26
Iris had known that the first moments entering Durand Manor would be crucial.
Not only would she have to fool Lord Durand into thinking she was someone else entirely, but she would have to fool every noted naturalist and botanist in attendance as well.
And though Mrs. Glennis Shaw was known for her reclusiveness, though she had not been seen in a good many years, for all she preferred to hide away with her mosses and lichens and liverworts in Cornwall, she had at one time been quite active in botanical circles.
There were many people here who knew her or had known her at one time or another.
And even worse, she would be doing it all alone. Which was why, when it was time to alight from her carriage at the front steps of Durand Manor, she hesitated.
No, she did not hesitate. She froze in place as the footman held out a hand for her.
She could do nothing but stare down at his glove.
She was a failure, a fraud, and would wind up exposing them all.
Spots began to swim in her vision, and she realized that she had stopped breathing.
But for the life of her, she could not seem to draw breath.
It was only when the footman, no doubt confused as to why she was hesitating, queried, “Ma’am?
” that her lungs were finally shocked into doing what they were supposed to be doing.
“Ah, er, my apologies,” she stammered before, with trembling fingers, she accepted the man’s help and descended to the gravel drive.
But exiting the carriage was the least of her trials.
All about her footmen bustled, carriages vied for places, and well-dressed men and women talked and laughed in small groups.
No doubt every inn in the area was full to bursting with people of note.
She patted her head, making certain her wig of pin-straight mouse-brown hair, pulled back in a tight chignon, was still in place, even as she fought the urge to rip it from her head.
She hated wigs. God but she hated them. They were itchy and painful, feeling like a million needles piercing her scalp, making her want to crawl out of her skin.
As did the carefully applied theatrical makeup that gave her softer features the sharpness of Mrs. Shaw’s, and the heavy brocade dress with its tightly cinched waist, and the elaborate heeled shoes that pinched her toes.
Everything on her body was designed to disguise, transform, and fool even the most discerning eye.
And she hated every bit of it. But she would put up with it. She had to.
Gripping her skirts tightly, she moved forward, up the front steps, through the open door, and into the hall.
There, at the far end, was Lord Durand, welcoming a long line of guests, looking for all the world like an emperor greeting his subjects.
On shaking legs, Iris took her place in line and began the agonizingly slow trek to the front and the earl.
Just get through this greeting. Pass as the reclusive Mrs. Shaw, and then you may retreat to a corner of the ballroom until the time comes to create the necessary distraction so the Widows might enter the house unobserved.
But no matter how she tried to console herself, she found it increasingly difficult to control her nervousness the closer she got to Lord Durand.
More than once she caught her fingers scratching mercilessly at her wrist, and she had to force herself to yank the long sleeve of her gown down and clasp her hands tightly together to stop it.
Worse than that, however, was the uncontrollable trembling in her body.
By the time it was her turn to greet the man, she might have very well vibrated out of her disguise, so much did she shake.
She had just enough time to take a steadying breath before her path opened, and there was the earl.
His eyes widened when he saw her, the self-satisfied smirk of pleasure transforming into an oval of surprise as he took her in.
For one horrible moment she feared her true identity had already been discovered.
And she had not even opened her mouth yet.
She swallowed hard. Good God, was she truly as awful as that?
He took her hands in his, the look of surprise transforming to one of pure delight. It took every ounce of Iris’s will for her not to snatch her hands from his grasp and rub them on her skirts.
“You must be Mrs. Glennis Shaw,” he said.
“I have heard of you, of course, and your work with bryophytes, but never did I think you would accept my invitation. Nor did anyone else. Yes, they will all be green with envy when they see that my work has garnered the attention of such a personage.” He chuckled, a horribly smug sound that made her skin crawl.
“It is an honor, truly an honor, to make your acquaintance, madam.”
Which, of course, meant it was her turn in this farce.
Clearing her throat, she inclined her head in thanks, praying the movement was natural and not as jerky as it felt.
“The honor is mine. I would not miss such an event for the world,” she replied shakily, making certain to give particular emphasis to her r ’s to more closely resemble Mrs. Shaw’s West England accent.
The earl’s gaze did not flicker even a bit, his smile only widening as he looked about. “But did you come alone? I would think your husband would have accompanied you on such a trip.”
“He could not make the time,” she replied, her regret blessedly genuine enough.
If only Euphemia had been able to disguise herself appropriately.
But even she, with her uncommon height and incredible skills, could not pass for a man who was half a foot past six feet and weighed a good twenty-five stone.
“Such a shame,” Lord Durand said. “But I do hope you shall enjoy yourself regardless.”
He swept his hand out, indicating she should make her way after the other guests. Iris could only stare at him. Had she done it? Had she truly passed this important test?
Not if she continued to stand there and gawk at the man, she scolded herself as the earl’s smile faded ever so slightly. Face heating under her makeup, she dipped her head and hurried on, nearly tripping in her heels as she did so.
Her relief was short-lived, however, as she entered the ballroom and, in the process of scurrying to a quiet, unobtrusive corner to wait for the next step in their plans, had her path blocked quite thoroughly by a portly gentleman in an chartreuse waistcoat.
“Upon my word,” the man boomed. “I cannot believe my eyes. Mrs. Glennis Shaw has appeared.”
For the briefest moment Iris considered running. This, after all, was a situation she had been dreading, to be cornered by an actual acquaintance of the woman. Or, rather, yet another situation she had been dreading in a long line of them.
But Sylvia and the others had done their best to prepare her. Granted they’d not had much time to do that preparation, but they’d had faith in her. She could not let them down. She would not let them down.
The only problem with this situation, however, was she didn’t have a clue who this man was.
“Good evening,” she managed, dipping into a shallow curtsy. There, that should work for a start.
“Good evening?” the man asked with a wide smile.
“Is that all you have to say to me, Glenny? Good God, one would think we’re strangers for all the chill you put into those two words.
But how is Bowen, and why isn’t he here with you tonight?
The bastard should have the decency to stick close to your side after stealing you away and spiriting you off to Cornwall.
Else some of your old beaux, myself included, are liable to swoop in and steal you back. ”
The guffaw the man let out fairly shook the walls.
Iris could only stare at him in horror. Never once in Sylvia’s frantic relaying of information had she ever mentioned this verbose man or a legion of beaux waiting in the wings—or the moniker Glenny .
Even her mother, who had been dear friends with the woman, had never referred to her as such.
Her mind at a total loss, panic beginning to creep in, Iris stood mute under the man’s jovial gaze. A gaze that was becoming increasingly confused the longer she remained silent.
“I say, Glenny,” the man—whoever he was—said, moving closer, “you seem a bit different. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something?.
.? .” He narrowed his eyes, leaning closer.
Iris, heart pounding in her ears, clasped her hands tight together.
She had known she was a fraud, that she could never get away with something of this magnitude.
She was going to fail and drag everyone else down with her.
All because she was incapable, inept. Odd.
You are not odd. Oliver’s voice whispered through her mind, fierce and certain.
And indeed, he had never once treated her as if she were.
No, with him she had felt she could be herself.
Even when she had not been able to actually show her true intentions, she had nevertheless not had to mask who she was.
And though there was an aching in the fissures that spanned her heart when she thought of him, the remembrance also gave her a strength she had not expected.
Straightening her shoulders, she forced a smile, her mind rapidly going over every bit of information she could recall of Mrs. Shaw before diving in, praying anything she said would sound natural enough.
“Two decades away from the public eye will cause many changes in a person, I daresay,” she said.