The Ardent Lady Amelia

by Laura Matthews

  But more than that. Verwood handed his hat and gloves to the footman who approached him at Boodle’s. Lamps burned in the hallway but no sound penetrated from behind the heavy wooden doors on either side. “Is Lord Welsford here this evening?” he asked, thinking it just possible Peter would have escaped some boring entertainment to come.

  “No, milord, I haven’t seen him.” The footman draped Verwood’s coat over his arm, careful to avoid wrinkling it.

  “Monsieur Chartier, then?”

  “Yes, he’s in the room on the right.”

  Verwood was led to an enormous room, its Axminster carpet mellow in the light from several crystal chandeliers. There were large, round green-baize-covered tables down the street side of the room, and smaller square tables opposite. A lamp stood on each of the larger tables, while the smaller were in partial shadow, though the play at them seemed no less serious. He nodded to Tytherly, who was paired off with a gentleman Verwood had never met, probably playing piquet. He didn’t stop to find out, but cast his gaze over the fuller tables, where he felt sure he would find Chartier.

  The Frenchman was only recently arrived in London, within the month, he said. Which was one of the things about him that interested Lord Verwood, since he had himself seen the fellow two months previously leaving Dr. Braithwait’s house in Golden Square. Dr. Braithwait had his surgery in his home, through a separate entrance at the side of the house. Verwood had become quite familiar with it during the period when the worst of his sufferings were over, but he was instructed to drop by weekly so the good doctor could check his progress.

  On the day he’d seen Chartier, he’d been suffering some pain, and had stopped beside the railings to give the leg a short rest. He’d taken two balls at Rosetta, one in the thigh and one in the knee. The wound in his thigh had healed quickly, but the knee injury, though not as disastrous as it might have been, continued to plague him because of the constant strain placed on that joint by walking. Not that Braithwait had counseled him against exercise; the doctor had insisted he must use it to keep it from stiffening completely.

  It was when he was leaning over to rub the aching knee that he happened to glance through the railings at the sound of a door closing. A man came out of Dr. Braithwait’s surgery, a very ordinary man, so far as Verwood could see. He was obviously well-dressed, young, with neatly brushed hair and attractive features. Verwood hardly noticed him, except when the young man inadvertently stepped in dog dirt on the pathway and gave vent to a very Gallic exclamation and shrug. The fellow was still scraping his boot against the pavement as he passed Verwood, whom he didn’t notice at all.

  If the viscount hadn’t happened to be introduced to the young man two months later, he would never have recollected the incident. But in the course of their conversation Chartier happened to mention he’d only recently (within the month) come to stay in London. In conjunction with his obviously French background, this struck Verwood as rather suspicious, and he asked if Chartier had never been to London before.

  “Oh, many times, many times,” the fellow replied cheerfully. “My sister and I live in Hampshire, with relatives. But I have come to stay in London, and soon, soon, I will bring her here as well.”

  So the matter might have ended, except that it nagged at Verwood. When he asked Dr. Braithwait about Chartier, the good doctor insisted he’d never met the man. A thorough check of his records, which the viscount urged, revealed no listing of his name. Verwood decided it wouldn’t hurt for him to form an acquaintance with the elusive Frenchman. A false name, a deliberate lie — there might be a reasonable explanation, but the viscount couldn’t offhand think of one that satisfied him.

  They had met at Boodle’s, and it was to Boodle’s that Verwood went to seek out the young Frenchman. His observations led him to several conclusions. The Frenchman gambled, and he seldom walked away from the tables a loser. But even Verwood couldn’t find any reason to believe he cheated. Chartier never stayed in a game if the stakes became to high; he drank moderately and handled his cards shrewdly. When he lost, he merely shrugged his shoulders and said with a smile, “Tomorrow will be better.”

