Louise M Gouge

by A Suitable Wife

  Her heart sank, and she struggled to maintain control. “How kind of you to be concerned.” She would say no more on the subject. She had no doubt the baron knew of her brother’s debts. Determined to change the tone of the conversation, she offered a bright smile. “Someday I must visit the House of Lords and watch the proceedings. I should like to hear him address his peers.”

  “I have yet to see him do so. Of course, you understand, not every peer addresses every issue.” He glanced toward the other ladies, then leaned closer to Beatrice in a confiding manner. “I did not mean to distress you. In fact, I mentioned it only as a preface to asking if I may be of service to you in his regard.” He drew back and frowned. “Forgive me if I am overstepping.”

  His generosity astounded her. “Not at all. I do believe Melly needs a good friend, someone of character who can lead him away from evil influences.” Although she would prefer that a certain other nobleman would assume that office.

  “Lord Greystone,” Palmer announced from the doorway.

  Beatrice’s heart did its usual hiccup upon hearing his name, but she tried to keep from reacting to the viscount’s timely entrance, lest Lord Winston misunderstand.

  “Oh, my.” Mrs. Parton bustled across the room to where Beatrice and the baron sat, with Lady Drayton close behind. The marchioness laughed the whole distance, while Mrs. Parton chuckled in her merry way. “We certainly do have an abundance of guests, do we not, Lady Beatrice?”

  How kind of Mrs. Parton to address her formally in this company. Beatrice had yet to find the courage to correct her use of “Bea.”

  Lord Greystone strode into the room but stopped halfway to where they were gathered. “Ah, Mrs. Parton.” His frowning stare settled on Lord Winston as he spoke. “Have I come at an inconvenient time?”

  “Not at all, my boy.” Lady Drayton once again projected her rank. “I was just leaving.” She sailed up behind Beatrice’s chair and patted her shoulder. “Walk me to the door, my dear. I should like to know you better.”

  Beatrice shot a quick glance at Mrs. Parton, who nodded. “Of course, Lady Drayton.” She rose and walked around the chair.

  The marchioness captured Beatrice’s arm and ushered her out to the front entry. “Now listen to me, my dear. If neither of those two young imbeciles glaring at each other in the drawing room makes an offer for you, I have a grandson who has made a name for himself serving with Wellington. He is a younger son of our youngest son, so he bears no hereditary title, but he has a large inheritance from his mother. Lord Drayton means to see to it that the Prince Regent grants him an earldom.” She frowned, an expression at odds with her deeply embedded smile lines. “Of course we cannot guarantee that he has not taken up Wellington’s…habits with the ladies. But a spirited girl like you can take him in hand with no trouble.”

  That revelation sealed a death warrant on any possible interest Beatrice might develop for the gentleman. Putting Mama’s graciousness firmly into place, she gave the marchioness a warm smile. “You have paid me the highest compliment, Lady Drayton. Please be assured that I will consider it. But of course the young man will have his own preferences.”

  “Just so.” Lady Drayton patted Beatrice’s cheek. “But do keep him in mind.” She gave her a wily smile. “You could do worse than marrying into the Marquess of Drayton’s family.”

  But she could not do worse than marrying an inconstant gentleman. No, she would rather live her life as a companion, or even as a governess, than to marry someone with all the wealth in the world, but not a whit of character.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After a restless night with little sleep, Greystone had longed for nothing more than the consolation of the two people who would understand his concerns regarding Kit and Ben. He should have remembered this was Mrs. Parton’s afternoon at home, should have recalled her remark about inviting Winston to visit her. But events of the past two days had obscured those memories, so he offered the requisite bows and greetings and sat for the obligatory cup of tea.

  Once she returned from her conference with Lady Drayton, Lady Beatrice poured, adding one lump of sugar and a splash of cream before handing him the cup. Clever, thoughtful girl. She had noticed his preferences. His heart warmed at the thought. Everything she did drew him closer to the decision that he must pursue her. Despite his fears of being like Father, he felt the Almighty’s nudging him toward this beautiful lady, and he had little power to resist.

  “A fine day.” Winston spoke to no one in particular.

