Invitations arrived from St. James’s Palace. Snatching them up from Briggs’s tray, Pru ran to find her sister poring over her accounts in the drawing room. Together, they opened the large, cream-colored envelopes. Pru’s face fell immediately. “The fourth drawing room!” she said plaintively, tossing the card away. “Did you get the fourth also?” she asked her sister.
Patience hastily stuffed her invitation into a drawer. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You got the first, didn’t you?” Pru accused her. “Didn’t you?”
“You’re perfectly welcome to come with me to the American reception,” said Patience, going back to her balance sheet. “Mrs. Adams will be delighted to present us.”
“No, thank you!” Pru retorted, thoroughly out of temper.
“Then, perhaps Lady Jemima can help you,” Patience suggested. “It’s what you’re paying her for, isn’t it?”
To her relief, Pru hurried off to Lady Jemima’s room. “You can get me an invitation to the first drawing room, can’t you, Lady Jemima?” she said, her hand on the door handle.
Lady Jemima was at her escritoire writing letters. “What, my dear?”
Pru frowned. “I have been invited to the fourth drawing room,” she complained. “I want to go to the first drawing room. You are always boasting about your friends at court. Can’t you do something? It’s what you’re paid for, after all!”
Lady Jemima blinked at her. “I have many friends at court,” she said, “but none as powerful as your Mr. Purefoy.”
“Max!” Pru exclaimed. “Yes, he did promise to help me. I’ll write to him at once.”
“Heavens, no!” cried Lady Jemima. “That would be most improper!”
“Improper?” Pru echoed.
“Well-mannered young ladies do not write letters to gentlemen,” Lady Jemima said firmly. “At best it would be seen as an insufferable presumption. At worst, the gentleman may think you are fast. Either way, it will give him a disgust for you.”
“What?” Pru gasped, pale with horror. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“I did not think it necessary. Do not say you have written him a letter?” Lady Jemima’s eyes were round, and her thin, painted brows had risen to the middle of her powdered forehead.
Pru hung her head.
“Did he write back? Or did he return the letter?”
“No,” said Pru.
Lady Jemima heaved a sigh of relief. “Then he has decided to pretend he never received it. We shall pretend you never wrote it. And perhaps it really did go astray. We must hope so.”
Pru was not one to linger over the mistakes of the past. “How am I to ask for his help if I cannot write to him?” she inquired.
“As your chaperone, I shall write to Mr. Purefoy on your behalf,” said Lady Jemima, taking out a fresh page of cold-pressed paper.
“He promised me a ball,” said Pru. “And tickets to Almack’s.”
“Vouchers,” Lady Jemima corrected her gently.
Pru frowned over the letter when it was finished. “You don’t even mention the ball or Almack’s,” she pointed out.
“A gentleman does not forget his promises,” Lady Jemima assured her. “It would be impertinent to remind him.”
Pru trusted her to know her business. Her faith was rewarded when, in less than a week’s time, the invitation to the first drawing room had been secured. Moving a china shepherdess out of the way, Pru set the card on the mantel in the drawing room, where she could admire it every day.
Max returned to London with his uncle a week before the opening of Parliament.
In his early sixties, the Duke of Sunderland suffered from crippling rheumatism, and his digestive system was notoriously delicate. Needless to say, his grace was not a good traveler. Upon arriving at his London house, his grace went straight to bed, leaving Max at leisure. Max’s digestive system was as notoriously robust as his uncle’s was delicate, and the hour was ideal for a late luncheon, but, as the servants had plenty to do already, he decided to go out. Resisting the lure of his club in St. James’s Street, and yearning for nothing more elegant than gooseberry tarts, he left his uncle’s mansion and walked to a quiet little house in Wimpole Street.
Mrs. Drabble received him in her sitting room upstairs.
“How well you do look, my dear Max,” she greeted him, swelling with pride. “The last time I saw you, I confess you were looking a bit seedy. But that is what happens when a young man drinks to excess. You’ll have gout before you’re thirty, I shouldn’t wonder!”
