“I think you need to err on the conservative side.”
“You might be right.” He disappeared into his room, but I was soon called in for a ruling on trousers. He had ordered a new wig, which arrived that morning, along with the man to curl and lightly powder it. Wigs had gone out of style by 1815; only very old men and members of certain professions—including doctors—still wore them.
The coup de grace, a bath. The clean smell preceded him as he came down to the drawing room, where I was sewing a shirt, or trying to; his agitation had infected me and I was incapable of focusing on anything.
“Well?” Liam pirouetted, there was no other word for it, in front of me. After all that drama, his outfit was perfect, flattering his rangy but broad-shouldered frame; he had a presence I had not acknowledged until that moment, as my gaze lingered on him absentmindedly. He wasn’t my type, but I knew how it was when people were thrown together in extreme situations. It had happened in the ER, and on my humanitarian missions especially. Before I went to Peru, there had actually been an informational session on the topic, which we joked seemed devised to absolve the married people from guilt about cheating on their spouses. It’s not real, what you’re feeling. Liam was a cold fish, with the formality typical of Old Britons, far away from his own emotions. I suspected he looked down on me as an American, and he seldom got my jokes. He’d be terrible in bed. I put my odds of sleeping with him before the mission had ended at 70 percent.
“Even Beau Brummell would be impressed.”
“But not like I am trying too hard?” He adjusted his wig, grimaced at himself in the mirror above the mantel, and brushed something off his lapel. “Brummell never tries too hard. That’s his secret.”
“Oh, no.” I tried not to laugh at his self-absorption. “The look is perfect. But do you know what you’re going to say?”
He tore himself away from his reflection to glance at me. Our eyes met; there was a pause as I realized he was every bit as nervous as before, hiding it only slightly better. He rolled his shoulders, took a breath, and exhaled. “I’ll think of something.” My heart sank.
I WATCHED FROM THE WINDOW AS LIAM STEPPED INTO A SEDAN chair and was carried off, disappearing into traffic. I pictured him arriving at the club, giving his name to a man at the door, and being ushered inside. But I struggled to penetrate to what lay beyond. I sat with the sewing forgotten in my lap, staring at the wall, unseeing.
A dim interior, with dark wainscoting? Smoke and shadows, lit by hundreds of tapers in chandeliers like the shops in Bond Street? Drinking? Cards? I conjured circles of men, roaring with laughter, or toasting the charms of some actress. Henry Austen, in a corner, not alone; such a man is never alone long; Liam is brought to him. They shake hands . . .
I pictured this so vividly my head hurt, but I couldn’t see what came next. I wished I could be there; Liam, alone, seemed unequal to it. But the Project Team’s guidance had been clear: a first meeting needed to take place between men, who mingled more indiscriminately. If William Ravenswood could pass as a gentleman, his sister might be presumed a lady, worth Henry Austen’s knowing; a potential match, even, since I was wealthy and unattached. If he liked us, he might introduce us to his sister. Could, might; would, might.
I sighed, stood up, and walked to the window. The darkness of the room made me invisible, and I could stare as boldly as I wanted: an oyster seller, a lamplighter, a coach rattling past, a blind man with a harp being led by a little boy.
First meetings were brief and ceremonial; I could expect Liam back at any moment, yet the clock struck eight and he had not appeared. In one way, I was not eager for his return; I felt increasingly afraid the meeting would be a failure. As long as he had not come back, he had not failed, but existed in an indeterminate state, like Schr?dinger’s cat.
The clock struck nine.
Perhaps it had been a disaster, and Liam was wandering around London, reluctant to return with bad news. Or something had happened after he left the club. He’d been hit with a falling object—dropped chamber pot, loose roof tile—and was unconscious in a dirty street. Press-ganged near the docks, his protests of being a gentleman dismissed with rude laughter. Knifed, kicked, robbed, left to die.
No. I was being ridiculous. Henry Austen had been late; he seemed like someone who would be. Or Liam had won him over and they were still talking; it wasn’t impossible. He was good with the servants, never betraying that there was anything odd about living with people who cooked his meals, made his bed, or carried hot water up three flights of stairs so he could wash himself. These were things I was still struggling to find natural.
I paced the drawing room, my thoughts chasing each other. If the meeting went as planned, Liam would subtly emphasize our wealth—we’d just sold a large coffee plantation—and need for investment opportunities. Henry Austen should be eager to court rich clients, but it was a fine line. We didn’t want to be merely clients; we had to interest him socially, or we’d never get to meet his sister. Also, his bank was going to fail in a few months, meaning whatever money we placed with him was gone forever; we had to give enough to get his attention, but not too much. We’d managed to deposit most of our forged wealth by now across a dozen banks and in investments in government bonds. It should be plenty for our time here, but when it was gone, it was gone.
The clock struck ten.
If this meeting went badly, it would be time for plan B. Leaving London, finding a house to rent somewhere near where Jane Austen lived in Hampshire, easing ourselves into the life of the country gentry, and eventually meeting her. Not impossible—genteel people visited one another in the country a lot, presumably out of boredom—but it had disadvantages. She led a quiet life at Chawton Cottage with her mother, sister, and friend; we might meet her entire country-gentry neighborhood without crossing paths with her. And since she was going to come to visit Henry shortly and stay in London until mid-December, there would be no chance of meeting her in Hampshire before that. By then it would be the dead of winter, the worst time for visits, months wasted in futile waiting.