Chapter 8
“For my future I have no concern, and as a true philosopher, I never would have any, for I know not what it may be.”
Giacomo Casanova
Patrick had brought down several trunks from the attic.
Dusty, iron-latched relics packed with the discarded garments of Julius’s long-absent cousins.
The contents were a treasure trove of faded silks, worn broadcloth, and neglected finery that bore the scent of camphor and time.
Among them, they had unearthed a pair of Hessians that, by some miracle, nearly fit Audrey’s dainty feet.
There was also a linen shirt with ruffled cuffs, a pair of serviceable breeches, a charcoal waistcoat with tarnished buttons, and a cutaway coat from yesteryear that bore the unmistakable lines of a Bond Street tailor.
Two beaver hats, stiff-brimmed and once handsome, had been preserved in Lord Hays’s wardrobe, and Audrey’s own stockings were deemed adequate to complete the illusion.
Their target that morning, Henry Montague, prowled districts where starched cravats and high polish abounded.
The coarse, borrowed clothes of laborers would no longer serve.
They would need to blend in with Mayfair’s early morning elite.
Julius, having wrestled his freshly dried Hessians back onto his legs, stood bracing a hand against the bedpost when Audrey entered his room.
Her coat was draped over one arm, and her waistcoat hung open, the fine lawn of her shirt beneath it straining modestly at the chest and snug across the hips.
The candlelight caught the sheen of her dark breeches, the taut fabric tracing every curve of her stride.
Julius’s breath caught in appreciation. He steeled himself and lifted his gaze, only to find her frowning.
“I cannot reach the back of this waistcoat to tie it,” she announced, exasperated.
“That,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, “is the least of our problems.”
“What?” Her tone sharpened. It was early, barely past the cock’s first crow, and Audrey was clearly not inclined toward patience.
Julius stiffened his spine, every inch the beleaguered officer delivering bad news.
“It … is visible that … you are a female,” he said, throat tight and gaze fixed resolutely on the ceiling.
Audrey looked down at herself, stretching her arms and twisting her torso to study her silhouette. Julius kept his gaze away, striding toward the window to stare out into the darkened garden.
“I do not understand,” Audrey cried behind him, baffled.
Seconds ticked by before he could muster a reply. “Those are not … the hips of a man, I am … afraid.”
“Oh!”
Julius winced at the dismayed note in her voice. “We must either find another disguise for you or—”
A crack of thunder rolled across the sky, deep and resonant, shaking the windowpanes. He looked up in time to see a roiling mass of clouds sweeping in from the north, blotting out the stars. He exhaled with a relieved sigh, tension easing from his shoulders.
Rain. Rain would put an end to today’s outing.
It was just as well. If he had to spend the day with Audrey dressed like that, her scent of rosewater and starch teasing him every time she leaned close, he would forget himself entirely. Despite the promise he had made to himself, despite the clarity of duty and obligation, he would kiss her.
And that could not happen.
He could not afford an attachment. Attachments soured. They bred resentment, like overwatered roots turning to rot. One need only remember his parents’ marriage—the brittle words over breakfast, the cold silences, and then his mother’s final departure from London.
He liked Audrey. He liked her far too well.
That was the danger. What was there not to admire?
She was clever and unflinching, perfectly willing to truss herself in breeches and stalk criminals through the fashionable lanes of Mayfair.
She had skill and spirit, a boldness he rarely saw outside of his closest friends.
Deuce it. I am compiling reasons to become attached.
“The weather is turning, so you can wear one of my overcoats,” he proclaimed with a touch of relief. So, thankfully, I cannot leer in such an unbecoming manner.
Audrey, looking unconvinced, stepped closer. Her tone was plaintive as she turned away from him, holding the loose ends of the waistcoat. “I am still confused.”
Julius turned reluctantly from the window and dropped his gaze to the task at hand, then swallowed hard.
Heavens preserve me.
She was poured into the linen breeches in a manner that defied logic and seamstress. The unforgiving nature of the fabric left little to the imagination. It was the sort of view one encountered in a classical sculpture, exquisite and wholly unsuitable for the hour.