  “Indeed,” Greystone said. “A fine day.”

  “Fine if one does not mind the fog.” Mrs. Parton fingered the biscuit balanced on the edge of her saucer. “Even now one can hardly see across the square.”

  “Very true, madam.” Clearly not listening to their hostess, Winston tapped a foot on the carpet and stared at Greystone.

  Was that a challenge in his eyes? Greystone would gladly accept. He would not leave before he spoke to the ladies, and he would not speak to them while his rival was here.

  Rival? Yes, exactly so. A thread of jealousy wove into his chest. While he could not yet declare his growing attachment for Lady Beatrice, he did not welcome the complication of Winston’s competing for her affection.

  “More tea, Lord Winston?” Lady Beatrice was the picture of grace and composure, and Greystone could detect no favoritism for the baron in her countenance.

  “Why, yes.” The baron held out his cup and saucer. She must have remembered his preferences as well, for he retrieved the well-sugared beverage with a self-satisfied grin. “I thank you, Lady Beatrice.” He stirred and sipped while Greystone stewed. How long had he been here? A gentleman never stayed beyond fifteen minutes, twenty at most, so his hostess could see other guests. Was it not past time for Winston to leave?

  “I must thank you again for your kind words about—” Lady Beatrice paused and looked around the group. “I mean…”

  “Say no more, madam.” Winston gave her a syrupy smile as sweet as the four lumps of sugar in his tea. “I flatter myself that my efforts to befriend Melton have not been without success, and I shall not cease until our goals are accomplished.”

  Our goals? Greystone almost spit out his beverage. But conviction forced him to swallow hard. Perhaps Winston was a good choice for Lady Beatrice after all. Now he recalled seeing him outside of Westminster clapping the young earl on his shoulder as if they were old friends. Melton had resembled a pleased puppy, not a peer who had been in Parliament for two years longer than Winston. But Greystone had been so determined to keep his hands clean, his reputation spotless for the sake of his charities, that he had not so much as offered Melton a handshake. Nor even a nod.

  You, Greystone, are a pompous Pharisee.

  And look what had happened to his so-called good works. Mother’s necklace stolen. Two little boys lost. Shame ate away at him. Perhaps he should be the one to leave.

  “Lord Greystone,” Lady Beatrice said. “Did you bring us any news?”

  Her gentle smile chased away his dejection as surely as morning sun dispersed fog. A strange new assurance gripped his heart. He did indeed care deeply for Lady Beatrice, and he would not stand aside and let Winston win her unopposed. And he would depart only when she sent him away.

  “No, madam. No news.” He brushed a hand over the brocade chair arm and stared up at the ornate rococo molding above the pink floral wallpaper. If need be, he would wait to speak to her until spiders spun their webs from corner to corner and across the sparkling chandeliers—something that would never happen in this immaculately kept house.

  “Oh, Greystone.” Mrs. Parton clapped her hands, startling everyone. “I just recalled that other matter we need to discuss. Can you wait?” She blinked her eyes innocently.

  “Other matter?” Greystone questioned her with a look, then realized her ploy. “Ah, yes indeed. I do have that information you wanted.”

  Winston frowned and set down his teacup. “Well, I can see I am delaying some i
mportant business.”

  “Not at all, my dear kinsman.” Mrs. Parton stood, requiring everyone else to follow. “Do come back anytime.”

  The speed with which she graciously dispatched the baron impressed Greystone so much that he could hardly recall why he had come.

  *

  For the first time since her brother ascended to the peerage, Beatrice had a measure of confidence that he could be redeemed from his foolish ways. How grateful she was to Lord Winston for befriending him. Still, when Mrs. Parton accompanied the baron from the room, Beatrice found herself alone with Lord Greystone, and her heart skipped. A quick glance at the footman just inside the door reassured her that all was proper. “Lady Beatrice.” Lord Greystone reclaimed his seat next to her. “May I speak with you?”

  Worry threaded through her. “Is this about Melly?”

  “Partly. Lord Winston has put me to shame, and I have no excuse for it.”

  “Sir?” She forced herself to breathe.

