She found herself suddenly fascinated with his mouth, of all things. The lips were of a moderate fullness, nothing to give one pause, but there was a careful edge to them that made Caroline think that he used to smile a great deal. He was so restrained in public settings, even among their company. He seemed on the verge of smiling often, yet his jaw could be so set that one wondered if he ever smiled in his life.
He had smiled for her, she recalled, and always with gentleness. Never broadly, even when in good humor, but certainly enough to touch her heart.
His manner of speaking was not as rich as the rest, his accent a bit harsher even to her ears. Perhaps that was what made her so much more comfortable around him. And his voice had a touch of the brogue to it rather than the more delicate and cultured Society tones. If he were not bound to London by family ties, or to the general area by heritage, what would entice him to engage in the Season at all? Reserved as he was, kind as he was, gentlemanly as he was, what drew him hence?
He was a puzzle, to be sure, and a complicated one at that.
Caroline was not sure she could figure him out, even with her skills and wit.
But oh, how she wished she could!
* * *
Miss Sheffield was even more stupid than Will had thought her, and that was saying a great deal. Even Sheffield was looking aghast as he considered her, and he had been raised under the same roof.
Every one of the riddles that Miss Perkins had laid out for her had been met with poor answers after extended effort and debate, and an excessive amount of fluster that was completely unnecessary. Each of the riddles were simple and uncomplicated, yet Miss Sheffield had never even come close to correct in her answer.
Poor Miss Perkins did her very best to offer up tips and advice, but there was nothing to be done.
The part the ladies were to attend would be a nail in the coffin of Miss Sheffield’s portrayal as a woman of cleverness, from which there would be no recovery.
Even her friends were beginning to look concerned about the prospect.
And now the inane concept of secretly sending an express rider to fetch answers from Miss Perkins in London had been suggested and was now being debated by the company present. It seemed the house was not so far out of London, so Miss Perkins could manage such easily, though it was unclear how Miss Sheffield would afford to pay the servants to ride back and forth. And how such a deal of time could be spent between riddles without the attempts becoming obvious.
It would never work, and several of them knew it well, though none were taking pains to say so.
Miss Perkins merely sat among the company, unable to escape, and mutely accepting whatever decision was made.
Excellent creature, though far too docile at the present. She was no servant in this house, and yet she was content to be treated as one.
He could not bear it.
Yet he was too much the gentleman to rage against it or to demand it be otherwise.
He was trapped between his politeness and his desire, and the way through was clouded by the fog that had come from her very first riddle. Which, consequently, had been the answer to it, as he had ascertained very quickly.
Miss Sheffield had not ascertained it at all and debated endlessly when it was revealed as such.
Will would give anything at the present for the weather to have been fine enough to escape the house for a time, then return when he had clarity. And when Miss Perkins might have been freer to converse with him.
His chest tightened at the thought.
“Oh, I’ve had enough of puzzles and riddles,” Rhoades groaned, suddenly pushing away from the table and rising. He craned his neck and began to pace, chuckling to himself. “I’m not even attending this gathering, and my mind is cramping at the thought of one more blasted riddle. Let us find something truly entertaining to do.”
Miss Fairchild giggled and eyed Rhoades with interest. “What sort of entertainment do you have in mind, Mr. Rhoades, hmm? Shall we have some music and dancing?”
Rhoades looked at her as though she were mad. “I said entertainment, Miss Fairchild, not torment.” He eyed the individuals in the room in speculation and, as Will suspected, his attention stopped on Miss Perkins.
So did everyone else’s.
“Ah ha,” Rhoades murmured.
“What?” Jacobs demanded, looking between Rhoades and Miss Perkins. “What are you thinking?”
“I am thinking,” Rhoades said loudly, “about the sort of man Miss Perkins might be seeking in London.”
The ladies in the room gasped with all the dramatics Rhoades could have hoped for, while the rest of the men looked speculative, if amused.
Will, for one, could only blink.
He generally did not care for Rhoades, and he would never wish to pry into Mis Perkins’ private thoughts.
This particular topic, however, he was perishing for insight on.
His gentlemanly nature would allow the lapse in judgment. For now.
Miss Perkins, however, had frozen, and the faintest hint of disbelief was evident in her face.
“After all,” Rhoades continued, “I do believe it is our duty as her friends to assist in finding him, whoever he might be. And surely that is Lady Ashby’s assignment for the Season.”
“I would hardly call it an assignment,” Miss Sheffield protested hotly, her cheeks coloring in bright splotches. “Miss Perkins is the one who is a companion, after all.”
Will bit the inside of his lip in lieu of scowling openly. There was no need for her to throw around the position as though it were no better than the upstairs maid. A companion was a respectable position, and there was some debate as to whether it was a position at all. Some earned wages as employees would, others were family members who were almost shadows for their charges.
A companion was nothing to sneer at.
