“I don’t think he has ever doubted that,” Pearl said in an odd tone. As though she were stifling a laugh. Even though Olivia hadn’t told a joke for twelve years. There were more important things to do than tell jokes, after all.
“Perhaps not,” she replied. “But after I prove this to him, he’s going to have to realize he loves me after all.” It had to be that Lord Carson just didn’t know his own mind.
It was such a wonderful idea she wasn’t going to wait for Pearl’s approval. Even though she did want it.
“So . . . what do you think?” she asked, smiling brightly at her twin.
Pearl stared back at Olivia. “You don’t want me to say what I think.” She shook her head. “You never want me to say what I think. You only want me to say that I think what you think. And that’s not what I think at all.” Her words spilled out in a rush, their tone imbued with a frustration Olivia had never heard from her twin before.
“It’s a good idea, though,” she pressed.
Pearl rolled her eyes. Not the response Olivia wanted. “I won’t say it is. I will say you should be careful. These are men you are dealing with, not unfed orphans or gentlewomen who just need a bit of embroidery to brighten their day.” And then she definitely rolled her eyes even harder. “Or—or kittens,” she finished, hoisting one of the four, probably Scamp, up from the floor.
“I will be fine. And when I am Lady Carson, you can come live with me and you’ll be able to do whatever you like.”
Pearl’s lips drew into a thin line. “Are you saying you don’t think I will get married? That I won’t have my own life?”
Oh dear, how did she always say the wrong thing? “No, that’s not what I mean at all.” She didn’t think, she just spoke. “It’s just that I thought I would be the first one to get married out of the two of us, because you’re not . . .” She paused, trying to think of the right word.
“Never mind,” Pearl said in a weary tone. “Go ahead and do what you want to. It’s not as though I can change your mind.” She glanced at Scamp, who was kneading her gown with two tiny paws. “As long as you also make it a project to find a home for these kittens.” She pinned Olivia with a hard stare.
Olivia’s heart hurt to think about it. “All of them? Surely not Scamp. Or Snapper. Or—or Mr. Whiskers,” she added, even though they had only chosen two names since they knew naming all four would mean it would be harder to let them go.
Although perhaps she would present one of them to Bennett—he was certain to welcome it gladly, and he’d be reminded of her every time he saw it.
Another excellent idea.
“Mr. Whiskers?” Pearl shook her head, then glanced down at the kitten in her lap, her expression softening. “Fine, we can discuss that. Get Mr. Wolcott accepted by Society and then we can decide what to do with these little love bugs.” She lowered her head to rub her nose in Scamp’s fur.
“It’s a plan,” Olivia said. Now she just had to figure out how to get Mr. Wolcott accepted while at the same time ensuring Bennett recognized her efforts.
It would be just like any of her other projects. Starting with her goal, then working out the steps until she achieved what she wanted.
Chapter 4
If you believe something is right, you should do it. Even at the risk of being wrong. But you are never wrong.
Lady Olivia’s Particular Guide to Decorum
“You’re home!”
Edward paused at hearing his father’s voice, then continued to shrug his cloak off, handing it to the waiting butler.
It was close to two o’clock, and normally Mr. Beechcroft was long asleep—the early bird catches the worm, he’d say with a grin as he headed to his bedroom at some ungodly early hour. As though worms were desirable.
Apparently the current worm his father wished to catch was an account of Edward’s evening.
Oh, it was wonderful. I was snubbed by no fewer than a half dozen of Society’s best and was called a bastard by a lady who’d just unknowingly thrown an object at my head.
A beautiful young lady. Not that that mattered, given what she’d said.
His father rounded the corner, huffing as he did. That shortness of breath concerned Edward; it had only started recently, a few months before they had arrived in London. When he asked his father about it, he’d dismissed it as just the excitement and fast pace of being in the city after so long leading a predictable existence. But the way his father’s expression looked as he spoke led Edward to believe there was more to it than that.
“Put those things away, Chambers, and bring a bottle of port and glasses to the library. Come, son,” his father said, clasping Edward on the arm and drawing him down the hall.
The house they’d rented was enormous, far too big for two people. But Mr. Beechcroft enjoyed flaunting his wealth and, as he’d explained to Edward when the latter had expostulated about the cost of something, showing your financial power meant people paid attention a lot faster.
It was unfortunate, Edward mused, that he couldn’t just walk into a Society ballroom with a sheaf of bills in his hand. It would certainly make things a lot simpler. His father’s enormous wealth was one of the few reasons Edward was tolerated in Society as much as he was—money was usually able to solve many problems, including the problem of illegitimacy.
He and his father walked down to the library, Edward slowing his normal, long-legged pace to accommodate his father’s shorter steps.
“In here,” his father said, unnecessarily, as he drew Edward into the room.
Edward took his father’s arm and assisted him into one of the comfortable chairs. The fire had burned low, so Edward knelt down and added a log to the flickering flames, waiting patiently until the wood began to burn.
“There,” he said, leaning back on his heels and looking at his father. “Now why are you up so late?”
