“In theory,” she said sweetly. “Not in fact.”
“I see.” He lowered himself into a nearby chair, beginning to grin. He was rather relieved that Hetty was not asking what he thought she was. “And you thought, naturally, of me.”
“Of course. You are idle, rakish, well-known for your indifference to propriety, and I trust you not to take liberties. It is a very short list of qualifications, and you happen to meet them all.”
“I am overcome,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Truly. Such praise is liable to unseat my reason entirely.”
“I rather thought there was precious little of that to disturb.” She picked up her brandy and sipped again. “But if you require elaboration on your merits: you are tolerably presentable, you dance well when coerced, and your reputation is sufficiently questionable enough to lend the entire scheme credibility.”She tilted her head. “As for your detractions: there is your lamentable fondness for your own voice, a disposition inclined toward melodrama, and an ego so expansive it ought to enter a room three minutes ahead of you,heralded by trumpet.” She smiled. “Still, one must make do with what one has.”
He gave a low whistle. “I cannot decide whether to be flattered or grievously insulted.”
“Oh, do be both,” she said, waving a hand.
“Pass the brandy, will you? Now tell me – what precisely would this…light ruinationentail? Am I to be caught emerging from your bedchamber at some ill-chosen hour? Or shall we conspire to sit rather too closely in a darkened opera box? Oh, or a compromising silhouette behind a curtain? Oh, I have it – a kiss in Vauxhall Gardens under suspicious moonlight!”
Hetty’s smile only grew, her eyes narrowing in that familiar, calculating way that made him want to both laugh and run for cover. “Nothing quite so theatrical. The trick shall be to ensure the scandal is convincing, but ultimately unverifiable… Enough to keep tongues wagging and suitors at bay, but not enough to prompt a duel or a vicar.”
“And your mother?”
“Naturally, Mama must remain in blissful ignorance until it is far too late to set matters right. Ideally, just after the scandal breaks and precisely before she faints from the shock.”
“Good Lord, Hetty. You are quite mad.”
“So I have been told,” she said lightly. “But then, sanity rarely accomplishes anything of note.”
Theo tilted his head, observing her with amusement and awe. It was, by all accounts, a ridiculous proposal – an idea that any man with sense, restraint, or a shred of self-preservation would havepolitely declined – and yet he could not summon the faintest desire to refuse. After all, what was the point of good breeding, proper manners, and inherited titles if one could not wield them occasionally in the pursuit of mischief?
“Well then,” he said, lifting his glass. “When, precisely, shall your reputation be toppled? I believe there’s a ball on Thursday – the first of the Season, no less. Rather sporting of you to begin with a flourish.”
—♥—
The next evening, Theo lounged in his box at Covent Garden with all the enthusiasm of a man attending a funeral. Hetty had left his house the night before in a rustle of skirts and certainty, leaving her brandy glass upon the settee as if she had not upended his evening with the most absurd proposal imaginable. He had expected, as with most ladies who appeared after supper, that she would fade into the fog of forgetfulness by morning. Instead, he had spent half the day wondering whether she was in earnest – and what in Heaven’s name she intended come Thursday.
In the spirit of distraction, he had agreed to accompany his old friend, Mr Jasper Deverell, heir to the Earldom of Bellston, to the opera. At the very least, he expected the sight of a pretty soprano or a familiar actress, either of whom might be relied upon to amuse him afterwards. Alas, the sopranos proved plain as pudding, the actresses indistinguishable, and the performance itself so unutterably dreary that Theo caught himself yawning before the first act had concluded. It hardly helped that he had already worked his way through half the opera’s greenroom during previous Seasons; novelty, like affection,was in short supply – save, it seemed, in the form of Hetty, whose ridiculous scheme had lodged itself in his mind.
“Try not to expire from exertion, Langley,” Jasper drawled, slouching beside him. “The opera has hardly begun.”
“It has begun,” Theo returned. “That is precisely the problem.”
Jasper grinned. “You have grown insufferable since inheriting. Earldoms are the natural territory of gouty old uncles in wigs, not men in their prime. It is against nature. Tiresome business.”
“And you are so much better off? I seem to recall you are next in line for Bellston’s gout.”
“Yes,” Jasper allowed, wincing as a soprano shrieked above the orchestra, “but my father clings to life with remarkable determination. You, on the other hand, are already shackled, and responsibility becomes you abominably.”
They scowled at one another, companions long united in complaint. Theo raised his glass, though he had no taste for it. “I should have preferred to be a second son… or a third… or anything at all that allowed for a brother. As it is, I have only you. A poor exchange.”
“Ungrateful wretch. Two years on the Continent and you return only to insult me.”
Theo sighed. “Paris was tedious, Vienna pompous, Florence a fever of saints and students. At length I concluded I might as well be bored in England, amongst friends. London, for all its stench, still does scandal best.”
His gaze drifted idly over the tiers of boxes below, before halting upon a sight that was impossible to overlook: the Tollivers in fullfamily splendour, all satin, feathers, and jewels enough to dazzle half of Mayfair. Lady Tolliver presided in a monstrous turban with plumes so vast they threatened to obscure the stage, while her daughters shone like so many baubles affixed to a precarious crown. Hetty, seated nearest her father – who was snoring loudly – was straight-backed and elegant in a gown of pink silk, with a diamond rivière at her throat that would not have disgraced a duchess. Theo raised an eyebrow, for she appeared every inch the paragon of respectability, and not the smallest trace of the minx who had appeared at his servants’ door the previous night to demand her own ruin. The absurdity of the contrast very nearly made him laugh aloud.
Jasper followed his line of sight and groaned. “God save the gentleman of London. And poor Benedict Tolliver – five younger sisters! One Tolliver woman would drive me to Bedlam; a legion of them is beyond human endurance.”
Theo’s mouth quirked. “Bedlam, to be sure.”
The opera laboured on, aria after aria, until Theo had exhausted every possible method of distraction. The pit below teemed with noise and movement: gentlemen arguing, ladies fanning themselves, orange-sellers crying their wares, even a child or two asleep upon benches brought by servants. In the neighbouring boxes, supper was served, glasses clinked, and conversation rose cheerfully above the singers’ exertions. No one, it seemed, attended the opera for music alone.
