Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  “Lord Raithby is dead?”

  “These four weeks, but dear Glimmerston gave me your letter. Or Raithby, I suppose I must learn to say. My Raithby’s eldest, and such a nice boy. So, when I needed somewhere to go, I thought of Kettlesworth, and I suddenly longed to see you. And here I am.”

  “I am glad,” Rosa said, firmly squashing errant thoughts about the likely reactions of Bear and the villagers.

  “Is your father out?” Aunt Lillibelle asked. “I quite expected him to refuse me the door.”

  “My father is…” How to explain her father? Before she could begin, Maggie and Sukie carried in trays with cups and milk and sugar, and some of cook’s little cakes. Aunt Lillibelle’s footman followed with the urn and the teapot on a tray, and the locked tea cabinet that had been one of Bear’s presents.

  She directed the servants to put the makings down within her reach and dismissed them again. Aunt Lillibelle stayed silent until they left, leaning back on her pillows, her eyes shut.

  “Rosie used to write to me about you, her little Rosa. She said you looked like me, and she was right. I suppose that cannot have been easy in this village. I am sorry if my foolish choices have caused you to suffer.”

  “Lady Threxton never forgave you. Or me either.”

  “Amanda Threxton? What hurt did she take? Her father jettisoned poor Rosie quickly enough, which was so unjust, for she had nothing to do with my running away! Thank goodness for Albert. You must not think I blame him for keeping me away. He did what he needed to protect my sister, and later you. I would not have come now, Mrs. Gavenor, except that you wrote to me. Also, I needed to leave Trenton and I wanted to see my home one more time.”

  “Milk? Sugar? And please call me Rosa. You are my aunt, after all.”

  “Just black, Rosa. Thank you. Would it be too much to call me Aunt Belle? Just while I am here?”

  “Aunt Belle, then. But you cannot be planning to travel on in this weather.”

  “I have no wish to…” Whatever Aunt Belle planned to say was interrupted as she bent double with a spasm of coughing.

  Rosa jumped up to see if she could help, patting her aunt gently on the back. “But you are not well. You will stay here tonight. I will have a room made up.”

  When Aunt Belle could speak again, she protested, “But your father… And the maid called you Mrs. Gavenor. Your husband will not approve of your scandalous aunt, Rosa.”

  Rosa refused to consider either of the men who had, in their different ways, left her to make her own decisions. “Father lives in dreams of the past, and my husband is away. Even if he were here, I am sure he would be the first to say I cannot send any sick woman out into weather like this, let alone my own mother’s sister. No. You must stay. At least until the weather is fine and you can continue your journey. Where are you going, Aunt Belle?”

  Aunt Belle shrugged, dabbing at her mouth with a handkerchief that now bore flecks of blood, before she answered, “Here to the Wirral. I thought to find a small cottage, perhaps down by the shore. I do not have long to live, Rosa. I have been forbidden to die in my own home. I thought perhaps I could die in the homeland of my childhood.”

  Father was well enough for dinner but became distressed when introduced to his sister-in-law. “Have I met you before?” he asked. “I knew a Belle once, but she went to London and died. She was much younger than you. A mere child, really. You missed her, didn’t you, Rosie? A foolish child, and spoilt, but you loved her.”

  “She was a loving woman, your mother,” Belle murmured to Rosa, when Brownlee distracted Father by directing his attention to a dish of spiced mushrooms.

  After dinner, Brownlee helped Father up to his bed chamber, and Rosa ordered tea served in the parlor. “Or would you prefer to go straight to bed yourself, Aunt Belle?”

  “A cup of tea, and then bed. I grow tired easily, and Maud fusses.”

  Maud was the maid Aunt Belle had brought with her, and a more unlikely maid for a courtesan, Rosa could not imagine. Maud was a good decade older than her mistress, buttoned to the neck and the cuff in dark, serviceable cotton with crisp white cuffs and collar, her gray hair tightly confined under a cap. She would not have seemed at all out of place as maid to the Rector’s wife, if the rector had a wife.

