by Elisa Braden
The comment earned her a blink.
“Not handsome either, mind. And even you must admit to having a rather peculiar nature.”
This produced a small frown.
“Still.” She propped one elbow on her opposite wrist and tapped her lip with her finger. “Attractive, in your way. Maureen doubtless would have accepted your suit had she not been mad for Dunston. By all rights, you should be besieged by ladies eager to be made a countess.”
It was true, and yet she sensed it displeased him greatly.
“What are you doing here?” He snapped the first word and glided over the rest.
Her finger paused. “I am employed here. The milliner’s shop, rather. Next door. I am here to fetch silk for a customer who wishes to add to her collection of identical turbans.” She shook her head and snorted. “Speaking of peculiar.”
Green eyes calculated and probed as though she were a complex equation. “Why?”
“My question precisely. Is she part of a secret society in which gold turbans with a single white feather are required for entry? Or is the reason more sinister? Dreadful taste, perhaps. But if that is true, she might aim for variety at the very least—”
“No. Why are you working here?”
She blinked. “Where else should I work?”
“I shouldn’t think you would be working at all, Lady Eugenia. I assumed you would be wed by now.”
“Wed?” She laughed, shaking her head.
He tilted his head as though she’d made a jest he didn’t understand.
“The scandal?” she prompted, sighing when his response was another inscrutable stare. “You’ve been away from London too long.”
“I know about the scandal. Whatever your indiscretions, you should not be reduced to”—he glanced around the tiny shop—“this. You’re an earl’s daughter, for God’s sake.”
“My employer does not know. To her, I am Miss Huxley, lately of Nottinghamshire. I came with excellent references.” Her lips quirked. “The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham, no less.”
“Patently ridiculous. Someone should marry you and stop this nonsense at once.”
Sniffing, she folded her arms beneath her bosom. “You and my mother are in agreement. And yet, despite her efforts, three years on, no man has tendered an offer. Disgraced brides are in low demand, evidently.”
“I saw your mother several weeks ago outside Almack’s. She mentioned nothing of this.”
“Mama has reinvested her hopes in my younger sister, Kate. For my part, I simply stay out of sight and attempt to keep my scandalous vapor from spoiling the husband hunt.”
Again, his head tilted. “Do you always speak so bluntly?”
“Candor spares us all a good deal of meaningless prattle, wouldn’t you agree? As for my employment, working here is preferable to wandering about the grounds at Clumberwood Manor.” She had done that for nearly two years. It had felt like prison.
A perplexed cleft now shadowed the bridge of his long, straight nose. “Your father can be none too happy.”
“Papa would prefer I remain in the country, rotting away like some old, forgotten rodent in the corner of the stables. Here, at least I shall learn a useful trade. That is more than most spinsters can claim.”
“Making hats.”
She stiffened at the implication in his tone. “I have a talent for it. Hats are an integral element of a lady’s fashionable ensemble. A veritable proclamation of—”
“So, you are a milliner.”
She sniffed. “Assistant. Milliner’s assistant.” At his raised brow, she straightened her shoulders and tried to forget Mrs. Pritchard’s ominous assurance: That will be that. “Only for now, whilst I learn the trade,” she hedged. “One day, I shall open my own shop.”
“Huxleys do not open shops. Particularly …” Green eyes dropped to her apron-covered skirts then returned to her faded blue bodice. “Female Huxleys.”
Her hands propped on her hips. “Well, this one shall.”
He moved mere inches away, his gaze now disconcertingly focused.
At this proximity, she felt the weariness in her neck, a disturbing shortness of breath. He was taller than she’d previously estimated. Perhaps three inches above six feet.
“Your older sisters have borne twelve children between them.”
Four. Definitely four inches. The man loomed. “Your point?”
“Huxleys breed. A lot.” He muttered the words to himself, though his eyes never left her.
Amusement tugged at her lips. He truly was a most peculiar fellow. “Some do.”
“But not you?”
Amusement shook and dissolved. “Breeding is best done with a husband. Or so I have heard.”
