A Lady Compromised (The Ladies)

by Pennington, Ava

  “That would be far too much trouble for you, Mrs. Mannering. I am afraid I cannot ask you to abbreviate your walk,” said Mr. Whitmore with passably convincing conviction.

  “It would be no problem at all!” said Delia with a smile. “Please. It would also be good for me to know of a neighbor, even if only tangentially.”

  Freddy Whitmore looked as if heaven itself had smiled down on him and forcibly resisted offering the exquisite Mrs. Mannering his arm. They walked, side by side, down the street as he asked Lady Delia question after question that displayed his polite interest in her, though just short of an interrogation, as to her availability and history prior to the neighborhood and general acquaintance.

  “Are you recently arrived from the country, Mrs. Mannering?” he asked, hoping he sounded innocuous.

  “I am,” she said, “but is it so terribly obvious? I don’t doubt that my wardrobe falls a bit short of town standards,” she continued, knowing quite well her clothes were not quite au courant, and they were certainly all in horrible, faded mourning colors.

  “Oh no, Mrs. Mannering! I did not mean to imply such a thing—or even close to it. I only ask because a lady as lovely as yourself cannot go unnoticed in this city for long.” He looked down at her with such earnest admiration that Lady Delia blushed. She was flattered that even if the Marquess did not think she was a lady, this sweet young Mr. Whitmore certainly did. His compliments were a pleasant change from her other recent encounters with men.

  “I do not need to be noticed, Mr. Whitmore, as I am still in mourning. It is not two years since my husband, my dear Mr. Mannering, died. But I found after so many months alone in the country, I needed a change of scenery.” Mr. Whitmore looked as if the sun had just burst through the most torrential of thunderstorms but he quickly attempted to school his features into some semblance of somber propriety.

  They arrived at her doorstep a scant ten minutes later. Delia knew her entire staff was home and so felt brave enough to invite him in. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Whitmore?” she asked. “We could have one while enquiring as to your aunt’s address.”

  “I should like that above all things, Mrs. Mannering,” he replied as he removed his hat and gloves.

  “Amelia,” began Lady Delia, “Would you bring us some tea and send for Martha so we may ask her about Mr. Whitmore’s aunt?” she led her guest into her small but cheery drawing room and settled herself on a lilac-silk settee.

  “Is your aunt, Mrs. Thistleton, a frequent recipient of your visits, Mr. Whitmore?” she asked, unsure if she should hope that he would be often in the neighborhood.

  “Ah, she is indeed! A very kind lady whom I visit often. I take it upon myself to visit her often as she is a widow in reduced circumstances and does not go often into society. A delightful woman, Mrs. Thistleton.” Mr. Whitmore looked about him and could not keep himself asking, “Do you have any children, Mrs. Mannering?”

  At this, Delia blushed deeply, distracted both by the embarrassing thought of children and how she, a virginal lady, would have any, but also at the fact that poor Mr. Whitmore had just admitted to visiting quite often an aunt who lived in her street but could not remember her address. She knew then he must have invented the lady as an excuse to speak to her but she forgave him and managed to reply, “No, Mr. Whitmore. We were not blessed with children. Mr. Mannering was rather close to twenty years my senior and did not wish for children. He was accustomed to peace and quiet.” Lady Delia hoped this lie would prevent any further questions about her imaginary late husband, as elderly, doting men were likely of little interest to dashing young gentlemen like Mr. Whitmore, who seemed more interested in her by the moment.

  “Forgive my impertinence, my dear Mrs. Mannering! I hope I did not distress you. I wondered only if there was a young person in the house who would shortly need his mother. I am very sorry for the loss of your husband but I hope you will find the city’s charms improving on the spirits.” His earnestness was palpable and she could not help but smile gratefully at him. Despite her relative lack of experience with eligible young men while living at Washburn Court, she had nonetheless plenty of experience with young men who were not courting her. There were young men in the stables and in the village and at neighbor’s homes and country dances, who, as they were not judged to be eligible, were easy and carefree with their speech to her. Mr. Whitmore reminded her of a sophisticated version of them—just as eager to please and delightful—but ever so much better dressed and more polished manners.

