A Truly Perfect Gentleman

by Grace Burrowes

  Learning of Roger’s death had hurt terribly. Addy had realized only then that she’d held out hope of seeing her marriage mature into a peaceful union. Perhaps a child would have come along. Perhaps Roger would have reconciled with Jason. Perhaps in time…

  But death had stolen all the time she’d had left with her husband, and that had been sad. Sadness had eventually given way to a guilty sort of relief. She and Roger had had years to find peace and had instead annoyed each other more with each passing season.

  No child had come along.

  The rift with Jason had grown colder and wider as Jason and his wife had had more children, especially a fine healthy son.

  What Addy had hoped might become peace had in fact been a balance between resentment and indifference.

  And then Roger had hit upon his final scheme to deny Jason the succession…

  Lying in Grey’s arms, Addy closed her eyes and felt no relief that she was saying farewell to the man she loved. This parting would have no silver lining, no unexpected gifts among the grief.

  “Beatitude, I cannot lose you.” Grey’s touch could not have been more gentle or his tone sadder.

  “You never had me,” she said. “We have enjoyed a few encounters, but you did not come to London for casual trysts. You must be about your courting, and I am a distraction.”

  He remained silent when she wanted him to beg. If he begged, she would relent. She would put off the parting. She would bargain with God for more time, a few more weeks, a few more hours.

  A waltz, a promenade, anything.

  He got an arm under her shoulders and brought her over him, so they could cling to each other. His embrace was everything Addy had ever needed—sheltering, intimate, cherishing, strong. Her heart ached, her throat ached, every part of her ached at the loss of him, even as a corner of her mind knew that she’d survive this too.

  She would survive the announcement of his engagement, survive hearing that the banns had been cried. She would even survive learning that the Earl of Casriel had an heir in his nursery.

  Because she did love him.

  “If you cry, I will not be able to leave this house,” Grey said, hands trailing over her back. “Please don’t cry. Tell me I am a pathetic lover, you are bored with me, you could never care for such a dull man. Don’t cry.”

  She cried, at length, and he held her and dried her tears. He assisted her back into her clothing and let her help him dress as well. When he was again the dapper gentleman in his morning attire, and she was a lady with a red nose and puffy eyes, she subsided into sniffles.

  He kissed her one final time, with damnable sweetness. “You will send for me if you ever need anything, Addy. Anything. Coin, a roof over your head, a friend. Promise me you will send for me if you are in need.”

  He held her again, desperately tight, until Addy stepped back. “Thank you, Grey, for more than you will ever know. Be happy.”

  “A gentleman does not argue with a lady, so I will take my leave of you.” He bowed and showed himself out.

  Addy went back to bed, drew the covers over her head, and cried some more.

  Addy’s sacrifice should not be in vain.

  Grey lectured himself to that effect for three days and nights, during which he polished Mrs. Beauchamp’s harp to a brilliant shine, caught up on his correspondence, avoided Sycamore, and did not attend a single social event. Three days was not too much to ask when a man’s heart was broken beyond all mending.

  And yet, he would have made the same choices, even if he’d known how brief his time with Addy would be—though he’d have chosen to embark on the affair sooner.

  But, no. Addy had had to seize the initiative in that regard as well.

  A triple tap on the study door inspired a scowl. That was Crevey’s knock, and Grey did not want to be taken from thoughts of Addy.

  “Come in.”

  Crevey was his usual, pleasantly unruffled self, which struck Grey as a cardinal injustice.

  “Luncheon is ready, my lord. Shall you take another tray in here or use the dining room?”

  Another tray. Everybody was a critic. “Is Sycamore awake yet?”

  “Some hours ago, sir. In fact, he is from home and sent word from The Coventry not to expect him to return for several days.”

  Grey rose, his back protesting too many hours in the same chair. “He’s removed to his club?” Probably a good thing if Cam was to properly manage the place, though Grey would—eventually—miss him.

  “Mr. Sycamore did not say where he was off to, but he took your traveling coach and a small satchel.”

