by Lisa Berne
Gwendolyn cast about in her mind for someone else in whom she could confide such a very unsettling question.
The Duchess was very nice, but it would still feel awkward introducing an extremely delicate topic like this.
Lady Almira? Also very nice, but apt to blurt things out.
What about Helen, someone her own age?
No—she didn’t feel close enough to Helen. The same was true for the young ladies among her acquaintance here in London. She had made some nice new friends, but still would hesitate to divulge something so personal.
Francis or Percy? Goodness, no.
All at once Gwendolyn felt very alone.
She had begun this day with such high hopes, and now that it was coming to an end, she felt sad, confused, worried, and very, very alone.
She gave a deep sigh, sinking a little lower on her pillows.
And she saw, looking at her sketchbook, that she had been, all unknowingly, drawing Christopher.
What a very interesting face he had. Not handsome in the way the Earl was, but there was something so compelling about Christopher’s eyes—the strong line of his jaw—the unfussy way he wore his long dark hair. And there was a quickness about him, an easy sort of alertness, a confidence in the way he held his body, which she had, she thought, looking critically at her sketch, managed to convey pretty well.
It was strange to think that it was only last night that their lives had intersected again. And yet how easy it had been to talk together. He was a good listener, too.
Gwendolyn was glad Christopher would be coming over tomorrow. Here at least was something she didn’t have to be confused or worried about.
Tomorrow she would see Christopher, her friend.
She finished his portrait by adding a few more details—some quick lines to his neckcloth, the suggestion of a smile dancing in his eyes, some shading about his boots to make it clear he wasn’t floating in space but, rather, had his feet firmly on the ground.
There. Done.
Gwendolyn found herself thinking of what Christopher had told her about his time in Italy. About staying at Mauro’s. She drew a horse, with its head lifted proudly, and then another one, this one in motion with its mane flying. She wondered what Mauro looked like, and what his old yellow-brick house looked like, too.
She made a little sketch from pure fancy, but it wasn’t satisfying. What she liked best was drawing things from life.
A yawn suddenly overtook her.
Thank goodness, she was getting sleepy at last.
Gwendolyn put her sketchbook and pencil next to her stack of books, got up, and blew out the candles which Lizzie had set on a tall bureau on the other side of the bed. Then she slid underneath the covers and yawned again, feeling somehow better about life, and fell fast asleep.
Chapter 7
Christopher walked along Brook Street on his way to the Egremont townhouse. It was another mild afternoon and he was glad to be outdoors enjoying it. He could have called a hack from his lodgings in Piccadilly, but he wanted the exercise.
He turned onto Davies Street, then went on to Grosvenor Street and toward the large green garden square around which several magnificent townhouses clustered. The vista before him was vibrant with life: children played on the green, with their governesses attendant, carriages rolled to and fro, there were riders and pedestrians all about. He came around the green and was just about to cross the street to the Egremont townhouse when there came an anguished scream.
“Purkoy! Oh, my Purkoy! Come back!”
Two elegantly dressed women stood on the pavement near a stylish carriage stopped in front of the Duchess’s—the one who had screamed was gesturing toward a fat little King Charles spaniel which at present was careening around the street, ignoring her and in imminent risk of being trampled by a horse.
A footman leaped off the back of the carriage and tried in vain to capture the little dog, who clearly thought this a delightful game and one which it intended to continue for as long as possible. It dashed toward an oncoming carriage, yapped with absurd braggadocio at the horses, and, as the woman screamed again, veered away from the deadly hooves at the very last second.
Well, there was nothing for it, thought Christopher. The footman wasn’t having much luck, so he’d try and help that idiotic little dog, too.
He looked around and saw a boy of about five or six staring at the melee through the widely spaced iron pickets of the square’s fence. In one hand was a large piece of bread-and-butter which he had perhaps forgotten in all the excitement. Christopher went over to the fence, crouched down on his heels, and said to the little boy who was now more or less at his eye-level:
“May I have that slice of bread?”
The boy looked at him suspiciously. “It’s mine.”
