A Gentleman For All Seasons

by Shana Galen, Vanessa Kelly, Kate Noble, Theresa Romain

  With the happiness on the women’s faces—and the joy in his heart—not even the prospect of a looming meeting with Andrew Greenleaf could sour Bertie’s mood.

  Oh, he didn’t have to accompany Eliza to her father’s rented lodging in Tunbridge Wells while she reviewed the happenings of quarter day. But he wanted to. They were promised to one another, and it was sweet to be at her side.

  If he were honest, a small part of him sought to flaunt their renewed love before Eliza’s profligate and pompous father.

  Eliza tried to persuade him to remain behind. “You’ve met him before. There’s no way this will be a pleasant encounter.”

  Bertie arched a brow. “Less pleasant than being shot?”

  Eliza choked, but her laugh fell away almost at once. “Differently unpleasant. Since removing to Tunbridge Wells, my father has taken up the role of invalid wholeheartedly. I believe he takes pleasure in being impolite.”

  “Then I shall be polite enough for the two of us,” Bertie vowed.

  Though they had recently walked the distance from Hemshawe to Tunbridge Wells, Eliza’s armload of ledgers decided the matter: They would take the carriage this time. It was a gentleman’s carriage, well sprung and comfortable, which Bertie had acquired in London shortly before Georgie’s illness.

  For the first time, he thought of it as a family carriage.

  A very few minutes brought them to their destination. Greenleaf had removed from the Friar’s House with health as his excuse, though Bertie knew it to be a means of economizing. Eliza’s father now occupied a narrow white townhouse on a street that wavered between trade and shabby gentility.

  A maid in a crisp uniform opened the door to Bertie and Eliza, showing them upstairs to the drawing room. The first thing that struck Bertie was how hot the room was. Swathed in thick draperies and studded all over with cushions and tossed about with blankets, the room was dark-paneled and dominated by a huge fireplace in which coal crumbled, dark and acrid.

  Greenleaf sat beside a window in a thronelike chair. As the trio made their greetings, his features wore an odd expression. Had Bertie to put it into words, he would call it the facial equivalent of the feeling he’d had when he first saw the ceiling in the breakfast room crumble: all ha! and just deserts and damn you.

  Despite this fierceness, Greenleaf had dwindled from a figure that loomed monstrous in Bertie’s recollection. Now the landlord was a bald-pated, banyan-clad invalid. On a small table at his side were bottles of brandy and sherry, flanked by half-full glasses and a few more with syrupy dregs.

  Greenleaf evidently followed Bertie’s gaze, for he explained, “Those are medicinal. Good for my old complaint of the ague. I can hardly taste them, so I have to take them in large quantities.”

  “Of course,” Bertie said blandly. “You must take care of your health.”

  Eliza shot him a wry look, which he returned with innocence. Polite enough for two. This would be rather fun, especially if it knocked Greenleaf off-balance.

  “If you could stop dosing yourself for a few minutes, Father, I’ve brought the figures from quarter day for your review.” Eliza motioned toward the ledgers, which Bertie now carried.

  “In company with Gage.” Greenleaf’s eyes were bloodshot but shrewd, flicking over their intimate stance.

  He had not invited the pair to sit, but Bertie did so all the same, knocking a half-dozen cushions from a short sofa and taking a seat after Eliza did. “In company with Gage,” he repeated. “And not only because Gage brought the ledgers. We are to be married. Isn’t that wonderful? I’m sure you are delighted. For me, at least, for winning such a fine bride.”

  “He ought to be delighted for me too,” Eliza chimed in.

  “How kind. Thank you.” Bertie shot her a smile that aimed for soppiness but veered astray into mischief.

  The older man poured a generous measure of brandy into a glass. “I should have expected something like this.” He sounded amused rather than surprised.

  This was, strangely, similar to what Mrs. Clotworthy had said. But since this was the end of Greenleaf’s statement, Polite Bertie filled the silence. “Of course. It was inevitable that I should be reminded of Miss Greenleaf’s charms once I had the opportunity to spend time with her.”

