The Enchantress of Mayfair

Chapter the Second

She had tempted fate in hoping to have a day free from visitors or distractions. Christine woke to a pounding on her door.

"Christine, you have a gentleman caller!" Kit's voice pierced her groggy head. She blinked her eyes and scrambled from beneath the sheets. Clad only in her nightgown, she ripped the door open.

"What?! I know no gentlemen!"

"You have met slews of gentlemen."

"But none that have called."

"Yet it seems one has," he replied. Kit cast her a weary look. "You did not brush out your hair last night."

Her hands pulled on the mess currently perched upon her head. She looked away. "I read my book instead."

"I suppose I will entertain your caller while you ready yourself."

"I will be but five minutes," she promised, slamming the door shut. She said a few deliberate words and the door to her wardrobe swung open. "Sprigged blue muslin," she announced. The gown freed itself from the confines of the wardrobe and fluttered onto the bed. She summoned clean stockings, a chemise, stays, and a petticoat. As they arranged themselves prettily on her bed, Christine took a seat at her vanity.

She grabbed a bottle and poured some into her hand. She learned at a young age that her hair craved far more moisture than the average English lady. She begged Kit to import costly oils for her hair. He, of course, agreed. She responded by doing away with a lady's maid, which she hoped saved him a bit of money.

On Sundays while she mixed potions to ward away colds or dry skin, she also prepared bottles of oil for her hair. She sniffed at her hands. Jasmine oil for scent and olive oil for moisture. Applying the concoction liberally to her hair, she then proceeded to untangle the mass. She divided her hair in sections, securing others with pins. She retrieved a comb from a drawer and went to work.

What once took her near an hour she now accomplished in fifteen minutes. Her coils of hair fell down her back, shiny from the oil, and happily tangle-free. She flipped through the latest edition of La Belle Assemblee, searching for a hairstyle. She found a look with face-framing curls and and braided bun that suited her fancy.

Christine committed the hairstyle to memory. While a lady's maid could be replaced with domestic magic, one must have a firm grasp of its intricacies. With hairdressing, you had to visualize your intended look, guiding the magic in its duties. Invisible hands worked through her curls, braiding tendrils and pinning runaway pieces.

Within just ten more minutes, Christine was ready to descend and meet this mystery caller. Butterflies fluttered without care in her belly. Her traitor of a heart wondered and hoped it to be Lord Ramsey. Though she never exactly set to marry, she quite liked the man. Yet there was foolishness in those hopes.

She had always known Lord Ramsey to be a scion of the Marquess of Wytchwood. The third son of five, he still must meet certain expectations in his marriage. Though Papa had been Baron Seabright and they were quite wealthy, the ton seemed to frown upon their ancestry.

Love did not come into the matter of Lord Adrien Ramsey. Christine enjoyed his infuriating company and he studied magic. Rumours abounded in Magister Monthly that he would commission himself to be a Magister and join their hallowed ranks. Despite her distaste for the politics behind Magisters, she would not turn her nose up at being shackled to one for life.

Christine pushed stepped through the doorway of the drawing room. Designed to her Rococo sensibilities, the room featured a lot of gilt, florals and stripes. Kit stood by the fireplace with a familiar figure. Both men loomed the same height. Gossips and flittering debutantes always compared the shade of Lord Ramsey's hair to a cup of chocolate, so she knew it to be him on sight.