Byron's Child (12 page)

“How is it going?” she asked, perching on a corner of the desk in thoroughly twentieth-century style.

“Plodding along. The material is fascinating, but it’s very frustrating to have only the slide rule to work it out on.” He wished he could tell her that the problems were solved, that he was taking her home. “From a more practical point of view, I’m sorry but we still don’t know if we’re going to find the answers.”

She leaned towards him to lay a slender hand on his wrist, warm and comforting. “Don’t worry about it, Giles. I didn’t come here to bug you about it. One day at a time. You’re working far too hard; you really must take some time off.”

“Perhaps I will, if you promise to dance with me. How was the ball?”

She pulled a face, wrinkling her enchanting nose. “It’s just like Disneyland, a lot of fun but once a year is plenty. There are so many other things I want to do and see.”

“Such as?” he asked warily, warned by her off-hand tone that he might not like what was coming.

“Oh, Gentleman Jackson’s and Tattersall’s, for instance.”

“Am I right in thinking that Charlotte would be scandalized?”

“Well yes, but I have seen most of the respectable amusements. Honestly, Giles, those places may be shocking to a gently bred nineteenth-century female, but I’m not one.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Then come and sit comfortably by the fire so that I don’t get a crick in my neck watching your horrified reactions.”

He was amused to see that Jodie made no attempt to curl up in the chair with her feet under her. He wondered whether she was simply being careful of an expensive silk frock or if she had unconsciously adapted to her environment, at least to that extent. Even taking her historical interests into account, she was coping admirably with the peculiarities of life in 1816.

He slouched back, his legs stretched before him. “Let’s hear the worst.”

“I’m afraid Tattersall’s and Gentleman Jackson’s are not the worst. One’s a highly respectable horse auctioneer and the other an amateur boxing saloon.”

“Would you walk into a men’s gym in twentieth-century California?” Giles was genuinely curious. He wouldn’t put it past her if she had what she considered a good reason.

“Well, no. Only in an emergency, I guess.”

“Then suppose I go to the boxing place and report to you.”

“Would you, Giles? You are a dear. But I cannot see why I should not go to Tattersall’s. I think ladies do go to race meetings. Certainly Ada Lovelace does in the 1840s. I’ll ask Charlotte about that.”

“I can’t help feeling I still haven’t heard the worst.”

“Most of the places are not that bad, just out of bounds for decorous young ladies. I am trying to be careful of my reputation, you know. But I’d love to see the inside of a gentleman’s club, and the coffee houses and coaching inns in the City, and the Royal Saloon. And though I’d rather not, I feel I ought to visit the Cockpit.”

“Cock fighting?” Giles was glad to hear the disgust in Jodie’s voice. “You do take your research seriously. Tell me, are you planning to visit these places alone?”

“I asked Thorncrest to take me to the Royal Saloon, but he refused. I’ll go alone if I have to.”

He hid his amusement at her hopeful tone—so that was why she was concerned that he was working too hard. “Thorncrest is not known for his observance of propriety,” he pointed out. “Just what goes on at this Royal Saloon?”

“The usual gambling and drinking,” said Jodie airily.

“And? I’ll ask Harry Font if you don’t come clean.”

“It’s a haunt of the muslin company.”

Giles had neither the time nor the background to delve into the mysteries of Regency slang. “Is the muslin company what I think it is?”

“Probably. It’s one of many euphemisms for prostitutes. They have free entry to the Royal Saloon, though I don’t know if the proprietor gets a rake-off or they are simply an added attraction.”

“All right, I’ll do my best to take you to those other places, or some of them at least, but I draw the line at a brothel.”

“House of ill fame. The Royal Saloon isn’t that. Half the peerage goes there to gamble. There are much worse places I’ve read about, I assure you, like the Finish and Old Mother Damnable’s. I wouldn’t dream of going there, even if it meant everlasting fame as a historian.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies. I’ll make enquiries about the Royal Saloon, but promise me that if I decide against it, you won’t go alone.”

She looked at him dubiously, her head cocked, her dark eyes serious. “It would leave a great hole in my research, not to have visited a gambling hell.”

“Please, Jodie. From what I’ve heard, the streets of London now are not very different from the streets of Manhattan in our time. Your research will do you no good if you’re lying dead in some back alley. Be reasonable.”

