As expected, it was far easier to take manly, purposeful strides in a pair of buckskins than in a gown. Helen descended the stairs to the salon three at a time, just to test the new freedom and feel the odd sensation of so much cloth around her nethers. No wonder gentlemen took such big steps and stood with their legs apart. She stifled a smile at the irreverent thought and approached the salon.
Geoffrey stood at his post outside the doors, his expression carefully neutral and his gaze fixed over her shoulder. Even so, Helen felt heat rise to her cheeks. He would surely have noted her thighs and graceless descent. Was he disgusted by her exposure or, even worse, delighted?
‘My lady.’ He opened the door. His expression did not change, but she caught something behind his well-trained visage. A new kind of respect.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, not only for the opened door.
She squared her shoulders and stared into the room. No one was visible — just the opposite wall and its high-set window — but she could hear the murmur of voices. Inside was the real test of her transformation. Would Lord Carlston think she could pass as a man?
Only one way to find out. With a deep breath, she strode into the salon.
Since her last training session with Mr Hammond, the empty room had acquired a few pieces of furniture and a strong smell of waxy sandalwood. It had also acquired six people, all of whom turned and stared as she entered.
Inevitably, she found Lord Carlston first. He stood with Lady Margaret by a table set along the back wall, arms crossed, his customary self-possession tensing into sudden surprise. She risked a glance at his face, locking for a breathless second into the hold of his eyes. Heat rose to her cheeks again, but this time it was not humiliation. He turned his head, breaking the moment, and she almost felt him step back behind his customary wall of cool evaluation.
Hurriedly she shifted her attention to Lady Margaret. Her chaperone was clearly astounded by her transformation. Helen fought back an uncharitable Ha!
Mr Hammond and Delia stood near the front windows, both with their mouths agape. Behind them, Quinn was in the process of shifting a mirror atop a dressing table. He paused, a pleased smile dawning on his tattooed face, then returned to his task.
And in the corner, a small man with coiffed blond hair and a modish teal jacket regarded her with keen interest. Clearly the cove from London.
‘Lud, Helen,’ Delia exclaimed, breaking the stunned silence. ‘Everyone can see your legs! Your … hips!’
Everyone’s gaze dropped downward. Helen clenched her hands by her sides, fixing her expression into rigid indifference.
‘Miss Cransdon,’ Lady Margaret said sharply, ‘I am sure it is hard enough for Lady Helen to find confidence in her disguise without you sabotaging the effort.’
‘I did not mean …’ Delia started. ‘It was just such a shock to see …’ She faltered and stopped.
‘It is all right,’ Helen said. ‘I must become used to being so … displayed.’
‘You have done well,’ his lordship said. He walked around her, still, she noted, at a safe distance. ‘Very well.’
‘It was not all my doing.’ Now he was standing a good five feet from her, but she felt his gaze upon her as if his hands were sliding across her body. The sensation made her blink; she must stop these vivid imaginings. ‘Darby makes a very good valet.’
‘Indeed, Quinn could not have tied a better cravat.’
His sidelong glance held only cool approval; he had himself back under control. Helen could not claim the same. That disturbing pulse beneath her heartbeat had intensified, leaping out towards him.
‘I always knew you would make an excellent young man,’ Mr Hammond said, striding forward. He bowed to her, a silent message in his relieved grin: See, you can do it.
Helen returned the bow, aware of his lordship crossing the room behind them. Her whole body felt attuned to him.
‘Lady Helen, allow me to introduce Mr Harrington,’ he said.
Helen turned to meet the low bow of the blond stranger. ‘How do you do, sir.’
The man’s whole attention seemed to be fixed upon the top of her head. ‘I am so very glad to see that you have thick hair, my lady. Much easier to work with.’
Helen stared at him in bemusement. ‘Work with?’
‘Mr Harrington has come from London to cut your hair,’ his lordship said. ‘He is sworn to us so you need not monitor your conversation.’
‘Cut my hair?’ Helen’s hand went to her plait. When had this been decided? Her hair was her best feature. If she lost it, she would have nothing.
‘You cannot lose your hair,’ Delia said, as if she had heard Helen’s thought. ‘It is so pretty —’ She clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes on Lady Margaret.
‘Young men do not wear queues or wigs any more,’ Carlston said. ‘You cannot keep it at that length.’
‘But I will not be a young man all the time!’
Helen looked around for support. Mr Hammond was pointedly studying the floor, and Delia had been subdued by a glare from Lady Margaret.
‘Allow me to reassure you, my lady,’ Mr Harrington said, bowing again. ‘I will crop your hair in such a manner as to suit both male and female guises. Then it is just a matter of dressing the hair with pomades and hairpieces.’
‘Crop?’ Helen repeated, her voice rising. She turned back to Carlston. ‘You did not say that I would have to cut off all of my hair! You said nothing about hair.’
His lordship frowned. ‘I cannot see the problem. This is part of your Reclaimer duties, Lady Helen. It is no great sacrifice: hair grows back. It is nothing compared to other sacrifices that we are called upon to make.’
‘Caroline Lamb wears her hair cropped,’ Lady Margaret said, her tone rallying. ‘It is a much admired and copied style.’
Helen stared at her wordlessly. It was no use citing Caroline Lamb; she was a slim dainty thing well suited to the elfin quality of her famous coiffure. Helen knew no one could ever call her elfin; not with her height and the lean, angular features and physique that were the hallmarks of a Reclaimer.
‘I will look awful.’ It was a weak objection, but it was the heart of the matter. She would look awful. In front of him.
‘Lady Helen, I am sorry, but you cannot afford a woman’s sensibilities in this matter or any other,’ his lordship said. ‘You must act as a Reclaimer and do your duty.’
She drew in a steadying breath. So the haircut was another test of her commitment. Another gauge of her progress as a Reclaimer, which apparently was not fast enough. She could not refuse.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I see that it must be cut.’
‘Good.’ Lord Carlston signalled to Mr Harrington.