Clifton opened his mouth as if to speak, but Alistair held up his hand and continued. “You will acknowledge that Mrs. Selby conducted herself with your awareness and consent. You, Mrs. Selby, and Lady Gilbert de Lacey will all attest that this was always the understanding between the three of you as well as your late cousin. You will have a death certificate within the month, possibly sooner since I cannot marry her without it.” Nivins was already obtaining the cooperation of the vicar and magistrate near Fenshawe; likely Alistair would wind up paying for repairs to the church bell tower or some such thing.
Alistair watched as understanding seeped into Clifton’s expression. By going along with Alistair’s scheme, he would get Fenshawe and render himself an ally to the Marquess of Pembroke. By fighting Alistair, he would have a powerful enemy and spend years litigating his inheritance.
Clifton nodded, but his lips were pressed into a tight line. “I am to say that I knew my cousin sent his wife to Cambridge—the mind simply boggles, if you’ll excuse me for saying so—and yet told no one. And that even after he died I did not protest her use of his name?”
“Precisely!” Alistair said encouragingly, as if praising a dog for learning a new trick.
“I don’t suppose I have a choice.”
Alistair said nothing, only stroked the kitten who had come to sit staunchly on his lap as if to offer reinforcements.
“Well, then. I’ll stay in London for the next several weeks to make myself available for whatever you require.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “my lord.”
“Yes,” Alistair said, allowing his mouth to curve into a predatory smile, “you will.”
“I don’t know if he’s a marquess or a magician. Three weeks, and he didn’t even have to set foot outside London,” Keating said as he adjusted Robin’s cravat.
That was how long it had taken to obtain a death certificate. Robin, Keating, Louisa, and Clifton had all written letters reciting the same version of the facts Alistair had proposed. None of them had even needed to go to court. “He has a good deal of influence.” An impressive amount, really. It turned out that when the Marquess of Pembroke put his mind to something—whether that be obtaining death certificates or foisting the mysterious and oddly clad Mrs. Selby on the town—very few people dared to get in his way.
“Hmph.” Keating stepped back and surveyed her. “Well, I suppose you’ll do as a bride or whatever the hell you are.” But his eyes were a bit misty.
She gave one last glance at the looking glass. She had on one of the shirts with the ruffled cuffs, desperately out of style, but really, that was the aspect of her appearance least likely to cause trouble. Her coat and pantaloons came from Alistair’s own tailor, and her new Hessians had been polished by Hopkins himself. Keating had trimmed her hair, and in her cravat she wore an emerald pin from Alistair.
“You suppose she’ll do?” Louisa objected from the door. “My dear, you look dashing. Alistair says to hurry up so he can empty this house of poets and vagabonds.”
Three weeks, it turned out, was not only how long it took for a marquess to obtain a death certificate, but also the period of time required for London society to come to terms with Lord Pembroke’s improbable betrothal. The Allenby set were allies, whereas the high sticklers, including Alistair’s Aunt Pettigrew, had refused to have anything to do with the couple. This, Alistair insisted, was a thrill and a relief, as he had spent over three decades dreading that lady’s appearance and now he could be done with her entirely.
Hugh Furnival, who had known Robin since Cambridge, seemed only minorly discomfited. “Well, I knew you weren’t quite in the ordinary way of things,” he said after a mere moment of stunned silence. “I wondered if you might be French.”
From Furnival, she knew that Alistair had received the cut direct from a few gentlemen at his club, but when she questioned Alistair about it, he only said that he had been looking for a way to have fewer dull conversations, and that if he had known that making an improper marriage would do the trick he might have tried it a decade ago.
She knew he couldn’t truly be so unaffected. He had prided himself for so long on being above reproach. It had to sting for him to be roundly declared the most scandalous de Lacey to date. But she also knew that he was happy, that he laughed and smiled, that he had told her the truth when he said that whatever trouble she brought was better than not having her.
And so she took Louisa’s hand and went out to be married.
“You know, I don’t think it’s a bawdy joke after all.” They were in the curricle driving down to see Louisa and Gilbert in Kent.
“What isn’t?” Alistair glanced away from the road long enough to see that his wife had a pensive expression.
“Your family motto. Nil Penna Sed Usus. You said it means ‘Not the pen but its use.’ But every dirty-minded schoolboy would translate it to ‘Not the cock but its use.’ Or, not the cock but rather the fucking. But as far as ribald jokes go, it isn’t that funny. I have to believe that if your ancestors meant something naughty, it would have been thoroughly obscene and not merely in bad taste.”
“I can’t disagree with you there.” Not a subtle lot, the de Laceys.
“Penna is quill, of course, but it also means feather. I think the motto means ‘Not the feather but its use,’ or more aptly, ‘Not the feather but the flight.’”
“And what does that mean, my learned wife?”
“That feathers are useless unless you fly with them. There’s no point to a feather otherwise.”
This was not, he realized, the time to mention ostriches. “Go on,” he said. He loved when his Robin went on these philosophical tears. As harebrained a notion as it had been to send her to university, he would include Robert Selby in his prayers for the rest of his life for having seen that she needed to go.
“Well, there’s no point to having money unless you spend it, and there’s no point to having rank and privilege unless you use them.”
“My ancestors used all of the above to hold orgies.”
