A Notorious Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  While they concluded their business, the shop door opened again. She glanced to the front. Her stomach headed to the center of the earth, for who should be holding the door but Captain Niall. Behind him were Emily, Miss Clara Glynn, and her mother. The Marquess of Thrale came in last.

  Johnson moved away, and Lucy was grateful for his discretion. His livelihood depended upon the patronage of men like Mr. Glynn, Captain Niall, and the nobility. Men such as Lord Thrale.

  Emily gave a delighted grin. “Lucy, see who came to call on us at The Cooperage! How fortunate that we’ve found you here. We were wondering where you’d got to.”

  “You see, Mama?” Clara headed for Lucy, too. “Lord Thrale was correct. Mrs. Wilcott is here.”

  Mrs. Glynn did not reply, but Lucy had no expectation of a warm greeting from the woman. There was a longstanding and mutual dislike between them. Not even Anne’s marriage to a duke could erase Mrs. Glynn’s dislike of Lucy. She was tolerated for the sake of her sisters.

  Through the still-open shop door, she saw Roger on his feet, tail wagging, unaware he’d betrayed her presence, and ready to follow Lord Thrale anywhere. Lucy watched the tableau as if she were an onlooker and not a participant. Captain Niall made no secret of his regard for Emily. Lord Thrale and Clara Glynn made a striking couple, though no one but her and Mrs. Glynn seemed aware of that. Once the door was closed, Lord Thrale took Clara’s arm, a deft method of leaving the field clear for Captain Niall. Emily, however, did not cooperate in that pairing off, for her sister walked away from the captain. Was there not to be a match between them, then?

  Emily drew Lucy’s arm through hers. “Did you know Roger is in love with Lord Thrale?”

  “He’s shameless.” She refused to meet Lord Thrale’s gaze.

  Clara reached them. “Mrs. Wilcott, good afternoon.” Her smile was too set, too determined, and Lucy was sorry Clara was in the difficult situation of displeasing her mama by being polite. She did not wish to be rude, but neither did she want Clara, who had been a friend before Lucy’s marriage and was the sweetest creature to this day, to be in trouble with her mama because she refused to cut Lucy.

  “I was disappointed,” Clara said, “when we called at The Cooperage and found you were not at home.”

  Lucy did not know where to look nor what to say. If it were possible to vanish, she would have wished herself away from here. She did not care to manage with so many people. This was too complicated, her desire to be cool to Mrs. Glynn at war with her regard for Clara, and then the challenge of maintaining her drawing room smile when Emily and Clara knew better. Possibly Lord Thrale, too. Now there was a man she must keep at a distance.

  Johnson slipped his betting book into his pocket and headed for the door. Lord Thrale exchanged a look with him. Yes, of course, Thrale of all people would know who he was. He’d already been to the Academy and impressed Johnson with his abilities. “He’s a right Count,” Johnson had told her when the subject arose. Among the Flash, a gentleman who boxed was referred to as a Count. Sometimes fondly, often not. Johnson had been too impressed for her to think he intended scorn.

  “Thank you, Clara. How is your sister?”

  “Very well, thank you. In her last letter, she begged that I would tell all the Sinclair sisters hullo, so you must accept this hullo from her through me.”

  Thrale and the others came farther in. Mrs. Glynn refused to acknowledge her beyond a curt nod in her direction. Captain Niall gave her a penetrating look that included a sweeping consideration of her person. She’d had that look from enough men not to be overly alarmed. She could imagine what he’d heard from Arthur Marsey. Nothing to her credit.

  “Mrs. Wilcott.” Lord Thrale bowed.

  She addressed him with a degree of naturalness. “My lord. I hope Roger did not accost you.”

  “I was greeted with due respect.” Thrale had more reason to think ill of her virtue, yet she saw no sign he had any recollection whatever of their encounter.

  “No one knew where you had gone.” Emily gave her hand a squeeze. “You should have told us you were walking here. We could have come together. What fun that would have been.”

  Mrs. Glynn was dreadfully quiet. Disdain dripped from her every pore and syllable she spoke. To Mrs. Glynn, Lucy would always be the girl who’d had her cap set at her beloved son. Mrs. Glynn would always believe Harry had made a narrow escape, no matter the truth.

