A Properly Conducted Sham (Most Imprudent Matches #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

84 brOOK STREET, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816

LEE

The glittering cufflink landed with a plink before skittering under the armoire.

“Damn and blast.”

“If you would allow me to do it, as you should, it would already be buttoned.”

“Brigsby,” I warned with a sigh.

“I hope you don’t think I’m climbing under there to get that. You’re the one who insisted on dressing yourself as if you don’t employ a perfectly respectable, handsome, charming, witty, exceptionally skilled valet. If you can dress yourself, you can sprawl across the floor and dig through the dust yourself.”

“I employ a mediocre and impertinent valet. I know of none that match your description.”

The man sighed as he fetched a second pair of gold cufflinks and freed one. With a raised brow, he thrust his hand out expectantly, waiting for me to acquiesce and allow him to do his job.

“You’re going to leave that?” I asked, tipping my head toward the armoire where the cufflink hid.

“Of course not. I’m going to tell Eliza that I’ve lost one and beg her to help me search. Then I plan to appreciate the view,” he explained with a waggled brow, finishing with one wrist and gesturing for the other.

“Brigsby… Why that girl encourages your flirtations, I shall never understand.”

“I’m a delight.”

“You’re a pain in my arse.”

He finished with the second cufflink and turned to fetch the black-and-gold half-mask he’d had commissioned for me.

“I am about to be. Turn around and bend down,” he demanded. I bent at the knees, rather than the waist for a multitude of reasons. He handed me the mask. The cool ceramic was a balm as I pressed it to the right side of my face. The ribbon bit into my forehead as he tied it. Even crouched as I was, he had to rise on his toes to reach. The inconvenience of a tall employer was a small punishment for his usual audacity.

Of course, he’d also managed to distract me from the very reason I’d dropped the cufflink in the first place. My hands were astonishingly steady when I pulled them from the mask and rose, then turned to face the mirror with wary anticipation.

My breath escaped in a rush. It was perfect.

It had been years since I had been able to meet the looking glass with anything but trepidation. With half my face covered… Perhaps there was something, a spark, of the old Lee in there. Though, if I was honest, old Lee was in desperate need of a haircut as evidenced by the wayward strands I could tuck easily behind my ear.

I gripped the edges of the mask and gave it an earnest tug. It didn’t give at all. “What sort of knot did you use?”

“The kind that must be untied with prayers and a pair of shears. I thought you might prefer that.”

I swallowed a welling of gratitude, instead giving him only an appreciative nod.

As soon as I turned away the nerves returned. It was ridiculous, a grown man half shaking at the thought of a ball like a timorous debutant. The absurdity didn’t lessen the fluttering in my chest in the slightest.

Brigs turned to leave and I filed after him, tapping the mask again before pressing it against my face. Still secure from hairline to chin.

I was still fussing with it when we reached the marble floor of the entry. He stopped short and I nearly crashed into him.

He spun on a heel before I could rip my hand away. “Enough. It’ll stay just fine if you stop touching it.”

“Need I remind you who employs whom?”

“Hardly. Leave it be,” he retorted.

Crawford, my butler, sensing a circumstance that would not be improved by his presence, inserted himself. He opened the door in his self-important way before gesturing toward the open doorway as if I couldn’t see it with my own two eyes. On Brigsby, it would’ve been cheeky, but Crawford, in all his obsequience, thought it proper.

I nodded my half-hearted thanks as I rolled my shoulders back, testing the stitching on the ebony brocade overcoat. It was an ostentatious thing, decorated with overdone gold cording and frippery, but it suited the evening’s theme. And it would distract from anything that needed to be distracted from.

Lord, perhaps I shouldn’t atten ? —

“Get in the carriage, my lord ,” Brigsby said, risking a lecture from Crawford for his insolence. The title held all the sarcasm the valet could muster, and perhaps a bit more he’d manifested from Lord knew where.

I needed a new valet.

Left with only two choices, face the bon ton and all the horrors that could befall me there or face Brigsby’s judgmental stare combined with Crawford’s moralisms on the evils of tardiness, I chose the former and approached the carriage.

The carriage.

