A Commercial Enterprise

by Sandra Heath

  “So you appear to think. I’m not so certain,” replied his companion. “I don’t believe Caroline Lexham has succumbed to anyone—except maybe to her cousin, the earl, who incidentally, has suddenly rushed off out of Town again.”

  “Forget Lexham,” insisted the first man. “It’s Seymour whose name will come out of the hat, you mark my words.”

  “I’ve followed your bright guesses before, Digby, and look where it’s got me!” grumbled the second man.

  “This is no guess, my dear fellow, it’s fact. Why else has he come rushing here? Why else does he pretend their friendship is platonic?”

  “I don’t follow—”

  “The terms of the will, dear fellow! If she does anything slightly doubtful, then she loses this pile of bricks and mortar. Ergo, they make it appear that they mean nothing to each other.”

  “Ah, I begin to see what you mean—”

  “At this very moment they are out walking in the gardens together, and yet they would have us believe that they practically loathe each other. It’s quite clear to me, dear fellow, that Caroline Lexham is Hal Seymour’s mistress, which is what poor Marcia Chaddington must have known as well, hence her foolish prank at the wedding yesterday. If you still believe the contrary, then I suggest you put your money where your mouth is.”

  “Oh, no, Digby, I won’t rise to that. I admit defeat. I’ve come round to your way of thinking: the lady has indeed succumbed.”

  At that moment Caroline herself came hurrying into the vestibule, her plain blue skirts rustling. “Richard?” Smiling, she came toward him, her hands extended.

  Slowly he rose from his seat. “Caroline?”

  Digby and his companion looked uneasily at each other, wondering how much of their indiscreet conversation he had overheard, and therefore how much of it would be relayed to Caroline, who was evidently a very close friend.

  She smiled. “I trust your journey was not too wearisome.”

  “It was as one would expect.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I think it is, Caroline, very wrong. I believe we should speak somewhere in private.”

  She stared up into his stern blue eyes. “Very well, if you will come this way.” She led him to her private apartment, where she turned to face him, her hands clasped neatly before her. “Well?”

  “It does not please me at all when the first thing I hear discussed on my arrival here is whether or not you are Sir Henry Seymour’s mistress.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked faintly, her eyes widening.

  “I am sure you heard me well enough, for poor hearing was never one of your afflictions, Caroline. Are you his mistress?”

  “No!”

  “But he is something to you, isn’t he?”

  “No.” She looked away.

  “Don’t lie to me, Caroline, for that I find supremely insulting. I love you very much, too much to enjoy having to question you like this, but it simply isn’t on to find that your name is being tossed around in wagers concerning chastity!”

  “Don’t be so pompous, Richard.”

  “Forgive me, but I fear I am not well versed in how one behaves in such circumstances.”

  “And don’t be sarcastic either, for it does not suit you. I cannot help it if people make such wagers. All I can say is that I am not Sir Henry’s mistress; indeed, I believe you will find that he loathes my very name.”

  “Yes, I understand that that is what the world is supposed to think.”

  “I am not telling you fibs, Richard,” she said quietly, containing her anger because she knew his anxiety was indeed born of his love for her.

  “What is Seymour to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That is not so, and we both know it. I know you too well in some ways, Caroline, certainly well enough to know when you are attempting to pull the wool over my eyes.”

  She turned away with a sigh. “It isn’t your eyes I attempt to draw the wool over,” she said softly. “I believe it is my own. You want the absolute truth? Very well, you shall have it. I love Hal Seymour with all my heart, but he does not like or even respect me. He is not interested in me, Richard, and certainly would not wish to take me as his mistress. I tell you this, though, were he to crook his little finger, then I would run to him. I would be glad to be his mistress, Richard, glad. There, is that enough honesty for you?” She looked at him again, her gray eyes very dark.

  Slowly he nodded. “Yes, it is enough.”

  “I’m sorry, Richard, I don’t want to hurt you—”

  “I know.”

