“You might have enquired, sir, before you drowned her!” Wingfield snapped. “These damned parties of yours! Someone’s going to get killed one of these days.”
“I’ve learned my lesson,” Max said contritely. “No more wild parties. My friends will be disappointed, of course, but my mind is quite made up. Look here, Wingfield!” he went on as the doctor started up the stairs to his patient. “Lady Waverly’s sister is with her now. She’s a mere child. It would only upset her if she knew—knew what I have done. Surely, there’s no cause for that?”
“You should have been beaten regularly,” Wingfield said grimly. “Your uncle indulges you too much. And so do I,” he added roughly. “No, I won’t tell the child you tried to drown her sister.”
While the physician examined his patient, Max sat with Pru in the hall outside the room. “He’s just going to tell us she needs her rest,” Pru said. Rather sleepy herself, she suppressed a yawn.
Dr. Wingfield, however, came out of the patient’s room looking very grave. “I’m afraid your sister is suffering from severe anemia, Miss Waverly,” he told her. “It is very serious.”
“You mean she doesn’t remember anything?” Pru said, puzzled.
Wingfield had no patience for ignorance, and he spoke rather brusquely. “Anemia, Miss Waverly, not amnesia.”
“Can’t she have both?” Max murmured.
“Let us hope not, Max,” Wingfield said coldly. “Her ladyship is suffering from a deficiency of iron in her blood. She’s also severely undernourished. Has she lost a great deal of weight recently?”
“Well, yes, of course she has,” said Pru. “She used to be quite healthy.”
“The Waverlys have just come over from America,” Max explained. “Lady Waverly suffered greatly from mal de mer.”
“Mal de mer?” Pru repeated, pronouncing it “moldy mare.” “The ship’s doctor said it was only seasickness!”
“A long voyage without proper nourishment can lead to all sorts of difficulties,” the doctor said. “Your sister is very weak, child. When is the last time she ate any solid food?”
“This morning,” said Pru. “She ate a very good breakfast. But then she was carriage-sick,” she added, grimacing. “We kept having to stop on the way for her to be sick on the side of the road. It was very unpleasant. But Patience was bound and determined to reach London today. She kept saying she was all right. I—I didn’t know she had moldy mare!”
“Miss Waverly, have you anyone else to look after you?” Max said. “Besides your elder sister, I mean?”
“No,” Pru replied. “Our parents are dead. We’ve been on our own since we lost our grandfather. We have a trustee in America, and that is quite enough for us, let me tell you.”
Dr. Wingfield frowned. “What about your sister’s husband? Lord Waverly, is it? Where is he?”
Pru stared at him. “Oh, no!” she said. “Lord Waverly was our uncle, sir. Patience inherited the title from him.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Dr. Wingfield. “I read about it in the papers. A suo jure baroness—and an American, besides. I thought the name was familiar.”
“I see,” said Max, who rarely bothered with newspapers. “Well, Miss Prudence, we must find someone to stay with you until your sister is better.”
“Will you stay with me?” she asked him, with sweet, trusting simplicity.
Although he was a man of notorious personal habits, Max was deeply shocked by her suggestion. At the same time he was touched by the girl’s naiveté, which he judged to be quite genuine. “That will not be possible, Miss Prudence,” he said gently. “You must have a respectable lady to look after you. I would not make you a creditable chaperone.”
“Oh,” said Pru, crestfallen.
Dr. Wingfield cleared his throat. “As for the patient—if anyone is interested in her, that is—she’s going to need constant nursing for the next few weeks if she is to make a full recovery.”
“Weeks!” cried Pru. “Is it as bad as that? She can’t still be seasick! Not on land.”
“It will take time for her to regain her strength,” said the doctor. “She must have a nurse.”
“I can’t!” cried Pru, clinging to Max. “I can’t do it! I stayed with her the entire time we were on the ship! I never left her side! But I can’t do it anymore! I’m simply exhausted! I hate the sickroom! The smell!” She lifted her face to look at the doctor. Tears stood in her green eyes. “You must think I’m horrible. But I just can’t do it anymore!”
