Terence could go to the devil! He’d had his chance.
With the discipline drilled into her by Miss Spencer, Beth confined her wildly divergent emotions to a prim smile. “My lord, a drive in the park would be delightful.” They set a time of four o’clock, Lord Monterne swiftly moving on as he caught sight of his hostess bearing down on them.
“Elizabeth Brockman,” Cat hissed, “I could wring your neck. Not only have you done exactly what you were told not to do, you have attached Hyde and Monterne as well. Shocking, my girl, completely shocking.”
Beth dragged her friend into a corner next to windows hung with heavy burgundy satin draperies. “I am truly sorry,” she apologized. “I did not mean to put myself forward. It just happened.”
“I fear you are a born performer.” Cat sighed. “Put you in front of an audience and you must give your all.” She frowned. “Perhaps on future occasions you should decline to sing. You could play the pianoforte instead.”
“My audience would run, screaming in horror. The pianoforte was the one thing Tildy could never get me to practice.”
“Nonetheless, we must think of something,” Cat declared. “Lady Colchester is livid. Going on about my foisting an actress onto the ton! But what can you expect when Monterne hung on your every word at dinner, not to mention being private with you just now.”
Hanging onto her words at dinner? In spite of her anguish, Beth nearly giggled as she recalled her monosyllabic responses to Lord Monterne’s questions. “He has asked me to drive with him in the park,” she confessed, and waited for the explosion.
Cat’s green eyes widened. “Monterne is driving out with you?”
“Yes,” Beth returned a trifle defiantly.
“Good God!”
Beth took pity on her friend’s shock. “He indicated he was free to do so.”
“That will certainly be news to Lady Colchester and Lady Victoria.” Cat gave Beth a sharp look. “Not that you should have discussed such a thing with him.”
“How could I not? You yourself told me he was paired with Lady Victoria. I did not wish to cause trouble, indeed I did not.”
Briefly, Cat closed her eyes in a moment of resignation to the inevitable. Beth Brockman’s debut was going to be even livelier than she had thought. “And Hyde?” she asked. “What did he want? As fond as I am of him, his presence tonight is rather like setting a fox among the chickens. I trust he was civil?”
“Oh, very,” Beth assured her. “He complimented my singing and gave me some remarkably fine advice. I believe,” she added thoughtfully, “he was also attempting to establish my credit by offering his attention. I liked him very much.”
“Good heavens,” Cat murmured. “If Hyde wishes to bring you into fashion, we may yet get through all the rest without difficulty. He has enormous consequence, even more so now that Brummel seems to be on the verge of total disgrace.”
Eyes dancing, Beth peeped at her hostess. “Lord Monterne assures me that being seen driving with him in the park will reestablish my credit.”
“It is a very good thing you are accustomed to the bouncers told by gentlemen,” Cat declared. “For it’s far more likely driving out with Monterne will have your name bandied about in every drawing room in the ton.”
“I feared that was so . . . but he is so charming.”
“I can tell you there will be a great many people who will be delighted to see Lady Colchester bested, but Lady Victoria is another matter. I fear she truly has her heart set on Monterne. I don’t know where the truth lies. Perhaps the understanding is all in Lady Colchester’s mind, and she has made Victoria believe it.”
“Or perhaps Lord Monterne is sadly fickle, a fortune-hunter, or guilty of shocking bad manners.” Elizabeth Brockman, heiress, had replaced Beth, the seventeen-year-old making her come-out in London society.
“Perhaps,” Cat agreed, “but I am pleased you are on guard. And always well-protected by those who love you.” She squeezed Beth’s hand. “Go to the park, my dear. And smile and smile and smile! A girl who attracts the attention of Monterne and Hyde on her first evening in society is bound to be a grand success.” The Marchioness of Harborough moved on to her other guests as Amabel and Tony took her place, congratulating Beth on her performance and soon dragging her back into the company of the other dinner guests.
“Thank you, Manley.” Having bid Avery Dunstan goodbye at the door, Beth paused to allow the Brockman butler to remove her cloak. “Goodnight,” she said with a smile and started toward the stairs.