  His main purpose did not seem to be the gambling, actually, but making contacts with his fellow gamblers. These companions approved of his droll wit, of his self-deprecating good nature. Verwood could not discover who had put him up for membership, but he did know there was none of the sly gossip that ordinarily followed a not-up-to-snuff new denizen of the hallowed club. Which spoke for the man’s charm more than for his antecedents. Verwood was unable to find any member of the regular French community in London who was familiar with him.

  One evening, when the play had become too high at his table, Chartier was about to leave when Verwood approached him with an offer of a hand of piquet. The younger man smiled and shrugged. “My pockets are not so plump this evening.”

  “I’ve no stomach for high play myself,” the viscount assured him. “Just a quiet game by the fire.”

  Chartier had quickly assented, making a point of offering the sofa closest to the hearth to his companion. Though this deference to his age (he was twenty-eight, to the fellow’s twenty-three or -four, he supposed) and the ungainliness of his crippled condition annoyed Verwood, he smiled as Chartier took the straight-backed chair opposite and asked, “Can I offer you a brandy?”

  “Merci, non. I have just had the port,” he said with an arch raising of his brows, “and the stomach it would rebel at anything.”

  “Yes, it’s heavy,” Verwood agreed as he cut for the deal. “I’ve never had much of a taste for port myself.”

  They played a desultory game, talking unenthusiastically of the weather and politics and society. Chartier won the first game in five quick hands. His brow was wrinkled with a thoughtful frown as he fingered the cards in the new hand he was dealt. “I had intended to bring my sister to London,” he said finally. “But now I am not sure. It would not be good for her, the—how shall I say it?—the lax attitude I’ve discovered here.”

  Verwood played a card as he said, “I shouldn’t think there was anything to worry about, Chartier. Every young woman I’ve ever seen has been surrounded by a bevy of chaperones.”

  “There are chaperones, yes. My cousin could come as Veronique’s chaperone, but that would not be good enough, I fear. My sister is not used to company, she is not used to the casual attitude of the London society. She has a purity, my Veronique, which would, I think, be sullied in this city.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. She’d be well-protected.”

  “No, no, you do not understand. One who is so naïve would be certain to be influenced by the attitude of those around her.”

  “She’s not likely to consort with ladies of damaged reputation,” Verwood said, smiling at the thought.

  “But even the highest, the greatest of the ladies, haven’t the modesty of a properly brought-up young French girl,” Chartier insisted, leaning forward to more fully catch the viscount’s attention. “Me, I know. You dance with a young woman once, twice, and she allows you to take liberties with her.”

  “That’s never been my experience,” Verwood said, sounding almost regretful.

  “Yes, yes, it happens. Instead of a dance, she will go to the balcony with you, behind the curtains where no one can see her. Her chaperone is perhaps in the card room or engaged in conversation with the other chaperones. Even the sister of an earl, who seems the model of propriety. I don’t say I am blameless. No, no, but the wine, the music, the violet eyes, the hair of gold, one can be carried away, non?”

  “Hmm. Yes, I suppose so.”

  “I am not telling tales. No lady’s name would ever pass my lips. I am a little smitten by this lady, I admit, and I take her to the balcony. But does she run away when I take a liberty? No. Does she perhaps slap my face and call me a rogue? No. Does she protest her youth and innocence? No and no. So. If I were to bring my cherished sister to such a society, might she not adopt these London morals? I could not take such a
chance.”

  Verwood assured him once again that no harm would come to his sister in London, and wondered why he was the one chosen to receive this unusual tale. He was not familiar with the description of Lady Amelia at the time, but it didn’t take him long to discover the only earl’s sister who fit the description. Fortunately, in the discovery he also found Peter, who shared his commitment to the war against the French.

  Verwood did not, of course, tell Peter of the imputation on Lady Amelia’s character. Well, one really couldn’t with such a devoted brother. But he did convince Peter that there was some danger in Amelia’s activities, that they might of necessity place her in awkward situations. Reluctantly, Peter agreed.

