by Beverley, Jo
“Not well?”
“Not at all well. Miss Potter’s father says she will make her own choice now she’s twenty-one.”
“Not unreasonable.”
“Perhaps, but Polyphant took it on himself to keep my name out of it. He’s patting himself on the back, but a countess’s coronet might have done the trick.”
“He might have mentioned your rank without the title.”
“He should have followed my orders,” David snapped.
“He doesn’t know you have the power of life and death.”
David gave him a look. “There’s worse.”
“She’s already betrothed?”
“No, but she’s off to Mayfair to dangle her thirty thousand before the cream of the aristocratic fortune hunters. As Polyphant puts it, I’m going to have to contest for her hand against all comers.”
“That’s a shame.”
David turned to him. “You think I can’t do it?”
“No, no,” said Fred, raising a hand. “Merely that you won’t like it.”
“That’s true enough. I had to go to London twice to speak at hearings about the title. Dirty, noisy, crowded. A million people live there. A million!”
“Spread over a large area, and broken into parts. The old City of London is separate from the west end, and the political area of Westminster and St. James is apart from the new residential area of Mayfair.”
“I forget you must have visited there from Oxford.”
“Frequently. There’s everything in London. Pleasure, learning, exhibitions.”
“I’d take you as guide, but I need to leave someone I trust in charge here.”
“You’re going, then?”
“Thirty thousand pounds,” David reminded him, “and I need every penny.”
“Didn’t Polyphant present you with the names of four well-dowered ladies?”
“The only one approaching Miss Potter for riches is Lady Maud Emberley, and she’s empty in the attic. The other two, Miss Rackman and Miss Tapler, have only twenty and fifteen thousand. What’s more, they both have brothers and sisters. Miss Potter’s an only child. She could end up with the lot.”
Fred whistled. “A twenty-four-carat golden prize. Perhaps she’s ugly.”
David grimaced. “Pretty, according to Polyphant, and there’s more.”
“More horrors?” Fred asked.
“You’re an impudent wretch. Polyphant’s initial enquiries failed to uncover that Miss Potter’s mother, the simply named Alice Stanley, was from a noble family of Stanleys. My thirty thousand will be going into the beau monde under the aegis of her aristocratic aunt, Lady Caldross.”
“Settle for one of the others,” Fred said.
“If you’re trying to taunt me, it’s not necessary. I’ve accepted all the tortures of my inheritances thus far. Why balk at another? I can kill another bird while in London and take my seat in Parliament.”
“And be presented at court,” Fred reminded him.
“Damn you. Do you know I’ll have to wear a powdered wig, as if it were the last century?”
Fred wisely kept his silence.
David glared out at the sea. By any justice it should be gray and stormy to mirror his mood, but instead it presented its pretty face. The water reflected the bright blue of the sky and the waves merely rippled onto the pebbly shore, whispering sweet promises.
We’ve always been here.
We’ll still be here when you return.
“How soon can I go?” he asked.
“You have engagements, but the only important one is the Lord Lieutenant’s dinner in five weeks’ time.”
“I’ll be back by then. Cancel the rest.”
“It might take longer to woo and win.”
“It can’t. I won’t leave the Horde unmastered for longer than a month. If at all possible, I’ll be back before the next moonless night.”
Fred gave him a dubious look, but he walked away, back toward the monstrous house.
A keep. It could mean “keep safe,” but to David it said “keep imprisoned.” Tall gray stone walls were surmounted with battlements and broken only by narrow arrow slits. There were even snarling gargoyles at the corners and an army of them around the huge main doorway. The massive wooden doors bound in iron could admit a coach and horses, but as best he knew that had never been attempted. How would such a vehicle climb the hill?
For normal use a small door was set into the large one, and the spiked portcullis hanging above was completely ornamental.
He couldn’t live there all his life, but he didn’t see the way out. Even if he owned a home like Kerslake Manor, an earl couldn’t live in such a place. And without money this earl couldn’t change anything.
Thirty thousand pounds. Perhaps his pursuit of that would provide an excuse to avoid the Lord Lieutenant’s dinner. When his claim to the title had finally been stamped and sealed six weeks ago, the dinner had been arranged as his formal introduction to the highest ranks of Devonshire society. He didn’t know how much the Lord Lieutenant had had to grit his teeth to get it done, but his own jaw clenched at the thought of it.
Plenty of the nobility still saw him as the Mad Earl of Wyvern’s bastard-born estate steward, son of a smuggler and a wanton. Many also doubted his claim to the title, court rulings be damned. Those who did believe him the Mad Earl’s legitimate son would be on the watch for insanity.
With such tangled origins, did he have any chance at all with Miss Potter?
If she was plunging into the tonnish season, however, she must be looking to trade her dowry for a title, the higher the better. He was certainly willing to be bought.
Chapter 5
On the morning of her departure Lucy went for a walk to take farewell of her familiar world. She knew it was extreme to think that way, but it was as if everything was changing around her. Perhaps it was Charlotte Johnson in and out of her home, not yet changing anything, but obviously with plans in mind.
