Chapter Seven

R uthie escaped back into her home, but that was as far as her energy could take her. She couldn't tackle the stairs, opting to lean against the door and close her eyes, waiting until her heart relaxed into a steady rhythm.

After a few minutes, she realized that was not going to happen—especially when her mother found her.

"Ruthie, darling!" Lady Celeste exclaimed, advancing toward her. "Where on earth have you been? I don't understand why Reginald has to take up so much of your time! Why doesn't he bother Mason? Or doesn't he have friends he can speak to without hounding you so much?"

Ruthie let out a desultory breath and raised a limp finger to tug at the bonnet ribbon fastened underneath her chin. Lady Celeste wasted no time taking it off her head and throwing it back to a maid to carry upstairs.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Ruthie replied wearily. "I was the only one he could speak to. We tried to make it quick."

Not quick enough.

Lady Celeste leveled her daughter with her unmistakable scrutiny. "At least you wore your hat," she said. With light pressure, Ruthie's mother tipped her face back and forth with her fingers. "I'll never understand these freckles," she mused. "They are as stubborn as you are. Sometimes I think I can barely see them, and then they're all I can see!"

"Sorry," Ruthie mumbled. Her head ached. All she wanted to do was flop down on her bed and sleep away this confounding day.

Lady Celeste dropped her hand. "What's wrong, darling? All of a sudden, you've turned quite green. Are you ill?"

Ruthie shook her head. "I don't think—"

"Because we can't have that. Not at all," Lady Celeste cut in, discreetly wiping her hands down the front of her skirts. "Not when Lord Dawkins is coming for dinner. Oh, don't give me that look. I thought it would be better than a walk in the park. More intimate."

"Mother, I don't think I can eat," Ruthie said truthfully. On a normal day it was difficult eating with the ancient lord whose fork tended to miss his mouth half the time. By the end of their meals, Lord Dawkins had more food on his face than Ruthie had in her stomach.

"Oh, you don't have to eat. Just sit there and smile. Ask him about himself," Lady Celeste replied blithely. "You know the lord prefers women with small appetites." Her face brightened. "Do you know what he told me today? He said that he admired your ‘natural, delicate structure.' Isn't that marvelous?"

"Yes," Ruthie answered glumly. "Marvelous."

If only the good Lord knew he was being fooled. There was nothing natural about Ruthie's form. Only being allowed to eat the bare minimum for years would make anyone appear delicate and close to shattering. If her height and freckles would not bend to her mother's indomitable will, then her weight would.

Ruthie couldn't recall a time when she'd eaten more than a handful of food in one sitting. No…that wasn't true. Just recently, she'd gorged on deliciously sinful and mouth-watering goodies at the cricket clinic she'd hosted with Lady Anna. Anna's sister and aunts had baked an alarming amount of pastries and biscuits for the day, and Ruthie hadn't been able to stop herself from trying all of them. Actually, she hadn't tried to stop herself. The confections were there to be enjoyed, and Ruthie wanted them. It was that simple.

Lady Celeste didn't seem to notice the melancholic note in Ruthie's voice. Gently, she pulled her away from the door and nudged her toward the stairs. "I think a nap is in order," she advised. "And definitely splash some water on your face. We want you fresh and glowing with youth when the lord returns. Men like Lord Dawkins don't want young wives who look older than them. What would be the point of that?" She chuckled.

Ruthie held on to the banister for dear life. A sluggish pallor had enveloped her. She couldn't take one step knowing what it was all for—not when a bizarre man in a huge carriage had just offered her something so completely different. And she'd told him no. She'd laughed at him. In all honesty, she hadn't believed him. Because Harry Holmes didn't truly want her . He wanted the saintly version of her. He wanted the same Ruthie that her mother and Lord Dawkins wanted—the one that lived for everyone but herself.

"Ruthie! Be careful. What's the matter?" her mother exclaimed, rushing up the step. Her hands clamped around her daughter's arms just as Ruthie was beginning to sway.

The room was spinning, and, for once, her mother was keeping her on her feet instead of pulling her under. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean to alarm you," Ruthie said, taken aback by the fear in the older woman's face. Lady Celeste so rarely showed what was on her mind. This moment of panic gifted her a nurturing appeal, though it also made her look older…look her age. Ruthie's heart warmed, but it was a quick feeling, there and then gone, because it was a little slice of time she would never be able to share with her mother, since the woman would hate it for the same reasons that Ruthie cherished it.

