Clandestine by Nichole van

it.
    Marc would just pretend to be more like Wickham. Only without the seducing of innocent girls (obviously). Just someone with a little more dash than Darcy. He could do that.
    As Michel continued his monologuing, servants presented a selection of coats, shirts, pantaloons and other clothing—all borrowed from Arthur’s closet—for Michel’s inspection. Michel had an opinion about everything. None of which he kept to himself.
    “Lord Vader you are most fortunate in your physique. Zee ladies, they like the broad shoulders, n’est-ce pas ?”
    And then a moment later, after assisting Marc into a pair of skintight buckskin breeches—
    “Your fit into the pantaloons is adequate, my lord. Though you should consider exercises to increase the size of your thighs. They are well-muscled but could perhaps have more girth.”
    Marc just really . . . he had no words in response to that observation.
    At one point, Marc made the (apparently) cardinal sin of touching his styled hair.
    Michel let out an exasperated sigh. “No, no, my lord. That will not do. You must not touch zee hair once I have done with it. You will appear a very ninnyhammer.”
    Michel also used words like ninnyhammer .
    Was Marc supposed to adopt words like that too? Because he didn’t think he had it in him. At least, not without busting out laughing.
    All in all, it was a decidedly illustrative couple of hours. At the end, Michel meticulously brushed the dark green coat free of tiny specks of lint. As he did, Marc glanced at the coat buttons. Plain silver.
    “Do buttons ever have a design on them?” Marc asked. “Like something in brass with a crest and vines?”
    Asking a simple question about buttons couldn’t hurt, right? He wasn’t doing any investigating. Nope. He was just trying to understand the culture better. That was all.
    Michel paused in his brushing. “Silver buttons are the mark of a truly wealthy gentleman, my lord. Why should you wish for brass buttons? Though if you desire, we could have a family crest worked into your buttons—”
    “So a crest on a button would perhaps belong to a family?”
    Michel shrugged. “Not always, but it eez a possibility. Voilá . You look magnifique .”
    Marc studied himself in a mirror, turned sideways, studying the effect of the coat over a cream waistcoat shot with subtle gold stripes, tan buckskins disappearing into the top of polished Hessian boots. Marc and James shared the same shoe size, which was fortunate, as it allowed Marc to appropriate all of his brother-in-law’s footwear.
    Though James would certainly snicker at the sight of Marc in full Regency regalia, knowing him for the impostor he was.
    Marc nodded at his reflection. “I look good.”
    “Of course you do, my lord. I would expect nothing less from myself.”
    Humility was also not Michel’s forte.
    And with one last swipe of his brush, Michel proclaimed himself done. Releasing Marc to do . . . whatever it was that nineteenth century gentlemen did . . .
    Which was what . . . exactly?
    How did one pass the time in 1814?
    “So, now I . . . ” Marc trailed off as Michel turned to exit the room.
    The valet blinked. “I shall return at six to dress you for dinner. Until then, you may do what you will, Lord Vader. Perhaps you wish to take a walk in zee garden? Or visit zee library for something to read? I am sure that Mr. Knight has a copy of Debrett’s Peerage you may study to remind yourself of the order of precedence.”
    Debrett’s Peerage ? Right . . . Marc had a vague memory of his English grandmother talking about Debrett’s. It was a catalog of every living (and many dead) members of the British aristocracy. Anyone with a title would be listed in its pages. His grandmother had been obsessed with it.
    Marc and Emme had spent summers in Britain with their father’s mother who had drummed into her American grandchildren all the important parts of British life. Like having clear upper-crust elocution, a confident seat on a