  Lucy locked away her anxiety. “If I had, Emily, you would not have been at home when the Glynns called.”

  “Oh, well.” Lucy was baffled by Emily’s ability to be so infernally at ease no matter the circumstances. “I am quite certain I would have insisted we should wait a while to see who might come to visit The Cooperage on such a splendid day.”

  Captain Niall came to stand beside Emily. Like Thrale, he glanced at the prints scattered across the tabletop. She did not care much for men who were so slender, but she had to allow his eyes were the softest brown imaginable. He had a cleft in his chin and thick hair that curled when the air turned damp, as it had now. In London, men like him filled the ballrooms and drawing rooms.

  Mrs. Glynn moved to the counter to inspect the plates there, placing herself between Lucy and Captain Niall. “Is there a gown you admire, Clara?” She glanced at Captain Niall and Thrale, and no woman in all of creation could smile as warmly as Mrs. Glynn. “My daughters and I are always eager to know what fashions Miss Sinclair admires. My eldest is married now, but her letters to me beg for descriptions of our Sinclair sisters. They have always been our inspiration for all that is perfect in a woman. Is this the one?” She turned with one of the plates in hand, a dreadful gown with too much lace and not enough bodice.

  “What do you make of this, Clara, my dear?” Mrs. Glynn examined the plate up close then held it at a distance. “Miss Sinclair?”

  Clara smiled brightly. “Mrs. Wilcott’s taste is beyond reproach, as everyone knows. May we hear your opinion?”

  Emily leaned in to look at the print then gave Mrs. Glynn a narrow look. Lucy’s breath caught. “Not very much, ma’am. Lucy, is there anything new in the subscription library?”

  Still focused on the print, Mrs. Glynn shook her head. “I cannot declare this gown a success. It would not suit you, Clara. Nor you, Miss Sinclair, not with your coloring. If others find something in it, why, there is nothing one can say to that, is there?”

  Lucy could not imagine that gown suiting anyone. It looked to have been conceived by someone with a deep dislike of the female form, and drawn and painted by someone half asleep.

  “Now, Mama.” Clara took the plate from her mother and returned it to the counter. “Mrs. Wilcott was not looking at any particular plate when we came in. I hope you’ll tell us which, if any, of these caught your eye, Mrs. Wilcott. My sister, Mrs. Briggs, will want to know every detail.”

  She fixed a smile in place, for she would never want Clara to feel ignored or dismissed. “I hadn’t time to look through many, and I’d not found this month’s plates yet.”

  Mrs. Glynn shifted around other sheets that were loose on the counter then abandoned that to flip through pages in one of the magazines. “Ah. La Belle Assemblée. I adore this publication, don’t you, Clara? So many uplifting and elevating articles.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Clara returned Lucy’s smile. “With so many new fashions, it’s no wonder you hadn’t the chance to assess them all. Shall we look now, Mrs. Wilcott?” She glanced over her shoulder at her mother. “I have been hoping to consult our Oracle of Fashion.”

  When she and her sisters had learned of Aldreth’s plan to take them to London, Lucy had been the one to take charge of their wardrobes, and, as it turned out, she had a talent for fashion. Anne had given her fits, with her refusal to accept anything new.

  “Come, Clara. We ought to show Lord Thrale and Captain Niall around our little bookshop.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Her attention shifted from her mother to Lucy. “Another time, Mrs. Wilcott?”

 
; “You’ve no need of advice from me.”

  “Come with us, Emily? And you, Mrs. Wilcott. Won’t you, please?”

  Mrs. Glynn made a shooing motion. “My dear Clara. Not everyone comes here for books. Let us leave fashion to those who do not care to elevate their minds.”

  This Lucy met with a practiced, stolid silence, though her stomach had turned into a knot. Lord Thrale cocked his head, but that contemplative expression was nothing new for him. Best if he paid her no attention at all. Her gloved fingers slid over the illustrations, happy to retreat behind the familiar engagement with fashion. It was expected of her. “Do go on, Emily.”

  “Shall we?” Captain Niall held out both arms, one to Emily, the other to Clara. Mrs. Glynn beamed at him.

