“Your beautiful hair,” Evie moaned, touching her own honey brown hair as if it were in similar jeopardy.
“I cut it,” she unnecessarily explained, placing both hands on her knees and hoping that would still their shaking. She still could not quite believe what she had done…or what she yet intended to do.
Evie shook her head and pressed a palm to her temples, her long, elegant fingers jutting from her head. “How did this happen? I only just stepped from the room.”
“You know me. When I make up my mind…” Her voice faded and she shrugged.
Evie motioned to the hair strewn about the floor. “But…why?”
Fallon moistened her lips. “It occurred to me that I wouldn’t have half so many problems keeping a position if I were a man.”
Evie’s brows winged high. Silence hung between them for some moments. Her lips, almost too full for her thin face, worked. “You cannot mean…”
“Why not? Men are paid a better wage. I could save toward a nest egg. It wouldn’t be permanent.”
“You cannot possibly expect anybody to confuse you for a man.”
“I’m tall enough.”
Evie stared pointedly at her chest. “And what about those?”
She glanced down at herself. “The rest of me may be big, but these are not.” One small thing for which to be thankful. “I suppose I can bind them to be safe.”
“You’re still a woman. The way you walk, gesture—”
“People see what they want to see. And when it comes to servants, nobs don’t look too closely. No one gives footmen or grooms special notice. The problem before was that I could never blend in.” She ran a hand through her shorn hair. “Now I can.”
Evie squinted at her hair. “It looks…brown.”
Reaching behind her, Fallon held up a small vial of skin cream. “I used this. It makes my hair look darker. It will do for now. Until I purchase pomade.”
Evie sank down on the end of the bed, her slim hand circling one of the posts, knuckles white. “You really mean to do this.” There was admiration in her eyes as she uttered this, but also alarm…fear. The latter drove home just how mad this scheme actually was—it could be Fallon’s salvation or ruin. But what choice remained? Bleak alternatives rose up in her mind, and she shoved them all away. Never. She could never resort to that.
Chin high, she pasted the most encouraging smile she could manage on her face. “Tomorrow morning I shall present myself to Mrs. Harrison at the agency. All will be well. You may depart for your adventure with no concern for me.”
With a sigh, Evie stood. “If you’re to do this, let’s see it done right.”
The rest of the night passed in a blur. Evie first tidied up Fallon’s efforts with her hair and then left, returning shortly with garments bought from the hotel porter. After minor adjustments with needle and thread, Fallon was appropriately attired.
Outfitted in her new clothing, she stared hard at her reflection, gooseflesh breaking out over her skin. “I don’t know whether to be appalled or pleased.”
Evie nodded behind her, face slack with astonishment. “If I had not assisted you with the transformation, I would never believe it.
“I actually look like a man,” she breathed.
“Well, you can pass for one at any rate,” Evie offered. “Or rather a boy.”
“A young man,” Fallon amended, smoothing a hand over her slicked-back hair, pleased that the red-gold hue was scarcely visible. It simply looked an average brown.
“Yes. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Thank goodness for your height.”
Fortunately, the narrow shape of her face stopped her features from appearing too soft or delicate. She had never been an apple-cheeked maid. Her features had been too strong, her jaw a bit too square.
Evelyn cocked her head to the left side, her expression thoughtful. “Still, you are a pretty man.”
“I’ve seen pretty men before.” Fallon nodded, whether to convince herself or Evie, she couldn’t say. Half the men about town aspired to look as she did—a veritable dandy. The ones who gave her grief over the past two years had certainly been prettier than herself.
For some reason, the Duke of Damon’s face floated before her. Definitely not a dandy. The angles of his face looked carved from stone. Nothing soft or pretty about him. And he had been taller than her. Not like any gentlemen she had known before. Men of his ilk were not the sort found sipping tea in drawing rooms. Her lips twisted. He likely haunted bordellos and other unsavory establishments. Banishing the wicked man from her thoughts, she surveyed her new self.
