Gentlemen Prefer Scandal - Chapter 2

Saturday, November 22, 1823

I spent the morning reorganising my closet, packing away all of my fashionable autumn wear for the coarse, rumpled wool of winter.

More accurately, I spent half an hour folding and unfolding a few jackets and the rest of the morning languishing on my daybed, replaying in my head that horrible dinner.

Sunday, November 23, 1823

Susan interrupted my wallowing this evening with an extra tray of pastries.

The staff has noticed that something is wrong.

And they pity me.

The pastries were divine.

Monday, November 24, 1823

I thought about going for a walk today.

But I didn’t.

George was right.

I really am the most boring man in England.

Wednesday, November 26, 1823

GEORGE WAS WRONG.

Dead wrong.

And so was I to ever have imagined otherwise.

I am extraordinary.

And I have had the most extraordinary evening.

***

It was half four on Tuesday, and I was still in my flat, looking for that cashmere scarf Charlotte gave me for Christmas last year. It’s so soft and so warm and the weather’s just been dreadfully cold all week.

But it wasn’t in the closet. Or anywhere in the bedroom. And I’ve hardly set foot in the drawing room since the whole George fiasco.

So it was half four and I was still in my flat, searching under sofas and chairs.

I should already have been at my little table in the back of Barrett’s.

All day I’d been thinking of Charlotte. How I wish she were here. A fellow’s dearest friends should not be allowed to leave town. I wrote to her this morning, mostly to apprise her of the whole George business, but also with the names of a half-dozen noblemen interested in portraits from ‘the esteemed Nathaniel Fletcher.’ And I know she’s too busy sleeping with some countess or another in the country to be fulfilling our commissions, but I try to keep her up to date on who’s interested.

I just kept thinking that Lady Charlotte Sterlington is the least boring person I know. She does what she wants, when she wants, with no regrets. Our little scheme—in which I lend her my name and she heaps fame upon it by painting masterpieces for me to exhibit—was her idea, and it took all her considerable powers of persuasion to get me to go along with it.

It was near five when I finally set out for Barrett’s, bare-necked and freezing cold and increasingly convinced that if I were only a bit more like Charlotte, George would be the one grovelling to me. If only I had some way to prove I was capable of the same exciting, sensational, reckless passion everyone expected of her…

It was with this in mind—just a block away from the club—when I stumbled upon the strangest conversation, a heated argument in the dark of a narrow alleyway. Usually I wouldn’t think of eavesdropping on something that clearly wasn’t my business, but I was not about to let this be a usual Tuesday. I ducked behind a foul-smelling stack of crates and listened and looked on.

There were two figures, shrouded in shadow. Their voices sounded urgent, one hushed and the other loud. The loud voice sounded as though it had never been hushed in its entire life, like it didn’t even know the definition of the word. And it sounded vaguely familiar.

‘I’ve got to go back!’ the loud voice boomed. ‘We don’t have any proof—’

‘It’s too risky,’ interjected the quiet voice, soft but firm. ‘People are starting to catch on. Just…let me deal with this.’

‘But I want to help,’ the loud voice groaned. ‘I need to help.’ The taller figure shifted restlessly, and for a moment his face was illuminated in the moonlight.

His unforgettably, inhumanly handsome face.

And I realised why that loud, infuriating voice sounded so familiar: it was the goddamn Frenchman.

Immediately, I began to doubt my identification. The French accent was gone. And so was the ridiculous mustache. But that face… My mind reeled. What had I happened upon?

As I crouched in the dark wondering what to do, he strode out of the alleyway and into the night. And before I could consider the consequences, before I could fall back into the familiarity of my utterly unremarkable routine, I set off after him. No one could call me boring after that.

One alleyway led to another and another and another. I lifted my collar to keep away the chill as the temperature dropped lower and lower. Eventually I lost track of where we were entirely. What was I possibly thinking?

The Frenchman-not-Frenchman looked furtively to his left and right and then stepped toward a nondescript door at the back of… Oh God, I thought with a shudder. I knew exactly where we were.

We were at the unmarked entrance to a secret club in the basement of a theatre, the kind of club for men who fancy men, for women who fancy women. The Fourth Tier. Charlotte had dragged me here on an outing once, but I simply couldn’t stomach the crass ballads or the bawdy dances or the inescapable odor of beer and sweat.

I didn’t want to go inside, but I didn’t want to let the man get away, so I yelled, ‘Wait!’

He froze before knocking on the door. He turned to face me, slowly, and eyed me up and down with such easy authority I forgot for a moment that I was the one interrogating him.

The stranger leaned casually against the door behind him and raised an eyebrow. ‘How can I help you?’

I stood tall and lifted my chin. ‘You don’t have a French accent!’

‘Are we in France?’ His look changed to one of concern, and he looked more closely at me, lifting a hand toward my forehead as though he suspected a brain fever. ‘Are you well?’

I shuffled backward and muttered incomprehensibly, ‘But…at Barrett’s…and your mustache…you were French…and…’

He stiffened, his hand frozen in midair. ‘I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

I’d caught him, and I knew it, and he knew that I knew it. I just wasn’t sure what exactly I’d caught him at. ‘You were at Barrett’s last Tuesday, playing at some sort of Frenchman!’

