Undressing Mr. Darcy (6 page)

She scanned the crowd for Aunt Ella, who was, evidently, pleased. The entire room seemed transfixed. Even the knitters had set their knitting in their laps.

“A Regency gentleman’s entire wardrobe is styled on riding wear and emphasizes the natural beauty of the male form,” Julian said. “The tight-fitting, perfectly tailored tailcoat you see me wearing is cut away here.” He motioned around his hip bones, then his rib cage. “To provide even more flexibility in the saddle, the coat is high waisted. And . . .” He turned his back to the audience. “Two long tails have been cut so as to lie well whilst on horse.”

He put a hand on his hip, swooshed the tails, and slowly turned to face the audience. He had swagger in clothing that had been out of fashion for more than two hundred years, and Vanessa heard an audible sigh from the audience.

“As you can see, I chose the green tailcoat. Choice of clothing is very important. I believe I said to my valet, ‘No, no, the green one.’”

This must’ve been some kind of inside joke, because everyone but Vanessa laughed.

Sherry leaned in. “That was the color coat he insisted on wearing when he proposed to Elizabeth—the second time. In the 1995
Pride and Prejudice
.”

Vanessa nodded.

He unbuttoned his tailcoat and Paul slid it off his shoulders, revealing his form-fitting breeches, waistcoat, and puffy shirt (as she liked to call it).

Julian turned sideways and paced the stage again. All the bonneted and feather-topped heads in the room followed his movements.

He stopped, folded his arms, and spoke. “Naked from a distance.”

That got attention, all right. Sherry squeezed Vanessa’s knee for a moment.

Julian put a hand on his hip. “The snugly tailored, flesh-colored breeches, the tan silk waistcoat, the white shirt—it’s all meant to create the illusion of ‘naked from a distance’ just like a classic Greek or Roman marble statue.”

He did look rather—statuesque . . . Vanessa snapped to and then snapped a pic to post.

Naked from a distance. #JASNAagm #UndressingMrDarcy #wishyouwerehere

“As you know, we emulate the classic Greek and Roman eras in our clothing, our architecture, and our art.”

Vanessa didn’t know that, and she’d always been intrigued by classical Greek and Roman culture.

“My waistcoat is cut a little lower at the front than my day coat, to show off my watch chain and key-fob attachment. This is where my signet—my wax seal for my letters—hangs.”

Sherry nudged Vanessa with her elbow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Unfortunately, yes, Vanessa thought.

Julian unbuttoned his waistcoat, and was it her imagination, or was he looking right at her? She looked away, toward the clock that didn’t seem to be moving fast enough. By the time she looked back, Paul had removed Julian’s waistcoat and taken it offstage.

“To be seen in my shirtsleeves, as you know, is absolutely indecent.”

The crowd laughed.

Sherry nodded her head. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh!”

Vanessa took another picture and posted across the sites:

How very risqué of Mr. Darcy to appear in his shirtsleeves @TheHyatt. #JASNAagm #UndressingMrDarcy #hot

She began to believe her own hype, a very dangerous situation for her. She could easily crank out this kind of stuff when she didn’t fall prey to it herself. He was not hot. He was a client.

“The white linen shirt is considered an undergarment, and I would not take off my waistcoat in front of a lady unless I knew her
very
well.”

The audience went abuzz.

“The collar points of the shirt and the cravat are designed to outline the strength of a gentleman’s jaw.”

Now that he mentioned it, he did have a very strong jawline. Vanessa sighed, exasperated with herself, and, determined to focus on more significant issues, she scrolled through her e-mail in-box and double-checked her phone to be sure it was on vibrate for when the doctor called.

Now Julian had settled into a chair onstage and she had to adjust the video cam again.

Once she had focused on him with the camera, she found it difficult to take her eyes off him. He commanded the stage even while sitting.

“During the course of a day, I dress, and undress, some three or four times. I require, per week: twenty shirts, twenty-four pocket handkerchiefs, ten summer breeches, thirty cravats, a dozen waistcoats, stockings, and a chintz dressing gown and Turkish slippers for taking my breakfast and reading the day’s paper.”

Turkish slippers. His morning paper. This painted a picture she didn’t want in her mind.

