And who did Lady Charity think she was? The audacity of the woman. She was astounding. Maddening!
He stared at his reflection in the looking glass with a dispassionate eye. He supposed he made a passable enough William Shakespeare. His clothing might have appeared as if from a bygone century. Still, the bit of hair affixed to his upper lip was driving him to distraction.
“The false mustache is a bit…excessive, do you not think, Anderson?” he asked his valet.
Anderson had been involved in the theater for years before decamping to become a valet. He had an excellent eye for everything that Neville did not, which was what made them a well-suited pair. If not for Anderson, Neville would likely be wandering about in ill-fitting trousers and unbecoming coats worn inside out. The man carried around a valise of supplies, rendering him capable of outfitting Neville for any occasion.
And apparently, those supplies included mustaches.
The monstrosity was tickling Neville’s upper lip.
And it was brown, where his hair was blond. Wholly unbelievable, but he supposed it did not matter when the entire notion of a masked costume ball was, in itself, utterly silly. Not in an amusing way, either.
“The mustache is necessary,” his valet countered smoothly. “William Shakespeare possessed a most unique one.”
“Did he not also have a beard?” Neville asked before thinking better of the query.
“You are right, my lord.” Anderson sifted through the contents of his valise once more before extracting an object that resembled nothing so much as a rodent and holding it aloft with a pleased cry. “Here is my beard. I do believe this one is from when I played King Lear.”
Neville should have held his tongue.
He eyed the thing dubiously. “I will not wear that on my face in addition to the mustache. It shall have to be one or the other.”
“Oh no, my lord,” Anderson assured him blithely, “it must be both, or the effect will be ruined.”
“You were about to send me to the ball wearing only the creature on my upper lip,” he pointed out. “Surely that will suffice.”
Anderson was already smearing some manner of glue upon the sad-looking beard. “Now that you have alerted me to my error, I cannot, in good conscience, send you on your way without the complete beard and mustache, sir.”
His valet held the beard nearer, and the scent of the glue invaded Neville’s nostrils, making him cough. His distraction provided sufficient opportunity for Anderson to adhere the beard to his face.
“Curse you, Anderson,” he muttered. “I ought to give you the sack.”
“You never would dare, my lord,” Anderson said calmly. “You do recall your deplorable manner of dress before my arrival, do you not? I shall never forget seeing you with the inner seams of your coat visible. To say nothing of the trousers which looked as if they had been the castoffs of a much shorter gentleman.”
“Yes,” he agreed grimly, hardly wishing for a catalog of his appalling state of dress before his valet had taken his wardrobe in hand.
“You were dreadfully slovenly,” his valet added, quite unnecessarily. “I have seen better outfitted beggars in the streets.”
“That is quite enough, Anderson. I am aware of my lack of acumen in relation to dress.”
Yes, it was true that he had been wearing ill-fitting trousers and coats which had been cheaply made, and that his waistcoats had resembled a dowager’s curtains, as his valet had once informed him. However, Neville had neither the time nor the interest for such trivialities. That was why a gentleman such as himself hired an Anderson, after all.
And absorbed the man’s eccentricities and thinly veiled insults.
But then, Anderson was interesting. Neville prized people who were capable of holding his attention. So few did. Which was why it was of the greatest import that he spend as much time as possible with Miss Melanie Pennypacker this evening. All the better to determine for certain that she would suit his purposes.
Anderson had a final, demeaning piece of tomfoolery to add to his costume.
The mask.
Once it was in place, Neville resisted the urge to laugh at his reflection. Mostly because it was difficult to breathe thanks to the mustache and the mask, and his chin itched horridly.
“I am being smothered,” he declared.
“You look splendid, my lord,” Anderson said, looking at him in the fashion of Frankenstein gazing upon The Creature.
With a suffering sigh, Neville thanked his valet and left for the evening’s festivities.
