Do none of these men know each other? Jac wondered belatedly, staring around the table as the Duke of Aspen repeated his news and the newcomer’s mouth fell open in shock.
“How will that be received in parliament, do you think?” Mr. Gardener asked and the group clambered to answer him. She wanted to be welcomed here herself, she realized, a familiar want squeezing at her stomach. The place was amazing.
Jac followed Aspen out of the establishment when the crowd thinned, rather desperately needing to pee. Her mind felt worn thin and frayed from too much time learning and thinking.
“I had a splendid evening,” she said as they walked toward her carriage waiting down the street. Aspen glanced at her and she shoved her hands into the pockets of her breeches, thinking she’d made it sound like a courtship.
“I did as well. I do enjoy returning to Smyrna when I have large news,” he replied.
“Is that why you travel?” Jacoline asked and Aspen shook his head, walking around a pile of dog scat left on the walkway.
“Simply a pleasant result of it. Would you like to return home straightaway or would you rather share a brandy?” he invited. Jac wanted to growl in frustration and pushed her hands into her pockets more firmly.
She desperately wanted to join him. What would they talk about, alone in a study together? She wanted to spend the whole evening with the man. But she had rightfully agreed not to enter the duke’s home under false pretenses and Daniel was doubtlessly waiting at home for her, his blood pressure rising with every passing hour. They approached the carriage and Harold sat up from lying across the coach bench.
“I should retire, Your Grace. I will drop you off first of course, however,” she replied, glancing at Harold to relay the order as she climbed into the carriage, forsaking the step. Aspen pulled himself up after her, letting out a hearty grunt.
“I appreciate it,” he said simply and Harold shut the door. They drove in silence down the quiet street. Jac wondered how late it was, not seeing a single lamp lit window in any of the passing homes.
He never answered why he traveled to Norway, Jac realized, blinking.
“So why did you travel to Norway?” Jac pressed finally, for it did sound as if he’d had a reason. Aspen let out a quiet huff, sounding frustrated. Jac leaned forward, more interested now. He glanced over her face, as if determining whether or not he could trust her. Jac sat forward, interested and wondering how to look more trustworthy.
“I paint,” he admitted finally, taking off his gloves to rub his thumb into his palm. Jac blinked, wondering for a moment if he was dissembling, lying about the real reason he travelled. He was a tall broad-shouldered man, hardly the lithe, effeminate figure she pictured as a portraitist. She glanced down at his weakened left hand, seeing how the skin pulled stiffly over his knuckles, reddening under his self-massage.
Let me, she thought, wanting to reach out and take his warm bare hand in hers. That was hardly on, between two gentlemen.
“Why does that mean you need to travel?” she asked instead and Aspen blew air out from between his cheeks.
“You really couldn’t be bothered that I don’t like discussing this, could you?” he replied. Jac smiled ruefully, guessing he wasn’t truly annoyed. He didn’t sport that pinched over-stuffed expression he had when he’d talked about women or when he’d spurned Mrs. Faring.
“I could let it rest,” she offered finally.
I’m hiding enough from you to embarrass all of England, she thought guiltily.
“It’s no matter,” the duke replied, shaking his head and letting his bangs scatter over his forehead. He pulled a hand over his dark hair, swiping the bangs away from his face, and resumed massaging his hand. “I paint scenes of important historical events that were not captured at the time. But first I research all I can, gathering first-hand descriptions and accounts, and then I go to their actual site,” he replied uncomfortably. “I do a few sketches of the place from different angles and take a few notes, and come home to paint it. In this case, the flight of Saint Olaf from Norway.”
Jac blinked, thinking she’d heard of such art pieces.
“But isn’t that copying Richard Wilson?” she protested and Aspen beamed. Jac sat back, startled. She didn’t think she’d seen Aspen grin so widely. It lightened up his whole face, pulling the wrinkles up around his eyes and showing off his white teeth. His scars jerked at his smile, keeping it lopsided and almost painful-looking. But his eyes still shone with pleasure and the scars were nothing.