  Aunt Belle did not much resemble Rosa’s imaginings, either. She had sent her coachman, two footmen, and another maid on to the inn, keeping only Maud beside her; five servants, a luxurious carriage, and a mountain of baggage. Her clothing was of the highest quality, as Rosa might have expected. The wages of sin, as Livia Penman would call them, were clearly high.

  On the other hand, the garments were cut like those any older lady of the parish might wear, if she had good taste and a deep purse. And Aunt Belle did not wear paint, or if she did, it was not obvious, and her manners and language were as refined as Rosa’s own.

  The eyes so like her own were examining Rosa as she brought Aunt Belle her tea.

  “You are full of questions, Rosa. I shall answer anything I can.” She took a cautious sip of the hot liquid as Rosa returned to fetch her own tea, a dozen questions fighting for first place on her tongue.

  The one that escaped was, “Will you teach me how to attract a man?”

  Aunt Belle raised her eyebrows. “Now, that is not the question I expected. Your husband?”

  “Yes. Hugh.”

  “Bear Gavenor. I have read about him in the London papers. My dear, you shall tell me all about him and I will help you however I can.”

  Aunt Belle had dark bruises under her eyes, and the hands holding the tea cup trembled. “Tomorrow,” Rosa suggested. “You are tired, and I must not keep you from your bed.”

  “Poor Rosa, with two invalids on your hands. You look like me, my dear, but you have your mother’s kind heart. It is a wonderful gift, but can be a terrible burden if you take no care of your own needs. Have an early night yourself, and we shall talk tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It wasn’t as simple as walking out that afternoon and heading for Cheshire. Even Lion agreed they should take a look at the terraces that the Earl of Denthorpe was selling, to see whether they could be made over into housing for the upwardly-mobile merchants that wanted what Bear had to sell. Denthorpe held title to estates in three locations, and Bear and Lion each had their own reasons for seeing all three as soon as they could. The earl’s agent agreed to meet them at the first property the following morning, then conduct them to each of the others.

  Bear knew as soon as they arrived at the first address that it would not do. “Not for me, Lion. In this area? Not my market.”

  “We’re here,” Lion argued. “We might as well take a look.”

  “If you’ve an interest in rentals for skilled craftsmen and the like. But wealthy merchants who want to live like the gentry? This area is all wrong for them. They want gardens. They want to get away from their warehouses and manufactories. They won’t buy a townhouse in a terrace in this kind of neighborhood.”

  “Really? But the gentry live in townhouses all terraced together. I do, and I’m a belted, blasted earl.”

  “Yes, but my merchants don’t see it that way. They want a little pocket handkerchief of an estate. A taste of country, with its own detached house or, at most, sharing a wall with another house, but not one on either side. They certainly won’t live where they might jostle elbows in the street with their own workers.”

  “Is there money in housing for skilled craftsmen?” Lion asked.

  “Possibly. If the refurbishment isn’t too extensive, which you can’t altogether calculate till you have the walls off and the ceilings down. Rebuilding can cost more than a whole new build, and only pays if the buyer is willing to pay for the history, or if the builder does things on the cheap. I don’t cut corners, Lion, so this one isn’t for me.”

  So, when the agent, Mr. Thomas, arrived, they went on to the next location. This was more promising. The earl’s father had begun a project ten years ago, c
opying the successful model of St John’s Wood. “His lordship ran into difficulties when the builder absconded with the architect’s wife, funding the escape—as they later discovered—by substituting inferior materials for the second story brick work. With poor harvests and the war, the extra investment needed to finish the project was just not available, so the houses, some of them near finished, have been sitting abandoned ever since. “

  It was a small development, just ten groups of two houses, each set on a large plot of land—currently a wilderness of scrub, weeds, and building materials. The gardens would need to be landscaped, and fenced to give privacy. The earl’s troubles had meant four of the buildings—eight houses—were not weather-tight. Some attempts had been made to protect them, but not recently. In consequence, vagrants, animals, and invasive plants had encroached upon the buildings that were least secure.

  The three men rambled all over the area, then adjourned to a nearby public house for a tankard of ale and a pie.

