And what would stick to Judith, were he to bow to her pleas to let her circulate in society? Girls like the Gorgons would be ruthless with her fragility. And as for his other siblings, the ones he would prefer no one in this room to ever know about—far, far worse would await them in the man-traps of aristocratic circles.
“The one in that bilious green sack, which is an offense to the eye,” Jem said, affecting a casual swallow of champagne. “If they are the Gorgons, does that make her the Medusa?”
Their hostess smiled at seeing Jem perform the role she had assigned him. Lady Clara Bellwether had appeared in Jem’s shop about a year ago, one of the first wave of Society matrons inspecting the Marquess of Arendale’s latest heir. The daughter of an earl and emerging from mourning her wealthy baronet, Clara had taken Jem’s advice on fabrics, cut, and style, and the dashing results had made her a leader of fashion.
He had little doubt she made much of him purely for her own amusement and would cut him off at the knees the moment she displeased him, for no one in London’shaut tonwould forget he was a lowly linen draper’s son no matter how many estates he inherited. Still, Clara was better thanThe New Peeragefor knowing the composition of every ranking family and the secrets they hid behind closed doors.
He wondered how long he could keep his own doors closed against her.
“The one in green is Pevensey’s niece,” Lady Clara said. “Not by blood, but by his second wife, the one he has now. His children are by his first wife, and the daughter is the darling little nuthatch dancing with Mallory.”
Jem probed his knowledge of the aristocracy. Pevensey was a minor baron, a fairly new creation who, like most of his class, was in debt to his tailor. The cloth for hisdaughter’s presentation gown had come from Dixon & Co., Jem’s warehouse. Jem accepted his invitation to the daughter’s coming-out ball, made a remark about her dress that had been broadcast all over town, and watched in satisfaction as orders for that fabric multiplied in the days that followed.
It made him mercenary, but better a mercenary than a fool.
“And the niece’s name?” Jem wondered who had allowed the girl out of the house in such attire. What business had she cutting other people down, wearing a gown like that? Even if gossip was the favored blood sport of English drawing rooms.
Lady Clara arched thin, painted brows. “You desire an introduction, Rudyard? But you never approach a woman.”
Jem shrugged, his shoulders constrained by the fit of his evening coat. “I am only wondering who has charge of the young lady’s wardrobe.”
Clara laughed. “That is Miss Lucasta Lithwick, and no one will make a pattern ofher.”
Lucasta. An unusual name. It had a ring of enchantment about it, though Jem would never say so aloud.
Clara went on with relish. “We all wondered why Lady Pevensey would trot her niece out from the boarding school where she’d been stowed to play companion to Miss Pevensey this Season. The family is landed—milady Pevensey’s nephew is the latest Viscount Frotheringale, if you didn’t know.” Jem didn’t.
“But her ladyship’s sister was scored from the family Bible when she insisted on standing up with a poor foreign-born vicar with nothing but the clothes on her back. Can you imagine? Old Frotheringale was furious, and the dowager held her grudge even after the scandalous sister died. However, I just heard something curious from Lady Cranbury.”
Ashley and Plimpton leaned in, as avid for gossip as any bored matron. Against his will Jem bent toward Clara as well.
“The girl’s great-aunt, old Frotheringale’s sister, Lady Evers, as she’s styled now.” Clara gave Jem a knowing look, and he nodded, though he had already given up trying to sort out the familial complexities. “She’s amassed quite a fortune from all her marriages, and she told the Dowager Viscountess Frotheringale that she means to leave everything to her grand-niece.” Clara paused dramatically. “Miss Lithwick is about to becomeveryinteresting.”
“How large a fortune?” Plimpton demanded.
Jem blessed his friend for the question, since it would look too crass in him to ask. Titled gentlemen evaluating a lady for her dowry was acceptable in these circles; a tradesman cultivating business interests was not.
Clara paused, which meant she didn’t know and was calculating exactly how interesting she wanted Miss Lucasta Lithwick to become. “A great deal.”
Jem straightened. He’d gained the Pevensey custom, but he didn’t know how much those coffers contained. Tradesmen talked, and Lord Pevensey was in debt everywhere.
The Frotheringales, however, were uncharted territory. If his shops were to style a viscount’s cousin, that might lead to styling the viscountess, and the new viscount, and in time the new viscount’s bride. And if they had friends in even higher positions of wealth and influence—there were vast opportunities there.
“Why then, someone ought to advise Miss Lithwick on matters of fashion,” Jem drawled. “And who better than I?”
Lady Clara’s gaze narrowed on him, and Jem detected a flash of anger. He wondered why. Because he was acting the common tradesman again?
“I suppose a linen draper’s son would know,” Clara said silkily. “It is such a shame your family should lose Cadmus, and so soon after that Lord Payne—the late Lord Payne, I mean to say. I am sure Lady Payne is simply devastated.”
Jem jerked his head, heat choking his throat.Cadmus. His cousin’s death still didn’t feel real. Impossible to believe his friend, his champion, the bright, laughing boy he’d always looked up to was gone, and struck down by something so common as typhus.
Aunt Payne was indeed devastated, and not only to lose her heir and her hopes for a secure future. She was mortified. For now the Marquess of Arendale’s third and most feckless son would inherit, the one who had injured the family by marrying a linen draper’s daughter so he might continue to fund his extravagant lifestyle after his father cut him off. The son who’d been dispatched halfway across the world to be governor of Barbados, where it was hoped his excesses could be contained, was now by courtesy the Earl Payne.
And Jem was, by courtesy, the Viscount Rudyard.
His temples throbbed. He would reverse his fate if he could. By rights and the light of a just God, Cadmus should still be alive, Arendale’s heir. And Jem should be Mr. Jeremiah Falstead, linen draper and clothier, overseeing the business his mother had bequeathed him. Tending the enormous warehouse in Cheapside, running the shop in Piccadilly near the fashionable shopping districts of Bond Street and Pall Mall, traveling to Ireland and the Continent to meet wholesalers and find weavers making new types of cloth.
A year ago, he was an embarrassment to the family and to the aristocratic world at large, of no interest to those oftonbeyond the orders their dressmakers and tailors placed with him. But now he was Smart Jeremy, fashion’s leader and oracle. Now he was Arendale’s eventual heir, for the new Earl Payne had no other legal sons. Now he was of great interest to the circles that had been happy to pretend he didn’t exist.