“Oh, drat it all, you are Richard Wilson, aren’t you?” she said, feeling like a fool. Aspen only smiled more and she shook her head. “Yes, of course, Richard is your Christian name, isn’t it?”
“It is. My full name is Richard Benedict Caraway but for God’s sake, don’t call me Richard. Even my mother has called me Aspen since I was a boy and I’d make a cake of myself, forgetting to respond,” he said, his smile gentling before it faded altogether. He swallowed, looking nervous suddenly and did not speak.
“Your work is magnificent,” she said honestly, hoping she did not sound too exuberant. “It's like getting a moment of history handed to you in full color,” she said, smiling at the memory of The Séance Royal of Louis XVI hanging in their sitting room. Perhaps now she knew how Daniel had acquired the coveted piece without parting with half their fortunes.
“And you went to France? Were we not already at war?” she asked, flabbergasted. Aspen smiled stiffly, looking pained.
“It was a remarkably badly timed trip. I left after Napoleon’s Treaty of Amiens, when it seemed like the country had finally stabilized. I had no idea we’d be again at war with the man not a year later, though in hindsight I should have suspected,” he replied, shrugging as if he had not been a Londoner in the middle of Paris at war.
“Are you mad?” she asked and Aspen smiled again.
“I believe so, yes,” he replied, looking at ease again. He released his tortured hand and let his palms settle on his knees. His left fingers were almost grazing her leg, Jac thought, wanting to lean towards him. She stilled suddenly, remembering something he’d told her the week before.
“So then that’s why you were caught by the mob, that’s why you were in France nine years ago,” she replied. She’d still been in Abingdon, stranded without anyone to introduce her to society, until years later, when Daniel had come home. She’d missed the horror and flurry of scandal when the Duke of Aspen had returned to society with his scars and had only heard of it afterward. Aspen grimaced, apparently caught in the memories.
“Yes and Daniel traveled for two straight days to get me out. I gave him the painting, after I recovered,” he confirmed.
“So Richard Wilson is going to paint The Flight of Saint Olaf?” she asked, doing her best to pull her mind out of the gruesome story and sound excited at the prospect of a new art piece. Aspen nodded, his face clearing and brightening with pride.
“I’ll attempt it,” he said, smiling.
“Why do you use a pseudonym?” she asked and Aspen leaned back on his seat, relaxing again.
“When I started I liked to tell myself that I was competing on even ground with my fellow men, my rank and status hidden and only my art’s image working to promote itself. I have since realized that’s a lie and a foolish one, but now I’m grateful for the pseudonym for it affords me greater privacy,” he replied. Jac furrowed her eyebrows curiously.
“Why do you think it’s a lie that you were competing on equal terms? Without your name you had nothing but your art to recommend you,” she asked, hating the feeling of the carriage slowing and finally jerking to a stop. She was interested by this conversation, she’d been interested by everything this man had said all evening and that had not happened in a tediously long time. Harold pulled open the door, sending the chill air rushing into the warmer carriage, but Aspen did not immediately pull himself from his seat.
“Every man, other than one incomparably miserable
sod, has advantages over other people in the world. I cannot and should not deny mine. I have the time and money to travel and paint rather than have my energy consumed by my own survival; no pseudonym could ever change that and I was lying to myself thinking any differently,” he answered fervently. Jac blinked, processing the words, and nodded. Aspen started to pull himself out of his seat and paused, glancing at Harold and back at her, looking a bit sheepish again. Jac glanced over his scarred face, wondering where he’d gotten the strength to profess only his advantages in the world.
“I trust your coachman can keep your secrets?” he asked, taking up most of the carriage, half standing in the small space. Jac raised her eyebrows in surprise at the change of subject, before she remembered that he’d just mentioned his painting.
“That and more,” she promised and Harold stood a bit straighter, looking proud.
“Excellent. I would get no critics if every man knew Mr. Richard Wilson was better known as ‘his grace’,” Aspen replied and pulled himself the rest of the way out of the coach and onto the street. He shook Harold’s hand and Jac thought she saw a full guinea change hands. “Good night,” he said to her, holding up a hand in farewell and Harold started to close the coach door.