  She went to him, taking his hands. “I would have made you very unhappy, for I would have been always dissatisfied, always craving something you could not give me.”

  His fingers closed around hers. “Instead, you will make yourself unhappy, craving something you will never have.”

  She lowered her eyes. “At least only I will be responsible for my unhappiness, and not also for yours. You will get over me, Richard, and you will marry someone like Josephine Leyburn.”

  “I cannot bear the creature.”

  “She is just the sort of wife you need, Richard Marchand. Now then, we’ve said enough of all this, so let us begin our conversation again. Why, Richard, how good it is to see you again! I trust you had a not too wearisome journey!”

  He was forced to laugh. “You are incorrigible, Caroline Lexham, and I wonder if I will ever get over you, for as they say in the theater, you will be a very difficult act to follow!”

  She pretended to look aghast. “Why, Squire Marchand, what would you be knowing about such wicked places as theaters? What would Parson Aylesbury say? And should Goodwife Whittaker so much as learn one word, why the whole of Dartmoor would soon learn of it!”

  Still smiling, he pulled her close, his cheek resting against her little day bonnet. But she did not see how his smile slowly and thoughtfully faded. He loved her too much to be satisfied with accepting what she said; nothing would do but that he spoke with Sir Henry Seymour and learned for himself how things were.

  * * *

  “Sir Henry?”

  Hal looked up from writing to see a tall, fair-haired young man dressed in good, but hardly fashionable attire. “Sir?”

  “Richard Marchand, squire of Selford. Your servant, sir.”

  “Marchand? Ah, yes, Miss Lexham’s cousin.” Hal rose politely to his feet.

  “I trust you will forgive this intrusion upon your privacy, Sir Henry, but I wished to thank you for having assisted my cousin on her journey to London.”

  “Think nothing of it, Mr. Marchand, for I did but do what any gentleman would have done.” He felt he should say a little more. “Are you in Town for long?”

  “A day or so, I merely came to see how she was.”

  “She appears to be very well, and certainly is making a success of her venture.” Hal’s hand indicated the surroundings.

  “You—you are a guest, Sir Henry?”

  Ah, so that was it. “Yes, Mr. Marchand, but through no actual choice, for I have charge of the forthcoming banquet, which the Duke of Wellington has decided must take place here now, instead of at the Oxenford. I shall be quitting the Lexham directly after the banquet, when I trust my house in Hanover Square will be ready.”

  Richard was perceptibly easier. “I trust the banquet will be a truly memorable occasion, Sir Henry.”

  Hal smiled just a little. “Not too memorable,” he said softly. “That would not do at all.”

  Richard withdrew then, feeling satisfied that what Caroline had said was true, for whatever her feelings were, Sir Henry Seymour’s were equally as plain: he did not care at all for her. Her honor and good name were not at risk.

  Hal sat down again, picking up his pen, but after a moment he cast it down again, the force of the action spattering ink over the page. Would to God the banquet was over and done with and he could quit this damned house!

  * * *

  Caroline waited in her apartment.
A table had been laid for two, but Richard was very late. Anxiously she stood by the window, looking out into the darkness of the spring night. Mrs. Hollingsworth had said that Richard was closeted in the library with Hal, and now she could only wait in dread to learn what had been said.

  Would Hal inform Richard of his true opinion of her? Would he relate to him the tale of her dealings with Dominic? Or worse, would Richard reveal to Hal the truth about her love for him? In an agony of suspense, she could only wait. Then she heard his step approaching.

  He entered, smiling quickly at her. “Forgive me, Caroline, I know I am late.”

  Relief swept through her on seeing that smile. “You are forgiven, sir, especially as I have something to confess.”

  “Confess?”

  “You are not to enjoy your favorite roast beef after all.”

  “Oh, Caroline! I especially asked—”

  “Monsieur Duvall, the chef, threw back his hands in horror at the very suggestion that he should prepare such a plain English dish, and instead he has created something especially for tonight.”

