Stop this.
It was precisely this annoying inner scold who provided a constant litany of self-reproach.
The duchess was saying, “I am agog to know why you are desperate for my expertise.”
“I don’t beg the favor for myself, ma’am.”
“Just as well,” she teased in the most winning way. “You will tell me on whose behalf you’ve come while we enjoy refreshments.” The duchess struggled up to ring for the butler. When he opened the door, she said, “Thatcher, let’s have tea now. And don’t be stingy with the biscuits.”
Again, the strict governess in Jane’s head chided that tea was never served during morning calls.
But Jane hadn’t much appetite at breakfast and found herself famished. So she welcomed tea as a hospitable gesture she would adopt herself when she had her own establishment in the autumn.
So there, Nanny!
Thatcher bowed himself out and the inner nag carped: How can a one-armed butler manage a tea service—She clamped her mouth closed. Her grace hadn’t batted an eye requesting tea, and Thatcher smiled broadly at his mistress when he undertook to fetch it.
“You’ve played on my greatest weakness, Lady Jane, for I flatter myself that I am as patient as a saint, knowledgeable as a sage, and ever helpful. Married women must achieve this frame of mind or go barking mad, I find,” she said and tilted her head. “Pray, go on.”
“How glad I am to find you have a sense of humor,” she blurted out. “I hope that after I’ve explained, you will laugh at me as I deserve and forgive me. Failing that, I’ve brought you a gift.”
“Oh dear, how can I hold a grudge now? Perhaps I should look it over before I decide how well to like you,” the duchess teased when Jane presented the neatly-wrapped package. “Bare all and we shall see,” her grace said with a twinkle that reassured her.
“It’s a convoluted story, Duchess. I must start at the beginning. Lord Seelye has been our neighbor and my brother George’s friend since childhood. When I was little, he was kind to me and I formed a hopeless, one-sided attachment. Since returning from war, he’s done nothing but criticize and infuriate me to such a degree that I wanted to make him sorry.”
“How does Lord Seelye’s angering you justify insulting me in my own apothecary?”
The duchess was shockingly blunt. But it freed Jane to be equally honest.
“You are right, of course. I was frustrated and angry. I set my cap at your duke because he—Lord Seelye, that is—said I mustn’t, for I was bound to fail. And I did fail. But I never wanted him—your duke, that is.”
Her grace frowned. “Perhaps I ought to unwrap your gift now.”
Jane floundered on, “I don’t mean to imply his grace wasn’t desirable. Everyone wanted him but me. I only wanted to make Lord Seelye see how desirable I was.”
“You were trying to teach Lord Seelye a lesson.”
“I was.”
“Now, I understand the difficulty,” her grace said. “Until I met him, I hadn’t thought it possible for a man to be too handsome or witty.”
“Exactly,” Jane sighed in relief.
Thatcher led a footman bearing a laden silver tea tray into the room and bade him place it on the low table before the duchess.
“I hope you don’t mind, I’m always hungry,” her grace said, indicating the plate piled with fruit, meats, cheeses, and biscuits.
Jane’s mouth watered at the display. The duchess poured tea for her in perfect form.
“I was horrid to you out of pettiness and false pride,” Jane confessed. “I don’t blame you for despising me. I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I am here today not only to apologize but to ask you to help me save a lost soul.”
“Lord Seelye does not strike me as the lost-soul type, Lady Jane.”
“Not him. I refer to Bibendum.”
“What a singular name,” the duchess said, much diverted. “What is Bibendum’s complaint? Are you certain he doesn’t need a doctor for his malady?”
“No, it’s only a bad tooth.”
“I can make up a tincture to ease the pain and poultices to stop the bleeding and prevent putrefaction in the jaw after a barber pulls it.”
“I would appreciate those,” Jane said, “but Bibendum must be insensible for the extraction.”
“Why? A man in pain will react to the tooth drawing but a strong pair of hands—”
“Will not suffice.”
