“You were already invited to that. Why would you want to dress as a man for it?” he asked, thought he didn’t seem particularly bothered by the idea.
“Life is different for men. I only have this one opportunity to find out how so,” she insisted, her interest growing as she spoke, though Daniel only looked more dubious.
“And the point?” he asked.
“I have only this chance to express myself so fully. After this, I shall rarely meet a man who does not think of me as an elderly spinster,” she replied, hoping sympathy would move him. Daniel frowned at her, not looking impressed.
“And them thinking of you as a man is preferable?” he asked.
“Immeasurably,” Jac answered honestly. Daniel’s firm expression faltered.
Damn it. Jac glanced down at her hands, the past hanging too heavily between them. He’d been gone too long, when he’d left for the continent. Could it have been different, had he not delayed her first seasons? He had left for his schooling and not returned until she was nineteen years old - too old for any debutante. Jac glanced up and smiled sadly. She’d forgiven him a long time past, now. Daniel tipped his head back on the coach seat and groaned. Jacoline did her best to recapture her earlier excitement. She’d be attending the soirée as a man.
~~//~~
Jac climbed into the carriage, wondering for a moment what the neighbors thought seeing Daniel pick up a stranger from in front of their home for the third time in as many weeks. The carriage door shut behind her and Jac sat down across from Daniel. He had still given her the lady’s seat facing forward, she noticed, amused. They were going to the Earl of Blancard’s political soiree and for once she would not be expected to ignore the more fervent political discussions and keep her voice carefully buoyant. She could debate with Daniel all she wished, if she so desired.
“Perhaps I should say that you were raised in the Americas,” Daniel mused aloud, crossing his legs in the cramped carriage.
“I can hardly handle a man's tenor, how do you expect me to carry an accent?” Jac asked, snorting and fiddling with the buckle over her stockings. The shirt smelled vaguely of sweat; they would have to mix it with Daniel’s clothing to be cleaned.
“I've never met an American man; who could say that your accent was wrong? As it is, I can barely believe no one has yet asked me if you're sick in the head,” Daniel answered as if this were a normal conversation to have with his sister.
“The only one who could say that is the Duke of Aspen for I have only met His Grace,” Jac pointed out.
“For instance,” Daniel replied, dipping his head as if to agree with her. “That was clearly embarrassing enough.” Jac scoffed and rolled her eyes but didn't comment, knowing it was pointless. “In any case, you are woefully unprepared for attending a political luncheon,” Daniel stated. Jac glanced at him wryly, unable to argue. “Do us all a favor and bow from your waist, keep your hat’s lining hidden, and deepen your voice,” he instructed. Jacoline smiled at him and shook her head.
“It is not so very different from women’s roles,” she said and he snorted out a laugh and crossed his arms.
“So says the man who curtsied to the Duke of Aspen,” he replied.
The carriage stopped and Jac prepared herself to alight after her brother, without waiting for the coachman. Daniel saw her shifting, apparently, for he smirked and started for the door when they heard Harold put down the step.
She did better getting out of the carriage this time and walked with Daniel to the imposing residence of the Earl of Blancard. She'd been introduced to the man at his wedding, she remembered, as the butler showed them inside. The earl was an overweight, boisterously happy man with a thin slip of a wife ten years his junior. Daniel gave their names to the butler, glancing slyly at Jac as they were led through the large house.
“Lord Holcombe and his cousin, Mr. Jack Holcombe,” the butler announced, letting them into a rather cramped room with too few chairs. Everything was blue, Jac realized, glancing around at the rugs and wallpaper and upholstery. Even the ceiling was painted with the color.
“Welcome,” the countess said, curtsying to them. Jac bowed and walked with Daniel into the room, pretending not to notice that there was no place to sit. The Earl of Norglades, Lord Kimberley, and Lord Monson were already standing by the room's large fireplace. Jac followed when Daniel strode toward them and bowed as properly as she could as Daniel gave the introductions.
