by Sara Portman
Lady Constance waved this aside. “You strike me as a person who would more likely understate her abilities than the reverse. I expect your talents are considerable, but of course you shall have a rehearsal or two with Madame Castellini before the performance.”
“I don’t know that my talents are at a level to provide accompaniment to a famous opera singer, my lady. I am very gratified that you would ask, but…”
The comtesse leaned forward and lay a hand on Lucy’s arm, halting her speech. “Miss Betancourt, did you or did you not just explain to me that you intend to teach music to the young ladies of the ton?”
Lucy swallowed. “I did.”
“And do you think these families would want the very best for their blossoming debutantes?”
“Of course, but…”
The comtesse lifted a staying hand. “There is no ‘but,’ Miss Betancourt. If you want to be sought after by the families of the ton, you must become the thing for which they will clamor. Everything is a competition. Every mother wants her daughter to be more accomplished than the next girl. Today, that means learning to play an instrument, but once one mother can proudly crow that her little darling has been instructed by the pianist who accompanied famed soprano Madame Castellini, everyone will need a music teacher with such a pedigree. Play for my concert, Miss Betancourt, and I assure you, your value will rise considerably.”
Lucy considered this quietly for a long moment. Anticipation and no small amount of panic threaded through her at the thought of performing at such a prominent event. Except for private groups of family and friends, Lucy had never played for any gathering more distinguished than the assembled congregation at her father’s parish church. Yet the lady’s reasoning was sound. If she could play well enough, the concert could serve as an audition of sorts to demonstrate her abilities for numerous families at once.
She turned to Lady Constance. “You were invited to Lord and Lady Ashby’s home last evening. Will you be reciprocating that invitation by inviting them to the performance?”
“Of course.”
“Then I will do it.”
“Because of Lord and Lady Ashby?”
“They are seeking a governess for their daughters. I am hoping to be considered for the post.”
“Perfect!” She beamed triumphantly. “You do entertain me, Miss Lucy Betancourt. Perhaps I shall not allow you to take a post with anyone else. I shall have to hire you as my companion instead.” She smiled conspiratorially at Lucy.
“I’m afraid you are insufficiently feeble to require my assistance and I could not, in good conscience, accept payment. Besides,” Lucy added, “you are far too in demand to ever be alone and will surely have no need of companionship.”
“That observation, ma petite, is a shortsighted one. Never confuse the moods of the beau monde with true friendship. I know this well. The whims of society are not so different on either side of the channel. As swiftly as one can rise, one can easily fall. C’est la vie, no? Everyone will someday test the loyalty of their true friends. You should always seek to gain one when you may.”
That seemed a cynical truth from one with such a bright personality. She couldn’t quite tell if the comtesse was offering her such a friendship, or cautioning her not to make too much of their connection. Either way, Lucy was intrigued.
Chapter Twelve
“You should wear the blue.”
Lucy gazed down at her bed, upon which Agnes had laid two dresses from which Lucy would choose for the day’s outing to the museum. The day had arrived for Mr. Bexley Brantwood to fulfill his promise to Emma, thus saving Lucy and Agnes from certain peril while observing the sights of London.
Drat.
She wished Emma had not spoken. She had been leaning toward the blue, but had been attempting to convince herself that she had not done so because it complimented her coloring and drew out her eyes. The blue, she had reasoned, was the more practical choice.
She just hadn’t decided why, precisely.
Emma was concerned with matchmaking, and sadly, matchmakers as a rule rarely applied practicality.
“The yellow is more serviceable,” Lucy said, just to be contrary, though contrary to Emma or her own instincts, she couldn’t say. Perhaps both.
“How so?” Emma asked.
“The blue has ruffled sleeves. It’s too”—she searched for a reason—“frivolous for an educational outing.”
Emma laughed from her seat in the corner, holding her rounded abdomen as she did so. “Are you suggesting that ruffles at your shoulders interfere with your ability to acquire knowledge? I wasn’t aware information was absorbed through the shoulders.”
Lucy cut her a look. “I am saying one should dress for the occasion. The proper clothing puts one in the proper spirit.”
Emma cast her a withering glance. “That is only true to a point, Lucy, and you know it. “I’m not suggesting you wear a ball gown and feathers, only a pretty color that sets off your eyes.”
Lucy turned and faced her friend accusingly, placing one fisted hand upon each hip. “You are matchmaking.”
“I am only matching you to a dress, dear. The blue is more flattering. The yellow is too pale.”
“Liar.”
Emma, horrid actress that she was, deliberately mistook her meaning. “I swear I am being perfectly genuine when I tell you the yellow dress is too pale for your complexion.”
“You should not play matchmaker, Emma. You shall only be disappointed.”
It would not do for either woman to have unrealistic expectations where Bex Brantwood was concerned. Emma, lovely soul and loyal friend though she might be, was wasting hope that the duke’s cousin would be the man to save Lucy from a life of educating children belonging to other women.
