Louise M Gouge

by A Suitable Wife

  “You did not answer my question, Lord Greystone. What would you rather be doing this evening?” She gave him a little smirk to show him she would persist until he answered.

  A frown darted across his brow, but his smile quickly returned, and he stared directly into her eyes. “You mistake me, my lady. I am delighted to be in this company. No other place in the world would suit me.”

  Well played. But she also felt a measure of pride over not wilting under his gaze, even if her heart did flutter in the most annoying manner. Yet such a reaction was a waste of time, so she let the matter drop and renewed her determination to enjoy this evening.

  The theatre looked just as Mama had described it. On the second floor of the playhouse, private doors and lavish draperies led to seating areas partitioned off on both sides from similar spaces around the balcony. Lord Blakemore’s box was comfortably furnished with two rows of velvet-cushioned chairs. Below them was seating for the general audience, and above was the gallery where the lower classes could purchase seats for a penny or two.

  The most lavish private box bore the crest of the Prince Regent, but His Royal Highness had not yet arrived, if he was coming at all. Beatrice was only mildly interested in seeing him, for the prince’s well-known self-indulgent lifestyle did not garner her respect. With such a ruler as an example, no wonder Melly surrendered to every temptation London had to offer a naive young peer.

  “Come along, my dears.” Lady Blakemore directed the ladies to the front row of the box, while the two gentlemen sat behind them. At least four more people would fit in this space, and Beatrice hoped Lord Blakemore had invited others. Now that she had an appropriate wardrobe, she would be pleased to meet other members of Society, even other unattached gentlemen. Perhaps some of them would regard her more favorably than Lord Greystone. Despite her lack of a dowry and all marriage prospects, her foolish heart could not help but long to be courted, or at least admired, especially since this viscount refused to perform that office.

  At the thought of him, and very much against her will, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him in quiet conversation with the earl. She heard a word or two, enough to learn that they were discussing the little chimney sweeps.

  “My investigation turned up no parents,” Lord Greystone said. “Apparently the master sweep bought them from an orphanage. I sent him compensation equal to his purchase price, though he actually deserves prison, in my way of thinking.” He shook his head. “We simply must put an end to such wicked use of tiny children.”

  “Wilberforce is up for it,” Lord Blakemore said. “After his success in abolishing the slave trade, he has come close to abolishing slavery itself within the Empire. I believe he has many friends in the House of Commons who will support anything he puts forth.”

  At his words a guileless and joyful smile lit Lord Greystone’s entire face, reminding Beatrice of his generous nature toward the poor little sweeps. Her heart skipped, but she quickly tamped down her giddy feelings. It seemed that every five minutes she needed to remind herself that the viscount had no interest in her, and she must not permit herself to be wounded by his aloofness.

  Further, she had come to see a play, her very first, if one did not count the annual Christmas plays presented by the children in the village church. With some effort she turned her attention to the large stage that extended across the opposite side of the theatre. A luxurious crimson curtain hid the actors and scenery. How delightful it would be to peek behind the red velvet to watch them donning costumes and perhaps practicing their lines.

  “Why, there sits Mademoiselle St. Claire.” Mrs. Parton held up her quizzing glass to view a young lady in a box on the other side of the large room. “One would think she’d have followed old Louis to Paris to snare a husband from among the restored French aristocracy.”

  “Perhaps she has her eye on an English peer.” Lady Blakemore tilted her head toward Lord Greystone.

  Interrupted midsentence, he gave her a questioning look. “Madam?”

  “Never mind.” Lady Blakemore chuckled, and Mrs. Parton laughed outright.

  Lady Blakemore’s companion, the pretty, stately Miss Hart, said nothing but seemed to deliberately keep her attention on the crowd below. Beatrice had no idea who the lady’s family was, but her manners were impeccable. No doubt she was wellborn but also without a dowry, and thus had sought employment with the countess.