  Still, Verwood had taken it on himself to keep an eye on Lady Amelia. Not on account of her unorthodox behavior, but because he wanted to make sure she was obeying Peter’s dictum. He had made note of her discussions with Ellis Winchfield and Lady Candover. Well, it would keep her out of harm’s way trying to find out something disreputable about himself, for he never doubted that was her goal. And it couldn’t, unless she thought he was a spy, be considered in the same league with what she’d been doing. The possibility that she thought he was a spy amused him and he very nearly laughed out loud until he remembered where he was.

  He brought his attention back to the room, scanning it once again for Chartier. For the last week he hadn’t run into the Frenchman at Boodle’s and he had been relieved to hear the footman say he was present this evening. Just as his eye settled on the young man at the farthest table, Chartier rose and collected his winnings. As he came toward Verwood, his face broke into a charming smile.

  “Ah, my lord,” he said, “I have taken your advice, after much searching of my soul. I have brought my sister Veronique to London and hope to have the honor of presenting her to you in the near future.”

  Chapter 5

  Amelia studied, with something less than approval, the new hairstyle Bridget had arranged for her. The ringlets which were reflected in the mirror gave her too frivolous an appearance, but it was getting late and she’d have to leave them for the time being. She smiled at the girl and said, “Yes, thank you, that will be fine for this evening. But they make me look more like eighteen than twenty-one, don’t you think?”

  “They’re all the rage, Lady Amelia, and you look very pretty.” Bridget cocked her head to one side, considering. “Perhaps they don’t just perfectly suit you, but they soften your chin, you know.”

  A twinkle appeared in Amelia’s eyes. Bridget would never come right out and say that such a determined chin hardly belonged on a maiden her age, but Amelia was aware of it. Long ago she had accepted this fatal flaw in her otherwise acceptable appearance. There had been times when she’d wondered if it wasn’t a blessing in disguise. Men had tended to take her a little more seriously than the other young women, and the matrons had tended to assume a high-minded aspect to her behavior.

  There were points in which she was both serious and high-minded, but they weren’t necessarily where others thought they were. She didn’t, for instance, take seriously the wagers and sporting events gentlemen were often so profoundly interested in, though she was perfectly willing to lend them her attention when they spoke of these matters.

  Nor was she high-minded about preserving the sacrosanct precincts of the ton from encroachers and dilettantes. It was, after all, amongst the encroachers and dilettantes that she was most likely to come across information of use to Peter. Not that her archenemies were likely to be such trifling fellows, but only the trifling fellows were foolish enough to run off at the mouth! Amelia felt sure her real adversaries were a much more complicated and sophisticated lot, and at times she was relieved that she hadn’t run into any of them.

  What she was serious and high-minded about were her projects for the worthy suffering of London. Having come of age, she had at her disposal a handsome income, the whole of which she could scarcely use on her own ornamentation and amusement. It should not be supposed that she doled out her benevolence merely for the pleasure of living up to her excessive income. No, Amelia felt the severe injustice of living in luxury while so many around her among London’s teeming poor could scarcely eke out a living.

  The prescribed method for aiding these victims of want was to subscribe to various worthy causes— orphanages, schools, homes for unmarried pregnant women. And Amelia did her share of this sort of charity giving, as her mother before her had. But there was something altogether too straightforward and distant about that kind of help. One could, of course, visit an orphanage in one’s white gloves and plumed hats, and hear the children say “Thank you” in an unnerving chorus. Amelia found no gratification in that sort of contact.

  She had searched her soul to find a more personal way to be of assistance. And also to make sure that it wasn’t a matter of pride which led her to want to be involved in the lives of those she helped. Perhaps, she thought, she simply wanted the satisfaction of hearing thanksgiving solely aimed at herself. This seemed quite a likely possibility, so she had made it a rule that her intercession in any given matter was handled by Robert, a strapping footman who held the terrors of London’s less-desirable areas as naught. She remained nameless to her beneficiaries, though Robert did not. There were occasions, such as now, when this proved to be a little tricky.