Propping a hand on her hip, she strove for a manly pose. “And what name shall I give myself?”
Chapter 4
S ick dread curled dark fingers around her heart as she stared down at the slip of paper shaking in her hand, then back to the house before her. On the other side of an ornate, Spanish iron gate stood a three-storied townhouse of white Caen stone. Another quick glance at Mrs. Harrison’s quickly scrawled words and the bronze address plate confirmed there was no mistake. The world had stopped turning. Flown off its axis. She stood at the threshold of 15 Pottingham Place. The Duke of Damon’s home. The very residence she vowed never to enter.
She hovered there for some moments, recalling the dreadful man. The wicked gleam in his eyes as his tongue laved another female’s nipple. Wretch. Did she really wish to place herself in his sphere?
Only you’re not you. He’ll never look twice at you now.
With a decided nod, she pushed open the gate and circled around to the back and knocked on the servants’ entrance. She required a roof over her head tonight. She couldn’t afford to be choosey.
Moments later she sat in the spacious kitchen, a plate of biscuits before her and the oddest-looking butler she’d ever clapped eyes on interviewing her for the position of footman.
Fallon had worked in enough households to form certain expectations. One of which included butlers looking…well, butlerish. But should she feel any surprise? His master hardly seemed concerned with propriety. Like many an aristocrat who believed himself above reproach for no other reason than the position granted him at birth. Bitterness churned inside her, tightening her chest as she thought of her father, dead on a distant island. All because of Lord Hunt’s selfish whim. Blasted blue bloods always did whatever they pleased. Rot the lot of them.
The butler looked her over critically with one good eye—a discerning blue eye as stark as the black eye patch covering the other eye.
She forced herself not to fidget, not to show the least sign of anxiety even as that single blue eye seemed to strip away her garments and see her—the real her. Or at least she imagined he did. This was the moment. If anyone sniffed out her deception it would be here, now, with this man. Ironically, the discerning one-eyed butler.
“Mrs. Harrison referred me.” Unnecessary to volunteer—as he held the letter from her in his hands—but she did so anyway, feeling the need to fill the silence. She held her breath, waiting.
After a long moment, Mr. Adams leaned forward in his chair and selected a biscuit from the plate. “Excellent biscuits,” he called over his shoulder to the cook, a thin woman who stood at the stove stirring a pot with a sinewy arm. Great stains of sweat marked the armpits of her dress. The woman grunted in response.
Mr. Adams fixed his eye on Fallon again, his expression sober, considering. “What do you think of young Francis here, Martha?”
Evie had decided on the name, thinking the closer to her own the better. Yet hearing him speak the name, she had the impulse to look behind her.
The cook gave a second grunt in response.
“My thoughts exactly,” he answered vaguely. Lifting a napkin, he dabbed at his mouth with a fastidiousness she would not credit a dangerous-looking one-eyed man. Butler or not.
Fallon looked helplessly between the butler and the cook. It had been a relatively simple matter to impress Mrs. Harrison. The woman had not questioned her too closely regard
ing her references—all fabricated, of course. The older lady had gushed in response to Fallon’s flirtations, happy to send her on an interview this very day, proving what Fallon had suspected all along. Men had it better.
Mr. Adams broke out in an easy grin. “Well, lad, I think you might be just the thing we’re looking for. You even appear the size of our last footman. His livery should fit you well enough.” The butler puffed out his chest. “Might be a bit antiquated to some, but this is a ducal household. All the footmen wear full livery.”
Fallon nodded, smiling, but strangely, she felt no relief. A properly enthusiastic response failed to slip past her lips. She had achieved precisely what she sought. Why did she suddenly feel as though a noose had settled about her neck? A flash of the duke’s dark head bent over the woman’s bare breast flashed through her mind, and she knew why. If she reflected long enough…she could almost imagine his hot mouth closing over her breast. Her belly clenched.