  Beatrice surveyed the occupants of the large auditorium and found most of the audience engaged in conversation. No one seemed the slightest bit excited, as she was, about the upcoming entertainment. But with her comfortable chair in Lord Blakemore’s box being the farthest from the stage, she could watch the other ladies and learn proper decorum for this setting.

  One thing was certain: she would never giggle and flirt the way some ladies in the upper balcony did. Their behavior and gaudy dresses brought heat to her face. Had they no modesty? Yet they were surrounded by attentive gentlemen. Beatrice would gladly do without such attention rather than behave so outlandishly. Why, one showily dressed woman had an arm slung across the shoulders of a well-dressed gentleman, whose curly blond hair and broad forehead seemed familiar…

  Melly! Beatrice cringed at the realization that her brother was mingling with such company. She ducked behind the partition of Lord Blakemore’s box and turned her attention back to the curtain, praying the play would begin soon.

  *

  Melton’s heart felt as if it had been cut in two with a sword. Did Beatrice really think he had not seen her ducking out of sight so that once again she would not have to acknowledge him? There she sat, glittering like a fine jewel even in the midst of her well-dressed friends. He was so proud of his sister. No one in this vast theatre would have noticed if she had given him their secret sign. But what could he expect? She was spending her time with that horrid Greystone, who even now looked at her like a besotted fool. Melton wanted to smash the arrogant viscount right on his aristocratic nose.

  No, that was not fair. Greystone had shown her only respect from the moment they had stepped into the box. But he was a rather dull fellow—not one word of scandal, either interesting or boring, was ever attached to his name. Still, Beatrice could do worse. Or better. Oh, bother. She must marry Rumbold, and that was that. It was the least Melton could do for the man after all he had done for him, paying his gambling debts and finding him a place to live after Melton had been forced to sell his town house. At that thought a nagging guilt stirred within him. Since seeing her at Greystone’s ball, he had begun to realize all that his gambling had cost them both. He, not Mrs. Parton, should be taking care of his sister.

  “Blimey, milord, what’s the sulky face fer?” The gaudily dressed girl, probably no more than seventeen, ran a hand over Melton’s cheek. “Yer no fun at all.”

  He shoved her hand away as gently as possible. This was not the kind of woman he wanted to keep company with. But decent ladies, even his own sister, would not welcome his friendship. What had he done to deserve that? He would have to ask Rumbold. Something would have to be done, and soon. He was an earl, for goodness’s sake, a member of the ruling class. He sat in the House of Lords and helped to lead England.

  But the pain in his heart ate at him, and the only thing that would soothe it away was another drink.

  *

  In the corner of his eye, Greystone saw Lady Beatrice shrink back in her chair, almost like a child playing hide-and-seek behind the box’s red velvet panel. A quick glance to the upper gallery explained her actions. Lord Melton was consorting with a rather disreputable mob, and no doubt his sister wanted to avoid his notice.

  Greystone sighed. Years ago his brother Edmond had chosen evil friends, and the entire family had suffered for it. But Edmond had been sent away to the military, where his life had changed drastically. Newly married to a vicar’s daughter, he was now a model of decorum and had a promising future as a barrister. Perhaps Melton could change, too. Unfortunately he was a peer, and no one could consi
gn him to the harsh discipline of the army, no matter how much his family suffered for his actions.

  Empathy for the lady welled up inside Greystone, and he tried to think of something consoling to say to her. What lighthearted comment would turn her attention from her sorrows? Just as he leaned toward her, the massive curtains began to part, and Lady Beatrice’s posture straightened. Even in profile he could see the excitement in her expression. A strange ache filled his chest. He would not mind introducing her to the many innocent charms of London: parks, fairs, leisurely voyages on the Thames. Earlier when she had challenged him regarding his poor attitude, he had been a little annoyed, but admiration replaced his ill-humor. The lady had spirit, as he had seen the night he had met her. But until Melton mended his ways, Greystone dared not associate with her more intimately.

  And in this moment, he resented that injustice.

