“I suppose that depends on who it is,” said Patience.
He stood silently before her with his tray.
Impatiently, Patience picked up the card. “Sir Charles Stanhope,” she read, frowning. “He called yesterday while I was out, didn’t he?”
“I believe so, my lady.”
She sighed. “Persistent! I suppose I’d better see what he wants. Send him in.”
Rising from her desk, she turned to face her visitor, a portly, red-faced gentleman, well past middle age, with yellow teeth and more hair growing out of his ears than he had on his head. He stared at her as if he had never seen a woman before.
“Sir Charles Stanhope?” she said politely.
“Are you Lord Waverly’s niece?” he demanded in astonishment.
“Yes, sir,” Patience answered, extending her hand to him. “I am Patience Waverly.”
“My lady!” he said gruffly. Seizing her hand, he planted his wet mouth on the back of it. “You don’t look a thing like him, your uncle. Lucky for you,” he added, with a coarse laugh. “You have the look of your father, Arthur Waverly. Now he was a handsome devil. Black-haired with eyes as green as glass. The ladies loved him.”
Patience quickly drew back her hand. “Were you acquainted with my father? Do please sit down,” she added. “I’ll ring for some refreshments.”
“Thank you,” he said, settling into a chair.
“I have not had the pleasure of meeting any of my father’s friends,” she went on, seating herself on the sofa. “Did you know him well, sir?”
“I belonged more to the older set, Miss Waverly,” he told her. “But I knew your uncle very well.” Taking out his quizzing glass, he put it up and looked at her hungrily. “I must say, you are a monstrous pretty girl—though a bit on the thin side, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Patience minded a good deal, but said nothing.
“I’ll come straight to the heart of the matter,” said Sir Charles. “Your uncle, God rest him, died owing me five thousand pounds.”
“I’m afraid you must take that up with the attorney,” said Patience.
He scowled. “I’ve seen Bracegirdle already. Impertinent wretch! He says I haven’t any proof of the debt. He sent me away with a flea in my ear!”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Patience. “I have never had a flea in my ear, but I imagine it’s quite a nuisance.”
“You mock me?” he growled.
“Sir, if Mr. Bracegirdle refuses to acknowledge the debt, I see no reason why I should honor it.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “But your uncle and me had a wager! He lost, so he did, but, before I could get his IOU, the dirty rotten scoundrel threw himself off Westminster Bridge! When they pulled him out of the Thames, the fish had eaten his face. There was nothing to identify him but his watch and chain. Serves him right, too.”
Patience was on her feet. “How dare you! You should be ashamed to come here asking me for money! You led me to believe you were a friend of my uncle.”
His eyes popped and a vein pulsed in his greasy forehead. “I don’t want money!” he said. “I want Wildings. I want the land. And I want you, too.”
“Excuse me?” she gasped.
“Sit down, girl,” he said impatiently. “I am asking you to be my wife, not my mistress, if that’s what you think. I’m a rich man. It’s a good offer.”
“Get out!” she said, almost choking.
“Don’t be missish,” he told her. “It’s the only way you have of canceling the debt. I admit, I did not come here with marriage in mind. But now that I have seen you, my dear—!”
He bounded up to her with shocking speed, and would have taken her into his arms, but Patience forestalled him by slapping him hard across the face. A white handprint appeared on his red cheek.
“You are not very civil,” he complained. “Is this the only answer I am to receive?”
“I have another hand, sir, if you would like another answer!”
His eyes narrowed. “You shall marry me,” he said. “The debt must be paid. I have no IOU, madam, but I do have witnesses.”
Patience was seething. “Get out, before I have my servants throw you out!”
“Take care, my lady,” he huffed. “If you persist in insulting me, I may be tempted to withdraw my offer of marriage. I will leave you to think about that.” Shaking his fist at her, he added, “If I were your husband at this moment, I would beat you.”
“If you were my husband, sir, I’d throw myself into the river like my poor uncle!”
Running to the door, she tore it open. Briggs stood there, this time with two cards on his tray. “Lord Milford and his sister to see you, my lady.”
