[Samuel Barbara] The Black Angel(Book4You) (20 page)

As she drank her first cup of chocolate by the window of her bedroom, staring out at the dreary, wet day with a sense very like disappointment, a knock came to Adriana's door. Before she could call out entrance, her husband strode in. He was dressed to go out in a redingote and tall boots, and his expression was quite grim.

Adriana started to rise. "I'm sorry. I thought that the weather would prevent our riding. I have not—"

"Sit down." He took a hand from behind his back and revealed that he was holding a sheet of paper. His mouth in a hard line, he glared at the page, then slapped it on the table before her. "I felt I should be the one to show you."

Reluctantly, Adriana looked down. And all the blood in her body seemed to abruptly drain out in a rush. Her ears buzzed, and she put a hand on the table, suddenly sure she would faint.

Tynan caught her hand and said fiercely, "Breathe."

She sucked in a great breath and the faintness ebbed. Squaring her shoulders, she forced herself to take another look. It was a crude, satirical drawing. She'd seen scores in her life, political and scandalous; they were distributed on street corners and slyly tucked into the storefront windows of the printers who issued them.

But she had never been the object of one before. "It's so… vulgar," she said at last. The sketch showed a woman leering, lifting her skirts so high her garters showed. One breast nearly fell out of her bodice, and her hair was askew. Behind her lay a dead man, and around a corner peeked a lascivious-looking man. And behind him came a black face and a noble with a smoking gun. A tag line read:
Round Two
?

"Mmm," Tynan said, sweeping it up. "Flattering, too, wouldn't you say?"

She wanted to smile, but found it impossible. Her chocolate roiled in her stomach and she feared very much she would be sick. Pressing a napkin to her mouth, she shook her head. In sudden horror, she looked up at him. "Will it hurt Julian, do you think?"

He tucked the awful thing in his pocket. "I'll go out and see what I can discover on that score. The weather is too poor for our ride anyway."

She nodded dully.

For a moment more, he lingered, then—perhaps, she thought, because they had parted on such an uneasy note the evening before—he simply said, "Good day."

She did not rouse herself to watch him go. He had to be as horrified as she was. Odd that it made her feel so bereft.

By the time she emerged from her chamber an hour later, neither Tynan nor Gabriel were anywhere about to keep her company. Resolving to avoid the trap of hiding and feeling sorry for herself that she'd indulged yesterday, she sent a note to Cassandra. Her sister returned regrets.
I have a most important engagement this afternoon
, she wrote.
Tomorrow, dearest
.

There was nothing to do. She read for a while, but found she could not sit still long enough to do the novel justice. Her attention kept wandering. Each time a servant passed in the halls, she wondered if they'd seen the cartoon, and could not bear to raise her eyes and see the hurriedly covered shock on their faces.

Finally she took out her writing box, stationed herself by the stove in the conservatory, and wrote a letter to Leander.

I am enjoying, this very moment, your collection of flowers. There are a good many in bloom; the roses, of course, and some others. My favorite is a yellow orchid with tiny brown spots on the petals. I am sure you would correct me in the correct Latin name if you were here. You must come soon for a visit, you know. You and Julian and Gabriel could trade adventure tales.

The letter occupied three-quarters of a very quiet hour, during which a solid rain began to fall, casting a chill through the rooms. She fetched a warm shawl and put new coal on the fire, then wrote to Ophelia and Cleo, together. In this one she described the dressmaker's shop and the assistants and the French dolls and the gowns she'd ordered, knowing how much they would enjoy the vicarious pleasure of it. She left out the confrontation with Malvern's mother, of course. She ended with a cheerful postscript:
We are invited to a rout at the Duchess of Sherbourne's mansion. I shall wear the pink silk
.

She sealed both and gave them to a footman to be posted.

And still there was nothing to do. Around her the house echoed with silence, broken only by the murmur of voices from the kitchen or the absent humming of a maid as she went about her chores. Out in the street the world hurried on, and for a time she stood by the window of the parlor, looking out. She wondered where her brother and husband were, what exciting business engaged them; she imagined them in some bustling spot, with voices and newspapers and plenty of debate.