Max’s heart went out to her. “No one thinks you’re horrible,” he said, patting her shoulder. Searching his pockets, he was mortified to discover that he had no handkerchief to lend her. “Of course you can’t do it. You can barely keep your eyes open. Dr. Wingfield is not suggesting that you become your sister’s nurse.”
“Indeed I am not,” Dr. Wingfield promptly agreed. “Despite what you may think, young lady, I have no desire to have two patients in Clarges Street, which is what I will have if you ruin your health while looking after your sister’s. I was thinking of a professional nurse, someone who is used to dealing with sick people.”
“I know just the person,” said Max, brushing away Pru’s tears with his hand. “My old nurse, Mrs. Drabble. She’s very capable, Miss Prudence. There is no one I trust more.”
“You needed a nurse, Mr. Purefoy?” Pru asked him shyly.
He smiled at her. “Long ago, when I was a child. She lives here in London now, an independent lady, but I believe if I ask her, she will come.”
“Would you, sir?” Pru said gratefully. “We don’t know anyone in London, except the attorney. Patience would know what to do, of course, but she—!” She broke off, her lip trembling. “I—I shall have to depend on you, sir,” she managed, after a slight pause. “I do depend on you.”
Max exchanged an uneasy glance with Dr. Wingfield. The girl was terrifyingly naive.
“I will go and fetch Drabble now,” Max said quietly.
Pru squared her shoulders bravely. “I will sit with Patience until you return, sir.”
“No,” Dr. Wingfield said firmly. “I will sit with her. You will go to bed, Miss Waverly.”
Pru made no protest, but meekly followed the maidservant to the room that had been made up for her.
Mrs. Drabble, roused from her comfortable bed in Wimpole Street, received him in her parlor with a heavy shawl thrown over her nightgown. Years before, as a young widow, she had been his wet nurse. Now well into her middle years, she still regarded Max as an incorrigible child. Years of intimacy had erased much of the class barrier between them, and she never hesitated to speak her mind to him. “I ought to box your ears,” she said angrily, when he had made his full confession to her.
“I ought to let you,” Max said ruefully. “I am stung all over with remorse. I vow I will never do anything so foolish ever again in my life. Why, I might have killed the woman. Please, Drabble, for old times’ sake, for my sake, will you go to Clarges Street? I know you’re comfortably retired, but I need you. I know she’ll be in good hands with you. There’s no one I trust more!”
“Wait downstairs, you scoundrel!” she said grumpily. “I’ll get dressed.”
When Pru woke up the next morning, the house was filled with hothouse flowers. Eagerly, she snatched the card.
Most abjectly, it said, in heavy black scrawl, I am sorry for the events of last night. No lady should ever be exposed to such rude behavior. When I think that you may have come to grievous harm, I am deeply ashamed. Drunkenness, of course, is no proper excuse for offering violence and insult to a lady of quality. I beg you will accept my profoundest apologies. Please believe that I am, now and forever, your most obedient servant to command.
It was signed, simply “Purefoy.”
Pru, dazzled by the elegance of the gentleman’s language, and delighted with the gallantry of his thoughts, tucked the card into her jewel case.
Later, that afternoon, Max called at Clarges Street. He had taken gr
eat pains with his appearance, or, at least, his valet had, and he was looking every inch the prosperous gentleman as he rang the bell. He did not come alone.
Of uncertain age, Lady Jemima Crump had nothing but her title and her charms to recommend her, but, then, there was nothing more she needed to fulfill the role of chaperone to Miss Waverly. Taffy haired, dirt poor, and rather too fond of wine, Lady Jemima nonetheless enjoyed an excellent reputation. Launching young ladies into society was her main source of income, occasionally augmented, but more usually diminished, by her passion for cards. When Mr. Purefoy came to her door, she was already committed for the forthcoming Season to three sisters from Brighton, but one does not say no to a Purefoy.
Briggs led Pru’s callers up to the drawing room, where all traces of the previous night had been meticulously removed. Instead of opium pipes, the room was filled with lilies. Pru appeared in a few moments, looking quite fresh and rested in a gown of pale pink muslin. The gown, while quite avant-garde by Philadelphia’s standards, was quite passé for London. Lady Jemima, who was not familiar with Philadelphia fashion criteria, regarded it as an utter waste of muslin, but Max thought it became her very well.