“My cravat, made of fine Irish muslin, is a triangle folded twice and wrapped carefully around the neck, and can be tied in various knots, depending on my mood.” He smiled, slid his index finger into the front of the knot at the base of his throat, and pulled. With another yank, he successfully untied and slid off the cravat.

“Beau Brummell declared the starched cravat fashionable, and it is reported that washerwomen fainted upon the declaration. Not only do they have yet another thirty items to add to the washing and ironing, but each cravat has to be semistarched. Not full-starched with the rest of the wash, mind you, but semistarched.”

With the cravat handed to Paul, Julian began unbuttoning his shirt.

“I’m undoing the small Dorset buttons at the neck of my shirt. Note that the buttons do not run the full length of the shirt.”

He undid his cuff buttons, and, in a dramatic swoosh, he yanked his shirt from his breeches, lifted it over his head, and handed it over to Paul, and the audience clapped and smiled at Julian, his bare torso rippling with muscles, in only his breeches and boots.

Sherry cocked her head at Vanessa. “Are you all right? You look flushed. Sure you’re okay?”

Vanessa wasn’t sure. “Of course. I’m fine.” The room sort of spun around her. It was Julian—that’s what it was. She was attracted to him, and the thought hit her like a ton of starched cravats. Why a client? And why
this
client?

“I’m worried about you.” Sherry turned and pointed to the stage. “Whoa! Check him out! He is ripped!”

Vanessa made sure the camera followed Julian as he strutted across the stage, his broad shoulders and muscular biceps evident.

“You can see I’ve been spending time fencing, riding, and boxing. Which is why I don’t require a stomacher, or girdle, as some men are wont to rely on. Nor do I need padding for my calves.” He motioned toward his boots. “We gentlemen of the Regency pride ourselves on our well-turned calves.”

Sherry kept whispering, “Wow. Check out his abs. Those abs!”

Vanessa, still feeling dizzy, felt her phone vibrate with a call. It was the doctor. She had to take it, or she’d miss talking to him for another grueling twenty-four hours.

“Sherry, I have to go. Can you stay with my equipment? I’ll be back. My assistant is right over there.” She pointed to Kai.

She signaled to Kai that she was stepping out.

“Sure. But he’s about to take off his breeches,” Sherry whispered. “You’re not leaving
now
, are you?”

Vanessa nodded and, as discreetly as possible, phone and briefcase in hand, she bolted.

* * *

T
he test results are in,” the nurse said as Vanessa leaned up against the wall in the hotel hallway. “The doctor would like you and your aunt to arrange an appointment as soon as possible to discuss everything.”

Behind the closed doors in back of her, the room resounded with applause. She looked out the hall window onto a cloudless blue urban sky. For once she was speechless.

“I’m going to transfer you to reception, okay?”

Vanessa booked the appointment for the following day, knowing Aunt Ella would not be pleased at having to miss some of the conference. But, with Vanessa’s upcoming trip to Louisville with Julian, when else could she do it?

Her eyes landed on a tray with several Jane Austen silhouette cookies left on it. She picked one up and took a bite, inadvertently decapitating Jane, leaving only her silhouetted neck.

She headed toward the window, seeking the sunshine, running another Internet search of “dementia” on her phone when—smack.

She bumped right into—a leather-vested pirate?

“Sorry,” she said and continued her search.

“I’m not,” said the pirate.

His aftershave hinted of cocoa butter. Or was he wearing tanning oil?

She finally looked up. He resembled Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow from those—what—
Pirates of the Caribbean
movies?

“Wait a minute. Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked and squinted at her, his brown eyes lined with kohl.

She was in no mood for a stale pickup line from a pirate.

He continued talking. “But
where
do I know you from? Are you an auctioneer?”

Why did he think she was an auctioneer like Paul?

He leaned against the opposite wall and crossed his buccaneer boots.

Another man in costume and boots? Major skull-and-crossbones red flag.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“At ten thirty in the morning?”

“You look like you need a drink. Or coffee?”

He was right. But she didn’t want to lead the pirate on. “I don’t chug rum out of a bottle before noon, thank you very much for the kind offer. I need to get back to work.”

Her phone vibrated with a call from the doctor’s reception desk. “Hello?”

The pirate snapped his fingers and nodded.

“Yes,” she said into the phone. “Of course I’ll bring in a list of all her current meds. Thank you.” She hung up. How could she break this to her aunt?

