Chapter Text
“You haven't touched your breakfast, sweetheart.”
Bleary eyes blinked up at the thin man who across the table. His face looked practically gaunt in the morning sun. A lock of unruly dark hair had escaped his normally slicked style to flop over his forehead. A sardonic smile stretched across his face, making him even more skull-like than usual.
“Not much of an appetite, unfortunately. The sea must not agree with me.”
What she would have given her collection of sable art brushes for a soft-boiled egg and toast right now. She looked back down at her plate of herring and egg whites. Positively revolting. Why did her mother insist on foisting food she knew her daughter detested onto her plate?
“If you're not going to eat those herring….”
Lucy sighed, pushing her plate across the table to her chaperone/manservant. Technically, he shouldn't have been eating with her. Her mother would have beaten her for allowing Jack to sit at the table with her. But her mother wasn't here, and Jack Skain could pass for highborn at breakfast.
She turned her attention to the leather portfolio. Photographs and artistic renderings of London's peers stared back at her. The host of posh-looking young men in their most fashionable suits stood, sat, or posed with others. Jack snickered as Lucy fanned the pages out.
“Tell me about that one.” Jack pointed his knife at a family portrait. Lucy looked at it before picking up the small picture.
“Lady Penelope Fittes, Marchioness Wharton. Her husband died in a hunting accident about ten years ago. Queen Victoria broke protocol and allowed her to keep the title in her own right since the Marques had no heirs. There are rumors that Lady Fittes is a spiritualist who is able to make contact with the dead. The man next to her is her valet--some biblical name I can't remember. The younger man in the frame is William “Quill" Kipps, a distant nephew whom she's made her heir. Attended Eaton and Cambridge. Enjoys fencing and cigars. Collects those French painters my mother abhors.”
Jack nodded.
“And the one under that.”
Lucy picked up the picture of a young man whose ears were larger than the rest of him. He wore a bored expression and a suit that was just a hair too big.
“Robert Vernon, second son of the Earl of Dudley. Attended Eaton then Oxford. Working on a doctorate in history. Enjoys shooting and libraries. Was once thrown out of the Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts for starting a fight with one George Karim, fourth son of the Baronet of Sidcup, over a rare, illuminated work.”
Jack snorted. “Can you imagine what that looked like?”
Lucy grinned, pulling a photo of George Karim from the pile. “Like two academics trying to slap each other.” She glanced at the image before turning it to show Jack. A solemn, bespectacled man with a wild head of dark curls stared back.
A waiter approached to check on their breakfast. Lucy quickly returned the photographs to the portfolio. She plastered a banal expression on her face and waited to endure the interaction.
“A telegram for you, miss.” They lowered a silver tray for her to see. The telegram paper was filled with text that filled Lucy with creeping fear. There was no reason she should be receiving a telegram until after she was settled in London.
“Thank you. Could we get some more tea while you're here?” Lucy nodded toward the empty pot.
“Right away, madam.” The waiter picked up the teapot and hurried away.
Lucy turned her attention to the telegram. She groaned as she skimmed the words.
“Orders from on high?” Jack laughed as he took a swig of his black coffee. Lucy shot him a glare. She sat perfectly in her chair, back straighter than the corset she wore. Before she began, Lucy made sure to quirk her mouth just as to imitate her mother.
“My dearest daughter, as you must be nearing your destination by now, a few reminders. Skain is to remain with you at all times, other than when it is not proper for a manservant to be in the room. Your diet shall be strictly adhered to. I have sent orders to the cook regarding your meals. No painting. No undignified sports. A tutor will come by several times a week to work on your French and Greek. Read the newspapers. Conversation is important to these people. You'll need to be well versed in a variety of topics to keep their attention. I'll be joining you in six months to see London for myself. Papa and your sisters send their love. – Mama”
“Right twat, your mother.” Jack grinned.
The waiter returned with a fresh pot of tea. Lucy smiled her thanks before pouring herself a cup. Jack tsked as she reached for the sugar pot.
Lucy rolled her eyes before pulling five cubes from the pot. “Try me.”
“Wouldn't dare, sweetheart.”
**
Lockwood grumbled as he, once again, burned his toast in the small kitchen of his townhome. His scribbles covered the tablecloth as he attempted to balance his accounts. Checking his stores, Lockwood determined there was just enough butter and jam left to potentially mask the burned taste. He would need to get more this afternoon if he had a hope of eating dinner. Perhaps the new grocer on the corner would extend him some credit.
George bustled into the room, looking tired as his nightshirt. There was a red mark on the side of his face again, making Lockwood wonder if his friend had replaced the brass bedstead with books.
“Did you get any sleep, Lockwood?”
Lockwood didn’t bother to answer. The near-permanent bags beneath his eyes would speak for him. He gulped his teak-colored tea greedily as he looked over his calculations again.
“I’ll take that as a no. And we’re out of real food. Guess it’ll be coffee from the stand outside the PRO for me.”
“Huh? What?” Lockwood looked up as he raised his toast to his mouth.
“We don’t have any food, Lockwood.”
“Thank you, George. I wasn’t aware that I’d burned the last heel of bread.”
“Any luck on a solution?” George nodded his head in the direction of a number of announcements, invitations and pictures that were spread over the unmarked end of the table. Lockwood cast his gaze to the mess. A bevvy of faces started back at him. It was all the information the pair had compiled on the eligible young ladies making their debut in society that Season.
“The American contingent is my best shot. They won’t know my reputation, and they have larger dowries than the English ladies.”