  “No, indeed, Mr. Whitmore, I do live here alone with my quite competent and agreeable staff. I hope some day to enjoy some of the charms of the city, but I’m afraid until I am fully out of mourning, I cannot enter society.” She hoped this would prevent any invitations, as attending would be absolutely out of the question. She did not know who in town would recognize her as Lady Delia Ellsworth, but it was certainly not worth the risk of finding out.

  “My admiration for you increases!” said Mr. Whitmore, “I can only imagine how difficult it must be for a lovely lady to spend years alone in mourning—you must not be over twenty! Though, I do not believe I would enquire,” he added hastily.

  “I can own only twenty years, Mr. Whitmore,” Lady Delia replied, “However, it is no matter. I enjoy the quietude and take great pleasure in reading.”

  “Do you? I enjoy reading myself! The Racing Times, cover to cover, every week, as well as the Times, of course. I have to catch up on what my friends are doing if I haven’t seen them. Society pages and whatnot.” Lady Delia laughed lightly and sipped her tea while nodding with agreement.

  “Absolutely! Of course, I’m not likely to know anyone who’s a subject of gossip in the Times or any of the ladies’ circulars. But it is still lovely to read about their lives.”

  She looked up to see Martha entering and lowered her teacup.

  “Martha, do you know of anyone by the name of Mrs. Thistleton in this street? Our visitor, Mr. Whitmore, is attempting to visit her as she is his aunt, but she is recently moved and he cannot recall the address.”

  “Why yes, ma’am! Mrs. Thistleton lives but four blocks from this house, ma’am, across from the statue in the park. I am afraid I do not recall the number. But I know her cook, Dora, she’s a great friend of mine,” Martha belatedly curtseyed to Mr. Whitmore. “Will that be all ma’am?”

  “Will that be adequate, Mr. Whitmore?” she enquired, looking at him over the tea things.

  “Oh, yes, absolutely!” he replied, tearing his eyes away from Delia to look at Martha. “Thank you very much, Martha. I am certain I can recognize the house once I am so close—and as it is across from the statue—I don’t know how I could have forgotten.”

  “Yes, sir, of course, sir. It’s no problem, sir,” said Martha. “Thank you, ma’am. If that is all, I should get back to the kitchen. I have some rolls that need checking.”

  “Of course, Martha,” said Lady Delia as she dismissed the cook and looked back to Mr. Whitmore. “I should not keep you now that you know your destination,” she said with a smile. “I should hate to monopolize your time when a dear lady is expecting you.”

  “Oh, no!” Mr. Whitbread replied, “She is not expecting me. We had no appointment—I was only going to call this afternoon. Bit of a surprise to her actually.” He blushed slightly, not wanting to be seen as rude, but Delia thought, not yet wanting to leave. She did not think she wanted him to leave, either.

  “Then if there is no time fixed and you will not be missed, we may finish our tea,” she said with clear happiness.

  “Indeed! I would be most delighted,” Mr. Whitmore replied. “I—I wonder, if, I am likely to discover you walking again in Charles Street? I confess I come this way often to visit my aunt but I do not know if I will encounter you—“ he looked so hopeless and unable to find the words to ask to call that she saved him.

  “Mr. Whitmore, you are so kind! I would be happy to see you again in Charles Street, or here for tea. I am home most
afternoons and you may consider yourself invited to call.” She rose to give him a card with her false name printed, D.E. Mannering, 19 Charles St., London.

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Mannering! I would be most delighted! I confess I am most tremendously pleased to hear you say that. You may rest assured I will visit again in Charles Street within the week,” cried Mr. Whitmore and he, recovering himself and attempting to look more stoic, stood with reluctance. “Thank you for your most generous tea and direction, Mrs. Mannering. I will leave for Mrs. Thistleton’s in quite good spirits, I assure you.”

  “I’m so very pleased to have met you,” Delia said as he swept her a brief bow and collected his hat, gloves and cane.