Max bristled. “I’m as fit as ever I was. This is all muscle,” he added, slapping his belly in an angry demonstration.
“You certainly do look fit now,” she congratulated him. “You should spend more time at Breckinridge. Clearly, country life agrees with you.”
Max sighed. “As you know, his grace is on a very restricted diet ... which means that, when I am with him, I too am on a very restricted diet! And, of course, when one is in the country, one gets so much exercise, what with all the hunting, shooting, riding, walking, and dancing.”
“Dancing?” said Mrs. Drabble, pricking up her ears.
“We had three balls. The Hunt Ball. The Christmas Ball. And, of course, New Year’s Eve Ball. My uncle threw every girl in Christendom at me in the hope I might marry one of them,” he added. “I think he is becoming rather anxious on that score.”
“Dancing, you know, is very dangerous exercise. It often leads to marriage.”
“Marriage, then, represents the end to dancing?” he teased her. “But I like dancing.”
She snorted. “You like changing partners.”
“If I do not change partners, I am reliably informed, I shall be obliged to marry.”
“Was there no one at Breckinridge to tempt you?”
“No one. I wish you would come back to us,” he added. “Breckinridge is not the same without you.”
“I like my little house,” she said firmly. “I like my friends. I like my independence. And, anyway,” she added, “it is my gooseberry tarts you miss, not me.”
“That is not true, and you know it. You have been like a mother to me.”
Mrs. Drabble blushed with pleasure, but said gruffly, “If I had been like a mother to you, I would have spanked you. The Lord knows you needed it. You do not regret giving me a pension?” she added, with a touch of anxiety.
“No, of course not!” he said, horrified. “I regret not having you with us. I don’t like the new nurse, and I’m quite sure my uncle doesn’t either. She lacks your warmth.”
“I’m sure Miss Steele is very efficient.”
“He’s very sorry, you know, that he pinched your bottom,” Max added softly. “He has given me his word that he will never, ever do anything like that again, if you will just come back.”
Mrs. Drabble was scarlet to the roots of her gray hair. “He dared to tell you that? Oh!”
“Was it really so terrible? I often pinch your bottom.”
“It is one thing,” she said, shaking with anger, “for you to pinch my bottom, sir! It is quite another matter when the Duke of Sunderland pinches my bottom! He ought to know better. I am a respectable widow! What would Mr. Drabble say if he were here? There was nothing to do but resign my post at once. He would not pinch Miss Steele’s bottom,” she sniffed.
“No, indeed,” Max agreed. “Nor would I. Miss Steele is not a woman to be trifled with.”
“Nor am I!” she flashed.
“Very well,” Max said hastily. “We will say no more about it.”
“More tea?” she asked, still fuming.
“Yes, thank you,” he said meekly. “And ... about those gooseberry tarts ... ?”
“I’m very sorry,” she said. “I cannot offer you any gooseberry tarts today.”
“But I could smell them halfway down the street!” he protested.
“I baked those for my sewing circle, not you,” she said primly.
“Bugger your charity ladie
s,” he growled. “I have been yearning for your gooseberry tarts since I left London over a month ago. I have been dreaming of them every night.”
“Maximilian!” she said angrily. “Language!”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “But you must be able to spare one or two!”
“No, I can’t,” she retorted. “I only baked a dozen, and, since Lady Waverly joined our group, we are exactly twelve.”
“Lady Waverly!” he exclaimed, after a pause. “You would give her my gooseberry tarts?”
“She is an excellent needlewoman,” said Mrs. Drabble. “Look! She netted me this beautiful lace collar for Christmas.”
No expert on lace, Max frowned at the collar fixed to Mrs. Drabble’s dress, which was otherwise of unadorned brown bombazine. “You don’t like the clock I gave you? It’s French. How well it looks on your mantel!”
“It is a very beautiful clock, my dear,” she told him. “But, you know, there is something very special about a gift that is handmade. It comes from the heart.”
“From the hands, you mean,” he muttered. “And when I was seven I whittled you a little horse out of wood.”
“Don’t sulk. I still have it. It is one of my treasures.”
