Tobias had been ecstatic, Beth all aflutter until she discovered the wife of the Marquess of Harborough was a girl from a gaming house in Lisbon and as devoid of snobbery as it was possible to get. And Anthony’s wife Amabel was far too kindhearted to look down on anyone. As she later pointed out to Beth, her own father worked, even though his labors were in the foreign office.
In 1815 Terence held his breath as the two young noblemen returned to war, back to drawing maps for Wellington with Napoleon once again on the march while Europe quaked. But the twins’ luck held. They returned to find themselves even wealthier. Terence O’Rourke, going against the advice of his mentor, had bought up investment funds being sold in panic when the first word back from Waterloo was that Napoleon had won. So he and the Trowbridge twins more than doubled their personal wealth in the weeks following the final defeat of the little Emperor.
Tobias sulked for a month. Then perked up as he finally recalled he had, after all, trained the boy. And wasn’t Beth now fast friends with the daughter-in-law of a duchess?
April 1816
For ten of the years Miss Matilda Spencer had lived at Brockman House, once monthly she firmed her shoulders, marched down the stairs, entered her employer’s study, and delivered a concise report of her pupils’ progress. Each time, only she was aware that beneath her outward calm, an earthquake shook her insides. If she stood tall, she and Tobias Brockman would be nose to nose, but in the great man’s presence Matilda shrank into herself, feeling akin to an ant confronting the hobnailed boot of a giant. There had been a few occasions when she thought she’d caught a flash of discomfort that was not her own, but the instant passed, and she would be certain Tobias Brockman never had a particle of doubt about anything.
Matilda was also convinced that Tobias considered her an interloper from an alien world, a burr under the saddle of his empire, never dreaming the head of Brockman and Company might be fearful of revealing himself as an uneducated lout from the coal pits of Wales. But in the unusually frozen winter of 1814, when a fire crackled in the black marble fireplace and woodsmoke mixed with the scent of leather bindings and the brandy her employer had been sampling, Tobias had failed to dismiss her with the customary wave of his hand. Filled with sudden trepidation, Miss Spencer felt an icy chill slip up her spine.
His scowl was anything but reassuring. “I understand you play chess,” he growled.
“Yes, sir,” Tildy whispered.
“Terence has been trying to teach me for years, but it seems a great fuss over nothing. A waste of time best spent on more profitable maneuverings. Still and all, I’ve reached an age where I must make more time for games, particularly if my girl is to move among the ton. Tobias raised a shaggy brow. “Perhaps you’ve more patience for teaching than the boy?”
The boy, Tildy thought, was five and twenty, Tobias Brockman past fifty and still a fine figure of a man. Over the years she had watched the lines in his rugged plebeian face deepen, his hair thin on top to the point he looked like a tonsured monk, or so Terence teased him. But his shoulders were still massive and he strode the world as if he owned it. And, indeed, his name was on the deeds to a remarkable portion of it. The amber eyes flashed with the intelligence Tildy knew so well in Beth, but with a worldly knowledge Miss Spencer could only hope her pupil would never have to learn. And now he wanted her to teach him chess? Was it possible that after all these years he was reaching out, striving for an accommodation with his children’s governess? Somehow Tildy suspected chess was not the object of whatever game Tobias Brockman was playing.
He rang the bell, ordered tea, while she sat with her hands clasped in her lap, mouth dry, heart pounding. Never . . . never would she let him see how panicked she was.
And now, after two years, they met more often than once a month. Rounds of piquet crept into their routine between the times when the ebony and ivory chessboard with its ornate medieval pieces was laid out before them. They had grown easier with each other, but not by much. Each wary, fearful of the unique power belonging to the other. But now, this particular night, Tildy quailed. How could she dare? This was her home, Terence and Beth as much her own as if she had borne them. Could she say what had to be said? Risk everything?
She had no choice.
Tobias made the first chess move. Tildy stared at the advancing pawn with considerable empathy. That’s what she was, a lowly pawn. Not the knight in shining armor she wished to be. Her hands remained lax in her lap. No doubt her opponent was wondering at her hesitation so early in the game.
