Chapter 10
Weasel had made himself scarce. After searching the house for the lying worm, James gave up and went to prepare for the party. He would not fight with Hythe if he could help it. He never again wanted to be the cause of that pinched crease above his lady’s nose. He could trust Felicity to set Sophia straight about that peck on the cheek, but could he trust Sophia to believe her sister?
The conundrum of why Sophia found it so hard to accept that he was courting her bothered James as he and Adam Halevy negotiated with the footman deputed to valet them. The footman had initially been determined to turn his charges into European gentlemen wearing costume, but when James explained his plans to make his defiant transformation into his old self, all but for the short warrior’s beard he did not have time to grow, the servant became enthusiastic.
And he was delighted with the results. “You do look that fine, my lord.”
A scarf striped in red and yellow showed at the neck. Over his white silk shirt, he wore the quilted cotton banyan he had found in the duchess’s supply of costumes. It made a fine coat once he’d unpicked the side seams to the waist, removed the sleeves, and turned the collar to the inside. It was bright scarlet, and he’d found a band of gold, red, and blue trim a hand-span wide that the servant sewed down both sides of the front opening and around the neck. More of the same trim formed a sash around his waist to hold the coat closed.
For the trousers, he’d found a woman’s divided skirt in a navy so dark as to be almost black, trimmed at the hem with three pleats accented with thin gold braid. Taking some of the width out of both sides gave him wide trousers that fit him to mid-calf over his riding boots.
He regretted the beard. The bare head was wrong, too. He should be wearing a massive sheepskin hat, traditional wear for the tribesmen amongst whom he had grown to manhood. Still, he nodded at his reflection in the mirror. “It will do,” he said.
“Monsieur le vicomte looks very fine indeed,” Adam agreed.
“Now for you,” James told him.
They had contrived an undergarment from a long length of purple cloth with a broad figured border in purple, white and gold. Adam had protested that he could fit into it three times and it would trail behind him on the floor, but James pleated and tucked one sleeve, the servant copying him on the other arm, until the fabric border just reached the wrist, and then fastened each shoulder with a bold brooch: gold at least in color, and studded with stones that had been cut to catch the light—paste, Adam said, but satisfactorily large and sparkling. They fastened each end of a heavy chain to the brooches so it draped across the chest.
Next came the pleating at the waist, front and back, to kilt the garment up above Adam’s shoes and form the horizontal draping James remembered from ancient wall friezes and pottery. A broad belt was cinched tightly to hold this pleating in place.
“I look ridiculous,” Adam grumbled.
“Patience, man,” James counseled, taking up the white damask curtain with the heavy gold fringe that his servant accomplice had abducted from some unknown room. This he draped under one arm and fastened at the top of the other.
The wig and beard were next. The servant had taken two curled Jacobean wigs, cut a square ended beard from one and fastened it to the other, so that, as Adam pulled the contraption on over his head and settled the beard under his nose, the elegant Frenchman disappeared and was replaced by a haughty ancient Persian.
“Let us see the hat, then.” Adam sighed, but his eyes sparkled.
The servant had painted an Elizabethan ruff with gold paint and wrapped it around an old top hat, first removing the brim. The result was a tall gold pleated cylinder, broader at the top than the bottom. A wrap of braid finished the base. Adam was silent as he examined his reflection.
“Very fine,” the servant said wistfully.
“Here is your staff, oh Shah.” James handed Adam a long carved walking stick they had found, also painted gold by their willing servant. “See? Ahasuerus to the life.”
“English kings.” Adam’s mouth twisted in a smile. “I do not think so.”
“I reckon gold tassels on the boots would be right proper, my lord,” the footman ventured.
He was right, too. Gold tassels that swung as James walked, catching and then losing the light. Not that gold tassels were going to make up the ground he’d lost with Sophia, but still…
“See what you can find,” he told the servant. “Adam, go on ahead and find your lady. I’ll be down in a minute.”
So it was that when he left his chamber, three gold tassels dangled from the front of each boot and proved a tempting target. A white kitten darted out from under an occasional table when James stopped to close the door behind him and took a flying leap at the tassels, as James discovered when he felt the sudden weight.
He took a careful step, expecting the small passenger to drop away, but it buried its claws and its teeth into its golden prey and glared up at him.