Bex had no interest whatsoever in the marital state, but she granted Emma did not understand the extent of his disinterest. As Lucy could not reveal her own knowledge of the subject without divulging other, more embarrassing secrets, she did not enlighten her friend. She said only, “I love you, dear Emma, and I love that you are so content in your state of marital bliss that you wish to impose such a state upon me. That day may yet come,” she said, knowing the words to be false, “but that day is not today.”
“You cannot predict the day, Lucy,” Emma argued. “It could be any given day.”
Lucy looked into Emma’s eyes, saw the hope there, and was frightened of it. She did not want Emma to be disappointed, but far more worrisome was the knowledge that such hope could be catching. Hope could spread from person to person like a communicable disease, driving decisions filled with risk and uncertainty, and where would that leave her?
Heartbroken in a pretty dress without plans for her future security.
Resignation was the safer dress to wear, and this day, resignation was yellow.
Emma sighed loudly, the exhalation mirroring Lucy’s thoughts as she lifted the yellow dress. Of a sudden, it seemed rather unattractive, though she’d never disliked it before. She’d always thought it cheery, the color the sunflowers.
And jaundice.
She shook the thought from her head. She was being a ridiculous ninny, as it seemed she was wont to do whenever the intriguing and irreverent Mr. Brantwood was about.
Emma released another exaggerated sigh and levered herself up from her seat using the covered arms of the dainty chair. “Wear whatever dress you would like, Lucy, as you’ll do so with or without my approval. The trick of it is,” she added, a victorious curve to her lips, “you are lovely in either dress. Perhaps I knew you would be contrary and wanted you to wear the yellow all along.”
Lucy laughed. “Another lie. You cannot decide to be manipulative after the fact.”
There was a rap on the door and Agnes entered, first dropping into a curtsy toward the duchess then smiling widely at Lucy. “Mr. Brantwood is waiting downstair
s, Miss Betancourt.”
Was everyone in this house a matchmaker? Did they not understand they could not make a man court her against his will? He had not called upon her voluntarily. “You would all do well to remember,” Lucy said, as Emma crossed the room to take her leave, “that Mr. Brantwood is only here as a favor to his cousin who happens to be a duke.”
“Of course, miss,” Agnes rushed to say, quickly dousing her bright grin.
Emma only smiled knowingly and glided from the room, managing to do so despite her increasing middle.
Lucy turned back to the dresses. She did so hate being a ninny. She would wear the yellow, and it would serve as a reminder to her for the duration of the outing that she had a purpose—a much greater purpose than allowing her head to be turned by a man with no interest whatsoever in marriage.
The marriage mart is a game and when the game is done, the fun is over.
She wanted to hold his words like a warning to ward off hopeful, girlish thoughts.
“Mr. Brantwood is gracious to accompany us today as a favor to the duchess,” Lucy said, as much to make the point to herself as to Agnes. “Come help me dress, so I do not keep him waiting.”
“Of course, miss.” Agnes rushed forward and began unfastening the buttons that ran down the back of Lucy’s morning dress. “Shall you wear the blue or the yellow, miss?”
The question startled Lucy until she recalled Agnes had not been present for the debate. She glanced again at the two dresses, side by side, one more time and knew there was only one sensible answer.
* * * *
Bex stood at the window in the drawing room at Worley House and watched the street below, wondering who might have taken note of his arrival. Today would be his third opportunity in less than two weeks to demonstrate his good relationship with the duke and duchess. How many such visits would be required before word reached Gibbs and bought him the desired respite from collection efforts? The man had spies everywhere. How many after that before Gibbs concluded the visits would not result in debt repayments?
If he could bring about one more conversation with Ashby, perhaps he would not need so long. Ashby had balked, yes, but he was intrigued, Bex could tell. His proposal had brought the light of curiosity to Ashby’s gambler’s eyes. He’d spent enough time at the Birdcage to recognize it—the look before an intrigued spectator capitulated, reaching into his pocket to join the game.
He felt certain he only needed one more opening with Ashby to pull him in, and the duke was his best chance to create that opportunity.
He disliked knowing, one way or another, he needed the duke’s help. He’d declined the duke’s direct offer of funds and instead took help from his cousin in another way, without the man’s knowledge or consent.
Somehow it was better, though. Somehow there was more dignity in simply using the connection—even dishonestly—as opposed to accepting direct charity. Taking the money would be simpler. If the duke repaid his debts, Gibbs would not hesitate to loan him the funds for Birmingham, but Bex could not do it. He could not grovel to the duke after his display of righteous indignation, but even more so, he could not stomach the idea of being rescued.
Whether or not his father shared in the blame, Bex had dug a considerable portion of his own pit. He could not sit at the bottom and allow himself to be lifted by a savior. Even if he did, what would he do next? He was not the distressed maid in a child’s tale. He was a grown man. He would climb out of the damned pit grasping and fighting.
He stepped away from the window. Fighting was not so difficult when his battle consisted of an excursion to the British Museum with Saint Lucy of Beadwell.
What a curious girl she was. And what a damned waste for her to hide away as someone’s governess somewhere. He was to be her guide through the British Museum, but he could happily admit he would much prefer to continue her lessons in other, more lascivious arts. He had wanted to take her in the damned garden behind Ashby’s house, when she’d looked up at him and admitted how she’d felt about his kisses compared with the other man. He’d wanted to crow with the victory.
