The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy (Montague Siblings #2)(36)
“Me?” Johanna presses a hand to her breasts. “Why?”
“Your Dr. Platt about scared my poor girl to death last night.”
A conversation I was about to be forced to tolerate has just become sincerely interesting to me, as it involves Platt. Perhaps I’ll actually be quite good at socializing after all. “What happened?” I ask.
“My maid went last night to fetch me milk, and he gave her a terrible scare!” Christina says. “He was up in the library at god-knows-what hour pacing and jabbering to himself. Said he started to shout at her for creeping about.”
Johanna runs a finger around the rim of her glass. She does not look at all thrilled by this conversation topic. “Yes, he’s a bit manic when he’s dosed.”
“That’s the peril of marrying a genius, isn’t it?” Christina says. “They’re either depressingly gloomy or terribly insane. Sometimes both at once.”
“Is he often in the library?” I ask.
Johanna’s eyes narrow at me—she knows exactly the game I’m playing but won’t give it a name in front of her friend. “He works late and sleeps late; it’s his way. We don’t see him until supper most days.”
“And not even supper today,” Christina says, which is perhaps meant to make Johanna feel better, but instead has her sucking in her cheeks again.
If Dr. Platt is hanging about the Hoffman library alone each night, that will give me the perfect opportunity to chat with him, without butlers or gentlemen or my inability to have articulate conversations with no warning getting in the way.
But Johanna has me trapped, both in this conversation, which is turning to a discussion of melon water in comparison to cucumber for a smooth complexion, and by my promise to speak to three new people. There has to be a way to create a good reason to slip away and position myself in wait for Dr. Platt without wasting time making good on that promise.
So the next time Max knocks into me, I use it as an excuse to empty my wineglass down my front.
I only intend for it to be a dribble, a small splatter that would give me enough reason to say I just have to run back to my room and change but in truth sneak down to the library and wait for Platt. It is, however, a more effective display than planned. Firstly, I had not drunk as much as I thought, so rather than a few small drops discreetly spilled, I pour almost a full glass of wine straight down the front of my dress. It’s such a direct shot that I can feel it soak all the way into my knickers. Johanna and Christina both shriek in surprise. I open my mouth to make an excuse and pretend like I have just spilled a normal amount of drink rather than poured a glass down my front, but before I can get a word out, Max leaps at me, trying to lick it off. His weight sends me flying backward. I throw out a hand to steady myself, miss my mark at the edge of the buffet table, and smash it straight into the creamy center of a plate of entremets. Max, now with even more opportunity for carnage, leaps forward, paws upon the table, and plunges his nose in after me, splattering me with thick globs of cream.
It effectively grinds the party to a halt. It is also a bit more embarrassing than I had expected it to be, particularly considering that I was the architect of the disaster. Well, the first part, at least.
Johanna apologizes over and over as she wrestles Max off the food, long strings of saliva trailing from his lips to the pastry as he tries desperately to gulp a few more bites before Johanna reaches down his throat and pulls out an entire metal spoon he inhaled in his haste. She’s covered up to her elbow in slime. I’ve got wine down the front of my dress and pastry cream splattered across my side and fur clinging to both. Christina has a small splatter of wine on her skirt and seems intent on pretending she is as victimized as I am.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and Johanna looks up from Max. I can see in her eyes she knows exactly how intentional this was, whether or not I meant for it to ruin the party.
“Just go,” she says, her voice so low no one hears but me. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
And yes, it’s exactly what I wanted. But as I make my head-down, tail-tucked exit, I rather wish it hadn’t been.
Sim isn’t in our shared room, which is unfortunate, as it leaves me with the task of getting myself out of this dress alone. The rules of fashion dictate that anything a man wears, a lady must wear more of; it must be more uncomfortable for her; and it must require at least two people to get her into and out of it, so that she is rendered incapable of an independent existence. I can’t even reach the damn buttons running up the back, let alone unfasten them. I keep turning in circles like a dog chasing its tail, trying each time to stretch my arm just a bit farther while holding on to the deranged hope that perhaps if I catch the buttons by surprise they won’t dart away from me. And every second I waste spinning is a second I might be missing Dr. Platt in the library. At last, I give up, decide to wear the wine with confidence even though it’s starting to turn from sticky to crunchy, and head below stairs.
The gentlemen’s party in the parlor is still loudly in progress, so I make a quiet slip into the library, in case the hairy-eared butler is lurking, ready to send me back to Johanna’s rooms. The room is warm and smells like dust, and just the presence of so many books makes it easier to breathe. It’s remarkable how being around books, even those you’ve never read, can have a calming effect, like walking into a crowded party and finding it full of people you know.