She swallowed back an unladylike snort of disgust—or rather, an ungentlemanly-like snort. She gave a small tug at the hair brushing the back of her neck. A little late for second thoughts now.
“Come, Francis, I’ll show you to your room and summarize your duties.
Mr. Adams shoved one more biscuit into his mouth and shoved to his feet. “Splendid biscuits, Martha. Send some up on his lordship’s tray when he wakes.”
Fallon glanced at the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. Typical slothfull blue blood. Well past noon, and still asleep.
“Our lord has an incorrigible sweet tooth.” Mr. Adams’s lips twitched and he angled his graying head, giving Fallon a nudge in the ribs as they departed the kitchen. “In fact, incorrigible might be the best word to describe him.” He winked his one good eye. “A bit of the ladies’ man. And he enjoys his drink. And the card tables.”
Incorrigible. Fallon sniffed and thought back to the man in the carriage, a woman on either side of him. Incorrigible seemed to adequately sum him up—or better yet, insatiable. Of course, the butler failed to mention his master’s penchant for orgies among his list of vices.
Mr. Adams paused on the steps, his single eye narrowing. Too late, Fallon realized she perhaps sniffed too loud.
“A good servant holds his tongue and looks the other way, if you gather my meaning.”
Ah. That was the formula for a good servant, then? She fought down a wry smile. No wonder she kept getting sacked.
He continued. “His lordship is one with a taste for…indulgences. You’ve likely heard his moniker bandied about Town. Since his recent return, tongues have been wagging.”
At Fallon’s blank look, he elaborated, “The demon duke?”
The demon duke? She nodded. Apt.
The butler’s gaze grew shrewd. “I hope you won’t find any objection to working for such a man, lad.”
The question was posed. A test. She thought for a moment. Did she object to working for such an incorrigible toff? She stopped short of rolling her eyes. Had she known any other sort? Working in the guise of a man—no longer a female deemed easy pickings—it should not matter one whit to her how incorrigibly her employer lived his life. A footman, she would fall beneath notice. Safe in obscurity. As she preferred.
“Who am I to object?” Fallon waved a hand. “I’m but a humble servant.
“Indeed,” Mr. Adams murmured. Hesitation lurked in his eye. “We are all loyal to His Grace. It is our privilege to serve him.”
Privilege?
“I hope you will come to feel the same way.”
Loyal? To that libertine? She stared hard at Mr. Adams, failing to understand how such a wretch could inspire loyalty among his staff. Fallon knew firsthand that servants did not have to like their employer to perform their duties. In her experience, that was rarely the case.
Perhaps his behavior had been truly singular. An uncommon incident that she had the misfortune to witness. Even as she thought this, she dismissed it. She knew his type. Her father had worked for such a man. A wicked, amoral man who got away with anything…even murder.
Mr. Adams halted on the stairs and faced Fallon, his one eye unblinking. “We’re both men here, Francis, so I’ll be blunt.”
Fallon squared her shoulders, nodding, trying to look manly and grim at the butler’s sobering tone.
“We look the other way over the master’s escapades and clean up after him in the morning. And we don’t prattle about it outside these walls.” Mr. Adams motioned a gnarled finger at the narrow walls of the stairwell. “Or to the women of the house. No use offending their delicate sensibilities.”
Delicate? Ha.
“His Grace’s reputation is sullied enough without us bandying about what goes on under this roof? Understand?”
Where had she landed herself? Sodom and Gomorrah?
Fallon gave a brisk nod. “Of course, Mr. Adams.”
As long as she had a warm meal and bed and funds enough to save for a place of her own—a genuine home—she could do near well anything. Mr. Adams turned and resumed his ascent. Fallon followed.
Chapter 5
F allon smiled and stretched herself beneath crisp sheets. For a long moment, she listened, enjoying the sound of her hard-won silence.