Lady Celeste laid the back of her hand against Ruthie's forehead and each cheek, her countenance hardening. "No, no, no." She shook her head as if she were having a fit. "This will not do. You can't see Lord Dawkins like this. A little red in the cheek is one thing—we could pass that off as a sweet blush—but this is too much. The man is horrified of death—"

Because he has one solid foot in the grave.

"—and he'll lose interest if he believes you are sickly."

Ruthie bubbled up with laughter. "I thought he appreciated my delicate form."

Lady Celeste raised an eyebrow. "A delicate form is one thing; a delicate constitution is quite another. He needs an heir, not another dead wife."

Ruthie winced. It wasn't like her mother to be so crude or frank; however, her plan had been foiled. Lady Celeste was a schemer, but she didn't do her best work under pressure. Ruthie almost felt sorry for her.

She wiggled out of her mother's grasp and, clutching the banister, attempted to trudge up the stairs once more. "I said I'm fine, Mother. I'm sure the lord won't mind me being slightly indisposed."

Hiding a smile, Ruthie glanced over her shoulder to find her mother staring up at her, aghast. "And this is the reason why you need me. You don't know men, Ruthie. You are far too young to understand how their minds work. They abhor sickness and cannot abide playing nursemaids. That is why women are the caretakers in the house."

Ruthie turned back to the stairs so her mother wouldn't see her frown. She didn't have one memory of her mother checking on her when she'd been sick as a child. It was always the nanny who administered the tonics and cold towels on her forehead.

"I'll reschedule right away," her mother stated. "I'll have him come by tomorrow. That will soften the blow. That's another thing men hate—waiting. Remember that."

"I will, Mother," Ruthie said as she continued to climb. Her legs were stronger now, the steps so much easier. It was remarkable how much more alive she felt knowing she wouldn't have to stare at Lord Dawkins's shiny head all night. "I will see you in the morning."

Lady Celeste had already moved on. She had almost made it to the drawing room—no doubt to pen her message to the lord—when a knock came at the door. She slapped her arms down at her sides. "Who could that be at this hour?"

Ruthie paused on the steps. Normally, visitors had nothing to do with her, but today had changed all that. In her newfound experience, anyone could be on the other side of that block of wood.

She calmed her nerves as the butler answered the caller, not giving any indication that this was anything more than a regular occurrence. He closed the door and walked up the stairs to Ruthie, offering her a crisp white envelope.

"For you, miss."

Lady Celeste's head peeked out from the drawing room. "Who is it from?"

There was no writing on the outside of the note. Ruthie's fingers trembled as she opened it. And as her eyes flew across the foolscap, she screwed her mouth shut because she knew if she answered her mother at that time her voice would have trembled as well.

"Ruthie?" the lady called again. "Are you going to tell me?"

Ruthie shook her head, hastily folding the letter back into a tiny square. "It's from…Mrs. Everett," she lied quickly. "Just news about the cricket club, that's all."

"Oh," her mother said, losing all interest.

With Lady Celeste out of sight, Ruthie pressed the letter to her chest and ran the entire way back to her room. She slammed the door shut behind her and jumped onto her bed, landing on her belly with a giggle. Opening the letter, she read it once more. And then two more times after that. Until the day she died, she would never forget the few short words imprinted in her mind.

Ruthie, I cannot live without balance. Meet me tonight.–H

*

Ruthie would have to be a woman this evening. It could not be helped. She only had one "male" outfit, and that had been ruined. She wouldn't dare ask Lady Anna for another. The curious look her friend had given her had been enough, though she was kind enough not to ask any questions. Lady Anna might not be so tight-lipped if Ruthie knocked on her door again.

She snuck out of her room at the usual time, when the servants had retired for the night and her mother was out cold after her routine glass of sherry and her extra-large spoonful of laudanum. Ruthie could have barged into Lady Celeste's room with a military band and her mother's eyelashes wouldn't have twitched.

Without Reggie's carriage, she was forced to walk the entire fifteen minutes to the Lucky Fish, but Ruthie didn't mind. The cool spring air was perfect for her nerves and forced her mind to slow down. Her ribcage hurt from all the banging her heart had been doing ever since she received Harry's note. She paced her walk, hoping her heart would mimic the steady rhythm, but to no avail. By the time she stood outside the gaming hall's infamous front door, Ruthie was as discombobulated as ever. Her stomach felt like it had dropped to her toes; her lungs felt like they were lodged in her throat. She'd entered this establishment four times already, and the idea of doing it again—this time with the proprietor's frank permission—seemed inconceivable and incredibly daunting.

