A Matchmaking Mismatch (Romance Retold #3)

Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

P hilip was just sitting down to dine when a letter was brought by the last penny-post of the day. By now, he recognized the Swan’s handwriting—or Ruth’s, rather. He smiled slightly at the sight of it. It matched the man—lean and youthful.

He opened the letter, feeling a bout of nerves at the thought that it might contain a refusal. He had known he was out of his depth with Miss Devenish, but he hadn’t realized just how near he was to drowning—or that he could be taught to swim—until the meeting with Ruth that afternoon.

He breathed an audible sigh of relief as his eyes ran over the words happy to accept. Thank heaven.

It was a risk, keeping the services of Ruth, of course. He was placing his trust in someone he hardly knew and, if the man wasn’t as trustworthy as Philip had taken him to be, it would mean humiliation on a level Philip had never experienced. He would make it clear in his response that he still required complete discretion.

No one could ever discover he was using the Swan’s services—Miss Devenish least of all—but not even Finmore. Philip well knew how easy it was for one confidant to innocently take his own confidant—or two—and before one knew it, what had begun as a secret was common knowledge and appearing in the betting books at White’s. It was exactly how his mother’s liaisons had changed from a private family affair to ton gossip.

But he didn’t think Ruth would serve him such a trick. Philip had seen the way Ruth’s eyes had widened behind his spectacles at Philip’s offer. It would be foolish for the man to throw it away by breaking his word. Three hundred pounds was a neat sum, certainly. But it would be well worth it if Ruth helped him win Miss Devenish. It was an investment.

Philip knew a bit of impatience to begin. Understanding of a subject that had long troubled him was finally within his grasp. He had to admit, too, to a certain amount of curiosity regarding Ruth. The man was an enigma. How did such a young man—and one whose appearance made him difficult to take seriously—come by his knowledge and wisdom?

But the journey to Oxley Court couldn’t be helped, and Philip wasn’t one to shirk his duty.

W hen she and Topher had first transferred their belongings to Sir Jacob’s townhouse in Upper Brook Street, Ruth had been uneasy. She had visions of the master of the house returning to Town prematurely and finding Ruth attired in her wrapper and shift. Her worries were slightly eased when she discovered that she and Topher would be inhabiting spare bedchambers rather than those of the master, and once she had instructed that Lucy be the only servant to enter her bedchamber when she was at home, she was able to relax. She needed one space at least, be it ever so small, where she had no need to pretend.

Lord Oxley’s note—for Topher had confirmed that it was indeed the viscount Ruth was helping—had assured them that his uncle was apprised of their presence in his townhouse and would be thoroughly offended if they refused to make use of his carriage and horses. And as Ruth considered her situation, she had to admit that some adjustments to her wardrobe needed to be made, which would require her venturing forth from the house.

Spectacles were the first item of business which needed addressing. While the prospect of having a crystal-clear view of Lord Oxley’s pleasing countenance was as appealing as it was dangerous, Ruth simply couldn’t continue wearing her brother’s glasses. It would be to court clumsiness and hamper her ability to do what she had been hired to do—a chance she couldn’t take. If she was going to earn hundreds of pounds, she needed to be entirely devoted to Lord Oxley’s success.

When she and Topher sallied forth from Upper Brook Street to visit the nearest optician in Sir Jacob’s carriage, she felt on edge, once again fighting the near certainty that she would easily be identified as an impostor. She was no longer wearing Topher’s glasses, which had come to feel like a secret weapon of sorts—the keystone of her entire disguise. But they arrived at the optician’s and were greeted by the bespectacled shopkeeper, who gave no indication that he found anything amiss in Ruth’s appearance.

He immediately took her over to his collection of quizzing glasses, his bristly gray brows rising when she told him that she needed a pair of full spectacles—preferably ones with regular glass in place of lenses.

“But why?” He blinked at her through thick lenses of his own, which made his eyes appear like those of an insect.

Ruth hesitated, realizing how ridiculous her request sounded.

