Louise M Gouge

by A Suitable Wife

  “Tell him I will be right down.”

  Roberts’s face became a granite wall. “Yes, my lord.”

  Greystone hoped his new butler’s instant stoicism did not portend a bad interview with the earl.

  *

  The Marquess of Drayton’s mansion lay on a broad green property about a half mile from Greystone Hall. Standing apart from other St. James’s Square residences, it had the air of a royal residence, though was not quite as grand as Buckingham Palace. As Mrs. Parton’s landau rolled up the drive amidst dozens of other conveyances, Beatrice looked from side to side to enjoy the estate’s impressive grounds. With sufficient daylight to showcase the immaculately kept lawns and flower gardens, the landscape was a tribute to wealth but not excess. The closer they came to the house, the more her anticipation grew. By the time they reached the front portico, she felt a giddy, girlish excitement over seeing Lady Drayton again and meeting the marquess.

  Beneath the front portico, green-liveried footmen and black-uniformed maids hurried about, making certain every guest received proper attention. Once guests crossed the threshold into the broad entryway, wraps and cloaks were surrendered, slippers brushed and coiffures straightened, so each visitor could make an entrance befitting his or her station in life.

  “Humph.” Mrs. Parton adjusted her turban, checking the angle of her albino peacock feathers in a mirror beside the front door. “I am quite put out with Lord Greystone. He should be here to escort us into the ball.”

  “But, why?” Beatrice would not admit to her mentor that she longed for the viscount’s company, as well. “In spite of your conjecture, we have no claim upon him.”

  “Humph,” the lady repeated. “I do hope that changes soon.” She linked an arm in Beatrice’s, and they ascended the elegant staircases to the second-floor ballroom.

  At the door the butler bowed to them, took their calling cards and announced in a rich baritone, “Lady Beatrice Gregory. Mrs. Julia Parton.”

  All around them the fragrances of countless perfumes mingled in the air, giving Beatrice a heady sense of having arrived. This was just the sort of event Mama had often spoken of. Although she would have liked to have been presented at her own coming-out ball, this was more than sufficient, considering her current circumstances. Despite Lord Greystone’s absence, despite Melly’s attempt to waylay her, she resolved to enjoy the evening to its fullest.

  The June daylight lasted until after nine of the clock, but finally it faded into a hazy purple darkness. In the vast ballroom hundreds of candles blazed in crystal chandeliers, with several servants carefully attending to the dripping wax lest it fall on the guests while they danced. As Beatrice entered arm in arm with Mrs. Parton, music met her ears, and she located the source: musicians on a dais at the end of the ballroom. As if they had a mind of their own, her feet ached to move in time with the merry tune.

  “Over here, my dear.” Mrs. Parton ushered her toward a group of brocade chairs set off from the dancing area by a row of large potted plants. “Shall we sit?”

  “Yes, madam.” Beatrice felt a pinch of disappointment. Once they had settled into the green chairs, she found the courage to ask, “Will I be introduced?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed. The marchioness will present you and several other young ladies to the room.” She gave her a knowing smile. “But of course you must not speak to anyone until they are presented to you. You are, after all, the daughter of an earl.”

  Beatrice smiled her appreciation, even as sorrow pushed aside her happy mood. Yes, she was the daughter of an earl, but she was also the sister of his heir. To think of Melly being forever shut out of this grand company almost broke her heart.

  *

  “What do you want, Melton?” Greystone stood in the doorway of the drawing room, refusing to cross the space to greet the earl.

  “Greystone.” The man’s clothes were as rumpled as Roberts had reported, but his hair was combed, and he appeared clean-shaven. As he strode over, hand extended, the usual stench of cheap brandy did not accompany him.

  Greystone stared at the presented hand and crossed his arms. “As I said, what do you want?”

  He withdrew the appendage and shrugged. “I do not blame you for…see here, old man, I came to apologize…to ask forgiveness for the unforgivable.” His words were uttered in a tone that could only be described as humble, almost beseeching.

