A Regrettable Proposal

by Jennie Goutet

  Stratford nodded again. “With Judith.”

  “So you know,” she said. “He was in conference with Judith, and from there she went from group to group until the entire room was abuzz with the news. But the damage was not done until she had conferred with Harriet Price, who gave her bit of information. I can only suppose that Harriet—who everyone knows missed the beginning of the Season because she broke out in spots!—has been holding on to this news for a particular occasion where, I suspect, she could do the most damage. She really is a spiteful cat.”

  Stratford looked at his sister curiously. “Anna, if I didn’t know better, I might think you are in support of Eleanor, which would be a most peculiar thing inasmuch that you don’t bestow your affection on anyone without a hard-won battle.”

  Anna smiled at this, but replied, “It’s just not fair that society can ruin the reputation of a perfectly decent young lady on the whim of two or three who have no attributes to their name but their own spite. It so happens I have proof Harriet Price is not the innocent maiden she lets on because she was foolish enough to carry on in the shrubbery with John Fortescue at Vauxhall Gardens—and no, dear brother, I was not there, nor will I tell you from whom I had my information.

  “Until now I never thought to be so cruel as to expose her. But she has thrown down the gauntlet, and I will eat my hat if, after a little chat with her, she does not publicly acknowledge her mistake about what she thought she saw that night. And once Harriet capitulates, Judith must do so as well or look stupid. So yes, I’m willing to champion your Eleanor.” She looked smug. “We both know it’s your Eleanor, you know. You’ll just have to convince her to overlook your shortcomings.”

  “Spoken like a sister,” Stratford said, standing. He went over and kissed her on the cheek. “But you are perfectly right. I will beg her hand as many times as is necessary.”

  “Beg her forbearance first,” advised Anna.

  Stratford gave a tired smile. “I’ll try my luck with Lady Ingram to see if she’ll come around once she knows the facts.”

  “Don’t betray Lydia!” his sister broke in to say.

  “What kind of fellow do you take me for? If I can get her to come around, I’m sure we can scotch the scandal.” Stratford had his hand on the doorknob when Anna spoke.

  “If I know Lady Ingram, she will not come around. However, I am not without my own influence. You laugh,” Anna said, “but it’s true! See if I don’t turn this thing to good account. Phoebe has Eleanor well in hand here. Leave the rest to me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Upon arriving at Grosvenor Square, Stratford announced he had pressing news for Lord Ingram and ran up the steps to his room. Ingram, lying on a chaise lounge by the window, turned his head when Stratford burst through the door.

  “You’re back,” Ingram said. “Fitz sent word. Did you retrieve Miss Daventry? What did you do with Delacroix? I hope he’s in custody.”

  “Delacroix’s not our man.” Stratford walked to the window. “Braxsen is.”

  “What?” Ingram moved as if to rise from his chair and made an impatient gesture when he realized his handicap. His gaze didn’t quit Stratford’s face. “Impossible. I’ve known him nearly all my life. What has he to gain?”

  “Apparently, he sympathizes with the emperor. His mother is French, did you know? But more than that we cannot comprehend until we bring him in.” Stratford shrugged. “The purposes of a man’s heart are deep.”

  “I remember hearing something about his mother, but it was never a thing that mattered.” Ingram scowled. “It’s enough for him to turn, is it? Where’s Fitz? We must not waste a moment.”

  Stratford paced to the window and looked out. “I’ll go after him. It’s still early, and I imagine he’s at Steven’s. But I must have an interview with your mother first.”

  Ingram blew out his breath. “I’m sorry, Stratford. I don’t think she will change her mind about Miss Daventry. But I will stand by the girl no matter what happens.”

  “Thank you.” Stratford walked toward the door and put his hand on the knob. “I’ll keep you apprised as soon as we have Braxsen in hand.”

  Lady Ingram received Stratford alone in the morning room, preempting anything he was going to say with, “Stratford, my dear, I know why you’ve come. Lydia has confessed the whole, and I see that I have grossly misjudged Miss Daventry.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say it, ma’am. I was hoping she might find a home with you here to finish her Season and quiet the scandalmongers. She’s with my sisters now.”

