“Still, given his battles with his mama, I must allow Sinjin has more than earned his moment of pique. Once he discovers the truth, I expect he’ll abandon the plan unless he first stumbles upon a simple, modest, accomplished lady he can admire and love. Which is what I most desire for him, regardless from which class she springs.”
Clarissa couldn’t suppress a pang of envy for the girl who eventually succeeded in winning the colonel’s admiration—the right to those endearing smiles and that strong shoulder to lean on the rest of her days.
It would never be her, that was certain, she thought, grimacing at the memory of his face going rigid with disgust when Alastair identified her in that squalid alley.
Who said she wanted it to be? He’d insulted her even before she’d given him cause.
Whomever the former Colonel Lord Sandiford decided to wed, it was nothing to her. She might stand in his debt, but he’d absolved her of any obligation to assist him in settling his matrimonial business.
The breath of anger sighed out. How revolting that the only intriguing man she’d met in years was also a hopelessly opinionated autocrat who thought her a fool. She’d dismiss him from her thoughts this instant, regardless of whether or not he ever returned to the bosom of the ton.
She had even less success in squelching the wistful hope that someday soon he might.
Chapter Eight
Having taken the first step toward his future and mindful of Sarah’s reprimand, the next afternoon Sinjin dressed in the best of his new coats and walked the short distance to a handsome townhouse on Upper Brook Street.
Ushered by the butler to a small salon, he sat tapping a finger on the sofa as the servant carried his card up to the Dowager Vicountess Sandiford. His mother.
He’d stopped by his solicitor earlier and verified, somewhat to his surprise, the information Sarah had given. His mama had traveled to town in her hostess’s barouche and had placed no demands upon the estate since arriving there a month previous, apparently not even shopping for new gowns. That was so unlike his mama he wondered, with a combination of cynicism and concern, if she were unwell.
At a rustle of skirts he turned to see her enter. After so long an absence, he was struck by how lovely she remained, despite being now well into her middle years. Scarcely a line creased the fine skin at corners of her eyes and mouth; the turquoise-blue eyes she’d bequeathed him were as clear and brilliant as his own and her golden hair held no trace of gray.
“Madam.” He rose and made her a bow.
“S-Sinjin,” she said, a slight quaver in her voice. “Please, do sit.” She walked to the sofa, hesitated, then took the wing chair nearby.
He watched her, both bitter and amused by the stiff formality of their reunion. He might be a tradesman come to inquire about an overdue bill.
Having rung for tea, she at last looked at him—not so much looked as devoured, her eyes inspecting every inch of his countenance and frame. The hunger of her glance recalled to him Sarah’s words about her worry at his silence, and a touch of shame heated his face.
“You look wonderful, Sinjin. Older, a bit—fierce. Oh, it is good to see you! Thank you so much for calling.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “You are lovely as ever, Mama. And of course I called. I should have come earlier had I known you were in town.”
She smiled, the slightest curve of her lips. “I did write you of my plans. When word reached England that some of the regiments would be returning, I asked Lady Englemere to have her husband discover when the Tenth was expected. I…I longed to see for myself that you really had survived. The reports of Waterloo were dreadful.”
The flash of an echo filled his ears—cannons, rifle fire, the howls of charging men and screams of the wounded. He shuddered, forcing the memory back into its tightly-guarded cell. “A bloody business, but I am, as you see, quite safe. You are…established here in London?”
“You must not worry that I’ve incurred any extra expense! Lady Avery—you will remember my old friend Amelia—insisted on bringing me, and I’ve been living very quietly. No evening engagements. Indeed, one reason I agreed to come was with me gone, Mrs. Hawkins could shut up Sandiford and let two housemaids go. We save on coal and victuals as well.” She smiled. “You see, I am trying.”
His shame deepened at the thought of his mother, with her love of luxurious finery, denying herself even basic necessities. “You think I begrudge you food and shelter?”
“Of course not. But I did have another purpose for wishing to see you as soon as possible.”
