CHAPTER 3
“IF I’M NOW a man of leisure and am not supposed to work, why do I need so many clothes?” Evan held still, lest he impale himself on any of the dozens of pins holding the fabric that would become a new suit coat in place.
“Because”—Marcus slouched in a chair in the tailor’s shop—“there are expectations.”
“Whose expectations? A group of people I’ve never met, who last week wouldn’t have been caught out even speaking to me? What about my expectations?” He winced as the white-haired little tailor jabbed him in the ribs to get him to do a quarter turn. Trying not to squirm as the man marked down his side with a piece of chalk, Evan sighed. “Actually, I take that back about being a man of leisure. I’ve worked harder this last week than I did as a raw recruit. Lawyers, bankers, tailors, boot makers, hatmakers, haberdashers. What’s next?”
“A trip to Tattersall’s to look over some horseflesh, even if you don’t buy anything today. We can’t have you afoot everywhere. You need a coach and pair, and a saddle horse.”
At this rate, Evan would burn through his bank account in a fortnight. He’d have to put a stop to the spending.
“I also need my own place to live. After meeting the renters of my townhouse”—it still felt so odd to say that—“I couldn’t exactly turn out the baron and his three daughters mid-Season. Until their lease has run its course, I’m homeless. I can’t keep imposing upon you.” Marcus had insisted that Evan stay with him until he “found his feet,” as Marcus put it. If this week was any indication, finding his feet might take the rest of his life.
Being Marcus’s houseguest had proven an education in itself. Marcus lived in an opulent brick townhouse on Cavendish Square. Not his alone, he admitted. It was the city headquarters for the Duke of Haverly, Marcus’s father, but Marcus had the run of the place at the moment.
“The old boy rarely comes to town these days, and my elder brother, the marquess and heir, is busy on the estate in Oxfordshire. My mother isn’t expected for a few more days, so I’m knocking about in the great town pile by myself. There’s plenty of room, and you’ll be good company. Be a friend and stay.”
Put that way, Evan could hardly refuse. Marcus made it sound like Evan would be doing him a favor. But the boot was really on the other foot. Marcus had taken seriously the task of getting Evan outfitted and educated to look and act the part of the gentleman he’d so suddenly become. Evan had to wonder at Haverly’s generosity and interest. Did he have an ulterior motive, or was he just bored and looking for a diversion? Thus far, he’d been generous and friendly, but Evan was still fighting panic attacks and nightmares, not to mention being thrown into the deep end of the aristocratic pool, and he didn’t know whom to trust.
“Deliver everything to my place, Pierre, and send the bill to Coles, Franks, and Moody. They’ll take care of paying for everything.” A situation Marcus had set up for Evan last week, and which Evan still thought strange. Lawyers to handle his bills? He’d always managed his funds, meager as they had been, himself. He didn’t like the idea of letting others take care of his accounts. Yet Marcus assured him that all gentlemen had secretaries, lawyers, and stewards to see to their affairs.
Marcus stood as the elderly Belgian tailor tugged the jacket off Evan’s shoulders, and Evan reached for his uniform coat. With no proper civilian clothing—at least none that Marcus would allow him to be seen in—he’d continued to wear the green tunic and trousers of his regiment. At least he was comfortable in those, feeling like himself in that respect.
“Make one of everything first, then the duplicates,” Marcus instructed the tailor. “Complete the evening wear at once though. We need to get him outfitted properly before tomorrow night.”
Evan paused in slipping the pewter buttons through their holes. “What happens tomorrow night?”
Marcus smiled. “The first bash at Almack’s. I got you a voucher, of a sort.”
“A voucher? To Almack’s?” Even a recent commoner such as Evan had heard of the famous social institution.
“Of course. One can’t just show up uninvited. You have to be approved by one of the Patronesses. Unless you’re the Prince Regent, of course. Though I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him there. Almack’s is the most exclusive entertainment in the city. The social dragons who run the place keep a watchful eye on everyone who enters. Debutantes’ Seasons can be made or broken by a single evening at Almack’s.”
Marcus picked up his many-caped cloak and swirled it over his shoulders with a panache Evan envied. Once his new cloak arrived, he’d have to practice that maneuver.
“I spoke with the Prince Regent yesterday,” Marcus continued, “and he wrote you a personal pass. We’ll see what the Patronesses have to say about it when we get there.”
A smile played about Marcus’s mouth, and Evan frowned. Who were the Patronesses, and why did they wield such power?
“What am I expected to do there?” And how am I supposed to do it without making a fool of myself?
“You mean beyond be an eligible bachelor and dance with the ladies?” Marcus slipped on his calfskin gloves.
“Dance?” Panic skittered through Evan. He buttoned his tunic. “I have a wounded leg.” The leg was coming along fine, had improved over the last week of activity in fact, but it would make a handy excuse not to make a cake of himself on a dance floor.
“Nonsense. Your leg is nearly healed. You said so yourself, so no malingering. There is a new dance that is scandalizing and thrilling London society at the moment. It’s the waltz, out of Vienna, and it allows you to get very close to your dancing partner. I find it quite exhilarating, and you’ve got all of tomorrow to master the steps. Good thing it’s fairly simple.”
Evan’s head ached. Dance with ladies of the ton? Surely there was some way out of this. Though … the memory of Lady Diana Seaton’s face surged into his mind, something that had happened all too frequently since their brief encounter last week. Dancing with her might not be too bad. Officers had hosted occasional dances, and he’d partaken, but he was sure the reels and country dances he knew would bear little resemblance to a high-society affair at a place like Almack’s.
Marcus pushed open the door and stepped into the brisk air. The tailor’s shop had no front window, no sign over the street. Customers were by referral only. Evan never would’ve located the place without Marcus, much less been allowed through the door.
“Don’t people do anything else at Almack’s besides dance?” Evan dodged pedestrians to keep up with Marcus’s long strides.
“Certainly. There are card rooms, and lots of business transactions get done, but the most important thing is shopping the Marriage Mart. Now that you’re a nobleman, you’re expected to marry well and produce an heir and a spare as soon as possible to consolidate the title firmly into your family.” Marcus stopped at the corner where his carriage waited. The Haverly Family crest adorned the door, and the coachman sat high above a pair of dappled grays with glossy rumps and braided manes. “Tattersall’s,” he instructed the driver.