The Lady’s Secret (3 page)

“Above all, you must be quiet,” Lily said. “He was most particular about that.”

“Yes,” Georgy said. “You’ve already said so.” Her calm voice belied her inner turmoil. She was good at that—appearing to be tranquil.

As Lily fussed around her with a clothes brush, Georgy eyed her reflection with something between wonder and dismay. She looked more like a man than she’d thought she possibly could. But with her smooth cheeks, did she look old enough to be a valet?

Thank God for the figure she’d inherited from her mother. Her boyish hips and slender legs made her reasonably convincing from the waist down—with the aid of a long-tailed coat. For the top half, she’d stitched some filler into the shoulders of the coat to broaden her appearance and adjusted a corset to give her a flat, rigid torso. She’d have to come up with something else to deal with her bosom if she got the position, though. She wouldn’t have anyone to help her lace up a corset every day.

Her hair was short now, a shiny cap of silver-gold. Lily had done the worst bit—cutting off the length—and then Georgy had neatened it up. She’d left it slightly longer than was fashionable. There would be times that she would be close to the earl; some hair might come in useful to hide behind.

She had always hated her pale eyebrows and lashes; she usually darkened them to give her eyes more depth. Now she was glad of their almost-invisibility. She’d made her face into a bland mask by using powder to even out the pinkness of her lips, disguising their natural hue and fullness.

There was something truly androgynous about the face that looked back at her from the mirror. The only colour she possessed now, other than her bright cap of hair, was in her eyes. And they had almost no colour at all. Georgy’s eyes were the translucent green-blue of clear glass. She’d been complimented on their unusual hue in the past but standing here now, she felt like a pale shadow. Invisible. Silent. And neither man nor woman.

Lily finished her brushing at last and came round to face her. She stared at Georgy, frowning.

“Remind me why I’m doing this,” Georgy said.

“You are Georgiana Thorn, sister of the Earl of Dunsmore.”

“Yes. I am Georgiana Thorn. And this is my chance to try to find the proof.” She took a deep breath. “Now, will I do?”

Lily considered for a moment. “You look like a pretty boy,” she said, “but a boy nonetheless. Here, shake my hand.” She extended an arm.

“He won’t shake my hand,” Georgy said as she took Lily’s fingers in her own, “He’s an earl.”

“He may do—he hates damp palms and he might want to check yours. Try to make it manly.”

Georgy took Lily’s hand in a firm grip and pumped it up and down. When she was finished, Lily turned Georgy’s hand over and ran her fingertips over the palm.

“Good—your hands are slightly rough. All that mucking around with scenery, no doubt. The handshake was good too. We’d better pare the nails back a bit though.”

Lily leaned forward then and inhaled, closing her eyes.

“You don’t smell right. Wait—I have something.” She hurried off and returned within moments with a small jar. “It’s pomade,” she explained. “Sir Nigel left it here.”

Georgy scowled. “I don’t want to wear pomade.”

“I’m not suggesting you cake your hair with it. Just put a little bit in it for the scent and to keep your hair behind your ears.”

Georgy dipped her fingers in and rubbed a little bit of the waxy stuff between her thumb and forefinger, warming it. The scent intensified. It made her think of forests, dark and woodsy. Of pine. It was anything but feminine. She rubbed it between her palms so that it coated her hands lightly and quickly ran her fingers through her hair, letting her hands drift down behind her ears and down her throat. She rubbed the last of it over her wrists.

When she had finished anointing herself, she smiled. “How’s that?”

Lily stepped forward again and sniffed. “Much better. You smell like a man now. Actually, you look just like Harry did when he was fifteen or sixteen.”

“Fifteen?” Georgy said, horrified. “I look
fifteen?
”

“Don’t worry,” Lily quickly soothed. “You’ll pass for older. Harry looked twenty when he was fifteen.”

Georgy gave her sceptical look and then turned to the mirror again, but in fact Lily wasn’t far wrong. She did look like Harry’s younger, less masculine brother. Her eyes drifted downwards, halting just below her waist. She frowned. “Do you have any old stockings?”

Lily laughed, opened a drawer and rifled around, pulling out a handful of pink silk and handing it to Georgy, who balled it up and tucked it into shape. Once she was satisfied, she undid the buttons at the top of her breeches and thrust the stockings inside, adjusting her drawers then doing the buttons back up. She turned back to Lily. “What do you think?”

