by Mia Marlowe
“Perhaps this is something you might wish to discuss with Lord Chatham,” Lawrence said.
“Father will be in perfect agreement. In any case, I have five brothers in total, and once the others arrive, he’ll scarcely notice an extra gentleman at table,” Lady Caroline said. “Besides, we’ve yet to hear about that sticky situation in Rome from which you extricated Teddy and Lord Rowley. There’s a mystery I’m dying to unravel. Do tell us.”
Lawrence cleared his throat. Twice. He had no idea how to sanitize a tale that involved a brothel, a scimitar-wielding debt collector, and a dead weasel. When his teacup chose that precise moment to tumble from his knee, he was relieved.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Caroline,” he said, kneeling at once to sop up the stain with his handkerchief.
“Nonsense, man, do get up,” Bredon said. “The maid will tend to that.”
Lawrence stood, suddenly aware that none of the others in the room would have stooped to such a menial task. Even as low as his position had been in Ware Hall, he’d still been the nephew of the earl. Even as a child, he wouldn’t have been expected to mop up a spill. Evidently, he’d been away from gracious living so long, he no longer knew how to behave among the upper crust.
“Undoubtedly, you’re fatigued from your travels, Mr. Sinclair. Perhaps you’d like to be shown to your room,” Lady Caroline suggested as she rang the small bell on the table beside her.
Lawrence could have kissed her. It was yet another highly improper thing for him to do, but one with real appeal.
“Thank you, my lady.” He wanted to say something else, something that might erase the bad impression he’d made thus far. All that came to mind was that Lady Caroline’s hands were as white and graceful as a pair of doves. He didn’t believe expressing that bit of sap would improve his situation. So instead, he bowed to all the ladies, nodded to Bredon, and followed the butler, Mr. Price, out of the room.
With gratitude.
* * * *
“Well, Lord Bredon, it appears you are about to present the ton with a good deal of entertainment in the form of your new friend,” Horatia said once Mr. Sinclair had followed Price from the parlor. “Under what rock did you find such an awkward fellow?”
“Sheath your claws, Miss Cat.” Edward’s smile turned brittle. “You say Sinclair is my friend and you speak truly. Perhaps you’d like to amend your comment, lest I take serious offense.”
Horatia’s eyes widened in surprise.
Although Caroline’s brother had teased her unmercifully as they were growing up, he’d usually been kind to her friends. But Caroline—and evidently Horatia as well—had forgotten that he could occasionally lord his status over others. Everyone knew Edward was bound to inherit the earldom from their father someday—God willing, many years in the future—however, it was not something he made much of with those who’d known him since childhood, as Horatia and Frederica had.
Unless he was seriously vexed with them.
Caroline put a conciliatory hand on her brother’s forearm. “She doesn’t mean anything by it, Teddy.”
“Neither do I, Lord Bredon,” Frederica said, though she’d not offered a word against Mr. Sinclair. Apparently, an unkind thought had been squatting on her tongue so heavily, she felt as guilty about thinking it as if she’d spoken it aloud.
“Still, Edward dear, you must admit your friend has—”
“Careful, Sister,” he interrupted. “Remember what our mother says. Speaking ill of someone, even the singular Mr. Sinclair, is—”
“A prayer to the devil,” Caroline finished for him. “Very well. To show our good will, we shall each say something nice about Mr. Sinclair, shan’t we? I’ll start. He has…” She cast about in her mind for the space of several heartbeats. The man was striking in appearance, handsome even, but he couldn’t hold up his end of a conversation to save his soul. Caroline finally came up with, “The man has symmetrical features.”
Then she turned expectantly to Horatia, who rolled her eyes. “Let Freddie go next. I need more time to think.”
“Well, it seems to me that Mr. Sinclair, well, he…” Frederica glanced at Horatia for moral support before saying, “He seems very clean-natured.”
“He does indeed. An admirable trait in a gentleman. Thank you, Freddie,” Caroline said. “And now you, Horatia.”
