Her breath caught, and she started fretting with the lace on the handle of her fan. “I was grieving, and it was her fault you were sent away.”
“No. It was my fault I went away.” He folded his arms and sought the right words to make her feel his loss. “There is no wedding. You will never have Tradenwood. You don’t deserve it. Probably why Uncle didn’t leave it to you when he had the chance.” He pivoted, leaving her with her mouth falling open.
“Ewan. Ewan?” Her voice was loud enough for guests to hear. “Wait.”
“Mrs. Cecil wants nothing to do with us. I don’t blame her at all.”
He marched out the door and didn’t stop. The family he wanted to belong to had ruined the family he could have had. How would he survive so many cuts? No play, no father, no mother, no Theo. He put a hand to his chest. His story wasn’t going to end like this. He was a cousin to a little boy who liked Shakespeare. He’d not lose access to him, no matter what.
…
Theodosia gripped Philip’s hand as she and Frederica ventured into the Burlington Arcade. Four weeks had passed since Ewan and his brother had left Tradenwood, and this was her last week as the widow Cecil. The final banns would be read Sunday. She and the squire could marry ahead of Lester’s return. Her plan had worked. It had worked so well, she cried herself to sleep each night. When the picture book Ewan sent for Philip came in the morn, she cried all over again. She choked up when Pickens told her Ewan had left Grandbole, never to return. He’d broken with his family, something she hadn’t wanted to happen. What pain this must be causing him?
Was it terrible to want her ghost to return and haunt her one more time?
Yes, it was. Engaged women couldn’t have ghosts or regrets.
Frederica, dressed in a pale blue walking gown, strolled a few steps in front of them. Her head was high. Not a care in the world must be on her mind, but with all the colors and sights of the shops, who could blame her?
As if she knew Theodosia’s thoughts were upon her, Frederica stopped and half-turned. “Why are we here again? Bonbons? You rarely come to Town unless on business. And I don’t like the openness of this place, not without the duke.”
Readjusting Philip’s small hand within hers, Theodosia attempted a smile, but found her lips too heavy, or she’d moved to biting both the top and the bottom ones. “I needed to pick up a few things, maybe seek a designer for a wedding gown. Maybe check for a letter.”
“You’ve accepted the squire, but you are rethinking the matter? Good. You shouldn’t grasp at crumbs, when a bonbon might be on the next platter.”
“Men and food? Well, one could never say your mind is fixed upon a single path. I want to see if the baron ever answered. With so much happening with the banns and my cousin, I forgot to have someone check. If the baron wrote, I need to tell him I’m no longer looking for a husband. I want to finish this advertisement business right. Correct. Rightly.”
She shook her head. “That Fitzwilliam cousin of yours. He was scrumptious, a fine piece of bonbon. Now that he’s returned to health, you haven’t mentioned him.”
“He’s gone from the fields.”
“Yes, you seem sad about that. Philip, too. During his convalescence, I awoke unfashionably early and found Mr. Fitzwilliam reading to his…your son. What exactly happened?” She pulled closer. “We’ve been friends a long time. It’s fine to fancy him again.”
Again? Have I ever stopped? “I don’t know what to do. I marry the squire in a fortnight. Philip will be safe. The squire will represent me at the Court of Chancery.”
Frederica’s lips pulled into an uncharacteristic frown, all sour-lemon-puckered mouth. “You could go. You could do it. You’re an honorable woman. You don’t have to rely on a stiff bore. Stop selling yourself short. You know numbers. What value do you put on you? Pences or sweet pounds?”
The squire wasn’t exciting. He seemed honorable and quiet, but hadn’t Mathew taught her that quiet was better, better than uncontrollable fire. Irresponsible blazes burned and hurt too many. “I’m not a duke’s daughter. The courts will look at me worse than how these shoppers eye Philip, trying to figure out which one of us is his mother.”
Whipping her head from side to side, Frederica allowed her smile to return. “Or they are waiting to see if we have a pet monkey following our unusual entourage.”
Theodosia cringed at the memories of selling flowers on the streets to ladies like Ewan’s mother. They’d parade a Blackamoor page and exotic pets behind them on shopping days. “I want to scream at them to stop looking, but that would get us kicked out.”
