The Plot’s the Thing!
As any good author should, she knew the leading characters:
—A cleric’s willful daughter bent on taking London’s literary world by storm . . .
—A handsome lord who considered all women save one to be flighty creatures concerned with nothing of greater import than gowns and gossip . . .
—A brilliant and beautiful lady whose keen mind was obviously the exception that proved the gentleman’s rule . . .
—A charming nine-year-old whose presence soon set the tongues of London society wagging . . .
Yes, the cast of players was all too easy, but for lovely novelist Anne Calder the plot was becoming far too confused. And her vision of herself as a highly successful author capable of maintaining her independence and avoiding the marriage trap, was somehow being replaced by the face of a man whose opinions she could not abide and whose affections might never be hers . . .
The Determined Bachelor
The Determined Bachelor
A Regency Classic
by
Judith Harkness
Copyright © 1981 by Judith Harkness
“Portrait d’un artiste,” by Michel Martin Drolling, 1815. In the Public Domain (PD1923)
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form. For information, address Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, 55 Fifth Avenue, 15th Floor, New York, New York 10003.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-0-7867-5510-3
eISBN: 978-0-7867-5511-0
Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services
For Nick,,
joy of my life.
The Determined
Bachelor
Contents
Prelude
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
About the Author
Prelude
For once, Grosvenor Square was utterly deserted. It was that hour of the day—between five and six on a bleak November afternoon—when the inhabitants seemed to have exhausted their enthusiasm for fresh air. The weather was too cold and damp to encourage the usual outing in Hyde Park, and even those few hardy souls who had ventured out at all had long since returned to the comfort of their own hearths. Their more sensible neighbours (those who had not gone away to Scotland for the fox hunting) had stayed within, and were presently deep in afternoon slumbers. The exertions of the evening would not commence for another hour, and the great stone mansions lay silent in the lowering dark. Only a solitary figure scurrying along the glistening cobblestones gave any hint of life. The figure (belonging to a scullery maid hastening back from her mission to the butcher) soon vanished into the servant’s entrance at Number Six, leaving the street once more to the silence and the fog.
At Number Twenty-two, a vast stone edifice belonging to the Princess Lieven, the butler was taking his ease beside the pantry window, which afforded a view of the whole square. Rutgers had little to occupy his mind on this bleak afternoon, for his own mistress had gone away on a hunting party some days before. He was therefore absorbed in his own thoughts, which were of no particular interest to anyone save himself, and in contemplating the street, which was notably devoid of activity. He had glimpsed the furtive scullery maid, and let out a contemptuous snort upon seeing the bundle in her arm. How very typical of Number Six, to leave the marketing till evening! Everyone knew that not an edible joint of meat existed in the whole of London past ten in the morning! Only Lord Hargate’s slovenly housekeeper could have permitted such an atrocity from the cook. Musing to himself thus upon the shortcomings of Number Six, Rutgers barely noticed the approaching rumble of carriage wheels. When the sound grew louder, he started up, as much from instinct as training, and commenced putting on his coat. But the sudden realization that no coach was likely to stop before his own door made him sit down again. With some curiosity, however, for there was seldom any traffic in the square at this hour, he leant forward to get a better look at the vehicle, just now coming into view.
At first the sight did not excite his interest. It was only a dirty hired chaise, of the type commonly seen at any large posting house, which, from the look of its mud-splattered sides and the exhausted team, appeared to have come some distance. Such was the butler’s snobbery (for the most elegant equipages in England daily passed before his door) that he barely accorded it one glance, and this with a little sniff and upward motion of his nose which amply demonstrated his feelings upon seeing so humble a carriage driving in Grosvenor Square. Yet, when this same lowly vehicle passed by the Princess Lieven’s mansion and drew up across the way before Number Six, Rutgers could not resist leaning a little closer to the window and screwing up his eyes to have a better look. His curiosity was further raised on seeing the coachman jump down from his perch and commence unloading the numerous trunks and boxes from the roof.
The butler’s interest was not all impersonal, for he was forever on the lookout for some new item of gossip which could further lower the estimation of Hargate House amongst the servants in the square. Such was the derision already accorded Lord and Lady Hargate and their staff amongst his peers that the effort hardly seemed worthwhile. And yet Rutgers derived so much satisfaction from hearing them abused, and delighted so earnestly in the critical anecdotes recounted to him by his friends, which could illustrate ever more clearly the utter vulgarity and disorganization of that family, that he could not resist pressing his hawklike nose quite against the chilly glass pane in an effort to get a better view.