“Show them in, Mr. Briggs,” Patience said quickly.
A handsome young lady swept into the room, dressed in a smart emerald green costume. Black cockerel feathers decorated her bonnet, framing her long, patrician face. Looking at her, Patience, who normally gave little thought to the style of her clothes, was suddenly very glad that she was wearing one of Pru’s old gowns, a dotted muslin trimmed with blue ribbons.
“Lady Isabella!” Sir Charles exclaimed, bowing. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“Sir Charles,” she replied coolly, sketching a curtsy. “How do you do? You remember my brother, of course.”
Lord Milford, hat in hand, stood behind his much taller sister, staring at Patience.
“Of course, my lord,” Sir Charles gushed. “Come in, my lady! Do come in! I’ll send for some tea. And plum cake! That is your favorite, I know. How good of you to call on me! It is indeed an honor!”
In his enthusiasm, he seemed to forget that he was not in his own home.
Isabella quickly reminded him. “We have not come to see you, Sir Charles. We have come to see Miss Waverly.” She smiled warmly at Patience, whom she, naturally, had mistaken for her twin sister.
“I shall return, Lady Waverly,” Sir Charles snarled at Patience.
“You will not be admitted,” Patience answered. For emphasis, she tore up the gentleman’s card and flung the pieces at him.
Sir Charles stalked from the room, his face as red as a turkey’s neck, but he did not forget to bend over Isabella’s hand. “My lady! May I call on you tomorrow?”
“Certainly not,” she said coldly, snatching away her hand.
Lord Milford returned the baronet’s bow with a cool nod, and Sir Charles passed out of the room. Presently, they heard the front door bang shut.
Isabella smiled at Patience. “How do you do, Miss Waverly?” she said, sinking into a graceful curtsy.
“I beg your pardon,” Patience said quickly. “I am not Prudence. I am Patience Waverly.”
“You are Baroness Waverly?” said Isabella, staring. Mr. Purefoy had said the baroness was not as pretty as her sister. She could not understand it. Why would he lie? Perhaps the young lady was playing a joke.
“I am the baroness, but only because I was born twenty-seven minutes before my sister,” Patience explained. “We’re twins.”
“Good heavens!” Isabella exclaimed. “I had no idea.”
“I’m afraid my sister is not here at the moment. She is at her dancing lesson. Or is it her French lesson? I forget. She will be back soon, if you would care to wait, Miss ... ?”
“Forgive us for staring,” said Isabella, driving her elbow into her brother’s ribs. “I am Lady Isabella Norton. This is my brother, Lord Milford. He seems to have been struck dumb by your beauty,” she added.
“No! Not at all,” Milford protested.
Patience barely suppressed a laugh. “Please, sit down. I’m very happy to meet some of Pru’s friends. May I offer you some refreshment? Some cherry water?”
Isabella sat down on the sofa, dragging her brother with her. “My brother adores cherry water,” she said. “Don’t you, Milford?”
“Oh, yes,” he said quickly. “Cherry water. It’s my favorite.”
Patience smiled. “C
herry water for our guests, Mr. Briggs.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Patience sank into a chair. “I have asked him not to call me that. I confess I find it a little disconcerting. The title, I mean.”
“Why should it be disconcerting?” Isabella asked.
“In America, we do not have titles. We believe that all men are created equal. Even our president is Mr. Madison.”
“How very interesting,” Isabella said politely. “Our estate agent is Mr. Madison. Perhaps they are related?”
Briggs returned with a tray and, grateful for the interruption, Patience began pouring a suspicious pink liquid into glasses.
Lord Milford accepted his glass with trepidation. Isabella sipped hers cautiously.
“It reminds me of our beautiful cherry trees back home,” said Patience.
“Oh, yes? Are there many cherry trees in America?” Isabella inquired, pronouncing it “Americker.”
“America, you must understand, is a great big place,” Patience replied, hiding a smile. “But we have a great many cherry trees in Pennsylvania.”