They passed the soap store and Theodosia peeked inside. Only the horrible manager was there, dusting his green glass vials. A smile rose inside. Sally was in the country, and Theodosia had given her enough money to feed herself and that baby to come. She bent to her own baby and straightened his coat. “I’ve saved one shop girl. Maybe I should be a reformer, too.”
Philip cupped his hand to his ear as if he wanted to funnel in all the sounds. Theodosia wished she could put all the sounds in the world in a bottle for him.
“You rescued a desperate girl. You are bold in business dealings. Why not be that in the rest of your life?”
Theodosia couldn’t answer, not when a thunderstorm could reduce her to a quivering mess. Instead she leveled her shoulders and tightened her grip on Philip’s small fingers. “Let’s go see if there is a letter from the baron and then leave. This will be done. My newspaper search for a groom will be over.”
As they rounded the corner, their path intersected with Lord Hartwell. “Mrs. Cecil. Miss Burghley, Master Cecil. How are you this fine afternoon?”
Her mood lightened as she saw the smiling man. Ewan’s brother had been an amiable guest and so loyal at Ewan’s side. He stuffed a paper into his jacket and came toward her. “Doing a little shopping?”
“Yes, picking up a few things. And Philip has never seen such architecture. He enjoys it as much as Miss Burghley.”
Chuckling, he stared at her then turned to Frederica. “Yes, I can see her hazel eyes sparkling.” His gaze lowered to Philip. “There is nothing quite like Burlington Arcade, is there, young man?”
Panicked that her son couldn’t hear to answer Lord Hartwell, she stepped forward. “How is your brother faring? I haven’t seen him in the fields.” She bit her lip, realizing how stupid she sounded, admitting to looking for the man she’d rejected.
“I’ll tell him you asked. I am dining with him tonight.”
Frederica tugged at her gloves as if she’d suddenly become bored. “Where will you dine in Town? Maybe somewhere rife with intrigue.”
Wanting to tap her friend and make her stop man-bubbling, Theodosia edged forward. “I suppose he is busy with his play.”
“No, Mrs. Cecil. It’s not going to be purchased. It seems the theater manager… His mind was changed.”
“His play was rejected?” Her heart broke a little more. No. He was too good. Ewan must’ve said no. Could he have done that for her?
As if Frederica had read Theodosia’s mind and read it wrong, she shook her head. “So sorry for Mr. Fitzwilliam. Was it not good enough?”
Lord Hartwell’s brow rose. “It was quite excellent. The best I’ve read.”
“It had to be excellent,” Theodosia said. Her voice carried and more people turned and looked their way. Thinking of Ewan losing another play made her not care how loud she sounded. She stared straight into Lord Hartwell’s eyes. “The theater owner couldn’t see that?”
The man tapped his fingertips together. “Our father doesn’t want a playwright in the family. And suddenly the offer for my brother’s play disappeared.”
Theodosia couldn’t breathe. Somehow this had to be her fault. She swallowed and held onto Philip a little tighter. “He must be devastated.”
“No, ma’am, something else had already bitterly disappointed him.”
The look in his light blue eyes, wistful and sad, made her sadder. Ewan h
ad surely told him of her rejection of his proposal, but it was for the best. “Your father has been known to have his way. Is there no way to appeal?”
“It would take hundreds of pounds and persuasion. That’s a mighty sum while we are in the midst of this water war. Fitzwilliam says twenty thousand pounds is your sum.”
She reached into her reticule and pulled out one of her cards with her mark. “I have given you my word on resolving the matter. There’s a number that we can agree upon, I’m sure. After my wedding, I am sure there will be lot of things that can be agreed upon.”
Lord Hartwell frowned. “All depends upon who you marry.”
She’d said too much. Her hurt for Ewan clouded her judgment. She held out her palm and offered her card. “Take this and tell the theater person I will cover what is needed to get his play performed.”
Frederica had that devilish grin on her as if she’d eyed the last bonbon. “I see you decided on pounds. Yes, Lord Hartwell, be her errand boy. That should be fun for you.”