“Lovely. But you’d best lose one of the stockings, if you don’t want Harland’s eyes to pop out.”

“My lord, a
young person
is here to see you. A Mr. Fellowes. He says he has an appointment. About the valet position.” Taylor’s tone was faintly disapproving, but then it always was.

Harland turned his attention from his desk. This would be Lily Hawkins’ cousin. “Show him in, please.”

A few moments later, Taylor returned with a young man and promptly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Fellowes executed a small bow and doffed his hat, then stood several yards from where Nathan lounged behind his desk. “My lord,” he said quietly. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Nathan regarded him silently. Fellowes couldn’t be much more than twenty. He was short, slight and very fair, with the sort of youthful, delicate looks that Nathan could well imagine might appeal to the sort of gentleman his last master had reportedly been.

Fellowes stood silent and still as Nathan looked his fill. His linen was well-starched, the beautifully tied cravat an advertisement, no doubt, of his skills. Lily was right about his bearing and demeanour. He appeared restrained and serene. He bore Nathan’s scrutiny without seeming to be discomfited or feeling the need to speak.

Nathan stood and walked around his desk, linking his hands behind his back. “So, Mr. Fellowes. You wish to be my valet?”

“I do, my lord.” He stood as unmoving as a statue, his hat dangling from his fingertips. He did not appear to be nervous.

“Why?”

Several beats passed before Fellowes answered. “I need a position. And you are known to be a very elegant gentleman, my lord. It will make my name to serve you.”

Nathan said nothing in response to these bold, quiet words. Silence stretched, and deliberately, Nathan did not fill it. But Fellowes said nothing more. Nor did he shift around. He stood serenely, simply waiting.

Two minutes passed thus.

Nathan had interviewed the other eight candidates at length but he could see that this was not going to be necessary in Fellowes’ case. He sensed already that he would be able to tolerate the man’s calm, quiet presence. As for his skills as a valet, well, there was only one way to find that out.

“I will give you a month’s trial,” Nathan said. “You will begin on Monday.”

Fellowes started, plainly surprised. His pale eyes darted left then back to centre. “What are—that is to say, could you tell me what the terms of employment are, my lord?”

Nathan shrugged, uninterested. “Taylor will see to that. See him on your way out, there’s a good chap.” He turned, ready to go back to the leather chair behind his desk.

“Ah—my lord?”

Nathan turned back again, his eyebrows drawing together with displeasure. He had dismissed the man. What on earth could he have to say? Hadn’t he been given the position already?

“Yes?”

Fellowes bit his lip. When he spoke, his words emerged in a rush. “I—er—wanted to request…certain terms.”

“Terms?”

Fellowes coughed and his cheeks bloomed with scarlet. Yet he kept going. “I had hoped I could have my own room, my lord. And—” He broke off at the sight of Nathan’s raised eyebrows and incredulous expression.

“
And?
”

“And a half day off a week,” he blurted.

Having made these demands, Fellowes fell silent again. He glanced down at his feet, his face still flushed. Nathan regarded him for a few moments. He had no interest in the particulars of the servants’ employment, which he left to Taylor, but Fellowes’ requests seemed reasonable enough and he respected the young man for speaking up for himself.

“All right,” he said with a shrug. He reached for the bell.

“Th-thank you, my lord,” Fellowes stammered.

Nathan gestured carelessly at a chair. “Sit.”

Fellowes obediently seated himself where Nathan had indicated. He sat prissily, with his knees together, his hat resting on his lap. When he noticed Nathan looking at him, he inched his legs slowly apart. Nathan watched him, saying nothing while they waited for Taylor to return. Really, he was a pup. What was he thinking, giving a youth this position? Even on a trial basis.

When Taylor arrived, he ignored Fellowes and looked at Nathan enquiringly. “My lord?”

“Ah, Taylor. Mr. Fellowes will be starting as my valet on Monday. He is to have his own room. And every—Sunday?—” he glanced at the lad, who nodded quickly, “—every Sunday afternoon off. All understood?”

Taylor’s eyes widened fractionally but beyond that he expressed no surprise, merely inclined his head.