  *

  The audience grew quieter, although not entirely silent. Beatrice decided that many people had come to socialize rather than observe the performance. But once the curtain opened to reveal a magnificent setting, her attention settled on the lone figure limping from behind a stone column. Was this deformed hunchback the handsome Robert Elliston she had heard so much about? Now the audience hushed, and Beatrice held her breath.

  “‘Now is the winter of our discontent—’” he paused dramatically, surveying the audience with a victorious look “‘—made glorious summer by this sun of York.’”

  As his deep rich voice intoned the familiar line, a shiver ran down Beatrice’s spine. How well she had known her own winter of discontent, yet no bright sun promised her a glorious summer. But such thoughts would only ruin her enjoyment of the play, so she dismissed them summarily and permitted the players to draw her back in time some three hundred years, when England had enjoyed another significant victory like the recent one over Napoleon. So well did the actors represent their characters, especially Mr. Elliston, that Beatrice decided to join the fantasy and pretend she was viewing history as it happened, just like a mouse in the corner.

  *

  Greystone had never cared much for Richard III. His stomach turned at the idea that a prince could murder his own nephews so he could claim the Crown. Aware of the arguments contrary to Shakespeare’s premise, some who insisted that Edward IV’s younger brother Richard was blameless in the boys’ deaths, Greystone nonetheless was convinced Richard had arranged the foul deed. In over three hundred years, no evidence had been found in the Tower or any written records to support the man’s guilt or innocence. But a clever minion could cover any crime.

  Yet as Greystone watched the performance, he could find no fault in the actors, especially the two youths—or were they young women?—who portrayed the princes. They reminded him of his little chimney sweeps, despite the disparity in their stations in life. Bearing the same names as their father and uncle, “Prince Edward” displayed the same protectiveness over little “Prince Richard” that Kit exhibited for little Ben—the same instinct to protect those under his care that Greystone had always felt for his own brothers. The younger boy, Richard, had the same spunk Ben possessed and seemed more prone to mild mischief than his brother. The idea that someone would have no qualms about harming two little boys, either by murder or misuse, transformed Greystone into a protective, avenging knight.

  Or so he liked to think. There was still Mother to deal with in the matter. This afternoon he’d had to go to his club to escape her incessant disparaging remarks about his project to protect small climbing-boys. That is, he fled after he instructed Lucy to keep the boys in the nursery, whatever it took. Earlier in the day he had failed to find Bennington to discuss the matter.

  Laughter broke into his thoughts as the audience no doubt responded to one of the few humorous moments in the play. Greystone glanced at Lady Beatrice, whose profile was as lovely as the front view of her face. She had covered her well-formed lips with a gloved hand, and her eyes were wide as if she were in shock, perhaps over the bawdy tone of the jests typical of Shakespeare. He should not have let his mind wander from the play. Perhaps he could have diverted her attention before the tasteless lines were spoken so she would not hear them. Someone had to shield the lady’s sensibilities, since her brother had abandoned his duty to do so.

  A glance toward the upper balcony confirmed his dislike for Melton, and a familiar anger burned in his chest. The foolish young earl was laughing with the rest of his disreputable crowd, people Greystone would not permit even to address Lady Beatrice. The thought brought him up short. When had he decided it was his duty to shield her?

  No, he must not give place to such sentiments. The only conclusion to his unwelcome feelings for Lady Beatrice would be disaster, for just looking at her wicked brother made him want to slap some good sense into the imbecile. Just the way Greystone’s father had done to him.

  Chapter Eight

  “Oh, do ride with us, Greystone.” Mrs. Parton tugged on the viscount’s sleeve as if he were an obstinate child, while the rest of the party leaving the theatre watched with amusement. “I shall feel much safer with a gentleman in the landau now that night has fallen.”

  Seeing the chagrin on that particular gentleman’s face, Beatrice refused the blush that tried to fill her cheeks. After all, no one could claim she was responsible for this invitation. Her earlier clash, slight though it was, returned to her thoughts, and she did not wish for more unpleasantness with him. Still, she agreed with her employer that having a well-known peer in the carriage would likely discourage footpads who might not regard a driver, a tiger and a burly footman as sufficient protection for two ladies.

