Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “And isn’t it a bit early for you to be making calls?” he countered as he leaned back in his seat behind the burnished mahogany desk. Mistresses were usually abed until after noon. By asking the question, the marquess was reminding her that he was aware it was still her profession.

  Josephine smiled at that. “I haven’t kept late hours in a very long time,” she answered lightly, deciding the few moments she had mourned Jenny were quite enough for the time being. “One has to be up early to read an entire copy of The Times and half the Observer before noon.”

  Remembering what Alfred had said was the reason for her call, David regarded Josephine for a moment. Their rather odd association had begun many years ago, quite by accident and because of the man to whom Josephine was contracted at the time. With Genevieve’s betrayal of him to the French came scandal, loss of power and a stain on his political career. At home, the fallout from the scandal caused his world to col­lapse. His wife, Adeline, barely acknowledged him, but was able to continue her movement in Society by immersing her­self in charity work.

  Josephine’s protector, an earl, mentioned Josephine’s polit­ical acumen over a game of cards. During the course of several months, the earl relayed her recommendations to David—rec­ommendations based on her analysis of news from around the world as well as political happenings in England—as a means of helping the marquess restore his name and good standing in Parliament. Besides being instrumental in restoring his cred­ibility in the House of Lords following the scandal—she knew how to steer reporters to her cause and knew how to start and stop gossip—she continued to be a valuable resource when she would warn him of impending power plays, describe the maneuverings of political opponents, and recommend society events to attend for political gain.

  And her loyalty to him was unquestioned.

  When he had asked many years ago why she would pro­vide him with such information, apparently with no strings attached and for no recompense, she responded with a shrug. “I merely wish to see our government act in the best interest of the country,” she had said. “And one day, I expect I shall be married to a man of industry. Anything I can do now to make it possible for his business to thrive in the future makes it worth the effort.”

  Odd, he thought, that a mistress would expect to be mar­ried to a cit. Unless she was already betrothed.

  “I appreciate your keeping up on current events, Josie,” he finally acknowledged as he leaned forward, his elbows resting against the front of the desk. “What have you discovered since our last meeting?”

  The mistress took a sip from her brandy and leaned back in her chair. She should not have been surprised that he would serve her his best, so she held the liquid in her mouth and savored the smoky flavor before swallowing. “Although he did not make an appearance in chambers before the summer, the new Earl of Trenton will do so when the sessions begin in the fall,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “You will find his attitude a bit … uncouth. He is young, rather brash, quite rich and …” She held her breath for effect. “Very spoiled.” Josephine paused again, remembering the letter she had received from Staffordshire a few months ago. How fortuitous that her friend Sarah had been the one to service the newly minted earl whilst he spent an evening at the Spread Eagle. “The earl’s views are diametrically opposed to yours. He will attempt to embarrass you if you appear to hold fast to old ideals. He is hungry for power. He will be very determined to make his mark. Every debutante in the ton will want him as a husband.

  “And he is looking to marry.” This last comment was delivered with an arched eyebrow, suggesting she knew just the debutante that might appeal to the new earl. Then she said something so incongruent, it actually surprised David Carlington.

  “Lord Bostwick is also looking to marry.”

  The marquess swallowed the rest of his brandy in a single gulp and regarded Josephine, trying to figure out for himself how the young upstart earl might upset the House of Lords. If the man was as young and brash as she suggested, he wouldn’t be taken seriously by his peers. And what did it matter that both an earl and a viscount were in the market for a wife? “So, what am to do about this new Earl of Trenton?”

  Josephine placed her snifter on the small table next to her chair and sighed. “Oh, Morganfield.” She took a deep breath. “I know, despite what you have done in the past, you have said you do not wish to influence your daughter as to whom she will marry. But the Earl of Trenton will probably ask for her hand. He knows that once his views become apparent to the peers, and that your views are opposite, a marriage to Lady Elizabeth will be seen as an embarrassment of sorts. He’ll be family. How can you be seen opposing your own son-in-law?”

  David Carlington’s face displayed a look of shock. “And how can he be seen opposing me?” he countered defensively, his ire suddenly up.

