Louise M Gouge

by A Suitable Wife

  Lucy’s eyes widened. After a moment she shook her head. “No, milord. I did wrong, but I had help. That is, until—”

  The pieces began to fall into place. “The new footman, Warren.” He made it a statement rather than a question. “You arranged for him to be hired, did you not?”

  Her tears increased, but at least she did not become hysterical again. “Yes, milord.”

  Again the ladies tried to quiet her, but he grunted with disgust.

  “I learned this morning that Warren left last night. He gave no notice, just disappeared.” Greystone wanted to drop into a chair and sort it all out, but he would get more from Lucy if he stood over her. “Now it makes sense. I have no doubt he has sold the necklace and is on his way to America or some other foreign land.”

  As he suspected, this conjecture brought on a painful wail. He moved in for the kill. “Did he promise to take you with him? Is that why you stole the viscountess’s necklace?”

  Now she looked horrified. “No, milord. I never meant to steal it. I never meant to leave, and I had no idea he meant to.” Her face dissolved into misery. “I was ever so proud to work with my grandfather in your house. I’ve wanted to ever since I was old enough to understand what it was all about.”

  Greystone dismissed her words with a harsh laugh. “I doubt you ever understood what it was all about. Now consider what this will do to your beloved grandfather, my faithful butler who has given my family nothing but exemplary service for over forty years.”

  She merely nodded.

  “But what about Kit and Ben?” Lady Beatrice asked Lucy. “What happened to them?”

  She bit her lip and trembled anew. “Warren gave them laudanum to keep them quiet, then carried them out to their old master.”

  Greystone’s heart sank. That explained the shoes still lined up beside the bed. But how would he ever find the lads and bring them home?

  “Mrs. Parton, would you be kind enough to keep Lucy here until I can sort this all out and speak with Mother and Crawford?”

  “I would be pleased to help in any way,” Mrs. Parton said.

  “And I, as well.” Lady Beatrice’s affectionate gaze encouraged him, and it was all he could do not to kiss her smooth ivory cheek.

  “It may take some time.”

  “Take all the time you need.” Mrs. Parton left Lucy’s side to give him a maternal embrace. “Greystone, do be sure to call me over before you speak to your mother. She will need my support in this.”

  He returned the hug. “I thank you, dear lady, and I will accept your offer.” Again towering over Lucy, he gave her a stern look. “If you dare to leave this house, you will never be able to come back, nor will you ever find a decent way to support yourself.”

  Despite the circumstances, her shamefaced expression did her credit. “Yes, milord.”

  He took his leave of the ladies, but made no haste to return home. In all his years since his elevation to the peerage, he had never faced anything like this, for Mother had made every difficult decision for the family. But he would be the one to decide Lucy’s future, and only God could give him wisdom in the matter. Yet finding Kit and Ben seemed more urgent. And in the midst of it all he must make time to visit Melton and try to befriend him.

  By the time he reached his front door, he had decided that Lucy could wait. The longer he delayed making a judgment, the more she would feel the gravity of her actions.

  But which of the other situations should he deal with first—a matter of the heart or a matter of charity?

  Chapter Twenty

  Greystone had never entered a more disgusting abode. Melton’s apartment in the slums of Seven Dials hardly had the look of an earl’s residence. Beyond the musty stench of the place, everything from carpet to furniture to cheap artwork was shabby, even the mousy little man-of-all-work posing as a butler in oversized livery.

  The servant went in search of his master, leaving Greystone to wait in what some might call a drawing room, a dusty, smoky space unfit for entertaining people of his rank. An unmarried peer with no London house should settle for no less than the Albany Gentleman’s Apartments, but Melton probably did not have sufficient funds to live in that exclusive residence. Or perhaps he was rejected. What a horror for Lady Beatrice if Melton had insisted that she share this place and serve as his hostess. The man should be flogged for his selfish, wastrel ways.