I could usually abide them in town. In the daylight. If I had to.

There were always folks milling about and the streets were relatively smooth, after all.

But each time a wheel met a rut, jolting the carriage about, I was left shaken. And at night…

No. The club was not so far, a mile perhaps, less than two certainly.

“My lord?” Crawford urged.

“I think I shall walk tonight.”

“It is not proper,” he insisted.

“Neither is a ball hosted in a gaming hell.”

“It looks like rain,” he tried again.

“Hardly.”

With a sigh, Brigsby cut in front of Crawford to pass me a hat. I donned it after running my fingers through my overgrown hair.

“Good luck,” the man added with a vigilant glance toward the evening sky.

He held out a fist and waited until I aligned my open palm underneath before dropping a large handful of my favorite peppermints there for safe keeping.

I scoffed at his insincere well wishes and unwrapped one. Freshness burst over my tongue when it hit. I inhaled, allowing the cool mint to fill my lungs. When I swallowed, it hit my stomach, immediately settling one or two of the overwrought nerves.

I nodded at both men before setting off. I would need more than Brigsby’s luck to survive the bloodthirsty gentry.

My pace was unhurried as I trailed down the London streets. Distractedly and nearly entirely out of habit, I tipped my head back to the sky. It was one of the things I found most distasteful about town. London nights were too bright. The ambient light drowned out the stars. Tonight’s clouds may have been too heavy for gazing even from my observatory, but the lamps did not help matters.

Less than half an hour and several mint candies later, I caught sight of the fine carriages lining the pavement. Walking had certainly been the correct choice, all that fitful starting and spasmodic stopping… No. Better to walk.

I sidled between two families I did not recognize while their backs were turned and they were making conversation, and made short work of the receiving line.

I popped a peppermint just as I turned to face the evening’s hosts.

“Champaign! Good to see you.” Michael Wayland, a pale blue domino mask covering the top of his face, clasped my hand in his as I set foot inside his club. His other hand remained wrapped around the waist of the statuesque woman at his side, surely his wife. She offered a warm smile. He continued, “I’m glad you decided to attend. Hugh owes me a pound.”

I bit back my instinctive irritation—he didn’t mean it that way.

“If I had but known such an astronomical sum was at stake, I should have arrived earlier.” I struggled to keep my tone light.

Michael bet on everything, and he would use any opportunity to take money from his brother. And he wasn’t a cruel man. He didn’t intend to mock the rumors of my reclusive nature.

Michael’s wife gave a polite cough, her wide eyes cast on me. “Have you had the opportunity to meet my wife? Lady Juliet Wayland?”

“Lady?” The question slipped out before I could catch it and I had to shutter a wince.

“I know. Who would have thought it of me? I managed to seduce an earl’s daughter.”

“Michael!” she scolded, before turning to me. “It was all entirely proper, I assure you.”

Over her shoulder, I caught Michael’s self-satisfied grin. Anything but proper then.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Juliet. I should leave you to your other guests.” I stepped away with a bow, slipping into the crush inside the club.

And it was a crush.

Hundreds of the ton ’s wealthiest and most influential darted across the rich carpeting, the stately gaming tables, the polished dance floor, like ants at a picnic.

An overly perfumed lordling jostled me from behind. When I turned, I was knocked again to the side as a set of oversize skirts passed.

I made for the nearest wall, sidling between flirting couples and darting around wallflowers. Finally, I found a patch of plaster to call my own.

It was cool and solid against my spine and the back of my neck. I brushed a hand over my mask—still in place—as I swallowed against the knot in my chest.

I patted my pocket and dipped a hand inside. Only three peppermints left. Had I eaten that many on the walk over? I would need to ration them, but in this moment…

“Here,” a warm masculine voice drifted over from beside me. I turned to see Augie Ainsley leaning against the wall, a glass of something clear in his hand, outstretched toward me. “You looked like you needed something to take the edge off. Gin, right?”

He hadn’t bothered with a mask tonight. The years since I’d last seen him had been kind to him. He’d filled out a bit from the scrawny thing he had once been and wore the roles of father, husband, and hell owner well.

“How did you remember?”