“Very well. The teacup incident demonstrated that your Mr. Sinclair has quick reflexes, my lord. He was on his knees in a trice.”
Edward crossed his arms, looking unimpressed. “Symmetrical features, clean-natured, quick reflexes…I hope you’re aware you have just described a house cat.”
Horatia and Freddie giggled, but then stifled their laughter quickly once they realized Edward was not laughing with them.
“Come, Teddy, even you must admit Mr. Sinclair is not the sort of gentleman you usually befriend.”
“You are not acquainted with all my friends.”
“Oh! But we do know some of them,” Horatia put in, as if she hadn’t just been chastened by the future Earl of Chatham. “Lord Rowley, for example. He was always so jolly and must surely have been an excellent traveling companion for you. I trust your sojourn on the Continent with him has not changed his nature.”
“No, Rowley never changes,” Edward said cryptically.
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Horatia said, whipping out her fan and waving the lace before her. “What a pity he didn’t come with you this morning. Caro speaks so highly of him.”
If Horatia had been closer, Caroline would have given her a swift kick to the shins. Before Edward had left for his Tour, her brother had relished every chance to tease Caroline about her mild infatuations, which included the always entertaining Oliver Rowley. It was easy to fancy herself in love with Oliver. He was handsome in a ruddy, young King David sort of way, glib and full of charm. Even her mother called him a lovable rogue.
But Caroline had been ever so much younger then, and incredibly naïve. Now, if she experienced a brief flutter over a gentleman, she extinguished it immediately. She’d realized, through observation of the couples in her parents’ circle and reading the widowed Mrs. Birdwhistle’s excellent accounts, that when a woman married, she surrendered everything to her husband—be it fortune, friends, or freedom of movement.
An attachment to a gentleman, no matter how jolly he might be, would keep her from traveling the wide world. There could be no more infatuations. Not if she wished to control her own life.
Admittedly, it was an unusual goal. In truth, she was hesitant to share it even with Horatia or Freddie, her two best friends in the world. They’d think her odd in the extreme. However, she was certain she’d never be able to settle for a life filled with sewing infant clothing and consulting the cook about menus and the other minutiae that filled her mother’s days.
Still, though the sort of life she envisioned for herself held no room for a man in it, Caroline wondered about Oliver Rowley. “Lord Rowley did return with you, didn’t he?”
To her surprise, Edward didn’t take the opportunity to tease her about his friend this time.
“Yes, but he has no time to spend clucking in a parlor with a bunch of hens. Rowley had an appointment to keep,” he said gruffly, rising and making for the doorway. He paused at the threshold and turned back to face Caroline and her friends. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as if Edward were much older than his years.
It made Caroline wonder if all his traveling adventures had been happy ones.
“Sinclair is loyal and resourceful, and there’s no one I’d rather have at my back in a fight, but as you saw, he’s hopeless in a drawing room,” Edward said. “The man has fine qualities, many of which may not be readily apparent to you, but they have most certainly been demonstrated to me.”
“Of course we respect your judgment, Teddy, but—”
“But nothing. Sinclair
has agreed to remain in London, so it behooves us all to assist his entry into Society. I’ll see that he’s admitted to White’s. But when it comes to…the feminine side of the Season, well, you three have it within your power to help or hinder him in that regard.”
“What are you suggesting?” Caroline asked.
“That you smooth the way for him a bit. He’s not had much experience in Town. Help him fit into conversations. Make him feel comfortable.”
“Do you wish us to keep him from cleaning up after his own spills as well?” Horatia said waspishly.
Edward snorted. “Just see he gets on with people, will you?”
“Of course,” Caroline said. “We’ll do what we can.”
“That’s all I ask,” Edward said, and was gone.
Horatia waited until the sound of his boots on the hardwood had faded to dull thuds. “Well, His Lordship doesn’t ask much, does he?”
