If she attended all social functions, it might very well change his opinion of them.
For now, he prayed for the midday traffic to lessen, allowing them to arrive quickly on Bond Street and for him to be rid of his mother, though he would enjoy a few uninterrupted hours with Theo to hear how her studies were progressing.
Curse his lack of a second proper carriage or suitable horse.
He’d been relegated to calling on Miss Jude only after delivering Lady Cartwright and Theo. And then he’d be beckoned to return within an hour’s time to collect them.
As if he were a bloody nursemaid.
But there was little choice as he’d sold all but one of their family carriages shortly after arriving home from university. It meant fewer stables hands with salaries and upkeep on only one coach. As inconvenient as it was at this precise moment, it had saved Cart four hundred and twenty-six shillings in the last several years.
If his mother hadn’t insisted the curtains be drawn tightly, Cart would have carried along his current periodical, Silliman’s Journal, which offered fascinating theories on geology. The journal had arrived from the Americas only a fortnight before, and Cart was re-reading each scientific article with an eye for applying the information to his own studies.
An elbow nudged his side. “Simon,” Theo whispered. “Are you sleeping?” For effect, he breathed in deeply, emitting a snore. Theo giggled and Cart cracked open one eye. “Oh, I knew you pretended.”
“I am certain you did not,” he huffed, closing his eyes once more.
“Either you bluff or you and Momma have far greater things in common than you admit.”
Cart opened his eye a slit once more and took in Theo’s smirk before giving in and sitting up straight.
He immediately wished he hadn’t. Across from him, Lady Anastasia Cartwright had fallen into a slumber after her instructive tirade regarding proper manners when a lady arrived on Bond Street to spend her coin.
Unfortunately for Cart, and supporting Theo’s claim, his mother reclined in the exact same position Cart had been in moments before, her arms even folded over the expanse of her bosom.
Theo giggled. “For a certainty, you look far more like Momma than I.”
Cart wished he could deny Theo’s words, but saw most of his best features mirrored in the woman directly across the carriage from him—that was, all except her tendency to ridicule. That was a quality he found highly distasteful and never sought to imitate.
“Oh, you think you are far removed from her?” he teased. When she nodded, he continued, “Let us hope you acquired Father’s good sense and not hers.” He laughed, startling Lady Cartwright where she dozed before she shifted and her breathing deepened once more. Part of him wanted to wake her and point out that she was wrinkling her dress—a gown he’d likely paid her maid an extra hour to press the night before.
He pushed the thought from his mind. He’d gone over this many times in his head—his chances of ridding himself of his mother’s continued expenses were elevated if he were to allow her a significant allowance to attend society functions. His hope was that an aging lord would take notice of her and set his sights upon courting her, either improving his mother’s sensibilities or taking her off Cart’s hands entirely.
Several years now and his hopes had been dashed season after season.
No man took interest in his mother, or at least no man called on her.
He supposed there could be goings-on he was unaware of, but his ability to see all happening around him was strong. Certainly his mother was not able to slip away under his nose to meet with a suitor.
Theo elbowed him again. “Simon, I doubt you ever listen to me.”
“What?” he asked to cover his inattention.
“Just so. I asked if you’d take me with you,” she pleaded. “I do not see the need for new gloves or boots. I would much rather accompany you on your errand. It must be far more important than selecting the ‘perfect shade of cream’ for a new set of gloves that will likely be ink-stained before a fortnight passes, thus gaining me yet another scolding from Momma.”
“You know I cannot liberate you from your fate this day.” Normally, he’d have rescued Theo from his mother’s clutches; however, today his errand was not of the ordinary sort. “But one day in the future, you will thank me for insisting you are properly educated in both your studies and…the less desirable daily female obligations.” He was calling on Jude—at her home—and he was nervous beyond anything he’d ever felt. His palms perspired, his forehead was moist, and his pulse had elevated. No amount of breathing or calming arithmetic figuring helped. His unease had grown so intense that Cart contemplated joining his mother and Theo for their shopping excursion. However, that would draw far more attention than his accompanying them in the carriage as opposed to simply riding one of the aging stable stock.
He refused to arrive at Miss Judith’s on a horse barely capable of carrying his weight. That was far more debasing than arriving in a carriage older than he. His financial situation was known far and wide within society, yet a part of him hoped that Miss Jude hadn’t heard of his family’s disgrace at the hands of his uncle.
He stiffened. Why should he care what she thought of him?
Cart was calling on her because he’d blurted his request before taking the appropriate time to thoroughly assess his words and the consequences that would follow his declaration. If he’d taken the time—and hadn’t been drenched in murky, offensive-smelling pond scum—Cart would have seen the error of his request and adjusted the conversation, turning it in a more neutral direction.
Instead, he’d been made to offer as escort for his mother and sister on their excursion.
“If I must attend to Momma, your duty as my guardian and wise elder requires you to stay by my side.” Between the pair, Cart was not convinced he was the wisest Montgomery offspring. Theo would one day be a worthy adversary in every endeavor she undertook, but for now, she was continually relegated to precocious girl by him, and bothersome child by their mother.