He shrugged. “I always marvel at anyone who likes gin, vile stuff.”

I took a sip. It was a fine selection. Though that was to be expected out of Wayland and Ainsley.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. I find the lot of them overwhelming too.”

“Is it that obvious?” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, checking the mask simultaneously.

“No, not to them.” He tipped his head toward the masses. “I should get back to the bar before there’s a riot. If you need a breath or two, you can always slip upstairs. My office is the second door at the top. It’s open.”

I murmured my thanks and took another sip, enjoying the burn when it hit my center.

The chaos of the night drew my gaze once more. And, Lord, it was chaos. Everyone who was anyone clamored to see and be seen in the massive octagonal room. Cheers and groans spilled out from the gaming tables that encircled the hell.

More than one young lady spun on heels, amazement in their eyes at the opulence of the space. Likely witnessing for the first time the very room where their husbands, brothers, and fathers made and lost entire fortunes.

A half-dozen or so ladies had even braved the gaming tables. A little slip of a girl dressed as a peacock, feathers and all, was absolutely dominating at a high-stakes hazard table, if the cheers of delight were any indication—cheers from the other ladies. The gentlemen were left to groan in devastation and poverty.

Her Grace, the dowager Duchess of Rosehill, cleared a swath through the room in a gown straight from Marie Antionette’s wardrobe. The skirts… She could probably hide several small children and a large goat under that dress. And the wig… Oh, the wig.

These were the things I missed about society. In general, I found the balls, musicales, whist parties, and dinners tedious. But the sheer absurdity of the beau monde … It could not be matched in the country.

I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting against the laugh that threatened to bubble up.

My wall was near one of the more serious hazard games, though this table held only gentlemen. Some of them I recognized but could not name and some were entirely unknown to me.

The gentlemen were well on their way to soused. They groused and jeered in that raucous, overloud, overenunciated way that spoke of overindulgence.

The loudest and most unruly was pontificating to his rapt audience. “I’m telling you, lads. She’s increasing. The bitch tried to insist it was mine too. As if she hasn’t enjoyed all of our company at one time or another.”

“Speak for yourself, Parker,” a shorter one retorted.

The jackass was Parker, presumably. I could only see the back of his dark head from my vantage, but the name was familiar. There had been a Parker a year or two behind me in school. The boy was untitled, and his family money came from manufacturing, though he had always tried to pretend otherwise. If this was the same Parker I recalled, he had been an arse then too.

The lout continued, “You mean to tell me you never once played old Baron James for a cuckold? A man like that, a wife with diddies like that—he knew what he was buying. Hell, it’s a miracle this is her first by-blow.”

“The man is dead. Have some respect, Parker,” the bold one from earlier returned.

“He was a greasy old simpleton with loose pockets and one foot in the grave. And his wife was and still is a threepenny upright. Why should that change now that he’s gone to meet his maker”

“She does have a mighty fine pair of bubbies,” another added. He was more familiar, but I still could not place the name.

A long-forgotten chivalrous instinct rose in my chest. I chafed to confront them—to call them out.

I made it a single step before nausea crashed over me. I wasn’t that man—not any longer. That man died years ago. All that was left was a wraith hiding behind a mask.

In desperate need of Ainsley’s promised respite, I braved the fray and left the gentlemen to their game, dropping my glass on the bar as I passed.

That was the moment my gaze found her—a more appealing distraction.

Lady Celine Hasket, Marchioness of Rycliffe. Her golden curls were elegantly coiffed, and she was draped in purple silk. She was exactly as she had been when I last saw her.

Visually, time had not passed for her at all. But that was not true. Years had passed, and more than one spouse between us.

I approached her carefully, clearing my throat as I tapped on the ceramic hiding my shame. “If I remember correctly, a woman as graceful as you belongs on the dance floor. Not along the wall.” The speech was rather more suave than I usually managed—closer to something I would have offered her all those years ago. And, I realized belatedly, easily mistaken for an offer rather than commentary.

She turned, her head tipping back until her eyes met mine. A smile bloomed over her face when recognition set in.

The lady’s only concession to the theme of the evening was a delicate, flimsy little mask that banded across her eyes. It did nothing to conceal identity or natural beauty.

