by Heather Boyd
“Unlikely,” the older woman said and narrowed her eyes a little. “Women of that age seek men for purely mercenary reasons.”
Since the woman seemed to be of a similar age to Sylvia, she did not comment about the other woman’s motives. Women had lots of reasons for making a match at any age. Security was the most frequent.
Sylvia glanced up at the sky. There were a few more clouds above their heads than when she’d first set out, but heavy now, and depriving them of precious sunshine. Rain would most likely fall before she headed home again. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“If you think so, I daresay it must be to you,” the older woman replied, her tone heavy with sarcasm.
Oh, she was a tough old hen, this one. Probably why Sylvia had sought her out for a second conversation without them being introduced yet. The old woman spoke her mind instead of pretending to be agreeable all the time, as so many in society tended to do. Sylvia liked not knowing how the stranger would respond.
The old woman turned to her suddenly. “You mentioned you have cousins. Where are your parents? Brothers and sisters?”
Gone. “My mother died when I was young and my father a few years ago. I had a brother once.”
“Once?”
“He died, early in the war.”
“My condolences,” the lady murmured.
“Thank you. It was a long time ago.” Sylvia was at a loss for what to call the woman. She felt the lady deserved the utmost respect, but did not want to assume she had a title in case Sylvia addressed her incorrectly. “Forgive me if this is too bold, but who are you?”
The woman looked away. “You may call me Lizzy, if you must have a name,” she finally decided.
Sylvia raised a brow. “Is that your name?”
The woman glanced at Sylvia sharply, eyes narrowed, and then sighed. “My late husband once called me that. Before he took a mistress and we were young still.”
Men with money to spare took mistresses, and more frequently if they were from the best families in society. That this lady had mentioned it to a stranger suggested she felt the existence of mistresses quite commonplace.
“I’m sorry about the mistress,” Sylvia offered.
“All great men take at least one in their lives, or so he told me when I confronted him.” Her expression grew strained. “My son took one before he even bothered to take a wife.”
Sylvia had spent enough time in society to not be surprised or offended by the conversation about men having mistresses. “Then I am sorry for his wife, as well,” she murmured.
“I would be, too, if he ever took the time to tie the knot. My son is dragging his feet in that arena, much to my continued annoyance.”
Sylvia laughed softly. She had heard so many mothers complain that their sons had not married…or chosen poorly when they did. “I am well versed in the reluctance of gentlemen to put themselves out to propose marriage.”
The woman seemed to mull over her remark for a long moment. “If you’ve no brother and only female relations, how could you understand the difficulties of a mother waiting for the next generation to be born?”
Sylvia bit her lip, and then decided to share the truth up front. Hopefully the lady would not condemn Sylvia for taking on a paying occupation to support herself and her cousins. Many turned up their noses, at least at first. “My cousins and I run the Hillcrest Academy. We are well versed in every excuse used to avoid the parson’s noose.”
“And what does this Hillcrest Academy do, exactly?”
Sylvia smiled. “We provide support, guidance and encouragement for gentlemen as they seek the hand of the woman they want to marry. The reasons and excuses vary. We educate them in how to be pleasing, smooth any rough manners, and help them understand what a woman most wants to hear.”
The old woman blinked several times. “How extraordinary. Are your services much in demand?”
“Yes, indeed. Very much lately.” Sylvia didn’t like to boast but their little business had been the best thing she’d ever done for herself, and her cousins, too. “Our clients come to us often for a number of weeks to practice courtship rituals before they try them out on the women they’ve set their hearts on.”
“I should send my son to you,” the woman mused.
“I am certain we could help him or anyone find the right bride.”
The old lady nodded. “I shall keep you in mind the next time I am granted a moment of his precious time.” The woman looked up as the sun appeared, bathing them in a little bit of warmth. “At last.”
“Now it is a glorious day.” Sylvia sighed. “Though I do miss the long country walks and views I used to enjoy when I was young.”
“You’ve not always lived in London?”
“We hail from Marlow, in Berkshire.”
The woman looked her up and down again. “You’ve done very well for yourself since coming here, then. Quite stylish. Not at all overblown or pretentious.”
“Thank you,” Sylvia said, inclining her head politely. “I’ve been very lucky. Our enterprise supplies all we require to live on in modest comfort.”
The old woman laughed suddenly. “Whereas I could never make my pin money last until the next quarter day whenever I was in London. When I was much younger, a new bride, I used to order a new wardrobe every season.”
“I’m partial to sweet treats myself.” She pointed across the square. “There is a charming little shop over there filled with the most decadent indulgences a woman could want. I highly recommend sending out a servant to bring you back a selection of everything to try.”
The lady did not immediately dispute that she had servants to send out on errands, or the funds to buy one of everything in the shop, especially not if she’d once ordered a new wardrobe every season.
“You seem very bold for a spinster your age.” The old woman nodded. “I approve of that.”
“Then we are destined to be firm friends, I should think,” Sylvia declared. Perhaps she was being too forward, but she felt very comfortable with Lizzy, whoever she really might be, and would like to see more of her.
