“I accepted our invitation to the Aspen house party next month. Tell Aspen that you will be leaving beforehand,” Daniel ordered. “To Russia, for instance. Not even a madman would follow Mr. Jack Holcombe there. The place seems to be rather remarkably bad for one’s health,” he stated. Jac ignored his joke.
“So soon?” Jac asked, wincing. This could not be her last night. Daniel met her gaze calmly, for once utterly sincere.
No. It couldn't be. Aspen was going to teach her billiards and fencing; he'd invited her to the London Chess Association. She couldn't want anything more. The very idea of shutting down the farce and returning Mr. Charington's clothing made her want to hide. She'd never see men as they were amongst themselves again. She’d only see them bow and titter and act either like ninnies or unapproachable pillars of stoicism. She wished she had not come to Daniel for more clothing; perhaps he’d have forgotten about the charade going on under his nose while he plowed forward with his politics.
“Give me more time,” Jac implored, smoothing her skirts again, though they had not wrinkled badly in the carriage seat box.
“There are too many questions rising up about who you are and why I have not introduced you,” Daniel argued, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. “Do you know how many people I lied to at Blancard’s political soiree?”
“And there will only be more questions if I disappear without fulfilling the obligations I agreed to when I have not even mentioned my impending departure,” Jac argued. Daniel sighed, seeming to wilt, and rubbed at his face again.
“One week,” Daniel said, his voice hard. “It must be over. Do consider it, Jac. You're doomed to get hurt. The both of you. Aspen doesn't make friends easily,” Daniel replied, standing up. Jac felt herself blink and hated herself for never considering it before. Aspen would be humiliated by her lie if she were discovered.
“I'll be at Mr. Henry Charington’s. Apparently I am going to deliver his letter in person before I steal his breeches,” Daniel announced, standing up. Jac closed her eyes, relief pouring through her.
“Thank you,” she said as Daniel walked past her. She blinked in surprise, seeing him leave the room, a letter not in hand. Apparently he was simply going to berate the man with his politics in person, she thought, leaning forward to take up the next letter. She’d finish this project for him, at least.
~~//~~
“More hair ribbons, ma’am?” Sarah asked, her eyes darting to the excessive pile of them she’d purchased the week before. Jac smiled, doing her best to look casual.
Oh, I am daft. She could have thought of anything else for the woman to buy.
“I was thinking of making something with them,” she said, trying to sift through her slow thoughts. “A basket liner perhaps or… or a bonnet,” she finished lamely and Sarah’s eyebrows rose. She didn’t look impressed.
“If I might be so bold, m’lady, do please take care,” she said finally, rubbing her thumb into her hand and glancing toward the bedskirts. Where a strange man’s clothes were hidden, Jac thought, feeling the blood drain from her face.
“It’s not what you think,” she started but it was improper to discuss such things. She’d trust Sarah with almost anything, Jac reminded herself, glancing back at the bedskirts. Jac met the woman’s eyes, feeling vaguely ill.
Sarah was a portly blonde woman with sharp eyes and a strange tendency to lick her lips when she was annoyed. She'd been a kitchen maid until the night she'd caught Jac crying in the gardener's shed, panicked that she was bleeding from between her legs. She'd gotten Jac cleaned up and calmed down within a quarter hour, in time to leave for the theater without Daniel ever knowing the difference. When it came time to hire a ladies' maid Jac had chosen instead to elevate Sarah three stations. She'd never mentioned that even at thirteen she'd known there was no respectable reason for a kitchen maid to be in the gardener's shed after dark.
“I’ll get more ribbons, Mi’lady,” Sarah replied, curtsying and starting out of the room. Jac sighed in relief, sitting down on her bed and running her hand over her tightly bound hair. Sarah had not asked what colors to buy, she realized belatedly, glancing at the open doorway. She suspected Sarah was going to spend the next few hours far from her bedchamber and yet buy nothing at all.
Thank the lord for trusted servants, Jac prayed quickly, rushing toward the clothing hidden under her bed, wondering what madness she was inviting into her life with this harebrained scheme and loving the way it set her heart thumping in her chest.