He had often told her to address him by his Christian name in private, but the word did not come easily. Tildy swallowed hard, cleared her throat. “Tobias?”
The sherry-colored eyes sharpened, waited.
“You are making a grave mistake,” declared Miss Matilda Spencer. “Terence and Beth were born for each other. You cannot tear them apart to satisfy your craving for a title!”
“He’s her brother!” Tobias roared, as if he were a cannon to which she’d set a match.
“No, he’s not! And well you know it. Not a drop of blood do they share.”
Tobias reached out, grabbed Miss Spencer’s queen, shook it under her nose. “And I tell you my daughter will be called ‘my lady.’ My son-in-law will march down the aisle at Westminster at the next coronation. And a grandson of mine will sit in the House of Lords. I’ve slaved and sweated, clawed and bit, to get where I am. They’ll all look up to her before I’m through, the whole bloody lot of ’em. And I’ll not listen to the scolds of some earl’s bastard from the wilds of Lincolnshire nor the ravings of a soft-hearted spinster, who I’ve seen fed and clothed for more years than I care to recall.”
Even as she quailed, Tildy warmed to the revelation that Jack, too, had dared the lion. “Tobias, she sighed, “do you not think Terence deserves better at your hands? He’s been everything you wanted him to be, and more.”
“Have I denied him anything but this?” Tobias challenged, “even that blasted earl’s brat he retrieved from hanging?
Tildy shook her head. “No, Tobias, you have not. But this one thing is more important than all the rest.”
“’Tis done, blast you, woman!” Sweeping the chess pieces from the board, Tobias shot to his feet, stalked out of the room.
Tildy sat, head bowed, tears staining the fine gray silk of her gown. It was over. Beth was to be sacrificed to the glory of the Brockman empire.
PART II
Chapter Five
Beth sank into a low curtsey before the Duchess of Marchmont, certain her shaking legs would never allow her to rise. “My dear,” said the mother of Alexander and Anthony, whose scandalous conduct had rocked the ton a scant two years earlier, “do come closer so I may have a more perfect view of your charming face.”
The duchess’s kind words and mellow voice, which had never lost its French inflection, drew Beth forward. Once again, she curtsied to the elegant older woman, who was seated on an sofa of gold silk brocade in the drawing room of Marchmont House in Grosvenor Square. Folding her hands in front of her, Beth returned the duchess’s scrutiny. No gray sullied Her Grace’s dark hair; faint lines of age merely added character to a distinguished face. Her eyes sparkled with interest in her guest, her manner as gracious as her posture was regal.
Nearby, her daughters-in-law, the wives of Alex and Tony, hovered, holding their breaths. Not that they truly thought Lady Marchmont would take Beth in dislike, but the approval of the diminutive duchess would open nearly every door in the ton to the daughter of the Merchant Midas, Tobias Brockman. Catherine and Amabel fixed optimistic smiles on their faces, firmly closed their lips over their tongues and waited. As did Miss Matilda Spencer whose feet had refused to carry her any farther into the duchess’s grand drawing room than three feet inside the door.
After a leisurely examination of Beth from the top of her artfully arranged blonde curls to the five rows of French lace on her aqua silk walking dress, which was certainly straight out of La Belle A
ssemblée, the duchess patted the sofa beside her. “Sit by me, my dear.” Her sharp eye caught Miss Spencer. Swiftly, Catherine, known as Cat to her intimates, stepped forward to make the introduction. “You are the governess,” the duchess declared.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Tildy managed, “though at present I am Miss Brockman’s companion. Beth”—Tildy choked, recovered—“Miss Brockman was always an apt pupil and learned all that I could teach her.”
“Indeed.” The duchess turned back to Beth. “And were you an apt pupil, child?”
“Sometimes, Your Grace,” Beth ventured modestly. “I was particularly fond of globes and maps.”