  “Bring her here?” Lady Ingram exclaimed. “Eleanor cannot come here. She’s in disgrace with the ton—never mind that it’s through no fault of her own—she will not be received anywhere.”

  “I was hoping she might be received here,” Stratford insisted. “You know Miss Daventry is not to blame. Surely if you take her in, the others will have no choice but to accept her back into society.”

  “Then you know nothing of the ton, Stratford. They do not forget so easily, I assure you. I can do nothing of the kind. Conjecture may be aimed at my Lydia—” She looked up as the damsel herself walked in, saving Stratford from uttering an ill-timed remark.

  “Stratford!” Lydia’s face had the suspicion of tears, but all obvious traces were removed. She looked from Stratford’s controlled expression to her mother’s implacable one. “Have you found Eleanor?”

  “Yes, she’s with Anna and Phoebe now, but I had hoped she might stay here …”

  “Oh yes, please, Mama. You know she must have a home with us to be reestablished in society. We must show that we don’t believe everything the rumors say. Especially since we know they are not true.” Lydia crossed the room to her mother and sat, leaning forward with pleading eyes.

  “It’s too late for that, my dear, as I was telling Stratford. If we take her in, we will be scorned as well. I’ll not take that risk with you not yet married.”

  “Never mind that, Mama. You know I’m going to marry Major Fitzwilliam. And if my brother has given his approval, there is no reason to think it will not happen.”

  “Anything can happen in a six-month engagement. You might find you change your mind.” Lady Ingram shot a look at Stratford as if she hoped he would be the one to do it.

  Not wishing to get further embroiled in what he foresaw would be a dispute between mother and daughter, Stratford made one last attempt. “Surely I can persuade you to reconsider. We present a united front, spreading it about that she went off to visit her aunt for a week or two until things die down, but insist the accusations against her are groundless. The best way to prove this is by accepting her into your home.”

  “That is something I cannot do.” Lady Ingram pinched her lips together. “I’m sorry. The girl will have to find her own way in life. She’s resourceful. I’m sure she’ll go on very well with her own sort. She was never meant to be more than a companion for Lydia.”

  “Mama!” cried Lydia, leaping to her feet. “She is a gentleman’s daughter.”

  At this Stratford stood. “If you will not help me, I’ll not waste any more of your time. I must take care of urgent business, and then I will go to Eleanor.”

  “Mind, she will not stay here,” exclaimed Lady Ingram. “Where do you plan to put her?”

  “I’ll retire to Grillon’s, and my sisters will welcome her in Cavendish Square until the wedding. If I’m able to win her hand, as I hope to do, she’ll have a rightful place in our household as my affianced wife!” With these words, Stratford took his leave.

  R

  Major Fitzwilliam was just leaving the hotel when Stratford pulled up in his phaeton. “Fitz,” he called out. “If you have a moment …”

  The major darted to the carriage and put his hand on the horse’s bridle. “Were you successful?”

  “Yes,” Stratford said, in a curt tone, still angry from his interview with Lady Ingram. “Please, climb up. We have pressing business, and I’ll need your help.”


  After putting Fitz in possession of the facts, they agreed to pick up a hack and one of the hired men. Stratford would proceed alone to Braxsen’s rooms, and Fitz would stay downstairs in case Braxsen decided to bolt. When they arrived at Braxsen’s place, his man tried to keep Stratford out, but he pushed his way into the dining room, where he found Braxsen seated at the breakfast table, a stack of corded trunks against the wall.

  Sir Braxsen stood. “What’s this, Worthing? I told Griggs I wasn’t receiving anyone.”

  “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Braxsen.” Stratford stood at the entrance, his two hands resting on the cane that held his sword. Sir Braxsen fidgeted with the napkin and then dropped to his chair.

  “You may as well sit,” Sir Braxsen said, minus his usual urbane tone. “Griggs, please bring another tankard for Lord Worthing.” Turning to the earl, he said, “Unless you’d rather have coffee.”

  “I’ve come from Longfield,” Stratford said.