“For our sister, sir,” Topher interjected. “She has the silliest obsession with spectacles. She saw the ones I wear for reading, you know, and we promised her we should bring her a pair of her own, though she has no need for them. What eight-year-old does?” He put a hand on the optician’s shoulder with a charming smile. “But you know what silly flights of fancy women take into their heads at times.”

Ruth shot her brother an annoyed glance, and the optician chuckled, leading them over to his collection of spectacles. “I have just one pair with ‘blanks,’ as I call them. They were only ever meant to be for display, and I’m afraid the glass is set in the least popular pair of frames we carry. They have sat now for nigh on a year.” He picked up a pair of glasses with bulky frames of a chocolate brown. “Made of horn, these ones, and a very dark horn it was, as you can see. Most people prefer the less conspicuous silver frames.”

Ruth felt Topher’s shoulders shake beside her, his hand covering his mouth as he looked at the frames.

“Thank you, sir.” Ruth took the pair and set them on the bridge of her nose. She breathed a silent sigh of relief as she set the earpieces in place. They didn’t squeeze her head like Topher’s had. And how glorious it was to look through plain glass! The fact that her vision was framed in a blurry, dark oval due to the combination of narrow lenses and thick frames was certainly not ideal, but she would become habituated to it quickly, no doubt.

The optician offered her a handheld mirror, and she startled slightly at the sight of her face in the reflection. The spectacles certainly couldn’t be described as unobtrusive, but she was pleased—and displeased—with the way they added to her masculinity. They would draw the attention away from her lashes, at least—indeed, it was impossible to even see they existed if she set the spectacles slightly down on the bridge of her nose. The frames would draw all the attention, and better she look a fool than be suspected a woman.

She glanced at a pair of daintier, silver frames with a wisp of envy. She would certainly look more like a woman in those.

But that was not her aim, no matter how much her silly vanity begged her to embrace her femininity in the company of Lord Oxley. Indeed, it was the very opposite of her aim.

“I shall take them,” she said, handing the horn rims to the optician.

She traded a few coins with the man and pulled Topher away from a particularly ornate gold quizzing glass frame, bidding the shopkeeper adieu.

Their next stop was a tailor, who was able to provide Ruth with a shirt, a waistcoat, and pantaloons—not tailored to her measurements, but good enough for her needs. Topher encouraged her to buy a pair of boots and a hat as well, from the shops down the street, but she refused. “I shall just use yours.”

Quite predictably, Topher took issue with this.

“Oh, do stop,” Ruth said. “You will never need two pairs of boots or two hats at once. We cannot spend all the money we have earned, Toph. We will need much of it for tips and other miscellanea, I imagine.”

She spoke with eyes slightly downcast as they walked from the top to the bottom of St. James’s, aware that she was the only woman on the street. There was something terrifying and enlivening about it that engendered within her two irreconcilable desires: one to gawk at everything around her, and the other to shade her eyes in case she should see something indecent.

But her successful ventures shopping and the fact that no one had stopped her to question her presence in that haven of masculinity breathed life into her confidence—and she needed every bit of it if she was to help Lord Oxley.

“You ought to go out on your own, you know,” Topher said after spending some time offering suggestions of how to appear and act more masculine—how to bow, how to sit, how to walk. “I’d lay odds you’ll enjoy it.” He seemed anxious to shed her company, and Ruth knew that she needed the boost in confidence that would come from practicing what she had learned from Topher. The more she could practice before Lord Oxley came back, the better.

Topher was spending all the time he could away from Upper Brook Street, in the company of his new friend, Robert Rowney, who was apparently more than happy to lend Topher the necessary clothing to enable his attendance at two more formal Town events, one of which Ruth suspected to be a masquerade or a ridotto. She hadn’t the willpower or mind space to pay much heed to Topher’s shenanigans, aside from her frequent request that he be wise and not draw attention to himself.

The animation in his eyes and his disposition to smile and tease even more than usual let Ruth know that he regretted coming to London not in the least. He was living out a lifelong ambition, while Ruth was stumbling through an impossible dream which might well prove to be a nightmare.