Her toothy grin told Cart she thought she had him bested.
“Aw, well…” Cart turned fully toward her on the bench seat. “My first priority as your guardian is to make certain you are properly cared for and all you require is available to you. Thanks to our scoundrel of an uncle, I must provide a service and collect my fee to maintain our home and provide you with an adequate education—and those delicate white gloves you so loathe shopping for.”
Theo slouched in her seat, defeated.
“Do sit up straight, Theodora,” her mother chastened. Neither had noticed she’d awakened, but from her dour expression, she’d likely overheard his comments about their uncle, her brother-in-law by marriage. “It would also suit you well to smile—young ladies who take to excessive frowning create horrid aging lines.”
“Momma, I—“
“I do not need excuses, young lady, only action,” Lady Cartwright continued, unfolding her arms, which had creased her gown. She pulled the curtain back, the late morning sun casting a bright trail down the seat between Cart and Theo. “We are almost there. Simon, I am happy to see you departing the townhouse—you’d do well to dispel your lone tendencies and mingle within society more. My friends fear you are turning into a recluse of the worst kind.”
Theo sighed beside him and Cart wished he could give her what she wanted. One day, she’d thank him. He was certain of it.
“Simon,” his mother called, still staring out the window. “Do return on time to collect us. I will not be wandering the streets of London like a vagabond awaiting your return.”
“Of course, Mother.” Cart would never leave Theo stranded, even during the busiest hours of the day in the most heavily populated thoroughfare in London. “I will not be long and will likely return long before you have completed your tasks.”
The carriage slowed in front of the milliner’s storefront and rolled to a jerky stop.
It reminded Cart that he’d
planned to dash into Sir Everheart’s Book Emporium very soon to select a book on the undersides of conveyances. With an adequate diagram, he and a servant should be more than qualified to repair the rigging and be rid of the continuous jostling of the carriage’s occupants. As for now, that errand must wait.
The door swung open, and Cart disembarked to hand down his mother and sister with a farewell before entering once more to retake his seat.
Within moments, he was moving back through traffic toward the address Lord Barton had forwarded to him earlier that morning. Cart had written to the man to solidify their business dealings, but also inquired as to Miss Judith and Samantha’s directions. His reasoning explained his need to send a letter with a formal apology for his boorish behavior at Lady Haversham’s garden party.
Not that Cart, in any way, owed anyone an apology, but he did not want to run the risk of Barton holding back Jude’s directions. There were certainly books on lineage he could consult. Though they were hardly the type he preferred to keep in his private collection—and asking his mother for her treasured copy would put the woman on alert to his activities.
Something Cart avoided at all costs.
“Good day, sir,” Cart greeted an elderly man outside Miss Jude’s home.
The man gave a barely audible grunt before returning to his work, wielding a large pair of clippers as he trimmed the shrubs bordering the walkway.
Cart paused to adjust his cravat—which he’d starched and tied far more elaborately than was his norm. He’d spent over an hour perfecting the Maharatta tie he’d seen featured on one of his mother’s plates on current fashion for gentlemen. It depicted a dignified, astute-appearing lord, which was the exact impression he sought to make when visiting Jude today.
If astute men did not mind the immensely restrictive nature of current fashions, then far be it from Cart to dissuade them from their choices. Nonetheless, he had previously decided not to commit long-term to the trend. However, for this call, the necktie would stay.
The home before him was large, not anywhere near as grand as his own townhouse, but well-kept with a manicured landscape. It was no secret that the cover of anything could be in opposition to its interior. Take Cart’s own townhouse with its bare walls, his family’s paintings having been stolen and sold by his uncle. Or his sparse staff, many long-standing, hardworking servants seeking employment in other London residences that could afford their wages.
Certainly, from the outside, the Cartwright townhouse gave the impression that its occupants were as they’d been for over five generations—wealthy, titled, and elite. When in actuality, Cart worked night and day brokering antiquities deals and searching for his own family heirlooms.
Then again, Craven House—as the sign out front dubbed the manor before him—could be inside as it was outside. Not every façade hid secrets within.
Cart stepped to the door and knocked.
A young girl pulled the door wide, her smile growing as she looked him up and down—in similar fashion to how Lord Barton had taken in Miss Samantha. Was this a socially acceptable manner of greeting? If so, it made Cart highly uncomfortable. He mentally added this to his list of less than desirable things he would never become contented with. Right below the Maharatta knot, that is.
When she kept silent, Cart shifted his feet and squared his shoulders, the tightness of his necktie very apparent in the moment. “I am here to call on Miss Judith.”
“I’m certain you are.”
“Is she about?” he inquired when the woman made no move to invite him in.
“Possibly.” Either the woman was newly appointed or had dreadful manners; Cart couldn’t decide which it was.
“Is she receiving callers?”
“Do you have a card, my lord?”
Immediately, he realized it was he who was not following formal guidelines when calling on a lady. With efficient fingers, Cart found his calling card in his front pocket and presented it to her. “Lord Cartwright—err, an earl.” He had no reasoning for adding his title; however, the need to legitimize his visit was daunting.
“You are here to pay Jude a visit,” the girl mused. “But you bring no flowers or other gifts?”
