How to Ruin Your Reputation in 10 Days (Ladies of Passion)

by Harmony Williams

  We shoved it beneath the lid and bore down on it with our combined weight. The lid popped free with a groan. Sweat beaded on my upper lip. The air in the attic tasted as old and stale as the crates, as though it hadn’t stirred in decades. I coughed into my fist.

  “Is this the right one?” Mary asked. She fetched the candle to light the contents.

  Something resembling fabric was wadded below several carelessly tossed-in books. I hefted one slim tome. It was unmarked. I opened it.

  The first few lines described an organic specimen’s measurements, size, and rarity the way Mother often catalogued her plants. Horror dawned as I realized the account described a person—a man—and not a plant. I hurled the book away.

  “My eyes!”

  Mary leaned closer. “Francine, what was that?” She tugged the cloth from beneath the other volumes.

  “I think it was my mother’s diary.” If I had to say anything more on the subject, I would toss the contents of my last meal.

  Mary made a curious sound and reached past me in search for the book. I stilled her with a hand on her arm.

  “You don’t want to read it. Trust me.” As it was, I would have nightmares.

  Judging from the sidelong glance she gave the book, she wasn’t convinced. No doubt she would sneak up here another day to fetch it. As long as she didn’t disclose the contents, I didn’t care. That diary, to me, did not exist.

  “These look like your father’s wedding day clothes.”

  Mary’s expression was hard to make out in the flickering candlelight, but she didn’t sound as jubilant over finding the clothes as I expected.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Too formal for a lecture, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No, I would not say.” I yanked the clothes from her hands. I refused to spend my morning sifting through these crates until I discovered something more suitable. “Keep looking if you want. I’m going to my room to put these on.”

  Mary sighed but didn’t rise to the challenge. She followed me as I left the attic behind and descended to the second floor. I quickened my step on the landing in order to reach my chamber unimpeded. Once inside, I checked the dressing room for Pauline. Thankfully, she wasn’t within. If she had been, she would have some words of discouragement for what I planned.

  A second bandage like the one Pauline had used to wrap my ankle rested atop the vanity in a neat roll, ready in case my ankle pained me further. I grabbed the roll and dragged Mary into the dressing room. She still held the candle she’d purloined above. A lucky thing, since the dressing room sported no windows. I shut the door in case someone peeked into the bedchamber.

  Enclosed in the small room barely big enough to contain us both, I directed Mary to set the candle on the floor in one corner. “I’ll need your help binding my breasts flat.”

  And, as it turned out, unlacing my dress and stays. I stripped to the skin, shedding my clothing on the ground. I squirmed as I exposed myself to Mary instead of Pauline. My stalwart friend didn’t seem to mind. She directed me to hold my arms over my head as she wrapped the bandage altogether too snugly over my breasts.

  “Can you breathe?”

  “Not really.”

  She must have sensed the sarcasm in my voice, though the bandage bound me uncomfortably tight. She huffed. “There’s nothing to be done about it. Your breasts are rather large and ungainly.”

  It didn’t sound like a compliment, so I wisely buried my reply. She must have had a much easier time binding her small breasts flat, or else the jacket covered them nicely. The bandage didn’t conceal the swell of my womanly form entirely, just confined it. Hopefully the shirt and jacket would camouflage my silhouette to my advantage.

  The shirt, which Mary helped to pull over my head, indeed camouflaged my figure as it swamped me. Papa was a good deal taller than me, but I hadn’t thought his shirt would come to my knees. Mary’s mouth puckered in a frown as she beheld me.

  “We’ll clinch it with a belt.”

  I doubted that would help. I donned the breeches under her measuring stare.

  An outdated style; I suspected the hem would rise to the knees of a man Papa’s height. They ended above my ankle, in the middle of my leg. He’d sported a slimmer figure for his wedding, so the breeches weren’t too terribly loose around my legs and hips.

  Mary rasped for breath. She bit her knuckle, no doubt to keep from laughing. I looked a sight.