Something sparked in his eyes, and he turned from Frederica back toward Philip. “You are persuasive, Mrs. Cecil, but I don’t make the best errand boy.” He folded his arms. “You do know his play disparages a young woman, a flower seller who some might think is you.”
She stuck her card in his face. “I know. But he deserves to have this play.”
This time Lord Hartwell took it. His face reddened, and he coughed. “You have distinctive handwriting, Mrs. Cecil. Yes. I will take this to the manager and do my best to get the play purchased.” He stuffed the card into his breast pocket. “Are you prepared for the excitement and gossip a play like this may bring?”
“Pounds worth. I’m not what people say I am. I am who I say I am. Your brother deserves to have his vision on stage. Please say you will take care of this. A Blackamoor woman may not be able to negotiate it, but I can definitely pay for it.”
Jasper tipped his hat. “Character trumps a great deal of things, even rumors.”
A crowd of ladies passed by, staring and giggling.
Frederica seemed above it all, as if they couldn’t possibly be the object of their scorn.
But Theodosia knew. She felt it in her bones. “Not everyone can see that. And it doesn’t matter how much strength one possesses. It’s still in the same package. A woman needs a champion.”
Frederica pulled closer, as if she tired of being ignored. “Yes, a champion to do her bidding, now go on, good little viscount.”
Lord Hartwell’s dimples popped as if he suppressed a laugh. “It’s been a long time since someone’s teased me or called me little, but I will handle this. I’ll make sure Fitzwilliam gets what he deserves. Mrs. Cecil, Miss Burghley. Good day. The errand boy is leaving.”
The grin on Frederica’s face almost made Theodosia laugh. Her friend enjoyed tweaking everyone, but teasing a man. That was better than her beloved bonbons.
As they entered the stationers, the humor fled and Theodosia’s fingers became ice-cold. She had to admit to herself, that she hoped for the baron to write. Truly, she didn’t want to marry the dry squire. With Philip cupping his good ear as his head bobbed from side to side, they waited for the clerk.
Frederica played with the lace eyelets on her fan until the young man came forward. “Mrs. Cecil. There have been no new letters.”
Even as the clerk moved and went to another customer, Theodosia found herself stuck in place, hoping that a mistake had been made.
But she had no such luck. The baron had never sent a response to her reply. Her letter of regret didn’t pass his muster or perhaps her sin was too great. It didn’t matter. The imagined romance was done. “Let’s go.”
After winding back through the arcade, Theodosia heard humming. Not her classical pianofortes but something the fiddlers had played at the festival. Lively and in beat, as if she skipped around a Maypole, Theo sang, “So no baron, no playwright, but a squire, a boring squire. He will save the flower seller.”
“You think this is funny?”
Frederica gripped her arm. “Your plan to get you a husband from the advertisement worked. But my plan to use it to get you to meet men and dream again didn’t. You stopped dreaming when Cecil died.”
No. Six years ago. But she’d had a waking vision of Ewan on her balcony, asking her to trust him again. “Frederica, I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t need a new husband. You need an errand boy and a good solicitor. Let’s pay for a man to fight your cause.”
“What?”
Frederica bent and scooped up Philip. “Yes. Let’s find a man and pay for his services. We can even have a solicitor draft paperwork to buy off Lester. He has a price, too.”
The girl had lost her mind, or maybe the lack of bonbons for the two-hour drive had reduced her to nonsense. She followed behind her flirty friend who spouted nonsense. “I accepted the squire. Why risk it all now?”
“Because you are worth the risk. If you could see the look on your face when the clerk said ‘no new letters,’ you’d know I speak the truth. You don’t want the squire. You deserve the dream of what our riddle-writing baron offered. Let’s go to my father. He can get you a solicitor. Then Ester and I will help you craft a rejection letter for the squire. This is one no I can’t wait to write.”
One of the most infuriating things about Frederica was her ability to transcend from silly to wise in mere moments, but she was right. She didn’t want the squire. “Can this be done? Paying a man? What would that cost?”
