Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  “He’s very proficient.” Robert could guess her concern. His son-in-law insisted on continuing his efforts to civilize the worst parts of London, a dangerous occupation. Robert’s eyes returned to his daughter’s middle. Perhaps it was time to have a talk with William, about responsibilities. “I would stay, my dear, but I have an appointment.”

  “I don’t mean to keep you,” Lanora said. “I simply wanted to ask if you signed those papers for Grace. Only, I already told her the holdings are hers.”

  Robert nodded. “The very errand I am off to complete.”

  “Then pray, do not let me further hinder you.”

  He bowed again and headed from the parlor. He came up short in the doorway to look back. “Lanora, are there any events I should attend?”

  “Events?” Her features crinkled with question.

  Robert had no use for the frivolities of the ton, and Lanora knew as much. Since his return to England, he’d avoided all but the most necessary social engagements. But if he wished to wed, he must meet a woman somewhere. “Balls. Dinners. Recitals. The opera.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “My lecture series will end soon.” He endeavored for a casual shrug. The last thing he wished was for Lanora to guess his goal and attempt to manage his choice. “Once I meet my grandchild, I shall return to Egypt. I thought, perhaps, I should attempt to enjoy some of what London offers before quitting Britain again. I have a desk buried in invitations, but no notion which to accept.”

  “Dame Parson’s ball is always a top event,” Lanora said, expression bland. “I’d begin there.”

  “Hm. I’ll consider it. Thank you.” He resumed his path from her home. Outside, he thanked the waiting groomsman and vaulted into his saddle. Many gentlemen seemed to enjoy being carted about London in carriages. Robert preferred to ride. It kept a man keen.

  His attorney’s office wasn’t far, though the last leg of the journey was on the interminable side due to congestion. Robert supposed that was his punishment for employing an attorney with so fashionable an address. Jeffries was a good man, though. Reliable. Not like the fictional Mister Darington’s man of affairs, Mister Lethbridge, who was serving a sentence in Australia.

  Leaving his horse with a street lad and the promise of payment, Robert jogged up the steps to his attorney’s office. A glance at the elegant case clock as he entered the reception room showed him to be precisely on time, which Robert considered little better than being late. Across an elaborate Axminster carpet, Jeffries’ reedy clerk stood from his desk and bowed.

  “Lord Robert. Mister Jeffries is ready for you.”

  “Thank you, Clive.”

  The clerk left his desk to knock on a thick-paneled door. Robert could hear Jeffries’ muted reply as he crossed the room. His boots seemed almost to sink into the thick carpet.

  Clive turned back. “Would you care for anything, my lord?” He gestured to a well-stocked sideboard.

  “No, thank you.”

  Clive nodded and pushed open the door to Jeffries’ office.

  The attorney’s inner chamber was even more expensively appointed than the outer. Robert had known the man for years, even been to his home. Jeffries’ townhouse, unless greatly altered in Robert’s time away, was as neat and sparse as the little bald man who stood to bow. The opulence of the office was for show. For some reason, the wealthy felt more secure trusting their affairs to a man nearly as rich as they were.

  “Jeffries,” Robert greeted. “No need for all that. Sit down.”

  A faint smile crossed the attorney’s face as he obeyed, likely because all of their meetings began with those same words. “Lord Robert. Always a pleasure.”

  Ignoring two long couches set opposite each other, Robert took the plush armchair before the desk. “You have those papers ready? For Miss Birkchester.”

  “I do, my lord.” Jeffries slid several pages across the desk. “Your daughter also settled a sizable dowry on the young woman.”

  Robert nodded. Lanora and William had said as much. Robert took up the pages and read them, more out of habit than necessity.

  “I believe you’ll find them in order,” Jeffries said. “They revert the late Mister Birkchester’s holdings to his granddaughter, all entailed in such a way that, should her father resurface, he cannot touch them.”

  The papers did, indeed, appear in order. Robert reached for the conveniently placed pen and ink, and signed. He smiled. Lanora would be pleased.

  Jeffries took the pages back. He sprinkled fine sand on the ink, to aid drying. “Is there anything else I can do for you today, my lord?”