Would Harry stay glued to her side all night or palm her off on an associate? The question nagged at her. No doubt the Lucky Fish was filled with capable gamblers who lost and won fortunes with the snap of their deft fingers, but why did the notion of spending the evening with one of them upset Ruthie so?

"Excuse me, miss?"

She escaped from her contemplations to find a young woman coming outside the front door. Ruthie didn't recognize her, and the newcomer did not appear to be one of the many companions that frequented the hall.

The woman's eyes were kind and her smile was timid as she approached. "Are you Miss Ruthie?" she whispered. "I was told to watch out for you and take you up as soon as you arrived. I've been waiting for ages."

Well, that answered Ruthie's question. She would be palmed off. Ruthie attempted to hide her disappointment. "Yes," she replied. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what time to come. And I wasn't sure where to go or meet Mr. Holmes—"

The woman's flaming yellow hair bounced prettily as she waved a hand. "Oh, no worries at all, miss. I'm just in a hurry to get to my man, is all. But he can wait." She smiled cheekily. "Sometimes it's good to make them do it. I'm Holly, by the way. I work for Mr. Holmes."

Holly took Ruthie's arm and towed her around to the back of the building. They entered through the kitchen then proceeded to take the servants' staircase to the third floor.

Holly was a talker and kept up a steady stream of conversation the entire journey. "Mr. Holmes said you were a tall one," she said, peeking at Ruthie over her shoulder. "But I think I've got something that will work. My man is tall like you."

"Your man?" Ruthie asked, tripping on the last step, her feet smacking loudly on the floor.

"Sure. His clothes should do the trick," Holly returned evenly, leading the way down the long corridor that was incredibly familiar to Ruthie. Holly was taking her to Harry's room. Would he be there waiting for her?

For the second time, Ruthie had to hide her disappointment when Holly opened the door to the empty room—or as empty as a room like that could be. It remained a world lost in time, untouched from when Ruthie saw it last. All the swords were neatly lined up against the wall, every tiara stacked with precision by color. Even the bed was perfectly made, all edges sharp enough to cut open skin. The only items out of place were the clothes on the bed that had obviously been stacked by Holly.

Holly went straight for them and shook them out with a flourish before holding them up to Ruthie's body. "They'll fit well enough," she declared appraisingly, tossing the navy-blue jacket back on the bed. "All right, then, it's time to make a man out of you."

Ruthie giggled as Holly set to work, untying and coaxing the clothes off her, incredibly adept and efficient at her job. This time it was Ruthie's turn to keep up the steady conversation. It felt too odd to have a woman she didn't know undress her in silence.

"Will you and…your man be joining us tonight?" she asked while Holly slid her petticoat down to the floor. Ruthie accepted her hand as she stepped out of the bell-shaped piece of clothing. "I mean Mr. Holmes and myself. I didn't mean to imply us . There is no us . Just Mr. Holmes and…well, me."

Holly's fingers stalled as they worked on the laces of the corset. Ruthie squeezed her eyes shut. You sound like a besotted fool!

Which she most definitely wasn't. She was merely interested in the man, that was all. He was interesting! Would a woman refuse a proposal if she was besotted?

Holly's fingers went to work again, and when she finished with the corset, she threw it in the corner along with the growing pile of clothes. Ruthie inflated her lungs, widening her torso to an exaggerated degree.

Holly came to her front, her hands on her hips. "No. I'm going to meet him at the pub. You are a tiny thing. I've never seen a woman your height have a waist so small. The corset didn't have to work too hard."

Ruthie coughed. The miserable corset had been working hard enough for her. "My mother says men prefer a small waist."

Holly snorted. "That hasn't been my experience," she replied. "Most men like to have a woman they can hold on to, if you understand my meaning."

Ruthie, in fact, did not understand her meaning, though she nodded anyway so she didn't appear to be even more of a simpleton. And as she didn't wish to inquire as to what Holly did for Mr. Holmes and where she'd acquired all her experience, changing the subject seemed the safest route. "What pub will you be going to?"

"The Flying Batsman. Do you know it?"

Finally! Ruthie was on solid ground. "I know the place well. I'm good friends with Mr. and Mrs. Everett." She hesitated. "Well, maybe not good friends. Mr. Everett tends to yell at me a lot, and then Mrs. Everett—Myfi—yells at him for yelling at me, and then he yells at everyone on the team. It's really not as bad as it seems."

