“John.” She summoned the anxious footman who stood by the drawing room door. “Please send for tea and bring some towels.”
Melly grasped her hand and pressed it to his round cheek, which was also warm. “See, you always take care of me.”
Beatrice leaned over to kiss him, but drew back at the smell of whiskey. “You have been drinking.”
He stared at her as if she, like Cerberus, had three heads. “Of course I have been drinking. Every gentleman drinks.”
She had never noticed the scent of spirits on Lord Greystone. Perhaps he had a little port after dinner, but nothing to undo his senses, as drink always did to Melly. Forgive him, her inner voice said once again.
“Tell me more about your influence with the other lords.”
He laughed, a rather giddy sound, not at all like the dear boy she had grown up with. “My good friend and, dare I say, my mentor, one Frank Rumbold, is guiding me in the right path, telling me what to say, whom to support—something no one has ever done for me. Certainly not our esteemed father.”
Beatrice sighed. To voice her agreement would not help. Papa may have been neglectful, but he had managed his estates with a wise, careful hand. She brushed a hand across Melly’s sleeve, sending a sprinkle of water over her skirt. “I am glad you have a friend. But are you certain he is the best one to guide you?”
“Of course he is.” He stopped when the footman brought the tea and towels.
While Melly used the towels to dry his coat, Beatrice set about pouring the tea. She took pride in remembering his preferences for two lumps of sugar and a generous splash of cream.
“I thank you, my dear.” Melly took a sip. “I don’t suppose we could add something to this to make it a little more interesting?”
She answered with a frown.
“Hmm. I didn’t think so. Well, anyway, regarding our dear old father, you cannot imagine how many times he told me how disappointed he was in me. He said I should be more like you.”
“What? Why, that’s ridiculous. He never even noticed me, never gave me a compliment or—” This was wrong. To join him in condemning Papa would make it appear as if she were making excuses for Melly’s wasteful ways. So she tried a merry chuckle that did not quite succeed. “If he thought I was so good, he simply failed to notice the mischief we both got into.”
“Oh, we did have some larks, did we not?” Melly set his tea down and grabbed another towel, ruffling it over his hair and across his neck. Then, tossing it over the back of the settee, he grasped her hand. “But never mind that. Beebe, you must permit me to present Mr. Rumbold to you. He is—”
“I must do no such thing.” She tried to stand, but he held her firmly. His horrid desperation frightened her. Surely the whiskey was at fault. “Please release me.”
He did, then patted her wrist. “Forgive me.” Resting his head against the back of the settee, he placed a hand against his forehead. “You cannot imagine how much pressure I have to endure. Without Rumbold’s guidance I would have made many mistakes. I owe him so very much. You simply cannot know. As it is, the best hostesses refuse to send me invitations to their balls and soirees.”
Beatrice cringed at the thought of her brother—an earl, for goodness sake—being cut from the best social lists. So much political influence could be gained at those events. But he had brought it upon himself. Was this the time to confront him about his gambling and drinking? No, that would only bring forth more excuses.
He sat up and grasped her hands, but more gently this time. “You cannot imagine my mortification when Lord Greystone sent me away from his ball. Had Rumbold not consoled me, I should never have lived it down.” He flung himself back against the settee. “And to think you are forced to live next door to that popinjay.”
Never mind that it was his fault she was “forced” to live anywhere other than the town house Mama had loved so much when she came to London. She had promised to decorate a special apartment for Beatrice for her coming-out Season. With that memory she found it more and more difficult to maintain a forgiving spirit. At least she managed to refrain from reminding him of his failures. But when she opened her mouth to contradict his ill-fitting description of Lord Greystone, he sat up again.
“You must listen, Beebe. Even in the short time we were there, Rumbold came to admire, no, adore you. You were the only lady at the ball he would have considered dancing with—that is, had we not been thrown out.”