  Josephine leaned forward. “He is young and brash. Eton and Cambridge educated. You will not wish to get into a spar­ring match with words with an upstart earl. Especially now that John Wainwright won’t be there to help you.”

  Reeling at the comment, David sat back in his chair. So, that’s why she brought up the Wainwrights, he suddenly real­ized. Shaking his head, the marquess regarded Josephine for a long minute. There was a hint of anger in his eyes—that last bit had stung—but he finally forced it under control. After this many years, he knew not to kill the messenger. Especially not this messenger. “So, what do you suggest I do?” he wondered, leaning over the desk.

  A smile widening on her face, Josephine paused a moment before answering. “Consider George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick, as a son-in-law.” She watched with a great deal of satisfaction as David Carlington sat back in his chair and seemed to give her suggestion its due. Then she saw his brow furrow and his head shake from side to side. “Why ever not?” she asked then, a bit exasperated and trying desperately to keep a calm façade. She clasped her hands together in her lap in an effort to keep them from drumming against her lap.

  She had thought this out quite thoroughly. It was a good plan. It made good political sense. Lady Elizabeth was deter­mined to be married before Christmas. And George needed a wife. The sooner Josephine got him married off, the sooner she could make plans for her own marriage—for her own future.

  “Elizabeth would never give George any consideration as a possible husband,” the marquess finally answered with another shake of his head.

  “Why ever not?”

  David sighed, and his shoulders actually sagged a bit. “While I am not opposed to her marrying beneath her sta­tion, I doubt Elizabeth will consider anyone less than an earl. And I rather doubt her mother would agree to such a match,” he added quickly. “She wants to see Elizabeth suitably set­tled, preferably as a duchess,”—he said this last with a hint of humor, as if there wasn’t a chance his daughter could marry a duke—it wasn’t as if there were a number of them needing wives just then—“But she’ll accept her as a countess. Probably not as a viscountess.” Despite the reasons he had just given for his daughter and wife to oppose the marriage, Josephine could tell from his expression that David Carlington at least found merit in the suggestion that George Bennett-Jones would make a suitable match.

  And more importantly, he wasn’t opposed to the suggestion.

  “I see,” she said with a slight nod, pretending she was giving up on the idea. “I have taken too much of your time already, my lord. Please let Lady Morganfield know I was here in the event a neighbor asks about the widow who paid a visit, won’t you?” she said as she stood. She gave an elegant curtsy to David’s perfunctory bow.

  “I will be sure to do so,” he acknowledged, always impressed with how Josephine was able to keep secret her vis­its to his home. “And, thank you, Josie. You always bring me such interesting information,” he added with a quirked lip.

  George Bennett-Jones’ mistress left the study and hurried to the vestibule, pausing to hand the butler a small note. The words ostrich feather were written in a perfect
script. “See to it her ladyship gets this, won’t you, Alfred?” she asked. “They’re all the rage in fashion now,” she added, hoping her comment would deflect the butler from guessing the real reason for the note. “Oh,” she said as she held up a finger and fished a char­coal pencil from her reticule. “Let me add something on the back.” She took the card from the butler and wrote in the same perfect script, Do not discount a viscount. Handing the card back to Alfred, Josephine gave him a nod. She then hurried to her waiting coach, remembering at the last moment before leaving the house to pull down the somber veil to cover her face.

  Having staunched her feelings about her sister’s death for far too long, Josephine was suddenly overcome by grief. She spent the entire ride back to her townhouse quietly weeping.

  Chapter 9

  Daughters Consider Matrimony and Bonnets

  September 1815

  “So, will you accept the earl’s suit? You must know there is talk that he will ask for your hand,” Lady Charlotte spoke softly, leaning sideways a bit so that she wouldn’t be over­heard by a passing shopper. Arm in arm, she and Lady Eliza­beth strolled along New Bond Street, stopping at nearly every window to marvel at the colorful displays. Their maids trailed behind, both bored by the tedium of following their mistresses on their day of shopping for the first ball of the Little Season.

  Elizabeth paused in midstep, surprised by her best friend’s comment. “What have you heard?” she gasped, glancing about to be sure no one had overheard Charlotte’s comment. “And from whom?”

