The Importance of Being Wicked

by Miranda Neville

  “I’m not sure. The thing you have in common is a tendency to take life too seriously. You both need someone to make you laugh. I question if you can do it for each other.”

  Make me laugh! he wanted to beg, but that was the road to madness. “Miss Brotherton and I have been born to positions of great responsibility.”

  “Does that mean you can never amuse yourselves?”

  “Does that mean you never take anything seriously?”

  He held her gaze as his pulse raced, and her breathing accelerated. Oliver Bream’s interruption saved them both from having to answer. The artist’s attention had drifted to the nearby wall, where he regarded a picture with disfavor.

  “Faugh!” he uttered. “I heard Soane paid four hundred guineas for this piece of rubbish.”

  Thomas lowered his arm to free himself from Mrs. Townsend’s touch and wrenched his attention to the object of Bream’s displeasure, something Thomas recognized, a view of Venice. “A Canaletto,” he said, relieved and disappointed at the distraction. “I own two. My grandfather bought them in Italy.”

  “How predictable! Pretty views to attract the tourist. No originality. No passion. And the artist is dead and doesn’t need the money.” This last, Thomas guessed, might be the greatest insult.

  “I like it,” he said.

  “You like pictures of horses and dogs,” Bream said.

  “My father bought terrible pictures of saints and Lord knows who else doing strange things. I prefer pictures I can understand.”

  Mrs. Townsend looked at him with approval. “I agree. I hate those dreary Italian scenes! Robert always said art should stir the emotions. How can it do so if the subject matter is far from our experience?”

  That wasn’t quite what Thomas meant. “I don’t know about emotions. I enjoy pictures that remind me of things I like.” He pointed at another view, hung next to the Canaletto. “That’s Edinburgh Castle, I’ve been there. It’s very well done.”

  “So you only like things that are familiar?” Bream shook his head in disgust.

  Thomas gave the question some thought. He wasn’t in the habit of examining his opinions about art. “I like pictures that speak to me in some way, that strike a chord in my memory or my feelings.”

  “A follower of Payne Knight and his theories of the picturesque!” Thomas recognized the new voice. The Duke of Denford had stolen up on them.

  “I’ve never heard of the fellow. But he sounds like a sensible man.”

  “His work on The Worship of Priapus is a brilliant examination of the ancient phallic cults. Otherwise, his ideas are nonsense.”

  “I’d like to remind you, Denford,” Thomas said stiffly, “that we are in the presence of a lady.” A lady who was giggling again.

  “Don’t worry on my account, Lord Stuffy. I’ve read the book. Robert had a copy. Very dull, though the illustrations were interesting.”

  It was a good thing Denford had appeared. Her response reminded Thomas of Mrs. Townsend’s very real faults, her many charms notwithstanding. Miss Brotherton was now free of the ancient Mr. Ashley. He made his way over to her, hoping for time to converse before the threatened entertainment. Perhaps he could then escape.

  Her perfectly gracious greeting and smile had no unsettling effect on his emotions. Her manner and dress were notable for their propriety, her breeding and fortune impeccable. After a brief exchange of conventional politesse, they stood together without a thing to say to each other.

  “I understand,” he said, “that we are to be gratified by an address from a distinguished gentleman on the subject of barrows.”

  “Are you interested in barrows, Duke?”

  “I don’t know much about them, but I’ve always wanted to learn more.”

  “Really? What do you know? Have you ever seen one?”

  She wasn’t referring to a handcart, he was pretty sure. A vision of an artificial hill not far from Castleton crossed his mind.

  “A hill, a mound, containing . . .” Containing what? Rubbish perhaps, like that other thing she’d talked about. What was it called? A midden.

  “Ancient graves,” she said, taking pity on him.

  “I look forward to hearing all about them.”

  “Just as much as Caro is. It took a lot of persuasion to get her here this evening.”

  “May I ask, Miss Brotherton, why we are not dancing at Almack’s? I understand that having me follow you around London is amusing, but why not simply tell me where you wish to spend the evening? And for that matter, why not Almack’s? I thought you wished to come to London to sample some of the delights of the season.”

