A Dandy in Disguise

by Meredith Bond

  She took his arm and gave him a little pull in that direction.

  “No, no, my dear, it is not done,” he protested.

  “What is not done?” Rose feigned ignorance.

  “Young girls do not play cards at balls. You should be out here dancing with all the young bucks.”

  “But I am tired of dancing, Papa. Come, it can’t be wrong if I am with you.” Rose gave him a sweet, pleading smile, and saw him begin to relent.

  “All right, but just for a short time, then back to your dancing.”

  Rose tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Perhaps there will be some eligible young men in there you could introduce to me.”

  Chapter Five

  THE air in the card room was hazy with cigar smoke. Rose swallowed hard, trying not to cough.

  Her father paused to survey the room for a place for them to sit down. Rose could hardly see anything; somehow, there just weren’t enough candles to light the room very well. She wondered if that was intentional, so that people couldn’t see their cards or how much money they’d won — or lost.

  The room was filled mostly with men, with only a few ladies there as well, playing cards and chatting. Rose didn’t mind being one of the few women present — she was used to it, after being raised at an archaeological dig.

  Her father led her to a table where two young men were sitting idly chatting and shuffling a deck of cards.

  The two gentlemen immediately stood up as Rose moved toward the table.

  “Pemberton–Howe,” her father said, holding out his hand to the first of the two gentlemen. “And my daughter, Miss Rose Grace.”

  “Jack Aiken,” a rather ordinary–looking gentleman answered, shaking her father’s hand. His was long and thin, as was everything about him. His long face was accentuated by a very long and thin nose. His eyes were small and his hair, which was long and straight, drooped into them. Rose was not at all impressed by his looks, and slightly disconcerted by his deep voice, which was like an ominous roll of thunder from far away.

  “This is Lord Kirtland,” Mr. Aiken added, pointing to the gentleman next to him.

  In sharp contrast to his companion, this gentleman was just the sort to put a girl in mind of marriage and romance. Although not very tall, he was well–built in such a way that Rose could imagine that he might look just like the Greek statues she and her sisters had admired. He was slim, but with powerful–looking, broad shoulders, and muscular legs. His finely chiseled chin was strong and masculine and he had brown, almost black eyes. Rose did her best not to stare, managing to give both men a curtsey.

  “Kirtland? I believe we may have met before,” Lord Pemberton–Howe said, shaking his hand.

  “Yes sir, at an Archaeological Society meeting. I spoke to you last week after your speech on the ruins of Athens.”

  “Ah, yes, yes. I remember now.” Lord Pemberton–Howe smiled and sat down.

  “You are an archaeologist, my lord?” Rose asked, moving around the table to the other empty chair. Could this be? Could she be so lucky as to have found a handsome archaeologist? She was never so glad to have convinced her father to bring her into this room.

  Now if he was rich and unmarried, she would truly be in luck. And after the dismal time she’d had so far this evening, it was about time that she met someone promising.

  “Just a hobby, Miss Grace, although I hope someday to make it my occupation. But as yet, I have not had the opportunity to do so.”

  His dark eyes peered deeply into her own as if he were sizing up her soul. A shiver ran up her spine. There was something different, something exciting—something dangerous about this man. She sat down abruptly.

  Lord Kirtland shuffled the deck of cards in front of him, a small smile playing on his lips. “Would you be interested in a game of whist, Miss Grace?” he asked his voice soft and smooth.

  Rose firmly pulled herself together. “I would enjoy that, I’m certain, only... I don’t know how to play. Would you be so kind as to teach me the game?” She tried fluttering her eyelashes at him a bit as she’d seen other young women do, and was rewarded with a broad smile.

  “I would be honored. Aiken, you will be patient for a few moments while I teach Miss Grace the basics?”

  “Of course, by all means.” Mr. Aiken gave her a small smile and then turned to engage her father in conversation.