“Lord Holcombe, I am pleased you are here. I know a subject that will catch your interest!” the Earl of Norglades, a balding man of middling age, exclaimed, ignoring Jac’s introduction altogether. “My lord, please do continue,” he insisted, gesturing to the Earl of Kimberley, who was looking rather taken aback at the man’s exuberance.
“Er. Well. I was just commenting on a rather disturbing experience I had not three months ago when I was returning by sea from the Spanish Isles. Considering the shipping routes the vessel must have been off course but regardless, it was there,” Lord Kimberley started, glancing at Jac before he focused his gaze on Daniel. He was a gray haired gentleman in good fitness, one of the most coveted bachelors on the market and a good friend to Daniel.
“What was there?” Lord Monson drawled, sounding bored. Lord Monson looked remarkably like a bulldog. The wrinkles in his face were so deep they appeared to be cut into his skull. Jacoline wasn’t sure she’d ever met the man when he wasn’t glowering around a cigar. He was married to the blonde woman sitting with Lord Musgrave in the corner. Lord Kimberley turned toward him at the question.
“A slave ship. It could not have been anything other, from the stench. They're famous for it, I know, but this is not something to be described. It smelled like an open rotting wound from half a league away. One could barely see it on the horizon; a sailor took a damn long while to point it out to me, just a speck of white sail, and yet one smelled it fiercely. The ship may have carried nothing but rotten flesh aboard for all it reeked, and I challenge anyone to keep their interests in the West Indies after such a contact,” Lord Kimberley stated. Jac blinked; this was not a discussion she would be encouraged to attend. Daniel shifted next to her, clearly uncomfortable.
“It could have been a dead ship,” Jac reasoned and Daniel glanced at her in warning. “Normal merchants, caught with a plague.”
Lord Monson nodded and took a puff from his cheroot, looking impressed with her. Lord Kimberley nodded, as if expecting the comment.
“See, I said the same to the sailors there, but they denied any such notion. Said there wasn't that sickly sweet side to the smell, if it wasn't a slaver. Said the sweet was the mark of too many men in one space. Said they pack the men like salt pork, piled naked in the hold,” he replied, leaning toward her. Daniel shifted again but he clearly couldn't think of a way to drag them away from the conversation without drawing attention to himself. Jac was glad for it. Daniel had followed the abolitionist movement doggedly for as long as she’d known him. He hadn’t missed a single opportunity to debate on the subject, and yet it was one of the only topics he’d refused to discuss with her, not in this kind of detail.
“All reasons to regulate shipping practices, not enslavement. The slave trade was abolished six years ago. We can hardly hope to regulate other countries' vessels,” Lord Monson grumbled, apparently unmoved by the story.
"Yet slavery was not. That demand feeds the trade regardless of -" Jac started.
“His Grace, the Duke of Aspen,” the butler intoned. Jac turned to see the duke pause in the doorway, clearly hesitating at the very bad choice of room for a political soiree. The duke noticed her and nodded in her direction. Jac bowed back, glad to see him.
“It means we should quit the whole infernal practice,” the Earl of Norglades exclaimed too loudly, getting back to the topic.
“The empire cannot survive without labor, regardless of how unpleasant it may be to be poor,” Lord Monson replied calmly before turning away to bow to the appr
oaching duke. The Duke of Aspen nodded back and joined them.
“Our country survived without forced labor before our age of exploration; it is certainly plausible to say it can do so again,” Jac pointed out. The Earl of Kimberley shot her an appreciative glance. Daniel smiled at her tightly. Jac bit her lip and glanced around the group of men, wanting to disappear, suddenly aware that she was standing in breeches in the middle of a political luncheon she'd been invited to as a lady.
“Perhaps, but it was significantly poorer than it is now,” the duke replied softly. Jac glanced around the group again, surprised by the polite tones. She had not been censored. This was a subject she could investigate freely, as a gentleman. She turned to face the duke.
“My word, have you heard of the recent rise in dairy prices?” Daniel exclaimed, rolling back on his feet as if endlessly excited by the subject.
“I'm not arguing that it is economical to end slavery, I am arguing that it is right. My point with Lord Monson was only that the option is in fact open to us and so we should take it,” Jac pressed. The duke's eyebrows rose.