Mr. Rhoades apparently had a similar opinion. “And what would you call a sponsor for the Season, Miss Sheffield? What other purpose could your aunt have for bringing Miss Perkins out at all?” He turned back to Miss Perkins, folding his arms and eying her with interest. “It is a husband hunt, I bet my best weskit on it.”
Will took the chance to look at Miss Perkins, who returned the gaze of the room without any hint of embarrassment or shame. She did not even appear to hold a degree of tension in her face or frame.
She could have been the world’s most beautiful, composed statue for all her reaction.
And she said nothing.
“What sort of man should he be, Miss Perkins?” Jacobs inquired, propping his foot on the chair beside him as he surveyed her. “I’d wager would could snag you an earl with your looks.”
“Ooh!” Miss Smythe squealed with a clap of her hands. “Yes! Let us get her a man with a title! Oh, what a fine lady of the ton Miss Perkins could be!”
Miss Sheffield harrumphed at the thought and grumbled under her breath.
“Such lavish parties, too,” Miss Fairchild added. “If we snag the right man of title and fortune, she could be the most enviable hostess of them all.” She smiled with a devious air. “I shall require invitation to every fine soiree, Miss Perkins, for my share of getting you a husband.”
“Surely not too fine,” Mr. Gates commented, surprising Will by chiming in at all. “Miss Perkins has a more reserved nature, that must be taken into consideration. She may not wish to host such festivities, enjoyable though they might be for the rest of us.”
Yes. It was high time that someone noticed that simply because Miss Perkins possessed the glories of heaven in her looks did not mean she wished for the attention of a diamond of the first water. It was plain for all to see that she was not as concerned about social engagement as the others, so why should the idea of hosting events at some grand estate tempt her at all?
“We could still get her a title,” Miss Dawson suggested with kindness, offering Miss Perkins a friendly smile. “There is nothing like a title for security and respect, and who would not wish for that?
Also true, and the thought irritated Will for no good reason. His father had a title, after all, and his brother would inherit one. It didn’t make them saintlier, but it did render them quite popular.
Rhoades scoffed loudly. “Because no one with a title has ever done anything to risk his family name, heritage, fortune, or property. It’s money Miss Perkins needs to marry for security, and only money is secure.”
So there was a bright spot, then. Money could be got. Titles were a bit more limited.
But she had money, had she not?
“But what of her dowry?” Miss Fairchild said with the first sign of intelligence. “That is money, right enough.”
“Not enough to hide her birth, not nearly enough.”
A rapid discussion on titles and fortune bounced around the room between the lot while Miss Perkins sat quietly in her place. Was anyone actually going to inquire of the woman in question what her thoughts were on the subject of a husband?
Will could not ask her. He could not. He had far too much interest in the answer, and there was no polite way to bring the topic back to her thoughts.
Why did he care about politeness in this? It was time to stake a claim, to offer himself as a prospect, to declare his horse part of the race that seemed to so amuse the others.
Yet here he stood, silent, staring, and steaming.
“Why not ask Miss Perkins, then?” Sheffield asked, bringing the discussion in the room to an abrupt end, and earning himself unending gratitude from Will that would never go expressed.
All eyes were on him for a moment, then slowly turned to Miss Perkins, who looked horror struck for the first time.
“Well, Miss Perkins?” Miss Sheffield almost sneered. “To what sort of man do you aspire?”
Miss Perkins swallowed once, her fingers knitting with each other until her knuckles turned white. “I have never given it a particular amount of thought,” she murmured with surprising caution.
“Oh, come, come,” Rhoades protested. “You must have done. All ladies do.”
What would Rhoades know on the subject? Will speared him with a look briefly, though it was not seen.
“Let her speak, Rhoades,” Gates scolded, keeping his attention on Miss Perkins. “Go on, then. Give it some thought now.”
Yes, Will pleaded in his mind. Please give it some thought.
Miss Perkins wet her delicate lips quickly, color beginning to rise in her cheeks. “I suppose… I would think a simple country curate would do very well for me.”
A ripple of shock cascade through the group, and Will, for one, found his attention somehow more fixated on her than ever.
“Interesting response,” Sheffield mused, speaking for them all. “Why?”
“It would be a comfortable living,” she said quietly, suddenly lowering her eyes as her voice wavered. “Very safe, quiet, and without much to trouble or distress any. A man of the cloth must abide by rules and boundaries, be an honest man, and think of others before himself. All of these things I desire, and I believe I could make a very good wife for such a man.”
Was a more perfect answer given by any woman who ever lived?
Will was tempted to drop to his knees, pray for forgiveness, and take himself off to join the clergy at that moment, but wisdom restrained him. He glanced about the room, and saw that, while the men looked impressed, the women were not at all.
“Oh, Miss Perkins,” Miss Fairchild giggled, “we can do far better than some stiff, stodgy clergyman!”
“Indeed we can!” Miss Smythe declared.
“I should hope so.” Miss Sheffield sniffed and left no doubt that she was not referring to Miss Perkins with her words.
Will couldn’t look away from Miss Perkins, not even in her obvious discomfort. How could she grow lovelier with every additional minute he spent in her company? With every glimpse into her mind, he found her more a picture of perfection than met the eye.