  Thrale came nearer to where Lucy stood, close enough that she breathed in the scent of his cologne. Was that ambergris? She closed her eyes. Very pleasant. Behind her closed eyes, she saw him as he had been in the second parlor. Leaning over her with that wicked, carnal smile. He was built along the same lines as her late husband, as she could not help noticing. If he boxed, and if, as Johnson claimed, he was not without skill, then this was no soft man.

  “Which frock were you admiring?” Thrale sounded as if her answer mattered, which was rather sweet of him. She pulled her thoughts from wondering what would have happened if he’d taken up her dare. Would they have ended up skin to skin?

  “All of them, of course.”

  While she’d been entertaining wicked thoughts of Lord Thrale, Captain Niall had detoured and brought over Emily and Clara. They crowded around the counter, looking at fashion prints. Emily sidled away and that left Captain Niall beside her.

  “What, all of them?” Captain Niall said.

  Mrs. Glynn’s smile was a veneer of cheer over scorn a mile deep.

  “Even this one?” He pointed to the print of the dreadful gown Mrs. Glynn had picked up.

  No. Not that one. The words stuck in her throat. He was standing beside her, his upper arm practically touching her shoulder. She edged away from the contact.

  He tapped another of the prints. “Do ladies not consider whether a frock suits them? I think no. Fashion is all. This gown because it is new and in the current season’s colors.”

  Let him think what he liked. He cocked his head at her, and Lucy could not deny that he was attractive. Men like him did not appeal. He was too slender. Too polished.

  Captain Niall leaned a hip against the counter and took up the print. “It seems to me, Mrs. Wilcott, that a woman either admires a frock because it would suit her or she does not, because it would not.”

  Emily, who had all this time been examining the fashion plates herself, had been listening avidly, since she said, “As if a woman could not admire a gown that looked well on someone else. Honestly, Captain Niall, do you mean to say a woman only cares for that which suits her, all else be dashed?”

  Clara took the print from Captain Niall. “Here is the proper test. What do you think, Mrs. Wilcott? Does this gown meet with your approval?”

  Responding to Clara was no difficulty at all, thank goodness. “One may admire a gown without believing it would suit one.”

  “In that event,” Captain Niall said with that brilliant, joyous smile of his. “You must admire all gowns, Mrs. Wilcott.”

  What a nonsensical thing to say. “Why is that?”

  His smile softened, and that was a shocking thing, that he would look at her that way when he’d come here because of Emily. “Why, because it is impossible to think you would be anything but perfection itself, whatever you wear.”

  The pinpoint of dread over what Arthur Marsey had told him blossomed.

  CHAPTER 7

  Thrale reached in and took the print from Captain Niall, giving him a dry look as he did. He wanted to take the man by the shoulders and give him a good hard shake. “I should think, Niall, that you would know better than to interrogate a fashionable woman on the subject of fashion.”

  “Who better to ask?” Niall shrugged, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d eyes in his head. A brain beneath that thick pate. Mrs. Glynn’s dislike of Mrs. Wilcott was no secret to anyone. Niall had no business stirring that pot. If he thought those words would impress Mrs. Wilcott, then Niall understood her even less than he did himself.

  Miss Sinclair picked up another of those blasted prints. “I rather like this one. What do you think, Clara?”

  He hoped Niall felt the ice in Miss Sinclair’s words, for he deserved to pay for his careless words.

  The young lady’s odious mother laughed. “By all means let us hear from our oracle on the matter.” The woman examined the plate, then looked at Miss Sinclair from over the top of the page.

  Mrs. Wilcott had that abstracted expression again. There might not be a thought in her head for all the life there was on her face. How many times had he seen that exact reaction from her and taken it for disinterest? She moved away, nearer another counter where there were no bloody, be-damned, fashion plates. “Miss Glynn looks very well in greens and blues, as I am sure you are well aware.” She gave them a smile so cheerful it hurt his soul.

  She went on. “How fortunate. This month’s colors are apple green, primrose, apricot, and blackberry. However, neither Miss Glynn or my sister need my advice. Their taste is impeccable.”

  “Thank you.” Clara curtsied.