At home at Hartwood she would have gone out for a walk. The idea made her faint with terror today.

If she had been born a man, where would she be in this moment? Certainly she might have spent her morning engaged in correspondence, but it might not have been with family. Perhaps she would have been a scholar or in the church or engaged in politics.

No. She wrinkled her nose. Cassandra would have been the scholar, Phoebe in the church. It was impossible to imagine Ophelia as a man at all—she was so very suited to womanhood. Cleo? Cleo was as yet unformed, her interests colored by Ophelia's gentle frivolity.

What would she herself have loved? Adriana wondered. Adventure. Travel. Perhaps she'd have bought a commission and sailed the seas. Or built an import trade.

From the doorway the housekeeper asked, "Would you like some tea, milady? It's right cold this morning."

Drawn from her thoughts, Adriana turned, absurdly grateful for the small kindness. "Yes, Mary. Thank you."

She was bored. And lonely. It was too quiet here, and she was too afraid to venture out for fear of meeting yet another member of society who would cut her.

The idea bloomed naturally: What if she did not venture out as herself? What if she went out as a servant? Borrowed a gown from Fiona and pretended to be a housemaid running an errand for her mistress? She could buy a mutton pie for her lunch and eat it on a bench under a sheltering tree, with perhaps a little cider to wash it down with.

Or—a logical extension of her thoughts this morning—why not a man?

Well, there was one practical consideration. She wondered quite seriously if she could bind her breasts tightly enough to hide them. First she would try the servant's gown.

Why not? With a little chuckle she hurried upstairs to find Fiona, and found her darning a pair of much mended socks in the anteroom off her bedroom. "Fiona, I have a wicked plan, and need your help."

"Wicked, my lady?"

"Well, not
that
wicked." She plucked the socks from her maid's hands. "These are worn through. Throw them away and I'll see you have ten new pairs by day's end."

The girl's hazel eyes grew shrewd. "And what crime am I committing to get them?"

Adriana laughed. "No crime! I only—" She glanced over her shoulder and hurried to close the door before she continued. "I want to borrow your clothes. Some dress you keep for days off?"

"My lady, I have only two, and they are very poor."

"Let me see."

Plainly thinking her mistress had lost her wits, Fiona put down the darning and opened the small wardrobe in the corner. She took out a simple blue wool with a white collar. It was worn but generously cut. The other was also wool, this one the color of a good claret, and obviously Fiona's best. A little lace adorned the skirt and sleeves. "This suits you," Adriana said. "Put it on. I'll wear the blue. When you're ready, come help me dismantle my hair."

"Yes, milady." She did not quite dare look askance at Adriana, but her expression showed some alarm.

"We'll not do anything dangerous, Fiona," she said. "I promise."

She was quite transformed, Adriana thought, admiring herself in the mirror over her dressing table. Fiona was of a size, and the gown fit well, though she had to scramble for shoes, finally deciding on a pair of leather slippers she wore when the weather was fine for gardening. Fiona brushed out her hair and pinned it in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, then draped a large woolen shawl around her shoulders and pinned it at her waist.

"Will I do?" Adriana asked.

Fiona frowned doubtfully. "You look like a lady dressed as a peasant," she said sadly.

"Surely not!" She scowled at herself in the mirror.

"Do not stand quite so straight," she said. "Let your shoulders go, and your hips. Only ladies have to walk so straight, the rest of us have to work too hard—we've got to be free to move our bodies."

"Oh!" Adriana took a breath and shook her shoulders. She thought of childhood, of running along a beach with her brothers and of climbing trees. The tension left her hips suddenly, and she turned. "Better?"

Fiona's expression said not.

"Very well, then." She stripped off the shawl and put it in Fiona's arms. "I'll return in a trice."

She did not bother to rifle through either of her brothers' or her husband's things. They were all too thin to accommodate her bust. Instead she marched down the passageway to her father's room and pushed open the door.