And what met the eye was beyond description in itself.
“If you will excuse me,” Miss Perkins murmured to no one in particular as she rose from her chair, “I will see to Lady Ashby now.” She bobbed a curtsey and moved towards the door, passing directly in front of Will as she did so.
His fingers brushed against hers somehow, and he thought, or perhaps imagined, that she stuttered a step at the exact time his lungs seized on a breath.
Fanciful thoughts indeed as he watched her go, lingering even as she vanished from sight.
Tempting, but all-too fanciful.
Chapter 7
The docks had always smelled the same. Sea water, fish, sewage, and a hint of smoke, all wrapped up with the occasional gust of sawdust and wood on the air.
It had been years since Caroline had been down here, but the scent of home was one she would never forget.
Home. What a peculiar notion.
She’d never quite felt at home anywhere, but when her mother was alive, there had been nothing better than their house on the docks. Mrs. Briggs would give Caroline a fresh biscuit every time she and her mother delivered the rent for the month, as well as the occasional sweet. Errands to the local shopkeepers and vendors followed, though it occurred to Caroline now to wonder about the legality of the wares sold by some of the vendors.
It had not been an idyllic childhood for her, but it certainly could have been worse.
Far, far worse.
Looking at the sort of place it was now, how dark, dank, and filthy everything was, Caroline appreciated all the more that her mother and uncle had had the foresight to send her away to school when they had. Caroline had been blessed to resemble her mother in looks, and in all the favorable ways, and a woman with such looks could find herself in the worst of situations in certain corners here.
She couldn’t remain long now, or she might suffer the same.
Drawing the hood of her cloak more tightly around her, Caroline trod the somehow still familiar path to the boarding house where Mrs. Briggs presumably resided.
A series of short whistles rent the air, and, out of sheer habit, Caroline kept her eyes straight ahead.
The whistles came again, this time more in a sing-song tone. “Lovely,” a man slurred from somewhere nearby. “Come ‘ere, lovely. Papa’s ‘ad a long day.”
“Oy!” another called. “Give ‘ee a fiver to set me t’ rights!”
Caroline’s cheeks grew more heated with every step, wishing it was darker out or later in the day, but it would have been far worse if she had come later. Midday was one of the only safe times. Such comments were not pleasant, or tasteful, but they were harmless by comparison.
“Let me make ‘ee soar, lovey,” an older man offered. “Give ‘ee wings I will.”
She turned down a street, away from the callers and the sounds of creaking ships in port and pressed a chilled and gloved hand to her now flaming cheeks.
What would have become of her had she not been sent away from this place? A shiver coursed through her entire frame at the thought.
If her friends could see her now, they would have been aghast. They’d have scurried her away from this place and found another way. Or they would have linked their arms through hers and marched with her to the boarding house.
One or the other.
If not both.
“Steady, Caro,” she muttered, surprising herself with her raw, natural accent, which hadn’t been used in several years.
She had a sound purpose in this venture, and she would not be swayed.
The boarding house loomed before her, somehow smaller and dirtier than any of her memories led her to believe. The windows, however, were exactly the same. She was convinced the streaks of dirt, the cracks, and the suspicious stains were all just as they had been in her youth, even if the filth on the building itself had increased.
Why she should notice such a thing was beyond her.
Exhaling slowly, Caroline entered the boarding house itself, stepping into the small but tidy foyer and looking around for anything fa
miliar.
She saw nothing.
The decoration had changed, the arrangement had changed, even the rugs on the floor had changed, and there was not a soul about. Perhaps she had been mistaken and Mrs. Briggs had moved on. This place could have been run by anybody, and possibly someone with no connection to Caroline’s father, or her past.
There would be no help for her if that were the case.
A tarnished hand bell sat on a desk nearby, and Caroline moved to it, lowering the hood of her cloak. She rang the bell just once, and its tinkling sound seemed to reverberate off of every surface.
“Coming!” a female voice bellowed from somewhere distant.
Caroline racked her mind for memories of Mrs. Briggs in an attempt to match the voice.
She had no such memory.
A few guests entered the foyer and shuffled past Caroline without greeting her, jostling her roughly and forcing her back until she almost sat upon the desk itself. She was certainly not in the more societal part of London now. No manners or deference, and no gentlemen to see to her comfort or safety. She was no lady here, only a woman, and, if she was not careful, she would be identified as one of finery.
She wasn’t anything fine in truth, but the quality of her gown alone would set her apart.
“Oye! Treat a woman with some dignity, will you?” screeched the same female voice from before, making Caroline grin without shame, which was a rarity for her.
Mrs. Briggs was indeed here, but it took her roaring in indignation to jar the recognition for Caroline.
Then the woman herself was before her. Hair a little whiter than in years before, but the overall appearance of the pudgy woman remained the same. The wings of lines from the corners of her lips were, perhaps, a little deeper, but perfectly familiar.
The Beauty Page 7