  Grey did not have a Town coach, that conveyance having been sold to finance Sycamore’s time at Oxford.

  “He took the only decent closed carriage I brought to Town and did not ask permission to borrow it. Where has he taken it?” This was so like Sycamore. Darting off with no plan, leaving no word, paying no heed to others.

  “He did not say, sir.”

  I will disown my brother. Grey could inquire at The Coventry regarding Cam’s whereabouts, but if this was a maneuver to avoid creditors, then sounding the alarm could spell Cam’s doom.

  “I’m going out, Crevey. I’ll be back in time for a light supper.”

  Crevey’s calm slipped to the extent of raised eyebrows. “But your luncheon, my lord. Surely you have time to sample Cook’s efforts? The roast fowl is one of her best dishes.”

  For the past three days, Grey had been eating, or trying to, to appease Cook’s vanity, and because he was not entitled to inconvenience the staff with his pining.

  “I’m not hungry, and I have a few calls to pay. I’m sure the staff will enjoy the fowl. My brother is likely brewing another scandal just when I need to secure the hand of the next Countess of Casriel.”

  Crevey stepped away from the door. “The grooms might know where Mr. Sycamore was bound.”

  “Then please make the appropriate inquiries. Sycamore Dorning at liberty without supervision does not bode well for the peace of the realm.”

  “Something else you should know, sir.”

  Not another leaking roof. “Don’t keep the news to yourself, Crevey.”

  “You have received an invitation to the Quinlans’ soiree next week. It’s among the others awaiting your attention.”

  Why would Crevey single out that one invitation? “Is this soiree of any particular note?”

  “Mr. Quinlan brought it around himself, sir.” Crevey studied the seascape of Durdle Door on the opposite wall. “I believe you were out at the time.”

  Grey’s last true outing had been to spend time with Addy on half day. Since then, he’d not been at home to callers.

  “I’ll deal with the invitations when I’m done with today’s calls. If Sycamore should return, please tie him to the piano and don’t let him leave until I have a chance to question him.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “You think I’m joking.”

  “I think you are a very good earl, sir, and an even better brother. Shall I have the gig brought around?”

  If Sycamore had taken the team, then only Grey’s riding horse remained to pull the gig. The beast was certainly sturdy and well trained enough for any discipline, but he did not care for being driven and made that apparent.

  “I’ll walk. I’m not going far.”

  “Doing a bit of shopping? I can send a footman with you.”

  “No footman, no grooms, no tiger. This is a personal call and nobody’s damned business but my own.”

  Crevey bowed, though he made that courtesy a reproach. Grey left the office and marched straight for the music room before Crevey could ask even one more prying, unhelpful question, or remind Grey of one more hopeless, damnable invitation.

  “Are you sure, Beatitude?” Theo’s tone hovered between dismay and concern, though her expression, as usual, was composed. She fit in well here at the Quimbey ducal town house, which she was gradually setting to rights after decades of haphazard care. The libr
ary was an especially handsome room, though the smiling portraits plucked at Addy’s nerves.

  Would Dorning Hall need attention from its new countess? Addy’s imagination tormented her with questions like that by the hour.

  “I have considered my situation for the past week, Theo.” A week in which Addy had sat at her bedroom window and watched for Grey walking past her house, not that he’d ever be so callow.

  She’d begun, and tossed into the fire, any number of letters to him.

  She’d tried to read poetry and ended up reading the journals she’d kept early in her marriage, which left her only more sad and angry.

  She’d looked in on Aunt Freddy, who’d been asleep at midday on both occasions, and she’d made arrangements to have Aunt brought to her own home for “some cosseting.”

  She had not stopped missing Grey. Not at all.

  “Does this have to do with Roger’s passing?” Theo asked. “He died about this time of year, if I recall.”

  Theo would remember that. “The anniversary of his accident comes at the end of the month. I do not want to be in London for that occasion. I am making arrangements to leave for Bath before the Season ends.”

  Theo held up the plate of biscuits. Addy took one to be polite, though food had lost its appeal.

