Louise M Gouge

by A Suitable Wife

  “Of course. Return it at your convenience.” Perhaps he should amend that. He would not like for Winston to spend any more time in this neighborhood than necessary, lest he feel the urge to call upon Lady Beatrice in Greystone’s absence. “Of course I mean you should have your groom see to it.”

  “Of course.” Winston did not seem eager to leave. “What will you do with them?” He nodded toward Kit with a sneer, as if the lads were stray mongrels.

  “I am taking them to my boys’ school in Shrewsbury.” Not that it was any of his business. “So if you will excuse me?”

  “Hmm. Going now?” Even in the darkness Greystone could see a glint in his eyes.

  “Yes. I want them safely away from London.” A chill went through him. The trip should take just over a week, plenty of time for Winston to insinuate himself into Mrs. Parton’s good graces and perhaps even Lady Beatrice’s. Greystone had known her for such a short time and had no idea whether or not she was at all fickle. “I should not like for their former master to know where they are, however.” Foolish of him to have answered the baron’s question.

  Winston grunted. “Have no fear. I am not one to gossip.” He turned the horse and disappeared into the darkness.

  One day soon Greystone would have to show his gratitude for that admirable discretion. Winston was pompous, but he had been a bold and fearless companion during their small adventure. But now to the matter at hand. The instant he tapped on the front door, Robert opened it.

  “Good morning, my lord.” The man gave him a flawless bow, just the proper degree for an upper servant. “Lady Greystone returned home a few minutes after midnight and retired straightaway.” The very news a good butler would offer. Then he tilted his head toward Crawford, Lucy and Gilly, who stood beside several pieces of baggage. “Your bags are packed, sir, and the coach is hitched and ready in the mews to be brought around upon your order.”

  “Yes, send for it.” Greystone looked the man up and down. He could not recall how long he had served the family, but he had never been known to blunder in any of his duties. “Robert, what is your last name?”

  He cleared his throat. “Roberts, my lord.”

  Greystone could hardly stifle a laugh. “Robert Roberts?”

  He shrugged ever so slightly. “Who can answer for one’s parents, my lord?”

  “Yes. Who, indeed?” Greystone certainly would not try. “Well, Roberts, I should like for you to serve as my butler while I am gone. When I return, we can discuss the matter fully.”

  “Yes, my lord.” He gave another bow, a little too low this time, perhaps to hide the smile spreading across his face.

  But Greystone also noticed that Crawford’s usually stoic expression had faltered. After more than forty years in his position, he must be devastated to have it snatched away over something not his fault. “Crawford, we will lay Kit and Ben on the settees in the drawing room. You and Lucy are to watch over them while I write a letter to Mother about our trip.” And one to Lady Beatrice, of course. “Roberts, you are not to discuss any of this with the staff. If anyone comes to call, say I am away on business. Nothing else.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  In his study Greystone penned a brief note to Mother citing unexpected business at the estate as an excuse for his sudden departure. He added that Crawford’s and Lucy’s assistance were required in the matter. He also instructed her that Roberts would have charge of the household staff. Then he spent considerably more time on the missive to Lady Beatrice, explaining that the boys were safe and he would return in about ten days. Not for a moment did he truly think her fickle, despite his earlier concern. But this letter would ward off any uncertainties she might have about his devotion to her. He was about to seal it when another thought occurred to him, and he added a postscript. He would return in time for Lady Drayton’s ball and requested the first and third dances and the dance before the supper. That would ensure she would be his dinner partner. It would also effectively announce to Society that they had an understanding.

  Mother’s letter was placed on the silver tray in the front entryway. For the letter to his lady love, he decided to enlist Jeremy Slate, another discreet and supremely dependable man. It would not do for anyone to read of his sentiments toward Lady Beatrice.

  “Are you free to deliver this letter to the lady next door in a few hours?”

  “I’d be pleased to do it, my lord, if it can wait until after I seize the sweep and carry him to the magistrate. We mustn’t give him time to get away.” He gave Greystone a worried frown. “Will that suit you, sir?”