The church bells began to ring out across London, and that meant it was time Sylvia returned home. They had a client coming the next time the bells tolled, and she had to change and prepare for the meeting. “Is it too bold to ask what your plans are for today, Lizzy?”
“Yes, it is,” she warned, but then Lizzy shrugged. “More of the same, I suppose. Perhaps I will go and see my son. Perhaps not.”
“Has he not come to see you?”
“I haven’t told him I’m in London yet.” The lady grimaced. “He tends to pull a face whenever he sees me.”
“Well, if you were my mother and came to see me,” Sylvia murmured, “I might not allow you to leave again.”
That seemed to tickle the woman’s fancy. “What a charming young woman you are. Your mother would be proud of you for making a stranger feel better.”
“I always hoped so, but I remember very little about her. My father felt her loss most keenly and would never speak of her for any great length or detail. What he did tell me, I’m afraid has faded from my memory over time. All I recall now is a vague remembrance of her brushing my hair.”
“It’s always wise to remember your mother’s best moments rather than the disappointments she’d prefer forgotten.”
“I think so, too. They say she had a lovely singing voice. My father did, too.”
“Mine always smelled of flowers, roses in particular.”
Sylvia lifted her wrist to her nose and inhaled the residue of the perfume she’d swiped over her wrist earlier that morning. “I wear essence of roses, too.”
“A charming scent. I prefer none but the soap my housekeeper concocts for me each spring. You know, some say I am perverse for bathing so often, but it just feels better. I’ve never caught a chill once.”
“There can be great dangers if a body becomes too cold or damp for too long.” Sylvia nodded. So the lady had servants who ma
de the best soap. The best household soap was always expensive and made in the country. The recipe was often passed down for many generations of housekeepers. This woman was of the quality, certainly. It was surprising that someone of Lizzy’s obviously higher station in life even wanted to speak to a nobody like Sylvia. Curiosity burned in her about why she remained in the square. “If you are not from Town, do you come from the country?”
“Cannot a woman come from both?”
Another non-answer. “Of course.”
A tiny smile appeared on Lizzy’s lips, and Sylvia knew she was being deliberately vague. That was why they were still conversing without a proper introduction. Sylvia considered the lady sitting at her side to be very clever. Lizzy had skillfully interrogated Sylvia about so many aspects of her life without her even realizing it until this moment.
But Lizzy herself had hardly shared more than a morsel of her own life, throwing out vague hints at a comfortable life without qualifying any. Lizzy didn’t want to be known or understood, and Sylvia had no choice but to accept that, at least for now. “Thank you for the pleasant conversation today.”
“You’re going?”
“I’m afraid I must.” She smiled warmly. “I hope you do see your son soon, and I hope your son is overjoyed to be with you again, Lizzy.”
“Overjoyed might not be what he thinks when he sees me, but what can a mother do?” Lizzy inclined her head. “Do have a pleasant day, my dear.”
“Sylvia,” she murmured, offering her name since the older lady hadn’t yet asked for it. “I do hope our paths cross again tomorrow.” Perhaps tomorrow they could be introduced properly, and she’d find out the name of that terrible son of hers, too. The man should be taken to task for ignoring such a fine and lonely old woman.
Lizzy inclined her head. “We shall see what tomorrow brings.”
Sylvia waved goodbye and, with her maid in tow again, headed for home at a brisk pace.
Chapter 5
“Remove that vase and store it in my study,” he told the footman hovering at his elbow in his drawing room as it was being stripped of anything he truly valued.
The lady he’d tasked to host his event, Lady Chapman, the widow of an old friend, clucked her tongue. “Really, Wharton. How am I supposed to show off your superior taste when you are determined to hide almost everything of significance in your private chambers?”
“The guests are coming to drink, not stare at a vase of cut flowers. Do I want someone mistaking it for a chamber pot late in the evening? No, I do not, and neither do the servants who’d have to empty it tomorrow, I’m sure.”
Lady Chapman sucked in a breath. “If only you’d let me invite a different crowd…”
“It wouldn’t be a Wharton House party without my closest friends.”
This wasn’t the first party he’d arranged, but the first time Lady Chapman had acted as hostess for him. She seemed to have trouble understanding she was merely a figurehead. He’d thought she was ready for the honor of hosting his ball, but he was starting to have doubts. Past hostesses, mostly friends’ wives, had never questioned his decisions so much before.
Having Lady Chapman constantly try to impose her will over his choices was wearying him already. He also hoped she was ready for what came after the first sensible hour had passed. The time when the drink had erased everyone’s inhibitions and the fun truly began was always the highlight of the evening. Lady Chapman would be in for the shock of her life otherwise.
A party in the Marquess of Wharton’s London home meant wine, women, and the occasional bawdy song sung badly by the end of it. Guests had been known to make themselves at home on the furniture. The dining table seemed a favored place for collapse. Drinking to excess was expected, and gambling, too. He’d a pair of large rooms set aside for dancing and gambling. Lady Chapman had tried to reserve one chamber for the quieter activity of taking supper instead, but he’d overruled her.