“What?” Beatrice recalled her curiosity about Melly’s handsome, older companion that evening. But how could a gentleman form an attachment with a lady whom he had never met and had seen only briefly across a room? Surely her brother was exaggerating. Still, if he had done so much for Melly, perhaps she was wrong in refusing to meet him, even though Mrs. Parton held the man in contempt.
Melly stood and marched toward the hearth, then swung around to face her with a triumphant grin. “I have no doubt that once he meets you, Rumbold will make an offer to me for your hand.”
“What?” Horror swept through her.
“Yes. Isn’t that beyond generous? And you with no dowry.”
Her stomach twisted. “No, of course I have no dowry. You have gambled it away.” Beatrice could not stop herself, even though she sounded like a petulant child. Where was the forgiveness she had thought to offer him?
Her accusation rolled off of him just as the rainwater had. “Humph. What do you know? It was all mine, anyway. I am merely trying to take care of you.”
She would not point out that Papa had expected Melly to set aside at least twenty thousand pounds for her, and more if the estate tenants continued to produce abundant crops.
“Do you owe him money?” She tried to keep an accusing tone from her voice.
He shrugged. “A little.”
The sick feeling in her stomach increased. How much was a little? Had this man taken Melly’s entire fortune? Or had he saved Melly from further loss? What did Melly mean about the man guiding him in the right path? Was Mr. Rumbold a good man who had been excluded from Society because he lacked an acceptable social rank?
“Will you receive him?” Melly’s earnest gaze, even accompanied by that slightly wild look, cut into her. Their childhood friendship claimed a large part of her heart. He’d once saved her life. She had no idea what pressures he endured in Parliament. Did he have projects as dear to him as Lord Greystone’s little chimney sweeps were to him, projects he could not sponsor because he had gambled away his money? Oh, she truly must forgive him, whatever it took on her part.
“Yes.” She could barely speak the word, but she had no other choice.
*
Melton should have felt a sense of victory, but oddly, he was disappointed that Beebe agreed to meet Rumbold. Yes, he’d cajoled her into seeing things his way, as he often had in childhood. But she had always been the strong one, the wise one, while he had never felt anything but unsure of himself. Well, he was sure of one thing now: if he did not arrange this marriage, Rumbold would ruin him.
Out in the rain again Melton tried to raise the umbrella the footman had given him, but the ridiculous thing broke. He turned back to the town house to get another one, but the door was closed. He could not face that obstinate servant again, so he hurried down the street to hail a hackney just leaving a residence across the square.
The driver stopped none too soon. “Where to, sir? Oh, Lord Melton.” The ruddy-faced man eyed him skeptically. “Payment in advance, milord.” He held out his hand.
The rain made it impossible for Melton to feign the slightest bit of dignity. He’d faced this situation often enough in recent weeks. He pretended to search for a coin in his waistcoat pocket, but knew he had none. “My good man, I shall pay you upon arrival at my apartment.” He started to climb into the hackney.
The driver’s long whip barred his way. “Sorry, milord. I don’t go to Seven Dials. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He reined his horse away.
Speechless, Melton stared after the conveyanc
e until he felt the cold rain seeping through his coat clear to his skin. After a violent shudder he began his trek across London. He did not wish to go to that wretched neighborhood, either. But what choice did he have?
Only one. Beebe must marry Rumbold. And the sooner, the better.
Chapter Thirteen
Greystone arrived home in the rain just in time to see Melton push his way into Mrs. Parton’s town house. As much as he wanted to march next door and find out what the earl was up to, he had his own responsibilities at home. He consigned the matter to God’s protecting hands and Mrs. Parton’s good sense. The dear lady would not be intimidated by Melton’s title.
Once inside his house he had not even removed his cape or shaken the water from his footwear before Mother accosted him in the front hall.
“Those brats.” She crossed her arms and impatiently tapped the toe of one shoe on the marble floor. “You simply must send them away, Greystone. I will not have them tearing about my house like wild dogs.”
