Page 22 of Marry in Secret
Enders arrived almost instantly, bearing a tray with a steaming jug of water, a shaving brush, razor and leather strop. He nodded at Thomas with brisk approval. “Ready for your shave now, sir?” He shook out a large sheet and draped it around Thomas to protect his clothes.
As he lathered up the soap, Enders said with barely repressed excitement, “They are saying belowstairs that you are Lady Rose’s long-lost husband, sir.”
“That’s right.”
“Lost at sea, were you, sir?”
“Correct.”
“They’re saying you burst into the church just as—” A hard look from Thomas stopped Enders in midstream. He had no intention of providing further fuel for servants’ gossip.
Enders bit his lip and set about shaving him. “Terribly romantic for you and Lady Rose, sir,” he murmured after a while. “We’re all very fond of her here. Such a beautiful young lady, and she and Lady Lily are so close. Don’t worry, I’ll do my best for you, sir. You won’t believe the difference.”
As the valet shaved him, Thomas watched his face slowly emerge. He still looked strange to his eyes—older, thinner. Harder. For the first time he saw the resemblance to his father that people used to comment on—apart from the broken nose and the thin silvery scar that curled down the side of his face and around the jaw.
He stared at his reflection and knew that the relatively civilized man he saw there was just as much a lie as the savage. The truth was somewhere in between. Years ofbeing treated as less than human. Could a man ever really come back from that?
Did he have any choice?
“A regular application of lemon juice will help fade that unsightly tan,” the valet assured him. He wiped Thomas’s face clean with a hot, damp towel, then patted on a fresh-smelling cologne that left his skin tingling. “Now for your hair, sir. The Windswept do you think, or the Brutus? Or perhaps a Bedford Crop—you certainly have the bone structure for it.”
Thomas wasn’t listening. He was thinking of the way Rose’s family had looked at him, the way Rose had looked at him. That whole congregation clad in silk and satin and lace, smelling like a garden. And him in rags, looking like a savage and smelling of fish.
“The Brutus, perhaps, sir, with just a hint of the Bedford?” the valet continued. He considered Thomas’s reflection. “No, your hair is lovely and thick, with just that hint of curl that other men envy. I think we’ll create a style of your own, sir.”
Thomas didn’t care. He let the fellow get on with it. The valet snipped busily. Thomas, deep in thought, stared unseeing at his reflection.
What was he going to do? For the last four years he’d had a single goal in mind—getting back here. And now that he’d achieved it, he felt strangely hollow. It didn’t feel like a victory at all.
“There you are, sir.” Enders fetched a hand mirror and held it for Thomas to see his head from all angles. “Perfect.”
Thomas eyed his new haircut sourly. “What the devil is that supposed to be?” His hair was all curled and puffed up. He might as well be wearing a bird’s nest.
Higgins chuckled indulgently. “Oh, you navy men. I assure you, sir, this style is all the crack. You look quite dashing, if I say so myself—or you will once you are fully clothed. Lady Rose will be all admiration.”
Thomas doubted it. He scowled at his reflection. Fashionable or not, he’d rather look like a savage than wear abird’s nest. He raked his fingers through his hair, ignoring the valet’s whimpers as his fashionable arrangement was ruined. He grabbed a handful of artistically arranged curls. “Cut all this off.”
“Oh, but—” Catching his eye, the valet broke off. “Very good, sir.” Dolefully the man chopped away under Thomas’s supervision, until all the feathery bits were gone, and Thomas had a plain, short, rather brutal-looking haircut.
“That’s better.” He was what he was, and the sooner people realized it the better.
The valet sighed, folded away the protective sheet and fetched a pair of braces to hold up the too-loose breeches. Next he produced a shining pair of boots that he assured Thomas were too big for his master and therefore surplus to requirement—besides being insufficiently stylish. These boots, the valet confessed apologetically, had not been made by Mr. Hoby. They were, he confided, A Mistake.
Thomas pulled them on, then stood and took a few paces around the room. It felt odd to be wearing boots after all this time, but they fitted perfectly.
Enders then tied Thomas’s neckcloth in a complicated knot, buttoned him into a waistcoat, squeezed him into Galbraith’s coat—apparently it was all the crack to wear your coat skintight, as long as you didn’t split the seams—handed him a handkerchief and a hat and sent him on his way.
Clean, close-shaved and well-dressed, Thomas felt up to anything. He walked downstairs to join his brothers-in-law, one at least of whom seemed to want to kill him, and both of whom wanted to be rid of him. He didn’t care.
They could do no worse to him than had already been done. And he’d survived.
***
If Thomas had expected Lord Ashendon and Galbraith to compliment him on his transformation from shabby seaman to well-groomed gentleman in breeches and gleaming boots, he was doomed to disappointment. Bothgentlemen looked up as he entered. Galbraith scanned him briefly and gave a brisk nod.
Ashendon’s expression was ice cold. “A thousand pounds.”
Thomas curled his lip. “Paltry.” Assurances or explanations would never convince Ashendon that Thomas hadn’t married his sister for the money, so why not make her high-and-mighty brother stew? Besides, now he did need her money.
