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Edwin hummed a little tune as he descended the stairs from Titania’s house. For the first time in years he was happy, and as soon as he and Titania were safely betrothed, he would be content at last. Contentment was an emotion he thought never to experience again.
As he bounded into his carriage and settled into the soft, plush padding, his mind wandered to when Titania would be his wife. She could assist him with his writing and aid him in setting the estate to rights. When he woke up in the morning, her hair would be lying poker straight on the pillow. When he needed to figure out the right word for an article, he could discuss it with her.
As he strode up the stairs to his house, and saw Henri’s beaming face (almost completely obscured by the mountainous pile of boxes from Bond Street), he smiled, feeling like home was only a broken nose away.
Henri immediately began to jabber at him, but Edwin waved him away, treading softly upstairs to his room. Although he honestly would have liked nothing better than to sit and grin stupidly at Henri as he chattered about his various purchases, he had promised to write an editorial on the British attitude on the war they were waging against America. His firsthand opinions and access to people in powerful positions would put his work into the spotlight as it had never been.
He sighed, knowing until he made his deadline he should not even be thinking about his personal affairs. He pulled out a fresh piece of paper, undaunted by its blankness, and immediately started to write, his small, jagged handwriting quickly filling the page.
After only a few hours, Edwin had assembled a rough draft of the article and, after carefully placing it in his escritoire, called for Henri so he could dress for dinner.
“What dazzling splendor will I be sporting tonight, my friend?” he asked, waving a hand in the air.
“Well,” said Henri, obviously pleased to finally be able to discuss the topic with his employer, “I was not able to obtain any new clothing for you without your presence, but I did purchase some new gloves, a walking stick, a quizzing glass, and some new cravats. I have given the old ones,” he sniffed, “to Cook for cleaning her pots.”
“Henri, I will not look like an idiot wearing all these fripperies, will I? I want to look a man of fashion, but I certainly have no aspirations to becoming a dandy.” Would Titania think he looked like an idiot? Maybe if she hated what he was wearing, she would rip his clothes off that much faster.
Henri chuckled slightly at Edwin’s naïveté, shaking his head. “Edwin, my friend, there is no fear of that. I have merely outfitted you with the appropriate accessories a gentleman requires. You will be unexceptional, a gentleman to the core, with cravats that fit and boots that sparkle. I would not lead you astray, my lord. I know what I am about.” Edwin shrugged, striding toward Henri with his arms spread wide.
Gorgeously attired, Edwin left his house about an hour later. He was wearing his favorite pair of boots, which had been polished to a high shine. His coat fit snugly, encasing his broad shoulders in a dark brown superfine. His cravat—impeccably arranged, no creases—was simply adorned with a topaz stickpin, its square-cut design catching the light and reflecting soft amber twinkles. His breeches were, as fashion dictated, skintight, but fashion did not suffer as it usually did when overfed lords stuffed their sausage legs into the latest creation.
He was looking forward to his evening; he had a dinner engagement with Alistair at their club, and afterward he might head over to Cruckford’s, where the most fervent gamblers flocked.
“Alistair, exactly how and when did you become such a dandy?” Alistair’s waistcoat was a crimson red, his fobs (which were numerous) were various shades of pink, orange, and red, and his coat was a cherry velvet that must have required more than one individual to assist him into it, it was such a formfitting garment. Although Alistair was not as broad as Edwin, his presence lent him an elegance that almost—but not quite—removed the ridiculous aspect of his outlandish costume, and his challenging stare dared anyone to make a comment or criticism.
“My lord,” Alistair replied in a mockingly servile tone, “you are in rare form this evening; dare I hope that your current incarnation is one you will retain? I could not have remained your friend if you insisted on wearing those horrendous clothes that were no doubt suitable for the Americas, but here are positively démodé.”
Edwin laughed, taking no offense at his friend’s acerbity. Or French.
“Alistair, I knew I need have no fear that you would not say what you were thinking. You have not changed that much, even though your outward appearance is quite different.”