Flowers? Should he have arrived with bouquet in hand? Cart’s smile fell, and with it, his confidence.
“Who is at the door, Payton?” a deep, commanding voice called from somewhere within. “I am expecting no one. If it is a delivery, instruct them round to the kitchen.”
The girl—Payton—glanced over her shoulder. “Not a delivery…a gentleman caller.”
“Well, then do step aside.” A woman, certainly older than Jude but far more petite—and fair-haired—stepped forward. Her smile was welcoming, if not a bit dubious. “May I help you, my lord?”
If he’d been made nervous by the appraisal of the younger woman, this woman was a force far greater and more serious in nature than that of the other. He only vaguely remembered her as the woman who’d attended Jude at the night watchman’s residence. “I am here to call on Miss Judith.” Cart cleared this throat. “We met at Lady Haversham’s garden party and she agreed to my calling on her at a future date—this is that future date.” He was rambling again, offering far more information than was warranted.
“That it is,” she agreed. “An entire eighteen hours, in fact.”
She stepped back, opening the door wider and motioning him to enter.
“I do hope she is receiving visitors.” Neither female had confirmed that Jude was even in attendance. “I apologize for my lack of flowers, err—“
“I am Marce Davenport, Jude’s eldest sister.” The woman was all business. Cart was torn between shaking her hand and bowing. “And this is Payton, our youngest sibling.”
“How many of you are there?” he asked without thinking, regretting the rude implications of his question. “My apolo—“
“Not necessary, my lord. There are five of us: Jude and Sam, Payton, myself…and Garrett, our lone, outnumbered brother.”
“It is nice to meet you, Lord Cartwright,” Payton said as she closed the front door, officially cutting off his means of escape. “Shall I show him to the parlor, Marce?”
In short order, Cart was deposited in the parlor—a sunny, feminine room covered completely in pastel blue. The door soundly shut behind Miss Payton and Marce.
Did one sit whilst making social calls, or remain standing until their hostess arrived?
Eyeing the delicate settee and lounges dominating the room, Cart decided to stand. By his calculations, the thin pegs that served as legs for each of the pieces would likely buckle under his weight, average as it was by current standards. The things were constructed for women of modest size. Cart was not willing to risk another embarrassing situation after having tumbled into the pond.
A shelf held a stack of books befitting a household of women—a fashion journal, an older tome of poetry, and several books on etiquette. All likely to be found in his mother’s sitting room.
Cart was tempted to remove the book of poetry, but he refrained from touching anything. It all seemed as any other home would; paintings adorning the walls, acceptable lighting down the hall, a woman’s needlepoint sitting by the window, and even a cape lying discarded over a chair. It was a normal house. Far more elaborately decorated than his home at the moment.
Not at all what he’d expected.
Why was that? Simply because it did not lead him to any answers as to why he’d seen Jude leaving the night watchman’s home. Neither her eldest sister nor Jude recognized him from that morning. Could it be as his sister always accused, that Cart was overly aware of things that others noticed not?
A soft click sounded behind him and Cart turned to see both twins enter the room. For two women who’d shared such a tight spot during development, they could not be more dissimilar—with the exception of their identical looks.
“Miss Jude, Miss Samantha.” He issued a quick bow to each in order. “Thank you for receiving me without no
tice.”
“You did say you would be calling on me at a future date,” the twin who he suspected was Jude responded, confirming his knowledge. “Our conversation was halted ever so abruptly.”
The mention of his fall to disgrace caused his neck to heat and his cravat to add pressure to his airways. “Yes, I sincerely offer my apologies for my gaucheness.” He kept his stare on Jude to assess her willingness to forgive him and he was rewarded with a smile, her lips parting to reveal straight white teeth, a slight overbite noticeable. Though that did not detract from her allure.
“Lord Cartwright, do have a seat—and call me Sam,” the woman so much like Jude requested, motioning to a chair he hadn’t noticed during his first perusal of the room. It was certainly more adequately constructed. “I will see about tea.”
Cart noticed the knowing wink Sam gave Jude before hurrying from the parlor, leaving the door cracked open only slightly.
Jude took the seat closest to his chair, arranging her skirt to cover her crossed feet. However, Cart had gained a quick look. Her boots ended at her ankle, with cream stockings continuing up to disappear and encase her shapely calves—not that he knew the shape of her calf, but he’d seen many images depicted in medical journals.
“How can you tell us apart?”
Her hesitant question surprised him and he took a moment to think. How could he not tell them apart? “Your voice is the obvious difference, certainly,” he started. “But at the gathering, I noticed your penchant for pastels as opposed to Miss Saman—Sam’s—tendency toward bolder colors. I did not think much of it then, but the case is the same today. And you have a slight overbite.”
She lifted her delicate hand to cover her mouth, her eyes rounded in shock.
“Oh, do not take offense,” he gushed. “Not another soul would notice. Only I. And then there is the way you look to the side when you are pondering a question or your response.” He hadn’t expected to add that last difference, planning to keep it to himself, but he wanted to distract her from worrying over her overbite.
Thief Steals Her Earl Page 7