Sadly, he could not continue with those lessons. He could not afford to compromise any woman, as he could not offer any remedy for it. A governess she would be.
Bex seated himself on the sofa as he waited for his companion, and the book on the side table drew his attention. The Governess.
He smiled. His little governess was still conducting research.
Not his.
He picked up the book. Idly, he leafed through a lengthy preface, which he gathered articulated the author’s noble purpose in penning said book. He quickly realized the book itself read as a fable—a series of cautionary tales for would-be governesses.
It was, as suspected, ridiculous. Surely, Saint Lucy found it ridiculous. Didn’t she? She was too levelheaded for such tripe.
“There you are, Mr. Brantwood.”
He looked up and rose as the angel herself entered, a blond pixie in a pale blue frock. “Here I am,” he said. “Am I lost?”
She shook her head, and the pale wisps at the side of her face fluttered with the movement. Her smile was warm and open instead of practiced and knowing. He would not like to see her with a jaded, knowing smile.
“You are not,” she said, her amusement at the question widening her smile. “I had thought you would be waiting in the hall. I’m sorry if you’ve been kept too long.”
“No apology is warranted. I was quite occupied.” He lifted her book as evidence of this fact.
“Are you mocking my studies, sir?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and did her best to appear the disapproving governess. Thankfully, her best was not sufficient to mask the hint of a smile that hovered behind her stern expression.
“I assure you, I am not,” he answered. “I admire the zeal with which you are preparing for your chosen profession.”
She accepted this response with a quick nod.
“I am mocking Mr. David Simple,” he said, reading the author’s name from the book, “whom I have decided is as aptly named as Mrs. Teachum, the governess in his fable.”
The stern expression reappeared. “I knew you were mocking me.”
He walked toward where she stood near the door. “Surely, there is some better example for you than the fictional Mrs. Teachum.”
She stepped closer as he approached, lifted her chin proudly. “I have found it very informative on the types of situations that may arise when I have a post.”
He stepped closer still—close enough to force her face upward to meet his eyes. She could play at being offended but he knew she agreed with him. He may not know everything about Saint Lucy of Beadwell, but he knew she was not a foolish girl. “This book is ridiculous and you know it,” he said. “To begin, this Mrs. Teachum is nothing like you.”
She did not retreat from the challenge, instead looking up at him with defiant confidence. “We are not so very different.”
His brows rose dubiously; then he lifted the book, opened it, and read aloud. “‘Mrs. Teachum was about forty years old, tall and genteel in her person, tho’ somewhat inclined to fat.’”
Mirth brightened her eyes even as she scowled at him. “We are similar in our purpose.”
He looked down at her for a long moment, reveling in the shared humor, even when she refused to admit to it. He held her blue eyes until he was very certain he wanted to kiss her again and not certain at all that he wouldn’t. He stepped away, turned his back to her, and set the book on the table. “And so we address your purpose today, do we not? By the time we return, you shall be an expert on the British Museum.”
“I am fortunate indeed if my guide today is knowledgeable enough to make me an expert.”
Were her words spoken more softly, or was he imagining that? He faced her again, saw the remnant of a blush fading from her cheeks. She was not for
him, but he found he rather liked knowing he affected her anyway. He offered his arm to lead her from the room. “Are you doubting the depth of my expertise on the exhibits of the British Museum?”
“Not at all, sir,” she said, accepting the proffered arm. She beamed up at him, as though her hair and skin and eyes glowed with their own source of pure, brilliant light. “I would not waste time wondering either way when we can simply proceed on our outing so that I can discover the truth of it.”
He grinned back at her, wondering how any man could resist doing the same. “Saint Lucy of Beadwell, I declare you are the very devil.”
* * * *
He was the very devil.
And Saint Lucy of Beadwell made him feel more wicked than he had ever felt.
They had done nothing at all untoward. How could they in public? The maid who accompanied them was too curious about the museum to prove much of a chaperone, but the scores of other people in the exhibit halls surely prevented misbehavior.
And still he was incapable of avoiding wicked thoughts. Even as they discussed details of various exhibits and he was returning her bright and hopeful smiles, his imagination was consumed with wolfish intentions. Even the damned dress was killing him, and it was modest enough for a schoolgirl. Every time he looked at her, he noticed the blue fabric was an exact match for her eyes. When the hell had he begun noticing when dresses matched anything?
“Mr. Brantwood, I owe you a great apology for any doubts I may have harbored,” she said as they finished their tour of Greek and Roman sculptures. “Your knowledge of the exhibits here is impressive. You have proven an excellent guide.”
“Are you so shocked?” he couldn’t help asking.
“I will admit, it is unexpected.” She tilted her head to one side and peered up at him with unveiled interest. “How did you become so knowledgeable about the museum?”
“It is no great mystery,” he said, turning away from her obvious curiosity. “I have spent a great deal of time here.”
“I would not have guessed you would have such an interest in antiquities.”