by Jane Ashford
Randolph set the instrument aside with a strange mixture of regret and relief and went down to join his parents for dinner.
“I’ve had letters from Nathaniel and Violet,” said the duchess as they began the meal. “Violet is feeling much better. Nathaniel says she’s blooming.”
“That’s good,” said Randolph. His eldest brother’s wife had been ill at the beginning of her pregnancy, causing the family some worry. Randolph spooned up soup, savoring the complexity of the flavor. His mother’s cook was another attraction of Langford House. He wouldn’t get a meal like this in rented rooms.
One of the footmen appeared in the doorway. He hovered a moment, looking reluctant. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, Your Grace,” he said to the duchess. “A messenger brought this. He said it wasn’t to wait even a moment.” He held up an envelope with the crest of the Prince Regent on the flap.
The duke held out a hand. “Patience isn’t one of the prince’s virtues.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” repeated the footman. “It’s for Lord Randolph.”
“Me?” said Randolph, mirroring his parents’ surprised looks. “Why would he be writing to me? I don’t know him.”
“I introduced you at court when you were eighteen,” said his father.
“I made my bow. We didn’t speak.”
“What could be so urgent?” wondered the duchess.
“There’s one way to find out.” The duke gestured, and the footman stepped over to hand Randolph the envelope.
Setting down his spoon, Randolph opened it. Inside was a longish handwritten note. “The deuce!” he exclaimed when he’d scanned it.
“What is it?” asked his mother.
“The prince wants me to sing at a party.”
“Sing?” said the duke, suddenly haughty. “As if you were some sort of hired entertainer?”
“Oh, the request is wreathed in all sorts of polite phrases and fulsome compliments. He abjectly requests it as a favor.”
“Let me see that.” His father read the note with a frown. “He really will say anything to get what he wants. Who is Miss Verity Sinclair?”
Randolph did not miss his mother’s raised eyebrows. “A young lady. We sang an impromptu duet at Lady Tolland’s musicale. It was…well received.”
“Apparently, it was stunning,” the duchess said. “I’m so sorry to have missed it. Robert said you were wonderful.”
Despite his ambivalence, Randolph once again appreciated the praise from his most discerning brother.
“The prince hates to miss anything of note,” commented the duke.
“Must I do it?” asked Randolph.
“Awkward to refuse a direct royal request couched in these terms,” his father replied. “You can hope the young lady’s parents object.”
Randolph perked up. “Right. Not the thing for her to sing in public.”
The duke considered the letter again. “He makes a great point of it being a private party, quite exclusive. Her parents will probably agree to it, unless they’re remarkably straitlaced.”
Randolph sighed. He hadn’t gotten that impression from his encounters with Miss Sinclair. Hidebound parents couldn’t have produced such a…forthright girl. It seemed he was doomed to perform with her. He’d have to call and discuss the matter. He wondered what new insult she’d find for the occasion.
“Miss Sinclair is the one related to the Archbishop of Canterbury, isn’t she?” said his mother.
“Not one of his daughters?” asked the duke. “Doesn’t he have ten? But no, not with the surname Sinclair.”
“It’s not as bad as that,” Randolph replied.
“What do you mean ‘as bad’? Is there something wrong with the girl? She must be related to the Duke of Rutland, too.”
“Perhaps a good connection for you, Randolph?” said the duchess.
Randolph knew that look. She was intrigued. There was no stopping Mama when her curiosity was aroused. “Nothing’s wrong with Miss Sinclair,” he replied. Except the way she treated him. “I just need to stay out of the archbishop’s way for a while. A while longer. Not too much longer now, perhaps. I hope.”
“Why? What did you do to the archbishop?”
“I didn’t do anything to him, Mama.”
She waited, rather like Ruff at a mousehole. Papa waited as well, with the amused expression he assumed when his mate was extracting information from one of their progeny. The picture—and the conviction that there was no way out—was as familiar as childhood. Thinking he might as well get it over with, Randolph spoke quickly.
“It’s ridiculous really. Three years ago, I organized a Christmas pageant at my church. The archbishop happened to be near Hexham at the time, so he paid a visit. Everyone was quite excited. It was a great occasion. But a young…humorist had put a ram in the manger instead of a proper sheep. The archbishop was leaning over to compliment one of the children who played an angel, and the ram, er…”
“Knocked him down?” said his mother when he hesitated.
“Bit off one of his coattails?” offered the duke when Randolph still didn’t speak.
“No.” Randolph sighed. The scene was engraved on his memory. Unfortunately. “The archbishop had on white vestments, from an earlier rite. When he bent down, the ram…seemingly…mistook him for a ewe.”
His father’s snort was not unexpected.
“Mistook…?” His mother’s mouth fell open. “Oh. Oh dear.”
“Two burly parishioners had to help me get the creature off him,” Randolph continued. “The archbishop was thoroughly shaken up and not…understanding.” The prelate’s glare had been searing; his secretary’s even more so. “Since then, I’ve been lying low in church circles.”
“I daresay,” said the duke. Only his blue eyes laughed, but they did it very well.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said the duchess.