  The game was simple enough to learn. Everyone placed a card on the table and the highest or the trump card won the trick. They tried playing a few hands just so that she could catch on. When she pronounced herself ready, they added wagering to the game, starting off small, at a penny a point.

  Her father was not a very shrewd player. He tended to lose track of which cards had already been played, and at one point even forgot which was the trump. Lord Kirtland, however, was an excellent player, and Rose enjoyed matching her wits with his.

  After their second hand, Mr. Haston, whom Rose had first met during her uncomfortable interlude with the Duke of Argyll, strolled up to their table. “Ah, my lord, Miss Grace. Pleasant to see you again.”

  Rose looked up. “Oh, Mr. Haston, how do you do? Would you care to join us?”

  “No, thank you. Ain’t... ain’t room at the table,” he said, with a small pout that he quickly exchanged for an polite smile.

  “Er, please, take my seat,” her father said, standing up. “Not very good at this.”

  “Oh yes, please do take my father’s place,” Rose begged him sweetly. She was certain she would do much better if she had a different partner than her father.

  “Don’t mind, sir?” Haston said, sitting down. Her father indicated that he did not, and began to let his eyes wander around the room, looking at some of the other games being played.

  The next hand was dealt and Rose was happy to find that Mr. Haston was a better player, although he tended as well to become distracted and make silly mistakes.

  As the game went on, the stakes were raised. With a slightly more skilled partner and growing confidence, Rose did not object. She was surprised, and quite pleased, to notice that the pile of coins that sat in front of her was growing, rather than shrinking. Although she could hear the music playing in the other room, she was very happy to push out of her mind her whole reason for being present at the ball.

  She eventually had so many coins in front of her that she wasn’t exactly sure what to do with them. With an embarrassed giggle, she simply opened her reticule and let them all slide in.

  “You know what this reminds me of, Aiken,” Lord Kirtland said, laughing a bit, “that time I won a monkey from old Burncaster and he paid me in coin.”

  Mr. Aiken gave a small crooked smile, but said nothing.

  Rose, however, stopped what she was doing. “You won a monkey? Whatever did you do with it?”

  The gentlemen began to laugh. “Not a real monkey, Miss Grace,” Mr. Haston said.

  “A monkey is five hundred pounds,” Lord Kirtland explained.

  “Oh! My goodness, what a lot of money!”

  Lord Kirtland shrugged noncommittally.

  “What would you have done if you had lost?” Rose could not help asking.

  “It wouldn’t have been a problem, Miss Grace,” Lord Kirtland said, giving her a little smile.

  “Not for Kirtland,” Mr. Aiken added.

  “Oh.” Rose could say nothing more. The thought of winning or losing that much money was rather overwhelming.

  But then she caught her father’s eye. It was clear that he was thinking the same as her. While he, too, was rather shocked at Lord Kirtland’s cavalier attitude toward money, that meant only one thing—Rose had to find out if Lord Kirtland was unmarried.