  Greystone would prefer for him to be awaiting Lady Beatrice, letter in hand, when she arose in the morning, but he dare not trust another messenger. “Perhaps in the early afternoon?”

  “Yes, my lord, you can count on me.”

  “Indeed I can.” He offered the man a gold florin, noting to himself that he deserved it far more than the wretched woman who had so cruelly watched over the boys.

  But Slate held up a hand in refusal. “No, thank you, my lord. Just doing my duty.”

  “I understand what you are saying, and I appreciate your integrity in regard to your job. But being my messenger is not a part of your police duties.” Again he held out the coin.

  Slate hesitated, then shook his head. “No, thank you, sir.” Pride borne of self-respect shone in his eyes.

  Greystone returned the coin to his waistcoat pocket. “You are a good man, Mr. Slate.”

  “Thank you, sir. Your good opinion is reward enough.” He cleared his throat. “And in the matter of the merchant who secured her ladyship’s necklace?”

  “Ah, yes. You have my thanks for reminding me.” He returned to his office and took a hundred and fifty pounds from the safe, delivering the sum into Jeremy Slate’s trustworthy hands.

  With all these matters attended to, at last Greystone and his little band could be on their way. Just as first light dawned, the coach rumbled out of the city on the road to Shrewsbury, with a small sleeping boy nestled on either side of Greystone, and Gilly and two very unhappy servants across from him.

  *

  Beatrice idly stirred her morning coffee while Mrs. Parton thumbed through her mail and the usual invitations delivered first thing that morning. When the lady set it all aside and returned to her breakfast, Beatrice suppressed the disappointment rioting within her. Obviously Lord Greystone had not sent her a message. Perhaps his duties to Parliament would not permit him to visit until later this afternoon. She tried not to think about his angry countenance upon his return from visiting Melly yesterday. But she would have no peace until she knew everything, whether good or bad.

  “Goodness.” Mrs. Parton savored the last bite of her pastry. “My new cook truly is exceptional.” She waved for the footman to remove her plate. “Now, my dear, what shall we do today? I am eager for some sort of adventure.”

  “I am at your disposal, madam.” Beatrice hoped she would stay home, but that was unlikely since last night’s lingering fog had dissipated with the morning sun.

  “Of course you are, my dear. But I should like to give you the opportunity to state your preferences.”

  “You are too kind.” Indeed she was, as evidenced by this morning’s delivery from Giselle. New gowns, shoes, hats, gloves, everything a young lady who was out could wish for. Except that she was not out. “But I truly have no preference.” Other than to stay in.

  “Ah.” Mrs. Parton’s face took on that wily look that suggested she had a plan. “Then we shall visit Lady Blakemore for her at home. I have not seen my good friend since her midnight supper, and we must discuss presenting you at Queen Charlotte’s upcoming Drawing Room.”

  Beatrice’s heart leaped. “Truly, Mrs. Parton? Did I receive an invitation?” Now she would be able to hold her head up in Society, and Lord Greystone would never have to explain why his bride had not been invited to meet the queen. She truly would be out.

  “But of course. Did you not know I would secure
an invitation for you in time?” Her merry smile was accompanied by a chuckle. “And I have no doubt that an Almack’s voucher will arrive soon after.”

  Beatrice kept her smile in place, but she felt no added excitement. After all, Almack’s was the place for young ladies to go when searching for a husband. Beatrice had found hers. Or so she hoped. Lord Greystone had not officially proposed. But he would. She was sure of it.

  Unless in some way her brother had irrevocably destroyed any chance for her happiness.

  *

  His head aching, Melton trudged up the steps to his apartment, anxious for some time alone to sort things out—serious things, such as the way his life had plummeted to such desperate depths. He needed a drink to stop the pounding pain. Drat Lord Blakemore for turning down his request for an interview. Even appealing in his father’s name had brought no success. Where was the earl’s loyalty to the previous Lord Melton?