“I was in charge,” said Randolph. “I should have noticed the ram.” The youngster who’d smuggled it in had been contrite—when he could stop laughing. But the damage had been done. “Time has passed,” said Randolph. “The memory must be fading. I have a new parish, a fresh start. But I don’t think a close association with a relative of the archbishop’s is—”
“Advisable,” supplied his father.
“Precisely.”
The duchess’s expression was hard to read. Randolph had seen her look that way when she was planning to canvas her country neighbors for contributions to her educational schemes, and when she was choosing jewels to match a ball gown.
“We’ll sing a few songs for the prince’s guests, and that will be that,” he declared. “No need for concern, Mama. Or…intervention.”
“I would never do anything you didn’t like,” she answered.
“Unless you thought it was good for me?”
“Don’t be silly. You’re a grown man.”
Which wasn’t exactly an answer, Randolph noted.
“So, that’s settled,” said the duke. “Nothing much to it after all.”
Not being musical himself, his father had no idea, Randolph thought.
Five
With the duchess’s aid, Randolph discovered that Miss Sinclair and her mother were staying near Cavendish Square. He sent a note ahead rather than simply turning up on their doorstep. Thus, when he arrived the following day, he was admitted at once by an unexpectedly stately butler. He found the ladies sitting alone in a pretty drawing room upstairs. They rose to greet him, but Mrs. Sinclair sank back onto the sofa as soon as her daughter had made the introductions. “I never dreamt of anything like this when I agreed to come to London,” she said. “Of course I had no idea that Verity would make a spectacle of herself.”
“Mama! I have done no such thing.”
It sounded like a much-repeated exchange. Taking in Mi
ss Sinclair’s pained expression, Randolph was certain it was.
“The Prince Regent!” continued the older woman. “My husband does not approve of his…way of life. Mr. Sinclair is dean of Chester Cathedral, you know, and very conscious of his responsibilities.”
Randolph sat down beside the older woman. Thin and wren-like, she didn’t much resemble her daughter. He debated whether to encourage her doubts or try to assuage them. But a period of reflection had convinced him that refusing the prince’s request would be far more troublesome than acceding to it. The Regent went to great lengths to satisfy his whims. “I believe you are overly concerned, ma’am. The prince is proposing a private party, with a select guest list.”
“But his reputation is so very bad!” argued Mrs. Sinclair. “I am sad to say that about a member of our royal family. But the tales one hears!” Glancing at her daughter, she bit off a word.
“There’s none of that at his ton parties,” Randolph replied, mostly truthfully. He had an inspiration. “And certainly not with his mother present.”
Mrs. Sinclair turned to look at him. “The queen will be there?”
“You admire her,” murmured Miss Sinclair.
Randolph was sure, from the tone of the prince’s letter, that he could make this a condition. His father was well acquainted with the prince and could add his voice as well. “It will be no different than entertaining guests at your own home,” he added.
Mrs. Sinclair looked doubtful. “Our small circle in Chester can scarcely be compared. Who knows whom the prince might invite? Quite unsuitable people.”
“They’ll be on their best behavior. Perhaps you’d care to join my mother’s party for the evening?”
“The Duchess of Langford,” murmured Miss Sinclair.
“I don’t know.”
“Did I mention that Lord Randolph is a clergyman?” said Miss Sinclair. She was becoming positively antiphonal.
“Really?” Her mother perked up.
“He has a parish up North. Somewhere.”
Here was a change, Randolph thought. Suddenly the girl appreciated a country clergyman? And had she been inquiring about him? “In Derbyshire, actually,” he said. “I have a new post beginning in the summer. Quite a pleasant town, not the least bit countrified.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Miss Sinclair look self-conscious.
Her mother fixed her pale-blue eyes on him. “As a man of the cloth, you are not concerned about performing at Carleton House?”
“As a favor for the prince, no. I wouldn’t make a habit of it, of course.”
“Well—”
Randolph knew not to push. He’d had years of dealing with recalcitrant committees and quarreling parishioners.
“I suppose we can’t refuse royalty,” said the older woman with a sigh. “Perhaps you might write to my husband, Lord Randolph? You set forth the arguments very well.”
Randolph hesitated, wondering if the dean had heard about the incident with the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was more than likely that he had. Naturally, there’d been gossip among the clergy. Nor was Randolph eager to become further embroiled with Miss Sinclair’s family. “I’m not acquainted with the dean,” he pointed out.
“Oh, I shall enclose your letter in one of my own,” said Mrs. Sinclair.
She gazed at him expectantly. Randolph gave in with a nod.
“And perhaps you will reply to the prince for us, and make all the arrangements.”
She said it as if it was a foregone conclusion, giving Randolph some insight into the workings of the Sinclair household. Her daughter did not look pleased, but made no objection. He nodded again.
A maid came in with a tray. “There you are at last,” said Mrs. Sinclair. When the girl had set down the tray and gone, Verity’s mother added, “We’ve hired only part of this house, you know, with use of the landlady’s servants. It’s not like having our own staff who know what we like. But I couldn’t see taking a whole house and finding servants just for one season. Would you care for some marzipan, Lord Randolph?”