“Taylor will discuss your wages with you, Fellowes,” Nathan said, glancing at the young man, who was now rising to his feet. “No doubt he will explain where and when you should present yourself on Monday. I will bid you good day.”

“Thank you, my lord. Good day.” Fellowes bowed again, a little stiffly.

Once the doors of the library had closed again, Nathan leaned back in his chair. Was he mad? Certainly he was impulsive. But he had had a good feeling from the young man and had been impressed by his air of quiet confidence.

Now George Fellowes had a month to prove himself worthy.

When Georgy stumbled out of Harland’s house, she was still reeling. She couldn’t believe he’d hired her so quickly. Just one question he’d asked:
Why?

And that raking look, as though he could see all her secrets.

He had hired her on a trial basis for a month. She needed to stay for at least two, long enough to attend Dunsmore’s Christmas house party. She would have to make herself indispensible to him so he’d let her stay till then. She hoped several years of dressing actors in every conceivable costume, styling hair and painting cosmetics on faces was going to help her in her new role. For the next month at least, she would have to pass as George Fellowes, valet to Lord Nathaniel Harland, the most elegant gentleman in London.

Lord Nathaniel Harland.

She would be drawing his bathwater, looking after his clothes. Shaving him! Good lord, she would need to get some practice in. She had never shaved a man in her life.

She pulled her hat a little lower over her face and set a course for Lily’s house, two miles away. She’d come in a hack and this was her first time walking out in broad daylight, dressed as a man. It felt distinctly odd. Odd and liberating, to walk without the heavy weight of skirts around her legs, to feel instead her legs moving freely, unrestricted. The capacity for movement was astonishing. She relished it and almost feared it. She found herself wanting to run. It would be something to run, clad like this, without fear of tripping, without having to hold fistfuls of fabric in her hands. Instead of running, she did the next best thing, taking long strides and swinging her arms in an unladylike manner.

She dipped her hand in her pocket and withdrew her lucky coin, a somewhat misshapen half crown Papa had given her years ago. She’d been very small at the time, five or six. Papa had dropped the coin in the street and a carriage had promptly rumbled over it. They’d laughed at its warped shape when he’d picked it up again and he’d given it to her “for luck.” She always kept it with her—even when she used to go on stage. Not that it had brought her much luck there.

But it had worked today.

As Georgy walked, she flipped the coin under and over every finger on her left hand, catching it with her thumb each time she reached her pinky and beginning again. It was a deft, flashy trick Papa had taught her. She wasn’t even particularly aware of doing it as she ran over that strange, brief interview in her mind.

Her first glimpse of Harland had all but felled her. She’d never seen a man like him. Not that she hadn’t seen handsome men before. The theatre was full of handsome men. But she’d never seen a man like Harland. Not her brother, who was like a Greek god with his big body and fair hair. Not Will Grainger, Max’s lead actor, with his dashing moustache and straight white teeth. Not even Michael McCall, with his piercing blue eyes and stirring kisses. Harland was different.

He was
beautiful
.

Something in her had ached when she’d seen him. She’d watched him rise from behind his desk, tall and lean and broad-shouldered, with his dark hair flopping over his forehead. Dark like sable, as dark as his skin was fair, as dark as his melting eyes. Those eyes. She’d thought she’d drown. Lushly, extravagantly lashed; so much so it was as though his eyes were lightly outlined with kohl. And his mouth—it might have been thought almost feminine in its beauty, were it not for the firm, purely masculine line of the jaw beneath.

She had told him he was the most elegant gentleman in London. That was his reputation and it did not lie. He had been wrapped up exquisitely in his finely tailored superfine coat, silk waistcoat and buff breeches. And all that starched white linen about his pale throat.

She would be dressing him. More to the point, she would be
un
dressing him. Her mouth went dry at the thought. What would he look like beneath the wool and the silk and the linen?

She was not ignorant of men’s bodies. She helped actors in and out of costumes every night—she had seen men naked. And Michael McCall was not the only man she’d kissed in her life. The world of the theatre was less prudish than that of ordinary mortals. She might be a virgin but she knew how these things went and she’d experienced that excitement, low in her body, the craving for more. But she’d never known she could feel that sort of desire just from
looking
at someone. Someone standing at least ten feet away. Someone who hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her…