  Things were beginning to look better and better.

  ~~~~

  And they looked even better later that night when Rose had counted all of the money she had won that evening at cards. She had nearly thirty pounds! That was going to be a good start on paying the bills that still sat in her father’s
desk drawer.

  She could barely contain her giggles. What a lot of money to have won!

  She sat back on her bed, rearranging her shawl around her shoulders and her shift over her slightly chilled feet, and thought about the evening. Lord Kirtland seemed almost too good to be true. He was an archaeologist, apparently a wealthy one, and rather handsome besides. A few discreet questions by her father had led them to the conclusion that Lord Kirtland was, in fact, unmarried and might very well be interested in changing that in the near future.

  There really wasn’t much more that Rose could ask for in a husband.

  Except, perhaps, love, her rebellious mind called out.

  She shook off that thought. She didn’t have that luxury. She needed to marry quickly, see their bills paid and her sisters taken care of.

  Idly running her fingers through the pile of coins, she wondered if she could find a way to play cards again...

  Rose sat up.

  That was it! If she could win money playing cards—enough to pay their bills—then there would be no reason to rush into marriage, would there? And if there weren’t the immediate problem of their bills, then perhaps she could take a little more time to fall in love. At the very least she could have a little romance.

  She wondered if Lord Kirtland was a romantic man.

  Chapter Six

  FUNGY had nearly reached the docks when he heard a female scream.

  He stopped. These wharfs were no place for a woman. There were all sorts of ruffians around here who wouldn’t think twice of taking advantage of a lady alone.

  “Help! Oh, Thalia, swim! Please try and swim!” a vaguely familiar voice called out from not too far away.

  Fungy took off running along the road next to the Thames towards the sound. Only a short distance away, two women stood at the edge of the dock, looking out into the ever–crowded water. Ships of all sizes, from large cargo ships to small sailing vessels to even smaller punting boats, warred with each other for space near the dock, some nearly coming close enough to touch.

  Fungy had stepped up to offer his assistance to the two ladies, when he recognized one as Miss Grace. She stood clutching the arm of another young lady, as slender as she but with wild red hair escaping from a neat little hat.

  The two were looking down into the water. Fungy followed their gaze into the choppy, muddy water of the river. For a moment, he saw nothing but a lady’s hat, but a second later a dark head bobbed up to the surface.

  “I... I’m caught on something!” the girl in the water gasped out before slipping under again.

  A few sailors stopped what they were doing to gawp, but no one made a move to go in after the girl.

  With so many ships anchored, there was a maze of ropes crisscrossing each other in a tangled mess. It was probably in these lines that the young lady had gotten caught.

  Fungy looked down at his beautifully polished white–topped Hessian boots and buckskin breeches. He had worn his favorite blue coat and his pale yellow waistcoat with the blue flowers embroidered all over it.

  With a sigh, he pulled off his boots, coat, and waistcoat. Then, with a clean move, he dove into the freezing cold, filthy water.

  Fungy had always been a strong swimmer. Now he used his arms to carry him to where he had seen the girl surface. The water was so murky, however, that it was difficult to see much of anything underneath.

  Taking a deep breath, he dove under. He grasped around and made contact with something slippery and slimy, recoiling instantly. He didn’t even want to think of what it might be. No luck; he changed direction, swimming further out into the river. An enormous ship shifted closer to him and he quickly moved out of its way.

  Fungy resurfaced and trod water as he thought. She hadn’t been quite so close to the ships.

  But he had to find her soon—before it was too late to save her.

  A shout from the dock. “To your left, Fungy, to your left!”

  Once again, he turned and searched in the other direction. To his relief, he saw a dark, wet head popping up not too far away. The girl sputtered out water, trying to take in deep breaths of air.

  “Miss!” Fungy called out—but she had gone under again.

  He took another deep breath and dove under the water, reaching out in front of him. Finally, his hand touched something warm. It shifted away from him, but he grasped it firmly and swam upward. His head and hers came up out of the water at the same time.

  “It’s all right, I have you,” he said as soon as he could regain his breath. The girl’s wide green eyes took him in.

  “I wasn’t drowning. I’m stuck. My dress is caught on something and I can’t tear it away,” she said, gasping for breath. “I’m actually an excellent swimmer,” she added.

  “Well, I’m very glad to hear that. I would suggest, however, that you pick a more secluded spot the next time you decide to go bathing. Or better yet, a private lake in the countryside.”