She debated between riding and walking through the Park and finally settled on the former. She doubted that riding for leisure was as common in Town, but if Lord Oxley wished to go out on horseback at any point, she would rather that her first experience riding cross-saddle not occur in his presence.

She was a capable rider, and she had vague memories of riding astride as a young girl, but the experience of swinging her leg up over the saddle was strange after so many years. It was all Ruth could do not to betray to the groom how utterly unnerving it was, or how insecure she felt in the large, man’s saddle.

Brook Gate gave nearly instant access to the Park from her street, but Ruth took her mount up and down Upper Brook Street twice in an effort to ensure she was comfortable on the horse and saddle before entering the Park. Her pantaloons chafed at her legs. It felt strange to slide around in the saddle, and she had to exercise great control to remind herself not to squeeze the poor horse with her legs in an effort to feel more secure. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself with a gallop through the Park because she had given her mount an unintentional signal.

Brook Gate brought her onto a wide expanse of green grass, where people rode horses, walked in groups of two or three, and slowly rumbled down the dirt lanes in open carriages. She inhaled the park air, a sense of newfound freedom coursing through her and making her feel light and adventurous, even as her heart pattered nervously. She was completely anonymous here. It was precisely what she had dreamed of as a child—the liberty she had always begrudged Topher.

During their meeting, Lord Oxley had mentioned that Miss Devenish made a habit of walking in the Park each afternoon, and Ruth had chosen her destination with that in mind. She hoped she might spot her, this woman Lord Oxley was so determined to win over. It shouldn’t be too difficult, given that Miss Devenish would be wearing half-mourning colors.

Sure enough, Ruth hadn’t to wander the Park for long before she spotted her, and her heart dropped with an annoying thud the moment she did. Ruth had assumed that someone as eminently eligible and handsome as Lord Oxley would only choose a woman of equal beauty. And so he had. Where Lord Oxley was tall, muscular, and dark, Miss Devenish was elegant, fair, and of perfectly regular height. Surely it was little wonder that any man would be enamored of such a woman.

Her beauty was unparalleled, but Ruth couldn’t help wondering what Miss Devenish the woman was like. Was she kind, as Lord Oxley had said? Was she shy? Was she truly inured to Lord Oxley’s charms?

Miss Devenish was flanked by a friend, and a maid stood slightly off from the two young ladies while a gentleman held Miss Devenish’s hand in his. He looked to be in his late thirties, and his conversation did not seem to be entirely welcome, based on the way Miss Devenish was attempting to extract her hand. A group of older people stood a dozen feet away, engrossed in conversation, and Ruth wondered if Miss Devenish’s father was perhaps among them.

An idea occurred to Ruth, and she slowed her horse to a stop in the middle of the lane, swinging herself over and down to the ground, with a heart that thudded violently against her chest at her own audacity. But the more she knew of Miss Devenish, the better she could help Lord Oxley.

“Ah,” she said, striding over with as much jovial masculinity as she could muster. “Miss Devenish! What an unexpected delight to meet you here.”

Ruth kept her eyes trained on Miss Devenish, who gazed at her with an expression of bemusement and uncertainty, while the gentleman rose from his hunched position and allowed Miss Devenish’s hand to drop. He looked less-than-pleased at the interruption.

“Forgive me, sir,” Ruth said with the most confident and amiable smile at her disposal, “but I simply couldn’t pass by without greeting Miss Devenish. What has it been, three years, since we last met?” She held Miss Devenish’s gaze purposefully and was relieved when a glint of understanding lit the woman’s eyes. She wasn’t all beauty and no brains, then.

“Has it been three?” Miss Devenish said. “I rather thought it had only been two.”

Ruth laughed and shook her head. She had watched enough men flirt to know what one might say in response. “It is too cruel of you to say so. I had hoped that time passed as slowly for you in my absence as it does for me in yours. But no, no. It has certainly been three. Though even two years would feel like an eternity away from that smile, I confess.” She bowed over her hand gallantly. “I must hear how you have fared since we last met.” She put out an arm. “Will you walk with me? You and Miss…?”