~~//~~
“So, which coffeehouse?” Daniel whispered while he tiptoed with her out of the servants’ stairway, leading the way into the darkened parlor, toward the front door.
“I am to meet him at his home,” Jac admitted as casually as she could, hoping Daniel would miss the answer. He didn’t. He stopped suddenly and turned, lit by the windows’ faint light, and scowled at her.
“At his home? Alone? At night?” he repeated, crossing his arms. Jac drew herself up straight. She was not a debutante sneaking into her beloved’s bedchamber. Daniel sighed and started to tug at the fingers of his gloves, beginning to draw them off, apparently giving up on the scheme.
“Need I tell you how unfair that is? If you’re discovered you’ll have trapped Aspen into a hasty marriage against his will. I cannot let you do that to him,” he ordered, shaking his head as he pulled off his gloves.
“And I wouldn’t accept it!” Jac exclaimed, before her resolution wavered. Would she really be able to reject him? The life, the marriage, the children? He was a good man. She could have children. Jac clamped down hard on her runaway thoughts. Marriage to an unwilling man? To injure Aspen in that way? Jac met Daniel’s eyes.
“If I am caught there, I would reject his suit,” she promised. Daniel smiled grimly and nodded, starting forward again, though he only shoved his gloves into his pocket, apparently still not planning to go out. Jac felt her spirits fall and wanted to snarl. Daniel sighed, sounding frustrated.
“Well, that’s a noble sentiment, but unfortunately irrelevant, as clearly you will knock and return to your carriage, implying that he should walk out and join you,” Daniel stated, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. Jac felt her heart rise at the words. She’d be meeting Aspen that night.
“That would be rude,” Jac argued, whispering. Daniel opened the door for her and gestured her out. Jac obeyed, checking to make sure Daniel’s pocket watch and snuffbox were in place, glad at least that she was going. Daniel closed the front door behind her and Jac started alone toward the neighbor’s stoop. She saw Daniel and Harold sneak out of the house not minutes later, heading toward the mews. She stood by the neighbor’s wall to wait, cursing the February cold. A phaeton started down the street and Jac started walking again, hoping to blend into the normal city street as it passed. The next coach was clearly Daniel’s and she started toward it, doing her best to look as if she’d just walked out of the building behind her.
She’d barely waited for Harold to jump down from the coachman’s seat before she started talking.
“Harold, do you know the way to Smyrna’s coffeehouse?” she asked, trying to keep her voice low. She was confident he wouldn’t know the direction of the place and Daniel would be forced to accept her travelling in Aspen’s carriage, though she did not know why she cared so much. To her disappointment, the coachman nodded immediately and set down the step.
“Certainly, sir,” he answered easily.
Drat it, Jac thought, hauling herself up into the carriage. Daniel wasn’t inside, she realized belatedly, hesitating before she sat down. Of course not, she remembered. He’d have to be absent if Jack Holcombe and the Duke of Aspen would be taking the coach to Smyrna together.
Drat it more, Jac cursed. Daniel was trusting her.
“To Smyrna’s, then, sir?” Harold asked, his blank face not revealing any curiosity about picking ‘him’ up so very secretly.
“No, to the Duke of Aspen’s
, please, and only knock on the door to let the butler know I am waiting,” she ordered and Harold closed the carriage door behind her.
She could barely stand the rudeness when she felt the carriage stop and tilt to the side as Harold jumped off to knock. She tugged at her cuffs uncomfortably, unsure what she would say about the odd behavior. The coach door opened finally and the Duke of Aspen appeared beside her, looking rather askance.
“It’s dreadfully cold,” Jac said, hoping that explained why she’d waited in the carriage. Aspen blinked, his scars tightening as he frowned.
“You were certainly welcome inside,” he said, before stepping up on the coach step, still looking vaguely baffled. It was a pitiful excuse, Jac acknowledged.
