with a scissors, Annie?”
It took some trial and error—mostly error—but Annie finally managed to craft a hair style that did not look like it had been created by a drunken monkey. The right side was a bit longer than the left, and a few tufts stuck out at odd angles, but it would do. No one would be studying her coiffure, after all.
Annie finished by helping her with her cravat and coat. Finally, Meg took the high-crowned beaver and placed it on her head.
“What do you think, Annie? Will I pass?”
“I dunno.” Annie tilted her head and stared while Meg turned slowly, holding her arms out. “I guess ye will.”
Meg looked in the mirror once more. The pantaloons were a bit tight, but that couldn’t be helped. The coat hid her hips from the back, and the waistcoat and cravat masked her chest. She looked odd, but not particularly feminine. She shrugged.
“People see what they expect to see, Annie, and none of the gentlemen at the meeting this evening will expect to see a woman in men’s clothing. I’ll be fine—but to be safe, I’ll try to stay in the shadows and not call attention to myself.”
“That would be good, miss, but what will ye do if yer discovered?”
She really would throw up.
No, an intrepid world traveler would not let minor dangers keep her from her goals.
“I will not be discovered, Annie. Now see if the corridor is clear, and I’ll make my way down the servants’ stairs.”
“How can you leave London now, Johnny?”
Parks struggled for patience. Mother had been dancing around this topic ever since Hartford’s fete. When he’d announced his plans on the carriage ride home, she’d held her peace, though he’d seen she’d had to bite her tongue to do so. The next day, she’d started to mention the subject, but stopped herself—six times. Then the hinting began. Now she was reduced to a full frontal assault, all finesse discarded.
“I’ve been away from the Priory too long, Mother, much longer than I intended.”
“Oh, pish. You work too hard. You need to take time for some amusement.”
He took a deep breath. He would not shout. “I do
not find the ton’s antics amusing.” Another breath. Speak calmly, rationally. “You know I was expecting a large plant shipment from Stephen when we left. I need to get back.”
“But I haven’t had time to purchase my brushes and paints.”
He counted to ten, teeth gritted. “You have had more than enough time to purchase a bloody blasted lifetime supply of brushes and paints.” All right, not so calm or rational.
His mother looked at him, her eyes large and sad, her mouth turned down.
She’d had at least thirty years to perfect that expression. Longer if she’d used it on his father—or on her father.
“Mother, you know I am right.”
She sighed and turned away. “I just want you to be happy, Johnny.”
Was there a catch in her voice? He almost snorted. That was why she’d moved so he couldn’t see her face. She could manage to sound like she was crying, but she’d never mastered the trick of actually producing tears on demand. Well, he was having none of it.
“I’ll be happy when we get back to the Priory.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. As he’d suspected, her eyes were dry. “But what about Miss Peterson?”
“What about her?”
“You compromised her.”
“I also offered for her and was rejected. My duty to Miss Peterson has been discharged.”
Mother frowned. “But don’t you…I mean, I know you…” She waved her hand vaguely in the air. “You know.”
“I don’t know what the hel—” Another deep breath. This was his mother he was speaking to. “I really don’t know what you are talking about.”
Mother faced him directly then, real worry and concern filling her eyes. He closed his own. God, this was the worst.
“Johnny, you love her. You can’t let her go.”
Why did he have to have this conversation? Why couldn’t he be like other men who had mothers who minded their own damn business—or at least had the sense to keep their thoughts to themselves?
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 51