“Mr. Purefoy!” she said, greeting him with outstretched hands. “How nice to see you again. Thank you for the flowers, and your beautiful note!”
Max found her warmth and exuberance endearing, while Lady Jemima observed it rather doubtfully. The girl was very pretty, of course, but, as Lady Jemima knew very well, beauty was no guarantee for a successful Season, unless it was accompanied by a large fortune, good breeding, and excellent manners—fortune—of course, being the most important quality of all.
Max bowed over Pru’s hand, and quickly asked after her sister’s health.
“Thank you, sir. I believe she is a little better,” Pru answered, looking at Lady Jemima with great curiosity. Violently clashing colors were in fashion at the moment, and, with her bright, pinkish orange hair combined with a violet and yellow ensemble, Lady Jemima fully represented the idea.
Max hastened to make the introductions, and Pru offered the Englishwoman her hand. Lady Jemima’s smile froze in place. “If I might just give Miss Waverly a hint,” she said gently. “It is not correct for one to shake hands upon an introduction. One shakes hands only with one’s most intimate acquaintances, and then, only with discretion. I remember when my dear brother returned from India after an absence of some twenty years, he and I very cordially shook hands.”
“That’s terrible!” said Pru. “Poor thing! I bet he turned around and went straight back to India!”
Max stifled a chuckle. “I have brought this lady to live with you, Miss Prudence. Lady Jemima has all the necessary credentials to present a young lady at the Court of St. James.”
Pru’s eyes widened. “The Court of St. James!” she gasped. “You mean the queen and all that? The princes and the princesses?”
“Of course,” he said, amused by her excitement. For him, an evening at court was a long, giant yawn, to be avoided at all costs. “No young lady can enter society until she has been presented at court. Once she has her majesty’s seal of approval she is free to go out into society and find a husband. In your case, of course, the husband will find you.”
Pru laughed. “Do you think so?”
“Of course,” he said warmly.
“Let us not get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Purefoy,” Lady Jemima pleaded. “First, Miss Prudence, we must get you ready for your presentation.”
“I’m ready now,” said Pru, tossing her black curls over one shoulder and twirling one long lock around her finger.
“You most certainly are not,” Max said bluntly. “Unless, of course, it is your wish to be laughed at by everyone in the throne room!”
Pru’s cocky smile vanished instantly. “W-what?” she stammered.
“I’m sure no one will laugh at Miss Prudence,” Lady Jemima said quickly.
“I’m afraid we English are quite stubbornly scrupulous when it comes to etiquette,” Max said firmly. “Especially where the royal family are concerned. Listen to Lady Jemima and do as she tells you, and I’m sure you’ll do fine. Ignore her teachings at your peril!” he added, only half jokingly.
“I promise,” Pru said humbly. “I suppose I have a lot to learn.”
“The first drawing room is not until January,” Max went on. “Your sister, as a peeress in her own right, probably shall be invited to that one.”
“I would say so,” Lady Jemima agreed. “A baroness in her own right! And an American! There will be a good deal of interest in her debut—especially if she is as lovely as her younger sister.”
Pru frowned. “What about me?”
“Perhaps the fourth drawing room,” said Lady Jemima.
Max frowned. “We must do better than that, Lady Jemima. Why, she’ll miss half the Season!”
“Of course, with influence, anything is possible,” Lady Jemima said innocently.
Max understood her meaning perfectly. “Don’t worry, Miss Prudence,” he said. “One way or another, we’ll wrangle you an invitation to the first drawing room.”
Pru wriggled happily. “Thank you, Mr. Purefoy!”
Quite charmed by her unfeigned gratitude and delight, Max stayed much longer than he had intended, promising Pru invitations to any ball or entertainment she wanted once the Season began. He promised her vouchers to Almack’s and a box at the theater, and she, in turn, promised to dance with him at every assembly. Lady Jemima began to wonder if Mr. Purefoy had taken more than a passing fancy to the American.
