Louise M Gouge

by A Suitable Wife

  For once Lucy would not meet her gaze in the mirror. “I put them to bed, my lady.” Some indecipherable expression crossed her face, and her hands shook as she wound the ribbon back on its spool. “But I wanted you to see I can help with the undressing, too, not just the getting ready.”

  Beatrice nodded. Something was wrong, but she must be careful how she questioned the girl. “Is everything all right next door?” She kept her tone light, as if asking about the weather.

  Lucy still would not meet her gaze. “No, miss, uh, my lady.” She dug the brush deep into Beatrice’s hair, massaging the scalp as she swept it downward.

  Despite the pleasant feeling of having her hair brushed, which always helped to relax her, Beatrice resisted the urge to let her guard down. “What happened?”

  “Well, um, it seems the boys got into a bit of trouble while I wasn’t looking.” She blinked. “Mind you, I keep up with them as best I can. But sometimes when they dash away, I have to rest a bit before giving chase.”

  Beatrice hid a smile. Surely Lucy was not to blame for their mischief. “And what happened today?”

  Lucy dropped the brush, but snatched it up with trembling hands. “They got into Lady Greystone’s bedchamber and stole a necklace.” Her voice wavered.

  “Oh, my goodness.” Beatrice swung around and grasped Lucy’s hands, but still the girl would not meet her gaze. “You are not to blame for their mischief.” Crime, actually. Children had been hanged for less, an abhorrent punishment, but the law of the land nonetheless.

  Lucy chewed her lip for a moment. “So you don’t think his lordship will dismiss me?”

  “Why no, Lucy, not at all.” Despite her words Beatrice was not certain she should console the girl. Something still was not right. But what did Beatrice know of such things? She had never confronted a thief in her home. The servants at Melton Gardens were honest Christians who took pride in their flawless service. “Lord Greystone is the kindest gentleman one could ever know. And I am certain he realizes your talents are better suited to being a lady’s maid.”

  Now the girl brightened, and she brushed away tears. “Oh, do you think so, my lady?”

  Even as she nodded to confirm her words, Beatrice felt a nudge of uncertainty. Once again she thought, something is not right about this.

  *

  “What do you mean ‘gone’?” Greystone studied the two footmen who had been charged with confining Kit and Ben. As if to set the stage for a tragedy, a fog lay over the streets of London, and no morning sunlight brightened the nursery. “If the door was locked, how did they get out?” His stomach ached with worry over the two little scamps. Just yesterday Crawford had reported that their former master had been seen in the neighborhood but without the tools of his trade. Had he kidnapped them?

  “Oh, they be sly ones, milord.” The younger footman’s wig and livery were askew, as if he had been sleeping, yet his eyes seemed alert enough. “Picked the lock, they did.” Warren nudged the older man. “Ain’t that right, Rob?”

  Robert was a longtime employee, and Greystone knew him to be utterly trustworthy. “I don’t know, my lord. They were sound asleep when I went down to fetch breakfast for them—” he nodded toward a tray of porridge and tea “—and I made sure the door was locked behind me. When I returned, the door was wide open, and they were gone.” He shot a cross look at his companion.

  “And you were sleeping, too?” Greystone did not care for Warren’s attitude. Although he was a new employee, his failure to understand his duty could not be excused.

  He shrugged, adding to the offense. “I worked all day yesterday, milord. A man’s gotta sleep sometime.”

  “That is beyond enough.” Crawford entered the room and stood by Greystone, his face aflame, his eyes blazing. “You are dismissed.”

  “One moment.” Greystone lifted a hand to stop his tirade. “Crawford, I do not like to override your orders, but I want these men to join the search for the boys.”

  Robert appeared relieved, but Warren heaved out a great sigh. “Yes, milord,” they chorused.

  “In addition, Crawford, I want the entire staff to search the premises from the basement to the attic to see if anything else is missing.” He put out a hand to stop the older footman. “One moment, Robert.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Fetch me a Bow Street Runner. I shall give you a note.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Relief shone in the servant’s eyes. Here was a dependable man. But Greystone could not be certain about the other one.