“Ah,” said the duchess, “I see you have been warned not to display your knowledge too boldly.” Not knowing how to reply, Beth studied the toes of her fine leather slippers. The duchess indicated her guests should be seated. An imperious wave of her hand kept Miss Spencer close when the governess would have slunk into a chair on the far side of the room.
The butler arrived with the tea tray, and the ladies relaxed into general, if careful, conversation. After inviting Catherine, her eldest son’s wife, to pour out, the duchess questioned Beth in a manner Amabel later described to her husband as, “I doubt Wellington could have done better himself.”
When the clatter of teacups had ceased and each lady had modestly refused the last macaroon, Lady Marchmont offered her final bit of advice to her youngest guest. “I have been informed you have had a particularly fine education, Miss Brockman, of which your Miss Spencer can indeed be proud. But it would be foolish indeed to display it, my dear. The ton does not care for Blue Stockings. Look what was said of Madame de Staël. Give idle minds nothing on which they can pounce. They will covet your wealth. Those who have no chance of getting it for themselves will be quick to criticize, a few will be vicious. While men, young and old, swarm round like moths to the flame, their would-be wives will be waiting to stab you in the back. They will smile and smile while doing everything they can to oust you from their circle. The mothers and sisters of eligible young men will court you. The other young ladies making their come-outs, their mothers as well, will likely hate you.”
The Duchess of Marchmont locked her gaze with Beth’s. “With such a fortune as yours, my dear, your father could arrange an excellent match without subjecting you to a Season in the ton. Miss Brockman, are you quite certain you wish to submit yourself to what could be a difficult experience?”
Beth, a bit pale, clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Your Grace, I perfectly understand if you do not care to sponsor me. It was most kind of you to see me today. I apologize for taking up your time.” She rose. “Come, Tildy, we will be going.” Head up, Beth started toward the door.
“My child!” the duchess cried. At the older woman’s frantic signal Cat and Amabel darted across the room, stopping Beth halfway to the door. “You mistake my meaning!” Lady Marchmont declared. “You are so young . . . so fragile. You look as if a puff of wind would blow you away. I do not want you to be hurt. I merely wished to know if you truly desired a Season. Come”—the duchess patted the sofa—“sit and assure me you yourself wish to do this, that you are not suffering all this because your father wishes it.”
Slowly, Beth returned to her seat beside the duchess. With audible sighs, the other three women sank back into their chairs. “Your Grace . . . it is quite simple,” Beth explained. “If my father arranged a marriage, I would have no choice of a husband. With a Season I can do what other young women do, have an opportunity to meet many young men and hopefully find one for whom I may feel an attachment.”
“You hope for love then?”
Beth, who had spent many bitter hours contemplating this particular problem, was swift to reply. “A merchant’s daughter tends to be of a pragmatic nature, Your Grace. I read novels, I do not make the mistake of believing they are real. But, yes, I would like to feel affection for my life’s mate. And by giving me a Season, my father is ensuring that I have some choice in the matter.”
“A–ah,” murmured the duchess. “You are, then, a great deal stronger in character than your appearance would indicate.”
“I hope so, Your Grace.” Beth peeped up at the duchess, offering her most winsome smile.
“Then you may expect to receive vouchers for Almack’s within the week.. Miss Spencer as well, so she may accompany you if Catherine and Amabel are unavailable.”
“Your Grace.” Beth bowed her head.
Later, as the Brockman barouche turned out of Grosvenor Square, Cat let out a cry of triumph. All four women burst into smiles. “Almack’s,” Cat chortled. “You’ve joined the crème de la crème, Beth. You’re part of the ton.”
“The duchess is . . . remarkable,” Miss Brockman said quietly.
“Believe me,” said Amabel, “with Alex and Tony for sons, she’s had to be.”
Cat and Amabel sighed in unison. “I was once quite sure Alex had married me for my father’s gaming house,” Cat said, “so I have some idea of the problems of your situation. But Amabel and I will keep watch. We will make sure you know which young gentlemen are truly suitable.” Cat squeezed her young friend’s hand.