“Is that so?” The duchess considered this. “Well, enough laudanum should dull pain even induce sleep. It depends on the concentration. And brandy acts as a relaxant and discourages infection.”
“But how much should I give him?”
“That too depends. An average-sized man would take a few drops of typical strength laudanum in a glass of water to relax, double the amount to sleep. I’d have to know his weight and consult a reference to determine how much would render him insensible.”
“And if he’s larger than average-sized?”
Her grace regarded her. “As large as Ainsworth?”
“Oh, much larger.”
“How much larger could he be?” her grace exclaimed.
“Strictly speaking he’s not man-sized at all,” she replied.
“Oh!” the duchess said, eyes dancing. “How cryptic.” She stood up awkwardly to sit beside Jane and whisper, “Tell me more.”
“If I say too much, I’ll endanger poor Bibendum. Will you promise not to tell a soul?”
“I’ll want to tell my husband,” her grace said. “But I’ll swear him to secrecy.”
“That’s how it will be,” Jane fretted, “one tells another until Bibendum is knackered for good. I cannot. Pray forgive me.”
“Does Lord Seelye know?”
“Yes, they’ve met.”
“In that case, I’d wager anything the other three Horsemen will learn of it, if they haven’t already. Is danger involved?”
“There might be.”
“Then it’s much too late to keep it from them,” the duchess said. “But it will go no further. Will you tell me yourself or must I winkle it from my husband?”
Jane chewed the tip of her gloved finger, considering, before she said, “Put that way, telling you now would be most sensible.”
The duchess smiled her encouragement.
Jane took a deep breath, “I rescued a performing bear from being slaughtered by the Hellfire Club in a bear-baiting.”
“Did you!” her grace cried. “Where is it now?”
“Are you afraid of bears?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You might not like the answer,” Jane said, “so I wish to consider my reply.”
“I don’t mind bears,” her grace said. “But then, I’ve never seen one.”
“If you must know, he’s in my brother’s back garden potting shed.”
“You’ve a bear. Just down the street,” the duchess said unevenly. “In Grosvenor Square.”
“Temporarily.”
“That is unexpected,” her grace gurgled. “Is he friendly, Lady Jane? May I meet him?”
“He’s a tamed bear and quite friendly, but we must be careful of your condition.”
“If I’m to help, I must judge his weight for dosing.” Her grace thought for a moment and added, “Don’t mention our appointment to Lord Seelye, for it will reach my husband. He will forbid me from helping you and ban you from ever calling on me again. He worries over the least little thing, poor man.”
“You will help me?”
“You are asking for my help, aren’t you?”
“I am begging for it,” Jane said. “Will you forgive me for the rest?”
“Forgiven, forgotten,” her grace said with another delighted gurgle. “Indeed, I believe you’ll make a fascinating friend. Lady Abingdon and Lady Clun speak highly of you. Now, I see why.”
Jane’s eyes stung. “Thank you.”
“Not at all. I’ll feed you to the bear if he cuts up ugly,” she said and pi
cked up the package from her lap. “Shall I open it?” The duchess opened the paper wrapping and exclaimed at the handsome, Moroccan leather-bound volume in her lap. “I’ve heard of homeopathy, Lady Jane.”
“Please call me Jane.”
“Then you must call me Prudence.” The duchess reached out to clasp her hand. “This was most thoughtful, Jane.”
The bear business and apology concluded, the atmosphere became quite convivial. Jane complimented Prudence on setting a new precedent in the hungry ritual of morning calls and ate all she wanted. Prudence asked about her childhood and the young Lord Seelye.
As the subject of sincere curiosity, Jane allowed herself to become as animated as the duchess, answering questions, posing her own, and explaining Richard Martin’s private member’s bill to outlaw animal cruelty.
This last, Prudence approved and promised her husband’s ‘yea’ vote, should it reach the upper house.
“How does Attila fare?” Jane asked.
“At one time, you disapproved Ainsworth’s unmannerly beasts,” Prudence teased.