  “As you may guess, Duke, I’m not addicted to ton pastimes. I enjoy dancing, but not in a place that might refuse admittance to my cousin.”

  “Mrs. Townsend was refused vouchers?”

  “She never asked for them.”

  The inference was clear. “Is your cousin not received? How do you come to be in her care, then? Lord Morrissey I know to be a most punctilious man.”

  “Since my guardian is in Ireland, he wasn’t in a position to forbid my journey. His co-trustee, Mr. Thompson, my grandfather’s man of business, gave me permission for a visit to London. Knowing that my grandfather received Caro, he had no reason to think her an improper chaperone.”

  She spoke without any shame at deceiving her guardian. As he knew, association with Mrs. Townsend could weaken anyone’s moral fiber.

  He couldn’t leave the subject of this dangerous woman. “Mrs. Townsend told me she eloped as a young girl.”

  Miss Brotherton nodded. “Robert Townsend was her neighbor, a young man of good birth and an excellent estate, but he had a wild reputation, and Caro’s mother disapproved.”

  “Her father?”

  “My great-uncle was dead. After the marriage, my aunt Elizabeth cast Caro off, refused to see her. My grandfather, who loathed his sister-in-law, always said it was her fault that the scandal was not forgotten after the marriage.”

  “Was the marriage a happy one?”

  “Caro was devoted to Robert, and mourned him, still mourns him, deeply.”

  Which didn’t quite answer the question. Thomas had sometimes detected a hint of sadness in Caro Townsend, not the conventional grieving of the recent widow but a deeper melancholy, something buried and hidden from the world. An aversion for Robert Townsend, whom he’d never met, possessed him. A man lucky enough to be loved by Caro ought to have made her happy.

  “Running off with a young girl is disgraceful behavior,” he said. “What did you think of him?”

  “I didn’t know Robert well. My grandfather disliked him, but he was fond of Caro, and she came to visit us at Camber, usually without her husband. I’ve missed her, so when the opportunity arose to come to London, I grasped it.”

  Thomas should have been shocked by her stratagem. Instead, he admired her loyalty. However, talking to Miss Brotherton about her all-too-attractive cousin was not the way to woo her. He wished they had more interests in common. It was probably a good thing for a husband and wife to like at least some of the same things. His own parents had not. Odd that he’d never given the matter much thought before.

  He wondered if she was interested in horse racing. Probably not, alas. Landscape improvements perhaps. She certainly owned enough land, and surely some of it must need improving. This promising topic died at birth when Thomas noticed a new arrival approaching Mrs. Townsend. It wasn’t the same striped coat, but he recognized the style.

  “D—” He bit back an oath. “Is that Horner with your cousin? They are leaving the room together. She shouldn’t give the fellow the time of day!”

  “Caro seems determined to tolerate him, but I confess I did not like the man when he called two days ago.”

  The evening had been going so well. Anne was happy with her barrow man. The Duke of Castleton had been delightfully stuffy and teasable, and she’d managed not to make a fool of herself by leaping on him and ripping off his clothes. And now she
was safely in a corner with Oliver.

  Then Horner appeared. What was he doing at a gathering hosted by an architect to celebrate an antiquary? Why did he not take his loathsome striped coats and find a venue where a striped snake would be at home? A brothel, for instance. Or a menagerie. He must have followed her. Probably bribed the owners of the livery stable where she’d hired the carriage for the evening. She owed them so much money, she couldn’t blame them for taking something on account.

  “Sir Bernard, what a pleasure,” she said. His moist breath on her hand made her shudder.

  “My very dear Mrs. Townsend . . . Caro. I didn’t get the chance to talk when I called. Your cousin was there.”

  She’d made sure of that, grabbed Anne’s hand in a vise when her cousin had looked like heeding their visitor’s hints that he had business alone with her.