Beth returned the pressure, but her mind was elsewhere. You hope for love then? The words of the Duchess of Marchmont echoed hollowly through her mind. Hope was something she had put behind her, like an outgrown childhood toy. Along with the warmth of a lifelong friendship which could never be the same. What were the words Dante fixed over the Gates of Hell? Abandon hope, all ye who enter. Surely it applied to the ton as well. At least to the ton Elizabeth Brockman would enter in spring of 1816.
She was to go to her first dinner party alone. No Tildy, no Terence, no Jack. No familiar faces from the parties she hosted for dear papa. Nor from the merchant, banking, and legal families with which she was so comfortable. Her escort, however, to the house Alex and Cat had purchased on Mount Street, was of such impeccable reputation that even Terence had not objected. When the idea had been proposed, Tobias had choked back a gasp of surprise, harumphed, and allowed that it might do. As long as Beth’s maid accompanied her until she was safely under the chaperonage of the Marchioness of Harborough. For, after all, he could hardly quibble over the escort of a viscount to his daughter’s first ton party. A young man who would be an earl one day. Perhaps, Tobias grumbled, Harding wasn’t as much of a hopeless sinner as he had thought.
For Avery Dunstan, Lord Cheyney, was to have the honor of guarding Elizabeth Brockman on this auspicious occasion. Since he had distinguished himself in the Peninsular War, coming home a captain, and happened to be Jack Harding’s younger—and legitimate—brother, he more than fulfilled the demanding qualifications for escorting the daughter of his brother’s employer. In addition, Lord Cheyney had somehow managed to avoid any hint of being a rake.
The former captain was also well aware, as he handed his charge into the carriage, that if anything happened to Beth Brockman, his brother would mop up the ground with him. If, that is, Terence O’Rourke had left any pieces for Jack to find. Truthfully, the survivor of Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vitoria, and Waterloo was quaking in his boots from all the admonitions he’d received from his brother and Terence. And all over a chit of seventeen!
Lord Cheyney sighed and amended his thoughts. An outrageously wealthy chit of seventeen.
“A simple dinner,” Cat had told Beth. “Family and friends, the younger set. Nothing frightening. Just enough so you’ll see some familiar faces when you go to Almack’s.”
But when Beth arrived, it was as if she had never seen Harborough House before. Torches lit the carriage way, light gleamed from all four stories. A small crowd stood with their noses to the tall wrought iron fence, gawking at the carriages lined up in the driveway. Footmen in powdered wigs stood at attention on either side of the front door, waiting to throw it open as guests approached.
Beth gulped. Cat had promised a small party. A short evening, with many of the guests destined to go off to other p
arties, to their clubs, or whatever it was gentlemen found to do in town at night. But this . . . this was so formal, not at all the comfortable residence she had known by daylight. Avery was standing at the foot of the carriage steps, holding out his hand, smiling encouragingly. She did not know him as well as Jack, but they were scarcely strangers. Beth took a deep breath, conjured up a vision of her idol Madame Rolande standing upon the stage, her glorious voice soaring all the way to the upper galleries. Did the prima donna quail before the curtain went up? Very likely, Beth conceded. But, if so, Madame never let anyone see it. Nor would Beth. A Brockman could certainly hold her own with the best. With one hand she steadied the ostrich plumes which jutted above her coiffure. The other, Beth gave to Avery Dunstan and exited the carriage.
Alas, the glitter of nighttime London had turned her friends into strangers as well. Beth took one look at Cat and Amabel and was swept with a pang of envy. If she had worn a gown with the décolletage displayed by the wives of the Trowbridge twins, Terence and Papa would have exploded with more violence than the fireworks displays that marked the end of the long war. But somehow, even though her friends’ jewels sparkled no more brightly than those of the nouveau riche, Beth felt surrounded by an atmosphere of tasteful elegance, quiet confidence, carefully modulated voices, and the indefinable hauteur which signaled that she had truly moved into a new world.
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