Food and drink would be constantly available in the large front hall from ten until everyone went home after dawn.
There would be musicians and singers, too, but for every guest there would be none of the restrictions imposed upon those attending a proper society gathering.
And of course, any amorous tendencies were catered for upstairs, with guest rooms set aside, and any indiscretions on the lower floor would be overlooked tonight by anyone who wanted an invitation to next year’s party.
Lady Chapman drew closer, and her hand slipped onto his sleeve. “I’m looking forward to meeting your friends.”
Alexander stepped away from her to pick up a rag lying on the floor that a harried servant must have dropped by mistake.
Lady Chapman snapped her fingers at the butler. “You there.”
Alexander gritted his teeth at the way the woman snapped out an order to his oldest servant as if he were a dog. “His name is Lewiston,” he reminded her, as if he’d not already told her six times so far.
“Yes, Mr. Lewiston,” she said, turning to the fellow. “Haven’t I made it clear that everything must be perfect for the marquess’ party? Take this filthy thing back to whoever lost it.”
“Yes, my lady.” Lewiston glanced at Alexander and winced. “Forgive me, my lord. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s not important.” Alexander dropped the cloth into his puffing butler’s hand and studied his red face. That wasn’t mortification discoloring his cheeks. The man looked ready to swoon.
He nodded to the bastion of his household. “When was the last time you sat down?”
“I’m on my way to consult with the housekeeper now,” the fellow advised.
“Make it a very long conversation, Lewiston. I don’t want you back upstairs for the next hour at least.”
The man smiled in gratitude. “Very good, my lord.”
Lady Chapman sighed as the butler quickly scampered from sight down the servants’ staircase. “We’ll never get everything done in time if you coddle them all the time.”
“Caring is not coddling.” Lady Chapman wasn’t doing any of the work. “My staff have done this before, and I have every confidence in them.”
Lady Chapman had been harrying them unnecessarily hard. But everything would be done on time without her sharp words for his staff, he was sure.
Alexander glanced her way again. Yes, he might have made a mistake asking Lady Chapman to act as hostess so soon, but how could he have known this side of her personality before? Whenever he’d met her during her short marriage, she’d seemed utterly unruffled and the perfect hostess. “As for introductions, I’m afraid it is a masquerade,” he reminded her unnecessarily. “No one can be introduced to anyone tonight. Names and identities will be hidden.”
“Oh, yes of course. I have my costume. I shall be wearing a turban and veil across my face.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “How will I recognize you?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Why would you need to? Once the party starts, there’s nothing more we’ll need to discuss.”
Her gaze locked on his. “I assumed we could keep each other company.”
He stilled and looked anywhere but at Lady Chapman for a moment. Did she think acting as his hostess was a precursor to something more between them? He’d definitely asked the wrong woman to host the party if she thought of him that way. She was a friend’s widow, and he wanted to encourage her to have a little fun. Clearly, she had mistaken the nature of his request to mean something more personal could happen between them.
As a bachelor with a fondness for throwing parties, he unfortunately couldn’t host them himself. Propriety dictated he must have a lady act as hostess. Lady Chapman was a fine woman, a widow, and very witty at times, but he had no interest in her beyond her organizational abilities. Next year, he’d host his own party and damn the dissenters.
He made himself chuckle softly. “You don’t need me to act as your escort tonight.”
Alexander had plans for the evening that did not involve Lady Chapman anywhere near him.
The woman remained at his side, but her hands were twisting nervously at her waist.
He smiled gently to her. “You should enjoy the fruits of your labors fully.”
He moved to the end of the room, noting the absence of his mother’s portrait from the wall. Good. He couldn’t have any real fun under Mother’s reproving gaze. He owed her a very long letter soon, too, but it would have to wait until tomorrow.
“The wall looks so bare without Lady Wharton hanging there.”
“Just for tonight.” Alexander absolutely didn’t want to discuss his mother today. “Don’t let me detain you.”
He moved away from Lady Chapman.
Lady Chapman had known his family for some time and was a favorite of Mother’s. He didn’t hold that against her. Mother had a wealth of experience and many women had sought her counsel. He’d heard Lady Chapman had turned to Mother often in the past year since she’d been widowed. Alexander and her late husband had played together as boys, since the Chapman country estate was just three mile as the crow flies from his.
When Lady Chapman had returned to town, Alexander had called upon her at home and found her in surprising good spirits for a new widow. He’d impulsively told her of his party and she’d been keen for an invitation. He just hadn’t realized that her interest had more to do with him than the party.
But Lady Chapman ought to finally let her hair down—with someone else—and if she chose to take her first lover from her bevy of admirers in attendance tonight, he wished her well. He knew a few good men who had their eye on her, actually, and not just for a singular romp, either. He imagined her remarried before the year was out.
Lady Chapman was suddenly at his side again, waving a sheet of paper under his nose. “We have a late acceptance.”