“Parkham, sir,” said the young woman. She, too, was beautiful, with kind eyes and a bit more timidity in her demeanor than Miss Devenish.

Ruth executed a bow and smiled. “Miss Parkham.”

“We should be happy to, of course.” Miss Devenish looked at the other man with an apologetic smile. “Please do excuse us, Mr. Munroe. I wish you a pleasant afternoon.”

“Of course.” Munroe gave a stiff bow, sent a glance at Ruth full of promised retribution, and excused himself.

Ruth watched him walk off for a moment, hoping she would never have occasion to see him again, then turned to the young women with an apologetic smile. “You will have to forgive me—it was very presumptuous of me to interject myself and act as though I knew you. But I couldn’t help feeling that perhaps Mr. Munroe’s attentions were not precisely to your taste.”

Miss Devenish glanced in that man’s direction. “You apprehended the truth of it, sir. My father is nearby”—she glanced over her shoulder at the group of middle-aged men Ruth had remarked upon arriving—“but he saw an old friend and has all but forgotten me, I think. Thank you for your kindness.”

Ruth inclined her head. “It was my pleasure, I assure you. And now, I shall leave you to enjoy your walk in peace. Miss Devenish. Miss Parkham.” She touched her hat and turned back toward her horse, blessing Sir Jacob’s groom and the excellent training that kept the horse standing in wait rather than cantering across the Park with his newfound freedom. Ruth had already drawn more attention to herself than she had hoped to.

“Sir! Sir, wait,” Miss Devenish said.

Ruth turned, brows raised.

“You needn’t go just yet,” Miss Devenish said. “You must at least tell us whom we have to thank for the kindness.”

Ruth took a few steps back toward the women. “Ruth. Henry Ruth.” He bowed again. “At your service, ladies. But it was no trouble at all.”

Miss Devenish smiled. “I must admit, I wasn’t entirely sure what to think of it when you approached us, for I was certain that I didn’t know you. I have quite a good memory for faces, you see, and I worried that perhaps you were taking advantage of the situation to gain an introduction, though I imagine that sounds quite arrogant of me to say.”

Miss Parkham interjected. “It wouldn’t be the first time it has happened. Men will go to great lengths to gain an introduction to her. They have little respect for her privacy.” She nodded to indicate Miss Devenish’s mourning clothing.

Ruth smothered the question that rose to her thoughts: if Miss Devenish desired privacy, why did she make a habit out of strolling through the Park at the most popular time of day?

“You are in mourning, Miss Devenish?” asked Ruth.

She nodded. “For my brother. He died last March.”

Ruth frowned. “I am terribly sorry to hear that. You must have been close with him.”

Miss Devenish and Miss Parkham shared a glance. “We were as close as most siblings near in age, I think.” She leaned in toward Ruth. “Truth be told, though, sir, I have found it somewhat convenient to continue my period of mourning. It gives me a bit more control over whose attentions I am obliged to entertain. Mr. Munroe happens to be one of the more aggressive gentlemen who refuses to be put off by my situation.”

“I see,” Ruth said, wondering how Miss Devenish regarded Lord Oxley’s attentions. Was she using mourning to ward him off as well? “But does this not inhibit you from accepting the welcome attentions of gentlemen, as well?”

The young women shared another glance, and Miss Devenish’s cheeks turned a shade rosier. “You perceive the problem well. Though, in truth, it was never an issue until recently. It is the reason that I have decided to put off mourning soon.”

“In time for the Walthams’ masquerade,” Miss Parkham said with an energetic clasping of the hands.

Ruth’s brows went up. She hoped that this boded well for Lord Oxley. Perhaps spitting lemon tart on Miss Devenish hadn’t been such a disaster after all. She wished she could inquire further, but it would be too forward after such a short acquaintance.

“Well, Miss Devenish. I wish you every success with whatever gentleman was fortunate enough to inspire such a change. I am afraid I have an engagement I must rush to now, but it was a pleasure to meet both of you.”

She bid the young women farewell and swung herself up over her horse, feeling quite pleased with the fluidity of the motion. She wasn’t struggling nearly as much as she had feared in her charade as a gentleman.