  No, he chided himself, this was not the way to begin. He had come to humble himself to Melton, not criticize him for wasting a considerable fortune in three short years. And it seemed Melton was pleased to see him humbled, for he made no haste to put in an appearance.

  Greystone chose not to sit on the dust-covered furniture, but rather stood and stared out the window onto the narrow street below. Noisy tradesmen of every sort hawked their wares, as did several women whom he had been forced to pointedly ignore on his way here. Was this the sort of street where Kit and Ben had been taken? Or did their old master inhabit an even darker hole in the depths of London’s slums?

  He prayed that Jeremy Slate would soon bring him the information he needed to reclaim his little charges. The Bow Street Runner had accepted his assignment with all eagerness, certain he could find the boys and the necklace. But he’d advised Greystone not to set foot in those darker neighborhoods without escort and weapons, for desperation often led the poor to commit evil deeds, even against a peer of the realm. All the more reason for Parliament to provide an equitable pension to soldiers returning from the war, lest they likewise turn to crime in order to survive.

  “Well, well, well.” Melton sauntered into the room in his dressing gown, with his curly blond hair uncombed and several days’ growth of brownish stubble marking him as the self-indulgent shirker that he was. “If it isn’t the exalted and well-favored Lord Greystone.” He flung himself down on an overstuffed settee, sending up a cloud of dust, and ordered his servant to bring him a brandy. “Anything for you, Greystone?”

  “I thank you, but, no.” No, but I would like to wring your neck, you foolish young jackanapes. Greystone again rebuked himself and prayed for the grace to do what he must. “But I would like to give you something—my apologies over the incident at my birthday ball.”

  Melton’s jaw dropped, and a hint of innocent surprise filled his expression. Instantly Greystone could sense his own insincerity, though he doubted Melton realized it through his hungover haze. “Actually, I would ask something of you. Your forgiveness, if you would be so gracious as to grant it.”

  Melton still stared at him, but a wily grin took over his features.

  “I realize this comes as a surprise.” Greystone hurried on, lest his own mood change in reaction to such deplorable conduct. Lord, this is so difficult. “And therefore I do not expect an immediate reply. If you wish some penance on my part, I am more than willing to perform it.” Where had that thought come from? It was a far too dangerous offer to make to this sort of person. But he could not retract his words.

  Melton threw back his head and laughed, a high, giddy sound affected no doubt by the drink his servant had brought. “Oh, Greystone, Greystone, do you take me for a fool? I know exactly why you’re here. You want my pretty little sister.” He tossed down another gulp of brandy. “Do you really think I haven’t noticed you at the theatre, watching her like a besotted schoolboy?” He emitted an unpleasant laugh. “And of course you may have her.”

  “I—” I want to smash your nose for speaking so carelessly of Lady Beatrice.

  “For a price.”

  Greystone breathed out a hot sigh, feeling for a moment very much like a fire-breathing dragon. Would that he could direct his angry flames at this unworthy drunkard. But that would not save the man. It would only destroy Lady Beatrice’s fond hopes for her brother’s rehabilitation. With considerable difficulty, Greystone dismissed his anger. For now, he would play along with Melton. “And that price is?”

  “Hmm.” Melton tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What would you say to eighty th
ousand? I’m sure you have that available in your wallet.” He chuckled drunkenly, evilly.

  Greystone grasped his composure as if it were a lifeline. Lord, is it ever acceptable to strike another man? To knock some good sense into him, of course. “Eighty thousand, you say? Is that what you owe Rumbold?” That amount was likely three fourths of Melton’s annual income.

  “No.” Melton’s face fell into a petulant pout. “At least, not all of it. I have one or two other creditors who keep harassing me.” He took another drink. “Blasted beasts. Common gutter trash, thinking they have the right to demand an earl’s attention to such a petty matter as gambling debts.”