“I still do,” Jane replied. “I’d rather see dogs trained to be well behaved in public. But Attila was a lamb from the start. That’s why I intended to call him Felix but he slipped away before I could help him much.”
“He was yours?”
“I sometimes rescue strays—not that I make a practice of seeking them out. I could never have that much fun. But if a lost or abused animal comes my way, I take it in, feed it, civilize it, then find it a good home. I prefer to send dogs to country estates where they can enjoy themselves and be useful. A useful dog is a happy dog. But poor Attila, his fierce look so belied his sweet nature.”
“Not unlike my husband,” Prudence said.
“Owing to his grace, it seems every gentleman has a mongrel at his side these days.” Jane grimaced. “I wish they’d train their dogs to behave, or at least to sit, stay, and heel.”
“You mustn’t insist on too high a bar, Jane. Even those who trip underneath do some good.”
“You’re right. I ought to unbend or so I’ve been told.”
“How did you come by Attila?” Prudence asked.
Jane related ‘The Incident.’ She had been crossing the pavement to Hatchard’s book shop when she heard an anguished yelp somewhere close by. With John Coachman the younger, she followed the sound to find a brute about to club a beaten dog to death in an alley.
“I yelled, ‘Eh! Eh! Eh!’” Jane raised her voice to demonstrate. “That’s how I correct dogs and it stayed the monster’s hand. Then I threatened to call the watch if he touched my dog again.”
“Wasn’t it his dog?”
“Not if he beat it,” she leaned forward to say. “I told him I’d lie to see him jailed if he struck it again. He spat on my shoes before leaving. Ruined a lovely pair of silk slippers.”
Jane went on to describe how she brought the injured dog to her brother’s address:
“A dog in pain is liable to bite, but Felix didn’t snap once, even when John lifted him into the carriage. Such was his gentleness. We brought him to the mews behind George’s residence. The alley communicates with your husband’s stable at this end. John left the dog lying on the cobbles to see to the horse and carriage, while I went to spread a horse blanket and pads on the potting shed floor. When we returned, he was gone.
“I walked up the alley and saw a little boy scooping water for him from your horse trough. Shortly afterward, your duke took him into his household. It’s a testament to his character that he did.”
“My husband is a surprising man,” Prudence said, “and proof that first impressions often mislead. Tell me, who else knows you rescued Attila of Ainsworth’s ‘mongrel horde’?”
“No one. It must remain your husband’s good deed, for so it was. When the Observer raised hew and cry over poor Attila, I rejoiced that he lived under the duke’s protection.”
“Indeed. No broadsheet can prevent a Horseman of the Apocalypse or a duke of the realm, and I quote,” Prudence attempted a deep, rumbling voice, “‘from walking his bloody dogs, be they ugly, ill-behaved, or misbegotten.’”
“Such a happy outcome,” Jane sighed.
“The first of many, I hope. Now, about your bear,” Prudence began in businesslike fashion.
A few days later, Jane followed strict protocol to present Bibendum, Bear of Bankside to Prudence, Duchess of Ainsworth. The sight of a bear sprawled on the floor of a potting shed made Prudence gleeful.
Jane let him out and ushered her grace inside to watch from behind the shed’s half-closed Dutch door.
The bear stood, sat, patted paws and smiled. (He curled his upper lip and hummed in Bear at this command.) She put a horehound drop in the duchess’ glove and Bibendum lipped it up delicately, tickling her palm and leaving her breathless in more ways than one. The bear’s natural odor, though less sharp, still hung about him.
Bibendum rolled the sweet in his mouth and whined.
“He does have a bad tooth,” Prudence concluded briskly. “It must be drawn. He seems a gentle creature but an animal in pain can become deranged by it. There’s no time to lose, I’m to begin my confinement shortly. I’d estimate Bibendum is close to 60 stone so I’ll prepare a strong opiate tincture as well as two healing poultices immediately for him. Will that help?”
Jane nodded, too overcome to speak.
“I like your bear, Jane,” Prudence said. “Reminds me of Ainsworth when he grumbles.”
