“And what would you gain? A wife who doesn’t love or desire you.” She couldn’t be more blunt.
“You wound me.” He stood and walked to face the fire. “We would get on.”
“You need a dose of honesty, Henry.” She rose and moved beside him. “You deserve more.”
“You’ll use my own words to deflect me.” He almost chuckled. “I’ll not add to your list of worries, Theodosia.” He paced away before he changed the subject in an attempt to clear the air. “How can I help with your grandfather’s condition? I wrote to Dr. Fletcher in London on your behalf. Do you remember our conversation from last we were together? This is the physician who studies the elderly and their tendency for forgetfulness. At the least he should answer my inquiry as a courtesy. I’m still waiting for a reply, but I’m optimistic.”
“That makes one of us then.” Speaking of Grandfather’s decline was hardly one of her favorite topics, but she’d gladly dismiss their earlier talk of marriage. “You’ll come to me with any message you receive, won’t you?”
“Of course.” He moved to stand directly in front of her. “And then I’ll escort you and Lord Talbot to London, where I will deliver you to Dr. Fletcher’s office. He’s the most respected physician in England with a special interest in the aged. I’m confident he will be able to enlighten us about your grandfather’s advanced lapse of clear thinking.”
“Thank you.” She looked into the face of a friend. A man she’d played with as a child and respected as an adult. Life shared with him wouldn’t be awful. They’d always gotten on together without upset. Was she making a mistake by not accepting his proposal? For a brief instant she considered the situation in a new light, until a voice in the back of her head reminded her she felt nothing more for him than a fond kinship. Nothing at all like the heated press of—“I’d much prefer if Dr. Fletcher would visit us here in Oxfordshire. I’d compensate him handsomely for his expenses.”
Henry laughed a hearty chuckle. “You are more stubborn than I realized.”
He reached for her hand and placed it between his own. She stared at their hands, aware she experienced no feeling beyond contact and a sense of friendship.
“Dr. Fletcher is a busy man. Not only does he see patients, but he pursues his studies and spends a great deal of time educating others. He’s a member of several organizations and serves on the board of the Society for the Intellectually Advanced. I doubt a full day’s travel to the countryside would fit into his schedule. We’ll have to go to him. That is, if the doctor has the time to answer my query and allow an appointment. His services must be in high demand.”
“I would think so.” She liked to believe Grandfather’s condition, whatever it was, wasn’t uncommon and, perhaps, would be curable or reversible once they understood the dimensions of his sporadic lapses. And too, mention of the Society caught Theodosia’s attention. It was the same group the Earl of Whittingham had discussed. Didn’t he say he was newly appointed as chief officer? In the haze of the last two days and the tumult of conflicted emotion, she couldn’t be sure.
“I suppose we’ll have to take it one step at a time then.” She slipped her hand free from Henry’s grasp and invited him to stay for luncheon. “Grandfather will be happy to see you.”
“Thank you. It will be a splendid afternoon.”
He smiled and she returned his grin, though she couldn’t help but notice his attention failed to stir her in the same manner as the Earl of Whittingham’s.
* * *
Whittingham strode into White’s in need of distraction. He wasn’t one to frequent the gentleman’s club often, preferring purposeful academic pursuits, but this evening an insatiable restlessness drove him from his exclusive address at the Albany, straight to St. James’s Square. His bachelor apartment was situated in Piccadilly, amidst the wealthy and well-connected, most fashionable gentlemen, but tonight he sought diversion no polite conversation could satisfy. He refused to consider the contrary emotions that took residence in his heart since leaving Leighton House.
“Whittingham.”
A familiar voice cut through the ambient male cacophony and he scanned the crowd until he spotted Jonathan Cromford, Earl of Lindsey, across the main floor.
“Lindsey.” He nodded his head in greeting and followed after his friend, who led them deeper into the club, through the hall, up the center stairs, and ultimately into the card room. A few tables were occupied by men too engrossed with their play to give them more than a passing glance at their entrance.