  Now that he thought about it, Polite Bertie was saying no more than the truth.

  “It’s because of the timing,” Greenleaf said.

  “Father, that’s really not the reason I—”

  “She’s about to be thirty, you know,” he continued above Eliza’s interjection.

  “Ah…yes.” Bertie tried to shift to a comfortable posture, but there was really no way on this hard-cushioned sofa with a lapful of ledgers. “I know Miss Greenleaf’s age. Since it is less than my own by five years, I can hardly twit her about it.”

  “If she’s a spinster at age thirty, her dowry reverts to her parents. Parent, I should say. Me.” A cracked laugh. “Part of her mother’s marriage settlements. Didn’t want to have all that money going to waste when I could put it to good use.”

  “I do not understand.” God, it was hot in here. Perspiration dampened the nape of his neck. The open window looked like a paradise.

  Greenleaf extended his feet, shod in patent-leather, and settled against the back of his chair. “She had to make a play for you before she had the fatal birthday. Otherwise, she’d be penniless. But if she wed you—or anyone, really—she’d bring the money with her.”

  At Bertie’s side, Eliza seemed to shrink. “It isn’t like that at all. Bertie—Mr. Gage—your sister invited me—”

  “Miss Gage fancies herself a matchmaker.” Greenleaf sipped at his brandy. “She was willing enough to play into your hands.”

  “I do not understand,” Bertie said again. This time, he looked at Eliza. “Please…explain.”

  He’d thought her honest, scrupulously so. And indeed, the way she moistened dry lips looked like genuine distress.

  “I didn’t do it for the money,” she said. “Please believe that. I wanted to see you again. Everything I felt for you—it was as true as ever.”

  Was? How quickly they slipped to past tense. “And it’s not anymore?” Polite Bertie said mildly. Behind the mask, everything was crumbling and falling.

  “It is. Of course it is.” Her gloved hands twisted in her lap. She pitched her voice low, for his ears alone. “The Greenleaf fortune is gone, gambled away by my brothers and father. My dowry will go the same way if it falls into my father’s hands.”

  “Ah, you think of family honor.” Bertie paused. “Again. As usual.”

  “And what is so wrong about that?”

  Greenleaf’s voice broke in. “You didn't know she had a dowry, did you?”

  Bertie shook himself, turning away from Eliza to her father. “No. I didn’t know. I didn’t even think of—that is, I didn’t care.”

  Eliza laid a beseeching hand on his arm. “If you don’t care, then surely it doesn’t matter.”

  But her tone fell, as though she already knew it did.

  Why was it so hot in here? Surely he was in hell.

  Ignoring her touch, Bertie said, “You told me you came to the Friar’s House to make things right between us. You also admitted that you were visiting in your family’s interests. At least it was half true.”

  Her fingers gripped the wool of his coat sleeve. “It was all true.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Don’t you? If you weren’t so surprised, maybe you would see something noble in the fact that I never wed because of you. That the only man I ever wanted was you.”

  Yes, but on her own terms. In her own time. When it was convenient, or to her benefit. His jaw clenched. “At what cost?”

  “I am sorry to interrupt a whispered conversation that is no doubt heartrending,” said Greenleaf from his throne by the window. “But I need my rest and must invite you to continue your speech elsewhere. Leave the ledgers with me, will you? I’ll look through them at my leisure.
”

  “No,” said Bertie and Eliza at once.

  “No,” she repeated. “They stay with the Friar’s House.”

  Her father raised his brows. “Do they? And what of you, daughter?”

  “I’ll…” She turned her gaze from Greenleaf to Bertie. Polite Bertie saw to the removal of all expression from his face. “If you wish, I’ll go.”

  Whether she was speaking to her father or to him, Bertie was not sure. He rose to his feet, and she did too—then hesitated, as though waiting for him to take her arm or stop her.

  “The coachman will take you back,” was all he said. “And the ledgers as well. I will return by foot.”

  The only sounds were the topple of coal in the grate; the slurp as Greenleaf sipped at his brandy. With fragile stiffness, Eliza curtseyed a farewell to her father, then held out her hands to Bertie.

