by Mia Marlowe
The Right Honorable, the Earl of Ware
My lord;
I write to inform you that I survived my service with His Majesty’s 4th Dragoons, where I acquitted myself tolerably well.
In fact, Lawrence had served with distinction at Waterloo in the heavy cavalry and, for his valor, earned a medal along with two additional years’ pay. Twice he’d earned field promotions, rising from the rank of lieutenant to major. All told, he’d given ten years of service to king and country. When orders came for him to take ship for the Spanish Peninsula to command a company of cavalry there, he’d decided he’d been away from England long enough. He’d resigned and sold his commission to the son of a newly made knight. The young man was eager for adventure and glory.
Lawrence had seen sufficient adventure on the battlefields of France to last a lifetime. Lest some of the ghastlier elements of that adventure rise up to bedevil him, he returned to his letter writing.
Be assured that I require nothing from you; I have sold my commission and manage quite well on the proceeds.
Lawrence chuckled ruefully. Even if he were reduced to beggary, he’d not receive another penny from Lord Ware. He doubted his uncle would deign to spit on him if he were set ablaze.
Besides, he didn’t need the wealth of Ware. Plenty of military men lived in comfortable retirement solely on the sale of their commissions.
But comfortable was not fashionable, and if Lawrence was to take part in a London Season, he needed to fit in somehow. The easiest way was to make sure he looked the part. On the morrow, he’d go ’round to Weston’s and arrange for an appropriate wardrobe. Something suitable for balls and routs and musical evenings and all the other means of torture he’d gladly endure if Bredon’s sister was also there.
The new suit he was wearing at present, as well as the invitation to stay at Lovell House, was likely because Bredon still felt himself in Lawrence’s debt. After Lawrence had come to Bredon and Rowley’s aid in Rome, he’d assisted them out of other scrapes when they’d found themselves in less than salubrious situations. He’d tried to convince Bredon that his actions didn’t require that sort of ledger keeping. Lord Bredon owed him nothing. He was his friend. That was reason enough for Lawrence to exercise his fighting skills.
More than enough, because Lawrence could count his friends on the fingers of one hand.
Yet his resources were not limitless. The expense of acquiring fashionable clothing worried him. Staying at Lovell House would stretch his funds. Even so, the last thing he wanted was to hang on Bredon’s sleeve. He’d seek other accommodations soon, so as not to discommode his friend.
Or the charming Lady Caroline.
Lawrence stared into space, contemplating that lovely creature for so long, his nib dried up and he was forced to re-trim it before continuing with his letter.
While I neither need nor expect financial support from you, I earnestly request news of my mother. As she has not responded to my many letters, I must assume she has not received them.
He refused to believe she wouldn’t answer. His uncle must have withheld the letters from her. It was the only explanation.
The only one Lawrence was willing to entertain.
His pen was motionless on the foolscap for too long, and a blob of ink blossomed beneath the nib. The final word in the sentence was rendered illegible. He could almost hear the earl’s gruff voice inside his head.
Still can’t manage something as simple as a demmed letter. The boy’s worse than useless.
Lawrence wadded up the foolscap into a tight ball and hurled it into the fireplace. It curled in fiery agony before turning to gray ash and crumbling to dust.
The worst thing was that he couldn’t be sure his uncle was wrong.
* * * *
Every morning since Lawrence had come to stay at Lovell House, Lord Bredon had insisted he accompany him on his daily jaunts. They went to White’s for coffee and a chance to read a freshly ironed copy of the Times. Once, he and Bredon had blazed out of Town in His Lordship’s curricle to a horse race where Lawrence’s keen eye for horseflesh was put to good use. Bredon bet heavily on his recommendations and took home a fat purse, which he tried to share with Lawrence.
He would have none of it. He was already sleeping under Bredon’s roof and eating at his board. The ledger of their friendship was tipping too far in his favor. Bredon laughed whenever Lawrence broached the subject.