Chapter 21
In which chickens come home to roost.
The day after Prudence’s clandestine introduction to Bibendum, Jane joined her brother and Gert at breakfast.
“Bath?”
“Ain’t so starchy at home or with family,” her brother said automatically. “Told you more times than I care to recall.”
“Yes, George,” Jane amended. “Seelye was hoping to stow a crate in the back garden—”
“A crate? How big?”
“Not small,” she replied. “He wouldn’t need to leave it in the garden otherwise.”
“Egads, what I’ve heard about the new valet must be true.” Bath swung round to face her, aghast. “I’ll not have Seelye crating his man’s man in my garden. Isn’t done.”
“What a notion,” she scoffed. “It’s not for his valet.”
“So long as it’s empty, I s’pose there’s no harm.” George grimaced and turned back to his wife. “Can’t have a half-wild opium-eater suffering fits in my garden, can I, Gert?”
“No, my love, most unpleasant,” her grace said without looking up from her freshly-ironed copy of the Morning Post.
“How’s he to be fed, I ask you, through a slot in the box?” his grace deliberated aloud. “Seelye might mean well but it wouldn’t be humane. Jane, tell him I’ll allow it for a day or two.”
“It may be a week or two,” Jane said cautiously.
“Weeks?” George expostulated, only to lean toward his wife to read what caught his eye on the front page of the newspaper she held. “Hm, a week and no more, understand?”
“Thank you, George.” To her sister-in-law, Jane enthused, “My brother is a dear, isn’t he?”
“Yes, very. You’ll consult Myrick, won’t you?”
This wasn’t a question but an order.
The duke stood up from the table to walk behind his duchess’ chair and bend over her shoulder to read along. Into her ear, he murmured, “Say, Gert, anything provocative to share?”
“Not so far. Dulwich has bequeathed his collection to the public. Would you like to read about it?”
“Rather skim along with you,” he said. “Besides, what’s the significance of odd duck Dulwich opening his house to the hoi polloi compared to the second most momentous event in my life unfolding before my eyes?” He reached around to her corseted belly. “What are Rembrandts to my very own madonna?”
“You’ll put me to blush,” his duchess giggled.
He looked up at his sister with a ja
ck o’ lantern grin. Jane left the room hungry rather than witness any more male gloating over a wife’s promising condition.
* * *
Later that day, the Duke of Bath’s man of affairs “strongly recommended” he meet with Earl Rostand's man, Mr. Whitcombe. The duke agreed reluctantly, dreading to learn what fresh faux pas his sister had perpetrated against the peer.
In his study, this Mr. Whitcombe informed him she housed a bear in his own back garden.
“Patently absurd,” his grace sniffed.
Mr. Whitcombe explained.
George’s temples began to pound. He eyed the smug-faced little weasel with growing distaste.
One never aired one’s opinion of family members before the help or, by ill-judged exclamation, divulged the lunacy of a sister to anyone connected with a nobleman she’d spurned in spectacular fashion. Instead, he refused Earl Rostand’s offer to dispose of the alleged bear and dismissed the encroaching man without an eyelid’s flicker.
Once alone, his thoughts were:
A bear?
Certainly not!
Wait…
The blasted crate.
Not Seelye’s at all.
Jane’s.
Why hadn’t Myrick mentioned a bear to the butler? Why hadn’t Wymark mentioned it to him? Had his sister bribed his entire staff to look the other way?
And how could he have overlooked a bear in his back garden?
Well, he reasoned, he didn’t go into the garden much. Too many other demands on his time. Nor, apparently, did Gert seek its peace of an afternoon—still too chilly for that. But if she had, surely she’d have mentioned finding a bear there. Even Gert was not so unflappable as to take that in stride.
There was a smell occasionally wafting in through his book room window but it didn’t alarm him. London’s fog frequently carried malodors from God-knows-where steeped in God-knows-what. An open window in the city rarely invited ‘fresh’ air. Still, he never imagined such a smell emanated from his own property—much less, from a bear residing there.
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