  The girl surprised him by laughing breathlessly. “Thank you, sir, I do believe I shall take your advice. However, I must tell you that I did not intend to go swimming at all this afternoon. I fell in.”

  “Ah, well, that’s a relief. This part of the Thames is not the most ideal for this sort of activity. Now let’s see what we can do to set you free. I don’t like all these ships and lines about.”

  With that, he dove back under the water. Through the darkness, he could see that her white dress was indeed caught on something among all of the ropes which crossed each other deep under the water. She had managed to tear the hem somewhat, so that it hung down lower than the rest of her dress, but it still held her firmly in place. With just another good strong tug it should tear free.

  Fungy gave it a try—and indeed the dress came loose. He could feel the churning of the water as she kicked and swam off in the direction of the dock.

  Fungy made a move to do the same, but found his own foot caught among the lines. He twisted and pulled, but the ropes only seemed to get tighter the more he struggled.

  He was beginning to get desperate for air.

  With a great deal of effort, he attempted to calm himself. He concentrated on not moving, when, completely unbidden, a thought came to the forefront of his mind—really, old man, what have you got to lose?

  Fungy stopped struggling immediately and instead grappled with this thought. What did he have to lose?

  He had no family, aside from his parents, whom he hadn’t seen or heard from in months. And, of course, there was his cousin, Merry, who had turned on him only days before saying that he was feckless and irresponsible. He had no wife, no children... who would miss him if he died?

  No one.

  He had done nothing with his life and had left no legacy. There wasn’t even a neckcloth knot or a style of waistcoat named after him.

  It would be no great loss to the world if St. John Fotheringay–Phipps was no longer a part of it. He supposed he would be missed momentarily by a few people, but likely as not he would be forgotten with the next day’s news.

  Fungy felt the ropes that held his leg loosen. The shifting of the water and the ships above, along with the fact that he had stopped struggling, had freed his foot.

  But did he really want to swim up? Wouldn’t it be just as well if he stayed here and drowned?

  His lungs were beginning to ache with the need for air.

  In the end, it was his natural instinct for survival that made him kick his legs. Within moments, his head broke through the surface of the water. He gasped in the warm air, but his mind was still lured by the deep. His heart and emotions warred within him. The shooting pain and an utter and thorough sadness were enough to pull him down below the surface once again—but a voice was calling out to him.

  Such a sweet voice it was. One filled with fear and pleading. “Fungy! Mr. Fotheringay–Phipps! Oh, thank God, are you all right? Oh, please answer. Fungy!”

  Miss Grace was on her hands and knees at the edge of the dock, leaning over toward the wat
er. Near her was a ladder, at the top of which sat her two sisters. A crowd of onlookers was gathered nearby. A few sailors were peering into the water, but none seemed eager to jump in to save him.

  Really, who could blame them?

  With Rose Grace’s lovely face hovering above him, all thoughts of drowning seeped out of Fungy’s mind. He swam as best as he could to the ladder and slowly climbed up. Strong hands reached out and got hold of him, pulling him to safety.

  His limbs felt like lead weights. If it were not for the help of the sailors, he was not certain he could have made it up entirely by himself. He was let down on to the ground next to the two ladies, evidently Miss Laia and Miss Thalia Grace.

  He had the most horrendous taste in his mouth from the dirty water. He leaned over and spat back into the water, and tried to wipe his face dry with his soaking wet handkerchief.

  “Oh please, Mr. Foth... Fungy, use mine. It is not much drier, but a bit cleaner at any rate.” Miss Grace said, handing him the little scrap of cotton and lace that constituted her handkerchief.

  It was clear to see that she must have recently been holding on to her recovering sister who Fungy had just saved. The whole front of her sprig muslin dress was soaked through, making the cotton cling quite indecently to her body. Even in exhaustion, Fungy could not help but admire the beautiful Miss Rose Grace.

  He glanced from the youngest sister, with her rounded, child–like face and dark brown braids, now soaking wet and dripping; to the middle sister, the utter opposite with sharp, high cheekbones, a thin straight nose and those bright red curls; to Rose, who outshone both of her sisters, with features which highlighted the best of both of her sisters. Her face was not too thin, but pleasantly formed; her hair neither too red, nor too brown, but a beautiful auburn somewhere in between. Yes, she was definitely an angel come down to Earth to entice him into thinking distinctly devilish thoughts.

  She handed him his coat and boots, but he immediately returned his coat. “Your sister might need this more than I,” he said.

  “Thank you, but someone has just gone to fetch a blanket for her from a nearby tavern,” Miss Grace said, awkwardly holding onto his coat.