“This is an unexpected, yet pleasant surprise.” Lindsey signaled a waiting footman and indicated their desire for brandy. “Have you mistaken the club for a lending library, or are you fulfilling the terms of a poorly made wager?”
“Has it really been that long?” Whittingham knew well it had been months since he’d shown his face at the club. He avoided many of society’s functions, not one for the ballrooms, as he was in no search of a wife. Not that he considered himself husband material. Nor much of a dancer. He glanced down at his left leg, the muscles at ease, without grievance due to the ginger salve he’d applied earlier.
“Whatever the reason, it’s good to see you.” Lindsey accepted his brandy and took a long swallow.
Whittingham set his glass aside, more interested in conversation than libation. “How are you? Have you found a resolution to the difficult problem you mentioned last time we spoke?” He had no idea what Lindsey’s specific situation was, as Lindsey refused to reveal anything more than a scant complaint of life’s cruel fate, but having known the man for several years, Whittingham wished to see his friend content.
“Unfortunately, life continues to kick me in the stones.” Lindsey took another swallow of brandy.
“It’s hard to believe anything could be wrong. You appear as polished as ever.” It was true. Lindsey was the veritable ideal of every marrying mama’s wish for their daughter. Handsome, titled, part rogue, part gentleman, the earl was a dashing composition of all the most desirable traits all the while maintaining a reputation of aristocratic aplomb. If he spent too much time at the club, it could only be in avoidance of the trail of swooning females left in his wake everywhere else.
“Appearances are deceiving.” Lindsey crooked a half smile and skimmed his fingertip across the rim of his glass.
“Perhaps.” Most definitely. Matthew’s mind conjured a vivid image of Theodosia, her cheeks pinkened from their sleigh ride, her flower-petal lips curled in a smile of delight. Yet her intuitive thoughts and acute intelligence were the most attractive of all her charming qualities. His mind skittered forward by degree. “By the by, are you familiar with Lord Kirkman?”
Lindsey’s attention sharpened, his eyes intense as he replaced his glass on a side table. “I am.”
A moment passed in silence, much to Whittingham’s annoyance. “Care to elaborate?”
“Not at the moment. Why do you ask?”
Lindsey’s refusal to share information concerning Kirkman was irritating, if not downright rude. “How do you know him? He resides in Oxfordshire, and I met the man there as I took my leave.”
“So, you’re acquainted then?”
“Not in the least.” Whittingham huffed a breath of impatience.
“Kirkman owns a country estate and tenure of land in Oxfordshire, left to him with the barony, although he frequents London often.”
“Interesting, that.” Whittingham picked up his brandy at last.
“I can’t imagine why this interests you, although Kirkman and I have our own problems to settle.”
This snagged Whittingham’s interest further. “In what way?”
“I’ve already spoken out of turn.”
Whittingham mulled this over for half a second. “Your reputation as a veritable expert on everything London wishes to keep hidden prompts me to press for information, though I could ask Coggs. He should work for the Crown the way he manages to discover the most interesting tidbits of well-hidden fact.”
<
br /> “I’m sure you could, although his effort wouldn’t reveal a word. Of that I’m certain.” Lindsey’s expression grew pensive. “Kirkman and I are involved in an affair better left quiet. It’s complicated and personal.”
“Are you in trouble?” He leaned in, his voice lowered for privacy’s sake. “Can I assist?”
“No, on both counts.” Lindsey’s smile appeared strained. “And there’s no reason for concern. Things always work out in the end, don’t they? Either that, or one dies in the process.”
“That’s a rather grim outlook from a man who usually carries the world in his pocket.” Lindsey was a man who appeared at ease with even the most difficult situation, but as Whittingham watched him adjust his cravat and finish the remaining brandy in his glass, he took his friend’s comments most seriously. “Never mind then. I wouldn’t want to compound whatever circumstances have added difficulty in your life.”
“I appreciate that, Whittingham.” Lindsey exhaled deeply before he stood. “Good to see you. I best make my way home.”