  A strange chill at odds with the warm evening swept down Greystone’s back. Was this an answered prayer or some sort of trick? Something Melton had learned from Rumbold in order to get into Greystone’s good graces and renew his plea for the eighty thousand?

  “Go on.” Greystone sauntered toward a nearby grouping of chairs and waved to one. “Sit.”

  Although Melton ranked above him in precedence, he had the courtesy to honor his unwilling host’s order.

  Greystone dropped into a chair opposite the one Melton had taken. “Talk.”

  He coughed out a laugh, clearly embarrassed. “I have been a fool. No excuses. No explanations. Please forgive me for dismissing you so rudely from my home, when was it? Over two weeks ago.” Another ironic laugh. “My home, rotten hole that it is.”

  All this self-abasement rang true, but Greystone still found himself unable to put any faith in his words. “Very well. You are forgiven.” He put a note of finality in his response, not wanting to invite the inevitable plea for funds.

  Melton exhaled a long sigh shaded with yet another laugh, this one resounding with relief. “I understand you just returned from Shropshire, so perhaps you have not heard…?” He tilted his head in question.

  Greystone said nothing, but curiosity burned within him.

  “Very well. Here is the whole story, which I bring to you only because my sister—”

  “You will keep Lady Beatrice’s name out of this conversation.”

  “Yes, of course.” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “A double shame,” he muttered, “that another gentleman must defend her honor.” One more explosive sigh. “Very well, then. The long and the short of it is this. My creditor—I will not call him friend—lies in Newgate Prison where he awaits hanging for the murder of his mistress.”

  Greystone’s jaw dropped, and his tongue could not form words.

  “’Twas a speedy trial. Seems there were few to defend him, and many will be glad to see him gone. Of course all of his possessions are forfeit to the Crown. Of the eighty thousand I owed my creditors, his note was for sixty thousand. His mistress burned it, hoping to stop his marriage to—” He grunted. “So he murdered her.”

  “God have mercy.” Greystone could hardly take in these developments.

  Melton breathed out a heartbreaking sigh. “Like the devil, Rumbold took hold of my soul. To free myself, I became willing to sell him that which is most precious to me, my sister.” He winced. “In spite of what you may think, I hold her in highest regard.”

  Greystone swallowed the rage this admission engendered. “But why come to me with this tale?” As much as he was glad to know what had happened, he could not easily accept Melton’s claim of caring for Lady Beatrice.

  “Because God has granted me a grace I do not deserve, and I am prepared to accept your offer to hold me accountable for my finances and m-my excessive consumption of brandy. And wine. And many other such beverages.” There was a boyish quality to his half grin that reminded Greystone of little Kit, except that Kit had never been this pathetic. “If I place myself at your disposal, will you help me find the right path?”

  “I?” Greystone felt another chill sweep over him. “Why do you ask me?” When he had spoken to Melton of accountability, he had planned to suggest the ever-patient Lord Blakemore.

  Melton’s childishly wily expression held no cunning. “Because if you are going to be my brother, I know you would prefer to make certain that I bring no further scandal upon the family.”

  Greystone suddenly had the feeling that he had walked right into a trap as clever as any that Rum
bold had set for his victims.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Still reeling from Melton’s revelations, Greystone arrived at last at Lord Drayton’s ball. The marquess welcomed him personally, a singular honor but one Greystone could do without at this particular moment. While Drayton pressed him for support on a measure regarding the American war, something close to Greystone’s heart because his brother had come near to dying in the conflict, his attention nonetheless strayed to the vast ballroom.

  He must find Lady Beatrice. In his letter he had requested several dances, but with his late arrival he could not expect her to decline other invitations amidst all of this merriment. At least he was in time to claim the supper dance. Surveying the room, he did not see her among the dancers. But just as he spied Mrs. Parton’s unmistakable red hair beneath a feather-plumed orange turban, Mother swept into his line of vision waltzing with Uncle Grenville.