  Mention of Grace’s dowry had sparked an idea. Robert leaned back in the well-padded chair. “Have you met the Solworth heir? Mister Edmond Everly?”

  Jeffries frowned slightly. “Indeed.”

  “What are your thoughts on the young man?”

  “I couldn’t say, my lord.”

  Robert nodded. He’d expected as much. Not saying was Jeffries’ code for not approving. The attorney would never speak ill of a member, or future member, of the peerage. “The Solworth line has quite a few young women at the end of it, does it not?”

  Jeffries’ frown turned quizzical. “It does, but only the one male heir. As you know, there is no way around the entail.” Jeffries grimaced. “I’ve looked.”

  “I think you’ll find there’s one way.” Robert’s tone was as dry as desert sand.

  Jeffries shook his head. “I assure you, my lord. There is not. I have sought one for you with every diligence. Without a son of your own…” Jeffries trailed off. He snapped his mouth closed.

  “Exactly.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying, my lord, it never occurred to me you would consider remarrying.”

  “Nor to me, until I met Mister Everly.” Robert drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “The man is the worst sort of degenerate. I will not see the Solworth title and lands go to him. Not while I may prevent it.” He swallowed, then forced the words out. “I will remarry.”

  Jeffries dropped his gaze to the inlaid desktop. “Good.”

  Robert’s brows shot up. Jeffries never offered opinions. “Good?”

  The attorney shrugged. “I’ve known you since you were knee high, Lord Robert.” Jeffries’ voice was quiet. “You were very young when your wife left us. I’ve rarely seen a man take loss as hard as you did. Your devotion does you credit, my lord, but…” He glanced up, meeting Robert’s gaze. “Lady Livonia died a long time ago. It would please me to see you move past that tragedy.”

  Pain stabbed through Robert at mention of his late wife’s name, spoken by one who knew her and cared for her. He looked away, uncomfortable with the emotion, or Jeffries’ honesty. “I don’t mean to fall in love or anything horrendous like that,” he muttered. “I need an heir, not some daft fairytale-come-to-life.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Jeffries’ tone held his usual crisp neutrality. “May I inquire as to how your plans to produce an heir relate to the Solworth cousins?”

  “Ah, yes.” Robert took a moment to reorder his thoughts. “I would like to provide for my female relations, should they require assistance. Even the ones already wed. I’ve been away, and remiss. Please look into them for me. It won’t do for any of the Solworth line to be impoverished. I would like to see this done now, in case I fail in my pursuit of an heir. I’ve no illusions Everly will take it upon himself to aid his cousins, should he acquire the Solworth funds.”

  Jeffries frowned. “I believe there are quite a few, though I’m generally unfamiliar with their circumstances. There may be an impact on what you leave to your daughter.”

  Robert waved that off. “Lanora has William.” Besides which, the two would use every spare farthing to aid the poor of London. Robert found the cause laudable, but a man should help kin before strangers. If everyone saw to their own, there would be far less hardship to go around.

  “I shall look into the matter for you, my lord.”

 
“Thank you.” Robert hoisted free of the armchair. Next time, he would stand. A chair like that softened a man.

  Across the desk, Jeffries rose to bow. “A pleasure, as always, Lord Robert.”

  “Thank you. You’re a good man, Jeffries.” He hesitated a moment. “And a good friend.”

  A smile cracked the long face beneath Jeffries’ bald pate. “Thank you, my lord. I wish you all the best in your hunt for a duchess.”

  Robert contained a wince. He offered Jeffries a parting nod, then turned to stride from the room. As he made his way past Clive and down to his waiting horse, his mind went to the desk in his study. Somewhere in the teetering pile of ignored invitations was the one from Dame Parson. As Lanora had spent far more time in London in recent years than he had, Robert supposed he should take her advice. He’d dig the invitation out and reply. Dame Parson’s ball was as good a place to start as any.

  He tossed a coin to the boy who waited with his horse. The lad caught it deftly. Robert swung into the saddle and cast a glance up the gray stone of the building. Jeffries’ curtained windows loomed above. Robert sighed, wishing his attorney had found another way. Any other way. But Jeffries hadn’t, and he was the best. Therefore, Robert’s hunt for a bride must begin.