“I know that. But it would be a great help if you gave it to me.”
“Why?”
“So I can try to catch that dog.”
“Do dogs like bread-and-butter? Ours only get meat.”
“I think that little dog eats whatever it can get.”
The boy looked at the slice in his hand, and then at Christopher. “You’ll not run away and eat it all yourself?”
“I promise,” he said gravely.
“Very well,” said the little boy, just as gravely, and reached through the pickets to hold out the bread-and-butter to Christopher.
He took it. “Thank you very much,” he said to the little boy, who solemnly nodded, as one man to another, and as it was obvious to Christopher that smiling at him might possibly be an affront to the boy’s dignity, he nodded back, then straightened up and went with swift steps to the street, where he saw the dog Purkoy standing as if frozen, eyeing the footman who was slowly approaching and saying in an appeasing tone:
“That’s right, that’s right, stay where you are, there’s a good doggie.”
The footman got within arm’s length and made a desperate grab for Purkoy, who nimbly shot between his legs with a visibly merry look on his face, showing his teeth in what Christopher had no doubt was an actual grin.
The woman on the pavement screamed “Purkoy!” again and in her voice was also desperation.
Blithely oblivious, Purkoy shot past Christopher and dodged an oncoming horse and rider, then looked as if he were about to make friends with a large pile of horse-droppings. Christopher said in a friendly but firm voice, “Purkoy. Come.”
Perhaps the little dog registered the easy authority in the stranger’s tone, for it stopped, turned, its ears pricked high as it looked at Christopher. Skittish. Ready to bolt. Another one of those mad dashes might very well lead the dog to an ugly death. He repeated “Purkoy, come,” crouched down again on his heels, and held out the bread-and-butter temptingly low.
The little dog cocked its head and Christopher could almost hear the tiny, tiny gears in its equally tiny brain turning as it weighed the advantages of food versus running about playing games with the amusingly slow and clumsy humans.
Finally, the demands of the stomach seemed to win out, for slowly Purkoy approached Christopher, his little brown eyes darting back and forth from the bread to Christopher’s face. Christopher, meanwhile, remained still, completely still, as if he had nothing better to do, and when Purkoy came close enough to snatch a bite of the bread, he only waited. Waited until the dog had taken a few more bites and was engrossed in the act of eating. Then he dropped the remaining bread on the ground and as Purkoy rushed at it, picked him up and stood.
“You,” he said pleasantly, “are a fool.” And Purkoy, as if he had not just disrupted an entire street of Grosvenor Square and imperiled his very existence, wagged his curly tail and tried to lick Christopher’s chin. “I think not,” he said, still pleasantly, to Purkoy and then went to the pavement where the two fashionable ladies stood.
One of them, with dark curly hair and bright dark eyes brimming with tears, hurried over to him and held out her arms. He passed Purkoy over to her and she said lovingly, �
�Oh, here you are, you dreadful, nasty, impertinent little beast,” and permitted the joyfully wiggling Purkoy to lick her chin with servile enthusiasm. Then she looked up at Christopher. “Thank you so much, I really don’t even know how to thank you properly.”
He watched with some amusement as her dark eyes assessed him, knowing that she was wondering if she ought to press on him a gratuity. His clothing, he assumed, persuaded her otherwise for she went on, delicately, inquiringly, “Mr.—?”
“Christopher Beck, ma’am,” he said, in his voice the same gravity with which he had conducted a solemn conversation with the little boy in the green. “Delighted to be of help.”
She gave a gracious little bow, then handed Purkoy over to her footman, who carried Purkoy over to the carriage and shut him in with careful punctiliousness, then stood by the door as if there was even a remote possibility that Purkoy would figure out how to turn the handle and escape again.
The door to the Egremont townhouse opened and Gwendolyn came hurrying out and down the steps, the skirts of her pretty white gown fluttering and at the same time revealing, to all who cared to notice, a charming pair of ankles. “I saw it all,” she said, smiling and breathless. “Oh, well done, Christopher!” She turned to the elegant woman and went on, “Lady Jersey, I’m so glad you got your little dog back safely! My heart was in my throat the whole time!”