  At first he thought she was entreating him again. Then he realized she meant to take the ledgers from him. “I will carry them down,” he said. “They are heavy.”

  He made his own bow to Greenleaf, understanding now the expression of triumph the older man had worn since their arrival. Suspecting he understood too why Eliza had wanted to pay this call alone.

  There seemed far more stairs descending from Greenleaf’s lodging than there had been rising to it. At last, however, they were free on the front stoop. Bertie’s carriage still waited at the foot of the steps.

  Eliza tied the strings of her bonnet, turning as she did to face Bertie. “Please. Come back with me. Please, listen. The money—”

  “If you had simply told me about the money at once, I would have understood.” Maybe. Possibly. It was easy to say so when he had not been given the opportunity, when his anger was righteous and his sense of betrayal founded on old bedrock. “I cannot wed only to enrich you, just as you could not wed me when you thought it would make you isolated and miserable.”

  Her lips parted. “You could never make me miserable.”

  “Could I not? You have made me so more than once.”

  Though true, the words were harsh, too harsh on his lips. Harsh as a slap, it seemed, for Eliza’s face went pale, then suffused with a blush.

  “You gave a home to displaced French people. You stood up for Caro Martin when she became a public scandal, before she wed your friend Lochley. Why can you believe the best of everyone but me?”

  “Because I know you better,” he said, though the old words of pique were hollow.

  She drew herself up very straight. “I see. So you can forgive only where you haven’t been hurt. Bertie, you don’t know me at all. I wonder if you ever did.”

  Before he could reply, she took the ledgers from his arms, holding them close against her breast, and turned to descend the steps.

  He watched her take each one, elegant and sure. Each time she planted her foot, it seemed like another mile between them.

  When the carriage rolled away, he set out in the direction of home.

  No. Not home. The Friar’s House.

  He was a rough cavalryman of indifferent birth. He had been wounded, and he had no purpose.

  He should never have hoped to hold any piece of the Greenleaf family for more than a little while.

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  “Bah, it’s far too stuffy in here. Let me open the window for you.”

  Bertie strode across the drawing room and flung up the window sash, ignoring the startled expressions of his sister and her companion.

  “There. Fresh air. Isn’t that better?” He turned to face them, attempting a genial smile. “It’s a beautiful autumn day. No reason we should all be cooped up indoors, sweating like racehorses.”

  Georgie laid aside her book. “I thought you liked having me cooped up.”

  “What? No—of course not.” He reached into a pocket. “As a matter of fact, I brought you a gift. I’ve just walked back from Tunbridge Wells, and on the way I stopped at that bakery you liked so much. I bought some of your favorite almond biscuits.”

  “That sounds very nice.” From her chair, Mrs. Clotworthy smiled up at him, knitting needles clicking ceaselessly.

  Georgie took the package of biscuits, but set it beside her on the sofa, unopened. “What happened in Tunbridge Wells this morning? You walked home alone—”

  “Back to the Friar’s House,” Bertie corrected.

  “—and Eliza returned in the carriage only to bid us farewell. She has left, and a maid is packing her trunks to follow after.”

  “She’s returning to her father’s lodgings, I expect. Or to London to stay with one of her brothers.” He fairly spat the words. This was the human equivalent of watching a ceiling crumble and fall and knowing one had been right, had always been right. Even though he had wanted to be wrong.

  Georgie shot him a startled expression. “You knew she was planning to leave?”

  “I forgot for a while. That’s all.” The only surprising thing ought to be that she stayed as long as she had before she became more Greenleaf than Eliza.

  “But you were to be married. Are to be married?”

  “There are…some things I didn’t know. It’s not going to happen as I had planned.”

  Georgie muttered some words under her breath that she ought not to have known. “Well, you’re wrong in one respect. She’s not staying with her family. She’s returning to Sturridge Manor.”

  “Sturridge…Manor. Huh.” He looked out the window, as though he might see his friend Sturridge marching up the footpath—or see Eliza walking away.