Manley cleared his throat. “Mr. Terence is in the library, Miss,” he announced
“Terence? Here?” Beth echoed faintly.
“Yes, Miss. He’s been waiting two hours and more.” Manley moved ahead of her to open the door.
Terence, Beth thought with less than her usual fondness, should be at home or out with Jack, up to whatever carousing men their age did at night in the great city of London. He should not be here, waiting for her to come home, like some stern parent. She was willing to wager her quarterly allowance that Papa would not be found in the library as well. Tobias Brockman was undoubtedly sound asleep, dreaming of bales of wool and ships full of silk, spices, ivory, whale oil, and who knew what else.
Beth sailed into the library, head high, as Manley quietly closed the door behind her. Terence O’Rourke was, after all, family and not considered a threat to her virtue.
“Checking up on me?” Beth challenged as she crossed the room, seeing no more of Terence than one booted foot as he made no effort to rise from the tall-backed wing chair angled toward a cheery fire.
“Just making sure all went as planned,” Terence drawled, waving her into a matching chair on the other side of the fire. “My compliments to your modiste. Your gown is most appropriate.”
“It is insipid!”
“Now, let me see—what is the expression?” Terence murmured. “Ah, yes. I believe the correct phrase is, ‘a gown for un jeune fille bien elevée.’ N’est-ce pas?”
“And some would call it mutton wrapped as rare roast beef!” Beth retorted. The gown of a well-brought-up young lady, indeed! Terence was showing off. He’d always had more of a turn for French than she.
“My child, you don’t carry so much as a whiff of the shop, let alone mutton,” Terence snapped. “Now tell me about your evening.”
How dared he sit there looking utterly gorgeous, not to say decadent, in his white shirt and dark blue tailcoat, his strong legs encased in tight pantaloons of pale yellow with high-top boots? His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his tie discarded on a nearby table. Terence knew perfectly well what they did to each other, that they should never be alone together, yet here he was, gently twirling a brandy snifter and demanding the details of her unofficial debut.
Yet, truthfully, Terence had long ago established the right to ask her anything.
Which did not necessarily mean she had to tell him everything.
Beth gave him a swift sketch of the dinner guests, the simple entertainment which followed. “I believe,” she ended carefully, “that I was a success with all but Lady Colchester . . . and perhaps Lady Victoria. Naturally, they could not be pleased that Lord Monterne spent some moments with me.”
“How many moments?”
Beth shrugged, fiddled with her fan. “Enough to ask me to drive out with him tomorrow.”
“Good God, girl, didn’t they warn you he’s all but engaged?” Terence’s brandy snifter hit the side table so hard the amber liquid nearly sloshed out of the glass.
“Yes, I knew, but it would seem no one told Lord Monterne,” Beth declared, somewhat pertly.
The only sound was the soft hiss of the fire, the sudden crack of a log, a fall of sparks which mimicked the glints of fire flying between the two adversaries in the wing chairs. Finally, with a wave of his hand, Terence consigned Monterne to the devil. “Very well, in Monterne we have a wild card. I’ll see what I can find out. “Who else paid you particular attention?”
&n
bsp; Beth ducked her head to hide her amusement. Terence might not have been pleased by the attentions of Lord Monterne, but he was going to have an apoplexy over her other admirer. “Lord Hyde was most kind. He offered some excellent advice.”
“And what might that be?” Terence at his most ominous.
“He advised me to be myself,” Beth declared. And let Terence make what he could of that!
“What exactly did he say?”
Beth felt a tiny curl of apprehension. Terence had the bit in his teeth and was not about to let go. “He said”—Beth spoke slowly, trying to remember—“that my fortune would win only friends I did not wish to have. That my charm and talent, combined with a good heart, would bring friends I could cherish for all of my life.”
“Good God!” Terence murmured, impressed in spite of himself. Hyde might have a rakish reputation, but he was also a leading light of the ton. That he would take the time to impart such wisdom to a seventeen-year-old Cit was truly remarkable, even if Hyde did have considerable funds invested with Tobias Brockman and Company. Then again . . .