“As was mine, Miss Penhallow, I do assure you,” said the elegantly dressed lady—Lady Jersey, evidently. “You are acquainted with Mr. Beck, I see.”
“Oh yes, ma’am. Christopher’s a friend of mine from back home.”
“Indeed,” said Lady Jersey, and Christopher saw the same assessing expression in her dark eyes as she looked at him again. Clearly she was wondering how to categorize him. Was he on equal par with the Penhallows? Or a parvenu—a social upstart who ought to be discreetly quashed? Luckily, that was her problem and not his. He smiled pleasantly at her. For just the tiniest second she seemed surprised by his smile, and then she returned it. “Mr. Beck, may I introduce you to the Honorable Mrs. Drummond-Burrell? My dear Clementina, do come and meet Mr. Beck.”
At this, the other fashionable lady slowly came forward, moving with such deliberate precision that she gave the impression of gliding on wheels instead of actually walking. She looked at Christopher as she might eye a small repugnant insect which had had the temerity to climb onto her exquisite nankeen half-boot.
He wanted to laugh, but only said, politely, “How do you do, ma’am.”
She gave a small, chilly bow. “Mr. Beck.” And then, thawing slightly: “Good afternoon, Miss Penhallow.”
“Good afternoon, ma’am. How kind of you to call on us. Won’t you all please come in?”
Lady Jersey and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell stayed only long enough for a cup of tea each. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell unbent sufficiently to talk a little with the Duchess, whereas Lady Jersey—who seemed to have a lively, amiable disposition—managed to chat with not only the Duchess, but also Lady Almira, Gwendolyn, and, finally, himself. She warmly repeated her thanks for his rescue of Purkoy, then surprised him when she said:
“Where are you staying here in London, Mr. Beck?”
“At the Albany, ma’am.”
“Indeed?” That assessing look again. “A delightful residence. I understand the rents there are exorbitant.”
He repressed a grin. It wouldn’t do to say Fishing, eh? “I’m comfortable there, ma’am.”
A little smile curved her mouth, as if acknowledging his civil evasion. But she wasn’t done. “You’re quite tanned, Mr. Beck. You’re an outdoorsman?”
“I’ve spent the past few years working outside, ma’am, so yes, I suppose that makes me one.”
Her delicate eyebrows rose. “Working at what?”
“Picking olives, ma’am, and training horses.”
“I see.”
Christopher could only imagine her ladyship’s mental processes of trying to align olive-picking, his friendship with Gwendolyn Penhallow as well as with the Duchess, and being able to afford rent at the Albany. Telling her about pirates, he thought, or about shipping out with rum smugglers might undo her completely.
Lady Jersey surprised him again by smiling yet more broadly. “I think, Mr. Beck, that you are—to employ a modern colloquialism—quite the deep one.”
He smiled back. “Is that a compliment, ma’am, or an aspersion?”
“I think—” She looked at him consideringly. “I think perhaps the former.” She rose to her feet in a rustle of silk and taffeta. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Beck.”
He stood up as well, and bowed. “Likewise, ma’am.”
Lady Jersey and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell left just as the Earl of Westenbury and Étienne de Montmorency arrived. Greetings were exchanged, and Christopher watched with amusement as Mrs. Drummond-Burrell favored both gentlemen with a gloved hand over which they might bow. Quite the mark of her approbation apparently. And then she glided away.
Gwendolyn had come to stand next to him, and all at once she giggled. “Oh, Christopher,” she whispered, her blue eyes alight with humor, “don’t you wonder how she does that?”
“Once, in Rome,” he said, “I saw a man wearing a sort of skating-shoe. They were made out of foot-shaped wooden boards, with four metal wheels attached underneath, and had leather straps fastened around his shoes. He was rolling along the Via la Spezia, as fine as fivepence. Until—alas—he came upon a little spray of pebbles on the roadway.”