With the arrival of the tea tray conversation halted and Sinjin was left to wonder just what his mama wanted from him. Though physically she appeared unchanged, the grave, quiet woman before him seemed so unlike the gay, frivolous, spendthrift Beauty he remembered he scarce recognized her. That she was even conscious of the need for, much less had made, economies rattled him, loosening the stranglehold of his angry resentment.
After the footman withdrew, Sinjin set down his cup. “How may I be of service, Madam?”
Did she wince, or was it a trick of the light? “I discussed our…circumstances with the solicitor. Is it true that, should you be able to rent Sandiford, we might meet our expenses until the next corn harvest?”
His mother—his mother!—initiating a discussion of their financial condition? He’d have sworn she had no idea whether their fields grew flax or turnips. For a moment he was too stunned to reply.
“Perhaps,” he found his voice, his mind trying to accommodate the incredible vision of his mama as a thrifty household manager. “If the house is in as bad a repair as Jeffers indicated when he rejoined me in Paris, though, I doubt anyone could be induced to rent it. Besides, as you’ve long urged, I now intend to choose a bride with sufficient dowry that you have no need to worry any longer about the roof falling in—or the price of coal.”
“But if Sandiford could be rented, you would have no need to marry immediately. Is that correct?”
He waved a hand impatiently. “We might stave off disaster another year, but to truly restore the estate, I see no alternative to making a—” he gritted his teeth over the word, “—suitable marriage.”
That detestable necessity—and his mama’s part in bringing him to it—still stung too much for him to be able to discuss the prospect with equanimity. “Why, after all this time, do you suddenly counsel delay?”
“I would not have you make a hasty marriage and be as unhappy the rest of your life as you have been these last few years. No, I must say it!” she waved him to silence. “I was wrong, Sinjin. At the time I thought I was doing the right thing for us both, but I was wrong. I should not have come between you and Sarah. I should not have harangued you about ‘duty’ until you saw no honorable escape but the Army.”
She was admitting guilt over Sarah? He sat, jaw rigid, unable to credit what he was hearing, utterly incapable of response.
“Oh, Sinjin, you’d grown up with Sarah! You knew nothing of the world. I thought your passion a young man’s fancy that would fade once you’d mingled with Society, met other girls. I gave Sarah too little credit and my worldly wisdom too much.” Her voice softened. “It’s too late to matter now, but I’m dreadfully sorry, Sinjin.”
He stunned mind was still trying to make sense of it. That his mama had made her peace with Sarah he knew. But to admit she’d misjudged both Sarah’s worth and the strength of their love? He sighed. “I’m sorry too, Mama.”
She inhaled sharply and her eyes grew moist. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve suffered, too. To have my only surviving child, flesh of my flesh, view me with such a-abhorrence he would not trouble to let me know whether he lived or d-died. During the last campaigns, I think I should have gone mad had Sarah not been kind enough to bring me news. But,” she brushed her hand impatiently at her eyes, “the experience forced me to confront the truth I might otherwise have continued to deny. And I’ve learned things too, useful things. Like mending sheets and turning hems
and how to make do with peat fires instead of coal. So you see, if it is at all possible to get by, we can do it. Anything but have you choose hastily. Not this time.”
His imagination failed at conjuring a vision of his impeccably gowned mama bent over a needle. “I cannot imagine you mending sheets.”
She chuckled. “Oh, I’ve become a capital housewife. I discovered there are things of much greater importance than gowns and jewels and the adulation of the ton. My son’s life. His safe return. The s-sweet pleasure of once again gazing upon his face.”
Suddenly he remembered the mother of his youth, a gay, charming, impossibly beautiful creature who, heedless of her maid’s protests, caught the grubby boy who raced into her chamber and lifted him to her immaculate lap, feeding him sweetmeats and exclaiming over his adventures. A fairy-tale princess he’d adored, as had his father, who’d spared no expense before his death to give her anything her fancy desired. Cosseted by her wealthy parents and indulged by her doting husband, ’twas small wonder she’d been ill-equipped to handle sudden poverty and the loneliness of becoming too young a widow.
“I should have written. I’m sorry, Mama.” He took her trembling fingers.