“Lord Champaign, it has been an age!”

“Best part of a decade. We last spoke on the eve of your engagement, I believe. I am sorry for your loss.”

And I was. I had caught her and Rycliffe that night. Passion sizzled between them. It was something I never could have given her.

“I heard you suffered a similar loss. I am sorry for you as well.” Celine’s accent had softened over the years, nearly imperceptible now, but the sensual, husky tone of her voice remained.

I thanked her. It was the proper response to condolences, even if the circumstances of our losses could not be less similar. After all, she wasn’t responsible for Rycliffe’s death.

Those thoughts lay down a dark path, one ill-suited for a ball. Desperate to drag my mind from the bleak past, I floundered for a subject.

Without permission or conscious thought, another, less ambiguous offer to dance fell from my lips as the first strains of a quadrille formed.

“I would be delighted.” Lady Rycliffe’s smile was genuine, bright. I’d seen the false smiles cross her face in our youth—she distributed them freely, with no real consideration. But the real ones, they tugged at the corners of her eyes. I was proud to have earned one or two during our courtship.

I towered over her petite frame as she, graceful and confident as ever, took her place across from me.

Something in the way she moved spoke of maturity in a way it hadn’t when she was but twenty.

“You seem to have misplaced your accent,” I teased. It was something to say, something less fraught than long dead spouses and courtships that ended wrapped in another’s arms.

“Just for tonight. I think it adds to the mystery.”

That drew a chuckle from me. As if a soul here would not know her. She had been the belle of the ton ten years ago, and I had no doubt she would be the star of tonight’s ball as well.

“Oh yes, I’m certain there are two, perhaps three people in this room who do not know you on sight. Even in the mask.” My raillery earned a raised brow and a half smile.

“Four at least. Do give me credit.”

“I’ll be generous and give you a half dozen,” I agreed. “How have you been?”

She found something of interest to contemplate on my waistcoat.

“It wasn’t meant to be a trick.”

“No, I know. I just wasn’t… I wasn’t sure which answer you wanted.”

That was a sentiment I understood in my bones. The question, so commonplace, yet so fraught, always left me unmoored.

I was not well. I hadn’t been well in years. I might never be well again. But that answer was an unwelcome one.

“Whichever one you want to give me is fine.” I tried to offer reassurance in my tone, but whether I was successful was unclear.

She sighed before catching her lip between her teeth for the space of a breath. “I am well enough. Most days, I am all right. Some days I’m fine, marvelous even. Other days… Well, you know.”

“I do.”

“And you?”

“The same. More or less.” Probably less—almost certainly. She and Rycliffe had been a love match. “Mia—Amelia—and I, we were well suited.”

“I cannot imagine you being anything else. I should have told you—I always meant to tell you—it was never about you… that night. I— Gabriel was… all-consuming. You were— are —a wonderful man. I never doubted that you would make a good husband. It was just…” Her rushed assurances filled me with astonishment. They spilled forth as if she had been nursing them for a decade.

I had never taken her refusal of my entirely practical proposal as a rejection. No one who had seen her in Rycliffe’s embrace on that veranda could have. But it was nice to hear—even if she was entirely wrong in her assessment.

“I never thought that. But I appreciate it all the same.”

Her gaze caught on something as I spun her, and she missed a step. In truth, I hadn’t thought her capable of a misstep and my gaze instinctively sought her distraction.

I had to restrain a laugh when I realized it was a gentleman.

The man scoffed in annoyance, turning to stalk away. She slipped back into position, her expression unnamable but entirely reminiscent of the one she wore when Rycliffe had met her eyes over the roast chicken. The expression that signified the end of my pursuit of Celine.

I bit back a smile as I released her. “Enjoy yourself tonight, Lady Rycliffe. I think it’s time for both of us to live a little,” I offered with a bow.

She backed away silently before spinning on her heel. As if by a string, the man pulled her along after him.

My statement had been a lie, of course. I didn’t deserve to live at all. But Celine, she most certainly did deserve to find happiness—love—again. And if I could offer any encouragement, well, it was something—something the old Lee would have done.