  “Madam, I have been a Pharisee.” Sorrow filled his expression. “I should have reached out to your brother three years ago when he first came to London, but his brashness…no, I will offer no excuse. I should have been more persistent in offering friendship.” He seemed to struggle for words. “Now a better gentleman has set an example for me, and I shall endeavor to influence Melton to reform his ways.”

  “Oh, sir, you give me hope.” She could barely keep from grasping his hands. “Perhaps you and Lord Winston can work together. The fourth chapter of Ecclesiastes tells us that two are better than one when trying to accomplish any worthy thing.”

  An almost comical grimace passed over his face, though she could not guess what it meant. “Yes, of course. I shall address the matter with the baron.” He cleared his throat. “But I must tell you something else.”

  Again, worry teased at the corners of her mind. “Very well.”

  “You have occupied my thoughts since the moment I met you.” He said the words simply, as if stating that the sky was blue. Again her heart skipped. “Yes, that is but a short time, yet long enough for me to know where my mind is leading me.” A tender look filled his eyes. This was the admiration she had longed for since she had left the schoolroom, and she desired it from no other gentleman than the one seated beside her.

  “Sir—”

  He held up one hand. “Please permit me to finish. Then if you wish to cast me out, my fate will be well deserved.”

  She pressed her lips together. Casting him out was the last thing on her mind.

  “Lady Beatrice, I pray it will not be offensive to you for me to say I have developed a great attachment for you.”

  She sniffed back tears. “It most certainly is not offensive.”

  He chuckled. “That gives me great encouragement. However, there are impediments to our deepening this attachment.”

  Yes, of course. Her brother. His mother. Yet the gentleness in Lord Greystone’s voice made her heart ache with hope. “I understand.”

  “Then I shall speak plainly.” He glanced away, frowning. “A peer is expected to marry and produce an heir, yet I cannot take on the responsibilities of a husband and father until I am certain I will not be the man my father was.”

  Beatrice drew back. This was not what she had expected. Yet his candor moved her. How easy it would be to protest that he would make an excellent husband, even though she had no assurance that he would. Nor did she have any idea what his father’s failings had been. All she could offer back to him were her own doubts about marriage.

  “I will not ask you to explain further,” she said, “but I will confess my fear of marrying an ardent suitor only to find him as neglectful as my father was to my mother. To all of us.”

  Understanding lit those remarkable blue eyes. “Ah. That explains—”

  “My brother’s…desperate ways.” And her own deep longing to be admired by a constant husband.

  He exhaled another long sigh, obviously relieved by these confessions. For her part, Beatrice felt more than relief. She felt as if their friendship had embarked upon a journey that would ultimately lead to their mutual happiness.

  “I realize you are of age and may do as you wish. But I believe that we honor God when we bow to conventions and do things properly. Therefore, if you have no objections, when I extend the hand of friendship to Melton, I will also tell him of our mutual feelings and ask his permission to continue our…acquaintance.”

  Once again, this was not what she expected, yet she could only admire his caution. He would forge ahead in spite of Melly’s reputation, yet would not declare himself if her brother refused his friendship. As much as that hurt her, she managed to say, “That would please me very much.” But another troubling thought must be spoken. “You must know that he can provide no dowry for me.”

  “I am not at all surprised.” He brushed away her words like a bothersome fly. “But first things first. I cannot think he will lightly agree to accept me as a friend after I cast him out of my house the night of my ball. Thus I must go to him in all humility and first beg his pardon.”

  “Must you?” She recalled how Melly had used her gentleness to his advantage. “I would not like to see you humble yourself to him.”

  “Yes, I must.” He took her hand and leaned close, resting his forehead against hers, an endearing gesture that portended a meeting of their minds. “And you must trust me in this.”

  In this closeness she detected the delicate scent of his cologne, an orange-blossom fragrance that made her delightfully dizzy. With some effort she sighed as she said the words, “I will trust you in this and in everything.” Indeed, her trust in him had been growing since the moment she had seen him holding a dirty little chimney sweep in his arms.

  He echoed her sigh. “Then we have an agreement?”