  She cleared her throat. “Boots should cover the gap,” she said, waving her hand to indicate the bare strip of my legs where the breeches ended.

  “Where will I find men’s boots?” They differed a good deal from the boots I owned.

  Mary bit her bottom lip. Hard if the lunate indentation and white rim was any indication. “I’ll pilfer some from one of the servants. Wait here.”

  I didn’t want to, but she quickly slipped out the door before I could protest. I sighed. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  The lecture lured me to continue. How long would it be before I had access to the same information through a publication? I dearly wanted to soak in the information imparted by the botanist regarding the Viceroyalty of New Spain. Or of anywhere outside of England, really. And if it occupied Mary in the meantime, all the better.

  I tugged on the overlarge coat, completing Papa’s wedding outfit. The coattails were so long, they brushed my ankles. No, this would never do.

  Mary slipped back into the dressing room with a pair of men’s boots. How had she managed to find some so quickly? She must have dashed upstairs to the servants’ quarters and back. She thrust them into my hands and snapped, “Take off that ridiculous coat. You look a fool to begin with.”

  I was all too eager to comply. I let her strip it off and discard it onto the floor with my other clothes. I used her arm for balance while I slipped my feet into the boots.

  “Mary, they’re still warm!”

  She shrugged. “I told him we’d give them back later today.”

  I didn’t want to know what had been said in that conversation.

  When the boots dwarfed my feet, Mary wadded my discarded stockings to cushion the toes. Even then, they would be far from comfortable. However, I could walk.

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “What are you going to do with your hair?”

  A valid question. I didn’t have a cap like Mary did.

  “Maybe I can tie it back and slip the tail under the shirt. It has a high collar.”

  After minutes of brainstorming, we concocted no better solution. Mary tied my hair back with the plainest ribbon we discovered in my vanity. I stuffed the excess down the neck of my shirt. My shoulder blades itched from the frizzy strands.

  Mary pronounced, “You’ll do.”

  I doubted I resembled a man in any way. Not to mention, I had never felt more uncomfortable in my life. I winced as I peeked at my reflection.

  As suspected, I looked dreadful. The breeches bunched around my legs and the high top of the overlarge boots. The waist, stuffed with the shirttail, bulged a bit. The shirt itself billowed around my waist, chest, shoulders, and arms. Mary rolled up the sleeves so they didn’t fall over my wrists. I didn’t have a fashionable cravat to wear over the shirt, but laced it to my chin.

  “This will never work,” I protested weakly. My skin was paler than milk, my freckles standing out like some kind of disease.

  We would be turned away the moment we arrived. At least no one would recognize me while so atrociously attired.

  “Nonsense,” Mary said. She ushered me toward the door. “I told you the doorman cares little as long as you appear to be male and have the money to pay your entrance.”

  That, I believed not at all. Why would the Royal Botanic Society put so much effort into barring women from their ranks if one could simply don men’s clothing and attend anyway? But even if our excursion ended with a rejection, I wanted to try. It would remove us from the house in case Mary decided to confront my father. Plus, if we were let in,
I would attend the lecture, a reward in itself.

  I grabbed a small leather-bound journal and a slim stick of charcoal I kept by my bed in case I had an idea during the night. I bowed to Mary’s considerable expertise in sneaking out of the house. We didn’t resort to climbing out the window; she knew all the servants’ entrances. She entered by them more often than not. She led me through an entrance deserted at this time of day, and we slipped onto the street unimpeded.

  We hired a hack to take us to the Inner Circle of Regent’s Park. I clutched the journal to my chest, trembling with excitement. Either the driver was accustomed to driving young women garbed as men, or our disguises passed cursory inspections. For the first time since donning this blasted outfit, the faint hope of attending the lecture flourished in my chest.

  The hackney deposited us in front of a three-story sprawling edifice. Neat rows of windows glared down from the brown stone walls. A steeply sloped roof only added to the structure’s forbidding facade. I gulped as I craned my neck.