She clutched his hand, brought it to her lips and kissed it. “Forgive me,” she whispered, moisture welling at the corners of her turquoise eyes.
The hard resentment he had harbored so long began to soften. She had suffered—he could see the truth of it in those glassy eyes. Suffered for doing, in error, what she’d truly felt would be best for both of them. How could he continue to fault her for that?
“Forgive me, too, Mama. I’ve not been such a paragon of a son.”
“Nonsense! I’m so proud of all you’ve accomplished. Were I never to see you again, I should still count myself the most fortunate of women to be able to call you my son.”
If it were time to put away the dreams of the past, it was also past time to conquer his anger. Not that six years’ bitterness would dissolve in a moment, but suddenly he too wished to rejoin the family circle he’d turned his back on when he lost Sarah to Englemere. “I must hope that brave aura doesn’t fade upon better acquaintance, since I expect to see much more of you in future. We should establish a home somewhere, Mama, here or at Sandiford. Together.”
“Then you do forgive me?” she asked, tremulous hope dawning in her face.
“Let’s forgive each other.” Affection bubbling out like a long-dammed stream, he smiled at her.
“Welcome home, my dearest son.” With a breath that was half gasp, half sob, she came into his outstretched arms.
Having received a note from Englemere inviting him to dinner, a few hours later Sinjin once again returned to White’s. The interview with his mama intensified the disorientation that had afflicted him since he gave up his uniform and the familiar world it represented.
One of the few unchanging tenets of his existence had been his struggle with his mother’s extravagance and his bitter resentment of the part she’d played in Sarah’s loss. It annoyed, angered and shamed him to admit that, much as their rapprochement warmed him, still he almost—regretted—having that comfortable certainty stripped away.
He handed over his coat, hat, and cane, and settled in to wait, a little uncomfortable to be dining here once more as Englemere’s guest. The marquess was certainly fulfilling his pledge of help, exerting his influence to acquaint Sinjin with the most influential men in London—and guaranteeing a prospective father-in-law found nothing lacking in the social standing he was purchasing for his daughter.
Raucous laughter interrupted his thoughts. Annoyed, he glanced over to see a party of fashionables entering the room. Their loud, slightly slurred voices and immoderate mirth suggested they were already three parts castaway.
“You entering the lists, Markham?” said the one sporting a waistcoat striped in vibrant crimson and gold. “Unlikely! You ain’t nearly lively enough for the Vixen’s taste. Make you a wager on it. Where’s the betting book?”
“If it’s the Virtuous Vixen he’s got in his sights, I’ll offer another wager,” a thin man in a puce coat exclaimed. “Stake my blunt, if he does get her wed, he won’t be the first to bed our delectable Miss Beaumont.”
Another volley of laughter met that remark, but galvanized by the mention of Miss Beaumont’s name, Sinjin scarcely heard it. Indignant that they would discuss a lady of quality in such coarse terms, he was halfway out of his chair before it occurred to him the worst turn he could do her would be to intervene—thereby inferring her reputation needed defense.
“You doubt her virtue?” Markham said, his round face troubled.
“Haven’t you heard, man? Up to another start just the other day. Some escapade, I was assured, no lady would attempt. Not surprising—she’s always been mad to go. Usually on Grenville’s arm, and everyone knows he’s as wild as he is witless. Maxwell courted her last Season. Though she refused him, he said she gave him something sweet to remember.” The man wagged his eyebrows suggestively.
“She’ll warm your bed nicely enough.” A man in a bilious green waistcoat punched Markham’s arm. “Get her to pop out an heir or two, and afterward you’ll have all that money to compensate for any worries over her virtue!”
By now incensed, Sinjin rose with teeth gritted. He was a pace away from planting his fist into Green Coat’s face when a footman blocked his path.
“Lord Sandiford? Lord Englemere desires your presence, if you please.”
The interruption served to revive prudence. Denying himself the pleasure of pummeling Green Coat’s leering face, he followed the servant. To accost these louts would only add fuel to the speculation over Miss Beaumont.