While he weighed possible answers, Greystone made a ceremony out of surrendering his coat and half boots to Crawford and donning the dry ones Gilly brought. He would never disrespect his mother with a rebuke or a reminder that the house belonged to him, especially not in front of the servants. But neither would he abandon the two small boys whom he had promised a better future. With practiced patience, he smiled as if she had just announced her intention to adopt the children.
“I would imagine they are filled with boyish energy. You remember how Richard, Edmond and I carried on.” He took her arm and led her toward the drawing room. “Let us call for tea so I can get warm.” With a nod, he ordered Crawford to see to it.
“Oh, my, Greystone, are you chilled?” She felt his forehead. “No, but you are a little flushed. Perhaps you should take to your bed.”
“Nonsense.” He used her favorite word. “I am well. Let us settle once and for all the matter of the little climbing-boys.”
“At last.” She dropped into her favorite chair and waved him to sit in the adjacent one. “I am pleased to hear you have come to your senses. We shall send them straightaway to your school in Shrewsbury, where they will be happy amongst all of those other brats…boys.”
Her self-correction encouraged him. Was she softening? But perhaps that came only from her thinking she would soon be rid of them. His best course was to act as if she had not said anything.
“I will speak to Lucy and explain the importance of keeping them in the nursery.”
“Speak directly to Lucy?” Mother opened the gold silk fan hanging from her wrist and fluttered it in front of her face. “Gracious, Greystone, what is this world coming to? You must speak to Crawford and have him relay the order.”
She had schooled Greystone well in the proper chain of command within the household, but he wanted to manage the boys’ care himself. Instead of responding, he continued. “They could use some fresh air, of course, but I am not yet prepared to let them go to the park. Their former master may attempt to snatch them again.” He chuckled. “Although they are already becoming too plump for their former profession. I suppose they will make excellent tradesmen of some sort.”
“Greystone!”
Surprised at his own calm, his own sense of certainty, he leveled a firm yet smiling look at her. “Mother, darling, I will keep the boys. I pray you, let us hear no more about them.”
Her eyes reddened, something he rarely saw, and her fan moved rapidly before her.
“Did you have a pleasant evening with Uncle Grenville last week? We have not had a chance to share our news of that night.”
She looked away briefly. “Pleasant enough.” The chill in her tone said more than her words. It was none of his business. “And you. Did you enjoy your supper with Julia and that gel?”
He clenched his jaw to contain his sudden annoyance. But why did her cross reference to Lady Beatrice anger him? The answer was simple. Against his determination not to form an attachment to the young lady, that was exactly what he was doing. But of course he could not say so to Mother. “Pleasant enough. But you must help poor Mrs. Parton find another French chef. Her latest cook has an excessive fondness for salt.”
Now she chuckled, a genuine laugh such as he rarely heard from her. “I shall do that.” She rose from her chair. “And on that subject, will you dine in tonight?”
“I believe so.” He had planned to go to his club, but a drive to White’s on such a rainy evening held no appeal. “Why not invite Mrs. Parton and her companion in for whist?”
She stiffened. “Really, Greystone, is it not enough that I have lost Julia’s company because of her ‘companion’? Must I endure Melton’s sister in my own home?” She strode toward the door, clearly expecting no answer.
He should be used to her determination to be unhappy, yet a weight settled upon his chest. Perhaps it would be better to forego an evening of whist. He had dealt her a blow about the sweeps. The least he could do was not force her to endure the company of a lady of whom she clearly did not approve.
A lady to whom Greystone’s heart insisted upon attaching itself.
*
“So your brother would sell you to this Rumbold person to pay off his debts.” Mrs. Parton did not appear angry, only disappointed when Beatrice confessed to seeing Melly. And perhaps a bit indignant over Melly’s behavior.
“Sell me?” Beatrice nearly choked on a bite of salty chicken. “But are not financial considerations a part of every marriage arrangement?”