“It ought to be. I nearly cut off my finger! I notice it is not on the mantel with my clock,” he added in strong reproach.
“No, it is a private treasure. I keep it hidden safe from robbers in a box at the very back of a drawer in my bedchamber.”
Max made a face. “What? Not buried in the garden?”
She laughed. “You had better go now, Max. I expect the ladies to begin to arrive at any minute. You know what a fuss they make over you.”
Max got to his feet. “I daresay Lady Waverly is none too eager to see me again,” he said ruefully.
“No, I don’t suppose she is,” said Mrs. Drabble. “After what you did to her! I don’t think she will ever forgive you.”
“I’m sure I don’t blame her,” he said ruefully. “And now, if I promise not to pinch your bottom, will you allow me to kiss you good-bye?”
“Incorrigible rogue!” she said, offering him her cheek. “Jane will show you out. Jane!”
“No need,” he said quickly. “I daresay Jane is busy. I’ll let myself out.”
He did so, collecting his hat and gloves from the little cloakroom at the foot of the stairs. As he was leaving, Jane herself started up the stairs with a plate piled high with tarts. Deftly, Max liberated one, giving poor Jane a wink. Then he left the house, strolling back the way he had come.
As he drew near the intersection of Oxford Street and Bond, he suddenly saw Miss Prudence Waverly hurrying up the street toward him. Until that moment, he had not appreciated just how much he had been dreading seeing her again. The desire to get away undetected was very strong. Bolting down the last of his gooseberry tart, he hastily retreated to the other side of the street, shielded, he hoped, from her view by a passing carriage. To his relief, she did not seem to see him, but continued on her way with quick steps. Max did the same.
Halfway down Bond Street, he found Freddie Broome looking into a shop window. “I’m afraid you have jam on your face,” Freddie greeted him.
“Gooseberry tart,” Max corrected him. Taking out his handkerchief, he quickly removed the evidence.
“How is Mrs. Drabble?” Freddie asked cordially. “With you it is a gooseberry tart. With me it is a baked egg. There is something very comforting about a baked egg.”
“There is indeed,” Max agreed very gravely.
“I suppose there is something very comforting about a gooseberry tart, too,” Freddie said civilly. “Chacun à son goût, as the Frogs say.”
“Precisely,” said Max. “Now what’s all this I hear about you selling my grays?”
“I think you’ll find they are mine,” Freddie replied. “You lost the bet, remember?”
“I’ll buy ’em back!” said Max.
“And so you may,” Freddie replied, “at Tattersall’s! They’re in the Monday sale.”
“You should have offered them to me first.”
“Didn’t know you were in town,” Freddie replied, “and I’m in a hurry. I’m off to St. Petersburg on Tuesday.”
“You can go to the devil for all I care!” said Max. “Take them out of sale. They’re mine! I’ll give you five hundred guineas for them on the spot!”
“Now, you know I can’t do that,” Freddie said mildly. “I would if I could, Max. But you know I can’t. Besides, didn’t you just buy Bassington’s chestnuts?”
“Not a patch on my grays!” said Max.
Freddie suddenly gave a low whistle. “I say! That’s a damned fine-looking girl!”
Max immediately turned to catch a glimpse of the damned fine-looking girl. All the color drained out of his face. He cursed under his breath.
“Max!” she shrieked, waving exuberantly. “Oh, Max! Yoo-hoo! Over here!”
She must have seen him, after all, as he was crossing Oxford Street. She must have doubled back in pursuit of him.
“Miss W——, I presume?” Freddie drawled, raising his quizzing glass.
Max did not bother to answer. Turning quickly, he ran, leaving Freddie staring after him in astonishment. Willing in that moment, to do anything to escape Pru, Max darted into traffic, jumped onto the running board of a passing carriage. Opening the door, he flung himself inside, rolling on the floor.
One of the passengers, a severe-looking middle-aged female, instantly began beating him with an umbrella. “Forgive me!” Max pleaded, raising one arm to fend off the blows. “There’s someone after me. I’ll be gone in a moment. I mean no harm! I just had to get away!”