“Less than what you paid for the play for your playwright cousin. You and I, we are daughters of women who were paid to entertain men. I think it quite fitting for you to buy one.”
Frustrated, Theodosia picked up her pace to the carriage. Her thoughts whirled inside. A solicitor would still be representing a Blackamoor to the Court of Chancery. That hadn’t changed, but buying off Lester was an idea. “How much would that cost again?”
“Less than selling all your hopes to the squire. You are strong, Theodosia. Mathew Cecil found you when you were in a bad way and needed protection, but you forgot about the girl who fought living on the streets. The girl who escaped brothel life without a duke’s pity.”
Theodosia spied herself in the shop glass. Older, cut in finer clothes, but where was that fighter? She’d made Mathew listen to her and now the Cecil farm grew the best lavender in the world. She’d made Ewan listen to her, and he had respected her decision and abandoned his haunting. Today, she had implored a viscount to do her bidding. If she could get three men to listen, was it so impossible to get another, like a magistrate, to side with her? She took a breath and counted her fingers, numbering every word of encouragement that Mathew and Ewan and her mother had ever poured into her, even the things her own mother had done to hide her from sin. “Yes. I will try. I will fight.”
Frederica gripped Theodosia’s cold fingers. “You will win, as easy as you do with math calculations and prices. Let’s go buy a man.”
After settling Philip in the carriage, she looked up at the blue sky and then down into his bluer-than-blue eyes. She could fight for Philip. She had to hope she was heard, not dismissed because of her race or her humble start at a brothel by the docks.
Chapter Sixteen
My Own Man
Ewan sent the toy horse across his desk one last time. The thing buzzed and rolled across the well-worn surface, almost loud enough to drown out the impatient knocking on the door of his leased rooms. He’d bought the toy the other day on one of his walks in Cheapside when, as now, he couldn’t think of what to write. Where was the freedom words had always given him?
The knocks continued. It had to be Jasper. His brother had faithfully come each week to sup. It was something he treasured, but the man probably needed a respite from his daughters and Lord Crisdon.
Corking his bottle of ink, tweaking the position of the horse to his quill, Ewan sighed. “Coming.”
Pulling at his rumpled waistcoat, he rose. His walk t
o the door held its own lethargy. When he unbolted the sliding lock, he was stricken by something worse than lightning—pure shock. “Mother?”
Lady Crisdon stood fidgeting, as if trying not to touch her white gloves to his threshold. “You haven’t come to see me.”
She had never left her salon all the time he’d been back. Now she stood at his entryway.
Mother sauntered inside, in her dark crimson carriage dress with gold fobbing, making him miss his uniform.
“Ewan. Your father says you won’t return to Grandbole.”
He shut the door and leaned against it. “Well, I suppose it’s something we both share.”
“That is different. I like being in Town for the Season, but you, you should be there, not here.” Her pert nose lowered as she said, “On this side of Town.”
“Why? Did you need me to make another go at widow bait?”
“You liked her once. Your father caught you bedding her. It didn’t take too much of an imagination to think there could be hope—”
“Hope of what? Making my family whole or gaining Tradenwood?”
“Do you hate hearing the truth? If you hadn’t been thought dead, Tradenwood would not have gone to the Cecils. It wouldn’t be in the hands of that…”
“Woman. Is that the word you seek?”
She squinted and her face turned mean, diminishing her fair features. “Usurper. That is more fitting.”
“But wasn’t it you who told her to go to Mathew Cecil? It’s rather cruel to castigate her for following your instructions.” Going over to the door, he held it open. “Good day.”
She didn’t take the hint and moved to his desk. Picking up the carved toy, she traced the rounded lines of the horse’s mane with delicate nails.
A new sense of anger hit his gut, swirling, tightening. How could she touch the toy he’d bought for his son?
She even spun the heavy wheels. “You don’t care that this creature has what belongs to you?”
No charity remained in his soul, for it was clear Mother had never cared that Theodosia carried his child. He pried the toy away from his mother. Safely tucked in the crook of his arm, he released his breath. “She does have something that belongs to me, but because you didn’t care six years ago, I’m rejected now.”
The Bittersweet Bride Page 25