  “Until next time,” he said, and was out the door.

  Lady Delia smiled as she closed the door herself—Amelia had not returned from upstairs and she did not think to call her simply to show out the young man. She was pleased to have met such a pleasant and attractive man in her street with what seemed to be perfect propriety. More inspiration for her novels was always needed and he seemed so kind and unthreatening. He was very handsome in a quite youthful sort of way. But try as she might, she could not picture the hero of her novel as Freddy Whitmore. Another man, larger and darker, with a sinfully beautiful face and mocking mouth seemed to appear in her mind every time she tried to picture her hero and she dismissed the thoughts with frustration.

  Chapter 16

  The Marquess of Durham had only just sat down to Annabelle’s Adventures and was wondering with slight disaffection what had happened to his life. Here he was, forced to listen to society gossips lisp about his life, and on top of that, he was reading a silly romance novel in an attempt to uncover the truth about his own life. He was relieved when Lord Blackwell was announced and he put down the book and stood up.

  “Any news, Simon?” Mason asked when they were both comfortably ensconced in leather chairs, the doors to the study firm closed and all thoughts of novels and gossips firmly stowed away.

  “Unfortunately, I can determine nothing about the identity of the ship attempting to dock using our secret code, but no further incidents have been reported, thank God. It’s damned worrying, but it may simply be a one of a kind coincidence.”

  “Do you think it’s possible the French government has discovered our use of the Chateau?” Durham asked as he leaned back in his chair, sipping a brandy.

  “I wouldn’t put it past a devilish Bonapartist to do much of anything,” Blackwell replied, “But it seems rather unlikely. Every time a ship docks at the Chateau, the French flag is prominently displayed and the sailors rally round and shout about how excited they are to go ashore for the…well…offerings you so cleverly invented.”

  The idea had been entirely Durham’s and while it had proven extremely effective, he was not entirely comfortable with society at large knowing how he smuggled information back from France. He had only a few ships, three, really, that had French and British flags, and a number of very loyal sailors who spoke perfect French. They would sail the ships under a false name and, when going ashore, would make it clear that it was a whorehouse located there that was the draw. Mason had decided that the distaste of using such a ruse could be outweighed by the convenience of having a place where men could be seen coming and going at all times with no consequences, particularly sailors, and the Chateau was a perfect ruse. The “Madame,” who was his late grandmother’s housekeeper, was responsible for collecting the correspondence from the incoming ships and sailors and sending it back out, though she had no idea she was smuggling anything but brandy.

  The scheme had worked well, thus far. Ships incoming had to reveal a secret code to be permitted to dock. This was purportedly to prevent hordes of sailors from descending upon the place at a time, but Durham used it to allow only his own ships to dock. Should an unfamiliar ship dock, they would quickly find that there were no “ladies” in the Chateau whatsoever; only barrels of French brandy with coded communications concealed in sheepskin pouches inside the barrels. It was a risky operation and Durham and Blackwell both knew it. But so far, the ruse had been complete. He was prepared, if necessary, to import some actual ladybirds and open the place to one or two ships if absolutely necessary to keep up the subterfuge, but he viewed that as an unqualified last resort and something he did not look forward to suggesting.

  “Perhaps the fact that the French ship guessed the code is indeed a coincidence? These things are rather difficult to keep secret among so many operatives. The code changes frequently but perhaps we should change it early and wait to see if we have another incident. How was the ship caught?”

  “Madame recognized it immediately as not one of yours and made as if the code they had attempted to use was wrong, as she usually does when that situation occurs. It only resulted in an immediate communication because it was, in fact, correct.”

  The Marquess sighed. “Well let’s hope it’s a once-only incident, though I can hardly believe us to be so fortunate. We shall discover the reason soon enough, I fear. I have some of my best men on it, right now, including Melville.” His valet had been with him for years and was one of the most talented investigators he knew.

