Almost a Gentleman (26 page)

But everything wasn't perfect, she did need something, and right now she didn't want to be Phizz Marston. Right now what she wanted, more than anything in the world, was a garter. And Mrs. Cockburn would have one.

I'm quite mad
, she told herself. No matter. Slowly, she opened the door and motioned the woman in.

The stately auburn-haired innkeeper had maintained her composure exceedingly well, Phoebe thought, upon discovering that Mr. Marston was really a woman. She listened slowly as Phoebe apologized for what might be a bit of a shock, and nodded sympathetically when she learned what her surprising lodger required.

"I'll pay you for your garters," Phoebe said hastily, "and I'll give you this single one if you want it, too." She pointed to the one on the bed.

"It's a lovely one, Miss… ?"

"Miss Browne." It was the name on the birth certificate of the woman who'd been buried in her place. "Thank you, but you can see where it doesn't do me much good by itself. And of course I'm rather in a hurry."

"Yes, dear, I suppose you are, and we'll be bringing your supper to the earl's rooms soon enough."

Mrs. Cockburn's eyes betrayed her amusement at the situation. They were large, a warm, reddish brown, with thick lashes and friendly crinkles at their corners. She's really very pretty, Phoebe thought, and surprisingly elegant for a provincial innkeeper. Her dress was dark and serviceable below a big white apron showing a few inevitable kitchen stains, but she'd gracefully draped a pale green silk kerchief around her lightly freckled neck, and her earrings were of fine gold filigree.

Quickly, she lifted her dark skirt, revealing long legs encased in neat black stockings held up with matching garters.

"Well, these may show a bit through your dress's fine weave, but with your Grecian hairstyle—very nicely done, by the way—you can pretend you meant it like that: ladylike, but just the slightest bit daring, a hint of the look of the old French empress Josephine. That style is lovely on your figure, by the way; you're wise not to insist upon those new longer waists that are coming in."

Wise, or simply pleased not to have to change my style at every whim of the fashion magazines
, Phoebe thought. Especially since she only wore her three-year-old gowns to visit family in Devonshire. But if an innkeeper could see that her costume wasn't quite au courant…

"You don't think I look dowdy, do you?"

Mrs. Cockburn spoke purposefully. "No, never dowdy, dear, you wear your clothes too well, like a regular member of the
ton
, you look. But no use my pretending not to notice that it's not this season's. Still, I never really liked a gentleman who cared more for the gown than for the body within it, did you?"

Truly and plainly stated: her language and bearing were wonderfully urban and ironical. She comes from London, Phoebe thought. I wonder how she came to be in her current situation.

"Here you are, dear." The garters were of plain back grosgrain ribbon, but fresh and in good condition. Phoebe handed Mrs. Cockburn the single pearl-trimmed garter in return and sat down on the bed to put on her stockings.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Just let me help you with the button. Yes, they'll do nicely. A sweet pair of slippers, too. And no, you don't owe me anything; the pearls on this pretty thing are quite enough payment. I'll have the big one set on a chain and work the little ones into some embroidery I'm doing for Ernest's mother's birthday. She's a good sort, you see, and never holds my past against me. 'As long as you and Ernest understand each other, Alison,' she says to me, 'I'm quite content with it.' "

Phoebe wondered if she was supposed to understand what all that was about. She might have asked, she supposed, if she'd had the time. For she quite liked Mrs. Cockburn. But it was growing late and Lord Linseley would soon be knocking on her door. She took the shawl from the armoire and wrapped it around her shoulders. "I say, what a fine India paisley. I do like the gold thread running through it. Subtle, not too gaudy, not like you had anything to prove. You must have done very well for yourself."

And what could
that
mean
?

"Of course," Mrs. Cockburn continued, "when I was working in London I didn't actually know anybody who went after that trade, but I've heard that the gentlemen who like it will pay monstrous sums for girls pretending to be men. And with you so convincing in your cravat and trousers, well, it must have been quite a fancy custom you pulled in. Still, you're well out of it. A husband or a respectable business, that's what you want. Or both, if you should chance to be as lucky as I've been."

"Oh," Phoebe murmured, as the import of Mrs. Cockburn's remarks finally became clear to her.

Stupid
, she scolded herself. After all, what
else
could the woman possibly have been talking about all this time? She supposed that she should feel insulted by what Mrs. Cockburn had so readily assumed about her. But in truth her interpretation of Phoebe's male costume was as reasonable as any other—probably more reasonable than the truth of the matter. It was all really rather humorous.

"Well, you're right about a great many things," she replied brightly, "but right now, well, you see, I can't converse with you as long as I'd like because I expect Lord Linseley directly."

Mrs. Cockburn nodded. "Helping you find a better life, I expect he is, just like he did me. Found me this situation, introduced me to Ernest too. Well, he's a kind man and I'll always be grateful to him."

She turned to go.

Phoebe smiled at her. It was pleasant to dream of a better life, unlikely as that was. "Thank you. I've enjoyed our conversation. It was good of you to tell me about Lord Linseley."

She'd always admired his concern for the farm laborers of his district, but one could, after all, ascribe it to the enlightened self-interest of an intelligent landowner. But what Mrs. Cockburn had just described was an act of the purest charity, a generous effort to help make better lives for women that very few people tried to help—and one, she suspected, that he'd be too modest to tell her about himself. How fine and selfless he was.

Mrs. Cockburn paused at the door. "A very good and kind man he is indeed, and I saw few enough
of them
in my old life, that's for certain." The corners of her eyes crinkled. "
And
, goes without saying, one of the best that a girl could hope for in bed, eh, dear?"

Or perhaps not quite so selfless.