“Ah! Pennsylvania! What a perfectly charming name for a country estate,” Isabella exclaimed. “You must miss it dreadfully. When do you think you will see it again, Lady Waverly?”
Patience’s eyes widened. “Country estate? Oh, no. Pennsylvania is not a country estate. It’s a commonwealth. Pru and I are from the city of Philadelphia, in Pennsylvania.”
Isabella had never heard of either, but she smiled politely.
“It was the capital of the Unites States at one time,” Patience told her. “Washington, of course, is the capital now.”
“Oh, dear. I thought he was the prime minister,” said Isabella.
“Mr. Washington was our first president,” Patience said, beginning to frown, for not only was Isabella ignorant, she was condescending. “The capital city was named in his honor. You’ll be glad to know we’re rebuilding Washington since it was burnt down two years ago by the British army,” she added tartly.
“Oh, I’m sure it was an accident,” said Isabella very quickly.
“How exactly do you know my sister?” asked Patience, abruptly changing the subject, which was not doing her temper any good.
“I’m afraid we don’t, Lady Waverly,” said Isabella. “We came here to see you. That is, my brother has something he would like to say to you. Don’t you, Ivor?”
“Oh? Did my uncle die owing you money, sir?”
“Yes. A monkey,” said Milford.
“A monkey!” Patience repeated in astonishment.
“Yes, a monkey,” he replied. “I have presented my IOU to the attorney to no avail.”
“But my brother has come to forgive the debt,” Isabella added quickly.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Milford, after only a slight hesitation, for the baroness quite obviously met two of his requirements in a wife. The only doubt he entertained concerned his most important requirement: fortune. Without corroborating evidence, Purefoy’s word on the subject could not be trusted. After all, Purefoy himself might have been deceived.
“You’re very kind, sir, but I—” Patience began.
“Good,” Isabella interrupted her. “It has been troubling my poor brother a great deal.” She leaned forward, and before Patience could form a reply, went on, “And, I confess, dear Lady Waverly, that there is something troubling me a great deal. I must beg to speak to you alone. Ivor, will you be good enough to call for me in, say, twenty minutes?”
Milford frowned. “What am I to do for twenty minutes? It is not long enough for anything! In any case, you can have nothing to say to Lady Waverly that I cannot hear.”
“Would you care for more cherry water, sir?” Patience asked him.
“I would not put you to any trouble, my lady,” Milford said, and hastily took his leave, just as Patience had hoped, for she was very curious to hear what his sister had to say.
Chapter 6
Patience could not help but notice that, despite her claim, Isabella did not seem troubled in the least. “Yes?” she said simply, when Lord Milford had gone.
Isabella folded her gloved hands neatly in her lap. “It concerns your sister, I’m afraid. Miss Prudence Waverly.”
“You said you did not know my sister,” Patience said sharply.
“We have never met,” said Isabella. “But when I saw her yesterday in Bond Street, I felt it was my duty to come to you, and just give you a hint before her behavior sinks you both.”
“I don’t know Bond Street. But if it is so dreadful to be seen there, why were you in Bond Street?”
“Lady Waverly, my interference is of the friendliest nature!” Isabella protested. “Your sister is very young—you both are—and perhaps things are different in Pennsa-delphimore, but here young ladies do not chase young men down the street, no matter how great the temptation.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Patience.
“Not only is it unseemly, it rather defeats the purpose,” Isabella went on. “Such wild behavior can only give the gentleman a disgust for your sister. And you, Lady Waverly! If you do not take the trouble to check your sister, you very well may be tainted by the association!”
“You are mistaken,” Patience said coldly. “My sister would never do such a thing. No need! Men are perfectly happy chasing after her.”
“Not this man,” said Isabella. “Mr. Purefoy has only to snap his fingers, and he can have any girl he wants.”
Patience’s eyebrows shot up. “Purefoy!” she gasped, two livid spots of color blotching her cheeks. “That man! You speak to me of that man? I will not have his name spoken in my house!”