Nothing could have astonished him more than the figure which presently stepped down from the chaise. Rather than the vulgar relative he half expected, Rutgers was amazed to see a tall and elegant gentleman alight. From the tips of his glowing Hessians to the multiple capes of his fashionable traveling cloak, he was a picture of masculine elegance. Nor did the gentleman possess that affectation of stylishness in his person and attire which may sometimes fool the eyes of a less experienced observer-than Rutgers, who prided himself upon his judgment of his betters. The butler was used to seeing dandies parading in Regent’s Park and Bond Street who could not have bought their way into his own mistress’s drawing room. It is true that Rutgers would have been delighted to recognize just such a pretender to tonnishness alighting before Hargate House, for it would further fuel his argument that Lady Hargate was no better than an overdressed coquette, who could only delight in the company of her own kind. Yet the spectacle before him, though it damppened his spirits at first, only raised them a moment later. The traveler was a Corinthian of the first water—that much one perceived at once. His collars were of just that height, barely grazing the well-defined jawline (for Rutgers, it must be pointed out, had not only the nose of a hawk but the eye of one), which bespoke the best shirtmakers in the kingdom. His leg was slender but well-formed, his neck cloth beautifully knotted, and his gloves impeccable. Near
ly upsetting the table beside him, Rutgers managed to see all this, and yet he could not make out the gentleman’s features. These were hidden from view by the rakish angle at which his silk hat was set upon his head and the shadow it cast beneath. The butler had all but given up hope of identifying him when the gentleman turned back (evidently to issue some order to the coachman) and his face was illumined for an instant by a candle from within the house.
“By Jupiter and St. George!” was all the butler could exclaim upon recognizing the traveler. “By Jupiter and St. George—it is Sir Basil back from France!”
Chapter I
“What the Devil!” exclaimed Sir Basil Ives, beginning to raise the solid brass knocker, fashioned into the shape of a lion’s paw, for the third time. Twice he had knocked, and still no one had come to answer. The vast double doors, with the Hargate arms emblazoned above, remained firmly closed. To the eyes of the weary traveler, who had been jostled over England’s worst roads since dawn, they looked as unyielding as the doors of a tomb. Worse—thought he ironically—they looked exactly like the gates to his brother’s mind, which had been firmly sealed since birth. Sealed, at any rate, to anything rational, intelligent, or of any import.
Frowning, Sir Basil let the knocker fall and then stepped back to get a view of the upper windows of the mansion. There were candles ablaze in several, therefore the family could not all be abroad. They must certainly have received the message of his return, sent by special courier nearly a fortnight ago from France. Then where the devil were they?
Sir Basil was not ordinarily an impatient man. Indeed, some of the Baronet’s most astonishing diplomatic coups had been won by sheer persistence and a refusal to be irritated into foolishness. Impatience was one of those vices which the Ambassador considered nearly as fruitless as it was unbecoming. It had never been known to win an argument nor speed the events of the world, and nearly always resulted in some sort of imbecility. As imbecility was as foreign to his nature as a love of dirty cravats or crimson waistcoats, it was unlikely that Sir Basil would allow himself the luxury of giving in to his impatience just at this moment, when he had nearly attained the object of his journey.
Indeed, all the way from Southampton he had vowed firmly to behave as gentle with his brother as if he had been a poor unfortunate beast, and to avoid at all costs giving in to his natural irritation with him. Lord Hargate’s character was so entirely opposed to his younger brother’s (being a lover of wine, cards, and every sort of frivolity, which the Baronet abhorred) that it was a constant source of amazement to those who knew them, that they had both been conceived by the same parent. As Lord Hargate was, into the bargain, as foolish as he was weak, it was not surprising that Sir Basil, whose reputation as a brilliant diplomatic strategist was only equaled by his temperance, should avoid any unnecessary contact between them. It had certainly never occurred to the Baronet that he might someday be forced to ask a favour of his brother. And yet that day had come. The favour, besides, was of such a delicate nature, and of so great a magnitude, that the most ingratiating behaviour possible was called for. Reminding himself of this, Sir Basil suppressed the urge to beat his cane against the door. When, after some little while, an ancient butler with eyes still swollen from sleep came to answer the knock, he had managed to press his lips into something like a smile.
“Good Lor’!” croaked the butler upon seeing who it was. His eyes nearly popping out of his head, he stood stock-still, as if incapable of movement. “Good Lor’—I mean to say, it is the young master!”
Sir Basil eyed the elderly retainer with amusement. “Indeed it is, Groves. Though I think you might begin to call me Sir Basil now, if you don’t mind. I have been out of knee breeches these past twenty years at least. And do you think I might come in?”
Groves, who had been too amazed to finish putting on his coat, an operation he had neglected to complete before opening the door, stepped quickly back, blushing deeply. His withered old cheeks grew more crimson still when the Baronet stepped past him into the hall and gazed about him with an appraising glance.
“I see your new mistress has not lost a moment in taking up the latest vogue of decoration,” ventured the Baronet, having taken in with horror the new crimson wall hangings, an elaborate campaign table with feet in the shape of lion’s paws, and some other artifacts of the current rage in exotica.
The butler followed his glance uncertainly.
