Work Text:
The morning following their agreement, Louise heard the words she dreaded ever since he left the Belcher house: “Lord Bush is here for you.”
She groaned, to her mother’s ladylike horror, and set down her book. She had been studying ancient Roman warfare, and the naval section was particularly captivating. It was just like Lord Bush to appear uninvited at the worst moment.
Then again, his appearance was always inconvenient, no matter what Louise was doing.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the butler before briskly passing him and trudging down the stairs towards the foyer. As she rounded the corner, she blanched at the sight of the blond waiting ahead. He had his back turned to her, examining the painting hanging on the wall. His hands clasped together behind his back were a little too clenched for the relaxed stance he was attempting.
Louise paused a fair distance away from him and crossed her arms. “What is it that you need, my lord?”
Despite not having seen her approach, Lord Bush did not flinch or startle at the sound of her voice. Instead, he straightened his already tight shoulders and turned swiftly. A stiff smile pulled at his lips. “It appears your little comment from the ball had more weight than for which I gave it credit.”
Satisfaction soared through Louise. She knew exactly what comment to which he was referring, and it clearly had the effect she’d wanted. “How so?”
“I have been dodging desperate mothers and their flirting daughters nearly all morning. I escaped two mamas simply on the way over here. We must schedule an appearance soon, to put any hopes to rest.”
“Schedule? Why not simply dance at the next ball? I am attending the Fischoeder ball the day after tomorrow.” If Louise already had to be at a ball, she might as well use it for one of their fake appearances. Two stones, one bird, something along those lines.
“That’s not soon enough!” Bush cried. “There is a new production at the Theater Royal tonight. We are going.”
“We are not.”
“I am not above begging.”
Oh, she did like that idea. Louise’s lip curled in a sinister grin. “Then do it.”
“What?” he squeaked out, much unlike a viscount might.
“Beg for it.”
To his credit, Bush did not blanch at the command. He reached out, taking her hands into his own. She flinched at the sudden gesture, at the gentleness in his touch. Swallowing, she forced herself to hold his gaze.
Bush’s icy eyes contradicted the warm, unwavering gaze he captured her in. “Please, Miss Belcher. Please attend the theater tonight with me. Nothing more would make me happier.”
When it was clear he was finished, she sighed and jerked her hands out of his grip. “Your groveling needs improvement. But, yes, I will go with you.”
Victory flashed across his face. “Splendid. I will send a carriage for you at eight, and we shall meet there.”
As he left, a plan began to mold and take shape in Louise’s mind. Maybe tonight would not be as horrid as she thought.
For the fiftieth time that evening, her hand slipped into her reticule and rubbed against the smooth glass of a small vial. She twisted the vial in her palm before removing her hand and placing it in her lap. The carriage ride bumped along the cobblestone roads, a strangely calming sensation. As the night continued and their scheduled outing at the theater approached agonizingly fast, nerves swarmed Louise’s veins.
She would have to pretend to like Lord Bush. The mere thought made her stomach jump.
People would approach and ask simple, meaningless questions. She would give the same response dozens of times. She would have to smile and laugh at pitiful jokes. And, worst of all, she would have to do all of that while on Lord Bush’s arm.
As the carriage pulled to a stop, the door nearly immediately opened. Louise frowned. The footman could not have been that quick. When she peered through the open door, her nose wrinkled. Lord Bush stood at the other side, holding the door open, and an outstretched hand waiting for her.
“Good evening, Miss Belcher,” he said. An inordinate amount of propriety flexed in his voice.
“My lord,” she mumbled in response. Brushing his hand to the side, she fumbled with her skirts until she was out the carriage and next to his looming stature. Instantly, the weight of gazes all around settled on Louise’s shoulders. She winced. It was not very polite to reject a gentleman’s offer for help, and the ton certainly noticed.
Lord Bush’s smile did not falter, but instead grew forced. “We are supposed to be courting, dear,” he whispered quietly between gritted teeth.