His father opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by Chambers bearing a tray with port and two glasses.
“I’ll pour, just leave it there,” Edward said, getting to his feet. The butler nodded, placing the bottle and the glasses on the small table next to his father’s chair.
Edward poured out a healthy amount for himself and a smaller amount for his father and handed him the glass, returning his father’s look of dismay with an arched eyebrow—Dr. Bell had told Mr. Beechcroft he should not drink to excess, and it was up to Edward to enforce that, since his father could never say no to good food or drink.
“You are determined to ruin what days I have left,” Mr. Beechcroft said in a grumpy tone of voice as he took a sip from his glass.
The hastily spoken words—that there were only so many days left in his father’s life—made Edward’s chest squeeze tighter, and the casual words he’d normally reply with stuck in his throat.
“I want you to be here for many, many days, Father,” Edward said instead, settling into his own chair opposite his father. Mr. Beechcroft paused as he was setting his glass down, his eyes suspiciously bright as they rested on his son.
“But you haven’t answered my question. Why are you up so late?”
Mr. Beechcroft adjusted himself in his seat, accompanied by a few grunts and groans. His usual way of delaying speech when he had something difficult to report.
Edward’s chest got even tighter.
“Dr. Bell came to the house this evening,” he began. Edward resisted the urge to interrupt—Are you all right? What happened?—and merely nodded.
“I had a turn, you see, while I was working in my office. I was able to call for help, and Chambers called Dr. Bell, who came quite quickly. There’s the benefit to always paying your bills on time, unlike some of his more aristocratic patients,” he added with a chuckle.
Edward wanted to scream at his father to get to the point rather than chortling over how his wealth continued to benefit him, but he knew his father would never be deterred from pointing out his situation versus his well-born business associates.
Some of E
dward’s earliest memories were of his father drawing comparisons between the local aristocracy and their own family, such as it was, since it was only Mr. Beechcroft and him. The acknowledged bastard child of the wealthiest man in the area.
“And Dr. Bell said he believes I have an illness that might take me off within three months or might allow me to last for as long as a year.” His father picked up his glass and drained it. “So you see, you can fill up my glass again, since it won’t matter anyway.” He spoke in his normal light tone, as though he was just commenting on the weather or sharing his insight from one of his business meetings.
Not that he had just told his son he only had a few months, perhaps, to live.
Edward leapt to his feet to kneel on the rug in front of his father. He gripped the arms of his father’s chair, focusing on how his fingers were gripping the wood. Not on how the news was making his heart clench.
“What else did he say? What kind of illness is it? When are we returning home?”
They would get a second, third, and hundredth opinion, Edward thought. What was the point of having so much money if you couldn’t spend it on important things like this? The most important thing?
He couldn’t imagine the world without his father in it. He didn’t want to.
Mr. Beechcroft shook his head slowly, a small smile on his face. As though he knew something Edward did not.
“We’re staying right here, son.” He rested his palm on Edward’s hand, patting it softly. “I had an idea that this would be the news for some time now. That is why I wanted to come to London in the first place.”
Edward’s mouth dropped open, speechless for a moment. And then he spoke. “You are saying you’ve known about this? How long? What are we doing here?” Why had his father kept something like this from him?
“The thing is, I wanted to come to London and confirm my suspicions, and I did.” Mr. Beechcroft nodded his head in satisfaction. As though he’d concluded a successful business transaction, not been told he was going to die. “I have one unfulfilled wish left, son, before I go.” He placed his other hand on Edward’s remaining hand and looked his son directly in the eyes. “My wish is to see you settled and happy. I know it isn’t possible to give you my name—that was lost when your mother died before we could marry—but I can give you everything else. London is the only place you would be able to find a bride suitable for your, uh, situation.” He sighed as he spoke. Edward’s birth bothered Edward’s father more than it did Edward himself. Edward knew his father had loved his mother, but that his mother’s father had forbidden the match. But he had not been able to forbid Edward’s birth.
“I want to see you with a lady. Someone whose family name will give you the legitimacy I couldn’t.”
“You,” Edward began, taking as deep a breath as he could, “you want me to marry? Marry someone from Society?” The Society that turns its patrician nose up at me, that whispers behind my back, that will take my advice on what horses to buy and follow me when hunting, but doesn’t want me to dance with its daughters?
Oh, Father. You ask an impossible task.
But he didn’t say any of that. He couldn’t. This was his father’s last wish, and Edward had spent his entire life showing his gratitude to the man—his father hadn’t deserted him, he had given him every opportunity, he had loved him—and he wasn’t going to let a few turned-up noses and some disdain stop him, not now when it was so important.
“I do,” Mr. Beechcroft said, smiling broadly. “I would like to know that you are happy, son, and I believe you will be happy if you marry someone who shares your education and beliefs.” He left aside the obvious distinction of Edward’s birth. “I knew this day would come. Not so soon, obviously, but that is why I have insisted that you understand the business and can take over when I am gone. And why I wanted you to have every opportunity I never did—in education, in manners, in company.”