“Oh dear,” said Gwendolyn. Then she giggled again. “Let’s hope Mrs. Drummond-Burrell doesn’t meet the same fate. It would quite undo all her dignity. She’s such a dreadful snob! Oh, Christopher, I’m awful, aren’t I?”
He smiled down at her. “Well, signorina, if you are, I am too.”
“Good heavens, Sally, what mad spirit has possessed you?” Clementina Drummond-Burrell looked across the carriage at Lady Jersey, in her voice both astonishment and dismay. “Vouchers for Almack’s for that odd young man? To be sure, it was commendable of him to catch Purkoy, but you needn’t bestow vouchers as a token of your gratitude.”
“Oh, I’m not, I’m not.” Lady Jersey was holding Purkoy in her arms, and now pressed a kiss upon his silken little head. She looked back at Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, a distinctly mischievous expression in her lively dark eyes. “I like Mr. Beck. He’s quite interesting, don’t you think? And the latest crop of young men are, by and large, so dull.”
“We know nothing about him.”
“I do. He’s picked olives and trained horses.”
Mrs. Drummond-Burrell looked alarmed. “What?”
“I daresay that accounts for how robust he looks. He’s good-looking, too, isn’t he? And not just in the common way. If I were a trifle younger . . . Well, that’s neither here nor there. I’m going to send him vouchers, Clementina, and I’m going to invite him to my evening-party on Friday.”
“Sally . . .”
Lady Jersey chuckled. “You’ll be needing smelling-salts when I tell you what else I’m going to do.”
“What is it?” said Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, the very picture of dread.
“You know Prinny’s hosting a fête at Carlton House on the fourteenth. I’m having a little private supper with him tonight, and I think I’ll suggest—”
“Sally, you wouldn’t.”
Lady Jersey chuckled again. “Oh yes, I would.”
Gwendolyn and Christopher were seated together on a sofa, holding their teacups and laughing. She said, “You were so furious with me, do you remember?”
“Only because you had climbed the tallest tree behind my house.”
“Oh, that lovely beech! Well, I had to, of course. Percy said I couldn’t do it.”
“More fool he.”
“That’s what I thought! And I had to climb that particular tree, because ours weren’t as tall.”
“I suppose I should apologize for shouting at you like that. In retrospect, I was more worried than angry.”
“Were you? That’s very sweet. At the time I thought you were upset because I was trespassing.”
“God, no. You had climbed up to the top—very nearly at the level of our roof. I was afraid you’d be stuck up there.”
She laughed. “Not a bit of it! Although I will concede that it was harder coming down than it was going up. Do you remember how covered in scratches I was?”
Christopher laughed as well. “Yes. You were very gleeful, too. You said the breeches and shirt you stole from Percy were ruined, which would serve him right.”
“Well, the joke was on me. Mama made me mend them, and it took hours.”
“Worth it anyway?”
“Yes.” Gwendolyn laughed again. She did like the way Christopher’s eyes crinkled up at the corners when he was smiling like that.
“What are you two laughing about?” It was Helen, who had come to stand next to Christopher.
“Oh, about old times,” Gwendolyn answered.
“Oh. Can I join you?”
Gwendolyn paused, suddenly feeling very awkward. The sofa wasn’t really made for three people. She supposed she should give her place away to Helen. But—strangely, stubbornly—she didn’t want to. Christopher said:
“You can have my seat, Miss FitzClarence.”
“You don’t need to go,” Helen quickly replied, and lowered herself onto the sofa next to him. He slid over, which brought him rather close to Gwendolyn, and she considered squeezing herself against the sofa’s armrest to make more room for him, but decided she wouldn’t, torn between annoyance at Helen and wanting to laugh at how silly the three of them probably looked, crowded together like this. Also, she noticed, she was enjoying sitting right next to Christopher. He exuded a kind of—of solidness that was very appealing. An easiness in himself. And she liked how he smelled, too. A hint of soap, really, that’s all it was, but it was subtle and clean and masculine.
Gwendolyn took a deep appreciative breath.
And then another scent teased her nostrils. It was rather familiar somehow, wasn’t it? Like . . . a garden or something like that?