“Rather than a footman.” Again, he murmured the words to himself like a scientist puzzling out the structure of an exotic insect, unconcerned with the insect’s feelings on the matter.
A footman. She wanted to laugh and cry at once, felt both urges shuddering in her chest. No, a footman could not be her husband.
The scandal had ravaged her family. Mama had wept for weeks. Papa—kind, loving, good-humored Papa—had not spoken to Genie for a fortnight. Finally, when he had, he’d quietly explained that if she wanted Kate to have a chance at an acceptable match, she would leave London and remain in the country until the scandal receded. Genie had left for Clumberwood the following day.
Even now, some in the ton still whispered about her, crass epithets and lewd snickering. She didn’t care, so long as the cruelties did not touch Kate. It was why Genie needed employment. Needed to finish Mrs. Herbert’s silly gold turbans. Needed to endure the false smiles and forced cheer of Mrs. Pritchard.
Her family had borne the Great Burden of Genie too long.
“Well,” she said briskly, raising her brow at the man whose eyes pinned her like a silk rose to a straw brim. “I believe we have solved the mystery of your difficulties in the marriage mart, Holstoke. A bit of subtlety might help. Perhaps even a jot of politeness.”
“You were neither subtle nor polite.”
“Yes, but when I am blunt, it is bold and charming. When you are blunt, it is offensive and annoying.”
“That is hypocrisy.”
She shrugged. “Call it what you will. I do not make the rules.”
“Newton’s third law of motion is a rule. Your statement is an assertion.”
“A correct one.” She sighed and reached out to pat his elbow, ignoring how he stiffened. “Listen carefully, Holstoke, for that is the only way you will find success among the matchmaking mamas. You are odd. There is simply no way round it. The less you say, the more the ladies will fill in the gaps with their own suppositions. Begin with polite flattery. Practice it. Then, do not—whatever you do, do not—deviate from your script.”
His gaze fell to where her hand rested on his arm. “Among my oddities must be forgetfulness.” Pale green came back narrowed and sparking. “I don’t recall asking your advice.”
She withdrew. “Very well. Ignore me, then. But do not complain when you must return next year to dance the same tedious dance.”
Head rearing back, he flared his nose in disgust.
“Indeed,” she said with satisfaction. “No man wishes to enter this farcical exhibition twice. Or, in your case, thrice.”
He’d spent his first season courting Maureen, of course. For a proud man, the rejection must have cut deeply. Then had come revelations about his mother. Little wonder he’d avoided London all this time. Even six years later, the embers of that particular scandal smoldered throughout the ton. In fact, Genie would wager Holstoke’s mad mother in part explained why he’d not yet found a wife. Lady Holstoke might be dead, but she’d been a murderess on a grand scale.
It was hardly an argument for perpetuating the bloodline.
“My family will help,” she assured him. “Mama will delight in the challenge. She always was fond of you.”
“Unnecessary,” he answered, his frown returning deep
er than before. “I am perfectly capable—”
“Of course you are.” She patted his elbow again, grinning. “But you are not a mother who has successfully launched four daughters.”
His head lowered until she felt his breath upon her nose. He smelled of mint and lemons. Those pale eyes lit gold in the late-day sun. “Five.”
Suddenly, she could feel what others complained about. Shivers. Breathlessness. She swallowed and licked her lips. “I was a scandal. I do not signify.”
“I think you do.”
Her reply was stopped short by an ominous, overly pleasant voice. “Miss Huxley, you may return to your work. Now.”
Genie’s heart thudded. Her stomach cramped. Her eyes slid closed for a long moment.
Drat. Drat, drat, drat. She’d been certain Mrs. Pritchard had left already.
“Of—of course, Mrs. Pritchard.” Retreating a step, she gave Holstoke a wobbly, regretful smile before turning to face her employer. “Straight away.”
Mrs. Pritchard had been tippling the vinegar again. Her pursed lips and pinched nostrils resembled a caricature with that tight coiffure.