  Chapter Four

  Cecilia sat beside Grace, riding backward. Technically, as the dowager marchioness, Cecilia should be granted the forward-facing seat. She was happy to concede it to Lanora, though, out of consideration for her rounded state.

  Besides, Cecilia didn’t feel like a dowager marchioness. She hadn’t been out in society when her father arranged her marriage to the old marquess. After the wedding, she’d spent only a week in her husband’s company, during which they hadn’t entertained or accepted any invitations. Then, William had spirited her away to safety. After that, Cecilia never went out. Not at all. For six years.

  Following her husband’s death and her imaginary return to England, she’d entered a period of deep mourning. Not that anyone could mourn the marquess. Still, it was expected and had been a rather convenient excuse to delay her inevitable introduction to the ton.

  Now, deep mourning over, appearing in society was demanded of her. Everyone would want to see the Dowager Marchioness of Westlock, newly returned from six years on the Mediterranean. That everyone knew she hadn’t truly been away for her health, she was sure. That no one save William, Lanora, Grace and William’s foundling, Dodger, knew she’d actually been ensconced in a house in London the whole time was also a certainty.

  Cecilia sighed. She didn’t even know what part of the Mediterranean she’d supposedly been in. William had told her to be vague, because various areas had suffered war and other calamities.

  Looking down at her gloved hands, folded in her lap, Cecilia realized she was kicking her feet. Frowning, she stopped. As if her diminutive size, lack of worldliness and spritely features didn’t make her seem child-like enough. She tried to sit up straighter against the well-padded seat. She lifted her gaze to find Lanora watching her. Cecilia forced a smile.

  “It won’t be so terrible as all that,” Lanora said. “It’s only a fitting.”

  “I daresay it’s what comes after the fitting that has Lady Cecilia worried.” The look of dread on Grace’s smooth, round face mirrored Cecilia’s. “Dame Parson’s ball.”

  Lanora’s features softened. “I know you’re both afraid, b--”

  “Afraid?” Grace snapped. “Reluctance is not fear.” With a huff, she crossed her arms and aimed a glare across the space between the seats.

  Cecilia let out another sigh. “I’m afraid.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Lanora’s tone was earnest. “I did it, after all. We simply do up your hair and put you in a gown. Then, you go to the ball and stand about with a bored expression until you meet a man you’re actually interested in. It couldn’t be simpler.”

  Grace uncrossed her arms to flap a hand in Lanora’s direction. “So says she,” she said to Cecilia. “The Ice Queen of the Ton, I believe they nicknamed her. If her pedigree wasn’t enough to scare off any unwanted suitors, her tongue was. The papers reported she even made one notorious popinjay cry.”

  Lanora shrugged. “Yes, well, the audacity of the man, suggesting I meet him in the garden. While wearing a crimson cravat done up in a ballroom knot, no less. If a man can’t dress properly, he’s no business approaching the daughter of a duke.”

  Grace tapped her chest. “I am the granddaughter of a country gentleman, and even though Cecilia is a dowager marchioness, she’s, well, Cecilia. They shall devour us.” Grace turned an apologetic look on Cecilia. “Meaning no offense.”

  Cecilia wrinkled her nose. “I take none.”

  Lanora opened her mouth but closed it again. Pain flickered across her face. She wrapped an arm about her middle.

  “Lanora?” Cecilia asked.

  Grace leaned forward. “Are you unwell?”

  Lanora shook her head. She forced a smile. “It was only a spasm. They take me from time to time, of late. The baby is getting so big, it’s bound to be uncomfortable on occasion.”

  Cecilia bit her lip. “Maybe we should go back.”

  “You should be abed,” Grace added.

  Lanora’s features took on an obstinate cast. “I am perfectly well, and we are not going back. If you wish me abed, you’ll be all amiability at Madam Charmant’s and endure your fittings without complaint. You’ve both put this off for so long, she’ll be hard pressed to deliver your gowns in time for Dame Parson’s ball. Madam Charmant may be magic with fabric, but she cannot bend the laws of time.”

  “Certainly, we shall behave,” Cecilia said. Guilt assailed her for the undue strain her reluctance placed on Lanora.