“No indeed,” Frederica said, missing Horatia’s sarcasm completely. “Only last week, I was reading in The Complete History of Knights and Heraldry that the lord of the manor could demand anything of his vassals.” Her cheeks flushed rosily, and Caroline decided Freddie was thinking of the mysterious droit du seigneur. Between the three of them, they’d amassed just enough information about this old custom to decide that whatever it was, it must have been incredibly wicked. “If all Lord Bredon asks is that we help Mr. Sinclair, why, he’s being terribly undemanding. By comparison to some, I mean.”
Caroline rose and wandered back to the window. A coach rattled past with a large trunk strapped to its luggage platform.
Someone is going on a long journey. Someday, I swear that someone will be me.
“Honestly, Caro, I can see a plot in the making hovering above your head plain as day,” Horatia said. “It’s as if you were in one of Mr. Cruikshank’s caricatures.”
Frederica squinted in Caro’s direction. “Really? I don’t see a thing. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light.”
“I wasn’t speaking literally, Freddie. You’re such a goose sometimes. But a well-loved goose,” she hastened to add when Frederica’s blue eyes began to tear up. The squall passed as quickly as it had threatened, and Freddie beamed at her. Then Horatia turned back to Caroline. “What do you intend to do?”
“Do? Why, just as Edward says, of course,” Caroline said. “I plan to make his friend extremely comfortable.”
“But remember that Lord Ware is seeking a wife. If he marries—and honestly, what gentleman of wealth and title can fail in that endeavor?—then it is all but certain Ware will have a new heir in short order. Mr. Sinclair is, for all intents and purposes, a man of no prospects,” Horatia reminded her. “You can’t mean to waste the Season on him.”
“It won’t be wasted.” Caroline flounced back over to her seat. “He’s presentable enough, so long as he’s not required to speak. Why not allow the ton to think I’m entertaining his suit?”
“Ah! I see what you’re about.” Horatia cast her a sly look. “If the daughter of an earl finds his company bearable—”
“Scintillating,” Caroline corrected. “That’s the word I’ll use when I speak of him.”
“That will raise Mr. Sinclair’s standing out of all knowing,” Horatia said with a nod.
It would cut up her parents’ peace as well to see their only daughter keeping company with a gentleman so far beneath her touch. Caroline was all for helping Teddy’s friend, but, if she were honest with herself, alarming her parents was the main benefit of this little gambit.
“But you’d need to be seen with him for people to notice you’re…being seen with him,” Frederica said. “I doubt anyone we know will invite him to a private soiree.”
Freddie might make a cake of herself with regularity, but she did have her moments. This time, she had the right of it, squarely identifying the problem with Caroline’s plan.
“Perhaps he could persuade one of the Lady Patronesses to permit him to purchase an Almack’s voucher,” Horatia suggested.
Caroline sighed. “Can you imagine him being interviewed by Lady Jersey?”
Horatia snorted. “She’d refuse him immediately, and that would be the end of Mr. Sinclair in London. He’d be forced to return to…by the way, where is Ware?”
Frederica groaned. “Oh, please, let’s not start that up again.”
“So, the plan is that Mr. Sinclair and I need to be seen together,” Caroline said.
Her friends nodded in unison.
“But the problem is, there are so few places where—” She stopped abruptly. Inspiration snatched her up like an eagle and allowed her to view the rapidly developing scheme from a godlike vantage point. It was perfection. Caroline smiled at her friends. “I know exactly what we’re going to do.”
Chapter 3
If one has a dream, one must throw one’s heart after it.
And, if necessary, be willing to see it stomped to bits.
—from the diary of Lady Caroline Lovell, who, through no fault of her own, dined on the hearts of her lovesick swains for breakfast, elevenses, and tea.
“I hope you find these accommodations adequate, sir,” Price said as he held the chamber door open for Lawrence.
Adequate? The room was far more spacious and well-appointed than anywhere he’d ever slept. A small blaze crackled in the fireplace, chasing away the chill that early spring had not yet conquered.
In Ware Hall, his uncle had consigned him to a small chamber, not on the second story, where the rest of the family slept, yet not quite on the fourth, where the servants shivered in winter and sweltered in summer. Instead, he was given a room on the third floor, near the one where his cousin’s nanny slept. She was the other person in the household who was deemed not quite family, yet not precisely a servant either.