  “Something French and covered in sauce,” grumbled Richard.

  “Don’t be disagreeable and biased,” she reproved. “For until you have tried French cooking, how can you possibly express an opinion. Sit down now, and behave yourself, Squire Marchand.”

  But as Gaspard personally carried in the first course, it was not of the dinner that she thought, it was of her overwhelming gladness that nothing had been said between Hal and Richard that would have any repercussions. Hal remained in ignorance of her love for him, and Richard had not been regaled with the tale of her apparently disreputable conduct. Her eyes were very bright as she raised her glass of wine, smiling across the table at her cousin.

  Chapter 29

  Richard remained at the Lexham for two more days and then he returned to Selford, and he and Caroline parted very amicably; indeed their friendship now at last appeared to be on the sort of footing she had always wanted, with him accepting once and for all that she would never take him as her husband. She still did not know what had passed between the two men, but she knew that somehow what Hal had said had put Richard’s mind at rest. She knew she would never learn the truth from either man, for Richard behaved as if they had barely exchanged two words, and Hal was as remote and disdainful as he had so suddenly become on the night of the wedding.

  Richard was not the only person to quit London that day; so also did Marcia, Lady Chaddington. Having attempted to destroy Caroline in front of witnesses, her failure had inevitably been as public, and by the day after the wedding, the story of what had happened was all over Town. She had become the laughingstock of the beau monde and her humiliation was made complete by the fact that Hal had rejected her.

  The dazzling, successful hostess, the beauty who had reigned for several Seasons and who could have expected to reign for several more, was by her own actions the butt of society’s scorn, and she could not bear it. With the Season about to get into full swing, Lady Chaddington closed her beautiful Berkeley Square house and left London in an anonymous carriage, while her brother, feeling that a little too much of the ignominy had brushed off upon him, decided that it would be prudent to return to his own estates for a while.

  Dominic’s defeat was not so public a thing, but nevertheless he too had immediately removed himself from Town for a while, journeying back to County Durham to attend to “urgent” business there. His departure left Caroline free of her enemies for the first time since she had come to London, but she found no joy in the situation.

  The Lexham Hotel went from strength to strength as the days passed, providing the most luxurious and exclusive accommodation in Town, as well as the finest cuisine. The distinguished guests and visitors found the new enterprise to be everything they could have wished, and the other important hotels found that the rival they had scorned was a very worthy rival indeed.

  It seemed to Caroline that nothing could now prevent her from meeting the terms of her uncle’s will so that when the allotted period of six months had passed, Lexham House would be hers and she would be a very wealthy woman. But it was a hollow glory, for she was more desperately unhappy than she had ever been in her life.

  Hal Seymour lodged beneath her roof, she saw him every day, and she endured the contempt in his eyes. She did not approach him, nor he her; it was as if they had never before met, never spoken, and certainly never laughed together. There were many nights when her misery was too great and she cried herself to sleep, her face hidden in the softness of her pillow.

  One thing provided her with a welcome release from the pain, and that was the immense amount of preparation required for the great banquet. This might have caused her more distress, for by rights she should have dealt directly with Hal, but she chose instead to delegate this considerable responsibility to Mrs. Hollingsworth. The housekeeper had wondered greatly about this, but had begun to realize now that Hal Seymour was the cause of Caroline’s unhappiness. And so each day Mrs. Hollingsworth consulted with him about the banquet, and each evening she sat with Caroline to discuss what had been said.

  The banquet was set to be a much more dazzling and important function than Jennifer’s wedding had been, and glancing through the guest list, Caroline saw the names of nearly every gentleman of importance in the land, including several dukes. She realized with quite a jolt that the duke’s request that she greet him on his arrival at the hotel meant that she would be the only woman present. Glancing through the guest list again, this time with even greater apprehension, she noticed a name she had missed before: Dominic would be present.