Her gaze skimmed the four walls surrounding her. A table, dresser, wardrobe. All superior pieces of furniture for a servant’s room. And hers. All hers. For however long she resided here at any rate. A room of her own. Solitude. Not since Da died did she have a room of her own…or the blessed peace and silence that came with it. She would not fool herself into believing this was home. Home was permanent. Lasting. Something no one could take away. Something she vowed to one day claim for herself. Still…it was a marked improvement.
A far-off screech shattered the early morning. Voices reached inside her room, pulling her upright.
“She’s mad! Get her away from me! Help! Help!”
Morning light scarcely bled through the curtains of her room. Sliding out of bed, she hastily dressed in her livery, stopping long enough in front of the dresser mirror to apply pomade to her hair and tie it at the back of her neck before securing the scratchy wig in place. Wig secured, her femininity was even less discernible.
Outside her room, the din grew. With one hand on the door’s latch, she bit her lip, contemplating whether she should remain in her room. Hide. She had settled in so late yesterday, she had yet to make the acquaintance of all the staff and could not stop her shiver of nervousness. Someone might uncover her deception…perhaps the master himself, if he was about. Another shiver coursed through her. Unlikely. At this early hour, he would still be abed.
She would have to face her new world sooner or late. Sucking in a deep breath, Fallon pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor, immediately discovering that she was not the only one roused from bed.
A horde of servants scurried down the corridor. She was scarcely spared a glance as she filed into step with them, clambering up the servants’ stairs. Excited murmurs filled the air, the steady drone of voices a backdrop to the loud shouts carrying from the second floor.
“What’s he done now?” a maid giggled behind her hand, bright eyes dancing.
“Might have something to do with the tart he brought home last night.” Another maid cheerfully volunteered, blushing when she caught Fallon’s stare.
At that blush Fallon recalled herself—she was not Fallon anymore but Francis. Francis. The name tripped through her head in a silent mantra. She squared her shoulders and joined the rest of the servants hanging their heads over the railing to watch the spectacle below.
Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper Mr. Adams had introduced her to yesterday, waved a broom overhead and chased a woman attired in a scarlet evening gown down the stairs. Large melonlike breasts jiggled, nearly spilling free of the indecently low-cut bodice.
“Out! Out with you, you thieving trollop!”
Several of the servants tossed down encouragement to the housekeeper, and jeered insults to the disheve
led female.
Fallon turned her head slowly, eyeing the stretch of servants on each side of her before looking back down. Despite their neat and tidy appearances in starched livery, she felt as though she rubbed elbows with a bloodthirsty mob that stood witness to an unsavory execution.
Cheers went up when the housekeeper bounced the broom off the woman’s head. The hapless creature shrieked and grasped her head, fingers desperately trying to disentangle the broom’s straw from the snarled mess of her hair.
“Teach you to steal his lordship’s silver!”
“Mrs. Davies! What are you doing?” Mr. Adams’s voice boomed from the marble-floored foyer far below. Hands on his narrow hips, he watched the display with less humor than the rest of the staff.
“Call the watch, Mr. Adams! We have a thief in our midst.”
“Mrs. Davies. That is His Grace’s…guest.” Even as he spoke, his single eye traveled over the woman with disfavor.
“Guest, umph! He didn’t invite her to rob him blind, did he?”
Suddenly, a deep chuckle rolled over the air.
Fallon froze, a tremble skating through her as she and the dozen other servants turned and strained to gain a better view of the man bearing that sherry-warm voice.
Caught in the web of that masculine laugh, she brushed a hand over her wig, satisfied at the feel of it atop her head. He certainly would not know her. She hardly knew herself when she looked in the mirror. Still, she felt her shoulders sink in an attempt to melt into the throng of servants.
“I’m scarcely blind, Mrs. Davies,” the familiar voice said, the velvet sound knotting Fallon’s insides.
The brassy-haired female on the stairs looked up. With one hand pressed to her heaving bosom and the other still clutched to her head, she pleaded, “Damon, darling! Help me! Tell this witch to cease beating me.” She cut a vicious stare to the housekeeper. “Surely she has a cauldron to stir.”