“You know you don’t have to do this, right? We can get by while your business gets off the ground. Maybe my father”
Lockwood groaned. “We’re not asking your father for a loan. He has that wedding to pay for, remember? We agreed the best course of action was for me to find a rich wife and use the dowries for the business.”
“No, you agreed that was the best course of action. I told you it was a stupid idea and that you’d never marry for anything but love.”
“George….” Lockwood rubbed a hand across his face. He was tired and stressed. The roof of the family manor needed to be replaced. His creditors were beginning to grow impatient. How would he explain the lack of staff at the countless functions he’d be attending? How was he going to afford the clothes? He reminded himself the clothes could be a business expense; after all, art dealing was 2/3rds connections and where better to network than at those functions?
“I know, Lockwood. I’m going to get dressed and head to the PRO.” George turned to head out when he noticed a page on the floor. He bent to pick it up and examine it. A young woman with honey-colored hair sat in a large rattan chair. She was rendered well in pastels. Her dress was a pale blue lightweight summer affair. She held a paintbrush in one hand, while she looked intently at a skull positioned on a small table to her left.
“Who's this one?”
Lockwood sighed as he looked over from his depressing breakfast.
“Lucy Carlyle, seventh daughter of William Carlyle, unofficial whiskey baron of New York. The Fittes lot have already made their intentions towards her clear. Lady Penelope has her heart set on the girl for Quill Kipps.”
“She was on my list for today, right?”
Lockwood nodded. As much as he'd love to give Quill real competition for the Carlyle girl, he needed to be more pragmatic. It was better to set his sights on other women than the one likely to be the star of the Season.
George held onto the picture as he left the kitchen, leaving Lockwood alone with his thoughts and the figures again.
**
The hansom cab jolted down the street of Belgravia. Lucy grumbled with every movement. Skull, too, looked a bit green around the gills as they advanced slowly towards the rented townhome. Her trunks were being carried by a separate cart as there were too many for the hansom to manage. Only her small valet and art case sat in the basket beneath the driver’s seat.
“Nearly there, miss,” the driver called from above them.
Lucy leaned forward to get a better look at their temporary home. The townhome sat at the end of a crescent-shaped street of whitewashed houses. Its ground floor was painted the same bright white. The rest of the floors were faced with a sandy-colored stone that gave way to a slate roof. A gaggle of domestics stood out front in their black and white, ready to receive their new mistress.
The handsome rolled to a stop in front of the group. A severe looking older woman in a black dress and started apron stood at the head of the group beside an older man with greying hair. Jack motioned for her to wait. He exited the handsome first, then turned to offer her his bony fingers. Lucy lay a gloved hand daintily in his, secured her hat with the other, and stepped from the cab. The youngest of the maids and page boys murmured among themselves as they got a good look at her.
“Miss Carlyle,” The older man stepped forward and made a stiff bow. “My name is Richard Gently. I am the head butler.”
He rose and gestured to the severe looking woman. “Mrs. Cooper is the housekeeper. She has assigned Noreen and Agnes to be your personal maids while you're with us.”
Lucy smiled and extended her hand to the older man. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gently, and you as well Mrs. Cooper. I look forward to meeting the rest of staff once I've had time to settle in.”
Jack coughed behind her.
“Ah, and this is my personal valet, Jack Skain. He is to be treated with the utmost respect and authority. Until Mrs. Carlyle arrives, he is the highest authority aside from myself.”
Gently and Cooper nodded in agreement.
“Please call me Skull. I do quite hate my given name.” Jack said with a tooth grin. Mr. Gently made a face as Skull spoke. Lucy sighed to herself. It was going to be a long season.
Mrs. Cooper stepped back and offered Lucy a tour of the property. She obliged, leaving the luggage disbursement in Skull's capable hands.
**
Lockwood practiced his rapier forms in the basement of his townhome. It had once been a storage space for the myriad of curiosities his parents had collected on their world tour. Now, it served as the offices of Lockwood a Co and his training room.
There was a competition coming up, and he wanted to be ready. First prize was two hundred pounds. That would go a ways to clearing the most pressing of his debts.
A door slammed upstairs, causing Lockwood to whip around. He wasn't expecting anyone today.
“George?” He took a few steps towards the spiral staircase that connected the basement to the kitchen.
“Lockwood!” George called down the stairs.
Lockwood breathed a sigh of relief as he made the return his rapier to its rack and headed up the stairs.
George was practically vibrating as he unloaded the small crate of pantry staples.
“Had some of Flo's special blend again George?” Lockwood asked, patting his friend on the shoulder.
“I was offered a tutoring position with the university.”
“I don't see how that warrants the vibrating...” Lockwood took a good look at the items coming out of the crate. “Are those the--”
“Ingredients for my nan’s ghormei sabzi. Yes. Guess who I'll be tutoring, Lockwood?”
Lockwood tried to think, but his mind was pulling a blank. “Some terribly rich schoolboy who's in danger of failing out of Eton?”
“Lucy Carlyle.”
Lockwood's mouth fell open in shock.
“No. It's not possible.”
“But it is. Her mother reached out to my thesis advisor. Wanted to know if there was anyone he recommended. I have been asked to assist the young Miss Carlyle with her French and Greek.”
As if lightning had struck, Lockwood, too, was suddenly alive with energy. His brain churned with a half-formed plan.
“This is perfect. Magnificent. George Casper Karim, I could kiss you right now.”
George grinned back. “Please don't but I have a feeling I know what you're thinking.”
Lockwood’s grin widened. He had a plan now, and it might just save his house.