“My apologies.” She stood there, then, completely unsure of what to do next. Years of knowledge and practice of etiquette fled her mind, leaving her completely stranded. What was she to do next? Did he offer his arm, or was she supposed to reach out and grab it? No, grabbing it seems awfully impolite, in society’s eyes.
But he wasn’t offering his arm. Instead, his eyes held the same shade of confused as they stood there.
She huffed. One of them had to make a move, and clearly he was not going to be it. Louise raised her voice and stated, “Thank you for the invite, my lord. I’m quite excited for tonight. Care to show me the way?”
That jerked Lord Bush back into his role and he hastily offered her his arm. She took it graciously before they made their way through the crowd and into the theater.
One piece of luck for the night was that the Bush family had their own private box at the Theater Royal. Ann, Louise’s lady maid, would be their chaperone, but other than that, there would be no need for a show. She can pretend to like Lord Bush only so much before losing her mind.
But when they passed the entrance to his box and continued onward, Louise nearly halted in her steps. “I believe we missed our entryway, my lord.”
“We have to make an appearance, Miss Belcher. Otherwise, the gossips won’t give us a second thought.”
“Must we?”
“Do you want your work published or not?”
At this rate, Louise was beginning to think twice about that. It appeared she got the short end of the deal. She would have to renegotiate later, she decided.
At that moment, a wheezing voice cut through the chatter of the crowd: “Miss Belcher?”
Elation struck for a moment, before Louise realized she would be seen with Lord Bush by one of her dearest friends.
Louise and Lord Bush turned to face Lord Rudy, accompanied by Miss Chloe Barbash. Louise felt fondly towards Lord Rudy, and considered him a good friend. For that reason, she detested Miss Barbash. During a ball the previous season, she had overheard the woman tell her friends about seducing Lord Rudy due to his large inheritance. He was brother to a marquess, which meant significant inheritance but no responsibilities. Louise had yet to find a way to tell Lord Rudy about this conversation. When she saw him with Miss Barbash, a pang hit her heart. She needed to discuss it with him, soon.
“Lord Rudy!” she greeted. The familiar face of a good friend was what she needed to get through the night. “I’m happy to see you.” She glanced at Miss Barbash and gave a blatantly fake smile. “You as well, Miss Barbash.”
“Hello, Miss Belcher,” Chloe said with a sweet sneer.
Lord Rudy’s eyes flitted over to Lord Bush before giving a panicked look at Louise. “A pleasure to see you, Lord Bush.”
“Likewise,” Lord Bush drawled.
“I saw you two dance at the ball, but I didn’t realize…” Lord Rudy trailed off. He cleared his throat, and silence permeated the conversation, taking control.
Chloe interrupted the sweet sound of nothing to tell Louise, “How…quaint you look. That particular shade of green is quite your signature. One sees it on you rather often.”
Though the words themselves were meaningless, Louise quickly picked up on the underlying meaning. She was well aware how abnormal it was in the ton for a woman to wear the same dresses multiple times. However, with her father’s tavern, her parents could not afford to get her new dresses every single day. And Louise didn’t want them. She liked the clothing she had, so why would she never use it again?
Despite that, Chloe’s words hit hard. Louise ground her teeth, putting together a spitting insult to throw back.
Instead, Lord Bush beat her to it. He gave a pause, waiting for her to continue. When she did not, he said, “Was there more to your thought, or had it already reached its conclusion?” His expression remained somewhat friendly, yet his ice still coated his words.
Crimson stained Chloe’s cheeks as the words reached her. She was unable to amend her statement or correct herself before Bush continued.
”Ah, I see. That was your whole thought,” he murmured with thinly veiled disdain. “You must forgive me, Miss Barbash. I had not realized we were exchanging observations of such simplicity.”
Louise reigned in all her control to not spin around and face him, mouth gaping. Had Lord Bush…just defended her? She must have wax in her ears. She must have heard him wrong.