  Mary tugged me up the neat steps to the door. I peered at the potted specimens in full bloom, but she pulled me onward before I discerned whether rare blossoms mingled with the common blooms.

  At the door, she shoved me behind her. A wrinkled man stared down his nose at us. His steely gray hair was pulled back into a queue. “Are you members of the Society?”

  “No.” Mary fished a handful of silver shillings from her pocket and counted out the door fee. “We’re here for the lecture.”

  The man coughed into his fist and plucked a monocle from his shirt pocket. When he raised it to his eye, the heavy lines around his nose and mouth deepened.

  It was Mary’s voice. It had to be. With or without the monocle, the old man squinted to see the person in front of him. I stepped in front of Mary, planting myself in full line of sight of the doorman.

  Papa’s threat to truncate my freedom in ten days made me a little bit brazen. My pulse jumped in my throat. I swallowed twice before speaking in a low register. “We’ve been here before.”

  The man’s eyebrows climbed toward the crown of his head. “I’ve been a member of the Society for nigh on forty years. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  Nervous laughter bubbled in my throat. This was it. We would be exposed as women for the ridicule of the whole of London. That was if we weren’t imprisoned for impersonating men.

  The thought petrified me. Why hadn’t I thought of that? If I didn’t want to spend my life in a convent, I certainly didn’t want to spend it in a jail cell alongside criminals.

  I grappled for Mary’s arm as my vocal chords froze beneath the doorman’s withering stare. My bare fingers trembled.

  “Frank, my good man!”

  Someone clapped me on the shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I bit down on my tongue by accident. It throbbed. A man spun me around, gripping me firmly by the forearm the way men do in greeting. I gasped at the intimate contact and almost recoiled free. I realized the man in question was Julian. His friendly smile turned forced. He urged me with his eyes to play along.

  I pumped his muscled arm. After a moment, he drew back. I plunged my hand to my side. My entire forearm tingled. Heat encroached on my cheeks, but I forged on, hoping to disperse the reaction.

  “Beckwith,” I said with a nod. Men usually referred to each other by their surnames, didn’t they?

  His eyebrow twitched, but to his credit, he didn’t raise it. He projected a friendly, relaxed demeanor as he slung his arm around my neck. The one-armed embrace settled more weight onto my injured leg. I bit the inside of my cheek to stifle a yelp. I’m sure the color leached from my cheeks until I turned as white as the clouds speckling the sky.

  Julian leaned closer to me. “I told you to wait for me, you rascal. Is old Rudy giving you a hard time?”

  My mouth flapped open. I hazarded a glance toward the doorman, who raised a supercilious eyebrow in my direction. Could all men do that? Was it some sort of male rite I should have learned?

  Julian saved me from trying the maneuver by reaching forward and clasping Mary’s shoulder. His attention was toward the doorman and not Mary’s glower, fortunately.

  “My young friends here have just finished their first year at Cambridge. First time in London and what do the gents want to do? Attend a bloody lecture.” Julian offered the doorman a lopsided grin.

  The man harrumphed but dropped his monocle into his shirt pocket once more. “Forgive me, sir. My eyesight isn’t what it once was.”

  “Think nothing of it, Rudy,” Julian said. He released me to tuck his hand into his purse and retrieve the doorman’s fee. The coins clinked as he dropped them into the man’s palm atop Mary’s. He ushered Mary and me through the wide open doors to the man’s left.

  “Sir, you’ve given me too much,” the doorman called.

  Julian winked. “You know I’m terrible at math.”

  The old man chuckled. “Very well, sir.”

  My head reeled as I stepped into a vaulting corridor. Should Mary and I have “miscalculated” the fee as well?

  Julian latched onto my elbow. He guided me to the right, along the ruby runner leading to a set of magnificent carved, closed wooden doors. When he judged we had traveled a sufficient distance, he spun me around. Sunlight streamed through the glass windows and into my face.

  Julian’s eyebrows lowered in a heavy scowl. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

  Chapter Five

  My breath hitched. Would Julian expose us as women?

