Well neither of us will be great beauties but I suppose we can reassure ourselves that if nothing else, we have not enough rank nor wit to draw attention to ourselves. She’d said that to Mr. James Wesserley, the baron Lord Wesserley’s third son. He’d simply gaped at her as she’d babbled her apologies, until he’d found an excuse to walk away. She had barely spoken to him since.
“I have not been rude in many years,” she replied instead and Lady Eleanor grinned, almost mischievously. “Barring that squash-pumpkin incident,” Jac added ruefully.
“Oh, but we know when you’re thinking it,” Eleanor replied, patting her arm and winking at her. “Excuse me. I have to go find my fiancé and claim to have been horribly lost.”
Jac blinked and the woman slipped behind the large Basingstroke family as they pushed their way deeper into the crowd. Apparently Lady Eleanor Plainsworth had successfully fooled all of society into thinking that she was as idiotic as a particularly gleeful hitching post. And she was well liked and engaged to a duke for her efforts. Jac sighed. If she’d been half as clever on her own coming out, perhaps Mr. James Wesserley would have courted her instead of spreading word of her offensive nature to all that would listen to him.
Jac continued along the edge of the dance, meeting the eyes of the men she passed in the hope that they would ask her to partner them. They didn’t and she ended up by the open doors to the balcony. It was cooler there and quieter and Jac settled into the empty chair between the late Mr. John Clarence’s widow and the dowager Lady Branbury. Lady Branbury scowled at her, her mouth tight.
“You are much too young, Miss Holcombe,” she bit out. Jac blinked.
“Pardon?” she asked, turning to face the woman.
“You heard me, girl. You are too young to insert yourself in a seating area clearly designed for those with little better to do than talk over the din of the louder younger guests,” she ranted. Jac opened her mouth to reply, but ended up only gaping at the woman for a few minutes until she regained her balance.
“Where else do you propose I seat myself, Lady Branbury?” Jac asked, hoping her tone came out politely. The dowager scowled at her, not looking impressed. Mr. John Clarence’s widow was carefully not looking their way, Jac noticed. She hardly believed the woman disinterested. Mrs. John Clarence was well known as the most accomplished gossip that ever graced the ballrooms of their social circle. This was sure to be mentioned to at least six people, she thought, if the widow found Lady Branbury’s complaints to be interesting in the least.
“Very well, as you like, but I do not see why you are not yet married,” Lady Branbury stated, staring at her like she were a wild thing. Jacoline smiled tightly and caught sight of Daniel standing in a less populated corner of the room.
Daniel, do come tell that story of that stray cat. The one we joked about shooting.
Somehow, Jac didn’t think she could get away with Daniel’s antics. It never seemed to matter what social rules the man broke; everyone loved his company.
“Excuse me,” Jac ordered instead, extricating herself. She made her way over to her brother purposefully, knowing he at least would be happy to speak with her. She realized too late that Aspen was standing beside him, obviously already involved in a conversation. She stopped short and accidentally caught both of their attention.
“Miss Holcombe,” Aspen greeted, his voice too flat. Jac had to remember to curtsy this time. Aspen bowed in return.
“Are you faring quite well, sir?” she asked, and Daniel began to back up, escaping the conversation.
“I am, thank you,” Aspen answered in return, his tone rather sharp. Jac glanced back at the crowd behind her, wondering if she could disappear back into it. Aspen quite clearly preferred to be left alone with his friend. “Apologies, Miss Holcombe,” Aspen said, calling her attention back to him. He offered her his undamaged arm. “May I have this dance?”
Daniel scowled at him and Jac blinked, realizing that the duke had assumed that she did not yet have a partner. Aspen faltered, drawing his arm back slightly, as if unsure if she would snub him.
“Of course,” Jac murmured, taking his arm and pretending not to have noticed the slight. It was an accurate assumption, she thought, that she lacked a partner. She was a spinster. It was hardly rational of her to hope that others would remain in ignorance of it.