  But she had already left, of course. She had left long ago.

  He tried on another smile, smoothing it to fit a face that did not seem to want to smile, then turned toward his sister again. “That’s all right. She must like it there. And it will be good having her gone, won’t it? We’ll be a nice family circle again. I’ll devote myself to being the best brother imaginable, Georgie, and you’ll want for nothing.”

  She blinked at him with solemn dark eyes.

  “Er…try a biscuit, won’t you?” he tried. “If you like them, we can take the carriage into Tunbridge Wells again this afternoon, and you can buy as many as your heart desires.”

  Georgie sighed, tracing a finger over the embossed letters on the spine of her book. “My heart does not desire biscuits, Bertie. I’m not a child any longer.”

  “I thought you—”

  “You thought you knew what I liked. You thought you knew what I wanted. I know, I know. You always have. But there’s something I want very much, and you haven’t allowed it.”

  “Just say the word,” he said eagerly.

  She spread her hands. “Freedom. Air. Trust. I want you to stop coddling me.”

  “But your health—”

  “I regained it months ago. If I’m still thin, it’s because I’m thin by nature. If I’m pale, it’s because my mother wasn’t Spanish like yours. By harping on everything wrong with me, Bertie, you might as well be telling me I’m not the sister you want. Not as I am.”

  “Of course you are.” Stung, he crossed the room to sit on the sofa beside her.

  “Mind the biscuits,” said Mrs. Clotworthy.

  Just in time, Bertie rescued them from being squashed. He leaned forward to hand the package to the older woman, then settled back to regard Georgie again.

  “Georgie, you’re a marvelous sister. I have been glad to know you every day since you were born. Since our parents died, and since I was shot, and you fell ill—all of that made you even more dear to me. I just…want to keep you safe. I want what’s best for you.”

  “And how will you know when you’ve done enough for me? Because, in my opinion, you did enough long ago.”

  “I see. Fine. Wonderful.” He flung his hands up. “My wife-to-be has begged off for the second time, and now my sister doesn’t need a thing from me. This is a day when everything turns the wrong way ‘round. Why don’t I ask a Frenchman to come shoot me again?”

  “Why don’t you? There
are plenty of them about,” Georgie retorted. “Florian!”

  The butler appeared almost at once in response to this bellow. “Mademoiselle?”

  “My brother wants to be shot. Probably because he is in love with Eliza Greenleaf and said something horrid to her and she left.”

  Bertie rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant at—”

  “Monsieur, I will defend against the shooting of you. Still, you are un con.” Florian wagged his grizzled head. “Not always. But now, yes.”

  “How generous.” Bertie folded his arms. “And why am I”—he struggled for the translation of con— “an idiot?”

  “Because you make Miss Greenleaf think how she must leave. But you want to marry Miss Greenleaf. And she wants to marry you.” His pursed lips and shrug were so completely French, it was a wonder a tricolor flag didn't snap into being over his head.

  “She wants to marry me so she can get her dowry.” Briefly, Bertie explained what he’d learned that morning.

  “All right. So what?” Georgie said, sounding mulish.

  “So, she was deceiving me. All of us. She cares for her family’s reputation and doesn’t care how many times she hurts me to maintain it.”

  “Spoken like un con,” Georgie said. “You could choose to look at it that way. Or you could choose to believe that she genuinely wants to marry you. She wants to marry you now so she can keep her family from wasting their remaining fortune. And what is the harm in that? Wed is wed. If you could rescue thousands of pounds from a gambler by doing something you wanted to a bit sooner than you otherwise would, then…”

  “C’est juste,” said Florian.

  Georgie acknowledged this agreement with a gracious bow of the head. “You see? It’s perfectly logical. Which makes sense, for she’s good with numbers. She told me so herself.”

  “Stand up, dear, and let me see if this is long enough,” said Mrs. Clotworthy, stretching out her knitting. “Tut! Not nearly.”

  As the butler offered his opinion and Georgie chimed in, Bertie sank back against the horrid chintz sofa and let his mind fall into wrack and ruin.