  “And I do, as well—say, what’s that there you’re reading?” Blackwell pointed at the splayed-open copy of the novel Harriet had lent him and he was annoyed he hadn’t thought to hide it. “It wouldn’t perhaps be Annabelle’s Adventures by D.E. Mannering, would it?”

  Durham scowled as he picked up the offending novel. “And how would you, pray tell, know about this particular blight on the literary landscape?” he asked.

  “My mother, the Dowager Countess, would not stop discussing it earlier this very day! Said it was the most amusing thing she’d read since someone published that false autobiography of Princess Charlotte.”

  “I cannot hazard an opinion as to the merits of the novel at this point, as I have only examined the title page,” Durham told his friend, “but Harriet seems to be of similar opinion to the Dowager. It is her only flaw. A predilection towards flippant novels. Despite her vast intelligence, she reads frivolous literature after absorbing all the ancient philosophy she can in a day.”

  “She is obviously an intelligent young lady, Durham. I have no idea where she gets it.”

  “Go to the devil,” the Marquess said, albeit with good humor. At that moment, Harriet herself was announced, interrupting her brother and the Earl for a second time that week. This time, however, she did not trip over any stray hassocks.

  “Mason, I must find out who this D.E. Mannering is! I cannot bear the thought that he might never write another novel! You must go with me to the publisher tomorrow so we may determine his address and I can provide appropriate encouragement.”

  “Harriet,” Durham said with an exaggerated sigh, “Your badgering this poor man will not force him to finish his novel any more quickly. Now, I am not inclined to go haring about London on a wild goose chase with you to find and harass recalcitrant authors. But I am inclined to request that you greet guests like a proper young lady when you meet them.” He inclined his head to the Earl of Blackwell, who had stood when Harriet entered the room. She blushed, as was her wont.

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “How d-do you do, Lord Blackwell,” she stuttered at his intense gaze. “It’s lovely to see you again.” She managed to hold his gaze, despite her blushes.

  “Very well, Lady Harriet,” the Earl said smoothly, bending over her hand. “Your brother is an ogre. Never mind his remonstrations. He has no notion how to behave properly toward young ladies.”

  “This particular young lady, need I remind you Blackwell, is my sister. And I am perfectly capable of behaving responsibly toward her. You, on the other hand,” he began darkly.

  The Earl released Harriet’s hand and turned to her brother. “I shall discover the identity of this D.E. Mannering, Lady Harriet, and let you know his address. It will be no matter.”

  Harriet beamed up at him gratefully and said to
her brother: “See? Other people treat me like a young lady! It’s only you who persists on insisting I belong in the school room.” Her nose in the air, Harriet curtseyed to them both and marched out of the room.

  “I do not envy you your sister, Durham,” the Earl said. “She will drive you to an early grave. She is too smart and too precocious for her own good.” The Marquess winced slightly and walked to the door of the library.

  “She could do without your encouragement, Simon,” he said, only half-heartedly irritable. He truly had no idea how he was supposed to produce an articulate young woman out of the girl he could only see as his beloved little sister. If other people could do it, why could he not watch and learn? “And she’s still an imp with no manners,” he continued good-naturedly. “I honestly do not know what I shall do with her. I suppose she’ll marry some day…that is a problem to be dealt with another time,” he said firmly. “Let’s go to Boodles’. I could use some distraction.”

  When the two men arrived at their club and had settled to take a drink, the Earl’s young cousin, Mr. Freddy Whitmore, approached them at close to a gallop.

  “Freddy! What a pleasant surprise,” Blackwell said with a raised eyebrow. “You look like you’ve something to say—have a seat.” The young man’s eyes were shining as he sat and leaned forward toward the two men.

  “I—am in love,” he announced.

  “Freddy, how many times must I tell you that infatuations with opera girls must be avoided at all cost? They are excessively expensive and unfaithful to boot. Now, find yourself a serious mistress before you get into too much trouble. No one ever falls in love with his mistress.”

  Freddy Whitmore looked appalled. His eyes moved from cousin to friend, “I am not in love with a loose woman of the theatre! How could you think such a thing? Those creatures have no draw for me; no, only a sweet innocent named—“