  “You have a new nephew, Beatitude, and you are his godmother. Maybe you should make his acquaintance, as difficult as that might be.”

  Everything was difficult. Waking, sleeping, recalling what day it was, working on Aunt Freddy’s shawl while Aunt gently snored her life away in Addy’s spare bedroom.

  “When Roger died, I knew what to feel. I was a widow. Society tells us what to do when we’re bereaved of a spouse: hang crepe, wear weeds, stay home but for services, take down the knocker, and receive only close friends and family until the mourning calls may begin. That dance proceeds along steps known to all of society. We learn the pattern as we mature without even realizing the lesson has been taught.”

  Addy set her cup and saucer along with the biscuit back onto the tray, though she wanted to pitch the lot of it against the silk-covered walls. The current Duke and Duchess of Quimbey, a love match late in life, beamed at each other in their gilt frame, their portrait mocking everything Addy felt.

  “This is about Casriel, then,” Theo said, shifting from her armchair to take the place beside Addy on the sofa. “I’m so sorry.”

  She put an arm around Addy’s shoulders, and Addy wanted to both weep noisily on her friend’s shoulder and bolt from the room.

  “His lordship returned Aunt Freddy’s harp to her, Theo. Brought it to her personally. The instrument is beautiful now. All warm, rosy wood. Every string perfectly tuned. It sits by her bed, but there’s no one to play it, and Aunt is not awake to hear it played. I’ve moved her to my house, where there’s more staff to look in on her.”

  The mercy of Aunt’s decline was that she could no longer deliver lectures or scolds. The heartache was that Addy missed even Aunt’s tart tongue. The shawl would soon be complete, though Aunt might not live long enough to wear it.

  “You were hoping…” Theo gave Addy a squeeze and sat back. “You thought Casriel would return the harp to you?”

  Addy rose, compelled by an urge to wrench off her slipper and hurl it at the window. “He is a gentleman, Theo. I gave him his congé. He was all that was decent and kind, and he took himself off without any drama or importuning.”

  On his part.

  “How awful of him, to be so mannerly at such a time.”

  Awful, and entirely, absolutely Grey. “I trust you will keep an eye on him?” Addy turned her back on the smiling, besotted pair above the mantel, only to face instead a recent portrait of Theo and her husband.

  Everywhere, besotted smiling couples. Grey, I miss you more than I can bear.

  Theo took a bite of Addy’s biscuit. “By that, you mean I am to tell you when he becomes engaged. The Quinlans are holding a soiree later this week. Casriel hasn’t been seen in public for days, and Jonathan mentioned that Sycamore Dorning has left Town. Your swain might be rethinking his plan to marry wealth.”

  “He’s not my swain, and he’s not rethinking his plan. If he had any other choice, he would have explored it.” Of that, Addy was confident, or she would never have let him go.

  Never have all but pushed him out the door, rather.

  Theo rose, brushing crumbs from her bodice. “I want you to know something, Beatitude.”

  “Not a lecture, please, Theo. I cannot bear one more lecture, reproach, or second thought. I cannot leave Town while Aunt needs me, but I cannot bear to sit by and watch…”

  While Grey Dorning sacrificed his happiness for the sake of duty.

  “I will inform you of developments here in Town if that’s what you need me to do, but I will also remain your friend if you and the earl elope to Gretna Green, live in scandal, or defy all common sense to live in genteel ruin. Nobody took my part when my husband died except you, Beatitude. You sent me to a banker who could be trusted with my secrets. You kept the creditors from my door until I could think again. You warned me of the realities Society pretends widows need not face. You are more fierce and magnificent than you know, and you will always, always be my friend.”

  Addy was grateful for that stirring declaration, also surprised by it. At any other time, she would have reciprocated with a recitation of all Theo had meant to her, and what Theo still meant to her.

  Instead, she endured a hug, said polite thank-you’s and farewells, promised to write if she left London, and made it from the Quimbey town house with her dignity nominally intact. She eschewed Thiel’s proffered arm, though, and returned home without yielding to the temptation to walk past Grey’s town house.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I will have my earl by this time next week,” Sarah said. “See if I don’t.”

