Page 23 of Puck and Prejudice
Robbie looked bewildered. “And why would I be doing that, seeing as we haven’t had a man stay in here since the old master died? Not even MissWooddash’s brother has visited, and him being a cousin of MissGeorgie too. But we can still do things properly.”
“Fair enough.” Tuck pulled on the proffered stockings, then underwear, essentially long white leggings. He fastened the top button and then stepped into the offered breeches.
Tuck had been close to Dixon, the Regals’ equipment manager, who’d held the role for two decades. He anticipated Tuck’s needs, often before Tuck did. A realization clicked into place. So Robbie here, now reaching for a waistcoat, was like the 1812 version. Instead of sharpening skates, breaking in sticks, and cleaning jerseys, he was ensuring all these items of clothing were ready to go.
This was another game, one that would take all his mental concentration and focus. And the stakes were higher. If he lost, he might not only be unable to ever return home, but somethingworse could happen. People could think he was crazy and lock him in some drafty asylum. Or he could get sick, spike a fever, and that would be it—game over. Worse, his cancer could come back. The thought sent ice water coursing through his veins.
Then what? There wasn’t anything to put him back into remission here. As much as he hated chemo, despised the smell of hospitals, the thin scratchy fabric of hospital gowns, and the endless blood draws for labs—all of that allowed him to know he’d be okay. It assured him that he’d kick cancer’s ass and have a setback that would turn into a comeback, not a decline.
“Sir?” Robbie’s brows knit.
“What’s wrong?”
“I asked if you wanted to see the result.”
Tucker reached out and patted the man on the shoulder, realizing as Robbie flinched that casual touch maybe wasn’t the norm here. While there were some correlations, 1812 was not—and would never be—home.
“When you put this much effort into turning me out? Of course I’ll look. Tell you what, I probably won’t recognize myself.”
Robbie directed him to the mirror, and Tuck didn’t know what to say. It couldn’t be “I look like an asshole.” But he kind of did. At least like a man who’d drink tea with his pinkie outstretched. A regular snob.
But this was the uniform. And he was in the game. He gave an approving nod. “Good.”
“Anything else I can do for you before seeing myself out?”
Tuck ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth. “Actually, yeah. One more thing. Where do you keep extra toothbrushes in the house?”
Robbie blinked. “Sir?”
Tuck’s heart sank as the steward gave a nervous smile. Therewere more than a few gaps where teeth had once lived. Four, by an initial count.
“Did a dentist pull yours?” Wasn’t a puck or high stick.
“If you’re talking about my teeth, I use my finger and soot every day, but if one gets to aching, I go to the barber, and he fixes me up all right. The one in Hallow’s Gate is strong. One pull andcrack!”
“Back it up. You go to a barber for teeth? I don’t understand.”
“Well, here in the country, we can’t keep a full-time tooth puller employed. That’s for the city. Of course, there could be the blacksmith.”
The damn blacksmith again. It sounded like those guys could do everything from making a horseshoe to yanking out a rotten incisor to marrying you in a border town.
“A tooth what?”
Robbie leaned in with a grave face. “Scoundrels that wrench out your afflicted teeth from your very jaw, causing such a torment as to make a man lose his dignity.”
As the conversation continued, Tuck grew increasingly less certain why he was asking these questions when he suddenly didn’t want to know the answers. If he was reduced to rubbing ash on his teeth, he might resemble a poorly carved jack-o’-lantern when he finally returned to the twenty-first century.
At breakfast, he mentioned to Lizzy his conversation with Robbie. Georgie was out with her dogs, and Jane hadn’t come down yet—Lizzy said Jane tended to sleep late.
“Do you use ash on your teeth too?” he asked.
“No, of course not.” Lizzy wrinkled her nose before clapping a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that. You must think I’m a dreadful snob.”
“I just want to clean my teeth.”
“I use a method my mother taught me. It’s salt with oven-dried sage crumbled through it.”
“Salt?” He arched a brow, inwardly wincing when she flushed slightly, catching his reaction. “But no fingers?”