“I believe I was rejected from the spinster table,” Jac commented in an effort to start a real conversation. And more, she admitted to herself, in a pathetic attempt to make him protest and say she was far too young to consider herself so on the shelf.
“A pity,” Aspen commented, not sounding sincere. Jac glanced at him, hoping he was joking, but the man was apparently concentrating on leading her through the crush without being run over. There did not seem to be much to concentrate on; men and women parted before him like he were Moses in the sea. His hand took hers softly and Jac struggled not to press her gloved fingers into that warmth. They both stepped back into their proper lines and the new music started.
“What do you like to do?” Aspen asked when the dance brought them together.
Fence, play chess, I adored our game of billiards, Jac thought immediately and coughed to give herself time.
“I embroider and play pianoforte, Your Grace. I ride horseback but not well,” she answered as honestly as she could. Aspen looked bored by the response but Jac couldn't blame him. She was bored by it too.
“And you?” she asked honestly, before the dance brought them apart.
“I like to fence. I enjoy chess but I am an amateur beside your cousin,” he replied stiffly as he caught her hand on his arm and walked down the line with her.
“You've had the chance to play chess with Jack?” she asked, doing her best to play along. She regretted it immediately. It hadn't felt so much like lying before, when she was only wearing clothing and trying not to talk to anyone.
“Two weeks ago. He came to a tournament I hosted. Do you play?” he answered and Jac had to look away from him to hide her frustration.
“A little,” she replied, feeling utterly boring beside her own male persona.
“Ah,” Aspen replied, bland and distant enough to be vaguely rude, as he had always been; entirely the Duke of Aspen and not at all the humorous man who'd taught her the rules of billiards not a fortnight before.
She was deposited back beside her brother just after. Daniel barely allowed the duke to wander away before he asked.
“That romantic, huh?”
Jac sighed, closing her eyes.
“May we go home?”
Daniel winced.
“Are you at all interested in Lord Candrow?” he asked instead. Jac frowned. She'd forgotten all about the man. “You may want to decide,” Daniel stated quietly. Jac followed his gaze to see the baron making his way through the crowd toward her. He was definitely courting her, then, with or without Daniel’s permission.
The baron was an overweight seventy year old man who stored all of his fat in his belly. His waistcoat stretched over his chest and threatened to pull itself from his breeches, making a kind of expensive linen bag for his stomach. He walked upright, though slowly, as if on painful joints. He smiled at her kindly, his teeth black and yellow with age.
“He is not brutal, even if he is a staunch slavery advocate,” Daniel informed her quietly before stepping away, apparently even his good humor failing him.
“Miss Holcombe,” the baron greeted, sounding genuinely pleased to see her.
“Lord Candrow,” Jac responded, smiling back at him as honestly as she could.
“How are you?” he rasped and she nodded and smiled again, feeling a bit like a doll.
“I am well, thank you. And yourself?”
She had never felt more boring.
~~//~~
Aspen watched as Daniel escorted his sister out of the ball not ten minutes later and couldn't help feeling like he'd somehow managed to offend the woman without bar
ely speaking to her. She was a lithe and pleasant dancer and he'd enjoyed passing the dance with her as much as he'd ever enjoyed the pastime. Which, given, was not much above abject boredom but it wasn't like the woman had embarrassed herself or that he'd insulted her. And yet still Daniel flashed him an indiscernible glance before they'd exited the ball, like he'd done something quite ill-mannered. He was becoming paranoid, he told himself. He only barely knew the woman.
~~//~~
“Where did you get your scars?” Jack asked when Aspen collapsed against the wall to rest.
Aspen jerked his head around as Jack sat down to join him. Daniel had asked him that just as directly, when he’d found him in the hospital. Lord, but he'd been grateful for it. No one else had done such a thing since. It was, unfortunately, beyond impolite.
“I was in France, ten years ago, and I was caught in a mob,” he started and Jack's eyes widened with horror. Aspen held up his hand to stay the man's imagination. “I remember very little beyond waking up, already bandaged. I was beaten severely and, as you can probably guess, set on fire. I only remember screaming, and the smell, but nothing of the pain,” he explained, pushing himself off the wall to stand up. He turned back to see Jack getting up, not meeting his eyes.