And without another word the Earl of Lindsey strode from the room, leaving Whittingham with more disagreeable contemplations than before he’d entered the club.
Chapter Sixteen
“I still don’t know how you convinced me to do this.” Theodosia hissed the words for Kirkman’s ears only, though they sounded loud in the otherwise silent hallway of London’s most exclusive hotel.
Mivart’s was situated at the corner of Brook and Davies Streets in the heart of Mayfair, and aside from its reputation for extravagant furnishings and the most comfortable stay, it boasted a celebrated French chef with a dedicated staff renowned for their culinary talents. Composed of several conventional terraced houses, the hotel boasted four floors and more guest rooms than Theodosia cared to consider.
“You need to stay somewhere while we visit Dr. Fletcher.” Kirkman dared a grin despite he purposely evaded an answer.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She looked over her shoulder, reassured to see that her grandfather followed closely. Her maid and Collins, the house under-butler, approached with him and additional footmen were in tow with their luggage.
“Exactly.” Kirkman added a low chuckle. “Besides, with luck on our side Dr. Fletcher will be available to see your grandfather tomorrow, make recommendations, and you’ll be rid of the city by the end of the week. I know you have an undisclosed aversion to London, but perhaps I can tempt you to a social function or two while we’re here.”
“Are you mad?” She tried for an angry whisper and failed terribly when her words came out too strong. “I didn’t come here to dance a quadrille or sip ratafia. The only reason I agreed to visit this infernal city is to help my grandfather. And never you mind why I dislike the city. Let it suffice that I’m here to help my grandfather, not enjoy the sights.” She didn’t add how much effort it took on her part to return; London was full of bleak and miserable memories she’d rather keep buried.
“Reluctant as you may be, we’re here now, and you’re correct. Our only focus is Lord Talbot and the hope Dr. Fletcher will have a recommendation.”
“I’m sorry, Henry.” She shook her head, disappointed in her ungrateful behavior. They’d ridden all day in Kirkman’s carriage, his patience likely as short as her own, and yet he remained helpful now when he might have left them at the hotel’s stairs and gone about his business. “I’m worried and my emotions are unpredictable at the moment.”
“I understand.”
She knew that he did. “You needn’t inconvenience yourself any longer. We’ll be fine here at the hotel. I’m sure you have acquaintances to see or other appointments that need your attention.”
They reached the end of a long corridor on the second floor and a servant showed Theodosia and her maid into a large chamber with three doors, each leading to another room, all of which were decadently furnished. One room was for dressing, another for sitting and taking tea, and the last for bathing. Grandfather’s rooms were beside her own, as requested, and Collins would also stay there in the role of valet to ensure nothing untoward occurred.
She sidestepped two maids as they rushed by, and returned to where Henry waited in the hall.
“Thank you again.” She drew a deep breath. “I don’t know how this will end, but I appreciate your help.”
“Let’s keep a hopeful outlook.” He stepped back, ready to take his leave. “I’ll return tomorrow morning. We should be at Dr. Fletcher’s office by nine o’clock. Sleep well and try not to worry.”
She nodded and watched him depart, all the while wondering if she would be able to take his well-meant advice.
Later, after they’d settled in their rooms and Theodosia calmed her spirit somewhat, for she despised the thought of visiting London and yet found herself in the middle of the bustling city, she accompanied her grandfather down two flights of polished mahogany stairs to the dining room on the main floor. Theodosia cared not a whit for Mivart’s extravagant menu or fanciful chef, though every maid and footman managed to insert the information into conversation. Unfortunately, Grandfather’s curiosity had been ignited by temptation to the delicacies offered in the dining room, and she feared if she said no it would start a chain reaction of disagreeable behavior, most especially when he seemed completely himself, sharply focused and congenial.
They approached the dining room, discernible not just for the hum of diffusive conversation and clink of silverware, but the enticing aroma of succulent dishes. A satisfying hot meal would be inviting and could possibly contribute further to Grandfather’s calm demeanor.