“I expect Mrs. Herbert’s order to be complete before the morning,” the milliner snapped. “Is that very clear?” The words were low, spoken as Genie gathered her gold silk and headed for the workroom doorway.
She nodded, not wishing to further antagonize the woman.
“Speak, Miss Huxley, so that I know you understand.”
Genie halted, her skirts brushing the curtain, her fingers clutching the silk.
There it was. The viper beneath the pleasant façade. Others imagined it did not exist.
Until it bit them.
Genie had always known. A woman like Mrs. Pritchard possessed only enough competence to eke out a feeble enterprise, and only enough intelligence to resent those with more. Ever so slowly, the milliner was failing, the flow of customers down to a trickle, her shop propped up by her husband. Shortly before Genie had arrived, a string of assistants had either left or been dismissed. Once Genie had seen Fancy Nancy’s handiwork, she’d understood why.
Mrs. Pritchard liked things plain and pleasant. She did not favor being shown she was wrong.
Contrarily, Genie preferred progress above pleasantness. Her creations had attracted dozens of new customers. Another milliner might have viewed her as a boon.
Instead, Mrs. Pritchard had assigned Genie more orders like Mrs. Herbert’s five turbans and suggested fashionably minded ladies might be better served on Bond Street.
Bond Street. The very idea of rejecting new customers out of hand had sparked Genie’s outrage, and she’d redoubled her efforts, using Mrs. Pritchard’s love of pleasantness against her. Red silk roses had been the least of it.
Genie had felt the noose of dismissal more than once, but never more than this moment. She straightened and regarded the other woman’s face. Mrs. Pritchard would not meet her eyes, half-turned and fully puckered.
“I understand,” Genie answered. “Mrs. Herbert will have her turbans, precisely as she requested, before the morning.”
A sharp nod signaled the end of the interchange. Mrs. Pritchard pasted on a false smile and approached Holstoke, who scowled in Genie’s direction.
He was about to protest. Perhaps even inform Mrs. Pritchard of Genie’s rank. She felt it coming like a storm on the horizon. She met his eyes over the other woman’s shoulder and shook her head, pleading for him to keep silent. After a long moment, his nostrils flared and his shoulders flexed as though anger were moving him against his will. Then, he gave a slight nod.
She smiled and mouthed, “Thank you,” before rushing past the curtain. Waving away Mr. Moody’s round-eyed stare, she returned to the millinery workroom.
Sinking into her chair, she closed her eyes and felt the silk between her fingers, the noose around her neck. Drat, drat, drat. She should have ignored Holstoke, stifled her everlasting curiosity, and hurried away to finish Mrs. Herbert’s tedious turban collection.
But, then, she wouldn’t have seen him again or learned of his struggles on the marriage mart or rediscovered the strange kinship she’d always felt in his presence.
Somehow, she would repay him, she decided, spreading the silk upon the table and retrieving a white plume from the basket at her feet. It was the least she could do. He would keep her secret, after all. This she knew without question.
For, even when he said nothing, the Earl of Holstoke could be relied upon to keep his word.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWO
“Fortunately, wealth matters far more than handsomeness. Or charm. Or a gaze which does not freeze a lady’s slippers. Despair not, my boy. With wise counsel, you may yet claim victory, despite many shortcomings.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Earl of Holstoke in a letter expressing optimism for his matrimonial prospects.
Phineas Brand read triumph on his sister’s delicate features a bare second before she took his bishop with her knight. Briefly, he considered letting her win, but the last time he’d done so, Hannah had explained with devastating care that treating her like a child was not kindness but condescension.
“In my life, I have borne a good deal more than the loss of a game, Phineas,” she’d said softly. “Pray, allow me the dignity of a fair fight.” Her eyes had been brittle as frosted leaves.
Indeed, she had borne more. Unspeakably more.
He hadn’t let her win since. He didn’t intend to now. “Are you certain—”
“I have taken your bishop,” she crowed, a black curl tumbling against her white cheek as she leaned forward in her chair. “Prepare for defeat.”
He sighed. Plucked his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “I should be off.”
“No. I shall have my victory at last.”
