Almost a Gentleman (43 page)

For a moment he allowed himself to savor the memory of Phoebe and Lady Kate waltzing together. Everyone—himself especially—had watched them with rapt delight.

But he remembered something else now. For—responsible as always—he hadn't allowed himself to watch them with as full attention as he would have wished because he'd also been scanning the crowd for possible enemies. And in fact he had noticed something rather odd—a discordant note, though he'd dismissed it at the time. It still seemed hard to credit, but perhaps it deserved a bit of investigation.

This time, however, he'd make no assumptions. This time he would base no hopes upon unfounded theories. He wouldn't even share his suspicions. Not until he got to London.

He scrawled a note to Phoebe. By God, they were running through paper and ink as though they were the protagonists of some sentimental novel from the prior century—those boring wordy ones done all in correspondence. Still, it was important to send a warning. The mail coach would arrive in London before he did, for he'd need to sleep from time to time along his journey. He'd catch a bit of a nap when he had to stop to change horses: at Coleby, perhaps, or Navenby—no, he'd try to make it all the way to Welbourn tonight if he could.

He wasn't absolutely confident that that the incipient blizzard would allow either him or the mail coach to get all the way to London—or even to Welbourn, for that matter. But he wouldn't think of those eventualities. His letters
would
reach the people he loved in London. And so, a day later, would he.

He needed to inform Phoebe that Crashaw wasn't the culprit and that the enemy was still at large. He implored her to be careful, and—because he didn't have time to think how to phrase it more elegantly—he told her the barest truth he knew, which was that he loved her more than his life and that nothing else mattered in the slightest.

Upon reflection, he decided that he couldn't be absolutely sure that Phoebe
would
be careful. So he wrote another letter, to Wolfe this time, beseeching him to keep watch over her.

He had Croft lay out his warmest clothes, and ignoring his stableman's warnings, demanded that Lucifer be saddled, bridled, fed, and watered for a long trip. He asked Mrs. Yonge to pack as much food as he could carry: plenty of sliced cold goose and beef from the banquet, cheese, apples, and one of Phoebe's pies. He filled his flask with brandy, the same brandy he and she had drunk some of the times they'd made love. He stopped what he was doing for a moment; no point trying to suppress the delightful ache, the hardening and tightening, he felt every time he thought of their love-making. He let it pass over him like a warm ocean wave. Another wave of emotion followed: this time an icy one. Fear.
She was in danger and he was too far away to help her
.

He stood his ground, refusing to let himself drown.
He was coming. She'd be safe
.

The sky was a cold, turbulent gray. A few flakes of snow were beginning to fall already. He needed to start immediately if he was to get to London at all. He swung himself into his saddle and was on his way.

London, five days later

Having returned to Town with no warning, Phizz Marston had decided to stay with Mr. Andrewes until Mr. Simms could reassemble his household staff and properly reopen the house in Brunswick Square. He didn't mind; it entertained him to accept his tailor's hospitality. Mr. and Mrs. Andrewes were open-hearted, grateful people; after all, Mr. Andrewes owed his startling latter-day prosperity to Phizz Marston's patronage. Mr. Simms was staying there too. Everyone was pleasant, and no one asked too many questions about the sojourn in Lincolnshire.

Anyway, it was a good way to refresh his wardrobe. And to practice wearing it again. A new suit of clothing awaited him at Mr. Andrewes' shop in Regent Street—he'd completely forgotten that he'd ordered it.

He quite liked the look of the jacket, though: it was something new, the sleeves a bit puffed at the top,
en gigot
was the term for it, Mr. Andrewes had told him. It had taken some craft, the tailor added, to make the sleeves and shoulders meet in a sober, harmonious line. Marston admired the subtly curved side seams and the neat darts at the back; he nodded appreciatively as Mr. Andrewes pointed out how perfectly flat the collar lay—the result of much laborious rolling, steaming, and pressing.

"Well done," Phizz said, gazing into the fitting room's three-sided mirror. "And it also gives me a bit more breadth of shoulder, without the need for additional padding."

"In truth, sir"—Mr. Andrewes never could help grinning when he had to call Phoebe "
Sir"
—"
your
particular deficiencies of physique are easier to correct than a lot of what I put up with from my other clients. 'Your waist's too wide for this dandified style, my lord, and your belly's too tubby' I tell 'em. 'Go home, and don't come back until you're wearing a decent corset.' "

"I take your point." Marston smiled. "Well, what's needed is a strong diagonal line—from broad shoulder to narrow waist—for a gentleman to wear a tight, high-waisted coat correctly. One sees that diagonal on the marvelous statues they're carting back from Greece, don't you know. I shouldn't wonder if half the attendees at the sculpture exhibitions aren't makers of gentleman's corsets, looking for a perfect torso as a model."