Randolph refused without visibly shuddering. He couldn’t bear the sweetness of the confection. Turning, he found Miss Sinclair’s blue-green eyes fixed upon him. “I feel we must make some preparations for this concert,” he told her. “It can’t be impromptu, even though our first…collaboration was successful.” He saw his vivid recollection of that occasion mirrored in her gaze, and he couldn’t look away.
Lord Randolph had managed her mother in a truly masterful manner, Verity thought. The subtlety of it might have been lost on some, but she was impressed.
“Do you agree?” he said.
“What?”
“Do pay attention, Verity,” said her mother, nibbling on her sweet.
Which was quite unfair. But Verity couldn’t complain. She’d gotten what she wanted; she was going to Carleton House. The prince’s fete would be stuffed with interesting people, perhaps the very ones she’d have found at the Travellers Club. And as the central attraction, she’d be in a position to meet whoever she pleased. Lord Randolph had done her a service by getting her mother to agree, and very neatly, too. “Yes,” Verity said firmly. “We should plan and rehearse.”
“Shall I tell the prince the performance must be, say, two weeks from now?”
That wasn’t a great deal of time, but probably enough. Verity nodded. “I have no pianoforte here.”
“We can work at Langford House,” Randolph answered. “There’s a fine instrument in the music room.” He smiled at her mother. “You must both come, of course.”
Verity watched that enchanting smile take effect. She’d never seen Mama flutter and dither in quite that way before.
“My mother will be delighted to welcome you,” Lord Randolph added.
Verity didn’t understand the wry expression that accompanied this assurance. Was he amused or concerned?
“Tomorrow afternoon perhaps? I could send a carriage for you.”
“We’ll get ourselves there,” Verity replied before her mother could accept. She was grateful to him, but she wouldn’t be managed. The coming duet was enough. She wasn’t going to be taken over by a handsome parson.
“A charming man,” said her mother when Lord Randolph had taken his leave.
“Umm,” said Verity noncommittally.
“So very handsome, too. And the son of a duke. I daresay he’ll go far in the church.”
Verity ignored her mother’s sidelong glances. If she became engaged, Mama would pack up and drag her back to Chester the following day. Not that Lord Randolph and engagements had anything to do with each other. The point was: she meant to accomplish her goals, and she wouldn’t let her London season be cut short.
* * *
When Randolph returned to Langford House, he found Flora deep in conversation with his mother. To no one’s surprise, these two had taken to each other at once, finding common ground in their charitable works. The duchess had established several schools for poor girls over the years. Robert’s new wife oversaw a refuge for street children in rather the same vein. Plans were already in motion to funnel some of Flora’s charges into the schools.
“But we shouldn’t neglect the boys,” Flora was saying when Randolph entered the drawing room.
“Life is not quite so hard for them,” said the duchess.
“I don’t agree. They may not be dragged into prostitution, but they often see no choice but crime and drink.”
Another thing these two had in common, Randolph thought. They didn’t mince words.
“There are charity schools for boys…” his mother began.
“Not enough. At the least I would like to be able to offer the same opportunities to the boys at my refuge as to the girls.” Flora’s fiery blue eyes glowed with conviction. She showed no consciousness of their difference in rank.
Smiling in apprecia
tion, the duchess nodded. “We must see what we can do then. Hello, Randolph.”
“Mama. Flora. Don’t let me interrupt your plotting.”
“We are down to matters of detail,” said Flora.
“Which I intend to leave to you, my dear, because I know you will be thorough and relentless,” the duchess said.
Flora gave her mother-in-law a wry glance. “Is that how you see me?”
“It was a compliment,” said the duchess.
The younger woman laughed. “Thank you. I believe I do know how to organize that effort,” she said. “There’s something else, however, on which I’d like your advice.”
“Of course.”
“I’m trying to help a young lady I met at Salbridge.”
“Miss Reynolds?” said Randolph.
“Yes. She’s here for the season,” Flora told the duchess. “Staying with a relative who isn’t much interested in her. I’ve gotten her into one or two parties.”
“Shall I drum up a few more invitations?”
“Thank you. That would be very kind.” Flora sighed. “The trouble is, Miss Reynolds isn’t really…enlivened unless there’s a chance of meeting one particular man. Are you friendly with Mr. Charles Wrentham, Randolph?”
“I’ve met him. No more than that.” A very odd fencing match didn’t constitute an acquaintance. And he wasn’t going to be dragged into matchmaking.
“Robert says the same,” Flora said. “I don’t know just what to do. I could try speaking to Mr. Wrentham again, but if he wished to see Frances, wouldn’t he call on her?”
Randolph wondered what she meant by again. He wasn’t going to ask, however. His mother had no such qualms. “Again?” she said.
Flora grimaced. “I tried to…intercede at Salbridge. It did not go well.”
The man who’d flailed at him at Angelo’s wouldn’t appreciate interference, Randolph thought.
“I can’t just shove him at her,” Flora concluded.
“Perhaps she’ll be diverted if she meets more young men,” said the duchess.
“I hope so.”
Robert strolled in, dress immaculate, air assured. “Has my wife cajoled a pile of money out of you for her orphans?” he asked his mother.