“Three-quarters of the stack,” he countered in a desperate attempt to quiet me.
“Whole thing.”
“Done,” he agreed.
“Really? I would have done it for half. This is why you should be off… earling or whatever it is earls do. A solicitor’s life is not for you.” I capped the ink and began wiping off the quill.
“As far as I can tell, earls attend ridiculous parties and hop about with silly girls.”
“It’s a perfect life for you.” Quill clean, I tugged open the rusty drawer of my desk and dropped the stack of papers inside before locking it.
Kit’s scowl deepened but he pressed off the doorframe. “Meet back here in an hour? We can hire a hack.”
“Just enough time for you to remove the cat that seems to have taken up residence on your face.”
“One hour, Will,” he said, ignoring the slight as he dragged a hand across the fur covering his jaw. Hewasserious.
“Fine.” I snatched up the ridiculous mask and shut the door to my office behind me. I strode past the two rows of wooden desks that faced the center aisle.
Those desks were long empty; our clerks only called them home between the hours of nine and four. Kit and I often arrived earlier and stayed later, and tonight was no exception.
He opened the glass door and waited for me to pass as the bell above offered a disgruntled clang. We really ought to replace it one of these days.
Kit took off down the street with a nod toward his bachelor lodgings.
This part of town was always quiet at this time of the evening, after the shops and offices closed and people returned to their families. A delivery boy rested on the milk crate that never seemed to return to the dairy. It resided permanently at the corner of the alley between my office and the milliner’s shop across the way. The boy covered his eyes with a cap as he leaned against the wall. Two seamstresses from the modiste a couple of shops down strolled past, their giggles startling an elderly gentleman who often rested on the bench across the street.
I locked the door before making the arduous two-step journey to the entry of my flat directly next door. Inside, I climbed the stairs, wishing desperately that I could collapse onto my bed until my stomach protested and I was forced to put something together for supper. Instead, I would need to change into my least comfortable breeches and my overly starched shirt. And then I had to attend a ridiculous ball with ridiculous people. I could feel the headache forming behind my eyes with each step.
Why the devil had I agreed to attend tonight?
Two
WAYLAND’S, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816
WILLIAM
It was worsethan I had expected. The whole of thetonjammed together in a maelstrom of glittering absurdity.
As soon as we arrived, masks dutifully donned, I found my way up the stairs that wrapped in a spiral around the edge of the gaming floor to the offices upstairs. The crush remained below, utterly unaware of my existence, and I could breathe.
I intended to spend the minimum socially acceptable amount of time at this event. That goal required a stratagem, mapping the battlefield, a plan of attack. Otherwise I could be caught unawares in some tedious conversation with a dimwitted lordling.
From my vantage leaning against the railing above, I surveyed the entire floor. The gaming tables were pushed to the outskirts of the massive hexagonal room. The change made way for a dance floor that had been installed in the center. To one side, an orchestra played sensuous tunes, though the effect was negated somewhat when punctuated by hoofbeats of the gentry as they stomped about.
Wayland and Ainsley—or more likely their wives—had set up a refreshment table, piled high with Mrs. Ainsley’s best offerings beside the well-stocked bar lining one wall. If I hadn’t made it a practice to visit her shop daily, the sight might have been enough to tempt me into the fray.
The dancers below split into two rows and somehow, in what I was certain was an accident, Her Grace, the Duchess of Rosehill, found herself between two groups. It had been years since I last saw her, but she was unmistakable.
She had taken advantage of the theme to pull something ostentatious from her closet. A gown from her youth that had presumably been gathering dust in the back of her wardrobe now spilled out from her hips. The dress was nearly as wide as she was tall, with gold ruffles puckering across the cornflower blue silk. The massive wig atop her head wiggled when the dance called the partners back together.
How a woman that frivolous managed to secure a husband as sensible as the late Duke of Rosehill was still a wonder. The thought caused a familiar pang of guilt at the reminder of that loss. His Grace hadn’t been pleased when I abandoned the law for the army. He’d withdrawn his support, emotional and financial. We were estranged for years before he passed, but I respected him. Rosehill was sensible—sensible and stubborn.
Kit began the climb up the steps, a glass in each hand. One containing a whiskey he favored, and the other a lemonade for me, if I had to guess. I didn’t drink as a rule, and as tempting as it might be to begin tonight, I didn’t intend to start now.
He handed me the lemonade, which was shockingly refreshing instead of cloyingly sweet. He took a sip from his own glass before leaning against the railing beside me.
“Did no one tell her it’s the male peacocks that have the fancy feathers?” Kit asked, gesturing with his glass toward alady covered in peacock feathers at one of the high-stakes tables farther into the room.