“Ah, yes, Your Excellency. Things have changed a great deal in these past years. Her Ladyship was in a great rush to cheer the old place up as soon as your father died, God rest his soul.”
“Well, she certainly has done something,” returned the Baronet dryly, “though I do not know if one could call it exactly cheerful. Is this what every English house looks like nowadays? I shudder to think what Iseleigh would have said, had he seen what had become of his handiwork.”
The butler shifted back and forth uncomfortably upon his feet. He held a generally low opinion of the young Lady Hargate, whom he persisted in thinking of as “new,” though she had held the title for eleven years. Happy had been the days when Hargate House had been a bastion of masculine tranquility, but those days were now long past, and Groves would not let his master’s brother see a hint of his true feelings.
“Ah, Sir—well, well! Ladies will be ladies, will they not? And I have lived long upon this earth without seeing one of ’em who will rest easy till she has made her mark upon every house she enters.”
Sir Basil met the butler’s eyes for a brief instant, and in their gaze was all that comprehension, which only affirmed bachelors can truly savour, of the absurdity of the female brain.
“Very true, very true. You are looking well, Groves.”
The butler, well pleased, made his bow.
“And you, Sir—if I may be so bold—are looking very fit. I trust France has agreed with you?”
“Ah, France! A nation as confounding as the female mind. But we had better not stand about thus.”
And with a quick glance toward the waiting coachman, which the butler instantly followed, Sir Basil drew back to remove a fleck of dust from his traveling cape, pull off his gloves, and run a weary hand across his brow.
“Good Lord, Your Excellency!” cried the astounded Groves. “You have not come all this way in a hired chaise! Come on, then, man!” continued he in an outraged tone to the bewildered coachman, who had only been awaiting his orders. “Come along! Don’t stand about like an idiot! Bring in the Ambassador’s trunks! No! No—” with a doubtful glance at the recipient of these orders—“you had better stay outside. I shall have a footman fetch ’em.”
And, snapping back to life, the old butler hastened off in search of the requisite servant. Sir Basil’s luggage was soon bestowed indoors, the coachman’s fee settled, and the Baronet’s outer garments removed. Groves was all agonized apology for having failed to prepare the Ambassador’s old apartments.
“I was not told, Sir, that you were expected.”
“Not told? How odd. Well, never mind. Only send my things upstairs and see if a footman will not unpack ’em. I have left my own man in Paris, for I shall not be above a few days in London. And do you, if you will, inform my brother I am here. I trust he is at home?”
Grove looked uncomfortable.
“I believe he is resting, Sir,” replied he, turning to leave, “but I shall fetch him. And shall I have a bottle of port sent into the library? Very good, Sir. Er, Sir—” the old man paused with an unhappy expression in his eyes.
“Yes, Groves?”
“Things—er—things are not what they used to be, Sir, if you take my meaning.”
Sir Basil soon saw what he meant. Passing up the stairs to the library, he glanced into several apartments, so transformed by the industrious Lady Hargate that they were barely recognizable. What had been for most of his youth, and a good deal of his manhood, rooms whose solid aura of masculine serenity had consoled his darkest hours, were now nauseatingly frilled up with ev
ery sort of feminine trinket. Scarcely a corner had gone untouched, scarcely an item of furniture unmarred by restless fingers and ambitious upholsterers. Still, he was relieved to see that the library was not much changed. Its commodious leather armchairs were intact, and the vast inlaid desk which had served his father and his father’s father before him was still as littered with papers as it had always been in the Baronet’s youth. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, and the shelves were still laden with books—though covered, as Sir Basil noticed with a smile, with a thick layer of dust. However, it was sufficient to induce him to pull up a chair before the hearth and stretch out his cramped legs to the heat of the blaze. After twelve hours upon the road, such comfort could hardly but induce a pleasant meandering state of mind. Soothed by the wine, the warmth of the fire, and the solid and familiar surroundings, the Baronet allowed his thoughts to wander aimlessly for a few moments.
How pleasant it was, in truth, to be back in England! His thoughts had been too full of his present troubles during all the journey from Southampton to allow much attention to the passing scenery. And yet the gentle hills and softly inscribed farmlands had done their work upon him. Even in the customary fog of this time of year, it had all seemed lovelier to him than anything in France. Indeed, he had nearly forgotten what a charming countryside it was, and when the carriage had rumbled over Westminster Bridge, allowing him his first glimpse of this fair city, what a pang had been in his heart! How much more splendid and civilized was this to anything in Paris! His first view of Regent’s Terrace, and some other of the improvements which had been worked since his departure, had filled him with pride. Say what you would, there was nothing to equal English ingenuity. The French could boast as much as they liked, but their greatest architects could not hold a candle to the best of the British master builders. And, for all their legendary elegance, they were incapable of making a man as comfortable as he was at this moment. What a pity he could not stay longer! But duty called. No, no—he would not stay above a fortnight. Only let him dispatch his present business with success and he would be on his way back across the Channel.
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