Much to her dismay, she soon discovered the restaurant was unreasonably crowded and the tables closely situated, most likely in an effort to accommodate a maximum number of hungry diners.
Truly, what had she expected? According to the pert maid who’d flittered in and out of her room to check the fire and replace the linens, Mivart’s chef drew the best of London’s society. This, like so many other reasons, proved she’d never be comfortable in London among the ostentatious, popular set. Her eyes scanned the room to take in a multitude of refined ladies dressed in the latest fashions, their expressions as perfectly in place as their wardrobes, their air of pretentious superiority matched equally by their affectation of excellence. All of a sudden, she wanted nothing more than a bowl of Cook’s mutton stew enjoyed near the kitchen hearth at Leighton House.
“Right this way.”
The host’s greeting startled her into movement and she held tightly to Grandfather’s elbow as they entered the room and were led to a corner table. At least the location offered a modicum of privacy, angled partially out of view of the other guests. Theodosia sent a silent prayer heavenward that the evening would progress with relative ease.
A server brought wine and soon after they ordered from the menu. Theodosia chose roast partridge and brown onion soup. Her grandfather carefully perused the list of selections before deciding on the savory braised pork with asparagus tips. The server briskly walked away with their orders and Theodosia dared another view of the room. The crush of guests in low light and high spirits all seemed a world beyond her, and she’d rather keep it that way. Kirkman mentioned an important appointment he needed to attend and therefore was not available for dinner. It was better to keep their appearance here brief. She had no desire other than to see to her concerns and return abovestairs.
“I’m pleased we met with good weather for our travels,” Theodosia began. “A hot meal will ensure a good night’s sleep after such a long day.”
“Indeed.” Grandfather took a hearty sip of wine. “I can’t remember the last time I visited London. It was good of Lord Whittingham to extend the invitation to lecture at his Society.”
Theodosia froze, her hand on the stem of the crystal wine goblet. “But we have other plans during this visit.” She watched closely, measuring his facial expressions for any sign her deepest fear would materialize. She managed as well as possible at home,
but she had no idea what she would do were Grandfather to become indignant and agitated while they were in a public place. A long-buried fear of utter humiliation wormed its way out from the grave.
How foolish to believe they could mingle with society so easily. What was she thinking? Her heart began a race, each compression squeezing her lungs tighter, urging her pulse faster. She needed to calm or dinner would spin entirely out of control.
“What plans?” Her grandfather pulled his shoulders straighter and she recognized his rigid posture with a heavy beat of dread.
A server arrived with their food and interrupted conversation long enough for her to manage a restorative breath. She would tell Grandfather anything he needed to hear as long as they escaped the room without incident.
“Let’s enjoy our food before it gets cold.” She forced a smile in his direction. “We didn’t travel all day to be rewarded with less than the best. Your meal looks delicious.”
Luckily her encouragement worked and for the moment, conversation was forgotten.
* * *
Matthew escorted Lady Amy Chester into the welcoming foyer of Mivart’s Hotel, her maid left to wait in his carriage. He would have rather dined at home or at Lady Chester’s familial estate as a guest, but that was not to be. His family was acquainted with the Chesters in an amiable friendship for many years, and this comfortable camaraderie made him the automatic escort choice whenever Lady Amy wished to venture out. Somehow the arrangement had become more frequent of late. Matthew didn’t mind as long as he wasn’t forced into difficult situations where he needed to choose between escorting Lady Amy and attending to his academic responsibilities.
This evening, Amy’s brother unexpectedly canceled dinner plans. He’d in turn messaged Matthew to ask for a favor, and that’s how tonight’s event turned about, though it might have occurred on another evening by Matthew’s own instigation. He had begun to consider his future, and at present narrowed his social calls to one lady in particular. The already established routine of escorting Lady Amy proved convenient and automatic. He’d come to know what to expect and the particulars of the endeavor. While he wouldn’t label their relationship boring, it bordered on predictability. In science, predictability was a necessary constant for success.
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