  *

  “Oh, Frances, we came as soon as we could.” Mrs. Parton bustled into the town house’s front entry with Beatrice on her heels.

  “You heard?” Lady Greystone’s face was pinched with anger, but she submitted to Mrs. Parton’s embrace. “Julia, you must support me in this. Greystone has the entire staff searching for the brats, but I am beside myself to think he will permit them to stay here if they are found.”

  Lord Greystone hurried down the front staircase, a footman close behind him. He stopped short when he saw Mrs. Parton, and his eyes flared briefly when he glanced at Beatrice. In spite of the distractions of the moment, Beatrice’s heart skipped.

  “Ladies, I fear you have come at an inconvenient time—”

  “Not at all, Greystone.” Mrs. Parton gripped Lady Greystone’s hand. “We insist upon helping you, do we not, Bea?”

  “Yes, of course.” She hesitated to tell them of her unease about Lucy’s story. After thinking about it further, she’d decided that the girl had been nervous last night simply because of the situation, not because she bore any fault for the children’s actions.

  “Excuse me, ladies.” Lord Greystone brushed past them on his way to the door and handed the footman a letter. “Make haste, Robert. The longer the boys are missing, the less likely it is that we will find them.” Once the man hurried out, the viscount faced his mother. “Madam, please be at ease. I shall not rest until we have solved this problem.”

  “Problem?” Her voice shook. “It is a crime, Greystone. They have stolen a valuable heirloom necklace and have no doubt already sold it.” The pathos in her tone rivaled Queen Gertrude’s in last night’s performance. Unfortunately the viscountess was not acting.

  Lord Greystone swiped a hand over his eyes. “We will find out soon enough. Every honest jewelry dealer will be alerted to watch for it.”

  Beatrice’s heart went out to him and his mother. “Lady Greystone, you have my sympathy for your loss. I recall seeing you wear the necklace at Lord Greystone’s birthday ball.” Never mind that she had not even been presented to the viscountess that evening. “It is an exquisite creation and looked so becoming with your scarlet gown.” She rushed on before the viscountess could respond. “I will pray that it is restored to you very soon.”

  The lady stared in her direction, not seeming to see her. At last her eyes focused. “I thank you, Lady Beatrice.”

  As if everyone were stunned by her uncharacteristically gracious answer, silence ruled the front entryway for several moments. Beatrice made haste to keep her promise, lifting up a petition that all would soon be solved, that God would be merciful to the boys and to Lord Greystone. And to poor Lady Greystone, whose anger for once seemed justified.

  *

  Lord, I cannot believe You brought Kit and Ben to me only to have them rob us. Did I mistake Your voice in my mind that day? Did the innocence in Kit’s eyes mask his true character? And why am I more concerned about their disappearance than I am about the necklace?

  Greystone knelt beside his bed, something he had not done in many years. But the full impact of the theft had brought him to his knees with self-doubt and a longing for God’s wisdom. After all of his talk about wanting to help children who were forced to work as climbing-boys, he began to question every aspect of the project. He would not abandon it outright, but he had certainly lost his enthusiasm. Yet perhaps his peers whom he had regarded as hard-hearted were right. Perhaps the lower classes did not
deserve help, for they would take advantage of any perceived weakness on the part of their betters who tried to raise their expectations.

  And what of poor Mother? I intended to show her that she must stand aside and permit me to rule my own house from now on. But how can I inflict that pain upon her just when she has lost one of the few material objects she has ever valued?

  He leaned his forehead against the mattress, longing for God’s voice to answer him out of the darkness. Instead a vision of Lady Beatrice danced in his mind. This morning the concern in her eyes, her compassion toward Mother, had caused a shift in his determination not to further their acquaintance. Oddly, Mother had received her words of sympathy without a rude response. If any good could come of this situation, perhaps it would be a friendship between them.

  Somehow that thought pleased him mightily. If Mother befriended Lady Beatrice, all of Society would have no choice but to do the same. If all of Society accepted her, he would no longer be required to fight his attraction to her. He had never before considered that possibility. But was this not just one more situation in which Mother was making his choices and Society was dictating his happiness? All of his objections seemed to lose their power over him, and a sense of excitement filled him over the prospect of following his heart.