Of course, one wouldn't have to look at sculpture if one had already learned the lineaments of the perfect male torso. From putting one's arms around it, kissing one's way along the ridges of muscle…

Stop it, Phoebe
! Remember,
that
was only a dream.

Marston turned to Mr. Andrewes. "Now about this waistcoat I ordered. I don't usually wear color, you know, except perhaps a dull snuff hue once in a while. This gray violet I chose, though… I must have been uncharacteristically giddy—perhaps it was during the New Year holiday. Mr. Andrewes, do you really think…"

The tailor insisted that the subdued violet was a splendid choice. Colors were coming back into style for gentlemen. Of course, black would never be incorrect—not to imply that Mr. Marston need follow anyone's dictates as to matters of fashion correctness. But this gray violet, now—if Mr. Andrewes might be permitted an opinion—well after all, it was hardly a frivolous color, and it made a very striking effect against the young gentleman's ivory pallor and lustrous dark hair.

Newly dyed dark hair
. Marston glanced in the mirror with satisfaction. A good job, that.

And besides, Mr. Andrewes added, the unaccustomed color was rather a novelty. A bit of a conversation piece. He wouldn't suggest it for gloves or a cravat, of course…

Phizz Marston shuddered delicately at the notion of violet gloves.

But for a waistcoat, Mr. Andrewes concluded triumphantly, this particular color was quite acceptable, and even a bit of a welcome change.

Marston nodded, mind made up at last. "Of course you're right, Mr. Andrewes; you're always right on such matters, heaven knows why I argue with you, though I probably shall continue to do so into perpetuity."

He peered into the mirror for a last time—as much to adjust the cynical expression on his face as to certify the waistcoat's propriety.

And then, Mr. Andrewes added, there was the fact that Mr. Marston was looking so well; his winter vacation had done him a great deal of good.

Mr. Marston shrugged his perfectly tailored shoulders. He supposed it must have been the clean country air that had set him up, he replied languidly. Or the boredom, he added: all that sleep one got in the country, don't you know; well, sleeping is the most interesting amusement to be had at a country house party.

"Yes, I think the waistcoat will do very well after all. For conversation value alone, the new color is worth whatever it is you're charging me. No, don't tell me. I prefer to fortify myself with half a bottle of champagne before opening a bill from your establishment."

"I shall wear it now—well, why not? My first night out, you know—White's and then Vivien's. But first I must pay my belated respects to Lady Kate Beverredge—I'm due there directly.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Andrewes. Yes, I shall be home quite late. I've got a key, though, so please tell Mrs. Andrewes not to worry, won't you?"

He put on his top hat, allowed the tailor to help him on with his heavy winter greatcoat, and sailed out into Regent Street, drawing on fur-lined gloves.

At White's, the new violet waistcoat would constitute an event of first rank
. Marston yawned, politely covering his mouth with a dove-gray glove. The thought of wreaking consternation by means of a waistcoat constituted proof—if proof were needed—of exactly how uneventful the day-to-day life of the Polite World really was.

Every dandy would have to decide whether he wanted a colored waistcoat for himself. Well, it would distract attention, anyway, from the inevitable inquiries about where Phizz had been these two weeks.

Not that he wasn't prepared for such inquiries. He'd rehearsed his selection of uninformative and entertaining
bon mots
in front of the mirror this morning until he was perfect. He'd befuddle and amuse everyone he met tonight—as coldly and skillfully as he'd ever done. He'd end the evening at Vivien's, where he'd make a nice pile at the gaming tables.

The only person it might not be so easy to talk his way around was Lady Kate. A bother, he thought, to have agreed to go visit her today. He wasn't sure he was ready for her keen-eyed concern. But perhaps it was best to get it over with.

Nodding to acquaintances, he trod lightly upon the wooden walkways that had been erected over the streets of the West End, at least those parts of it whose pedestrians were deemed too good to muddy their feet. It would have been more than he could bear, he thought, to ruin his boots in the particularly disgusting yellowish muck clogging the gutters since all that snow had blown in from the north. The walkways were a bit slippery. He was glad of the skinny little sweeps pushing with their brooms against the ice that gathered so perilously in the lengthening afternoon shadows.

He gave out pennies, noting, as he did, that none of these children were wearing gloves against the cold. One of them, perhaps a bit less starved than his fellows, smiled up at him in thanks. He almost returned the smile, but thought better of it. Better to keep his attention on the slippery walkway. It was difficult enough simply to maintain one's balance.