“A fair point, then,” he replied, “Though, unless I missed it, you haven't argued that it's right at all, only that it's possible.”
Jac grinned, caught. Lord, but she wished she could do this every day.
“I don’t believe it is consistent to argue for the improvement of slavery conditions. If a foreign man is due our compassion, then surely we must grant him freedom as well,” she replied. The duke stayed silent for a moment, apparently thinking.
“There’s not much to say unless I am to play the devil’s advocate. I agree with you. And your cousin,” he said, gesturing to Daniel. Jac blinked and glanced over to see Daniel shaking his fist while he made a point, apparently wrapped up in the slavery debate despite himself. He’d forgotten about her, she realized, blinking.
“What are your political ties, Your Grace?” she asked, wondering if she’d just accosted the duke with her ideas. The duke glanced around the dispersed group, and seeing that they’d been left together, gestured to a few chairs that had opened by the room's only window. She walked to them and sat down.
The duke joined her, flashing her a strange look. Jac looked down at her clasped hands and guessed she was doing something quite wrong. Her hands looked tiny on top of the formal green breeches and coat she wore. Jac searched around the room for a few seated men and tried to copy their position, leaning back in her chair and unclasping her hands, but then she didn't know where to put them. She rested them on her knees, though the pose felt far too formal.
“I sympathize with the Whigs, for the most part, though I am not as fervent as your cousin. I am too frequently out of town to be an active member of Parliament. How did you vote?” he asked. Jac jerked, jolted by the question.
“I -uh-” she started, not wanting to lie. The duke frowned, looking concerned. She did not have a good answer to this.
“Oh, I apologize, of course, you're not of age-” he started, holding up a hand toward her.
“No, I am, it's not that,-” Jac rushed to reassure him, only to cut herself off and close her eyes. She was an idiot. He'd handed her the perfect excuse and she'd thrown it away. She rubbed a hand down her face, forcing herself to calm down and concentrate, and opened her eyes to see the duke staring at her, looking genuinely confused now. “I don't have the land, the rank,” she said instead. A viscount's cousin wouldn't, after all. The duke nodded slowly but his expression didn't clear.
What did I give away? Jac wondered, desperately wanting out of the room and back into her gowns, now.
“I should mingle,” Jac said, starting to rise. Good God, she was in the middle of the earl's luncheon in men's clothing; how on earth had she gotten herself into such a situation? She wanted to leave. The duke pressed a hand onto her upper arm. Jac felt a blush work its way up her face at the familiarity.
“It's nothing,” he stated, “To hell with rank and voting rights. Tell me your opinion.”
Jac felt her eyebrows rise at the phrase and glanced around the room, hoping Daniel had not seen them. Her brother was currently arguing with Lord Kimberley, his back to them. The duke removed his hand, smiling at her lightly as if the warm touch on her arm was nothing at all.
To a man it's not, she reminded herself, sitting back down.
“Where are you from?” the duke asked, leaning back in his chair.
“I -uh,” she started and stopped, wanting to bury her face in a hand. Why had she never come up with a backstory?
We were only supposed to spend a day fencing and return to the country to hide for the rest of the season.
“I mostly grew up in Abingdon,” she answered truthfully, deciding that at least then she could show she knew the area.
I should have said Lyme, she realized too late. They’d visited there often enough as children, when their cousin Cynthia was still alive.
“With Lord Holcombe, then?” Aspen pressed, gesturing toward Daniel, and Jac hesitated. This was going to get very complicated now.
“When we were very young, yes. He went to school and I mainly grew up alone,” she answered. Aspen blinked, looking confused and Jac glanced around the room, looking for a way to extricate herself. How was she to explain that Daniel had a cousin with the exact same history as his sister? And yet now she’d given herself few other options. Daniel and Lord Kimberley were in a conversation with the elderly Mrs. Branbury, both looking rather disturbed. The hook-backed widow shook a finger at them, her scowl firmly in place and Jac looked away. They were all trapped, apparently.
“Ah,” Aspen accepted simply, following her gaze to Daniel.