“If Dian Fossey had felt that way…”

“Damn Dian Fossey!” He wanted to shake her. Important as her work was to her, its value was academic, not to be compared in his view with Fossey’s discoveries about gorillas. Definitely not worth losing her life for as Fossey had—not that he would ever tell her so. Yet simply being here in 1816 was a risk, and it was his fault that she was here. Torn between guilt and annoyance, he stood up and walked to the window, parted the curtains to glance into the street, then returned to lean against the fireplace mantel.

Jodie watched him in silence. Did she guess how much the thought of her being hurt appalled him?

Postpone the decision, he thought. Maybe he’d be able to take her home before it had to be made. “Let me make enquiries. We may be fighting over nothing.”

“No.” She shook her head determinedly. “It’s not fair of me to leave you worrying about it when you have so much else on your mind. I promise. I will not go anywhere alone.”

“Bless you.” In his relief and gratitude, Giles had to restrain himself from sweeping her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly. “And I promise I won’t decide without consulting you and without very good reason. All right, where and when do we start? You’ll have to get hold of some trousers first.”

“Trousers?” Jodie sounded as shocked as Charlotte would have at the notion. “I cannot wear trousers.”

Giles laughed. “You’d better watch it. You’re really absorbing the values of this society.”

“No, I’m not,” she said crossly, “or I wouldn’t want to go to the Royal Saloon. You just took me by surprise. I guess I will have to dress as a man. Okay, I’ll find some pants and a coat and hat. I’ll have to keep my hair hidden. Drat, that’s going to make things difficult. Even the most old-fashioned gentlemen no longer wear their hair long. What a pity men don’t still wear wigs.”

“Footmen do. How would you like to be my footman?” he suggested teasingly.

“That’s a splendid notion,” she responded, to his astonishment. Excited, she rose from her chair in one swift, graceful movement, and moved to the fire, holding out one hand to the warmth and using the other to punctuate her points. “In the first place, I can get a livery made up, saying it’s for a fancy-dress ball. And no one looks at a footman’s face, so if we meet someone I’ve danced with they won’t recognize me. Nor is anyone who matters likely to try to start a conversation with a footman so there won’t be awkward questions about my voice or accent.”

“Sounds good,” he admitted.

“You’re brilliant, Giles, even if by accident.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. A sisterly kiss. He reciprocated with a brotherly hug.

At least, he hoped it was brotherly. When she stepped back quickly he was afraid he had put more enthusiasm into the brief embrace than he had intended. “If I’m going to be painting the town red with you in the near future, I’d better turn my brilliance back to my equations now,” he said, moving towards the desk.

“It’s much too late. You’ll ruin your eyesight.”

“But Mother, can’t I just finish one eentsy little equation? Pleeease.”

“Oh, very well. As long as you eat your carrots tomorrow like a good boy.” Laughing, she departed.

Giles sat down at the desk and picked up his quill, then set it down again. Leaning back, he tilted the chair and put his feet on the desk, his hands locked behind his head. He gazed into the glowing embers in the grate. He had addressed Jodie as “Mother,” but her remark had first struck him as wifely. It was time he sorted out his feelings for her.

She alternately infuriated and delighted him. Her willingness to argue and her blithe dismissal of danger were maddening. On the other hand, he admired her independence, her dedication to her profession, her cheerfulness in the extraordinary circumstances in which they found themselves. She was kind; look at the way she had taken Emily and Charlotte under her wing. And she was beautiful.

His abdominal muscles tensed at the thought. He wanted her. He had never felt quite the same way towards another woman, this combination of affection and desire…

He swung his feet violently to the floor, letting the chair fall with a thump. If and when they returned home it would be time enough to think on those lines. In the meantime, he must keep his imagination in check and remember that Jodie was his sister.

~ ~ ~

When he first saw her in livery, Giles found it easy to imagine Jodie as a naughty little sister. He had just walked back from Dover Street through torrential rain and was heading for his chamber to change for dinner. Emily peeked out of her dressing room, giggling, and beckoned to him.

“Come and see.”

Intrigued, he followed her despite the discomfort of his damp clothes. “What is it?”

“Hush. Charlotte has gone to some dinner party with Roland, but Matty might tell her.”