  He reached the top of the staircase and entered his apartment. And froze. There on his settee sat Rumbold, his head in his hands, his jacket flung carelessly to the floor. How unusual for such a well-dressed gentleman. But, then, he wasn’t truly a gentleman, simply a man masquerading as such amongst his betters. What gentleman would try to blackmail a friend to force the repayment of silly little gambling debts? He shoved away the thought that sixty thousand could not exactly be called little, not to mention the twenty thousand he owed other creditors.

  “What are you doing here?” With an elegant town house of his own, why did this man continue to come here and harass him? Why was he not next door with his pathetic little mistress?

  “Melton.” The man jumped up and rushed across the small room to grab him by the upper arms. “You’ve got to help me.”

  “What?” Rumbold had never before appealed to him, only given orders. Melton tried to shake him off, to no avail. “What are you talking about? Where’s Sims?” The little man who served as his butler, cook and valet often bore the brunt of Rumbold’s anger.

  “H-he went out.” Rumbold’s eyes were wild, his hair all askew. And bright red splotches covered his usually pristine white shirt and cravat. “Listen to me.” He shook him. “I’ve got a…a problem.”

  The icy fingers of premonition sluiced through Melton’s veins, and sobering clarity flooded his head. “What sort of problem?” He twisted out of Rumbold’s grip, suddenly despising everything about this man.

  “I…she…the woman was driving me mad. She burned—” Rumbold dropped into a chair. “No. I must not say that. But I never meant to…to—” He stared toward the closed door.

  Now Melton understood, and a door of another sort closed within him. No matter what this man did to him, he would never wield any influence over him again. He made his way to the apartment next door, with Rumbold at his shoulder. To his horror and yet not his surprise, poor wretched Miss Carlton lay on the floor in a pool of blood, battered so badly that he had no doubt she was dead. Had Melton not killed his share of game, the sight might have made him sick. But this was a human being. A low-class paramour, but a human nonetheless.

  That could be Beatrice.

  Who had said that? Melton looked around, and a violent shiver swept over him. Was it God? Was it conscience? Whatever being had voiced the thought, it was true beyond all doubt. If he had, in effect, sold her to Rumbold, this could be his beloved sister lying bloody and dead. Beebe, who had never done anything but good for him. Now nausea threatened him, and he had difficulty not throwing up.

  “You see.” Rumbold fluttered his hand in front of his own blood-spattered clothing. “She grabbed my new suit, threatened to go to Lady Beatrice, demanded that I marry her.”

  His headache now completely gone, Melton straightened to his full height, shocked into lucidity. “So you killed her.”

  “No. No. It wasn’t like that.” Rumbold stared at the body wide-eyed, as if seeing it for the first time. “She did it. She forced me to—”

  “I am going for a constable.”

  Melton made it to the corridor before Rumbold seized him and flung him back into his own apartment, then shoved him to the floor. Grabbing a cane from the umbrella stand, he raised it to strike. In that instant Melton realized this indignity was no less than he deserved. He held up his arms to ward off the expected blow.

  “You madman, will you murder an earl? They will hang you.”

  No blow came.

  “You’re right. Yes, that’s it.” Rumbold slammed the apartment door, then grabbed Melton’s arm and dragged him to his feet. “You killed her. That madwoman invited you into her den of sin and then attacked you. You were forced to kill her in self-defense.”

  “What?” Melton shook him off. “You are the one who’s mad.” He tried to back away but bumped into the wall.

  “No, no. Don’t you see?” Second by second, his former self-confidence returned. “A peer can do anything and never be punished. The matter is all swept away like yesterday’s garbage. No one in Society will ever need to know it happened.” Odd how enticingly evil his voice sounded, like the serpent in the Garden of Eden. The same voice he had always used to tempt Melton to foolish actions—the next hand of cards would surely be the winning one; the next drink would surely soothe away his pain. “After all I have done for you, you will do that for me.”

  Dear God, please help me. I beg You. Shaking with a marrow-deep terror, Melton tried to swallow but could not. This man wanted him to take the blame for the murder. How far would he go to try to force him?

  “You owe me!” Rumbold roared, snatching up the cane again. “I will cancel all your debts if you do this.”