“Ledger? There is no such thing between you and me,” Bredon would say.
But for Lawrence, who’d had to earn every scrap of approbation he’d ever received, that sort of unconditional friendship seemed unlikely to last.
Balance. That’s what’s wanted.
Lawrence wasn’t sure what he could do to level the scales.
Bredon saw to it that Lawrence was introduced to all his friends and acquaintances. When anyone asked which university Lawrence had attended, Bredon would save him from having to answer by jumping in and expounding on the fact that Lawrence had served with His Majesty’s 4th Dragoons at Waterloo. The subject of higher learning went by the wayside. The upper crust—the male half of it, in any case—loved to welcome a hero to its ranks, especially one who was heir presumptive to one of England’s great houses.
Of Rowley, the man in whose company they’d traveled the capitals of Europe, they saw no sign.
On this particular day, Dudley crept into Lawrence’s chamber and tried to roust him from a heavy sleep.
“Is the house ablaze?” Lawrence covered his head with his pillow. “If not, leave me be until it is.”
He and Bredon had stayed late at the Pugilistic Club the night before.
Correction: We stayed until it was extremely early.
The eastern sky was turning a yellowish gray by the time they returned to Lovell House. Or perhaps it was merely that he was peering through a gin-soaked haze.
“If you’d be taken for a man about town, you must be part of the sporting scene,” Bredon had explained as they bet on one boxer after another.
Or rather, Bredon had been doing the betting. Just as they’d done at the racetrack, Lawrence picked the fighters his friend should back. He had a knack for judging the degree of aggression in the boxers entering the ring. The set of the shoulders, the tick of a jaw muscle, a singularly steely-eyed glare—Lawrence could tell who was willing to do whatever was necessary to put his opponent down.
One brute recognizes another.
Now, Lawrence glared brutishly from under his pillow, striving to tamp down his growing aggression toward Dudley, the footman-turned-valet.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but His Lordship sent me to wake you,” Dudley said as he opened the curtains, sending a bar of sunlight knifing across the room. It struck Lawrence full in the face.
“I intended to sleep later today,” Lawrence said, stifling the urge to add a few choice curses.
“That you have, sir,” Dudley said with a trace of wistfulness. Servants woke with the sun, or even earlier. “It’s half three in the afternoon.”
He could’ve sworn his head had just hit the pillow.
Dudley laid out one of his new suits of clothing, taking special care with the starched cravat. The tailor at Weston’s had been quick to finish Lawrence’s new wardrobe because he was Lord Bredon’s particular friend.
While it was helpful to have the new suits ready in record time, Lawrence wasn’t sure he liked having things done for him simply because of whom he’d befriended. At school, he’d scrabbled for himself. In the military, his own deeds earned his promotions. Shouldn’t his coin have been enough to stir the tailor to timely service without having to rely on social connections to speed them along?
As Bredon was fond of saying, “You may well be the best natural fighter I’ve ever seen, but as far as understanding Polite Society, you are a book filled with blank pages, my friend. Neve
r mind, Sinclair. You’ll learn soon enough how this world works.”
In the meantime, Dudley was trying to urge him from bed without seeming to do so.
“His Lordship is waiting,” Dudley said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you want I should—I mean, shall I assist you with a shave?”
As a footman, Dudley was fairly mute. As a valet, he had not yet mastered Mr. Price’s ease of speech with the one he served.
“No, that’s all right.” Lawrence hauled himself naked from the bed and slipped into his waiting smalls—unassisted, thank you. Some things a man had to do for himself.
“Mr. Sinclair, the hot water is ready for your morning ab…ab…absolutions,” Dudley finally managed.
“Ablutions,” Lawrence corrected gently. “Absolution requires more than hot water and is much harder to come by.”
Lawrence stropped his razor a time or two, soaped up his face with the badger-bristle brush, and made short work of the stubble on his cheeks and chin. Even so, he probably should have let Dudley shave him.