  There was a pause before Sir Braxsen attempted a jovial tone. “Why, whatever were you doing there? Fleeing London? I’ve seen you at Boodle’s. Are you swimming in the River Tick?” He took a sip and set the tankard down with a barely perceptible tremor in his hand.

  “I’ve been chasing Sir Delacroix,” Stratford replied. He tapped his cane on the ground. This was the part he had to handle delicately. There must be no mention of Miss Daventry.

  Sir Braxsen raised an eyebrow. “Sir Delacroix, indeed! Longfield, you say? Whatever was he doing on his way to Dover?”

  “I believed him to be spying for France,” Stratford said. He watched Braxsen under hooded eyelids to see how he would respond.

  “That would not surprise me in the least.” Sir Braxsen gave a weak laugh. “I’ve always thought he was too smoky by half.” He watched the earl with wary eyes. “But what this all has to do with me that you would barge in here at this ungodly hour is beyond my ability to fathom.”

  “I was mistaken in Delacroix.” Stratford pierced Sir Braxsen with his gaze. “He’s not spying for France. You are.”

  Sir Braxsen remained motionless at the accusation. Only his fidgeting with the salt cellar betrayed his agitation. Without warning, he leapt to his feet, grabbing the knife by the side of his plate, and lunged at the earl’s chest. Stratford, who had been anticipating such a move, darted to the side as Sir Braxsen plunged forward into empty air. Stratford swiveled and grabbed him by the forearm, forcing Braxsen’s arm that held the knife downward. He rammed the arm with the knife against the table until Sir Braxsen released the weapon, and it clattered to the floor.

  “Fitz,” Stratford shot out. In mere seconds, the major rushed into the room to find Stratford holding Braxsen face down on the table with his arm behind his back.

  “What took you so long?” Stratford said, between his teeth.

  “Looks like you have it all well under control,” the major answered, his face grim as he surveyed the culprit. He grabbed Sir Braxsen’s other arm. “Let’s go, Braxsen. I’m as sorry as can be to see you’re the author of this. The carriage awaits to take you to Newgate.”

  When Sir Braxsen was hauled to his feet, he said, “I demand you release me and allow me to walk to the carriage like a gentleman, without being restrained.”

  Stratford replied, “You lost that privilege when you began spying. A gentleman is not a traitor.”

  “What is this spying I’m to have done? What is the proof you have against me? Tell me that, at least.” Sir Braxsen’s face was livid, nothing like his usual look of indolence.

  “The leaks on the campaign trail always came from your regiment. And it’s only since you’ve returned to London that there has been a spike in stolen intelligence going back to the Peninsula. You were late meeting the riding party the morning Ingram was attacked, and you showed up late to Almack’s the night of headquarters’ break-in.”

  Fitz had begun the charge, but Stratford finished it for him. “We thought it was Delacroix. You’ve been clever in hiding your tracks and throwing the scent his way. But I’ve spoken to the man and can vouch for his innocence. You, however, cannot prove yours. What’s more to the point—” Stratford reached into the front pocket of Braxsen’s coat and pulled out an envelope containing the half-page inventory stolen from headquarters. He waved it in his face. “That’s all the proof we need to bring you in.”

  Sir Braxsen looked sullen and somewhat fearful. “Allow me to …” He yanked an arm away and arranged his neckcloth so it was straight. He tugged on his shirt collars to pull the coat back in place and examined himself in the glass to verify that his hairstyle was not overly disordered. “You may proceed,” he said when all these operations were performed.

  They walked past the stunned servant, down the stairs to where the carriage was waiting, each man holding one of Braxsen’s arms. Major Fitzwilliam got in the hack first, and Stratford shoved Braxsen next before climbing in himself. He tapped on the roof of the carriage, and they began to ramble down the street.

  “Tell me this,” demanded Stratford. “Why? Your situation and mine were the same when we went into war. We both came from gentlemen’s families with the same education. What caused you to turn against your country like that?”