He started to protest, but I waved him off. All the energy and confidence that had been wasting away for the past week suddenly swelled within me and spilled out. ‘Don’t bother denying it. You weren’t convincing anyone.’ That’s entirely untrue—as I’d soon confirm, he really is a magnificent actor. But I fixed him with a fierce glare and said something that I knew would lead to answers: ‘And I know what’s behind that door.’

His teeth ground together, and he stood from the wall. His body tensed, like he might run.

‘No, I mean—’ I wasn’t as good at this as I had hoped. ‘I know what’s behind that door because I’ve been here before. I’m…’

Realisation dawned on his face, and he let out an exasperated laugh.

‘Come on, then.’ He gestured for me to follow him inside. I am embarrassed to admit I didn’t move at first. There was still time to turn back, to change my mind and pretend this little outburst of spontaneity never happened. But that is not who I am.

Or at least, not anymore.

‘Buy me a drink?’ the stranger said by the time we had shuffled to the bar. The room was just as dim and noisy as I remembered, the clank of glasses mingling with the jumpy rhythms of bawdy pub songs.

I obliged, ordering nothing for myself, then asked him what kind of person pretends to be someone else.

He leaned in conspiratorially, his eyes glistening with mischief. I don’t remember what colour they are, but I remember how they darted back and forth, like he was about to tell me the world’s most important secret.

‘I’ve been hired by a group of powerful, wealthy men to uncover a grand conspiracy.’ He looked at me expectantly and ran his hand through his thick hair.

I tried to act unimpressed. I said something simple, like ‘Is that so?’

He eyed me up and down again, just like he did outside. I remember this particular detail because of how restless I felt beneath his gaze.

‘You look like a gentleman.’ He took a sip of his drink.

‘And you look like a rogue.’ I had noticed him glancing at the men who walked by. I had noticed the way they glanced back.

He winked at me then, or maybe it was just the flickering candlelight. ‘You also look like someone I’ve seen before. In the newspaper, I think.’

There was a sketch of me in a recent printing, accompanying a brief article on my quick rise to modest fame as a painter. ‘Nathaniel Fletcher.’ I stretched out a hand.

‘I’ve heard of you,’ he said thoughtfully, running his fingers through his hair. ‘The painter! You were in Somerset House. You’re…you’re famous!’ He shook my hand vigorously, condensation from his glass coating both our palms. ‘You can call me Rupert. Rupert Wynn. I’m an actor.’

In the soft glow from the candles, his red hair shone like simmering embers. The contours of his muscled body pulled at his tight, French dinner jacket.

George was beautiful because he was mine—and then because he wasn’t mine. Rupert was just beautiful, all on his own.

I think I changed the conversation back too suddenly. I asked him about his grand conspiracy, and why he had been at Barrett’s.

‘A secret for a secret,’ he said while placing his hand on my knee. Quite presumptuous.

‘I fancy men,’ I said rather matter-of-factly.

‘Yes, and so do I, and we’re quite even there.’ He chuckled, that amused look from earlier back on his face. He told me that he would only share the details of his case if I offered a secret of equal worth. I know I should regret what I offered, but I was feeling so reckless, so desperate to go along with this adventure that had practically fallen into my lap.

And I wanted to share a part of myself that I had never allowed George to see.

‘I’m not a painter.’ I’m pretty sure I avoided his eyes when I said this. ‘I’m a pretend painter, like how you’re a pretend Frenchman.’

I looked up, and he had the most endearing puzzled expression on his face. I laughed and continued quickly. I told him about my arrangement with a lady—I had enough wits at least to keep Charlotte’s name out of my confession—and how she is the true painter, but she paints under my name because male artists are taken more seriously. I told him that the one and only interesting thing about me is a total lie.

He let out a slow exhale. ‘Now, that’s a good secret.’

Then he told me his.

‘Percival Glyde isn’t Percival Glyde. He isn’t who he says he is. I don’t know who he is…’ Rupert must have seen the bewilderment on my face, because he sighed again and slowed his explanation. ‘The man who’s claiming to be Percival Glyde, the man I was talking with in Barrett’s last week, he’s a fraud. An imposter. He’s just after the money and the title, and he’s getting away with it.’ He noticed my incredulity. ‘You probably think I’m crazy. But I know I’m right. I just need to prove it…’

I was feeling overwhelmed at this point. This had gone beyond a simple alleyway chat, an exchange of secrets in an underground club. This was real danger.

I thought of George, of the stupid, smug look on his face when he told me how boring my life is. I thought of Charlotte, of how she does what she wants, when she wants, without regret. I thought of my afternoon, wasted away in my empty flat, looking for a scarf I’d never find.

And I looked at Rupert, at his broad shoulders and his fiery hair and his earnest, amber eyes.

‘Let me help you,’ I blurted without thinking.

‘What?’ He laughed. He laughed. As if I were wholly incapable of helping him. This infuriated me.

‘Like you said, I’m a gentleman. And I’m a well-known painter. I have access to high society, access and connections you could use to your advantage.’

Really, I don’t know why I said any of this. I have no experience in a ruse this complicated. I am not the kind of person who embarks on clandestine operations that should really be left to the magistrates.

Rupert considered my offer and finished his drink. I desperately wanted him to say yes, despite myself. Or maybe I just wanted to keep looking at his unreasonably handsome face.

‘I’ll think about it.’ He winked again. And then he left.

I cannot decide which is worse: that he might find me again and pull me into an adventure I can’t handle, or that he won’t come looking for me at all.