At a loss for any other response, Phoebe nodded dumbly.

Mrs. Cockburn grinned. "Yeh, he's a rare one, ain't he? So modest with his clothes on, and such a… what-do-you-call-'em… a satyr without them. In my time all the girls were mad for him, each and every one hoping he'd want her for a regular arrangement, but he liked variety, see, a different one every night. I expect he's still like that, a man of his energies, after all. We used to comfort ourselves by saying that when all's said and done it would be a shame not to share him around, the creator having made so few like him."

She winked. "Of course, what's most important is how a man uses what he's given. But still and all, it's always a pleasure simply to
look
upon the fancy work when it's of such a size and elegance as what our gentleman's got. Don't you agree, dear?

"And I'll just let my household girls know about your costume, so they'll be comfortable with it. They're from the country and brought up sheltered, not like us…"

Flashing a last sly, conspiratorial smile over her shoulder, she quitted the room, shutting the door behind her and leaving a meticulously dressed and utterly befuddled Phoebe to blink in astonishment.

A good man. A selfless man. A paradigm of charity.

Charity, my arse
, Phoebe muttered.

Well, she'd certainly become better acquainted with him, she thought—though rather precipitously, and not at all as planned. Mrs. Cockburn had shown her quite another side of the earl of Linseley, whose reputation among the
Beau Monde
ranged from the noble to the estimable to the rather stuffy. But then, the
Beau Monde
did tend to take a shortsighted view of things. Best to consult a sharper-eyed segment of the population for a better, clearer view of reality. Reality from the other side—the underside, if one liked.

He liked variety, see, a different one every night.

Yes, she supposed that
a man of his energies
might well find variety congenial. She couldn't help but wonder about the extent of those vaunted and much-discussed energies.

And there was
the size of the fancy work
to be considered as well. Not to speak of the elegance—whatever
that
might mean.

She laughed dryly. No point pretending that a small, disreputable part of her hadn't found all this information rather thrilling. A very small part of herself was wildly curious to get a look for herself—the part of her that wasn't seething with rage.

How
dared he
be so furious about her adventure with Billy? He'd made her single, prudent foray into the world of bought pleasure seem so bold, so far beyond what the very proper Lord Linseley could be expected to assimilate to his understanding. She'd wanted to explain it to him, to make it clear how stunted her marriage had been and how profoundly she'd needed to acquaint herself with the desires at her body's center.

Explain it? Clarify it? Bloody hell, she would probably have apologized to him for it. Humbly, she would have begged his pardon for not twiddling her thumbs until that oh-so-romantic moment when
he'd
come galloping over the horizon, a knight errant come to claim her.

While
he
had bedded a different dolly every night, with no explanations necessary.

She remembered the scene in her parlor after the doctor had left. How angry he'd been; how meekly she'd accepted his right to be angry. What a pathetically passive face she'd shown. And if it hadn't been for the silly business with the garter—if Mrs. Cockburn hadn't been given an opportunity to share her confidences—she would at this moment be waiting, breathlessly, passively and pathetically, for his knock at the door. Aching and quivering for his touch, just another stupid, simpering, overdressed, pretty
woman
.

She stole a glance at herself in the mirror. Oh yes, very pretty indeed. Though it was perhaps inaccurate to say overdressed—"overdressed" hardly seemed the right word for the exposed, vulnerable expanse of bosom and neck she'd taken such pains to display. Too bad there wasn't enough time to become Marston again; she would have preferred to confront the earl of Linseley from behind a buttoned shirtfront and high cravat. In truth, she would have preferred her padded fencer's tunic and screened face mask.

Nonsense. Best to confront him as she was.

A soft, stacatto knock at the door. Soft, and yet—was she imagining it?—peremptory, somehow. An impatient knock. A man's knock.

She hadn't drawn the latch after Mrs. Cockburn had left.

"Yes, come in," she called. She was surprised at how natural her voice sounded.

She took a step forward toward the door, stopping in a pool of lamplight that that her heightened senses told her was the most flattering spot in the room. The light glowed on her face and bosom, while her anger lent an unaccustomed flush to her cheeks. Good, let him think she was blushing. She licked her lips quickly and parted them in a small, soft
0
.

He opened the door and stepped across the room's threshold. And then he stopped abruptly.

"Ah."

She felt the heat in his glance as his smile widened.

"My word," he murmured, "you're… you're a revelation."

How can it be, she thought, that wherever he goes he seems to stir the air like a fresh breeze? She felt her anger waver, like a flickering candle flame. He advanced slowly toward her. In another moment he'd take her hand. He'd bow at a precise, gentlemanly angle, raise her fingers to his lips, and she'd be lost.

A mere eighteen inches away now. Half the length of a fencing foil.

A swordsman's best defense, she told herself, was a good offence; she slapped him hard across the cheek.

"You hypocrite," she said. "You self-righteous prig."

He staggered back a step or two, though it was with surprise rather than with the force of the blow. She was gratified, however, to see that she had left a mark on his face.

"But… but what?" he stammered. "What the devil have I done? Wh-why, Phoebe?"

"I haven't given you leave to call me by my Christian name, Lord Linseley."

"No, and I most heartily apologize for taking the liberty. But you must tell me how I've offended you."

She turned toward the window. The stars were so infernally bright in this part of the world, she thought.

"I had a little talk with Mrs. Cockburn. While I was dressing."

"I'm surprised. I shouldn't have thought you'd want to expose your double identity to anyone here. You're usually so careful."

She turned back to him with a low laugh.

"Well, we should have had to tell her something tomorrow morning anyway, when I appeared for breakfast dressed as a woman."