  For now, though, another situation loomed larger and more immediate. Every corner of the house had been searched for the boys, every chamber examined for signs of other missing items. Only the ruby necklace was gone. Poor Mrs. Hudson was bereft, as though the jewels were her own. She had been Mother’s lady’s maid for some twenty years and had never lost or misplaced so much as a well-used ribbon. When the usually calm woman had discovered someone had picked the lock on the jewel case and stolen its most valuable object, she had dissolved into hysterics. Greystone had had a difficult time reassuring her of his faith in her loyalty. Mother had even consoled her and insisted she was not at fault—another surprising act on the part of his parent.

  Jeremy Slate, the Bow Street Runner, had been apprised of the situation and had viewed the scene of the crime, along with all possible evidence, of which there was little. The boys’ old clothes had been burned days ago, and no one knew where they had lived before coming to Greystone Hall that fateful day. But if anyone could find the children and discover what they’d done with the necklace, or if they’d even stolen it in the first place, Mr. Slate was the man.

  As he drifted off to sleep, something nagged at the back of Greystone’s mind. Kit and Ben had been quite proud of their new leather shoes and always resisted surrendering them at bedtime. Yet those shoes had been left beside their bed, both pairs lined up perfectly as when they had been taken off the night before. Why would they leave behind their most prized possessions?

  Simply put, they would not. At the thought, he jolted awake, eager for tomorrow’s arrival so he could investigate the matter in depth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  While Lucy fussed with Beatrice’s hair, Beatrice fidgeted like a schoolgirl. No, like Kit and Ben had the day before yesterday while Lucy had ignored them. That thought settled her down. At each reminder of the children, her heart ached anew. They were innocent. She believed it, felt it, desperately wished it to be so.

  “Oh, my lady, your first at home.” Lucy expertly wound a curl and pinned it with a paste jewel pin. “Won’t you be the talk of London when all the gents see what a beauty you are?”

  Beatrice shifted again. “Crawford, you do not need to flatter me.”

  “No, of course not, miss.” Her face reflected in the mirror showed no discomfiture at the rebuke. “I’m just saying what I see.” She put the finishing touches on the coiffure and stood back to admire her work. “Do you like the pink or the blue today, miss?”

  “Remember, Lucy, the correct address is ‘my lady.’” Beatrice tempered her tone, but offered no smile. “If you do not use the proper address, you will never find employment, no matter how skilled your hands may be.”

  “But, my lady—” the girl gave her a saucy grin “—I was hoping to work for you forever, like Mrs. Hudson for Lady Greystone.” She rolled her eyes. “Though I wouldn’t want to work for that old harpy. Lud, she can bite.”

  “Crawford!” Beatrice stood and spun around, gripping the girl by her shoulders. “You must not say such things. Surely your grandfather has given you some training in how to respect those for whom you work.”

  “Yes he did, my lady.” Lucy’s lower lip stuck out in a pout. “But you saw how his lordship treats them dirty little climbing-boys like they were his own born children.”

  “Do not change the subject.” Beatrice huffed out a sigh and resumed her seat in front of the mirror. “In any event, you need not worry about Kit and Ben anymore.” Saying their names renewed her grief and disappointment. She prayed Lord Greystone would not abandon his efforts to help other sweeps because those two had betrayed his trust. No, she corrected herself, if they had betrayed his trust.

  “That’s the truth.” Lucy snickered and went about finishing her work. “But oh, could I tell you stories.”

  At the touch of her hands a raw shiver ran down Beatrice’s back. Why had she not followed her better instincts and told Lord Greystone about Lucy’s attitude? That alone was enough to send her back to her grandfather’s tutelage. Why had Beatrice thought it would be easy to train her?

  “We will not discuss the boys any further, Crawford.” Beatrice swallowed her self-recriminations. She must present a pleasant face to Mrs. Parton’s guests this afternoon, whoever they might be. But she would do it on her own terms. “Bring me the green gown.”

  If anyone found it less flattering than the pink or blue, so be it.