Lord Rudy coughed in surprise at Lord Bush’s words, and not before long, his singular cough turned into an attack. He motioned towards the door, and wheezed out, “I’m going to take some laudanum. I’ll see you soon, Miss Belcher.”
Nearly the moment the couple was out of sight, Lord Bush muttered, “What a jilt.”
Louise couldn’t argue with him. Despite her shock, she managed to say, “For once, I agree.”
They finally made their way to the box, to Louise’s utter relief. The night had already proven to be more than what she had expected. As they settled in their seats, she finally mustered up enough gratitude to say, “Thank you, for coming to my defense.”
“Of course,” he huffed. “I can’t let someone speak to my intended in that manner.”
Her heart twitched. “Your intended?”
He threw her a sly smile. “Well, isn’t that what you are?”
“Call me that again, and you will find it difficult to walk tomorrow.”
Before he could give a retort, the curtains on the stage raised. They both quieted and turned their attention forward. Louise grinned to herself, having won this round of banter.
Lord Bush fumbled with his pockets and pulled out his handkerchief and snuff box, setting them on the table of the box. He leaned back to watch the play, leaving the items in plain sight. Louise stared in awe. She could not believe how easy he had made it for her plan.
She dropped her reticule and gasped. “Excuse me, my lord.” Thankfully, Bush was not as much of a gentleman in private as he was in public. He did not make any move to pick up the reticule for her. Leaning over to pick up her items, her hand darted out and snatched the snuff box from the table. She quickly placed it inside the reticule and straightened. Glancing over, she caught Bush’s bored gaze as he watched the beginning of the play.
She smiled. He hadn’t noticed a thing.
“I must use the facilities,” she announced, standing abruptly. Her lady’s maid stood with her, ready to chaperone her to the washroom. Bush stared at her in annoyance. “We just sat down.”
“You do not need to accompany me. Ann will suffice. I’ll be back posthaste.”
He shrugged before turning back to the production.
Once in the facilities, Louise took out the snuff box, along with the vial of salt she had snatched from her father’s tavern. She had examined her father’s own snuff, and found it appeared shockingly similar to salt. She considered whether she should replace the snuff altogether, but ultimately decided on mixing in the salt with it, to avoid any suspicion.
Now, all she had to do was wait.
And wait she did. After all, the bloody dimwit slept through the whole play.
Louise sat with her teeth gritted as Bush snored softly beside her. His chin ducked into his chest, his arms twitching here and there in his sleep. The privacy of their box allowed him to continue sleeping without any eyes watching, but that would not have mattered anyway. A man in his position would not be hurt by the accusation of falling asleep at the Theater Royal. There was hardly anything a man could do to feel self-conscious.
Louise did not care if Lord Bush would be embarrassed or not. Instead, she became fired up at the notion. He invited her to the theater. She did not want to suffer through a performance for which she did not care, yet she still obliged. And here he sat, sleeping.
As the curtains fell on the stage, indicating the end of the night, Louise sat up in her seat and proceeded to jerk her elbow into Lord Bush’s side. Smiling, she realized that the box’s privacy allowed some perks for her as well.
He jerked upright with a snort. “Wha—where?”
“The theater, you fool. Why must you drag me here just to sleep through the whole performance?”
He gave her a sleepy grin. “Do not pretend that you haven’t enjoyed my company, my dear.”
“Now that you mention it, I did enjoy your company tonight the most I ever had. Of course, you were not conscious for the majority of the time, which helped significantly.”
He stood, brushing invisible dust off his trousers. “Tell me—was the production any good?”
It was horrific, but she certainly was not going to tell him that. “Spectacular.”
Louise had hoped he would use his snuff during the production, but lost hope quickly after his first snore sounded. However, it would be most satisfying for him to use it in a gentlemen’s club, or at least surrounded by his friends. That sort of embarrassment would be worth her whole night.
They made their way to the exit, only to be interrupted by Louise’s favorite person: Lord Fishoeder.
