15, 1816
London
From a foxed and fogged peer glass the face of a troll regarded Dulcie with angry eyes. Her face. Her strange, knowing eyes.
“Ugly thing!”
She tugged at the ugly white mob cap, scowled and retied the puce neckerchief at her throat. Hardly an outfit to endear her to any gentleman of quality, much less a rogue of Ramsay’s stamp.
With a tap upon the dressing room’s door, her father called hopefully from the far side, “How goes it, my dear?”
She voiced an irritable, “Come, see.”
In they traipsed, eyes narrowed, heads at a tilt, two more trolls and a Gargoyle in the mirror: her father, Quinn, and Ramsay--spurring her heart--his expression inscrutible.
“Well?” she asked defensively, convinced she looked the frump, and yet, undeniably excited by this disguised adventure in the making.
Her father spoke first. “It is very plain.”
“The better to blend in unnoticed,” Ramsay’s gaze, like a brush of hands, passed over her.
“Fits well enough.” Quinn, the valet, nodded his satisfaction.
Again that tactile gaze, assessing the mentioned fit. The Gargoyle’s paint-stained fingers busied in buttoning a threadbare, figured vest over a poet-sleeved blouse, the cuffs dirtied with what looked like clay. “A hat? And sleeve protectors. Quinn? She is too fair to go without them.”
Quinn set to work searching.
The room, an orderly warren, contained, besides the peer glass, a wall full of chests, above them cabinets stuffed full of odd bits of clothing, on the floor: trunks, band boxes, several rows of boots. A dressing table, lamp lit, stood thick with makeup pots, enough hare’s feet to keep two rabbits hopping, and a stack of wooden trays, sprouting different hued hanks of hair. Here, an agent provocateur might dress himself as anyone but himself.
“I cannot stay, my dear,” father said. “I’ve business to attend to. You will take care? Obey Mr. Ramsay?”
Dulcie nodded.
“We will watch over her most keenly,” Ramsay promised, no hint of mischief in stony Gargoyle eyes as he walked Mr. Selwyn to the door.
Quinn extracted a limp straw hat from a row of hatboxes. Crushed and stained, he would have plunked it forthwith on top of her mob cap had she not ducked from beneath it.
“Not on my head, you don’t,” Dulcie objected. “No telling what vermin have taken possession of that dreadful thing.”
With an offended lift of his chin, Quinn said, “No vermin, miss. I take precautions with all of the master’s disguises, fumigating every stitch. The master would not like it in the least if I brought fleas or lice into the house.”
Feeling much chided, and more than a little itchy, she scowled at the sadly abused hat. “It looks as if it has been sat upon.”
“That it has, miss,” Quinn confirmed blandly.
She blinked in surprise.
“Gives it just the right well-used quality.”
Roger returned, rolling his sleeves high, revealing well muscled, sun-browned arms, sunlight trapped in the golden brown complexion. Diverting arms, the sort to make a woman wonder at the strength of a man, the sort to make Dulcie forget sat-upon-hats. She would never have imagined such arms resided beneath the exquisitely tailored superfine in which Roger customarily dressed. These arms would well serve a working man: a sailor, a farmer, a coal-heaver. His clothing declared him an artist, a sculptor who strapped a wicked little dirk beneath his clay-speckled sleeve.
“Might I assist in the finding of something, sir?” Quinn enquired.
Roger nodded. “Low brimmed hat with leather tie. The Garrick coat. A belcher, too. Red.”
“Yes, sir.”
The faintest hint of a smile lifted the left side of Roger’s mouth. Dulcie grew fond of that slight quirk.
“Quinn takes great pride in achieving the right note of authenticity,” he said. “Prince or pauper, he has had the dressing of me.”
“Very kind of you to say so, sir,” Quinn’s voice came muffled from the depths of a
London
From a foxed and fogged peer glass the face of a troll regarded Dulcie with angry eyes. Her face. Her strange, knowing eyes.
“Ugly thing!”
She tugged at the ugly white mob cap, scowled and retied the puce neckerchief at her throat. Hardly an outfit to endear her to any gentleman of quality, much less a rogue of Ramsay’s stamp.
With a tap upon the dressing room’s door, her father called hopefully from the far side, “How goes it, my dear?”
She voiced an irritable, “Come, see.”
In they traipsed, eyes narrowed, heads at a tilt, two more trolls and a Gargoyle in the mirror: her father, Quinn, and Ramsay--spurring her heart--his expression inscrutible.
“Well?” she asked defensively, convinced she looked the frump, and yet, undeniably excited by this disguised adventure in the making.
Her father spoke first. “It is very plain.”
“The better to blend in unnoticed,” Ramsay’s gaze, like a brush of hands, passed over her.
“Fits well enough.” Quinn, the valet, nodded his satisfaction.
Again that tactile gaze, assessing the mentioned fit. The Gargoyle’s paint-stained fingers busied in buttoning a threadbare, figured vest over a poet-sleeved blouse, the cuffs dirtied with what looked like clay. “A hat? And sleeve protectors. Quinn? She is too fair to go without them.”
Quinn set to work searching.
The room, an orderly warren, contained, besides the peer glass, a wall full of chests, above them cabinets stuffed full of odd bits of clothing, on the floor: trunks, band boxes, several rows of boots. A dressing table, lamp lit, stood thick with makeup pots, enough hare’s feet to keep two rabbits hopping, and a stack of wooden trays, sprouting different hued hanks of hair. Here, an agent provocateur might dress himself as anyone but himself.
“I cannot stay, my dear,” father said. “I’ve business to attend to. You will take care? Obey Mr. Ramsay?”
Dulcie nodded.
“We will watch over her most keenly,” Ramsay promised, no hint of mischief in stony Gargoyle eyes as he walked Mr. Selwyn to the door.
Quinn extracted a limp straw hat from a row of hatboxes. Crushed and stained, he would have plunked it forthwith on top of her mob cap had she not ducked from beneath it.
“Not on my head, you don’t,” Dulcie objected. “No telling what vermin have taken possession of that dreadful thing.”
With an offended lift of his chin, Quinn said, “No vermin, miss. I take precautions with all of the master’s disguises, fumigating every stitch. The master would not like it in the least if I brought fleas or lice into the house.”
Feeling much chided, and more than a little itchy, she scowled at the sadly abused hat. “It looks as if it has been sat upon.”
“That it has, miss,” Quinn confirmed blandly.
She blinked in surprise.
“Gives it just the right well-used quality.”
Roger returned, rolling his sleeves high, revealing well muscled, sun-browned arms, sunlight trapped in the golden brown complexion. Diverting arms, the sort to make a woman wonder at the strength of a man, the sort to make Dulcie forget sat-upon-hats. She would never have imagined such arms resided beneath the exquisitely tailored superfine in which Roger customarily dressed. These arms would well serve a working man: a sailor, a farmer, a coal-heaver. His clothing declared him an artist, a sculptor who strapped a wicked little dirk beneath his clay-speckled sleeve.
“Might I assist in the finding of something, sir?” Quinn enquired.
Roger nodded. “Low brimmed hat with leather tie. The Garrick coat. A belcher, too. Red.”
“Yes, sir.”
The faintest hint of a smile lifted the left side of Roger’s mouth. Dulcie grew fond of that slight quirk.
“Quinn takes great pride in achieving the right note of authenticity,” he said. “Prince or pauper, he has had the dressing of me.”
“Very kind of you to say so, sir,” Quinn’s voice came muffled from the depths of a
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