His father’s daughter was a beauty—soft-featured and striking with hair black as a night sky and eyes the same as his. Had she not been a by-blow, titled suitors doubtless would be flooding Holstoke House at this very moment, begging his permission to marry her. She should be married. She should be playing chess with a husband, not losing to her brother every night.
“Do not look at me that way,” she said, her natural dignity slumping as she began to suspect her long-awaited victory was not, in fact, at hand. “Phineas. I have won.” She perused the board, her fine, black brows drawn together in puzzlement. “I have.”
Gently, he slid his rook into place. “Check.”
“But …”
He stood, stretching his neck side to side. Evenings such as this tended to end in a headache. “Lady Randall’s fete began a half-hour ago. If I wait any longer to arrive, she will think me unforgivably rude.”
“Why should you care what Lady Randall thinks of you? Her dog ate your hat.”
Indeed, the fattest of Lady Randall’s seven pugs had pounced without hesitation. Phineas had been standing outside an apothecary shop on Oxford Street, arguing the proper application of grafting with Lord Gilforth, who had refused him entry into the Horticultural Society of London. Lady Randall’s escaped horde of pugs had trotted by, promptly entangling their long, loose leads around both his and Gilforth’s ankles. As Lady Randall’s shouts had shrilled along the street, Gilforth had gone down, Phineas had wheeled away to avoid being pulled down with him, and his best hat had rolled across eight feet of cobblestone. The walleyed little beast had snatched the “exquisite beaver” hat between its jaws, shaken it viciously, slobbered and gnawed, growled and grunted, then sprinted away with the crown dragging along the pavement. Fortunately, the dog’s girth dragged in a similar fashion, slowing its pace considerably. Phineas retrieved his hat in a few strides, but not before much damage had been done.
Lady Randall had been first mortified at her dog’s misbehavior, then aghast when she’d realized whose hat her “beloved Dicky” had purloined. As she’d recognized Phineas, her apologies had stuttered, her mouth working like a fish’s. Her face had drained of color. Finally, she’d issued a reluctan
t invitation to this evening’s fete.
He assumed the overture had been meant as compensation for his inconvenience. She’d likely hoped he would decline. He probably should have. But offers like hers were rare—at least, for him.
The trickle of invitations Phineas had received at the start of the season had been granted out of curiosity. In time, even those evaporated. Few hostesses desired the son of the Primvale Poisoner at their tables. Understandable. Among his mother’s victims had been some of the ton’s own members.
Glancing down now into Hannah’s eyes—slightly tilted, pale and serious, so like his own and their father’s—he wished for the thousandth time he had been the one to remove his mother from this world. But he hadn’t realized the depth of Lady Holstoke’s evil until it had been far too late.
Until his fragile, innocent sister had been tormented. Hunted. Forced to defend herself in a way that had added to her scars.
God. He pivoted and made for the parlor door, an unwelcome black tide rushing up to choke him. “I shan’t be too late getting back,” he said, forcing his voice to steady.
“Phineas.”
He pulled the door open, the knob creaking inside the pressure of his fist. “Do not wait for me.”
She followed him into the corridor. “Phineas.” Her gentle voice was a plea.
He slowed.
“Why must you put yourself through this absurdity?”
For you, he thought. He could not say it. She would be wounded. She would object that he must never make sacrifices for her. But, in truth, he was “dancing this tedious dance,” as Lady Eugenia had put it, for Hannah’s sake. To show her it could be done.
Ten years of Hannah’s life had been a horror, imprisoned by a madman named Horatio Syder, who had used a young, innocent girl as a bargaining chip against Phineas’s mother. It had made his sister bitter toward men, fearful of being in their control. She trusted Phineas, of course, but few others. He was heartened that she had improved since they’d discovered one another’s existence six years earlier. Constant nightmares, weeks of silence, fearful starts at the slightest clatter—all had diminished in both severity and frequency. Only last week, upon spying his old walking stick, she had remained seated, calmly cradling her teacup. A year ago, she would have gone bloodless and fled to her bedchamber.