Mrs. Parton set down her fork and shoved away her still-full plate. “My dear, Melton did not tell you everything about this man. Frank Rumbold is a desperately ambitious man. Marriage to you would tie him forever to your old aristocratic family and elevate him into Society. But he has made his fortune off of foolish young peers like Melton and other aristocrats addicted to gambling. He leads them as lambs to the slaughter.” She stared off in silence. “I have failed to protect you, and now I know of no remedy for the situation.”
Beatrice also shoved away her plate, but not for want of hunger. Mrs. Parton’s cook used a heavy hand with salt and grease. “I—I could refuse to receive him.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Parton gave her a sympathetic smile. “You promised that before, and you see how it worked out.” She heaved out a deep sigh. “Furthermore if you refuse after saying you would receive him, Mr. Rumbold may find a way to…oh, there is no other way to say it. He may take revenge, either against Melton or you. I have seen him do it.”
Beatrice stared at her in astonishment. “Revenge? But why? How?”
“As I said, my dear, he has great wealth, however ill-gotten it is. With a bribe here and a bribe there, he can accomplish whatever evil thing he wishes.”
The few bites Beatrice had managed to eat threatened to return on her. “How could Melly become entangled with someone so evil? Perhaps I was wrong to forgive him, for it only made him think he could use me.”
“He is merely following Rumbold’s example. Men like that have a way of ingratiating themselves to young gentlemen. Melton has always had a bent toward gambling, so it was easy for Rumbold to ensnare him with flattery and friendship.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Gambling is an evil addiction. More than one young gentleman, and even some ladies, have been ruined by it.”
Beatrice studied her hands and forced herself not to wring them together. “If only Melly had found a worthy mentor when he was elevated to the peerage, someone who would guide his feet on a wiser path.”
“Humph.” Mrs. Parton snatched back her plate and cut into her chicken as if she would butcher it all over again. “Blakemore tried to befriend him, but Melton would have none of it. Got rather insulting, in fact. Not like Lord Greystone, who was drawn only to the most upright Christian gentlemen. Oh, he had a year or two of foolishness, but not to his ruin. When his brother Richard and Lord Blakemore confronted him, he quickly mended his ways.”
At the mention of the viscount’s name, Beatrice’s
heart lurched. While she could not say she loved him, she did admire him exceedingly. Here at last was a trustworthy gentleman. But how could she hope for anything more than his friendship? She could never expect someone of his character to court her, lest he be drawn into an association with Melly, and thus Mr. Rumbold. And if she was forced into a marriage to Rumbold, no doubt she would lose every friend she had, including Mrs. Parton, Lord Greystone and Mr. and Mrs. Grenville.
She blew out a cross breath. “I shall refuse to receive Mr. Rumbold. I cannot, will not, be forced into marriage to such a person.”
“I am so pleased to hear you say that.” Mrs. Parton’s round face beamed her delight. “Do permit me to advise you, my dear, that it will be best to postpone the meeting rather than cancel it. That way he cannot take too much offense. Then we will devise other ways to avoid him.” Her expression turned maternal. “My dear girl, you said you have forgiven Melton. That is a good thing for your sake. Our forgiveness should be endless. But that does not mean we can give others license to destroy us. For your dear brother’s sake, you must also require that he be responsible, even if that means avoiding him at all cost.”
“Yes, I can see what you mean.” Beatrice’s stomach settled at last, and she retrieved her own plate and speared a bite of potato with her fork. “Oh, Mrs. Parton, I thank the Lord you are my friend.” Joy bubbled up inside her. “And you may be certain that I will indeed let you advise me. In fact I shall never again do anything without your counsel.”
A kind but wily look stole over Mrs. Parton’s plump face, deepening the laugh lines around her eyes. “Knowing how easily Melton can change your mind, perhaps I should lock you in your room when I go out.”
Rather than annoy Beatrice, the idea made her feel protected, as when her governess had forbidden her to play near the rapidly flowing High Force Falls on the River Tees that ran by Melton Gardens, lest she fall in and drown. Now Mrs. Parton was her protector, yet she could not help but wish a certain viscount would fill that office.
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