He stepped forward, fingers brushing the cool fabric as he reached to tighten the tapes of the waistcoat. The proximity, the warmth of her so close, the light floral scent rising from her nape, all of it conspired to disrupt him. His hands were bare. His resolve, perilously thin.
The overcoat is a blessed necessity, he told himself fiercely.
“It requires a valet to assist,” he replied, voice gravelly, his restraint hanging by a thread.
“No, I fail to comprehend what your disguise is,” she continued, oblivious. “Are you not simply dressed as Lord Trafford?”
He faltered a beat, his fingers pausing in their work.
It was a mercy that his indulgent tailoring habit meant he had more coats than sense.
He flung open the doors to reveal several layers of velvet and superfine, like a gentleman’s rainbow of questionable spending habits.
But he had never been accused of moderation.
If he were, he mused grimly, he would have failed at being a gentleman of misadventure.
“Julius?”
Her voice recalled him from his reverie. He blinked, attempting to summon the thread of conversation she had been following.
“This is last year’s fashion,” he replied finally, with a dismissive wave. “Everyone knows I would not be caught dead in anything so out of style.”
Audrey groaned behind him in dramatic protest. Julius chuckled. Her frustrations were endearing.
Taking pity, he offered a more serious explanation. “It cannot be helped. The overcoats and beavers will help us blend in. When we return, we shall be cautious to ensure we are not followed home. It has been several days since my attack, and we shall be well away from my father’s residence.”
“Well, it is fortuitous that the rain is coming so we may button up the overcoats without attracting attention. I suppose if we have to follow Montague into a club, we will keep the coats on despite the impropriety?”
Julius grinned. She appeared more preoccupied with the etiquette of coat-wearing than the notion of tracking a potential murderer.
“You are not a lady of excellent reputation this morning,” he observed, eyes gleaming. “Being a gentleman means you make the rules.”
“Which is unfair,” she grumbled, tugging at the hem of her borrowed coat with a frustrated flick.
“Ah, but when you are weary of repressive etiquette,” he said, slipping one arm into his own coat, “there is nothing to stop you from taking a respite as a man.”
She turned to him then, the candlelight dancing across her features and catching in her silver eyes, which shimmered with mischief and sudden understanding. A curl had escaped from beneath her hat, and it clung to her cheek, soft and incongruous beneath her otherwise masculine garb.
“Where there is a will, there is a way,” she replied, her voice low and sure.
Julius’s lips curled into a slow smile, his gaze lingering just a breath too long.
“Precisely.”
Audrey and Julius arrived on Henry Montague’s street at first light, though there was little distinction between night and dawn.
A dense curtain of cloud cloaked the sky, turning the morning into a world of mist and shadow.
The lamplighters had not long extinguished their flames, and the slick cobbles underfoot gleamed from the overnight rain.
Her current disguise was far more confining than the loose workman’s garb of the day before.
The cravat at her neck was tied too tightly, its snowy linen stiff and unyielding, cinching her throat like a noose.
The crisp collar of her shirt was starched to a soldier’s severity, forcing her to hold her chin unnaturally high.
Audrey fought the urge to tug at it like a child.
It was all rather suffocating but tolerable, she supposed, if it allowed her further access to the inner sanctums of men.
Not merely men but gentlemen. The privileged elite.
The gentleman at her side, however, wore his privilege with a curious blend of performance and genuine warmth.
Though Julius could play the fop in public, in private he exhibited none of the hauteur she had braced herself to endure.
He spoke to Patrick and Rose with the same interest and liveliness he extended to his friends in the beau monde.
He was irreverent, playful, and maddening, but there was an undeniable undercurrent of kindness beneath the mockery.
Indeed, Rose had wept when Julius’s fever broke. Despite their quiet efficiency, both she and her husband had clearly been shaken by concern. Any request Julius made was fulfilled without hesitation. That kind of loyalty was not purchased. It was earned.
Audrey found herself growing rather too fond of him.
She wished, rather desperately, to remain on this adventure as long as possible.
Since her father’s passing, she had believed joy to be a thing of the past, but now, in a too-tight waistcoat with rain beading on her lashes, she felt excitement in her very bones.
She was happy, and the realization stole her breath.