  He could only gape. She looked at least ten years younger than her nine and forty years. And very, very happy. Never once in his own eight and twenty years had he seen such radiance on her still-beautiful face. This entire scene astonished him. Had she not recently expressed disapproval of this intimate dance form? Yet here she was waltzing blissfully with a gentleman she could never marry. Greystone’s heart wrenched for both of them.

  Beside him Drayton chuckled. “Ah, yes. Lady Greystone is enjoying herself as she has not since she was first presented to Society some thirty years ago.” He clapped Greystone on the shoulder. “No doubt you would like to dispense with politics for the evening, so go along. Find some young lady to stand up with for the next dance. It is the last one before supper is served.”

  “I thank you, my lord.” Thus released, he made his way around the ballroom toward Mrs. Parton, who stood talking with Edmond and Anna.

  And there beside them was the lady of his dreams, a vision of loveliness in a frothy pink gown, her golden hair curled becomingly around her flawless oval face. His pulse began to race, and his heart hammered in his chest. As best he could without being rude, he pushed his way through the crowd. Then he spied Winston approaching the ladies from the other direction, and he increased his pace, murmuring apologies to those he bumped into as he went.

  They reached Lady Beatrice at the same moment, and both bowed.

  “Lady Beatrice.” Greystone breathed out her beloved name. “May I have this dance?”

  “Lady Beatrice.” Winston’s tone was at once icy and warm, a feat only a pompous prig could accomplish. “I have come to claim our promised dance.”

  “Why, I—” The lady looked from one to the other, bewilderment clouding her beautiful blue eyes.

  His heart near to bursting, Greystone was certain he could hear Mrs. Parton tittering. Edmond’s laugh was unmistakable. Not long ago he had snatched Anna away from Winston after a ball very much like this one.

  Proper social form demanded that Greystone back away, but for some reason he felt a stubborn inclination to flout convention just as Mother was doing.

  “My dear lady,” he said, “perhaps the good baron would permit me—” He stepped closer to her.

  “Really, Greystone.” Winston moved up shoulder to shoulder with him. “Give way, my good man. This dance is claimed.”

  “I think I will not.” Greystone recalled the baron’s swordsmanship against the ruffians on the Thames. A duel with him might present mortal danger. But even though Winston had every right to be offended, Greystone refused to give way. “Lady Beatrice, would you kindly explain to this gentleman the importance of his giving way, since I have a prior claim to this dance?”

  Oddly, instead of offering a smile, she glared at him. “Indeed. And how is it that you have a prior claim?”

  Winston snorted out a laugh. “Yes, Greystone, how did you accomplish that, since you just arrived?”

  “But, my lady, I requested the supper dance in the letter I sent you.”

  “Letter? What letter?” Understanding dawned upon her lovely countenance. “You wrote that letter. Oh, my.” She placed a white-gloved hand over her lips, then turned to the baron. “Lord Winston, Lord Greystone is correct. His invitation came first. Please forgive me.”

  Winston’s face became as blank as that of the best of butlers. “Of course, my lady.” He bowed away, then turned back and gave Edmond and Anna a brief nod. “I say, Greystone, do you have any more brothers, or may I proceed in my search for a wife without further interruptions from your family?”

  With great difficulty Greystone did not so much as smirk in response, although he could hear Edmond coughing in the background and Anna’s chiding tsk. “No, my lord, no more brothers. We are all claimed.”

  Claimed? Beatrice lost her breath for a moment. Lord Greystone had not proposed, nor had they sorted out all of their concerns regarding marriage or Melly or Lady Greystone’s disapproval. Perhaps he had addressed those matters in the letter, which she prayed Sally had not thrown away.

  “My lady, I believe this is my dance.” Lord Greystone, exquisitely dressed in a blue satin jacket and tan breeches, held out his hand.

  Beatrice glanced at Mrs. Parton, who nodded and smiled her approval.

  “I thank you, sir.” Beatrice placed her hand in his and permitted him to guide her toward the end of the line for the country dance.