No doubt he needs the practice.
But Lawrence had done such things for himself for so long, it would have felt too strange. Besides, something within him rebelled against allowing another man, however well-meaning, to hold a naked blade to his unprotected throat.
He forced himself to stand still while Dudley assisted him with getting dressed. It made him realize again how different he was from the family with whom he was lodging. This sort of thing was as natural as breathing to Edward Lovell, Lord Bredon. It was as bizarre as a two-headed dog to him. Even though by the world’s lights, Lawrence Sinclair was quite wellborn—presumptive heir to an earldom, no less—his uncle had made sure he’d never felt his position entitled him to any special treatment.
And while the ton might expect him to succeed his uncle, Lawrence knew Lord Ware would do everything he could to keep that from happening.
“Where is Lord Bredon?” Lawrence asked as Dudley tugged on his second boot. “The parlor?”
“No, sir. He’s waiting for you in the stable.”
A ride was worth getting up for. Lawrence flew down several flights of stairs, making sure to slip through the kitchen on his way out so he could pilfer a couple of buns. He didn’t take time for tea. He wasn’t about to keep Bredon waiting in a horse stall.
Behind the row of fine homes on this oh-so-fashionable street, there was a narrow alleyway. Just beyond that were the stables used by the residents of those fine homes. Most were only big enough to house a carriage and the matched pair that pulled it. The Chatham stable was roomy enough for three additional horse stalls as well.
“There you are, Sinclair,” Bredon said as he tightened the girth on a bay gelding. “I thought I’d have to send a hunting party of housemaids and footmen to drag you back here.”
“Dudley was sufficient.”
“Caro and her friends have taken the carriage,” Bredon explained. “We’ll have to ride.”
That suited Lawrence better than a hot cup of oolong. He didn’t miss much from his cavalry career, but he did miss the dusty smell of horseflesh and the easy sense of oneness he felt with his steed. He checked the security of his tack and mounted in one smooth motion. The world seemed a much better place when viewed from the back of a Thoroughbred.
“Where are we bound?” he asked as they trotted down the alley.
“Somerset House. The Royal Academy of Arts’ annual exhibition opens today.”
Lawrence pulled a face. “You and Rowley dragged me to the Vatican, where we all got stiff necks staring at the ceiling. We trudged through the Louvre together because you said you couldn’t face your mother if you didn’t see the Moaning Lisa—”
“Mona Lisa, you barbaric lout.”
“As you will,” Lawrence conceded. For some reason, Bredon’s insults didn’t carry the same sting as the earl’s had. “The point is, haven’t we seen enough art for a lifetime?”
“Trust me, Sinclair. This is more about being seen near the art than actually seeing it,” Bredon said as they turned onto the main thoroughfare and nudged their mounts into a trot. “Besides, since you stole my tailor, you’ve turned into a swell of the first stare. It’s high time you were out and about.”
“I’ve been out,” he grumbled.
“Coffeehouses and cockfights do not signify, my untutored friend. Not for a gentleman who means to cut a wide swath through the Season.”
Honestly, the only reason Lawrence had agreed to stay in London at all was the hope of getting to know Lady Caroline. But she rarely came down to breakfast before he and Bredon were out the door for the day. At supper, the Lovell family filled the table. The earl and his countess had brought as many of their sons from their country estate as possible. Edward’s younger brothers, Benjamin, Charles, and Thomas, were like stair steps around the long table. All were possessed of the Lovell good looks and quick wit. The first two were reading law at Oxford, while Thomas had chosen to break with family tradition and attend Cambridge, which gave his brothers plenty of cause for good-natured teasing. After the Lent semester ended, young Harry, who was at Eton, would be joining the family in London as well.
No wonder Lady Caroline had said her parents would never notice an extra young man about the house.
