My Fake Rake

Chapter 10

Grace stared at the preserved African chameleon floating in a suspension within a thick glass jar. All its beauty, its shifting-hued skin, its life essence—all of it was gone. Now it floated in a permanent life-in-death within the upper-floor exhibition at the British Museum here in Montagu House.

She sighed.

“Why must men kill a thing in order to study it?” she said wearily.

Standing beside her, Jane made a soft noise of disgust. “Because that’s what men do. Capture a creature and either bend it to their will or end its life. Nothing can exist independent of them, or else they fear their cocks will fall off.”

A thickly whiskered gentleman standing nearby made a startled cough as he glared at Jane and Grace. When Jane merely glared right back, the man trundled off, muttering under his breath about indecency and proper female behavior.

Grace smothered a giggle behind her fist as Jane winked at her.

“Of course,” Grace said once she’d collected herself, “your husband is the exception to that rule. Hasn’t put you in a cage. Or a jar.”

“Not yet,” Jane said. “But one never knows. Men can be so irrational and unpredictable.”

Grace and Jane moved on from the case full of its reptile specimens, walking slowly through the chamber. Perhaps she and her friend ought to study the fossils rather than take in the melancholy collection of dead, stuffed, and preserved animals. She was always torn about coming to the British Museum—it held such vast repositories of knowledge, yet everything came at a price. Even the friezes from the Parthenon had been ripped from their homeland and brought to England. It hardly seemed right.

Did Sebastian ever come here? Surely he’d find exhibits of interest—but maybe he, too, thought the museum to be a highly problematic space. She ought to mention it to him this afternoon when they’d meet for their next session. A thoughtful man, Sebastian. And . . . appallingly attractive.

“How fares your transformative project?” Jane asked, as if reading Grace’s thoughts. Hopefully, her friend couldn’t read all of Grace’s thoughts.

“We’re still in process.” Grace stopped in front of a case holding a number of geological specimens. The solidity of the rocks and minerals brought comfort. They reminded her that while the forces of her own life sometimes felt wildly unpredictable, the Earth would always go on. “Three more days until Lord and Lady Creasy’s garden party, when Sebastian makes his debut.”

Despite the comforting nature of the rock specimens, the thought of Sebastian appearing with her before Society’s elite made her heart pound. They’d soon discover whether or not all their preparation was for nothing, and whether or not they had consigned Grace to permanently remaining merely a colleague to Mason—as well as consigning Sebastian to a lifetime of derision.

“Judging by the wobble in your voice,” Jane said, lifting her eyebrow, “you’re not precisely looking forward to tea and sandwiches en plein air.”

“We’ve asked a lot from him,” Grace admitted.

“More than he can provide?”

“Difficult to ascertain at this stage. But . . .” Her pulse fluttered. “He has potential.” Hidden beneath his ill-fitting clothes and gentle manner, he’d the body of a mythical hero and a surprising seductive allure. Her hands still radiated warmth from where she’d touched his body during their waltz, and she’d never forget the intensity of his gaze as he’d looked at her while they danced.

Jane tilted her head. “Much as I adore the man, I’m afraid I’ll have to see his metamorphosis in order to believe it.”

“Not much faith.” Grace gave a rueful chuckle.

“We’re women of science.” Jane shrugged. “Visual proof is always necessary.” She turned to survey the room, and then straightened, her eyes going wide. Jane whispered, “Remember to act nonchalant.”

“What? Why?” Grace eyed her friend with puzzlement. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” She exhaled. “I told you already, I don’t want to see the secret collection of stone phalluses.”