  Stratford almost thought he wouldn’t answer until Sir Braxsen said, “My mother spoke of the noble Bonaparte from the cradle, and my profligate father did nothing to alter my views. We were particularly close, my mother and I, and when I went to Eton, I was prepared to hate everyone but found I liked it, enough even to get swept up in the call to arms a year after my younger brother. He was passionately devoted to the cause, not having the same training my mother gave me. I followed him to war, aiming to keep an eye on him, but he was such a devoted fool. He obeyed the officers’ every whim and went wherever they said to go. And, you see, it eventually led to his death.

  “After I found him far from the scene of battle, I sought out one of his fellow soldiers. He said Robert had been ordered to bring a message from the officer to one of the demi-monde whose house bordered the field of battle on one side. That was what he died for. Not for his country. For an officer’s mistress. What kind of country is this?” Sir Braxsen spat on the floor of the carriage.

  “But you will die for your betrayal,” Stratford said, disbelief and sadness fighting for dominance. “You need only turn what you see to good account. We’re all faced with things in society we find intolerable. As citizens we must take action against injustice and leave behind greater order. That is our mark in the world.”

  Braxsen looked out the window. “I do not care if I die. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong in France. There is no place for me in this world, and I may as well quit it sooner rather than later.”

  Stratford shared a look with Major Fitzwilliam, then turned and watched the dark clouds roll in what promised to be a big summer storm. It looked as bleak as he felt.

  Chapter Forty

  Eleanor woke in a strange bed, well after the breakfast hour. It took her a minute to remember what had happened and where she was. She was clean from her bath the night before, and hungry. From her vantage point, she could see a dress hanging on the back of the door that was not hers. Perhaps Phoebe had left it for her.

  Despite the goodness of the gesture and their welcome last night, Eleanor was conscious of her precarious place in the household. As one who was not a relation, and who had been thrown out of the home where she’d expected to stay for the entirety of the Season, and all because of scandal, it was best to remain transient.

  Until Eleanor knew Lord Worthing’s intentions, she could not accept her place in the home and dared not even accept the dress. Instead, she slipped on her gown from the night before and with it, a film of dirt that had more to do with association than real filth.

  There was a knock on the door, and a maid entered, carrying a cup of hot chocolate and two pieces of buttered bread. “Good day, miss. Cook asked me to bring this to you, saying as you might not be bold enough to ring.”
She set the platter on the small table and rushed over to help Eleanor button her dress in the back.

  “Thank you.” Eleanor sat on the chair near the small table, grateful for the cook’s thoughtfulness. “Where is Lord Worthing? And his sisters?”

  “My lord left early this morning and has not come back,” the maid said. “Miss Anna has gone on a visit, and Miss Phoebe has set out for the market.” The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Will that be all, miss?”

  Eleanor nodded, a thread of worry marring any joy she might otherwise take in a much-needed breakfast and the cozy surroundings. Everyone had gone on with their lives, and she? Her life was not here. Eleanor forced herself to eat the bread and drink the chocolate, but it settled poorly in her stomach.

  Two hours passed with no sounds coming from outside her bedroom, and Eleanor began to doubt her welcome. It started with only a seed—a seed that was nurtured by silence and no contact from the outside world. If she had been important to Lord Worthing, he would be here this morning to make her feel welcome. Or he would send his sisters if he had important business to attend to. He must have rescued her as a gentleman only—on the basis of her connection to his uncle—and not as a lover.

  Sighing, Eleanor reflected that the room would feel like a prison before long, as her lack of a rightful place in it began to take on increasing proportion. Whatever could she do? She had no trunk, little money … It took only a moment’s reflection.

  Gathering her shawl and reticule, Eleanor opened the door to the hallway. Lydia would surely help her if only Eleanor could get word to her. Not a soul was in sight as she descended the stairs, and at the landing, she looked at the row of wooden doors that stretched down the hallway behind her. Dare she open them without knowing where they led or whether someone was behind them?

  To her relief, the butler exited a room, and upon spotting her, came quickly. “Miss, how may I help?”

  Eleanor smiled at him. “If you would bring me to the morning room and provide me with a pen and ink, I should be grateful to send word to Lord Ingram’s house.”