Or it could be the morn-till-night involvement in altering her clothes, often in ways she didn’t truly like. Certainly every time she assessed finery in a mirror, she saw a changed person. Lucinda, not Lucy.
For this last walk, she was Miss Potter, who’d gone with her father to these same wharves and warehouses, spoken freely, and struck bargains. She wore a Miss Potter outfit of dark brown dress and spencer and close-fitting black bonnet. Some people greeted her, and no one thought her being here on her own unusual.
Soon she’d have to return home and put on the pink walking dress she’d chosen to wear to enter the beau monde. There she’d never be able to go out alone without being thought scandalous.
She paused to look at the busy river, trying to guess at a distance what goods the incoming vessels might carry: tea or timber, oil or oranges, cotton or coffee. No business of hers at the moment and clocks were striking ten. At eleven her father’s coach would carry her into the beau monde.
She hurried back, but a display in the window of Winsom’s Stationers and Booksellers caught her eye. She was generally most interested in the reading material, but today a pile of prettily bound books was stacked on view, one open to show plain pages.
Lucy had such a notebook and carried it with her nearly everywhere, along with a pencil and a knife to sharpen that, but it was bound in brown leather and scuffed. She’d promised Betty details of life in Mayfair and a pretty journal seemed just the thing for Silly Lucinda.
She went in, setting the bell over the door jingling, and greeted wizened Mr. Winsom. He must be seventy if he was a day, but he was still sprightly despite seeming to live eternally inside his premises.
“My fortune is made!” he declared. “Miss Potter comes a-purchasing.”
“I do indeed, Mr. Winsom. I’m interested in one of the new journals.”
“A gift?” he said. “Perhaps for Miss Hanway?”
“For myself. I’m off to the west end.”
“Ah, yes, I heard.” He indicated a nearby shelf where
more were displayed face forward. She could see why. They were bound not just in color, but in figured silk.
“Very fine,” she said, drawn despite herself to a pink one with a design of butterflies. She took it down. It opened well, and the paper was of excellent quality. Just the thing for a journal of life in the ton.
She noticed that Winsom had cleverly set the display alongside the section of the bookstore most popular with the ladies—the novels. Yesterday evening, when Betty had come over to take farewell, she’d suggested that Lucy might want to take some novels to Mayfair to support her persona as Silly Lucinda.
The conversation had begun with Lucy worrying about where she’d live when her father was married.
“I can’t possibly live here with them as newlyweds.”
“I don’t suppose they’ll mind.”
“I’ll mind! I’ll need more time. Perhaps I should travel. The Lakes, the Peak District. Dramatic landscapes suited to a tragic heart.”
“Lucy.”
“A joke. But I can’t return here so soon. But nor can I travel alone.”
“Rachel or Jenny?” Betty suggested, naming two of their unmarried friends.
“Jenny’s become so bitter, but I suppose Rachel would be an amiable travel companion. Will a few more weeks be enough, though?”
“You could always take ship for Canada, like Laura Montreville in Self Control.”
“First a convent, now paddling a canoe down a river, fleeing fierce Indians.”
“You read it?” Betty asked in surprise.
“Of course not, but I oblige my dearest friend by listening to her relate the stories.”
“You’ll get your reward when Silly Lucinda can join in discussions.”
That was when Lucy had realized the horrible truth. Her cousin and aunt were in ecstasies over a silly poet, so they were probably addicted to novels, too. They’d want to talk about them morning, noon, and night. She’d prepared herself to endure, but when in Rome one was supposed to do as the Romans do. She should buy some novels.
She put her chosen journal on the desk and walked to the shelves of slim volumes with gilt lettering.
The bell tinkled again. She glanced to see who’d entered and her attention was caught. She realized why. The tall young man was dressed in country style. Leather breeches and top boots were not the norm around here.
He asked Winsom if he carried books about agriculture and was directed down one of the narrow passageways between the shelves. He walked there with a little more vigor than she was used to seeing in the neighborhood. He was also quite handsome. . . .
Lucy turned firmly away to concentrate on a different sort of folly. She’d long known that to marry would undermine her ambitions to become a merchant and she was armored against good looks and even charm.
The Spectre Bride. Betty had enjoyed that one and shared the story. Lucy felt no desire to revisit the idiotic plot.
Midnight Nuptials.
Forbidden Affections.
Were all novels about love and marriage?
The Animated Skeleton. That sounded amusing, but her eye was caught by the title Self Control. That was the one about Laura Montreville, canoes, and Canada. Anything further from self-control was hard to imagine.
She moved on, but then turned back. She could remember quite a bit of the story, which meant she might be able to get away with only pretending to read it. She took the two volumes and looked for another novel.
Love and Horror. Now there was a combination that promised good sense. Was it about the horrible fates that lurked behind love? Even though her parents had been happy together, she’d long been aware that her mother had been demented by love to act as she had, and that it could easily have led to horror.
She took down the slim volume, flipped past a preface, and came to the opening.
The storm was beating tempestuously and the lightning glaring around the playhouse . . .