“Hello, little tavern child,” Lord Fishoeder greeted, in his sardonic yet warm tone. His eye twinkled, the other covered by his signature white eyepatch.
Louise curtsied for the duke. “Lord Fischoeder, I did not know you liked the theater.”
He leaned in and said callously, “I like the women.”
Bush gaped while Louise laughed. That was one of the reasons she loved Fishoeder. Not only did he sponsor her father’s tavern, he also treated her like he would a man: with respect. He did not censor himself because of her delicate femininity. He spoke to her like he would any other peer.
Fishoeder grinned before turning his attention to Bush. “Pleasure to see you again, Bush. How did you enjoy the production?”
He glanced over to Louise and hesitated. That hesitation was all she needed to burst in and state, “He absolutely adored it. Didn’t you, my lord?”
He raised an eyebrow at her, his face a little pale at having to lie to a duke, and responded, “Yes, I did. It was fantastic.”
“Tell him about your favorite parts, my lord,” she prompted.
A promise etched across Lord Bush’s face: I will get you back for this. He focused his attention on Fischoeder, who placed his hands behind his back and looked on with glee. “I, uh, particularly enjoyed the, er, the middle part. And the beginning. And the end. All of it, together, was a very complete production.”
Lord Fischoeder, far more intelligent than many would believe, quickly caught on. He nodded in understanding. “Ah, I see. And the pirate character? What did you think of him?”
Louise stamped down her urge to laugh. Of course, there was no pirate character. Fischoeder simply found enjoyment in messing with Bush, just as Louise did.
“He was spectacular,” Logan tried. “What did you think of his performance, your grace?”
Fischoeder shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t exist.” He turned to Louise, winked at her (or possibly just blinked, she could never tell with the eyepatch), and said, “I hope to see you at your father’s tavern soon. Maybe with a more intelligent chap next time?”
Louise bade him a good night, and cackled at Logan’s dumbfounded expression. “Next time, don’t sleep through the production, Lord Dingleberry.”
Somewhere, later that night, Logan Bush sat in his favorite gentlemen’s club. He leaned back in his seat, a glass of brandy in hand. His cravat hung loose around his neck, the first couple of buttons of his shirt undone. He took another sip and stared at the fireplace, memories of the night flashing through his mind.
Miss Louise Belcher’s hand wrapped around his arm. He hadn’t felt it, but he knew her fingers would be calloused. A woman that rough would show her nature on her hands. Calloused and experienced.
He took another drink.
Miss Louise Belcher’s look of awe when he stepped in and placed Miss Barbash where she belonged. The audacity of the woman to say something like that, and in front of him. He had not even considered whether or not he should say something, the words had simply poured from his mouth.
Miss Louise Belcher’s cackle as she tricked him into lying to a duke. By God, he could not believe she did that. He could not believe he fell for it. Lord Fischoeder would never let him live this down, that was for sure.
Another drink of brandy scorched his throat.
The soft green of her dress. The delicate gloves that stopped at her elbows. The low neckline, which nearly broke his will. The moment he saw her shove his hand out of the way and exit the carriage, his mind went blank. She had worn a finer dress than usual, which he expected, but he had never anticipated his reaction.
Logan attempted to take another drink, but found his glass empty. Instead of requesting another, he pulled out his snuff box. Pinching the powder between his fingers, he promised himself he would forget Louise Belcher. He would find a courtesan tonight, and that would be the end of that.
He held the powder to his nose and sniffed. Instantly, a scorching sensation shot through his nose. It pierced his eyes, his brain, his throat. Logan coughed and coughed, tears pouring from his eyes as he attempted to regain control of himself. The others in the club watched with judgmental eyes, while his friends laughed.
His face grew hot, from the looks and from the burning snuff. He had no clue how she did it, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Louise Belcher was behind this.
A smile ghosted his lips. Well played, Miss Belcher. It was his turn, next.