  The honey-haired beauty pulled Elizabeth into the clos­est shop, where bonnets were artfully perched on a series of shelves. “I was at hospital today …”

  “You’re always at hospital,” Elizabeth countered with a teasing roll of her aquamarine eyes. “I am beginning to believe Joshua was never in a fire, and that you and he are simply using the place to meet for secret assignations.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened in shock. “Elizabeth! How dare you?” she exclaimed, her gloved hand immediately covering her mouth as she realized she could be overheard by anyone in the shop. The fact that they were the only two people in the shop, besides the bespectacled owner who stood at the coun­ter reading a copy of that morning’s The Times, didn’t seem to register.

  Elizabeth didn’t mean what she said, of course. Her friend had been a volunteer at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital for several years, spending most of her time there tending to ill children. Lately, though, Charlotte had been spending several hours a day at Joshua Wainwright’s bedside whilst he lay in St. Bart’s. Even if the man was unconscious all of the time, Elizabeth worried that the impropriety would start tongues wagging among the town gossips.

  Charlotte sighed. “I assure you, I merely … when I am not seeing to patients, I sit by his bed. He is completely unaware of my presence!” she hissed. She wasn’t about to admit she held Joshua’s undamaged hand when no one was about, or that she spoke in low tones to him about the happenings in London. The man was rarely conscious, and when he was, he was in so much pain it brought tears to her eyes.

  “I apologize,” Elizabeth said suddenly. “It was wrong of me to make light of his situation.” Her expression took on a look of appropriate guilt. “Lottie, he will be right as rain, you must know. And when you turn one-and twenty, you shall go to him and become his bride.”

  Charlotte gasped, surprised by her friend’s insistent tone. “You really believe I will just … go to him and offer myself as his betrothed?”

  It was Elizabeth’s turn to show surprise. “Why, of course you will. You went off and rescued him from certain death in that backwater village!” she countered, as if that kind of bold action was something Charlotte Bingham did on a daily basis. What did it matter that the Earl of Torrington had provided assistance in the form of his traveling coach-and-four? “You do … feel affection for Joshua, do you not? You always have. We always knew he was better suited for you than his brother, John. And given what has happened, he will need a strong wife who has been training to be a duchess for her entire life. That’s you, Lottie,” she stated firmly. “There can be no other wife for Joshua Wainwright.”

  Charlotte stared at Elizabeth for several seconds, struck by her words. For a long time, she hadn’t been certain her friend was aware of her desire to wed Joshua, even in his current state. And the comment about Joshua needing a strong wife only served to reinforce her desire to see herself wed to the duke. “Thank you,” she whispered, her head nodding as if she had been doubting her fate.

  “Of course,” Elizabeth replied with a lift of one shoulder. “Now that we have your future worked out, please, Lottie, tell me what you have heard regarding Gabriel,” Elizabeth pleaded, her voice kept in a near whisper.

  Charlotte did her best to suppress a gasp at hearing her friend refer to the Earl of Trenton by his given name. Elizabeth Carlington could be the most frustrating of friends. As the daughter of a marquess, she had been raised to expect a life of luxury and marriage to a member of the ton. Those who knew her as well as Charlotte did were well aware that Elizabeth was not nearly as spoiled rotten as her behavior would sometimes suggest. She was dedicated to her mother’s charities, some of which could be construed as inappropriate for a woman of her station, and she was kind to the household staff at Carlington House. Everyone thought her beautiful, if for no other reason than her captivating, almond-shaped eyes and auburn hair. Last spring, she had begun her third Season in Society and had decided that this was the year she would accept an offer of marriage.

  With the Little Season about to begin, it left her with just a few months to land a man. But referring to the Earl of Trenton as ‘Gabriel’ seemed a bit too familiar to Charlotte Bingham.

  “Gabriel?” Charlotte repeated in surprise. “Has he given you permission to address him that way?” she wondered with a hint of shock, moving down one aisle of the hat shop to look at the bonnets.