Isabella found this response both amazing and interesting. “I see you are acquainted with the gentleman,” she murmured.
Patience’s eyes flashed. “I certainly am not! And he is no gentleman! He is the devil. He is wicked, vile, degenerate, loathsome, lewd, drunken—!” She stopped, having run out of breath as well as adjectives. The night I came to this house, he was here ... cavorting with his disgusting friends. I saw such sights—sights too shocking to relate.”
“He is quite famous for his parties, I believe,” said Isabella.
“Famous! He should be notorious. And it was not a party! We have parties in Philadelphia. This was an orgy! If this man is imposing himself on my sister, I will have his guts for garters. Why has nothing been done about him?”
Isabella shrugged helplessly. “He is the Duke of Sunderland’s heir. Everyone—everyone knows he is a villain, but no one will stand up to him. He is too powerful. A man like that can do whatever he pleases with a girl, without consequence. Your sister, Lady Waverly, does not apprehend the danger. Perhaps she thinks he will marry her.”
“You saw my sister with—with him?” Patience said anxiously. “You are certain?”
“Oh, yes,” said Isabella. “Unless, of course, it was Your Ladyship whom I saw in Bond Street,” she added, with a faint smile.
“Was there blood?” said Patience.
“Heavens, no!” said Isabella.
“Then it wasn’t me,” Patience said darkly. Rising to her feet, she went to the fireplace, where Pru’s invitation to St. James’s Palace had pride of place on the mantel.
“You will take steps to protect your sister, I trust?”
“Oh, yes,” Patience said grimly.
“I fear he is very skilled in the art of seduction, my lady, having practiced it from a very early age,” Isabella said sadly. “He began with the servant girls at his uncle’s estate, I believe, throwing them away when he was done with them.”
Patience stared, very white around the mouth.
Encouraged by the effect her revelations were having on the gullible baroness, Isabella went on with her wholly fictitious account of the rake’s progress. “Unchecked by his uncle, he soon progressed to innocent maids in nearby villages. Farmer’s daughters, then tradesmen’s daughters. Finally, he raped the vicar’s child!”
“The man is a fiend! In America, we know what to do with men like that. Not that we have men like that in America,” Patience said hastily.
“No one can touch him here, because of his uncle. Every day he grows bolder in crime. Not very long ago, he forced his way into a lady’s carriage and—and ravished her—right in front of her maid! She, of course, could not say a word to anyone, for fear of retribution.”
Patience stretched out her hands to Isabella. “Was it you, Lady Isabella?”
“I?” cried Isabella, jumping to her feet. “Certainly not! How dare you! I came here to warn you, and you—you insult me!”
“I beg your pardon most humbly,” cried Patience, now completely convinced that Lady Isabella had been one of Mr. Purefoy’s many victims. “I’m most grateful to you for coming to me with this information. I was very ill when I first arrived in England, and, I’m afraid, I was not able to watch over my sister. But, now that I am better, I will keep her safe. I shall keep her safe.”
“If I were you, I would send her away from London.”
“I should like to,” Patience said. “But I’m afraid my sister would never consent. She is to be presented at court.”
“Oh? Which drawing room?”
“The first.”
Isabella stared. “The first drawing room? How, may I ask, did you manage that?”
“I didn’t,” Patience told her. “It was all Lady Jemima’s doing.”
Isabella knew better. Silly old Jemmie Crump could never have managed it in a hundred years. It must have been Mr. Purefoy. “Do you know that he means to give a ball for her?”
“My God! Is there no end to his wickedness?”
“Apparently not,” said Isabella, who would have killed for a ball at Sunderland House. Gathering up her reticule, she rose gracefully to her feet. “I think I hear my brother returning from his drive. I will meet him downstairs.”
To her surprise, the baroness hugged her. “Thank you for telling me all this,” said Patience. “It can’t have been easy for you. I won’t forget your kindness. I’m sorry if I was a bit prickly at first,” she added awkwardly. “I see now that you only meant well. I hope you will come again. I do want to make you known to my sister.”
The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness Page 8