Holly cocked her head. "Are you one of Myfi's cricket club girls?"

Ruthie nodded enthusiastically.

"Well, then you know my man, all right. Benny Hardcastle."

"Benny's your man?" Ruthie squealed. Benny had worked as one of the team's assistant coaches last season. She understood that life had been rough for the retired cricketer who'd turned to drink after his career ended, but things were looking up for him now. Last winter he'd taken a position coaching for a men's county team, and now he had a lady on his arm. Once more, Ruthie had to marvel at how quickly change seemed to happen around her club.

Holly blushed prettily as she buttoned the clean linen shirt and helped Ruthie into her trousers. They were tighter than she would have liked. Clearly, these were clothes the old cricketer wore when he was a few stones lighter.

"No wonder Mr. Holmes has taken such a shine to you," Holly said absent-mindedly, focusing on getting Ruthie's blue necktie just right. "He and Mr. Everett are good friends. Business associates, even. He's donated plenty to help the club get off the ground."

"I know."

"I never knew why he donated quite so much," Holly said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She grinned. "But now it all makes sense."

"N-no, no, no," Ruthie stammered, holding out her hands. Holly easily evaded her. She snatched the jacket off the bed and swung it through Ruthie's flailing arms. "Mr. Holmes and I haven't known each other long—"

"Sometimes a minute is all it takes."

"We're barely even spoken to each other—"

"Sometimes that's best."

Ruthie sighed and stamped her foot in a most feminine way. "I saved his life! That's all this is."

Holly's mouth snapped shut. Ruthie composed herself, knowing that she'd finally got her point across.

But then something bizarre happened. Holly's eyes glassed over and her chin wobbled slightly. Her voice came out breathy and awed. "That is so romantic!" she said, clasping her hands together underneath her chin. "Falling in love with a man is like saving his life, isn't it? Are you a poet as well, miss? If not, you should write some of this down."

Ruthie's jacket-clad shoulders slumped in defeat. There was no getting through. Holly saw what she wanted to see. Perhaps she was so in love with Benny that she wanted everyone to share the bliss?

A fist pounded on the door—five times—causing Holly to jump out of her melodramatic stupor. "Holly?" came a deep voice from the corridor. A stark pause followed before the voice added with a cough, "Ruthie?"

"Damn," Holly muttered, hopping into action. "Just a few minutes," she called, hurrying to finish Ruthie's ensemble. She was like a whirling dervish completing the look. Ruthie was so dizzy that she could barely look at herself in the full-length mirror when Holly was done with her.

But it was worth the wait. Ruthie could hardly recognize herself—which she supposed was the point. Even with the tight fit, the jacket and trousers suited her much better than Anna's brother's castoffs. And the wig, thankfully, didn't itch. Made of human hair and not horsetail, it sat easily on her head, and didn't overheat her like the one Reggie had given her. The top hat was the cream on the cake, luxurious and stiff, and rested on top of her head snugly without feeling like it wanted to fall down to perch on her nose.

"I might have missed my calling," Holly mused, smiling at Ruthie's reflection. "Has anyone ever told you that you make a handsome man?"

"Surprisingly, no," Ruthie replied dryly. "Although my family tells me that I look exactly like my father."

"I'll bet he had all the girls running after him in his day," Holly said, slapping her on the shoulder.

Ruthie's laughter was halfhearted. "That's what they say."

With one last appraising look, Holly nodded and went to the door. She was just about to turn the knob when she twirled back to Ruthie. "I hope your family tells you that you're a pretty girl, too. Because you are." Holly brushed her hair out of her face, ducking her head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I didn't need to. You know how attractive you are." She flicked her chin to the door. "You've got men running after you too."

"I told you! It's not like that between us."

Five more knocks. "It's been more than a few minutes," Harry called out, his tone heavy with irritation. "A few generally means three or four. It's been more than three or four. Now, if you would have said several then I might have let this go. Time is up."

Holly raised her eyebrows and looked at Ruthie with a told you so smile. Ruthie ignored the teasing implication. "Have you ever noticed that Mr. Holmes…is not like other men? With the knocking and the counting—"

Five knocks pounded again.

They couldn't hold him off any longer. Holly finally lunged for the handle. "He's impatient to get what he wants," she said, opening the door. Harry Holmes loomed large and annoyed in the dimly lit corridor. "Seems like every man I've ever known."