  “Yes, yes, Greystone,” Lord Blakemore said. “Do go with these dear ladies to protect them. We can discuss our scheme over supper.”

  “You most certainly will not.” Lady Blakemore gave her husband a playful nudge, shocking Beatrice. She had never seen her parents tease or behave with anything but the utmost formality toward one another. “I forbid you to ruin my supper with political discussions.”

  “Of course, my dear.” The earl eyed Lord Greystone and shook his head. “Ah, well, another time, then. We must permit the ladies to rule, must we not?”

  Lord Greystone winced ever so slightly, a response Beatrice found odd until she recalled observing a silent battle of wills between the viscount and his mother regarding Kit. Although the viscount had displayed only respect for Lady Greystone, he had also refused her order not to carry the little chimney sweep upstairs. Then when Beatrice and Mrs. Parton had joined the viscountess for tea, the lady had complained about the soot all over her house. But of course her son owned it all, just as Melly owned Melton Gardens. Although Beatrice had managed everything for her brother since Papa’s death, she had never claimed the property as her own. Indeed if Melly decided to marry—a frightening thought considering his current habits—Beatrice would gladly relinquish the management of it all to her new sister. She had no wish to rule anyone.

  Perhaps Lady Greystone had been in control of her family for so long that she found it difficult to surrender the reins, despite Greystone’s obvious competence. A new respect for the viscountess blossomed in Beatrice’s mind. Raising three sons alone could not have been easy. And if the viscount’s reaction to the earl’s comment about ladies ruling was any indication, perhaps the battle for rule of Greystone Hall was not yet over.

  Already in the landau with her back to the driver, Mrs. Parton instructed Lord Greystone to sit in the place of honor, the thickly upholstered bench facing front from whence he could see the passing scenery. But just as Beatrice started to take her place on the opposite seat, Mrs. Parton waved her to the spot beside the viscount.

  “You will never learn your way around if you cannot see where you’re going, my dear.” She laughed at her own humor even as she waved over her shoulder to the driver. “To Lord Blakemore’s residence, Harold.” Satisfied that her orders would be obeyed, she turned back to the viscount, who appeared as uncomfortable as Beatrice
felt. “Now, Greystone, you must tell us, what did you think of the play? Was it not completely enthralling? Was not Mr. Elliston exceptionally brilliant?”

  He chuckled, a rich baritone laugh that sent a pleasant shiver down Beatrice’s spine. She shoved away the feeling, refusing to let her heart become attached to a gentleman who clearly did not wish to be in her company.

  “My dear Mrs. Parton, I shall not permit you to bait me.”

  “Why, how would I do that, dear boy?” Mrs. Parton reached across the wide space and tapped his knee with her folded fan. Even in the dim light of the carriage lanterns, Beatrice could see the twinkle in the lady’s eyes. What was she up to?

  “Oh, quite easily.” He gave a careless wave of his hand. “Should I dare to proffer an opinion, perhaps Lady Beatrice will feel obliged to agree, as all young ladies are schooled to do.” He sent Beatrice a sidelong glance. “Is that not right, Lady Beatrice?”

  So the gentleman wished to take a turn at challenging her. Beatrice would gladly play along, for she missed the lighthearted teasing she and Melly used to share. She tilted her head in a playful way. “Why of course, Lord Greystone. A young lady is not considered well-bred if she is too strident in her opinions.” She blinked her eyes several times to effect a naive expression such as she had observed in young ladies at his ball. “Therefore, I shall only be bold enough to say I agree with Mrs. Parton’s opinion about the play and Mr. Elliston. That is—” another blink or two “—only if you think so, as well.”

  While Mrs. Parton laughed merrily, Lord Greystone took a turn at blinking. Then he seemed to comprehend the joke and laughed, too.

  “You are an agreeable companion, Lady Beatrice.” One of those tiny frowns darted across his forehead, but he quickly recovered his smile. “I am certain you are a constant source of comfort to Mrs. Parton.”