“I quite understand,” said the other passenger, a handsome, self-assured young woman with auburn hair and pale blue eyes. Her pale blue hooded cloak exactly matched her eyes. “When a girl is that pretty the only thing to do is run away! Porson, you may stop beating Mr. Purefoy now.”
Max looked at her gratefully. “Thank you, Miss ... er ... ?”
Her neatly plucked brows rose slightly. “Lady Isabella,” she said, with a slight emphasis on the “Lady.” “She is remarkably determined, whoever she is,” she went on quite calmly, looking out the window. “Perhaps she has a genuine claim on you, Mr. Purefoy?”
Max shuddered. “Certainly not! I throw myself on your mercy, Lady Isabella.”
She smiled. “You are quite safe now, Mr. Purefoy. The beautiful girl is gone. You may take a seat. Porson! Give Mr. Purefoy your seat.”
Lady Isabella’s maid quickly moved to join her mistress, leaving the opposite seat for Max. “Thank you,” he said. “You know my name. Have we met?”
If Lady Isabella was hurt that he did not remember her, she gave no sign. “My brother and I were fortunate enough to be invited to Breckinridge at Christmas,” she replied. “We danced together twice at the ball, Mr. Purefoy.”
Max was embarrassed. He ought to have recognized the sister of one of his oldest acquaintances. He blamed the American girl; she had wreaked havoc upon his equilibrium. Why, she must have flown from Wimpole Street to overtake him in Bond Street! And how had she known he would be in Wimpole Street? No one knew he liked to visit his old nurse.
“Are you quite all right, Mr. Purefoy?”
Isabella’s genteel voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Forgive me!” he said. “How are you? You are coming out this year, I believe?”
“Last year,” she laughed. “Thank you for noticing.”
“Yes, of course,” he murmured.
“I was just on my way home. May I set you down somewhere? I believe the danger has passed,” she added with an arch smile. “Or has it? Indeed, your face is very red. I think perhaps I should wish you joy.”
“Good God, no!” he said violently. “A slight entanglement, nothing more. I have been foolish, but not so foolish as to offer marriage. No! I merely promised to give a ball in that young lady’s honor at Sunderland House.”
“I see. The
beautiful girl is a relation, perhaps?”
“She is no relation of mine. She is, in fact, an American.”
Her eyes widened. “Not the American baroness everyone is talking of?”
Max frowned. “No. Miss Waverly is the younger sister. I won’t bore you with all the details,” he added impatiently. “Suffice it to say that her elder sister nearly drowned because of me. While her ladyship recovered, it was only natural that I call on them in Clarges Street from time to time.”
“Certainly. To inquire after Lady Waverly’s health.”
“Just so! But I could not ignore Miss Pru—Miss Waverly, I mean. Perhaps it was wrong of me to show her a little of London, but I only meant to be kind. I did not realize that she was falling in love with me until it was too late. Now she is pursuing me in Bond Street! What am I going to do?”
“It’s seems quite hopeless,” said Lady Isabella, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “You will have to marry her.”
“Don’t joke!” he pleaded.
“Poor Mr. Purefoy,” she murmured. “Shall I set you down here? If we go any further, I shall be taking you home with me. I don’t think my brother would approve.”
“May I call on you sometime?” Max asked, as he left her carriage.
“Sometime?” she said coolly.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Are you in Grosvenor Square again this year?”
“Yes,” she answered, holding out her hand to him. He kissed it, then closed the door.
“What a piece of luck!” Isabella cried, as her carriage moved swiftly on. “Fate has dealt me a very promising hand. If I play my cards right, I might be a duchess. They say the Duke of Sunderland will not last another year.”
“Yes, my lady,” said her maid.
Isabella scowled at her. “And the next time a gentleman jumps into my carriage,” she said angrily, “you must hit him harder!”
Chapter 5
Max strolled to his club, enjoyed an excellent late luncheon, and strolled back to Sunderland House, quite recovered from the shock he had sustained in Bond Street. Venable, the steady, dignified butler, let him in.
The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness Page 6