  “His lordship’s price?” Bear asked once they had been served.

  Thomas named a sum.

  Bear snorted.

  “For twenty dwellings,” Thomas pointed out.

  “Twelve, and those needing considerable finishing. The others are only fit to be torn down, which will add cost to the buyer.”

  They haggled some more, setting the groundwork for later negotiations, since Thomas had the responsibility for making a deal and no authority to do so. Bear hoped the earl would not continue to insist upon making all the decisions while distancing himself from any appearance of interest. Better for everyone if he would directly discuss the estate with Bear or Lion. If he wouldn’t, they were all in for a frustrating time.

  Bear looked up at the sun to gauge the time. Late afternoon. “Do we have time to look at the third offering?”

  “I do not think it will suit you, Mr. Gavenor. It is the earl’s own townhouse. He spends little time in London and thinks to rent in the future.”

  “Benford House? Just off Hanover Square?”

  At the agent’s nod, Bear pursed his lips. “I may have a buyer in mind for that one. Shall we go?”

  Once they returned to Lion’s phaeton, with Thomas following behind in his chaise, Lion objected. “I thought you said merchants were not interested in terraced houses. Besides, the neighbors on the square will not be amused if you plant a mushroom in their midst.”

  Bear shot him an amused grin. “My buyer is gentry. He dabbles in trade, which is frowned on, but he makes them money, so they tolerate him.”

  “You, Bear?”

  Trust Lion to guess. “I am a married man, after all.”

  The townhouse was run down, and decorated in a style that suggested that the new Lord Denthorpe’s mother had either overseen the refurbishment as a young bride, or had not touched the place during her tenure.

  “It will need a lot of work,” he said to Lion when they shared a drink in Lion’s study later that evening. “But the structure is sound, and I can pay people to redecorate.”

  “I seem to be making a habit of giving marriage advice,” Lion complained, “and it just isn’t on, Bear. Once more can’t hurt, I suppose. Do the repairs, but let your wife decide on the decoration. It will be her home, after all.”

  Bear could see the sense of that. “Do you believe that Thomas can get Denthorpe to a meeting?”

  “Let’s hope so,” Lion said, frowning. “I want to go home.”

  Bear felt the same urge to abandon the deal and hurry north, but the agent seemed certain that Denthorpe was ready to be reasonable. “Next week, he said. But if we could talk directly to Denthorpe, we have a chance of getting everything settled on both properties.”

  Four more days, and then home to Rosa.

  Meanwhile, the shops of London beckoned. Bear found his way to a bookshop, and was searching the shelves for something that might appeal to Rosa when a wife of one of his clients came upon him. “Mr. Gavenor, how lovely to see you. Thank you so much for the estate you sold us. We are loving it.”

  They chatted for a few minutes, and Bear disclosed his errand. Shortly afterwards, he posted a book of poetry that the client’s wife had recommended, and a short note. He hoped Rosa would enjoy both.

  The next day, Lion agreed to join a present-hunting expedition, adding his own changing circumstances to the mix by purchasing several rattles, a teething ring, and a large rocking horse for his prospective offspring. When Bear suggested the toy was a little premature, Lion insisted, “He or she will grow into it.”.

  Bear found a silver set for a lady’s dressing table that included a brush, mirror, comb, several trinket boxes, and a tray. They were all inlaid with ivory on which some talented artist had painted a fantasy scene of flowers, with fairies dressed in petals and wearing caps and bonnets formed from bell-like blooms.

  “This for Rosa,” he announced, and pursed his lips when he realized Lion had noticed him smiling at the picture on the back of the mirror. His smile crept back as soon as he turned his back on Lion. Fairies for his fairy. How appropriate.

  They made several more excursions over the next two days. Town was shy of company even in such a cool summer, but they met a number of acquaintances, including some of the harpies Bear had eluded during the Season. He took great pleasure in telling them he was shopping for presents for his wife.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bear’s letter sounded as if he were following it home, almost on the heels of the mail coach. Rosa half expected to see him the day after Aunt Belle arrived, and hoped he would arrive late in the day so she could gain answers to some of her questions.