  Her parents exchanged a look she’d seen frequently of late, though she could not fathom its meaning. Papa had come home early, perhaps to ensure all was in readiness for the upcoming soiree.

  Mama had been oddly subdued all day, even as Sarah had endured her final fitting for her newest evening gown.

  Now, Papa sat reading yet another newspaper, while Mama embroidered a handkerchief.

  “Soon, Casriel will ask me if he can pay me his addresses,” Sarah went on. “I’ll wear blue, for pity’s sake, and the Arbuckles are on the scent of a viscount. Lady Antonia hasn’t stood up with the earl once in the past week.”

  “Nobody has stood up with him lately, child,” Mama said without looking up from her hoop.

  “Is he ill?” Casriel’s timing was wretched if that was the case, and Sarah had no desire for a sickly husband, even if he was an earl.

  “His lordship has not gone out,” Papa said, turning the pages of his paper. “His youngest brother has turned up missing, and Casriel has not left his town house for nearly a week, other than to ride in the park at dawn. He hasn’t even taken dinner at his clubs.”

  Mama and Papa had to be worried. They’d invited half the eligible titles in London to this soiree, and very few had refused the invitation. Some would come to gawk at a cit, others to gawk at the cit’s beautiful daughter.

  Let them gawk, Sarah would soon be a countess and wear any blasted color she pleased.

  She stalked to the window, which looked down between leafy boughs to the street below. “Has his lordship sent regrets?” If Casriel had sent regrets, Sarah and Mama would call upon him the day after the soiree and express concern for his health. That was the Christian, sociable thing to do.

  “He has accepted,” Mama said. “He’s the only earl who has, the highest title we’ll entertain. Lord Dentwhistle has also accepted.”

  The day was sunny, which made Sarah long to join the carriage parade in Hyde Park. She had not arranged for a handsome gentleman to drive her, though, in case her dress required more than a morning’s attention from the modiste.

  “Dentwhistle is a mere viscount,”
she said. “I’m not settling for a viscount.”

  Papa turned another page of his paper. “Since when did young ladies do the proposing, Sarah Jane?”

  How she hated her middle name. “Casriel needs my settlements, and if he won’t propose to me, he’ll propose to my fortune.” Sarah did not mistake her intended for a greedy man, though a greedy husband would have been even simpler to manage. The settlements would spell out Sarah’s pin money, and Papa would ensure every penny of it was made available to her.

  Casriel needed coin to support his family and his dependents, priorities Papa respected. Sarah could appeal to Casriel’s honor if he became clutch-fisted about her decorating scheme for Dorning Hall or her entertainments.

  “He won’t propose to anybody or anything,” Papa said, “unless and until he asks my permission to court you.”

  A tall man in morning attire strode up the walk. Between the leaves of the plane tree, Sarah spied the blue of his waistcoat.

  “Perhaps that’s why his lordship is approaching our front door right now,” Sarah said. “Because he seeks leave to court me.”

  Mama rolled up her embroidery. “He’ll ask if he can pay you his addresses first, Sarah. A proper man like that will observe the niceties.”

  Despite knowing that Casriel’s suit was inevitable, Sarah was pleased. He was here, even before he’d seen her in the blue gown and at a time when no other gentlemen were on the premises.

  “Order the tea tray,” Papa said. “Use the best everyday rather than the silver, lest he think we put on airs. I’ll leave Casriel to you ladies for now.” Papa rose, tucked the newspaper under his arm, paused to kiss Sarah on the forehead, and left.

  “Are you nervous?” Mama asked, closing the lid on her workbasket. “A touch of nerves is to be expected, Sarah. He is an earl and much respected.”

  That Mama and Papa were cowed by a man’s title was both annoying—Casriel was a fortune hunter, the same as the rest of the bachelors admiring Sarah’s eyes—and gratifying. Sarah would soon be a countess, a lady by title, and she’d be among those doing the cowing.