  Gaspard was, naturally enough, of supreme importance where the banquet was concerned, and he and Caroline spent long hours discussing the complicated and immense menu called for by the importance of the occasion. She found it difficult to treat him exactly as she had before, for she could not forget what she now knew, but somehow it was hard to believe that there was anything sinister about him.

  He displayed no unease or secretiveness when speaking of the banquet or the Duke of Wellington, and in fact he seemed to be more jovial than usual, not having been indisposed with a headache or even the smallest of black moods for some time now. He enjoyed creating the menu, and his enthusiasm was quite infectious.

  The menu was bewildering, and appeared to offer so many different dishes that no one could possibly sample them all without being decidedly ill for a week. There were to be four soups, two thick and two clear, hot hors d’oeuvres and cold hors d’oeuvres, intermediate fish courses, intermediate meat, poultry and game courses, and a variety of very splendid entrees.

  There were to be hot rôts and cold rôts, and last but not least, a seemingly endless list of delicious entremets, from bombes, mousses, and sorbets to cream flans, fruit tarts, jellies, and molds. And the pièce de résistance, Gaspard’s pièce montée was to be a splendid confection called gâteau Wellington, which was to depict the moment of victory at Waterloo.

  He had prepared a rough drawing of this magnificent creation, which was to have cannon made of cake, chocolate barrels, standards fashioned from spun sugar and rice paper, and a statue of the Iron Duke himself, mounted on his charger Copenhagen, made entirely from sugar, inside this gâteau was to be a filling of cherry ice with grapes and currants, and the whole thing was to be carried shoulder high to the table toward the end of the banquet and set down on a bed of crushed ice before the duke himself. This was to be the crowning glory of the banquet, and Caroline had to agree with the excited, pleased chef that it would indeed provide the whole evening with a fitting conclusion.

  It was an unusually humid, close day for late March and the windows of Caroline’s apartment were open as she and the chef discussed the details of the banquet menu. Outside not a leaf stirred on the trees, and sounds seemed to carry much further than usual. At last the whole menu had been discussed in depth and she agreed to all the chef’s suggestions, including the gâteau Wellington, trusting as she
did so that her account with Messieurs Coutts would not suffer too cataclysmic a shock.

  Gaspard departed from her apartment in high spirits, determined to set about ordering some of the more particular ingredients immediately. The Severn salmon would come live from the supplier in Gloucester, the mullet from Harper’s. The other fish would come only from McDonald’s, the foie gras and truffles from Rimell’s, and so on, each specific item coming from the tradesman who specialized in it. The orders had to be placed swiftly, for with the banquet set to take place in two weeks’ time, the chef and his brigade had to be sure all the agreed-upon dishes could be provided.

  Throughout the day everyone commented upon the unusually close weather, applying the word “thundery” even though there had been no rumble from the cloudy skies, no drop of heavy rain. In the evening the windows of the dining room stood open and the ladies busily employed their fans. Caroline was glad for once of the fashion for wearing the flimsiest lawn, silk, or muslin even in the depths of winter, for tonight such light materials were the very thing.

  A group of young gentlemen had taken a private room for a dinner party, intent upon celebrating a handsome win by one of their number at the tables of a nearby gaming hell. Boisterous and a little merry, they insisted upon Caroline joining them, which eventually she did, for in spite of their being just a little the worse for drink, they were chivalrous and agreeable, toasting her health and making no unwelcome advances.

  The noisy little party had broken up at last at two in the morning, and Mrs. Hollingsworth joined Caroline to hand each gentleman a lighted candlestick. Laughing and shushing, the tipsy guests wended their unsteady way up to their rooms, and after a minute or two silence reigned throughout the house.

  Caroline smiled at the housekeeper. “And so to our beds too, and I for one will sleep like the proverbial log.” She saw the other’s slightly withdrawn face, “Is something wrong, Mrs. Hollingsworth?”