“Daniel got me out of the country. I did not think about what the scars resembled until I returned. Not a soul but Daniel would ask me about them, but it was clear that most of society thought I was suffering from the French disease, soon to die,” he admitted, running a hand over his face and feeling the rough scars beneath his fingers.
Jack’s eyes widened, perhaps not accustomed to discussing sexual diseases so openly, or perhaps surprised that Aspen knew of the once rampant rumors, now almost extinguished.
“Not half of my old friends looked at me the same, despite all my work in Parliament, until I survived for too long and the red, swollen skin settled into scars,” he said.
Jack frowned, as if deciding whether or not to believe him, and Aspen decided to abandon all propriety. He had had few enough opportunities at honesty.
“I have not… had the opportunity... to contract a pox,” he stated and Jack’s eyes widened with understanding. Aspen laughed, watching a blush make its way up the man’s face into his hairline and deciding to push it further. “I attempted to change that once, and isn’t that a story for the devil. I attempted to find a 'woman of ill repute,' as you called them,” he said, laughing as Jack only flushed further. “My wounds were still red, then, but I’d long since taken off the bandages, and I went to the appropriate sector of my neighborhood. I’d barely walked through the brothel door before a woman was gripping my arm, telling me not to worry about my affliction, her girls would take the risk for a reasonable price. I was so disturbed by the notion that I turned around, gave half a fortune to a local charity house, and never considered it again. And if you tell anyone that story, I’ll stab you through the liver,” Aspen finished, pointing his blade at the man.
Aspen blinked rapidly. Jack was gaping at him, his blush all the way into his shirt.
“Come, pick up your weapon. We’ll try to combine the footwork with the parries you’ve learned,” he ordered, gesturing to the space in front of him. Jack groaned but pulled himself off of the floor and started toward him. The bladework of introductory fencing was mind-numbingly dull but Jack focused on it well, his attention riveted to the slow movement of the blades while he practiced the parries. Aspen stayed quiet, fairly convinced that Jack wanted to be left in silence for the dull practice. He waited until Jack’s arm was shaking from fatigue and his good form collapsing beneath it, and called a halt.
“Is tomorrow a good night to go to the Smyrna with me?” Aspen asked, holding out his hand for Jack’s blade, happy to change the subject. He crossed the room to the blade rack and slid both weapons into place, trying to remember the best route to the Smyrna. It was on Pall-Mall, so was not far, but the damn twisted streets were hard to remember correctly. His coachman would have to take them, he decided. He turned back to see Jack holding up a hand, suddenly looking concerned.
“This outfit is filthy,” he said, glancing down at his sweat-soaked shirt and breeches as if shocked to see them dirty.
“That is certainly no problem, we won’t meet until tomorrow,” Aspen replied, rather confused. Surely Jack owned more than the one pair of green breeches. Jack blushed again, looking terribly awkward.
“Yes,” Jack said finally, relaxing. “I’d love to.”
Aspen nodded decisively.
“Meet me at my town home tomorrow,” he ordered. Jack’s eyes widened briefly at the invitation and Aspen smiled, hoping to put him at ease.
“Splendid,” Jack croaked out finally.
“Very well. I shall see you tomorrow, then. Good day,” he replied, nodding at the man and starting for the door.
~~//~~
Jac walked confidently through the front door of their town home, beginning to relax into the routine of sneaking out and in. Her dress was straight, her hair was pinned, and Mr. Charington’s clothing was safely squashed in the bottom of her bag. She was fairly certain that only the white powder from the wig belied the story that she’d simply sneaked out of the house for a walk on her own. She had only one obstacle to seeing the Duke of Aspen again the next night. She found Daniel in his office, as always, a pile of papers sliding out of their stack by his right hand. From the looks of it, he was copying the same letter over and over. Jac sat in the chair in front of him and reached forward to begin folding and sealing the letters for him, leaving the bag of dirty clothing beside her.