“Beth?” Terence began. The full force of her beauty hit him. The soft fall of her pristine white gown, her blonde curls, the ostrich plumes which were slightly askew, the deceptively fragile features he had loved so long. All swallowed up in the depths of the brown leather wing chair, except where the fire flickered and glowed, illuminating wavering bits and pieces of his favorite sight in all the world.
Terence tried again. “Beth, precisely what brought on this spurt of wisdom from Hyde?”
The fire flared, betraying her consternation. “No–nothing,” she stammered.
“You might as well tell me. You know I’ll hear the whole of it tomorrow.”
“Very well, if you must know,” Beth grumbled, her lower lip in a decided pout, “Lord Hyde admired my singing.”
Damnation! “Your singing inspired Hyde’s spate of wisdom?” Miserably, Beth nodded. “And how, may I ask, did that happen? You know very well you were not supposed to display any greater talent than any other miss just out of the schoolroom.”
“Well enough for you to say!” Beth retorted. “But making a fool of myself on purpose is not to my taste, I assure you.” Particularly when she wished to recoup the poor impression she had made on a certain young nobleman.
Terence shot to his feet, pacing the darkened room behind their chairs. “You were warned,” he ground out, “countless times you were warned not to make a spectacle of yourself. Whatever possessed you? Are you mad, girl? You may have ruined it all!”
Frowning, Beth turned to watch him. What was the matter with him? What she had done could not be as bad as all that. Lady Victoria played with nearly professional polish, and no one censured her. “For goodness sake, Terence, you are making much ado about nothing! I sang two simple songs at a small dinner party. There can be no harm in it.”
“No harm?” Terence echoed, “when you have made an enemy of Lady Colchester and given her the bullets to shoot you down?”
Beth blinked. “How so?” she whispered.
Terence paused his pacing, stalking over to loom beside her chair. “Evidently, you have snabbled Monterne out from under her nose while showing off in a manner which only a Cit would display. She may even hint that you are no better than you should be, an actress who has strayed into the ton and whose pretensions should be thoroughly quashed.”
Beth brought her clasped hands to her mouth, nibbling at a knuckle. “Surely, no one will believe her,” she breathed.
“The allegations of a marchioness against the daughter of a Cit?” Terence scoffed. And someone might notice the strong physical resemblance, the shared talent. Like mother, like daughter. A disaster of the first magnitude. Except there was no way he could ever reveal the true source of his anger.
“Cat thinks perhaps I should confine myself to playing the pianoforte,” Beth ventured. “I play very poorly, you know.”
If Catherine Trowbridge thought Beth had gone too far, they were truly in the soup. Cat was not known for being overly prim and proper.
“Do not be angry with me, Terence, I cannot bear it.”
He backed away, so strongly tempted to take her in his arms he did not trust himself. “I’m not angry with you, just with the idiocy of a society which will not allow you be yourself.”
“Hyde says—”
“I don’t give a damn what Hyde says! You are the outsider, the supplicant to this crowd of ninnies. You must be like Caesar’s wife, above all possibility of reproach.”
“The Trowbridges are not ninnies!”
“No,” Terence agreed, “they are not. Which is why they are our friends. But there are very few like them to be found, so you must spend tomorrow contemplating the word circumspect until you truly understand what it means.”
“You have spoiled it, you know,” Beth accused. “My debut totally ruined by your ill humor.”
“Better an evening ruined,” Terence declared with no sign of sympathy, “than an entire Season.”
“You are a beast!”
“I always have been, and so you’ve told me a thousand times. And now, I bid you goodnight. If I stay any longer, even Manley will begin to wonder. And, besides, the poor man isn’t getting any younger. I’m sure he’s longing for his bed.”
Beth managed a watery smile in response to the slight softening in Terence’s tone. “Goodnight then,” she said. As he reached the library door, she called after him. “You will discover if Lord Monterne is a truly free. And if he is in need of funds?”