“Foolish creature,” he told it, going down onto the knee of the other leg so he could remove it, carefully lifting each paw to detach the tangled claws. “These gaudy baubles are to attract my lady, not a fierce little furry warrior.” He lifted the kitten in one hand and held it up to continue his lecture face to face. “Now where do you belong, hmmnhmmn? Have you wandered off from your mama? Do you belong to this house, I wonder, or did you come with a guest?”
The kitten squeaked a tiny meow.
“No, little one. I will not put you down to chew my tassels, or to trip one of the great ladies or to be trodden on by one of the gentlemen. You are a pretty little fellow, are you not?” He tucked the cat against his chest and rubbed behind its ears, prompting a loud rusty purr incongruously large for the small frame of the kitten.
Although focused on the kitten, he was aware of footsteps approaching. It was Hythe, who looked uncomfortable in a tight-fitting jerkin over short ballooning breeches that allowed several inches of clocked stocking to show between the hem of the breeches and the thigh-length fitted boots. The short robe, flat cap, and heavy flat chain gave a further clue, and Hythe had tried for authenticity by stuffing padding under the jerkin—a pillow, perhaps?
“Henry the Eighth?” James ventured, half-expecting Hythe to walk past without speaking or make another intemperate verbal attack.
Instead, the younger man nodded. “My sister Felicity picked it. Er… I wanted to speak with you… I owe you an apology, Winder… Er… Elfingham. My sister Felicity told me that… Well, the fact is I made an accusation without checking my facts.” Hythe nodded again, clearly feeling that he had said what he needed to say.
“Very handsome of you, Hythe,” James said.
Hythe ran a finger around inside his collar, flushing slightly. “Yes, well. The thing is… You will tell Sophia that I apologized, will you not?”
Ah. Clearly Sophia had expressed her discontent.
“Sisters can be a trial, can they not?” James said, and Hythe warmed to the sympathy.
“Just because she is older, she thinks she can…” He visibly remembered his audience. “Sophia is of age and will make her own decisions, but I think it only fair to tell you that I have advised her to wait until after the hearing at the Privileges Committee before she makes any decision.”
James inclined his head. “I understand your position.” Which would not prevent him from doing his best to persuade Sophia to ignore the advice.
Time to change the subject. He held up the little kitten. “Do you happen to know where this little chap belongs?”
Hythe flushed still deeper. “So that’s where he got to. He… ah… appears to be mine. In a way. The housekeeper’s cat had kittens, and this one seems to have adopted me. Little nuisance.”
But Hythe’s hands were gentle as he took the kitten from James, and he tucked it under his chin, his other hand coming up to fondle the furry head.
“I’ll just put him back in my room so he doesn’t get in anyone’s way. Foolish boy, Snowball. Do you wish to be lost? Was the fish not to your taste?”
Hythe retreated back down the hall. James could not hear individual words, but from the sound of his voice, he was continuing his loving scold. And James had managed to have what almost amounted to a conversation with his intended brother-in-law. He would count that as a win.
The overwhelming majority of the guests were English kings and queens. The parlor was full of them, of Romans in togas, several Greek gods and goddesses, a fool in motley, and a Persian king who was hidden unrecognizably behind a crimped black beard. Nebuchadnezzar? Darius?
A Greek goddess flitted across the room, and a Roman gladiator went to follow her then subsided when a Greek god glared at him. Lord de Courtenay keeping an eye on his and Grace’s silly little sister.
“We need this room just for people to promenade and be seen,” said a voice from behind her.
Sophia’s Elizabethan ruff was a nuisance, so high that she had to turn her entire body to see Cedrica, who was standing just behind her shoulder, looking surprisingly charming in a shepherdess costume.
“So I have arranged for dancing in the music room and have had supper laid out in the large dining room,” Cedrica was saying. Her usual diffidence intruded. “Was that sensible?”
Sophia hastened to reassure her, but half her attention was on the man, magnificently clad in red and gold, who had just entered the room. “Yes, very sensible.”
Sophia frowned at Felicity, who was ostentatiously ignoring her from the other side of the room. They had had words, especially when Sophia realized that Felicity had deliberately sought Lord Elfingham out, accosted him in the garden, rejected him for herself, and sent him to Sophia. Sophia was not taking her sister’s leavings, and so she told her. Felicity, of course, claimed that Elfingham wanted Sophia all along, but Sophia did not believe that for a moment.
Oh, dear. He was coming this way. He stopped to speak to the Persian king, and Sophia took the opportunity to hurry away, putting as many people as possible between herself and her suitor.