  “And you have a couple of dukes dancing attendance on you. Such distinguished protectors.” His stress on the last word was a question. Was either Denford or Castleton her lover? She’d claim either or both of them if it would get rid of Horner. But he’d expect a generous lover endowed with ducal strawberry leaves to pay her debts.

  “Not protectors but friends.”

  “Generous friends? May I expect payment soon? Within the week, perhaps?”

  “You always hurry me, Sir Bernard. A lady needs time to arrange her affairs.”

  “And if her affairs are not to be arranged, what then?”

  “Affairs may always be arranged.”

  “My feeling entirely. I can afford to be generous. I’ll give you ten days. I’m going out of town for a while, but I shall call next Saturday and expect to find you in a position to make arrangements. Please do not fail me. I am loath to treat a lady unkindly, but I labor under certain exigencies. And it’s so uncomfortable having bailiffs in the house.”

  Exigencies, my eye! Horner didn’t need the money. Investigation had revealed that he had plenty. He likely dropped more than she owed at hazard three or four times a week. She was the one familiar with the humiliation of debt collectors invading her home and assessing her possessions. Horner offered a not-so-subtle threat of what would happen if she failed to appease him, either with money or—she shuddered—her person.

  “I admire you, Caro. I tremble with anticipation of our mutual satisfaction.”

  Ugh! What on earth was she to do? She didn’t have a thousand pounds or any sum like it. Neither was there a chance of finding it by the end of next week. Where could she get it? Oliver, of course, had nothing. Even if he could pay her what he owed for rent, it would be a grain of sand in the desert of her debt. Julian was short of ready money until he worked out the legal complications of his inheritance. None of her friends had any money, save Cynthia and Anne.

  She doubted Cynthia could lay hands on that much. Her absent husband’s steward paid her bills, and she had some pin money, but no access to a capital sum. Anne was in the same position. Morrissey would have to agree to any large disbursement. Even if he wasn’t in Ireland, he’d never agree to help her. Instead, he’d drag Anne home to Camber and away from the polluting influence of her cousin. Come to think of it, Morrissey and her mother would make a fine pair. He and Mrs. Elizabeth Brotherton would find plenty to talk about.

  It was ironic that she housed one of the wealthiest women in England yet found herself penniless. It was too late now to curtail her extravagance. She should have told her friends of her troubles instead of handing out money as though she were still rich. Pride and an unwillingness to face unpleasant truths had brought her to this pass. Of course, if Robert hadn’t been addicted to gaming . . . She wouldn’t think of that since there was no point.

  The other resort was the moneylenders. At that imprudence she drew the line. The interest on Robert’s loans had accumulated to frightening amounts. Anything was better than getting into their hands. As usual since her widowhood, or, if she was being honest, for some time before Robert’s death, she would have to solve her own problems. Or rather beg for further assistance from the one man who would help.

  Chapter 8

  At seven o’clock the next evening, Caro boarded the Norwich mail coach on her way to the Quintons’ house near Newmarket. It was her first trip outside London in almost a year. That journey, too, had been by mail. When it became clear what a mess Robert had left, she’d returned to her mother’s house to beg for money, and been refused. The only thing she’d got out of the visit had been damaged pride and a further hole in her purse from the cost of the coach ticket.

  So now she sought the help of Robert’s former guardian, Max Quinton. He owed her nothing, less than nothing. Robert had always disregarded his counsel. Because Mrs. Quinton was a cousin of Caro’s mother, Quinton had agreed to untangle the snarl of debt to which Robert, in the six short years of his majority, had reduced his handsome estate. Max disposed of the heavily mortgaged lands and other assets, paid off what debt he could, and negotiated the schedule of repayments that left Caro in possession of her house and a modest income. An income she never managed to quite make cover her expenses. Already, she was behind with her current tradesmen’s bills.

  Caro didn’t know what Max could do about the thousand pounds Horner demanded, apart from giving her a well-deserved scolding. The Quintons were comfortable but by no means wealthy and had a growing family. Who would have thought that Eleanor, wed at the same time as her charge, would now have three children while Caro had none?