  Emily rolled her eyes when she thought only her sister was looking. Mrs. Wilcott retreated farther yet, and it was only because he’d begun to pay attention that he knew she felt the tension.

  Miss Sinclair put one hand to her bosom and waved the other beneath her chin. “I do not know about you, but I live in horror of any gentleman or nobleman proposing that we ladies adorn our forms in clothing we do not like merely because the color is au courant. That, Captain Niall, is my nightmare.”

  Niall bowed and winked at the company. “It is my wish that all ladies adorn themselves in a manner best suited to their forms.”

  Mrs. Glynn simpered. “My dear Captain, we shall endeavor to ensure she does.”

  Miss Sinclair was not smiling. Nor was Miss Glynn. Thrale looked at Mrs. Wilcott, but she’d walked away, and now her attention was locked on the books stacked on another of the counters. She had her elbow on the counter and her hand pressed to her mouth. Whether that was to hide a smile was impossible to say.

  Miss Sinclair marched to her sister and left Niall to contemplate his setback. “Shall we see what new books have arrived since last we were here? Miss Glynn?”

  The longing Mrs. Wilcott sent the book she’d been looking through was by far the most genuine emotion he’d seen from her since they’d come in. She closed the book, newly bound from the shine of the leather, and swept her fingers over the gold lettering on the cover. “Yes, let’s.”

  “I hope there are new novels,” said Miss Glynn as the three strolled to the shelves without Niall. “There were none when I was here last week. Do you believe it, I’d read them all?”

  “Does that mean you have finished The Lost Heiress?” Miss Sinclair bumped shoulders with Miss Glynn. “You did say you’d lend it me when you had.”

  “I’ll send it over. You’ll never read a more thrilling story in your life, I promise you. The Count of Diomanti is too horrible. I could not sleep for thinking he was on his way to Bartley Green, all the way from Tuscany.”

  Thrale examined the volume that had so absorbed Mrs. Wilcott. The Gazetteer. He flipped through the pages. The volume was full of maps and pages that listed the names of cities and other notable locations the world over, each with a description and other details about that locale. Hardly fascinating for a woman who cared only for fashion.

  “What a pity it is, “Mrs. Glynn said, “when a woman neglects her mind. Do you not agree, my lord?”

  “Hm?” He unfolded one of the large engravings included and compared the map to the locations described. The young ladies, including Mrs. Wilcott, were now examining the shelves of newly arrived books. Many were s
till in the blue-gray boards of books shipped unbound.

  “My Clara,” Mrs. Glynn said, “has had all the very best tutors. She speaks Italian, German, and French, she draws, sings like an angel, and plays the piano-forte. I insisted that she learn mathematics, history, and the natural world.”

  He left the map open. “Miss Glynn is an accomplished young woman.”

  Mrs. Glynn sent a sour look in Mrs. Wilcott’s direction. “Clara understands more than fashion, I promise you that. She is not the sort of young lady one finds in London, one who cares for her appearance above all else that is proper.”

  “I confess myself unable to agree that only women become obsessed with fashion.”

  Her gaze slid to Mrs. Wilcott. The Oracle of Fashion. Yes, that was what he knew of her, and it did not fit the woman who’d as much as dared him to take her up against the wall. She continued. “Among women of a certain ilk we find an unhappy lack of education and refinement.”

  “Are there not men in whom we might observe the same imbalance?” He had himself had little formal education. His father had either engaged tutors who did not care whether their charge learned anything a’tall, or engaged one who did and failed to timely pay him. The damned vicar had done more to educate him than his father had.

  “Hear, hear, Lord Thrale,” Miss Sinclair said from the other side of the shop. “Lucy, do help us find something to read. I feel the need to improve my mind.”

  Thrale held up The Gazetteer. “Here is a worthy volume. Full of facts to improve any mind, as Mrs. Wilcott will no doubt confirm for us.”

  Mrs. Glynn snorted, but everyone, even her daughter, ignored her. Niall had found a sheaf of sporting prints and was examining them while watching the ladies when he thought he was not observed.

  “Pray my lord, watch the map.” Mrs. Wilcott took a step forward. “The page will tear.”