“Wait!” Jac called out belatedly, pushing against the closing door to keep it open. Aspen hesitated, already turning to walk into his home, and faced her again. “I’d almost forgotten to tell you,” she said, her voice weak in her ears. “I leave for the Americas next week. I am considering a move to Boston and I shall travel there to explore the area,” she said, wanting to cry in the face of yet another lie. She kept her eyes locked on Aspen’s face instead. Aspen frowned, looking perturbed.
“So suddenly? Surely that is a six month trip, at the least,” he replied, blinking rapidly. Jac rubbed a hand down her breeches and lifted it rapidly, realizing she was trying to straighten her skirts.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead, deciding not to lie again or make it any more complicated. Jac dug around her memory, trying to think of anything to do with the man.
“Next week, on Friday, before I go, is Beethoven’s Seventh symphony not premiering at the Royal Theater?”
Aspen’s face cleared in recognition and he smiled easily.
“I have a seasonal box. There is going to be a crush, I’m sure,” he said and Jac bit her lip, feeling like she’d just invited herself. “Would you like to join me?” he asked and Jac felt her heartbeat pick up in excitement. Beethoven’s Seventh with the duke? It’d be a dream come true.
“I’d be thrilled,” she replied.
“Well then, in a valiant second attempt, goodnight,” Aspen replied, his voice light, and Jac did her best to smile until the coach door snapped shut, hiding her in the dim box. One more time, Jac told herself, trying to keep herself steady. The carriage started forward and she leaned over to pull her gown and undergarments from beneath the seat in front of her.
~~//~~
Jac could barely keep herself still for more than five minutes at a time the whole rest of the week. She spent her days wandering from activity to activity, unable to concentrate on her embroidery, piano, or chess. She practiced fencing footwork in her bedroom until her knees wavered, but still she found herself spending every night awake, stretched across her bed to balance her book under the oil lamp on her side table, unable to sleep.
By the time Friday finally dawned she was sure Daniel was beginning to consider throwing her out of the house himself. She spent the day in his study, struggling to finish rereading her copy of The Merchant of Venice, unsure how early Daniel was going to drive her to the theater if only to be rid of her fretting. She’d guessed it’d be hours earlier than necessary, so she was not overly surprised when Daniel burst into the room shortly after the sun began to set.
“You must not go tonight,” he panted, leaning into his office with one hand on the doorframe. Jac glanced over his rumpled clothing, wondering where he’d been and why his eyes were so wide. “Mrs. John Clarence is in our drawing room,” he announced as if he were pronouncing their doom. Jac lowered her book to her lap. Mr. Clarence’s widow held the great distinction of being able to insert herself into any household’s routine, wanted or otherwise, at the smallest hint of scandal. Jac groaned, wondering just how badly rumpled she’d been from changing in their coach the day they’d arrived so late to the widow’s soiree. Daniel was right; it was beyond time for this to end if Mrs. John Clarence was starting to get wind of it. The woman would do anything for a story. Jac had heard a rumor that Lady Eleanor had seen the woman in a tree, peering into her home, before the Duke of Mariton’s proposal.
“Tell her I am ill and unable to receive her,” Jac ordered, standing. She had to go to the theater tonight, the risks be damned. She needed this last night to say goodbye.
“Are you mad?” Daniel asked, his eyes wide as he gestured behind him at the hallway beyond, and presumably the ton gossip sitting in their drawing room.
“This is the last night before Jack Holcombe leaves for the United States,” she replied. Daniel’s face fell heavily. He turned to thump his forehead into the hard doorframe, apparently cursing her timing.
“I’ll send her on her way,” Daniel promised, before pointing at her. “One last night,” he ordered and Jac nodded, relieved. “And I’m telling her you have your courses, just in case she has a notion to start a pregnancy scandal simply for the attention,” he said, turning to leave.