  Greystone moved back to the window and stared out at the “common gutter trash,” most of them hardworking people who simply wanted to earn their daily bread. At odds with the setting, a well-dressed gentleman in a tall hat strutted along the street until blocked by a cart of freshly caught mussels and herring. While he scolded the fishmonger, an emaciated lad no bigger than Kit stole up behind him and snatched his wallet from his jacket pocket, then disappeared into the crowd. The outraged gentleman gave chase, and Greystone was tempted to dash down and help him. But he had another matter to finish first. Yet he could not ignore the irony. Melton was trying to pick his pocket. But unlike the lad who stole to feed his empty belly, the earl planned to feed his insatiable hunger for wicked living. And even if Greystone possessed eighty thousand in discretionary funds to give him, it would only further his descent into degeneracy.

  “Well?”

  To Greystone’s surprise the desperation in Melton’s tone moved him. Perhaps he truly was like the emaciated little thief, starving for something to nourish not his body, but his soul. Of course. Why had he not thought of it before? Melton needed Christ, not money, to solve his problems. But how did one introduce the subject? If Greystone’s brother Richard were here, he could employ the persuasive pastoral skills that had set Greystone on the right road all those years ago. Only one thought came to mind, and he plunged in before he could overthink it.

  “You are correct in assuming I love Lady Beatrice and would be honored to have her for my wife.” Having said it, he knew it to be true, but his joy over that realization would have to be delayed. Instead, he injected a tone into his words that was at once soothing and devoid of accusation. “However, if we are to be brothers—” The thought did not sit well, but it would soon be the necessary evil accompanying his greatest happiness. “We should come to some accord.”

  Melton sat up, all eagerness. “Yes. Exactly. I would not wish to be related to a miser.” He waved a hand carelessly in the air. “And of course I would not wish for my dear sister to be married to one.” Clearly that “dear sister” was an afterthought. “So you will give me the eighty thousand?” Desperate hope seemed to sober him, for his intense gaze seemed clear and focused.

  This was not the direction Greystone wanted for this conversation. He must hasten to clear up the matter. “What I have in mind is actually a payment plan for you to abide by, with a worthy mentor to help you keep your gambling under control so your losses are no longer so devastating. In a word, you would be accountable to—”

  “Payment plan?” Melton’s expression went through a succession of changes: shock, horror, disgust and finally arrogance. “Accountable?” His voice rose in pitch and volume. “I am the fourth Earl of Melton. I am accountable to no one.”

  And there will be no fifth Earl of Melton if you do not mend your ways. But once again, Greystone refrained from rebuking him. “I fully understand your sense of privilege, Melton, but perhaps you might consider that with your title comes responsibility, as well.”

  Melton snorted. “My tenants are well taken care of. What more do they need than to work my farmland and send me the profits.” He downed another drink. “Why should I have to defer my enjoyment of life? Eat, drink and be merry, I always say.”

  Aha, the perfect opening. “Yes, that scripture is often quoted in defense of merry times. But perhaps you recall that when our Lord related the story, he added that God spoke to the wealthy man, saying, ‘Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee.’” There was much more to the biblical story, but perhaps facing his own mortality would cause Melton sufficient alarm.

  “Ugh! Have you become a preacher amongst us, Greystone? A Wilberforce?” He uttered an oath. “Why, you will never have any fun.”

  Greystone counted to ten before responding. “And you regard being eighty thousand pounds in debt as fun?” Again he withheld all accusation from his voice.

  “Oh, enough of that.” Melton stood, wobbled a bit, then sat back down. “I will not grant you permission to marry Beatrice. In fact I have promised her to another suitor whose generosity is not dependent upon payment plans and accountability.” His lips curled in disgust as he said those last words.

  A chill went down Greystone’s spine, and this time he could barely contain his anger. He guessed that suitor to be Rumbold, for the man had worked long and hard seeking a wife who would elevate him to aristocratic circles. “If you recall, Melton, Lady Beatrice is of age. She and I have an agreement. I came to you only as a courtesy.” He could feel the strain on his face, and his fists clenched seemingly of their own will.