  “We have an agreement,” she whispered. Now if God would soften Melly’s heart, there would no longer be any impediments to their happiness.

  Unless, of course, one considered Lady Greystone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Beatrice had never cared to linger over her toilette or study her face in the mirror for any length of time. But today she could see a difference in her reflection, a cheerful hope borne of knowing that Lord Greystone would do all in his power to befriend and help Melly.

  Lucy, on the other hand, was strangely quiet, and her face appeared wan, as though she had been weeping. Her hands shook as she combed through Beatrice’s hair, and she seemed to have lost her skill for making a proper curl.

  Beatrice had no wish to meddle in her affairs, but perhaps she could offer a listening ear. “Are you well, Lucy?” She gave the girl a sympathetic smile in the mirror.

  Lucy bit her lip and nodded. “Yes, my lady.” But her hands shook all the more, and the comb fell from her hands. Covering her face, she dropped to her knees and sobbed almost hysterically. “Oh, my lady, I’ve done a terrible thing.”

  An awful foreboding crowded out Beatrice’s joy. She leaned forward and pulled Lucy into an awkward, kneeling embrace and patted her back. “There now, it cannot be so terrible.” Sending up a silent prayer for wisdom, she gently pushed the girl away so she could see her face. “Tell me what you have done.”

  Her face awash with tears, Lucy gulped and hiccuped, trembling all the while. “I—I hid Lady Greystone’s necklace so everybody would think the brats stole it.”

  Beatrice could hardly grasp her words. So her forebodings had not been baseless. “Why?” She guessed the girl’s motives, but must hear them.

  “B-because I didn’t want to be a nursemaid to street trash.” Lucy swiped at her tears. “If they’d been his lordship’s children, it wouldn’t have been so bad. But they were filthy little climbing-boys.” Beatrice offered her a handkerchief, and she blew her nose with great force. “Besides—” indignation crept into her tone “—you can see how good I am at coiffing your hair. That’s the position I want…to be a lady’s maid.”

  Praying again for wisdom, Beatri
ce sensed that she should not address that particular matter, at least not now. Perhaps she had made a mistake in promoting this girl to a much-prized senior servant position, something many women of the servant class worked for years to attain. “And where did you put the necklace?” A shiver of dread went through her. Lord Greystone’s staff had searched every inch of the town house’s four stories.

  Lucy began to wail again, this time so fiercely that her babbled answer was unintelligible.

  “Stop it, Lucy.” Beatrice gave her a firm shake. “Nothing can be solved through hysterics.” When the girl quieted somewhat, she asked again, “Where did you hide it?”

  “I-in the nursery in a little hole in the wall behind the bed.” She gulped back another sob.

  “Well, then, we will simply go over and inform Lord Greystone so he can restore it to the viscountess.” Just as she was about to thank the Lord for the answered prayer, Lucy burst out with another flood of tears.

  “But it’s gone!”

  “What?”

  “I went to get it this morning so I could put it out someplace for someone to find, but it wasn’t there.” She slumped back to sit on the floor and stared off vacantly. “Now they’ll hang me for sure.”

  Beatrice shuddered. Indeed they just might do that.

  *

  “Oh, Greystone, I hardly know what to think.” Mrs. Parton stood on one side of Lucy while Lady Beatrice stood on the other, each holding an arm lest the girl fall to the floor. “We trusted her, and she has betrayed us all.”

  Greystone felt sick to his stomach. He was glad these two good ladies had sent for him instead of taking Lucy to his house. Now he had time to devise a way to soften the blows he must deal to both Mother and Crawford.

  “Lucy, are you certain the necklace is gone?”

  Whimpering out some sort of answer, she nodded.

  “Shh. You must control yourself, Lucy.” Lady Beatrice patted the girl’s shoulder, an overly kind gesture, considering the circumstances. But he would not fault her, for it exhibited her compassionate nature, one of the many reasons he had come to regard her so highly. He expelled a long sigh and paced across the drawing-room carpet, rubbing the back of his neck as he considered his next step. A vague suspicion crept into his mind. “Are you telling us everything?”