  A tear seeped from the corner of her eye at the recollection of the tiny boy, born too soon, who’d barely lived long enough to take a breath. Poor little infant. He would have been nearly four years old now. Caro hadn’t conceived until three years into her marriage, and had never done so again. It was probably just as well that such a feckless pair as she and Robert had never given a hostage to fortune. She could not help sometimes thinking of her son, wondering whether he would have inherited his father’s charm of manner, his intelligence and wit. And his talent for self-destruction.

  A woman sitting across from her in the coach noticed her distress. “Are you all right, madam?” she asked in a kindly way.

  “Thank you, I am quite well.”

  “I hope it’s not bad news that brings you on your journey.”

  “Nothing like that,” Caro said. “Merely a matter of family business in Newmarket.”

  “Business and family don’t always mix well.” The speaker, a neatly dressed woman of middle years, had a sensible, humorous air about her.

  “There, madam,” Caro replied with a smile, “you are entirely correct. In my present errand, I pray you may be wrong. What brings you on this road?”

  “I’m returning home to Norwich after a visit to my niece in London.”

  “Prosperous family business?”

  “Happy but not prosperous. She just had her sixth child. Another healthy boy making two lads and four little girls for them to keep. Her husband has a good place as a clerk, but that’s a lot of mouths to feed.”

  Another traveler, a man huddled in a heavy coat fastened to the neck with large buttons, joined the discussion.

  “Girls are expensive. I have three sisters. They help in my father’s factory, but we’d like to find them good husbands so they need not work for a living.”

  The woman nodded her approval. “Helps if you have a little money. Mr. Ransom, my husband, made sure he was beforehand with the world and set aside a hundred pounds apiece for my two girls. My Mary’s betrothed to a grocer with his own shop in Norwich.”

  “A good man you have, if you don’t mind my saying, Mrs. Ransom. Joseph Peabody, at your service, of Peabody & Son’s Buttons. You won’t find a finer button in the kingdom.” He also nodded at Caro, who answered his obvious invitation to introduce herself, as did the fourth occupant of the coach, a white-haired gent in clerical garb, Mr. Foster.

  “One of the Lancashire Townsends, perhaps, ma’am?” he asked Caro. “I am kin to that family.”

  “My late husband was a So
merset man,” Caro said.

  “I’m a little surprised to find a lady such as yourself traveling at night.” The curious looks on three faces told her everyone wondered the same thing.

  “I’m in a hurry,” she replied, “and post charges are so high.” A chorus of assenting murmurs greeted this statement, followed by a spirited discussion of the shocking cost of just about everything.

  She’d never see any of these people again, but for a few hours, huddled together in the enforced intimacy of the coach, Caro had found friends. Company to make her forget her troubles.

  By the time the coach pulled up at Clampton, the four of them were on splendid terms.

  “Pity there’s no time for refreshments while the horses are changed,” Caro said. “I would love a hot drink.”

  Mr. Peabody winked at her and ran through the drizzle into the inn.

  “Here you are, ma’am,” he said, returning just in time and producing a firkin from under his coat. “A little ale warms the blood on a damp night. I hope you’ll all share a drop with me to make the time pass quicker.”

  An hour later, the coach contained four merry souls, including the parson. Some of Robert’s less risqué jokes found an appreciative audience, and Mr. Foster was revealed as having a nice line in animal imitations. They were all sorry to see the affable man of the cloth leave them at Sawbridgeworth. He said a particularly fond farewell to Caro. “Thank you for the entertaining company. I shall think of you with pleasure and imagine we are related through the Townsends.” But Peabody, Mrs. Ransom, and Caro soon cheered up and started singing, to the shock and chagrin of a new passenger who boarded a stop later. Since it was by now almost midnight, they all settled down to get as much sleep as was possible in the rapidly moving coach.

  Around three in the morning, Caro murmured a quiet good-bye to her new friends and alit at Newmarket. The efficient staff at the Greyhound Inn saw her straight to a bedroom, where she slept late into the morning. Before she retired, she wrote a note to Max Quinton, asking for it to be delivered, first thing, to his house a mile or two from town.