Dear Lord Blancard,
I was very pleased to discuss with you this last day of January the latest politics on the laws regarding Britain’s continuous legalization and condonement of human enslavement. The points which you laid out were manifestly founded on right reason and conducive to excellent legal judgment. I, therefore, wished to continue the discussion with you, in the great hope that you shall join our cause in leading our country to more noble and righteous pursuits of virtue and economy. I have great hope that you will join me in bringing the following issues to the attention of the House of Lords, as virtue herself is more venerable when countenanced by such an illustrious authority. I therefore lay before you the following points:
Jac skimmed over his moral arguments and continued folding the letter, deciding not to comment on her brother’s fervor. It was not in either of their habits to make friends amongst the ton, though Daniel was at least clearly capable of it. The women adored him, certainly. Jac scoffed, seeing how Daniel ended his letters this time.
It is possible, my lord, that you shall be offended or tired by the application of what is here advanced but I cannot be apprehensive of one man’s resentment when I am pursuing a great moral development of all the world beside. It is with greatest hope that I anticipate your support,
I am, with great respect,
Your most obedient servant.
Daniel Marcus Holcombe
“Obedient servant?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow as she spun his wax tallow above the lit candle on his desk, careful not to let it drip as it melted. She sealed Lord Blancard’s folded letter and reached for the next one. Sir Vincent’s was the same, but for replacing “House of Lords” with “House of Commons” and every “my lord” with a simple “sir”. Daniel smiled at her, looking rather sheepish.
“I thought it might take the edge off,” he replied and Jacoline nodded slowly. He glanced over his latest letter before he dashed it with sand to dry it. “Do you think I have spoken too strongly, this time?” he asked cautiously. Jac sighed.
“Well yes, of course, but no differently than usual,” she replied and Daniel smiled, pushing the letter aside and starting on the next.
Dear Aspen, she saw him write, and thought she’d have no better introduction.
“Speaking of the duke…” she started and Daniel glanced up, already looking wary. He placed his quill in its hold
er and sat back from his letter, crossing his arms. “I need a second outfit. This one is filthy and Aspen – the Duke of Aspen that is -” she corrected quickly and Daniel raised his eyebrows. “His Grace has asked me to join him at a coffeehouse tomorrow. This waistcoat won’t be dry,” she said, lifting the bag of clothing from beside her chair. Daniel rubbed a hand over his eyes, his fingers impressively free of ink.
“You would love a coffeehouse,” he admitted, sounding resigned and Jac let herself relax into her chair. He glanced at her from between his fingers. “Jac, you need to drop this,” he said.
“Not yet,” she replied simply before smoothing her skirts and looking back up at him. “I know I will need to resign myself to my position in life. I understand that. But I’ve heard multiple times that these coffeehouse conversations are what shape our nation and I’ve never even been inside.”
“You did not care so much for politics before,” Daniel pointed out, his tone frustrated. Jac ran a hand over her hair, disliking the stiff feeling of starch in it. “You're getting dependent on this façade. Surely you see that it must end eventually,” Daniel insisted. Jac grabbed for the next letter, wanting something to do with her hands. This could not end yet.
“Of course I'm getting dependent,” she replied as calmly as she could, spinning the wax tallow over the candle again, careful not to let the wax blacken in the heat. “I have found no other manner of making friends.” She did her best to keep her eyes away from Daniel when she moved to seal the letter, but still she caught his gaze and thought it looked pitying.
“You are going to get caught if you continue on this path. The servants are almost certainly aware that something is afoot, assuming they do not yet know the full extent of this idiocy,” Daniel replied seriously. Jac dropped the sealed letter back onto his desk, not wanting to acknowledge him. She knew. She had to stop; she would gain nothing by pushing this charade beyond its limits. And the scandal would be tremendous. She would become a laughingstock through half of Christendom. She'd need to move to India to escape it, if even there she could find a society who had not yet heard of her.
Spinster's Gambit Page 7