But they had. Someone had arranged matters so that Lawrence was never seated near her at supper. He was never granted even a hint of private speech with her. Since that first disastrous day, Lawrence had not ventured anywhere close to the parlor, especially if he heard the shrill giggles of Lady Caroline’s companions behind the sturdy oak door.
Who could blame him? He’d made a thorough ass of himself. Yet the kindness of Lady Caroline in the face of his poor showing and the possibility of seeing more of her kept him in a state of perpetual and, most likely, impossible hope.
“Will your sister and her friends be there?” he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.
“They will. In fact, on opening day, you’ll find more beauties lining up to tour the Royal Academy of Arts than you’ll find masterpieces on the walls,” Bredon promised.
That was enough to make Lawrence forget his rumbling stomach, even though a bun or two wasn’t nearly enough to break his fast. Instead, he wished he’d let Dudley spend more time making him presentable.
God knows I could use it. But no matter. This is my opportunity to undo Lady Caroline’s initial opinion of me. By heaven, I will impress her this time.
So he squared his shoulders as the three-storied Somerset House came into view. A muscle in his cheek twitched, and it seemed as if his vision sharpened a bit.
If he could have seen himself at that moment, he’d have recognized the look. He was a man willing to do whatever was necessary. Seeing that level of determination, he’d have been willing to bet his own money that Lady Caroline didn’t stand a chance.
Chapter 4
“‘Fortune favors the bold,’ they say. Obviously, they have never met Lady Caroline Lovell.”
—Lawrence Sinclair
The main exhibition hall in Somerset House soared three stories to an ornate cove ceiling. It was ringed with clerestory windows, allowing a splash of sunlight to illuminate the myriad canvases that were hung from the floor to the ceiling. Their ornate frames butted up against one another, like seasick passengers on an overcrowded ship, jostling elbow-to-elbow along the rail. The tops of the uppermost paintings canted inward, so the works might still be viewed from the floor far below without too much distortion. The arrangement created the illusion that the very walls were leaning in toward the milling crowd.
There was such a press of bodies in the great hall, Lawrence despaired of catching the slightest glimpse of Lady Caroline. Elegantly garbed cits and dandies paid court to young ladies, who were flirting with their fans and making doe’s eyes when they thought their chaperones weren’t attendi
ng. Groups of young people wandered from one painting to the next, gave the canvases cursory glances, and then returned to their flirting. Several stout matrons, most probably the inattentive chaperones, had found seats on benches situated in the center of the hall. These ladies viewed the canvases hanging near the high ceiling through opera glasses, exclaiming to one another over the artistry in each work and praising the budding talent. All the while, they were oblivious to the romances budding a few feet from them.
“I see what you mean, Bredon,” Lawrence said without looking back at his friend, who must have followed him in and was no doubt standing a little behind him. “There’s very little afoot here that has to do with art.”
“Indeed. Then pray, sir, do tell me what you believe is afoot.”
He turned to find Lady Caroline gazing at him, the corners of her pink lips turning up ever so slightly. Ears burning, he belatedly remembered his manners and whipped off his hat.
“Lady Caroline,” he said as he gave her a sharp bow from the neck. “I am most pleased to see you here.”
“Mr. Sinclair,” she responded with a quick curtsy, her mildly amused expression still intact. “Now that we have established our identities, may I point out that you see me nearly every night at the supper table?”
“Yes, that’s true. But it’s not the same as…well, we’ve never had the opportunity to…what I mean is… you and I have exchanged precious few words…you see…since I became your brother’s houseguest.”
“Perhaps that’s a good thing because words seem to be a sticking point for you.” Her smile broadened, but he didn’t sense any malice behind it. It was an indulgent sort of smile, a smile that said it was all right for him to take his time expressing himself.
He’d never had trouble speaking to women before, though he was never able to gather a crowd around himself as Bredon could. It made no sense that the mere presence of this one, the one he most wished to impress, should render him hopelessly tongue-tied. Yet, because of her smile, some of the tension drained from between his shoulder blades.