  First, though, she needed to visit Father, who Brownlee said had had a bad night. His cough was back, and he seemed more confused than usual, but Brownlee and Rosa agreed there was little point in sending for the doctor. “Even if he agrees to come an hour’s drive through pouring rain, he will shake his head and say, ‘You cannot turn back the clock,’ and we already know that,” Rosa said. “I shall order some broth, Brownlee, and perhaps some of cook’s lemon and barley tonic.”

  Downstairs in the kitchen, she found Aunt Belle’s maid, Maud, on the same errand. “Madam asked me to give her apologies, Mrs. Gavenor. But I knew how it would be. She insisted on making all haste, though we had no reason to flee as if we were chased. We should have stayed put and let That Woman do her worst, but Madam wanted to leave, and she wanted to hurry, and now it has all caught up with her.”

  So much for Rosa’s questions. She told cook to give Maud whatever she needed and assigned Maggie to run any errands Maud might have. Then she wrote a brief note to Aunt Belle, inviting her to stay as long as she wished, and to stay abed as long as she needed.

  Bear didn’t arrive. Instead, partway through the afternoon, the gig from the inn brought a parcel that had come in the mail. A book, by the shape and size. She opened the note first.

  “Dear Rosabel,

  I saw three properties yesterday, and one is very suitable for refurbishing and selling, if the owner will agree to an appropriate price. Negotiations may take a few days, so I won’t be leaving London as soon as I had hoped.

  One of the other properties is of interest, too, and I will tell you more about that when I arrive.

  Meanwhile, I saw the enclosed and thought of you. He is, apparently, very fashionable at the moment, or so a lady of my acquaintance told me.

  I will write again, and please keep your letters coming, since I do not know how quickly I will be able to complete my business here.

  With affectionate regards,

  Gavenor”

  Affectionate regards. That was hopeful, was it not? A lady of my acquaintance was less so, but she would not allow her mind to drift down that track. Nor would she assume that Bear thought she needed to be more fashionable. Enjoy the gift, Rosa, she told herself.

  The package did, indeed, contain a book, carefully protected between two solid boards, which she removed to see the book itself, small but opulent in
tooled green leather, and with gold lettering on the face and spine. “In My Garden, by Andrew Delargey.” It contained poems; sonnets, mostly. She had not heard of Andrew Delargey, but then, until Bear came, she’d had no contact with the fashionable world.

  The pages had been cut, and something slipped between them; a silk bookmark with a long tassel. She pulled it out, using her finger to mark the place, and exclaimed at the pretty thing. It had been skillfully embroidered with roses almost precisely like the rambler that covered the front of Rose Cottage. How lovely.

  What poem had Bear chosen to mark? She opened the pages and read quickly. Oh. What could it mean? It was an ode to a rose, but what a rose! The poet first extolled its beauty, but the poem deteriorated from there as he scratched himself on its thorns and finally found that the lovely colors concealed a black center, bed to a tiny but venomous snake that struck out at his heart.

  Rosa was sitting, the book in her hand, staring at the awful page, when Maud supported Aunt Belle into the room.

  Rosa roused herself to help Maud settle the invalid on the couch, with a blanket over her legs and pillows to support her, half sitting. The maid fussed some more, bringing a jug of lemon cordial and a glass, Aunt Belle’s spectacles, a book, a package of letters, another rug, “In case of drafts, Mrs. Gavenor.” She shifted the fire screen, though the fire was not lit, and moved the curtains a little to block a sunbeam.

  “Do stop fussing, Maud,” Aunt Belle said at last, “and leave me to have a comfortable coze with my niece.”

  The maid pursed her lips. “Don’t you talk overlong, ma’am. You don’t want to be back in that bed.”

  “Yes, yes. Mrs. Gavenor shall do most of the talking, and I shall lie here and be comfortable.”

  Maud grumbled some more, the obvious affection between the two warming their voices.

  Finally, she left, shutting the door behind her.

  “Now, Rosa, you shall tell me what has you cast in the dumps,” Aunt Belle instructed.