Edward felt his throat choke with tears, tears he couldn’t spill in front of his father. It would only upset him, and Edward never wanted to upset his father. His own birth had done enough of that.
Instead, he spoke. “Yes, I’ll marry, if that is your wish.”
Even though it was not what he wanted, not at all. And, he knew, it would be difficult to accomplish. But he would since it was what his father wanted, and he didn’t know how much time he would have to get it done. At least, he’d need to find someone suitable who would also agree to marry him within three months.
This would be far harder than his usual type of hunt. But it was one where he needed to succeed.
He just needed to assemble his hounds—namely his charm, his looks, and most important, his bank balance—and chase his fox, a lady who would accept his proposal despite who he was.
“You look terrible.”
Well, at least Edward knew he wouldn’t have to find a way to introduce the topic. It seemed it was written on his face.
“Thank you.” Edward gave his cloak and hat to the Raybourns’ butler, then followed Bennett down the hallway to the Marquis of Wheatley’s study, the room where Bennett conducted most of his business.
“Is your father never home?” Edward inquired, momentarily putting aside his worry for his own father.
Bennett’s lips twisted into a grimace. “Not often, no.”
The way his friend clamped his mouth together told Edward he wouldn’t get any more information than that. One of these days—on a day when he wasn’t reeling from the news his father only had a few months to live—he would pry deeper into Bennett’s relationship with the marquis.
“Sit down,” Bennett said, gesturing to the small sofa that was placed in front of the fireplace. Edward sat, stretching his legs out in front of him. The warmth of the fire felt good. Bennett sat in a chair next to the sofa, his elbows on his thighs, his expression focused and intent.
“What happened?”
Edward shook his head slowly. “My father, he was waiting up for me last night.”
Bennett nodded.
“And he told me he’s ill. He says he only has a short amount of time left. Three months? A year?” Edward swallowed against the lump in his throat. “And he wants me to get married before he goes.”
“I am so sorry, Edward,” Bennett said. “For your father’s news, not your marriage plans.”
Edward couldn’t help but laugh, grateful that his friend would know how to cheer him up. “Thank you.”
The two of them sat silent, Edward’s mind churning through all the possibilities—what if the doctor was wrong? Could he convince his father to leave London? He would be far more comfortable at home, Edward knew, but then Edward would have far fewer options for a bride. Which is to say none.
“How can I help?” Bennett asked after a few minutes.
Edward smiled. “Just being able to talk to you is helping. Thank you. And if you happen to know of any young ladies who might possibly wish to marry the illegitimate son of a merchant? Well, perhaps you could share their names.” He paused, then raised an eyebrow at his friend. “If only I could find a lady like Lady Olivia to propose to me, I wouldn’t have to do any of the hard work.”
Bennett emitted a short laugh, even though he winced. “Lady Olivia is very certain about things.”
“It must be so difficult being as irresistible as you are,” Edward replied in a dry tone.
Bennett laughed, then his expression changed. It was one Edward had seen many times before, and usually it meant that Edward was about to get in trouble. And then Bennett would feel terrible. But not before a wrong was righted.
He hadn’t seen it in years, however.
“I am thinking,” Bennett began, “perhaps you could distract Lady Olivia?”
“With what, my birth?” Edward spoke more roughly than he’d intended; the lady’s blurted-out insult still smarted.
“Ouch, no.” Bennett paused, then shook his head. “No, it probably won’t work.”
“What won’t?” Now he had to know prec
isely what his friend was thinking.
“Your getting to know Olivia. Perhaps being able to gently suggest she look elsewhere for a husband.”
“You have no interest in her, then?” Edward couldn’t keep the skepticism from his tone; after all, he’d seen the lady, all the vibrating intensity of her. She was lovely, and she seemed eminently suitable to marry Bennett.
“I do not.” Bennett spoke with a finality that emphasized his statement. “But I do not wish her to be hurt.”
“Of course you don’t,” Edward interjected.
“And you’re charming, when you want to be. You could get to know her.”
“If she would allow it,” Edward retorted.
“If presented the right way, she will take it as a challenge.”
He already knew Bennett was right about that; her words at the ball were proof. The lady seemed to live for challenges, undeterred by anything that might stand in her way.
Which made him concerned for Bennett, but he knew his friend could take care of himself.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
Distracting Lady Olivia would also be a good distraction from his worry for his father. And if he could help his friend as his friend had helped him for so many years?
By spending time with a woman who crackled with life, who made him want to touch her to see if she actually sparked?
He would gladly do it all.
Edward allowed himself to think about her as he mounted his horse, one of his own that he’d brought with him from the country.
“Settle down, Chrysanthemum,” he said as the mare sidestepped skittishly.
She liked London society less than he did, which was why he urged her into a trot, heading straight for the park.
It was early, far too early for anybody who might snub him to be out of doors. Which was why he continued to keep country hours—at least for waking—while in London.
He did like London, at least at this time of day. People were out doing work, not paying him any attention, which was just what he wanted.
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