The smell of him—leather and horse and powder—struck her with the force of a whip, cutting deep into vulnerable flesh. Stunned, she only stood in the doorway for a long moment, a sense of fresh loss upon her. The windows were shuttered, leaving the room dark and cold, and she felt strangely reluctant to enter. He'd not lived in these rooms for more than five years, not with any regularity, anyway, and her memories of him here all came from the days when she'd been presented at Court. Before he grew ill. Before she met Malvern. Before the duel.

She closed her eyes and leaned on the door frame for a moment, allowing the sense of her loss to fill her for one moment. She had genuinely, deeply loved James St. Ives. Unlike many fathers of her acquaintance, he'd never held himself distant from his children. He'd involved himself in their affairs—sometimes with maddening results—and arranged things to make them happy when he could. He talked with them, and listened, and wanted to know who they were. His loss had left her numb for months.

Somehow, she had forgotten him in all this upheaval the past few weeks, but it had been his hand that pushed it all in motion, hadn't it?

For the first time, she wondered what his purpose had been. What had he seen, particularly, in Tynan Spenser, to cause him to select the man from the scores he knew on some level or another? And Tynan himself had said that the Earl was most specific about which daughter he should wed—Adriana.

To the room that smelled of him so insistently, she said aloud, "What were you thinking, Papa?"

But of course there was no answer. Remembering her purpose, she went first to the windows and flung open the shutters, then marched to the wardrobe and pulled out a handful of coats. More of that rich smell came with them, along with dust that made her sneeze, twice.

The Earl of Albury had favored a dandy's colors—apple-green and bright yellow, satins in rather exuberant stripes, and sleeves heavy with lace. Perfect. She chose the green coat with gold buttons and a finely made shirt of lawn with cotton lace that would drip well over her knuckles. Before his illness, he'd been stout, so there was no trouble finding a waistcoat roomy enough to hide her bosom. Breeches to match, white stockings flocked with gold, and a pair of shoes with buckles. The whole was only a little outdated.

Finally, from the stands on a table, she chose a wig imported from France, made of natural auburn hair dressed in a queue. Gathering it all up, she closed the door carefully behind her and rushed back down the hall to her own chamber. Fiona stood up as Adriana rushed in with a happy squeal. "Not even my sister will know me when we're finished here," she cried.

The maid widened her eyes.

"Oh, don't worry," Adriana said. "No one will catch me out."

The girl helped her bind her breasts with a length of linen, and while Adriana pulled the shirt over her head, Fiona brushed the coat vigorously. They stuffed more bits of linen into the too-big shoes, and Adriana pulled on the silky gold and white stockings.

By then even Fiona grew a little giddy. "I've always had a yen to do this meself," she confessed, helping Adriana into the coat like a true valet. "But you're tall. It helps you." She took up the wig. "Sit down, milady."

They'd carefully pinned her hair into a circle around her head, and as Adriana sat, cocking her head in a faintly mocking way, she was deeply pleased. She didn't at all look like a woman, but a young man with too much time on his hands and a stipend to waste. In the servant's gown, she'd appeared only a slightly altered version of her youthful self, not at all invisible, as she'd hoped.

But now Fiona settled the wig on her head and the dark hair erased the last bits of Adriana. It made her skin paler yet, and took some of the brightness from her lips, putting the focus instead on her eyes, making them brilliantly blue, like the promising eyes of a rake.

She raised a brow and drawled, "Strike me blind."

Fiona could not halt a delighted little giggle, which she tried to catch back with her hand. Then she stepped back and made a little curtsy. "Milord."

Adriana even felt different as she rose. Taller, leaner, stronger. She liked the illusion of night-bred pallor the dark hair gave, liked the way her mouth appeared not flirtatious in a pout, but disdainful. Experimentally, she walked across the room, checking the fit of the shoes—and oddly, the sense of them being too large was a help. She set them down with more authority than she used in everyday life. From a casket on her table she withdrew a small bag of coins, which she tucked neatly in her waistcoat pocket. "Well, what do you think now, Fiona?"

"Very good."

"I suppose I have to venture out alone now," Adriana commented, admiring herself. "Wouldn't want your reputation harmed." She rolled her eyes. "Not that I can do it more damage than has been done simply by being my maid." Then a practical thought made her frown. "How am I going to get out of the house like this?"