When at last he rose to take his leave, Pru pouted. “Must you go so soon?”
Max smiled at her. “I will come again tomorrow,” he promised, “and, if your chaperone approves, I will take you for a drive in the park. The fresh air and sunshine will do you good. You must not stay shut in all day, Miss Prudence, just because your sister is unwell.”
Lady Jemima, her thoughts fixed on marriage, even if the gentleman’s were not, did not hesitate to give her approval for the scheme.
“Mr. Purefoy would never distinguish a young lady with his attentions if he were not thinking of marriage. You have made a conquest of him, my dear,” she said excitedly to Pru, when Max had gone.
“So it would seem,” Pru said languidly, going over to the mirror to preen. “Men are always falling in love with me. It’s very tiresome. I sort of collect them, you see. They are like moths to the flame.”
To Lady Jemima, it was an odious, conceited reply, but, as her livelihood depended on pleasing her charges, she protested only mildly. “Surely you would not compare Mr. Purefoy to a moth! He is one of the most eligible gentlemen in England.”
“Is he?” Pru said idly. “If he’s so eligible, why doesn’t he have a title? Even you have a title.”
Lady Jemima was so shocked by this piece of ignorance that she completely overlooked the insult to herself. “My dear child,” she whispered in a tone of awe, “do you not know that Mr. Purefoy is nephew and heir to the Duke of Sunderland? The lady he marries will be a duchess one day!”
Pru pricked up her ears. “Duchess? Is that as good as a baroness?”
“As good as a—!” Lady Jemima was now flabbergasted. “I can see we shall have to study the Order of Precedence, Miss Prudence! I had not thought you Americans as backward as this! The Duke of Sunderland is the first duke in the Order of Precedence, saving only the Princes of the Blood, of course.”
“Never mind that,” Pru said impatiently. “Is a duchess better than a baroness?”
“Yes, of course.”
Pru smiled. “I’d like that,” she said simply.
That evening, as Pru was reading the Order of Precedence aloud to Lady Jemima, Mrs. Drabble came into the room. Patience was awake and asking to see her sister.
“You must not stay long, however,” Mrs. Drabble warned, as she left the sisters together. “I shall be back in ten minutes.”
Pru knelt beside the bed and took Patience�
�s hand. As much as she sometimes chafed under Patience’s sisterly guidance, it was frightening to see her brought so low by illness. “How are you feeling, Pay?” she whispered.
Patience’s eyes fluttered. “Thank heaven you are safe,” she breathed. “I was so worried. I told the nurse I wouldn’t drink my barley water until I saw you with my own eyes. I kept imagining you in the carriage all by yourself. I should never have left you alone.”
Pru was instantly nettled. “For heaven’s sake! I’m not completely helpless without you, you know. Did you really think I’d still be sitting in the carriage waiting for you to come and get me?”
Patience smiled faintly. “I just wanted to see for myself that you’re all right.”
“You’re the one who’s sick, not me.”
“Sick?” Patience’s voice rose an octave or two. “I’m not sick! I nearly drowned.”
“Drowned? Pay, what are you talking about?”
Now quite agitated, Patience tried to sit up. “The devil was here—a big red devil. He threw me over the balcony. He tried to drown me. I could have died.”
“That’s quite a nightmare you had!” Pru said sympathetically.
“It was not a nightmare,” Patience insisted. “The devil tried to drown me, I tell you! He was here in this house.”
“I think you might be delirious, Pay,” Pru said, patting her hand.
Patience threw off the coverlet and started to climb out of bed. “I know what happened, Pru. I’ll prove it to you. Help me!”
“You should not leave your bed,” Pru replied, “but, if you promise to remain calm, I will take you over the house myself and prove to you that it was only a dream.”
“I shall be very calm,” Patience promised, and Pru helped her down the stairs to the ballroom. Tiled in white marble, it was surrounded on three sides by a wide balcony, from which spectators could watch the dancers below. Patience tottered down the steps of the grand staircase, utterly confused.
“This was all flooded,” she whispered. “There were mermaids in the water.”
The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness Page 3