  As heavily as those debts had weighed upon his soul, Melton would not be a party to murder. While he could not reclaim his long-lost dignity—not shaking as he now was—he could show courage if the man had the gall to murder him, too.

  “I am going for the constable,” he repeated, wincing as he spoke and knowing his own death was imminent.

  The front door burst open, and Sims dashed in, a dark-uniformed man close behind him.

  “That’s ’im, m’lord. That’s ’im what killed the poor girl.”

  The other man looked from Rumbold to Melton and back again. “Gentlemen, I am Jeremy Slate of the Bow Street Runners. I understand there’s been a bit of difficulty here. Would you care to explain?”

  Rumbold stepped forward and slammed his cane down upon the Runner’s head. The golden-orbed knob cracked against his skull with a sickening thud, and the man crumpled to the floor. Before Rumbold could strike again, Melton and Sims tackled him. Twisting out of their grasp, he dashed from the apartment.

  “Shall I give chase, milord?” Barely five feet tall, Sims became Melton’s new hero for that bit of courage.

  “No.” Still shaking violently, he exhaled a sigh of relief to see Rumbold gone. “No. But make haste to find a surgeon. This man needs help.”

  The servant obeyed, and Melton pulled the Runner up on the settee and cushioned his bloody head with a dusty pillow.

  Then he knelt beside him and, for the first time since his father’s funeral, prayed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I cannot imagine what is keeping Frances busy these days.” Lady Blakemore watched while her companion served tea, overseeing her like a mother hen, although the young woman appeared to Beatrice as skilled as anyone at the art. “I refer, Miss Hart, to the viscountess, Lady Greystone. We were friends at school and have always called each other by our first names. You understand that this is not done except among family and the closest of friends.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The companion handed a steaming teacup to Mrs. Parton.

  “Why, I have no idea what Frances is up to these days. She is rarely home and does not come calling on us.” Mrs. Parton received her tea with a smile. “I thank you, my dear. Now Grace, you must tell me. What has Blakemore decided in regard to the soldiers’ pension?”

  While the older ladies discussed politics, Beatrice offered the companion a smile and r
eceived a shy one in response. Seated beside her on the settee, Catherine Hart was a dark-haired beauty whom she longed to know better. Other than the pleasantries shared in Lord Blakemore’s box at the Drury Lane Theatre, they had not enjoyed any private conversation. Yet Miss Hart’s subdued demeanor made her a preferred candidate for friendship, unlike Lady Grandly’s daughters, whose excessive interest in fashion and gossip were not to Beatrice’s liking.

  “Tell us, Lady Beatrice, how does Melton plan to vote?” Lady Blakemore asked. “Surely he has some opinions on the matter.”

  Startled from her thoughts, Beatrice felt heat creeping up to her face. Mama had always taught her that a lady must pay strict attention to conversations over tea, for failure to listen was an insult to her hostess. Not only that, but how could one give an intelligent response if one had no idea what had been said?

  “Why, um, my brother and I have not discussed it.” Whatever it was. Nor had they spoken of anything significant in three years, other than his attempt to ruin her life. “I fear his political leanings are a mystery to me.” She took a bite of her currant tart to avoid saying more.

  The older ladies offered sympathetic nods, and Beatrice could not help but wonder whether Mrs. Parton had told the countess about yesterday’s terrible scene with Melly and that horrid Mr. Rumbold.

  “Ah. Well.” Lady Blakemore took a sip of tea, always a helpful thing to do when one wanted to change the subject. She sent Mrs. Parton a knowing smile. “But let me return to my original question regarding Frances. All I can say is that she seems to have abdicated her position as matchmaker for Greystone. We are almost four months into the Season, yet she has not found him a bride.” Her perfectly formed brown eyebrows arched with aristocratic hauteur at odds with her smirk. “Did you not have a wager of some sort with her in that regard?”

  “Why, Grace, you know I do not believe in wagering,” Mrs. Parton said in a singsong voice. “’Twas merely a harmless competition. And I will add that I happen to have someone in mind who would suit the viscount very well.” She blinked innocently in Beatrice’s direction.