  Bridget had adjusted the last ringlet to her satisfaction when there was a light tap at Amelia’s door. Since Trudy always entered without bothering to knock, Amelia thought it was probably Peter, trying to speed up her progress. He had kindly agreed to accompany them to the Chithursts’, though Amelia assumed he would not stay there long. He’d mentioned a “late meeting,” which invariably meant something to do with his activities for the War Department.

  “Come in.”

  Robert opened the door slightly and stood there looking acutely embarrassed. “I’m sorry to bother you, Lady Amelia, when you’re about to go out. It’s the boy Carson. He says his mama is horridly sick.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Yes, in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll come to see him.”

  Tommy Carson was one of her special projects. The minister of a parish church in St. Giles Rookery had brought him to her attention. His father was dead and his mother had three other, younger children to care for and feed. The Reverend Sidney Symons, whom she had met at an orphanage, had mentioned him to her one day as an example of how the youngsters in the slums started to go bad. When there was no honest money forthcoming, they took to begging or to crime to help support their families. The little money his mother could make from bringing in laundry was insufficient for her family. At eight, Tommy had taken to the tricks of the streets, pickpocketing mostly, at which he was very skilled.

  “His mother’s an upright woman,” Reverend Symons had said, “and it’s nearly breaking her heart what he’s doing, but she can’t refuse the money and see her children suffer. What’s she to do? Tommy’s always been a good boy, but he sees himself as having to provide for the family now his father is gone. There’s no honest way an eight-year-old can earn enough to help out.”

  Amelia had given the matter a great deal of thought. It would have been simple enough to drop a pile of money on the Carsons. The price of a silk scarf would probably feed them for a month. But it wasn’t a lasting solution, and it didn’t take into account the necessity to wean the boy from his newfound life of crime. Together with the reverend she’d come up with a plan: she would pay the boy for attending school, and his siblings as they reached school age. The hours school covered, together with the time the children needed to spend doing chores in their home, would keep Tommy off the streets and consequently honest, Amelia hoped. So far the plan had worked fairly well, with Mrs. Carson’s cooperation.

  As she descended the main staircase in her dancing slippers, the doorbell sounded, but she paid no attention to it. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and if Peter or Trudy were, they hadn’t told her. There was a commotion coming f
rom the kitchen area, an anguished wailing that reached clear through the door. She was headed in that direction when the door burst open and a small urchin came barreling through, his face stained with tears and his childish voice raised in a call for Robert, who preceded Amelia by only a few paces.

  Suddenly the hall seemed to be full of people. Peter emerged from his study on one side of the hall, Trudy from the drawing room beyond. Bighton was just ushering Lord Verwood through the front door. Robert scooped the frantic boy up in his arms, saying, “It’s all right, lad. I was just coming.”

  A chorus of voices asked, “What’s going on here?” Tommy noticed the crowd for the first time and shrank back against Robert, scrubbing at his eyes with small fists. Into the uncomfortable silence that followed, Amelia stepped forward and motioned Robert to set the boy down.

  “There’s nothing to alarm yourselves about. This is Tommy Carson and he and I are going to go into the Blue Room to see what can be done about his problem.” She offered her hand to the child, who blinked at her uncertainly before laying his in it. “Robert, I’ll probably need you,” she remarked as she led the child toward a door across the hall from where they were all standing.

  “For God’s sake, Amelia,” Peter protested.

  Without replying, she drew the boy into the Blue Room, with Robert following, and nodded for him to close the door. “Now, then,” she said, “tell me exactly what’s happened with your mother, Tommy.”

  “She’s so sick…” He gulped. “I think she’s dying.”

  “Have you sent for a doctor?”

  “We don’t know a doctor, ma’am, and there ain’t the money to pay for one.”

  “Well, Reverend Symons knows a doctor. Did you send for him?”