  Elizabeth shrugged. “He took me for a ride in Hyde Park last week and requested I save the first waltz for him at Lord Weatherstone’s ball,” she said quietly, her eyes dancing in delight at sharing the news. “I said I would, of course,” she added as she glanced about the shop, apparently just then real­izing it was a hat shop. “Oh, I really must find a suitable bonnet for my old carriage gown,” she murmured as she wandered from Charlotte’s side. “Something to make it appear newer than it is.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes before shaking her head. Having been betrothed to Joshua’s older brother since she was three, Charlotte had spent most of her life preparing to be a duchess.

  There was a kind of security in knowing whom she would marry, and she had felt a bit of relief in not having to par­ticipate in the annual Marriage Mart. But now that John Wainwright was dead and his younger brother had the title of Duke of Chichester, Charlotte was no longer so sure of her own future. Elizabeth’s words had helped to reassure her, though. So, in a singsong voice, Charlotte said, “I heard from Penelope Winstead Seward, who said she spoke with Lady Asheford, who apparently heard from Lady Worthington that Gabriel Wellingham’s mother was especially happy that her son had decided this was the year he would marry, and that he had decided to pursue the daughter of a certain marquess that wielded a good deal of power in Parliament.” At Elizabeth’s amused expression and quick wave, she followed her friend through to the back of the shop. “And then Hannah Slater’s father mentioned it last night during dinner,” Charlotte added, almost as an afterthought, her voice returning to its normal rhythm and pitch.

  Lady Elizabeth paused before trying on a jaunty bonnet of deep green velvet adorned with peacock feathers. “Good heav­ens,” she replied, her eyes wide. “The Marquess of Devonville mentioned it?” she asked in disbelief, the bonnet falling to one side of her head. She caught it in her gloves hands before it fell off completely. “Oh, dear. This is happening much faster than I thought it might,” she added when she saw Charlotte’s raised eyebrow.

  “Oh, taradiddle! You’ve kno
wn for the past week he would ask for your hand,” Charlotte scolded, suddenly wondering at which social engagement the two had originally met.

  “I did not,” Elizabeth protested, her voice carrying a bit more than she intended. The man at the counter—Elizabeth was fairly certain his name was Mr. Peabody—glanced up from his reading to give them a curious look. “I merely … suspected,” Elizabeth added, holding the feathered bonnet as if it were a weapon. “And if I must marry someone, why not Gabriel Wellingham? I rather adore his blond curls, and those blue eyes, and the ten thousand a year I hear he’s worth,” she said in a voice that clearly mocked the way debutantes talked. “And being a countess seems like a perfectly acceptable way to spend married life, don’t you suppose?”

  Charlotte smiled at her friend’s description of the earl. She might have agreed, but having listened to Lady Hannah’s father complain about the man through two courses of last night’s dinner party, she was having doubts. After the gentle­men had enjoyed their cheroots and port following dinner, she and Lady Hannah had left their parents to play cards. It was during their card game that Hannah mentioned how her father, the Marquess of Devonville, had voiced similar com­plaints about the Earl of Trenton nearly every night for the past week. Apparently, Gabriel Wellingham’s youth and lack of decorum in the House of Lords was a distraction, and his political views were at odds with her father as well as Lady Elizabeth’s father, the Marquess of Morganfield. “Why, Lady Elizabeth, I cannot believe you would settle for something less than a duke,” Charlotte teased then, her grin betraying her mock seriousness.

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Unlike you, Lady Charlotte, we can’t all be duchesses,” she countered happily, a flush turning her face a soft pink as she considered Charlotte’s news.

  So the earl may offer for my hand!

  The gossip was merely confirmation of what she already suspected. Gabriel Wellingham had been quite attentive these past two weeks, ever since he had returned to London from summering in Staffordshire. During their drive in Hyde Park, the earl had requested she reserve a waltz with him at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. The rest of their conversation had been the usual banter about weather and fashion before he started extolling the virtues of his new horse and a phaeton he had on order, the renovation work he was having done to Welling­ham Manor in Staffordshire, and his good fortune in secur­ing an appointment with Hoby for a new pair of boots. It was only when he seemed to run out of safe topics to discuss that he asked about what she had done over the summer. As she briefly described her three weeks at the Morganfield estate and the week in Bath, she was sure she saw genuine interest on the part of the earl.