Terence sketched a bow. “Of that you may be perfectly certain. Goodnight.”
Only consideration for the Brockman’s aging butler kept Beth from staying where she was, watching the fire burn down, taking her brief moment of triumph with it.
“Well?” Tobias Brockman barked at the two men seated in front of his desk.
Terence and Jack had no need to ask why they had been summoned to their employer’s office. Only one thing had been uppermost in their minds for the past two weeks. The ton, in its fickle fashion, had decided to be amused by Lady Colchester’s chagrin. Reserving judgment on the lovely young Cit with outrageously wealthy expectations, it watched in fascination as Beth drove out four times with Lord Monterne, was the object of his attentions at Lady Bexley’s soirée, and danced two sets with him at Almack’s and at the Heatherington’s ball. Beth happily sniffed the lavish bouquets which arrived promptly on the morning following each occasion, shortly followed by his lordship himself, who always managed to maneuver himself through the more and more crowded drawing room until he reached a favored place at Miss Brockman’s side. Matilda Spencer, who chaperoned Beth with an eagle eye, had been forced to concede that the Viscount Monterne was a charming and prettily behaved young man. Only in private did Beth’s sense of well-being falter as, with her chin set in grim determination, she practiced a composition by Handel which would be performed as badly as those by the other hopeful maidens of the Season of 1816.
Meanwhile, Terence and Jack had crews of men scouring city and country for every last scrap of information on Rodney Renfrew, Viscount Monterne. Their frustration, however, was almost as intense as Lady Colchester’s. “There’s nothing, not a blasted thing,” Terence admitted to his employer. “The lordling’s done all the things expected of a young man on the town. Lost a bit in gaming hells, but no sign he’s a true gamester. Made the usual visits to Mrs. Jamison’s, the Wilson sisters. Since then, he’s had a variety of Cyprians in keeping. Oddly, none at the moment. Perhaps he was seriously pursuing the Wingfield girl.”
“I don’t think so,” Jack said. “My sources say he dangled after several young women last Season, Lady Victoria perhaps more than the others, but nothing to indicate he was on the verge of making an offer. Lady Colchester was counting her chickens before they were hatched, or so says Monterne’s valet.”
Tobias nodded. “And his finances?”
“The old earl, Renfrew’s grandfather, was a ga
mbling man,” Terence reported. “The estates were seriously encumbered when Monterne’s father took them over. But he’s reduced the mortgages and managed to maintain a good, if not lavish, lifestyle for the family. In other words, the Renfrews could use the money, but the case isn’t desperate.”
Tobias raised a shaggy brow. “Exactly what we’ve been looking for then?”
“It would appear so,” Terence admitted gloomily, “but it seems too soon, too easy. I thought there would be the whole Season before a decision had to be made.”
“The boy’s not made an offer yet,” Tobias pointed out.
“Do you doubt he will?” Terence snapped.
Tobias laughed.
“Sir?” Jack ventured. “I hesitate to mention it . . . there’s a rumor I’m still tracking down.” He flicked his hand. “It’s probably nothing, as I can’t seem to discover the source.”
“What?” Terence demanded, suddenly on the alert.
“Out with it!” Tobias snapped.
Jack pondered the high polish of the wood beneath his feet. Terence would welcome a reprieve, however infinitesimal, but was it right to dampen Beth’s chances for a fine match by a rumor so ephemeral it probably didn’t warrant thinking on? But if it were true, how could he keep silent?
“At Mrs. Jamison’s,” Jack reported, “there was a rumor Monterne once roughed up a girl. It would have been years ago, even before he was of age. And the girl in question is long gone. No one knows where.”
Red shot into Tobias’s round cheeks. “I don’t care what it takes,” he declared, “find her!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Terence said, quickly covering his lethal tone by adding lightly, “It’s been some time since I’ve visited Mrs. Jamison’s.”
“You do tend to be monkish,” Jack noted dryly. “Though the man I had making queries will be sadly put out.”
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