Much as he deplored the conversation, he had to admit there was a germ of truth in the remarks. Miss Beaumont’s behavior was reckless, if the fix he’d recently discovered her in was at all typical. Couple her volatile nature with a tantalizing body displayed in gowns that flaunted her attractions and the result, given the nature of the male mind, was more than enough to incite salacious gossip.
Wherever were the gentlemen of her own family? Someone ought to take her to task, warn her that if she didn’t restrain her behavior and modify her dress, she ran the risk of forfeiting her reputation.
Still mulling over the matter when he arrived at the dining room, Sinjin found to his surprise not Englemere, but the broad hulk of Hal Waterman awaiting him.
The tall man rose at his approach and extended a hand. “’Evening, Sandiford. Delayed. Tuck in without him?”
Sinjin surmised Sarah’s husband would be late. “Of course, if you are ready.”
Waterman motioned a footman to pour wine and grinned. “Always ready. Can’t you tell?”
Though Waterman’s frame was massive and his shoulders approached an oxbow’s width, Sinjin saw no superfluous weight on him. “You look fit enough. I’d say ’tis a pity you can’t enter the ring. I’d back you in an instant.”
“Right handy with m’ fives,” Waterman allowed, looking pleased. “Too big to match, though. Not fair.”
The first course arrived. “Eat,” Englemere’s friend invited. “No good at conversation,” he added, his tone apologetic. “You won’t mind?”
“Not at all. Please, let us proceed.”
Waterman nodded and the meal commenced. Sinjin found Waterman’s calm, unpretentious manner relaxing and the silence refreshing rather than intimidating.
After the dessert was served, Waterman cleared his throat, obviously gearing up to speech. “Silas Motrum. Lunch tomorrow. If you agree?”
“Your…prospect?” Sinjin asked, startled out of mellow enjoyment back to unpleasant reality.
“Banker. Father a tailor. Made his fortune himself. Fair. Shrewd. Like him. Nicky approves,” he added, as if that were the clinching argument.
“Of—of course,” he fumbled, trying to school his features from distaste to approval. “I…appreciate your quick action on this.”
“Nicky’s coach. Motrum�
��s house. Meet the gel after, if you’re both willing.”
Englemere meant to collect him and proceed to the banker’s house for luncheon, he deduced. Tomorrow.
He took a deep breath and willed the sickness gathering in his gut to dispel. His plan for securing the future had always been distasteful but mercifully vague. Meeting a banker tomorrow was much too definite.
“Will you be…joining us?”
“Course. Friend. Good table.”
Sinjin wasn’t sure whether Waterman accompanied them out of friendship for Englemere, the banker, or both, but the notion of having Hal’s solid presence at this unnerving event was somehow comforting.
“Good,” he said fervently and could think of nothing to add. Perhaps Mr. Waterman’s brevity was catching.
“Chit’s name is Anne. Blonde. China-blue eyes, papa says. Blonde acceptable?”
Because he’d expressed reservations about Sarah’s blond sisters? “Fine,” he said with more assurance than he felt. As acceptable as any candidate, which was not at all, were he free to follow his own inclinations.
He couldn’t, he reminded himself with a flash of irritation. No sense having a fit of nerves now, like a raw recruit blanching at the first volley of the guns.
“Good man. Young tradesman hanging about. Won’t leave her in the lurch, whatever you decide. Brandy?”
Numbly Sinjin nodded, wondering whether the “good man” meant him, Englemere, the tradesman, or Miss Motrum’s papa. And then was touched to notice that Waterman’s longest sentence yet had doubtless been meant to reassure him.
Hal raised his glass. “Duty. Friendship.”
“Thank you for both.”
They were draining their brandy when Sinjin spied Alex passing by in the hallway, looking distracted and vaguely discontent. His troubled gaze fell on Sinjin and he halted, his thin face brightening. “’Evening, Colonel!”
“Join us?” Waterman invited.
For a moment Alex hesitated. “Yes, thank you.”
While introductions were made, Sinjin watched the lieutenant in some concern. Although Alex did not appear to be suffering any ill effects from his fall, his spirits were definitely in sad frame. Had his interview with Lady Barbara not gone well?
The Proper Wife Page 10