  “Speak for yourself,” Grace muttered, arms crossed once more.

  Lanora’s expression became mulish. Grace mimicked the look. They glared at each other across the carriage. Cecilia bit her lip, unsure what to do.

  The carriage rolled to a halt. A glance through the tied-back curtains showed they’d arrived. Cecilia heard Dodger hop down from his perch on the back of the carriage. Dressed in his Greydrake livery, of which he was very proud, the boy approached the door. He gave Cecilia a smile through the window. Dodger was playing tiger for the simple reason that William preferred them accompanied by his most trusted employee.

  Dodger, who claimed to be ten, though Cecilia didn’t believe that for a moment, yanked the carriage door open. He bowed with flourish, then proffered a hand. “May I assist any of you down, your ladyships?”

  “I am not a lady,” Grace snapped.

  “Yes, your ladyship,” Dodger agreed. He rolled his eyes, a gesture Cecilia knew her body blocked Grace from seeing, even should she leave off glowering at Lanora.

  Cecilia couldn’t help but smile. The boy, taken in off the street, was often William’s shadow and was quite irrepressible. She extended her hand. “Thank you, Dodger.”

  He handed her down, then turned back. “My lady?” he coaxed, hand extended toward Lanora.

  Lanora broke off glaring at Grace and turned to the boy. Her expression softened. She placed her hand in his and climbed out. “Thank you, Dodger.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.” He turned back for Grace.

  She glowered at the proffered hand.

  For someone with such a cheerful visage, Cecilia reflected, Grace could look very cross when she wished to.

  “What’s your real name?” Grace snapped.

  “Dodger, your ladyship,” the boy said.

  “No one names their son Dodger,” Grace asserted.

  “Me mum did.”

  “Did you even know your mum?”

  “Grace Birkchester,” Lanora snapped. “Do not take your fear of modistes out on Dodger.”

  Grace raised wide blue eyes to Lanora. “I am not afraid of modistes.”

  “Then get out of that carriage and come inside,” Lanora snapped.

  Cecilia was acutely aware of William’s coachman
listening, and the curious looks of passersby. They lingered in a fashionable part of town, about to enter a fashionable shop, the street teaming with fashionable people. It was attention garnering enough for Lanora to be out and about in her condition, let alone making a scene. Cecilia knew how the gossip columns could squeeze pages from a few chance comments repeated about. For six years, those pages had been her only link to London society.

  Lanora finally gave up glaring into the carriage at Grace. She tipped her chin up. With considerable grace, even round as she was, she marched past Cecilia and into the shop.

  Cecilia offered Grace a shrug before turning to follow. At the door to Madam Charmant’s, Cecilia paused to draw in a deep breath. She plunged into the perfume laden, fabric and lace filled interior.

  “My ladies Greydrake,” Madam Charmant gushed, rushing from behind her counter to greet them. “I began to despair. I feared you would not return for your gowns. How pleased I am to see you.”

  Even though the front windows were large and candles were set about, inside the shop was much darker than the street. Not so dim that Cecilia couldn’t see the heads that turned their way at the proprietress’s effervescent greeting, though. Most of the other patrons returned to their browsing after a glance. One, a brown- and gray-curled older woman with clear blue eyes, headed their way.

  Lanora gave a little hiss.

  Cecilia turned to see her place a hand to her belly again. “If you won’t return home, will you at least sit?” Cecilia whispered.

  “Is my lady unwell?” Madam Charmant stopped before Lanora, eyes wide in her pinched face. “Oh, but look how increased you’ve become. You should be abed, my lady.”

  Lanora pressed her lips together. “And I shall be, as soon as Cecilia and Grace have their fittings.”

  “If Lady Lanora could be seated where she can observe?” Cecilia suggested.

  “Yes, yes, this way.” Madam Charmant turned and led the way deeper into her shop.

  Cecilia trailed after the madam and Lanora. She disliked the back of the shop even more than the front. With fabric and lace hung in billowing swaths from the ceiling and stacked about in neatly folded bails, the space felt confined. Cecilia cast a longing look in the direction of the door. She abhorred confinement.