“And you?” she asked, hoping to divert the conversation away from Mr. Jack Holcombe’s incredibly unsubstantiated history. Instead, the duke’s gaze swung around to stare at her. “Where are you from?” Jac clarified, just before she realized her idiocy. He was the Duke of Aspen. He was from Aspen. Jac felt her eyes widen. “I mean, er, where did you spend your childhood? Was it in Aspen or…”
“It was Aspen, yes,” the duke answered, apparently taking pity on her.
“Jack!” Daniel called from across the room. Jac looking over, already frowning at her brother’s loud behavior, to see Mrs. Branbury practically gawking at the man in front of her. Daniel grinned easily. “Do come tell that story, the one with the dead dog,” he ordered. Jac blinked, remembering the medieval trial documents she’d found of a dog sentenced to death by hanging. It was hardly fit for private discussion, much less a public one. Mrs. Branbury’s eyes grew so wide it looked painful.
“I-” Jac started, turning back to Aspen and trying to think of a polite way to extricate herself. “I believe I have to go assist my br--cousin in tormenting an elderly woman,” she said, giving up, and Aspen barked out a laugh. “Excuse me,” she said, standing and he nodded.
“Of course,” he answered and Jac gratefully walked over to join Daniel’s far less personal conversation. By the time she’d made her way to the man, Mrs. Branbury had already stalked off.
“Well, that was effective,” Daniel commented smugly, smiling at her.
~~//~~
Aspen turned his head to look out the window behind him to ensure he didn't stare at the unfortunate man. Mr. Jack Holcombe was without a doubt the most awkward, effeminate man he'd ever met. He'd thought him a boy of seventeen, for hell’s sake. But the man said he was past the voting age. The suffrage minimum was one and twenty years. However young Mr. Jack Holcombe might appear he was a grown man in his own right. Aspen could barely wrap his head around it. He’d massively underestimated the man, thinking him only a lad, and worse, had said it straight to his face.
If you’re not yet of age to vote… Aspen colored at the thought.
“Why, hello there, Your Grace. May I sit?” Mrs. Faring asked, delicately lowering herself down into the chair beside him, barely touching its seat. She angled herself toward him, her ivory teeth gleaming. “Th
is was a terribly chosen room, wasn't it? I could see you frowning from my place with Lord Blancard. I was watching you, I confess.”
She sounded like she was flirting with him, he thought, blinking rapidly as he tried to understand it. He was an odd choice for a married woman.
“Quite,” he said, forgetting what she'd mentioned.
“Who is that young lad that came with Lord Holcombe?” Mrs. Faring asked directly, throwing a sly glance Jack's way. The man was standing by Daniel, nodding at something Lord Monson was saying.
“Mr. Jack Holcombe,” Aspen answered simply. The woman laid her hand casually by her side, rubbing at his leg and Aspen felt himself start. He hadn't wanted to know the state of Mr. Faring’s marriage.
And perhaps of his wife’s diseases. Aspen thought, disturbed at the thought. That would explain why she would seek him out. There were many rich men. It had been a very long time since society had looked on his red, blistered face and seen the raging symptoms of the French pox. His wounds were long since healed and the rumors settled, but perhaps Mrs. Faring was hoping the rumors held a grain of truth. What would she be looking for? Simple intimacy or his purse as his mistress? The woman ran a finger down the side of his thigh and he wanted to shudder. He rose to leave, knowing it would send the correct message.
“Pray forgive me, Ma'am, I have business,” he said, and bowing to the Earl of Blancard and his wife, he left.
He cursed himself before he'd taken two steps away from the earl's front door. He'd been rude to his host.
That was badly done, Aspen thought, ignoring the sight of Mrs. Faring sitting at the front window, likely pretending that she wanted to be sitting alone.
Damn it. He was not skilled with women.
~~//~~
What a strange man, Jac thought, watching the duke stride out of the room. The Earl of Blancard stared at the door and looked quickly to his wife, apparently concerned. The countess, however, was buried in a group of chattering women and apparently had not noticed the slight at all.
Spinster's Gambit Page 4