  *

  “I knew your father, Lady Beatrice.” The Marchioness of Drayton, an ancient lady with pale blue eyes and lavender hair, beamed at Beatrice from her chair across the small grouping of furniture. “He was diligent in his duties and well thought of by his peers.”

  “I thank you, Lady Drayton.” Beatrice could well imagine that Papa had always done his duty, to king and country, if not his family.

  “And you my dear, how is your search for a husband proceeding?” Fluttering a blue lace fan before her plump, laugh-lined face, Lady Drayton did not wait for an answer. “I will be having a ball in two weeks, so of course you must come. Many of London’s unattached gentlemen will be hastening to choose their brides before Wellington comes home, bringing in his wake war heroes who will want to flaunt their new titles and spoils of war.”

  “Of course we shall attend, Lady Drayton.” Mrs. Parton laughed in her jolly way. “But there is hardly a dearth of young ladies for all of those gentlemen.”

  “No, not at all. The young people of your time were quite fruitful in producing sufficient offspring to go around, as were mine in the previous generation.”

  The two ladies laughed at their own wit, and Beatrice smiled at their merry ways, even as she considered the improbability that she could marry without a dowry. God had blessed her with Mrs. Parton’s friendship, but she could not expect the lady to provide her with that essential part of any marriage agreement.

  “Lord Winston, my lady,” the butler announced from the doorway.

  “Send him right in,” Lady Drayton said, although Mrs. Parton was the hostess. Beatrice guessed a marchioness could do as she wished, and Mrs. Parton did not seem to mind.

  Lord Winston entered the large room and, locating the ladies, strode across the space and bowed over Lady Drayton’s hand. “My lady, I did not know you were here. Shall I postpone my visit?” He shot a glance at Mrs. Parton, who was blissfully busy with her tea.

  “If you mean to dismiss me, Winston, you will have no luck. I shall not give way, so do not think to ask me.” Lady Drayton winked at him, no doubt another privilege of her rank.

  The baron gave her a little smile, clearly not offended. Beatrice wondered if she had misjudged him. Or was he cheerful only with his fellow aristocrats? He made his way over to Mrs.
Parton, and the two exchanged the usual pleasantries. Then he settled his gaze on her. “Lady Beatrice, you look like a spring day.”

  “Oh, he is a poet!” Lady Drayton laughed, with Mrs. Parton echoing her. “Let us warn Byron that his place in the sun has been usurped.”

  Beatrice could not stop her own laughter, and she hoped Lord Winston would not misunderstand. “I thank you, Lord Winston. You honor me.”

  “Not at all.” He took the chair beside her and accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Parton. “I have thought often and agreeably of our last meeting and hoped to see you again.”

  “Again, I thank you, sir.” She could not honestly return the compliment, for another gentleman had filled her thoughts of late.

  “Mrs. Parton.” Lady Drayton set down her teacup and rose. “Do show me that divine sculpture over there.” She pointed her fan at a statue of a horse and rider set near a side door.

  Mrs. Parton gave Beatrice a knowing smile. “Of course, Lady Drayton.”

  As the two women crossed the room, they whispered back and forth. Beatrice hoped Mrs. Parton would confide in her later about their intense conversation. Did she now regard Lord Winston, her own relative, as her favorite suitor for Beatrice’s hand? The thought mildly dismayed her, for her heart had settled on another, even though she had no hope that he felt the same way.

  “Lady Beatrice,” Lord Winston said, “I have been spending some time with Melton since you and I last met.”

  Every thought fled. Unable to speak, she stared at the baron, aware of tears stinging her eyes. The tender sympathy in his usually haughty expression changed every opinion she had held against him.

  “I thank you, sir.” Remembering Mama’s teaching, she managed to reclaim her dignity by clearing her throat and dismissing her tears. “Did you find my brother well?” And sober?

  He moved his hand closer to hers but did not breach propriety by grasping it. “As I told you at Lord Blakemore’s supper, I find him witty. But what I took for lightheartedness appears to be a mask for some deep—” He looked away briefly. “Forgive me. I can think of no other word but despair.”