“Vanessa Roberts?” he asked. “Ella Morgan’s niece?”

“Yes . . .”

She checked her watch.

“I’m Chase MacClane. We met briefly a few months ago? At a cocktail party? I wasn’t dressed for Hero Con then. I work with your aunt’s boyfriend, Paul.”

She looked up from her phone. “They’re close friends, and it’s very sweet, but Paul’s not her . . .
boyfriend
—”

“Don’t tell him that! Anyway, you were pretty preoccupied at the party with some business crisis or another, so you may not remember me.”

She met so many people in her line of work. No, she didn’t remember him. And she needed to get back to Julian—er, work. “Nice to see you again, but I have to get back.”

“Paul asked me to meet him here. This session should be letting out any minute, right? Give my best to your aunt.” He stopped smiling. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

Had Paul told him, an employee, about her aunt’s diagnosis? “I’ll let Paul know you’re here.”

“Would you like to join us for lunch? Your aunt will be there.”

“I’m afraid not—I’m working through lunch today. But thank you.”

Back inside the main conference room, a speaker was giving closing remarks while Julian sat waiting at the photo setup, his hair mussed, cravat loosened, and waistcoat slightly unbuttoned.

Another image she didn’t need seared into her mind: the slightly disheveled, post-historical-striptease look.

Kai was adjusting his camera on the tripod, searching for the best angle on Julian, so all seemed fine on that front, and she needn’t intervene.

“Welcome, once again, to Chicago,” the speaker said as everyone started to clap. “And enjoy the conference!”

The entire room stood and Vanessa hurried to Sherry, asking her to join Kai if she could, and she seemed thrilled to do so. Vanessa then hustled over to her aunt.

“Aunt Ella!”

“Oh, Vanessa, thank goodness you’ve come to see me. I do wish, sometimes, that I could bring myself to use that cell phone you gave me. But it’s such a bother.”

“We have to talk,” Vanessa said.

“Yes, we do. We have a problem, I’m afraid.”

“Wait. What problem are you talking about?”

Paul came and put his arm around her aunt.

Vanessa noticed a gorgeous bouquet of flowers in her aunt’s arms. “Where did the flowers come from?”

Aunt Ella looked at her quizzically. “Why, Julian, of course.”

“Julian?”

“Vanessa, we have a delicate situation on our hands. Do you remember my friend Anne, the bonnet maker from Nebraska?”

“Yes.”

“It seems that her young daughter Emily . . . remember her?”

“Of course. But I haven’t seen her in a few years.”

“It seems Emily has run off into the city—with a masked twenty-year-old man from Hero Con.”

“What?” How did her aunt get word about this so quickly without so much as a cell phone?

“Surely if a girl’s going to run off, I would hope it would be with a Regency rogue at worst, but this I cannot understand. The girl’s hardly eighteen, and Anne’s beside herself. Emily isn’t responding to any of her calls or texts and Anne can’t leave her vendor stall in the Emporium to look for her and—”

“You understand, Auntie E, that Emily is legally an adult.”

“I do. But I’ve known her mother for almost as many years through this society, and I won’t have a comic-book character bring down my conference with this kind of scandal. Any thoughts?” Beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

Vanessa had to take care of this for her aunt’s peace of mind, that much was clear. She looked at Paul, and then it hit her. “Paul, what’s your employee Chase MacClane’s number?”

“Smart thinking, Vanessa. Chase is right here in the building and he will get to the bottom of this. He’s very good in quests of all kinds.” Paul pulled out his phone. “Here’s his number.”

Vanessa called.

“But he’s not just my employee, no, he’s much more than that. He stands to run the auction house very soon. He’s my protégé.”

“Chase? Hi. It’s Vanessa. Vanessa Roberts? Didn’t expect me to take you up on your offer so soon, did you?”

* * *

T
he distraught bonnet maker twisted fabric in her hands at her vendor stall while she spoke with Vanessa and Chase, showing them the latest texts from her daughter that morning, hoping for a clue of some kind. Bonnets hung around them like balloons, but the occasion wasn’t happy.

Vanessa keyed Emily’s name and number into her phone, even though Emily wasn’t responding to texts. Vanessa immediately followed her on all the social network sites she could. “She hasn’t made any recent posts, but let’s see if she uses any location social media—if she’s checked in anywhere.”