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“For my future I have no concern, and as a true philosopher, I never would have any, for I know not what it may be.”

Giacomo Casanova

AUGUST 30, 1821

Patrick had brought down several trunks from the attic. Dusty, iron-latched relics packed with the discarded garments of Julius’s long-absent cousins. The contents were a treasure trove of faded silks, worn broadcloth, and neglected finery that bore the scent of camphor and time. Among them, they had unearthed a pair of Hessians that, by some miracle, nearly fit Audrey’s dainty feet. There was also a linen shirt with ruffled cuffs, a pair of serviceable breeches, a charcoal waistcoat with tarnished buttons, and a cutaway coat from yesteryear that bore the unmistakable lines of a Bond Street tailor.

Two beaver hats, stiff-brimmed and once handsome, had been preserved in Lord Hays’s wardrobe, and Audrey’s own stockings were deemed adequate to complete the illusion. Their target that morning, Henry Montague, prowled districts where starched cravats and high polish abounded. The coarse, borrowed clothes of laborers would no longer serve. They would need to blend in with Mayfair’s early morning elite.

Julius, having wrestled his freshly dried Hessians back onto his legs, stood bracing a hand against the bedpost when Audrey entered his room. Her coat was draped over one arm, and her waistcoat hung open, the fine lawn of her shirt beneath it straining modestly at the chest and snug across the hips. The candlelight caught the sheen of her dark breeches, the taut fabric tracing every curve of her stride.

Julius’s breath caught in appreciation. He steeled himself and lifted his gaze, only to find her frowning.

“I cannot reach the back of this waistcoat to tie it,” she announced, exasperated.

“That,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, “is the least of our problems.”

“What?” Her tone sharpened. It was early, barely past the cock’s first crow, and Audrey was clearly not inclined toward patience.

Julius stiffened his spine, every inch the beleaguered officer delivering bad news.

“It … is visible that … you are a female,” he said, throat tight and gaze fixed resolutely on the ceiling.

Audrey looked down at herself, stretching her arms and twisting her torso to study her silhouette. Julius kept his gaze away, striding toward the window to stare out into the darkened garden.

“I do not understand,” Audrey cried behind him, baffled.

Seconds ticked by before he could muster a reply. “Those are not … the hips of a man, I am … afraid.”

“Oh!”

Julius winced at the dismayed note in her voice. “We must either find another disguise for you or⁠—”

A crack of thunder rolled across the sky, deep and resonant, shaking the windowpanes. He looked up in time to see a roiling mass of clouds sweeping in from the north, blotting out the stars. He exhaled with a relieved sigh, tension easing from his shoulders.

Rain. Rain would put an end to today’s outing.

It was just as well. If he had to spend the day with Audrey dressed like that, her scent of rosewater and starch teasing him every time she leaned close, he would forget himself entirely. Despite the promise he had made to himself, despite the clarity of duty and obligation, he would kiss her.

And that could not happen.

He could not afford an attachment. Attachments soured. They bred resentment, like overwatered roots turning to rot. One need only remember his parents’ marriage—the brittle words over breakfast, the cold silences, and then his mother’s final departure from London.

He liked Audrey. He liked her far too well. That was the danger. What was there not to admire? She was clever and unflinching, perfectly willing to truss herself in breeches and stalk criminals through the fashionable lanes of Mayfair. She had skill and spirit, a boldness he rarely saw outside of his closest friends.

Deuce it. I am compiling reasons to become attached.

“The weather is turning, so you can wear one of my overcoats,” he proclaimed with a touch of relief. So, thankfully, I cannot leer in such an unbecoming manner.

Audrey, looking unconvinced, stepped closer. Her tone was plaintive as she turned away from him, holding the loose ends of the waistcoat. “I am still confused.”

Julius turned reluctantly from the window and dropped his gaze to the task at hand, then swallowed hard.

Heavens preserve me.

She was poured into the linen breeches in a manner that defied logic and seamstress. The unforgiving nature of the fabric left little to the imagination. It was the sort of view one encountered in a classical sculpture, exquisite and wholly unsuitable for the hour.