“You wouldn’t be able to say that to a lady without hiding your face in your knees,” Jac replied and Daniel turned back.
“Then I shall attempt to be subtle and fail miserably,” he replied, throwing up his hands as he left. Jac groaned and hid her own face in her skirts, amused by his idiocy despite herself. She stayed seated, trying not to let her chair creak at all, and listened for the front door shutting behind their unwelcome guest. Finally she crept out of the office, heading for the upstairs to get changed.
“Come on, Jac!” Daniel hissed, not twenty minutes later, gesturing her down the stairs in front of him. Jac did her best to hurry. At this rate she was risking being tardy. The sun was setting quickly and the house was growing dim. She was starting to get accustomed to a gentleman's breeches and stockings. They were tight about her legs but they did make it easier to rush down a staircase without tripping.
A sudden creak warned them before they saw a hidden servants’ door push open, not six feet from them at the base of the servants’ stair. It blocked the stairs quite effectively. Daniel flashed her a worried glance, his eyes darting about the stairway though there was truly nowhere to go. Jac backed up a step, hoping to retreat back to the upstairs hallway. They were barely ten feet from Daniel’s bedchambers; surely they could hide in time.
“Oi, an' this dratted door needs oilin',” a maid was saying, calling over her shoulder in the way no well-trained servant should do coming into the family's section of the house. The servant pushed the door closed and started up the stairs toward them. She only got up a step before she spotted them. Jac wanted to close her eyes in humiliation but she needed to know how this servant was going to react.
The maid glanced at Daniel, then at her again, then up the stairs behind them, before coloring hugely. The servant's blush went fully into her hair and she looked down at her feet, her eyes wide.
“Beggin' your pardon, sirs,” she said, turning toward the wall to ignore them as she should have done immediately.
Sirs? She doesn't recognize me, Jac realized, breathing a sigh of relief. She started forward, putting a foot down on the next step before she hesitated, wondering why the girl had colored so badly looking up at them and the bedrooms beyond, if she’d thought them two men.
She thinks – Jac glanced back at Daniel to see the man staring at the ceiling, a blush working all the way into his shirt.
Oh my Lord.
Daniel continued down the stairs, not saying a word, and sneaked her out into the street to wait
for the carriage, same as always. For once Jac had absolutely no idea how Daniel was going to respond. He stopped the carriage for her and Jac climbed inside, watching his expression carefully. Somehow, he was still blushing.
“My God, this will not take long to get out,” he stated finally when the doors closed, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back on the cushion. Jac had to suppress a laugh, reminding herself that really, it wasn't funny.
“On the bright side, maybe the hordes of mothers will stop throwing their girls at you,” she stated quietly. Daniel coughed out a laugh.
“Of course, they will all know I'm too busy sneaking men into my bedchamber,” he replied, covering his red face with a hand. “How did this happen? I help you fall in love with a man while dressed as one and everyone thinks I'm the poof?”
“I'm not falling -” Jac started before deciding it was irrelevant.
“Ugly men, too,” he added, looking between his fingers to glance over her outfit. Jac couldn't help it; she giggled.
“Honestly, Daniel, if you were going to start a scandal, the least you could have done is pick an attractive partner,” she scolded. Daniel groaned and closed his fingers again to cover his eyes. “A soldier perhaps? I hear no end of tittering about a man in uniform,” she added, grinning.
“Do tell me I'm not having this conversation with you,” Daniel moaned again and Jac chuckled. He pulled his hands away from his face to glare at her, but his mouth twitched.
“A sailor, maybe? You could even marry up, with the fortune to be made at sea,” she stated and Daniel barked out a laugh.
“I do love the hat,” he replied, pulling a hand up over his hair to mimic the crest. Jac laughed again and Daniel joined her, covering his face with his hands as his chuckle slowly grew into something a bit more hysterical.
“Oh my Lord,” he sighed, resting his hands on his knees when he calmed. He sobered slowly and sighed and turned to stare out the window, beginning to look genuinely concerned.
Spinster's Gambit Page 9