“To Smyrna, Your Grace, sir?” Harold asked and Jac nodded, pulling her legs out of the way as Aspen clambered into the carriage and sat down opposite her. It wasn’t until Aspen had settled that she realized what she’d done. She was supposed to be a man, she berated herself, and yet she’d forced the Duke of Aspen to sit facing backwards. Sitting forward was a woman’s right and she’d never done anything different, but amongst men it was polite to give a guest the favored spot. Daniel had grumbled about the idiotic political maneuvering of coach seating many times before.
“Oh! Do forgive me, please, take my seat,” Jac insisted, shifting over and moving to swap places with him.
“Stay, stay,” the duke replied, snorting and waving a hand at her lazily. Jac was certain he was going to accept the odd arrangement until he pushed himself out of his seat and settled in beside her.
Jac opened her mouth to protest, but did not know what to say. The coach was designed for two people to sit alongside each other. It was not so unusual for two passengers to decide to face forward. What protest could she make? Yet the duke’s thigh was pressed up against her own. Aspen stretched his legs out under the opposite seat, settling in again. Jac shifted slightly, not sure if she wanted the duke’s leg to press against hers less or more. He was warm, she realized belatedly, only to blush like a child still in schooling.
“Thank you. I get coach sick facing opposite,” he admitted. Jac stared at him. She did not know of any man who was afflicted by such a thing. Then, of course, it would be rude for a man to mention it to her. The carriage jerked forward.
“You wanted to learn about the Queen’s Gambit?” she started and Aspen turned.
“The chess opening, yes. What the actual Queen is doing I’d prefer not to know,” he answered. Jac chuckled. The last she’d heard, the king was deaf, blind, and lost to insanity in Windsor Castle.
“Indeed. Unlike in politics, your chess openings we have a prayer at fixing,” she replied, hoping dearly that he would laugh with her, and not stare, wide eyed at her rudeness. She’d heard men exchange much worse insults before.
“Ha!” Aspen barked out good-naturedly and Jac smiled, relaxing into her seat. “Though I’d argue that a queen’s antics are hardly politics, in that we have no rights for changing them,” he answered.
“That is not entirely true. Parliament compelled the Prince of Wales to marry Princess Caroline in return for paying off his debts, if you recall,” Jac replied. Aspen tilted his head in acknowledgement of the point.
“And we can both rejoice in how well that worked out,” he replied.
“Do you have any latest news as to her antics?” Jac asked, letting the chess conversation fall away for a different time, and Aspen leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with delight at the political gossip.
The coffee house, as it turned out, was a white building with a bright green sign. Jac climbed out into the cold night, her curiosity growing as she saw Aspen smile and pull open the heavy wooden door.
“You shall enjoy this, I think,” he said, striding inside without pausing for her. Jac had to pull herself back to keep from running into the man, expecting him to let her proceed before him.
There is so much we do automatically, she thought as she followed Aspen into the building. She was not prepared for the noise inside. Gentleman gathered around the long tables, excited and loud as she’d never seen them. They sounded like sailors bent over a game of dice, for all they shouted and spoke over each other. Only the academic subjects at hand and the words ‘Lord’ and ‘sir’ tacked on the end of their sentences differentiated them from such gambling mobs.
It was a well-lit establishment. Oil lamps over the two great windows brightened one side of the room and candle chandeliers hung down the length of the bar, leaving thick wax drippings over the wood. Inside the air was thick with tobacco, lamp oil, and something acrid. Jac took off her hat and coat, wondering what on earth had made Daniel and Aspen both suspect she would enjoy herself here.
“Aspen!” Multiple men called out, lifting their small porcelain cups the way Jac would expect ruffians to do with mugs of ale. Aspen grinned, his shoulders relaxing, his stride becoming sure and steady as he led her forward.
“What is new in Sweden?” a young man with large spectacles demanded, gripping the duke’s sleeve to halt his stride like a beggar child.
“Surely something has changed there, but I would not know it,” Aspen replied, grinning easily. The man released him, looking befuddled. “For I was in Norway,” Aspen explained and the man’s face cleared.
“What news of Norway, then. What difference is there?” a man down the table shouted and the whole room roared and lifted their cups, but one thin, bearded man who stood up from his chair.
“See, now!” he started, but his companions pulled him back to his seat.