  As they walked, he leaned close to her ear. “Did you truly forget that I asked for this dance in my letter?” Couched in his amused tone was a hint of hurt feelings.

  She shook her head. “I received your letter only today.” At the shock on his face she hastened to add, “My brother delivered it just this afternoon. I thought it was from that horrid Mr. Rumbold, so I did not open it. How silly of me not to look at the seal.”

  “This afternoon? How odd. I sent it in the care of a Bow Street Runner the night before I left. A dependable man, or so I thought. Did Melton explain how he came to have it?”

  “I refused to see him.” She took her place in the ladies’ line.

  He took his place opposite her. “Ah, I see. And I do not fault you for it.” A frown flitted across his noble brow. “My dear, do you have your heart set upon this dance?” He tilted his head toward a row of empty chairs. “We truly must talk.”

  The music began, and the first couple made their way down the line in a series of intricate steps. She knew the pattern well and would have loved to have shown him her skill. But then, if he considered himself “claimed” by her, she had no need to impress him with her dancing.

  “Yes, we must.” She once again took his offered hand, and they excused themselves from their fellow revelers to take refuge behind the lovely row of large potted plants she had previously found so annoying. Mrs. Parton, her ever-faithful sponsor, moved near enough to protect their reputations with her presence, but not within hearing distance.

  Greystone gripped her hands and bent forward to touch his forehead to hers, as he had done over two weeks ago. Should anyone be watching, they might be scandalized, yet Mrs. Parton beamed her approval in their direction.

  “My darling, I understand why you did not receive your brother.” Lord Greystone brought her gloved hands up to his lips for a gentle kiss on each. “I almost refused him, as well. Fortunately the Almighty prompted me to see him. What I learned will astonish you even more than it did me.”

  Her beloved then unfolded a tale so enthralling that Beatrice was soon in tears. “Oh, Greystone, he has come to his senses at last.” Would he mind that she used a more familiar address by leaving off “Lord”?

  “My dearest Beatrice, before we parted company Melton gave me permission to ask the question closest to my heart. Will you marry me?” His omission of her courtesy title answered her concern. And now, with his blue eyes catching the nearby candlelight and reflecting the rich blue of his satin jacket, the intensity of his gaze made her knees weak. She was grateful to be sitting.

  “I should tease you and play coy, but I cannot.” Joy bubbled up inside her, and she laughed, perhaps a bit too lo
udly, if Mrs. Parton’s widened eyes were any indication. “Yes, yes, my darling Greystone, I will marry you.”

  And there, hidden among the potted plants, he gave her a proper kiss to seal the matter. And she responded with great enthusiasm.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “I am grateful to have the necklace locked in the family vault.” Lady Greystone sat shoulder to shoulder with James Grenville on a settee in Greystone’s drawing room. “But in the interval when I did not know what had become of it, I discovered that some things—” she placed a hand on the gentleman’s forearm “—such as friendship, are more important than material possessions.”

  Beatrice could only feel honored to be included in this intimate gathering presided over by the matriarch of the family. The afternoon following the marchioness’s ball, she and Mrs. Parton had been invited to the town house next door so Greystone could announce their engagement to his relatives. But the viscountess took charge of the conversation before he could even speak, announcing that she and her brother-in-law were spending a great deal of time together.

  “But let us be very clear.” Lady Greystone pulled her hand back, as if she had decided that touching her brother-in-law was improper. “We cannot marry, and we will not live in sin.”

  “And no law prohibits our being the best of friends.” James Grenville, a white-haired older version of his three handsome nephews, took Lady Greystone’s hand and gazed at her with a tenderness that bespoke the deepest respect and affection. This time she did not break the contact.

  Mrs. Parton had informed Beatrice that the gentleman was a barrister of excellent reputation who had always lived above reproach. Yet Beatrice could see a note of sadness in both of them. She could not imagine being forbidden to marry the gentleman whom she loved so dearly.

  “You could go to Scotland, Mother,” quipped Edmond Grenville. “Scottish law does not prohibit a man from marrying his late brother’s widow.”