Except that Lawrence was family, whether his uncle wished it or not.
Then he realized the butler was waiting for some sort of comment from him. “This will be fine, Mr. Price. Very nice.”
The butler beamed. “Lord Bredon quietly informed me when the pair of you arrived that he meant for you to be a guest at Lovell House for the foreseeable future. So I took the liberty of unpacking the contents of your…ahem…knapsack. I hope that is to your satisfaction.”
Obviously, Price had decided there was no chance Lawrence might decline the offer to stay.
“Thank you, Mr. Price.”
Price waved away his thanks. “The waistcoat and jacket that were packed therein have been brushed and hung. The two shirts and trousers are being washed, though I cannot vouch for how well the trousers will fare in the laundry. Travel is rather hard on one’s wardrobe, is it not, sir?” Without waiting for a response, Price went on. “Your other accoutrements are stored in the clothes press. Shall I send for the rest of your belongings?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Ah, of course. You’ll have made those arrangements yourself, no doubt.”
When Lawrence had surrendered his knapsack and greatcoat to Mr. Price at the town house door, the butler had no idea he was turning over all his worldly possessions. The leather bag was worn and scarred, which wasn’t surprising because he’d carried it with him throughout the French campaign. A cavalry officer had to travel light. Even after he left the service, Lawrence had never broken himself of the habit. He carried what he needed. Nothing more.
Many possessions came with an equal number of cares, he told himself. Weighed down with an abundance of things, a man could never be quite certain whether he owned them or they owned him.
Of course, the real reason for his economical bent may have been because he’d lived on a barely adequate officer’s pay for several years.
The suit of clothing he was now wearing was entirely new and was quite fine, which might account for why Lawrence felt so uncomfortable in it. It was supposed to have been Lord Bred
on’s, but he had insisted on taking Lawrence to his tailor as soon as they disembarked at Wapping Dock that morning. It seemed Lord Bredon had received word before they left France that a bespoke ensemble was waiting for him at Weston’s in Old Bond Street.
Fortunately, Lawrence and he were of a size. The tailor pronounced the fit perfect and offered to dispose of what Lawrence had been wearing, “so the gentleman need not trouble himself with it.”
Lawrence had refused, carefully rolling up the worn trousers, waistcoat, shirt, and jacket. Then, to the tailor’s horror, he’d stowed them back in his knapsack. A similar ensemble, some smalls, spare stockings, and a shaving kit were all Price had to unpack.
No wonder he thought there must be more.
“There is a fully equipped escritoire near the window, sir,” Mr. Price said. “If you wish to send a letter, I’ll be happy to post it for you.”
“I may do that.”
“Very good, sir. Dinner is served at eight o’clock. I’ll send Dudley round when the dressing gong sounds at seven to assist you. He’s our first footman, you understand, and not a true valet, but I hope he—”
“That won’t be necessary. I have nothing better to wear than this.” Since he’d cashed out his commission, he was no longer permitted to wear his uniform and had sold it to help finance his travels.
“Ah! Your wardrobe will have been delayed in transit; I see. Travel does discommode one, doesn’t it, sir? No matter. I’m sure we can find something of Lord Bredon’s for you to wear until your own arrives.”
That settled it. He was going to have to add to his possessions, no matter what cares they brought with them. He didn’t want to embarrass his host. Bredon had been good to him. It would be poor repayment to shame him by being a shoddily turned-out guest.
As soon as Price withdrew, Lawrence settled at the desk and took out the writing implements and a sheaf of foolscap. The nib had been shaved for a right-hander, but Lawrence was accustomed to that. He slanted the paper in the wrong direction, because there was no longer an impatient tutor standing over him, and fisted the quill. His penmanship was still crabbed, and he had to struggle not to smudge what he’d written with the edge of his hand, but his script had improved a bit over the years. He doubted his uncle would recognize it now.