  Melton stood and made an attempt at mirroring Greystone’s rage, but his swagger lacked any semblance of a threat. “We shall see about that. When I tell her about my friend, she will see the light.” His gaze shifted toward the door. Then he put wobbling fists at his waist. “Are you still here? Really, sir, we have nothing more to say to one other.”

  Greystone spun away and stalked out the door. For if he had waited even one more second, his only response would have been to thrash Melton until he begged for mercy.

  *

  Melton flopped down onto the settee, sending up a flurry of dust that made him sneeze. He waved away the haze and swigged down another drink. Cheap brandy. Vile stuff. Nothing at all like the rich amber brew Rumbold had taught him to enjoy, along with a few other pleasures worthy of an earl. But then, if Father had done his duty by him, Melton never would have had to depend upon Rumbold to teach him anything. Drat the man for his lack of care, his lack of instruction. He’d left so many lessons untaught, so much influence not yet established.

  Influence. What a laugh. In spite of what he’d told Beebe, he hadn’t the slightest whit of influence in Parliament. After three years most of his peers turned away at the sight of him. All except that Winston fellow, the somber baron with an untarnished reputation. Who wanted that sort of bore for a friend? A gentleman had to have fun, just as he’d told Greystone, another bore. It was all too annoying.

  But guilt quickly replaced his annoyance. He should have seized the opportunity to have either peer for a friend, even if he refused to be accountable to Greystone. Yet the idea of settling his debts with Rumbold and getting out of his stranglehold sounded appealing. All he needed was a little more time. Once his tenants sent their rents, he could make his first payment.

  He shuddered. Had Rumbold listened to the conversation through those thin walls? He spied on everything Melton did these days, he and Miss Carlton, that paramour of his who lived in the next apartment. Pathetic girl. Did she really think Rumbold would marry her when he could have an earl’s sister?

  But that thought brought a sick sensation to Melton’s stomach. Given a choice between the two men, he would far rather have stuffy Greystone for a brother than an illegitimate social climber.

  “Having a rest, are we?” Rumbold ambled into the room from the outer corridor, with Miss Carlton on his heels. “Should you not be up and about, ready to go and speak with Lord Blakemore about that matter we discussed?”

  “Oh, bother.” Melton huffed out a sigh. “Must I?”

  “But of course you must.” Rumbold sat beside him, his tone smooth, his eyes threatening. “Why must I continue to remind you of how important it is to present my case for legitimacy?”

  “I shan’t go. I have a headac
he.” Melton flung a hand over his forehead for emphasis.

  Rumbold grabbed his arm and came near to twisting it. “You will do as I say.”

  “Ow. Let go of me. I am an earl. How dare you?”

  “Oh, I dare, Lord Melton. Now we must talk about your little visit with Greystone. Did you know he was coming?”

  The threat in his tone caused a flurry of nerves inside Melton’s belly. “Of course not. But I do think I handled him very nicely.”

  Rumbold’s laugh was not pleasant. “Is that what you think, eh? You fool. The man thinks he can marry Lady Beatrice without your permission. You know we cannot let that happen.”

  So Rumbold had eavesdropped and heard every word.

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Melton was tiring of this conversation. He took another drink and shuddered. As hot as the day was, he felt a chill. “You want to marry my sister, though I cannot think it possible, old boy.” If she chose this man, she would straightaway lose Melton’s good opinion.

  “Marry her?” Miss Carlton screeched. She always screeched. “You promised to marry me, Rummy.”

  “Shut up.” In two shakes Rumbold stood and walked across the room to slap the girl to the floor. “You keep your mouth shut.”

  Without answering, she curled into a ball, whimpering.

  Melton looked away. Pathetic creature. But now Rumbold stood over him, and he felt a bit pathetic himself.

  “You will arrange for me to meet Lady Beatrice as soon as possible.” Rumbold’s eyes held an evil glint. “If you refuse, I shall ruin you.”

  How had this man come to have such power over him? But in truth, he did. Like a fool, Melton had gambled all of his father’s wealth away, and now he held only one card to trump this man: the ace of hearts. But would Beebe care enough to save him?