She smiled, imagining animated lightning angrily glaring at the audience. But then it seemed Mr. Thomas Bailey was only just entering the playhouse. He took his seat, where he fell to sighing and weeping at the play, grieving for a lost wife.
That was too real a horror for Lucy. She was about to close the book when she saw a line. She read the words again. He’d lost his beloved two hundred years ago? How could that be . . . ?
Blast it! She’d read the entire first chapter, gobbled it down without thought.
She shoved the dangerous book back on the shelf, but then took it off again. She might have to truly read novels now and then, so she might as well have ones that went down easily. She added the two volumes of The Animated Skeleton for good measure.
Five volumes was more than enough and the clock was ticking away the minutes, but she couldn’t resist turning to the section containing books on trade. She could at least look at the shelf where Winsom kept the new books.
The country gentleman was there, but further down, so no need for alarm.
No need for alarm in any case.
Clearly even a brief exposure to novels deranged the mind.
Observations on the Use of Machinery in the Manufactories of Great Britain. She knew all the arguments against machinery, but progress could not be halted.
A Treatise on the Abuses of the Coal Trade tempted simply because she knew little about it, but it formed no part of her father’s businesses.
An Introduction to Trade and Business. She certainly didn’t need that.
On the top shelf she read, The Evils of the Freetrade.
There had recently been parliamentary debates about how smuggled goods harmed legal trade by undercutting prices. The so-called Freetrade was also damaging agriculture because men who could make money through crime didn’t want to work the land. She couldn’t take such a book to Mayfair, but she could buy it for later. Also, her father might be interested in it.
She went on tiptoe to reach it.
“Allow me, ma’am.”
She froze. The country gentleman was almost touching her as he reached easily for the book.
He looked at the title. “You’re interested in smuggling, ma’am?”
Lucy wanted to tartly ask why not, but she murmured, “For my father,” as she took the book. She was going to have to act a part for weeks, so she might as well start now.
“If there are any other volumes on the higher shelves I could assist you with . . .”
He had a pleasant voice, and was only attempting to be kind. She didn’t like being rude, so as she said, “No, thank you,” she glanced up and gave him a slight smile.
She was caught by blue-gray eyes, all the brighter for being surrounded by skin that confirmed him to be a stranger in her world. No City man was exposed to the elements enough to tan like that.
Handsome as she’d thought.
Square jaw.
Fine lips . . .
A warm smile. An interested smile.
She quickly moved away, pretending to look for another book as her heart slowed its pace. She didn’t know why she’d been so overset by a smile.
Calm again, she turned to go to Winsom’s desk, make her purchases, and leave, but she realized she’d made a mistake. She’d moved away from the front of the shop, so the country gentleman now stood in her way. He wasn’t doing it deliberately, for he was once more looking over the shelves, but the passageway was narrow and he was large. She’d have to push by him to get out.
Leave, she silently urged him, aware of time passing, but he took down another book and opened it.
Winsom’s clock chimed the half hour.
Lucy walked away from him to go around the shelves, but then came to a halt. This was one of the cul-de-sac sections that ended only with a window.
Oh, what was the matter with her? Was a brief reading of a novel enough to turn her into an overwrought idiot? She’d be running away to a French convent, next, or taking ship for Canada.
She adjusted the six books in her arm and walked forward.
&
nbsp; Alerted, he glanced round, and then pressed back against the shelves to give her more room. She nodded and passed, squeezing away from him as much as she could, pulling in her elbows.
One volume slid free to slam to the wooden floor with a sound like a pistol shot. She stared at it, mind empty of what to say or do.
He bent and picked it up. “Love and Horror,” he read from the spine. “Lighter reading than smuggling, but an odd combination of words.”
She snatched it. “Or a natural match? As in Romeo and Juliet?”
“Or Othello,” he agreed. “I grant you your point, though it’s a pity to see love used as a vehicle for tragedy.”
“Or a pity that love addles its victims. All would have been well if Juliet had made a sensible choice and Othello had been less persuadable.”
“You don’t believe in overpowering passions?”
“Definitely not.”
“Yet there are all too many cases of jealous men murdering women.”
“That’s different,” Lucy said, annoyed by his good point, and by having completely lost Silly Lucinda at first attempt. “Consider Romeo and Juliet. I don’t know of a single occasion of young lovers dying together through a misunderstanding.”
His lips twitched. “There, I grant you your point.”
Twitching lips should not have such a powerful effect.
The clock chimed the three quarters. “Your pardon, sir, but I must be on my way.”
She turned toward the front, but he said, “May I help with your load?”
One book was slipping again, so she saw no way to protest as he added hers to the two he’d selected. His hands were a great deal bigger than hers.
“This is an excellent shop behind its shabby appearance,” he said as she led the way to the front.
“It is.”
“It’s a regular haunt of yours?”
She came alert. Was he a fortune hunter, armed with a list and prowling around her home area? Had he seen her leave her house and followed her here? He certainly looked in need of a fortune. His leather breeches were repaired in one place, his boots well-worn, and his hair in need of a barber.