My Fake Rake

Rotherby plucked the note from his hand and waved it in the air. “Tell her that you’re busy tonight laying groundwork for tomorrow evening. And this is all part of your ongoing examination of the life of a rake. She’ll understand.”

It was an effort to nod in agreement, but Seb did so. What his friends said made sense. Yet the thought of disappointing Grace felt like the sting of hundreds of wasps. Perhaps that was precisely why he needed to not see her tonight. He had to remind himself that he was not the sought-after goal. It was Fredericks. And the more he made himself see that, the better—the safer—he would be.

Grace sat in front of her dressing table, watching Katie’s hands hovering over the lopsided mass of her hair. The maid plucked a pin from between her lips and used it to secure a lock of Grace’s hair into a loop, although the loop immediately unraveled and hung down Grace’s neck, with the pin dangling from the very end.

“I’m either the height of fashion,” Grace said with wonderment, “or I resemble the rubbish heap behind a peruke shop.”

“Apologies, my lady.” Katie grimaced. “It’s only that . . . well . . . you see . . . you go out so infrequently in the evenings and . . . there hasn’t been much call for me to dress your coiffure for a night out.” The maid picked up the illustration from La Belle Assemblée Grace had provided and eyed it doubtfully. “The style’s awful involved.”

Grace blew a strand of hair from her face. “Perhaps it’s a matter of adjusting our expectations. We were too ambitious.” She turned her head slightly as she studied her crazed and tangled mane. “I think it best if we begin again. And this time, we’ll set our aspirations toward something more achievable. Like this one.” She turned the page in the periodical and pointed to an image of a young woman whose tresses had been shaped into a simple but pretty arrangement.

“Yes, my lady.” With a defeated sigh, Katie plucked pin after pin from Grace’s hair.

It didn’t hurt to take extra care with her appearance—for no other reason than it gave her a measure of confidence. Not because she wanted Sebastian to look at her with admiration. The thought of watching his face light up with wonderment upon catching sight of her filled Grace’s belly with squirming tadpoles.

“Will Mr. Fredericks be at the to-do this evening?” Katie asked, adding yet another pin to the heap. Gracious, had the maid used most of the hairpins in London? “That’s who this is for, isn’t it?”

Grace started. She hadn’t discussed Mason with Katie, or the plan to win his attention. And . . . just now, she hadn’t considered attracting Mason’s notice. Only Sebastian’s.

Oh, rot. This was an unwelcome development.

“It’s all right, my lady.” Her maid made a soft clucking sound. “Hard not to notice how much you fancy Mr. Fredericks, given that your cheeks turn red as strawberries if he’s within fifty feet of you.”

“Yes. Ah. Well.” Heat spread across Grace’s face and, checking her reflection, she realized she did resemble a pot of strawberry jam with eyes. How utterly dispiriting. “I suppose he might be in attendance tonight.”

“Then we ought to make you look right handsome. Give Mr. Fredericks something to think about when he goes to sleep.” Katie winked.

It was for Mason that Grace wanted to look her best. Not Sebastian. The man whose friendship she valued too much to risk ruining it.

A tap sounded at the door, and Katie went to see who it was. There was a quiet exchange with a footman before Katie returned to Grace.

“Note for you, my lady.” The maid handed her a folded piece of paper that bore her name and address in a rather untidy but masculine script.

Frowning, Grace opened the missive.

Regrets, but I am engaged for the evening. No doubt you will do splendidly without me. Tomorrow?

Yrs, S

“A billet-doux from Mr. Fredericks?” Katie asked with a wink. “Hold a moment, my lady. I’m not done arranging your hair.”

Yet Grace stood and drifted away from her dressing table. “There’s no need to. I’m not going out tonight.”