“Bollocks, brother.”
“Cordelia, really.” He slumped into the overstuffed leather chair behind the desk and gave her his most condescending glare, the one Andrew so perfectly imitated at a moment’s notice.
“Yes, really. You have no business spying on me and reporting to our parents like some toady governess. Shall I write to them about you and Reggie nearly coming to blows at breakfast over some opera dancer?”
“You wouldn’t.” He sat up so quickly he banged his knee into the desk. “Shite!” Rubbing his leg, he blew out a long breath and dropped the letter to pick up what appeared to be an invitation.
“I would and I would include both your and Reggie’s descriptions of the lady’s assets. If that is all, I’ll thank you to confine your letters to our parents to your own comings and goings and the weather.” She’d had enough of interfering men for one day.
“That is not all. The Earl of Breadmore has invited us to a ball, his daughter’s introduction into society or some such occasion. I’ve accepted on your behalf. Please, Cordelia,” he went on when she opened her mouth to refuse. “If I write to Mother and Father that you have attended at least one ball they will leave us both alone, for a few months at least.”
He had a point. One ball would not kill her. She hoped. “Very well. May I go now? I have appointments and things I must do.”And a publisher to put in his place.
“Where are you off to so eagerly? Another literary society?”
“To visit a sick friend.” A ridiculous lie, but she had not the time to invent another.
“Your friends must be the most sickly lot of women in Christendom. They fall ill more often than Prinny borrows money. Shall I hire a footman to run ahead of you ringing a bell to warn the public away lest they succumb?” He laughed at his own cleverness.
“Not if you wish your meals to be served hot and your baths to be drawn by anyone save yourself. You forget, the servants like me far better than they like you, and I remember to pay their wages on time.” She smiled at him sweetly.
“Very well, but do stay away from my friends. I’d rather they not fall prey to the mysterious illness following you about London.”
“As I don’t keep company with opera dancers and useless young gentlemen with entirely too much time and money on their hands your friends should be perfectly safe.” She went to the study door.
“Of course, you don’t. My friends are all terrified of you.”
She skipped back to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Good day, Freddie. Don’t fret. I am certain there are other opera dancers out there eager for your attentions.”
“The ball, Cordelia. Your word on it.”
“My word on it isdeadly dull, but I shall force myself to attend.”
As she climbed yet another flight of stairs and hurried to her bedchamber she drew the messages from her bodice. The moment she entered her private sitting room she saw her lady’s maid Gilly seated by the fire stitching a torn hem in one of Cordelia’s ball gowns.
“I see my brother has informed you of my commanded attention at the Breadmore ball.” Cordelia broke the embossed seal of the second message. “Of all the insufferable, overbearing, dunderpated…”
At the light rap on the door Gilly put down her sewing and let the footman, Andrew, in long enough to inquire when they were to leave.
“Give me half an hour, Andrew, and change out of your livery. We’ll take a hackney.”
“I’ll take care of everything, miss. Not to worry.” He ducked back out of the sitting room.
“Going somewhere?’ Gilly asked dryly as she followed Cordelia into her bedchamber.
“I need to change. Quickly.” She began to strip off her silk walking dress. “I’m going to kill Mister Whitcombe.”
“Your publisher?” Gilly and Andrew were the only two people who knew of Cordelia’s secret identity. She’d known them both nearly her entire twenty-five years and trusted them implicitly.
“That’s the one. And apparently he isn’tMisterWhitcombe, he isLordDaedalus Whitcombe.” Cordelia plopped onto the bed in her chemise, stockings, and stays and began to unlace her simple walking boots. “The lying, thieving…” She caught the black satin carriage dress Gilly tossed over her head.
“Right. If he’s a lord, and you’re going to kill him you’d best wear this gown. Elegant enough for a peer, and blood won’t show on the black. Do you want a bonnet?”
3
By two o’ clock in the afternoon Daedalus had sent one of the shop boys to Goodrum’swith no less than three soiled shirts and two stained pairs of breeches for the laundress there to put in order. The boy had mumbled something about a record for the year and losing a wager as he stuffed the clothes into a cotton bag and hurried down the back staircase and along the alley behind the bookshop which eventually came out close to Goodrum’s Mayfair location.
People might question a successful man like himself, brother to a duke, sending his laundry to one of England’s most exclusive pleasure houses. However, when the best laundress in London takes her clothing restoration skills to said pleasure house, needs must. He didn’t care much for the opinion of others, but a man who changed clothes as frequently as he did cared a great deal that they were returned to him not simply clean, but repaired of any damage, and soft to the touch. Daedalus eschewed most of the privileges of his ducal heritage, but he drew the line at foregoing his creature comforts.