Over dinner, Edwin and Alistair discussed Edwin’s impressions of England after such a long absence, Alistair’s work, the war on both fronts, the shipping business, and myriad other topics. Although Edwin was by far the more learned of the two men, Alistair’s dry wit and quick intellect more than compensated for his less scholarly mind. The two were chuckling over some youthful indiscretion involving a dog, an instructor’s wig, and half a dozen turnips when the conversation turned serious again.
“Worthy, my friend, I saw someone whom we both admire today,” Alistair announced, resting his head against the back of his chair. “I paid a call on Miss Stanhope. She is a lovely woman, both her mind—which I believe is much harder working than my own—and her face, which is a continual delight. And her delicious sense of style. I swear, she might almost rival me in beauty.”
Edwin’s mouth tightened as Alistair listed Titania’s attributes. He knew others admired her—the constant throng of men who filled her dance card was a pretty clear indicator—but that his oldest friend was now lauding his chosen lady was too much. He replied in a curt, almost brusque, tone.
“Alistair, you tread on dangerous territory here. Obviously, I cannot forbid you to continue to pursue a friendship with the young lady in question, but I would caution you against forming a deeper attachment. That honor is mine, if she will have me.”
Alistair rolled his head forward, clutching his wineglass a little closer to his chest. “I did not realize the lady had already ensnared you. I thought you had sworn off women—at least respectable ones—after the experience with the Lady Who Must Not Be Named?” He took a long swig of wine, draining the glass, and then looked inquiringly at Edwin, who was casting his friend a predatory glance.
“What I said before and what I say now are two distinct matters. Leticia hurt me, but she did not break me. I intend to ask the lady to marry me as soon as a few details have been sorted out.”
Alistair, by now having poured himself another glass of wine, drained that as well and set it down on the table in a particularly deliberate motion. It was clear that although both men were disguised, Alistair was in worse shape than Edwin, having drunk at least half again as much as his friend and with many fewer pounds to his frame. His chocolate-brown eyes were now bloodshot; his usually perfectly styled hair was rumpled, as he had raked his hand through it several times in the course of the evening. He spoke after draining his glass again.
“You cannot expect to throw down a challenge like that and have me walk away. When have I ever backed down from anything? The only times I even considered it,” he said, his face getting drawn and somber, “was in battle, watching my friends die and I could do nothing for them. But enough about that,” he continued, gesturing to the waiter for yet another bottle of wine. “Let us drink to the lady. That, at least, you will allow me, I am certain.”
Edwin smiled, raising his glass to the thoroughly foxed man sitting opposite him. He himself was rapidly approaching a mild state of inebriation, a situation that had not occurred since that awful night following Leticia’s betrayal.
“To love, broken noses, friendship, and the banishment of bad memories.” Edwin’s elegant toast was somewhat diminished by his simultaneously falling off his chair, landing with an audible plop as his large frame hit the polished floor. Alistair blinked widely at him for a moment, then slid off his own chair, still clasping his wineglass delicately between his fingers.
“To love and friendship, then,” he toasted, gesturing toward Edwin.
When the two had become so thoroughly tipsy that one of them no longer cared what his cravat looked like and the other did not mind wearing it, they staggered home to collapse into their respective beds, each thinking on a certain young lady with more wit than hair.
Despatch from the battle front, April 1813
Masquerades, disguises, secret identities: all these things may, oddly enough, reveal a person’s true nature. Is it any wonder the ton revels in such playacting? It is only then that they may show themselves as they truly are.
Take a lady, for example, specifically a singular lady; yes, she appears to be a lady, but is it truly a lady’s nature to hunt down a husband with all the battle genius of a modern-day Hannibal?
She is armed with only a few weapons: skill on the pianoforte, a trim ankle, an intriguing profile. She has no army, no artillery, and no horses, save the dainty little mare that takes her riding on Rotten Row. But she is no lady, for she is determined to succeed and will take no prisoners. She is audacious, forthright, strong, and determined. If the definition of a lady is that she is all that is polite, subservient, and gentle, then may I be so bold as to submit that there are truly no ladies.
Unless we change the definition of a lady by winning the battle, the fair sex will be required to hide their true natures in perpetuity.
Wish me luck. I am off to the wars.
A Singular Lady