That was how long Aaron had been forced to listen to a man named Pena lecture him on decorum and proper attire—which he very much understood included a jacket, he’d just given his to a beggar who needed it more on his way over—in a small, dark, windowless room behind a servants’ staircase. Because God forbid they admit him to a parlor or study or anywhere private and leave him alone so he could change. It wasn’t as if he could travel in full grease paint.
Not that he’d had the opportunity to explain. No, this stranger had trapped him, despite giving no indication of his own authority or title beyond that of Scowling Man Who Thinks Very Highly of Himself. Not a profession of which Aaron was aware.
Perhaps he should inquire if this Pena was in search of an apprentice.
A rap on the door finally put his words to a stop, giving Aaron the chance to slump against the wall for a damned minute. And better yet, think.
The obnoxious man swung the door open, revealing his rescuer—or his doom, for he’d be damned if Isabelle Lira didn’t look like a queen. The shimmering silver silk of her gown made her skin glow and her black hair gleam. Even her eyes sparkled.
He’d known she was a beauty, but despite how much pressure she had to be under, she radiated confidence and what could only be described as “presence.” And when she smiled at him with that deep dimple, well, for one glorious moment anything seemed possible. Even magical.
Except magic didn’t exist.
This was no princess looking for a diamond peasant in the rough—she was a mercenary witch trying to force a rich brat into an alliance he couldn’t later abuse. And while her ambition was admirable, extortion was still extortion. Not an attractive trait. No matter what his shmendrick body wanted.
The man cleared his throat, startling him out of his gawking. “Isabelle, don’t you look lovely?” He waved a hand in Aaron’s direction. “This is Mr. Aaron Ellenberg.”
“Thank you, Pena. I was hoping for ‘passable,’ but ‘lovely’ will suffice.” Isabelle Lira beamed at the man, her smile glowing even more brightly than her dress, before turning to Aaron and dipping into a low curtsy, as if he was someone important. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ellenberg.” She stepped aside to reveal another woman—less well dressed, in a simple dark wool gown, but her well-made garments were still miles above his station.
“This is my friend and chaperone, Miss Rebecca Adler.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “There will be quite a few gentiles in attendance, and we aim to make sure they’re, ah, comfortable.”
Aaron nodded. As to be expected. After all, the Commission of Delegates relied on families such as the Liras to master keeping the balance between being mindful of the gentile gaze and maintaining their own laws—to assure the entire community’s safety and survival. Such as by not permitting an unmarried daughter to wander without a companion when guests were about—to guarantee her “purity” or whatever they called it. Isabelle had probably been taught those skills from birth. He turned to the other woman.
“We’ve met.” Unfortunately. Aaron rubbed the back of his neck. This must be whom Isabelle had been referring to when she said her own contacts had given her the information on his past.
The daughter of the community’s midwife had been called the night of his attack and subsequent rescue from the West End, thanks to skills she possessed that were beyond her mother’s specialty. She’d stitched the knife wound in his side, but the entire time she’d worked, she’d subjected him to a quite self-righteous, however accurate, lecture on how he’d risked the community’s safety.
An interesting choice in companion, especially considering she was certainly not a social favorite across all of the community, despite her capabilities elevating her standing. Though given the loftiness of Miss Lira’s stature, he supposed she could afford associations based on qualities other than mutual status.
Within reason.
The woman in question adjusted her spectacles with a slight sniff. “Always good to see you.” The words were drier than the desert Moses had crossed.
“Mr. Ellenberg was on his way out, to change into his proper attire,” Pena said before grabbing his shoulder and marching him toward the door.
“All the way back to Aldgate? That’s quite a long way for him to travel.”
The general—because that seemed like the most apt description of Pena, he decided—paused at Isabelle’s voice.
Odd. Why was she hiding her scheme—or his part, at least—from a mere employee? It was his job to please her, not the other way around. Though perhaps she was afraid of loose lips around her grandmother?
Not that he could imagine Isabelle truly fearing the elegant but elderly woman who’d snored softly from the ladies’ balcony during the rabbi’s sermon last Shabbas. More likely she didn’t want her to fret and worry—or meddle. A common practice among their kind. Especially where family was concerned.
Not that he had experience in such matters. Though hopefully, that would be rectified with the two hundred pounds.
He bit his lip as an image rose in his mind, of two little children running to greet him after shul, a woman behind them, wrapping her arms around his waist, eager to inquire about his day and give him a long list of tasks they could do together to assist in their offspring’s happiness.
“You must have a million things to check upon, besides dressing yourself. How about we escort him to the gentlemen’s smoking room, where he can change and wait for the festivities to begin?” Isabelle continued, interrupting his thoughts. Rebecca Adler’s eyes darted to her, narrowing.
Pena released him with a shove. “I think more, you two want to sneak around places you aren’t permitted.” He folded his arms, looking back and forth between the two women.
“Us?” Isabelle batted her eyelashes as she dipped her head coyly, hands behind her back. “Come on, Pena. Please? We won’t go in. We’ll just glance around a little.”
“At what? There will be no one in there.” Pena closed his eyes for a long moment before sighing. “Fine, but do not linger and do not cause any trouble and do—”
“Not tell my grandmother?” And there was that smile again, though sadly not directed at him. “You have my word. We’ll be positively angelic.”
“The four-headed type, no doubt.” The man stuck a thumb in Aaron’s direction. “See that he behaves as if your grandmother was in the room.”