Draped in a sheet, Jodie was seated at the dressing table while Emily’s abigail tied back her powdered hair with a black ribbon. Dinah carefully removed the sheet and Jodie stood up. She was wearing a calf-length bottle-green coat, liberally adorned with black braid, beneath which little was visible but a pair of shapely ankles in white stockings.

She bowed. As the skirts of the coat fell open, Giles saw that she had on black knee-breeches, cut full and unrevealing.

“Well, what do you think?” she demanded, mischief sparkling in her eyes.

“That colour doesn’t suit you.” He ducked, protecting his head, as all three females advanced on him with threatening gestures. “No, seriously, you make a passable youth, Jodie. Walk across the room. Women walk differently from men.”

“My hat, Dinah.” Jodie took a black tricorne from the abigail and placed it at a jaunty angle on her head, then pulled on white gloves. She strode across the small room, turned, and looked at him enquiringly.

“Not bad. That coat’s long and loose enough to cover a multitude of sins.” Giles stepped aside as the door beside him began to open.

“Dinah?” Matty peeped in. “Oh, beg pardon, Miss Emily, I just…. Miss Judith? Lawks, what’s to do?”

Giles took cowardly refuge behind the door. Dinah bustled forward and swept the older abigail with her into the hall, firmly closing the door behind them. Approximately two seconds later, three ears were pressed to the door.

“Were that Miss Judith?” Matty asked plaintively. “Or is me eyes playing tricks on me?”

“‘Tis only a fancy dress for a maskyrade, Matty.”

“Dress! Fancy britches more like. And not a word has my lady said to me of any maskewrade.”

“0’course not. Only Miss Judith and Mr. Giles is invited acos—acos it’s that American lady as invited them,” Dinah invented quick-wittedly. “You know, the widow Mr. Giles is courting.”

“Mrs. Brown? What I heard is he’s got a bit o’ competition from Lord Font. I misdoubt she’ll go for the title.”

“More like she’ll take her own countryman.”

Embarrassing as he found the revelation that the servants were gossiping about his chances with Cassandra, Giles was glad that the subject of Jodie in livery had been dropped. He was about to relieve the pressure on his ear and the crick in his neck when Matty took up the thread again.

“That’s as may be. Them Americans is odd folk. You know Miss Judith’s not up to snuff, Dinah. Did you or Miss Emily tell her as it ain’t proper for a lady to wear britches?”

“It’s a maskyrade. No one won’t know who she is.”

“Decent’s decent and indecent’s indecent, maskewrade or no. My lady won’t like it one bit.”

“Now, Matty, there’s no call to be a-worriting her ladyship, in her condition. Miss Judith’s not going to come to harm with her own brother to watch over her.”

“And him with his head in the clouds and his eyes on the widow,” Matty snorted. “Still an’ all, you’re right ‘bout my lady. It won’t do to have her put in a tizzy in her condition. But you warn Miss Judith what I said, mind!”

“I’ll tell her, right enough. What was it you wanted me for?”

“My lady tore a bit o’ Valenciennes. You’re better at stitching up lace nor ever I’ll be.”

“I’ll do it for you, Matty,” Dinah promised. “Just set it aside. I better get back to Miss Emily.”

The three eavesdroppers hurriedly moved away from the door as it opened, but Emily let the cat out of the bag.

“That was very clever of you, Dinah, to think of saying the invitation was from Mrs. Brown.”

Giles felt his face grow red. “But I’m not courting her,” he said with unnecessary vigour, glancing at Jodie to see how she took his denial.

“What does Matty mean, I’m not up to snuff!” she said indignantly, more concerned, to Giles’s slight disappointment, with the affront to herself than with the suggestion that he fancied Cassandra. “I know perfectly well that wearing trousers is indecent.”

Giles looked at her and started laughing; Emily joined in, and the maid hid a discreet snicker behind her hand. After a moment, Jodie grinned.

“All right, that was a pretty stupid thing to say. I guess Mom was right that eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.”

“‘Head in the clouds,’” Giles quoted Matty, then sneezed. “Well, there are plenty of clouds out there for me to lose my head in.”

“You are wet through,” Jodie exclaimed. “I did not realize. You must go and change at once.”

“Yes, I’d better. My umbrella blew inside out. It seems to rain every day—I can’t remember such a dismal spring. I hope it clears up soon.”