  I squared my shoulders. No. He wouldn’t dare. He’d already vouched for us.

  Jitterbugs of excitement danced under my skin. Mere feet away waited the hall in which I would attend my very first lecture. I’d take my own notes, rather than relying on someone else’s or waiting longer to read a discourse on the subject. A grin found its way to my lips as I answered, “I’m attending a lecture on botany.”

  He raised his eyebrows, both of them this time. “That seems like the sort of thing you would share through our correspondence.”

  I planted my hands on my hips. “Maybe I would have if you’d bothered to answer me these past months.”

  He held my gaze a scant second more before averting his eyes. My triumph wavered. I would rather he’d simply written to me.

  Mary stepped between us, folding her arms across her chest. She glared in his direction. “Her presence here is none of your concern. You do not own her.”

  Julian blinked rapidly in confusion. His wary gaze trailed from Mary to me and back again. “I don’t aspire to own her,” he said.

  Mary’s transformation was nothing short of miraculous. She dropped her hostile stance. I heard the smile in her voice as she answered, “Good. Who are you?”

  I shuffled forward. “Julian, this is my friend Mary.” I didn’t bother referring to her as Miss Babington-Smith. She hated being addressed as “Miss.” Turning to my friend, I murmured, “This is Julian Beckwith, the old friend I mentioned earlier.”

  “The one who injured your ankle?”

  “That was hardly my fault,” Julian said while I simultaneously protested the same. We exchanged a terse smile.

  To Mary, I added, “I lost my footing. It wasn’t as though he tripped me.” Or, to his credit, trod on my foot.

  Seemingly oblivious to the emotional turmoil she incited, Mary shrugged. “In that case, did you happen to see Lord Sutton arrive? I must speak with him.”

  Julian reeled from the abrupt change of subject. A baffled look clouded his features like smog. “Who?”

  “Lord Sutton,” Mary repeated.

  “Julian is from the country,” I said. “He likely hasn’t been introduced and doesn’t know what Lord Sutton looks like.”

  “Oh.” Her expression turned glum.

  I winced, knowing I wouldn’t like the answer, but I had to ask, “Why are you interested in speaking with Lord Sutton?”

  She perked up immediately. “He’s been manhandling his staff.
I intend to confront him.”

  I should have known she would only accompany me to a lecture about botany if she had an ulterior motive.

  Julian frowned. “Isn’t that unwise?”

  Mary bristled. Her face darkened like a fast-approaching thundercloud. I stepped between them before any damage could be done.

  “He didn’t mean it,” I said, palms raised toward Mary in surrender.

  Behind me, Julian muttered, “Yes, I did.”

  Why wasn’t he helping? Didn’t he see that Mary was about to start a scene right here in the middle of the corridor?

  She stood, hands on her hips, staring over my head and into Julian’s face. The look she nurtured was far from flattering. “Are you trying to say that Sutton should be allowed to continue harassing his female servants?”

  A pair of men—university students, judging by their ages—stepped through the front door and craned their necks in our direction. My skin flamed in mortification to the roots of my hair. I shut my eyes, praying they would move on and not examine us too closely. Mary and I committed a faux-pas by dressing as men; our reputations might be compromised. Not that Mary’s hadn’t been dozens of times over with all her antics over the years. By this point, she was only accepted into polite Society because of her godmother and the scattered hostess who hoped she would be an amusing distraction.

  Julian cleared his throat. He lowered his voice considerably, as though hoping to cajole Mary to do the same.

  Not likely.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that at all. Perhaps the middle of a crowded lecture hall isn’t the best place for a confrontation.”

  Mary harrumphed. “Maybe it is the best place. Plenty of his peers to hold him accountable.”

  Behind me, Julian tensed. He stood so close I felt the muscles in his abdomen bunch. Hoping to stop him from whatever ill-advised thing he intended to say or do, I leaned back against his frame. He raised his hands to bracket my shoulders. A cascade of tingles ignited from where our bodies touched, like we were flint and steel. I bit my lower lip but didn’t move.