“No, they used them to be happy. And for them, I suppose that meant orgies,” she conceded, “although one might wish they could also have found happiness in establishing hospitals or endowing artists. And think of how inconvenient it must be to have one’s happiness hinge on orgies. I think I pity your ancestors. Consider the logistics.”
“Oh, I am,” he assured her.
She elbowed him in the side. “Anyway, not to belabor the point, I’m glad you used your money and influence for me.”
Oh damn. He should have known she was leading up to something. “You’re quite right that there would have been no point otherwise. But it wasn’t only for you. I’m quite as selfish as those ancestors of mine, except that I need you, rather than orgies.” He felt sorry for the man he had been before knowing Robin. That man had been worried about all the wrong things—money and prestige and respectability, but like she said, those things were only feathers, useless until you fly.
He took the ribbons in one hand and used his free arm to draw her close. She nestled against his side, and they laughed and talked until it was too dark to drive any farther.
Author Note
While at first glance Charity’s story may seem improbable, there are historical precedents of people living and passing as members of a gender other than that which they were assigned at birth. Whether any such person was a cis woman, a trans man, or—as in Charity’s case—a nonbinary person is a thorny issue; some were perhaps women who adopted male dress as a way to access opportunities that weren’t available to women, but others may well have been trans men. Certainly trans, nonbinary, and genderfluid people existed long before those terms and were sometimes accepted in non-Western cultures.
While researching this book, I encountered many examples of people who were assigned female at birth but lived their lives as men, often passing undetected until death or injury. James Barry is probably the most famous instance: born in Ireland in the late 1700s, Barry sub
sequently enrolled in medical school and served as a surgeon for the British Army. Barry lived as a man in all aspects of life, and only after his death did it become publicly known that he had been assigned female at birth.
There are several women who dressed as men for the purpose of enlisting in the Union Army during the American Civil War. Most apparently went unchallenged as men during their service, and then resumed living as women after the war. Albert Cashier, however, seems to have begun dressing and living as a man before enlisting, and continued to do so long after the war was over, until dying in 1915. Cashier was listed under his male name on payrolls and even the voter registry. What’s striking about this case is that we know of at least two doctors who attended Cashier during illnesses and injuries found out that he was assigned female at birth, but did not reveal his secret. Cashier was buried with full military honors and under a tombstone bearing his chosen name.
Shortly before this story takes place, there was several instances in England of AFAB people marrying women. It’s hard to say whether they were con artists, trans people, or queer women looking for love. Occasionally they were brought up on charges of fraud (if the wife was not in on the secret, and especially if the wife owned property) but often it wasn’t clear what, if anything, the authorities could do. Emma Donoghue’s Passions Between Women has a chapter devoted to this phenomenon.
A note on pronouns: I considered using they/them pronouns for Charity in the book, but in the end decided against it, not because they/them pronouns would have been historically inaccurate (indeed, the singular they has a centuries-old history) or because those pronouns would have detracted from the story (I don’t believe this would be the case) but because I don’t think feminine pronouns would have bothered her. That said, when I’m talking or writing about this book, I generally find myself using gender neutral pronouns and referring to Charity as Robin, which is how she comes to think of herself by the end of the book.
Acknowledgments
This book would have remained buried on my hard drive without the enthusiasm of my agent, Deidre Knight, and my editor, Elle Keck. Many, many thanks Jordan Hawk and Anna Zabo for their insight and feedback, which helped shape Charity’s character. Margrethe Martin and Ruby Lang read early drafts of this story and I’m grateful for their time and support.
Announcement to A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Follow Hartley Sedgwick as he finds love in the next romance in Cat Sebastian’s Seducing the Sedgwicks series,
A GENTLEMAN NEVER KEEPS SCORE
Available July 2018
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About the Author
CAT SEBASTIAN lives in a swampy part of the South with her husband, three kids, and two dogs. Before her kids were born, she practiced law and taught high school and college writing. When she isn’t reading or writing, she’s doing crossword puzzles, bird watching, and wondering where she put her coffee cup.
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Also by Cat Sebastian
The Regency Impostors Series
Unmasked by the Marquess
Coming Soon
A Duke in Disguise
The Seducing the Sedgwicks Series
It Takes Two to Tumble
Coming Soon
A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
The Turner Series
The Soldier’s Scoundrel
The Lawrence Browne Affair
The Ruin of a Rake
A Letter from the Editor
Dear Reader,
I hope you liked the latest romance from Avon Impulse! If you’re looking for another steamy, fun, emotional read, be sure to check out one of our upcoming titles.
If you like a bit of suspense in your contemporary romance or just love a good Channing Tatum movie, then you do not want to miss STRIPPED by Tara Wyatt! The first book in her new Blue HEAT series is a delicious mash up of 21 Jump Street and Magic Mike, as an elite undercover detective must infiltrate a drug ring operating out of a male strip show. What makes this novel extra steamy? His one-night-stand-turned-new-female-partner is in the audience as back up . . . and watching the whole thing! One-click away!
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Sincerely,
Nicole Fischer
Editorial Director
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
unmasked by the marquess. Copyright © 2018 by Cat Sebastian. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition APRIL 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-282065-5
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-282160-7
Cover art by Christine Ruhnke
Cover photographs © hotdamstock (couple); © romancenovelcovers (man’s shirt); © ArtOfPhotos / Shutterstock (man’s hair); © Anna Baburkina / Shutterstock (bed); © Marahwan / Shutterstock (blanket)
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