“What news, then?” a black man asked, his voice deep and steady. Jac stared at the man, taking him in. He was wearing a fine coat and breeches and a delicate pair of spectacles hung from a silver chain around his neck. His calm question seemed to settle the room, most of whom quieted to hear the answer. Aspen turned back to her and gestured to the open seats at the closest table before he glanced back at the curious man.
“Mr. Hastings, buy my friend Jack Holcombe and me a coffee, and for your two pennies, I will answer,” he replied, clasping the black gentleman’s hand in greeting.
“Two cups!” the man called toward the back of the room, nodding when he saw a bartender already making his way through the crowd, the cups in hand. A serving girl carrying a blue pitcher followed behind him. Jac glanced back to see the whole table standing and looking at her, as if only having just noticed her behind the duke. They bowed to her in turn, listing their names. Jac bowed in return, feeling remarkably overwhelmed.
“Why were you in Norway?” Jac asked but the question was lost in the noise.
“Mr. Holcombe, good to see you again,” Lord Monson said, bowing shallowly and Jac blinked, only then recognizing the gentleman beside her. She bowed formally, pleased to see at least one familiar face, even if he had been a bit sour at Blancard’s political soiree.
“Quit your loitering, our conversation has long since gone stale. Tell us something we’ve yet to discuss, Your Grace,” a man down the table pleaded. A ‘Mr. Williams’ if Jac remembered correctly. The ‘Your Grace’ seemed tacked on, a gesture at formality that neither the man nor Aspen apparently cared about in this strange setting.
Aspen sat down at the head of the table, facing his audience and the barkeep supplied them both with cups of dark, steaming coffee. Aspen started recounting news of the remarkable speed of his ship and Jac sipped at her cup of the nasty liquid. She’d never been a fan of its taste, which ranged from something animal-like to something bitter and vaguely earthy. Still, that had never been the draw of the coffee-house. Not for anyone, as far as she understood it.
“Regardless, before I departed for London, I heard some striking news, which I have not heard a whisper of here. Norway proclaimed independence,” Aspen stated, sitting back as if he’d just released his dice and was waiting to see how they fell. From the way the table silenced and ogled at him, Jac knew she was not alone in being utterly uninformed. So this was ho
w men always seemed better appraised of the latest happenings, she thought, oddly annoyed by the idea.
“My word, will the entire continent be crumbled into the independence-ridden equivalent of a child’s jigsaw puzzle?” Mr. Hastings asked, raising his cup for a refill. Jac snorted despite herself and was delighted to find the rest of the table laughing with her and not staring.
“Can Norway stand on its own economy?” the thin spectacled man asked, sounding skeptical.
“If one has to ask…” another man drawled and Aspen chuckled, taking a strong gulp of his coffee as he watched the response to his news unfurl. He looked extremely pleased, even a bit smug, Jac thought, smiling at him. This was not only a man’s realm, Jac thought, inspecting the room again. This was his realm.
“Does its Latin not break down to ‘way north’? We even labelled it as a passageway to better places,” Mr. Williams replied, lifting his own cup as well.
“Does that mean you consider the Arctic Circle to be a ‘better place’?” Jac asked, leaning forward to join the conversation.
“Ha!” Lord Monson laughed and pounded on the table. Aspen seemed to choke on his coffee and turned his head away to wipe it off his chin.
“More coffee for His Grace, I’d think,” Mr. Hastings commented wryly. Aspen lifted two fingers in a rude gesture and it was Jac’s turn to almost choke on her coffee. A new man walked in, a short, stocky gentleman with thinning brown hair and a decorative cane.
“Have you heard the news of Norway?” Lord Monson called out before the man had taken off his hat.
“I haven’t,” the man replied, leaving his hat and coat on their respective racks and striding forward. The whole table stood up and bowed and Jac followed suit, only just remembering not to curtsy. “Mr. Simon Gardener, at your service,” the man introduced and Aspen led them in introducing themselves in turn. Jac stumbled over her false name but it went unnoticed as Mr. Gardener sat down at the end of the table, opposite the Duke of Aspen, and called for a cup of coffee.
Spinster's Gambit Page 8