He could not possibly be serious, and besides, she had her life all planned. She would never marry. She would be content with her studies and her work for the disadvantaged. She would be an aunt to Felicity’s children and one day to Hythe’s. If Hythe married someone she did not care for, she had money enough to hire a companion and set up her own establishment. She would be free and independent.
Why did such a life suddenly sound dreary?
No. He was coming this way. Sophia glanced from side to side, and then stopped herself from fleeing. How ridiculous she was being. She could not spend the rest of the house party hiding from the man.
“May I solicit a dance, Lady Sophia?” Lord Elfingham asked, and she took pity on his anxious expression and gave him her hand.
As they walked through to the next room, she saw Major Whitemann leer at Miranda de Courtenay, saying loudly, to no one in particular, “Wouldn’t mind a taste of what that gel is offering. If I were her brother, though, I’d beat her. Used to beat my wife. She knew her place, did Mrs. Whitemann.”
“That man makes me so angry,” she blurted as Lord Elfingham led her into the dance pattern.
“He is a bully,” Elfingham replied. “A man who is a tyrant at home to those with most claim on his respect and his affection cannot be trusted outside of the home.”
“An unusual view,” Sophia said sharply. “Most men seem to be happy enough to be tyrants at home and defend another man’s right to do as he pleases.”
Elfingham’s step faltered, and he shot her a searching look. “Not Hythe, surely?”
“No, of course not. Hythe is the best of brothers, though he can be an idiot when the weight of the earldom wears on him.”
“Then who? That remark was too heartfelt not to be a personal experience.”
“Your questions are very personal, Lord Elfingham.”
Elfingham shook his head, refusing her attempt to deflect the question. “My interest is very personal, Lady Sophia. I want to know everything about you: everything you love, everything you hate, all the forces that formed you as you are. Who was it that taught you men cannot be trusted? The men to whom you were betrothed?”
“I perceive that you have been listening to gossip, my lord.” To herself, Sophia could not deny that his interest thrilled almost as much as it irritated.
“That is true. From the day I arrived in London, I have sought out every story about you that I could, but the problem with gossip is one never knows what to believe and what to discount. I look forward to hearing your history from your own lips.”
“You presume, Lord Elfingham.”
“I hope, Lady Sophia.”
She examined his dark eyes. Surely he was laughing at her? If she listened to him, she would lose all sense. She was not the kind of woman that men fell in love with, and if she forgot that fact again, she would be hurt.
“We shall speak of something else,” she decreed, but was unreasonably disappointed when he obeyed without argument, turning the discussion to the betrothal announced at dinner between Lord Pershore and Lady Anna Wycliff.
“They seem very happy,” she agreed. But she refused to follow his lead into a discussion of the other courtships in train around the house, instead asking him his view of the news Gren had brought—that Napoleon’s invasion of Russia had been turned back by winter—and she happily sat out the next set with him when the music ended before their dissection of the possible consequences.
Aldridge asked her to dance next, and then Lord de Courtenay. After that, she was called away to deal with a domestic crisis, since Cedrica was nowhere to be found.
Hythe invited her to the supper dance and escorted her to eat with him, Felicity, and several other young people. Mostly, Sophia thought, to stand between her and Lord Elfingham, who watched them steadily from the place he had taken beside Mr. Halevy. Esther was with them, and she and her suitor were carefully not looking at one another. There was a story there.
Then the musicians tuned up for the next cotillion. Had Hythe set all these men up to dance with her one after the other? She was no sooner escorted back after one dance than she was solicited for another, and she could almost have laughed at Lord Elfingham’s frustrated look if she had not been so vexed herself.
In the end, he solved the problem by venturing onto the very dance floor and tapping her partner on the shoulder. A glare from those hawk eyes sent poor Lord Arthur stumbling off in search of a drink, and Lord Elfingham took his place with an apologetic smile.
“What was I to do? Your brother has you hedged about with alternative suitors.”
“Those silly boys?” she scoffed. “Hardly suitors. They might do Hythe the favor of dancing with his elderly sister, but that is as far as it goes.”
“Good,” Lord Elfingham rumbled, before they were separated by the patterns of the dance. He was venturing into dangerous territory again. When they next spoke, she turned the conversation determinedly back to Napoleon, and he acquiesced.
But he did not dance again that evening, just watched her broodingly from the side of whatever room she was in. And when she took to the floor with Gren for the last dance of the evening, she could not help but be gratified at Lord Elfingham’s barely concealed displeasure. Surely such jealousy signified more than an interest in her family name and connections?