by Anne Gracie
It was a lovely evening, clear and warm, with a faint breeze. Gerald collected them in a carriage. He had hired a box for the evening, and as they arrived, a stout young man in tight yellow inexpressibles rose to his feet. Number five.
Gerald introduced them. “Mr. Cuthbert Carswell,” he said. “A friend from my school days.”
Mr. Carswell bowed ponderously. “Delighted to meet such lovely ladies.” From the faint creaking sound that accompanied his bow, he was wearing a Cumberland corset, like the Prince Regent. Alice glared at Gerald. Gerald avoided her eye.
They seated themselves, a waiter instantly appeared, and Gerald ordered refreshments. Shortly afterward he spotted some acquaintances, excused himself and disappeared, leaving Alice and Lucy alone with Mr. Carswell.
Alice watched him striding away and disappearing into the crowd. Outrageous behavior for a host.
Unlike Mr. Frinton, Mr. Carswell had no difficulty carrying on a conversation. In fact, it soon became clear that, like Mr. Ffolliot, he was quite capable of carrying one on without involving anyone else.
“Did Lord Thornton happen to mention that I recently discovered that I am the presumptive heir for Lord Buttsfield, who owns a barony in Yorkshire?” He smirked at Lucy. “Lord Buttsfield is an elderly gentleman, a confirmed bachelor with no plans to marry, so it is my expectation that before very long I will become Lord Buttsfield. And when I marry”—he added in case she missed the point—“my wife will become Lady Buttsfield.”
“How exciting for her,” Lucy said.
“Yes. I fancy quite a few ladies will be setting their caps at me.”
“Naturally,” Lucy agreed coyly.
“In the meantime I have a snug little property of my own, in Yorkshire, where I am involved in conducting some very exciting developments in pig breeding.”
“Pig breeding, reeeally?” Lucy repeated with every evidence of fascination. Alice wasn’t fooled for a moment.
“Yes,” he continued enthusiastically. “I’m crossing the best of my Old Yorkshire sows with some Chinese pigs—I was after the famous Chinese Swimming Pigs, but sadly couldn’t find any reliable source. But these other Chinese pigs are well suited to my purposes,” he enthused. Without waiting for any inquiry as to his purposes, he continued, “They are small, but they mature early and put on a great deal of fat very quickly. Which is just what one wants in a pig.” He nodded in satisfaction.
Lucy glanced at her escort’s rounded stomach and pudgy thighs, and winked at Alice, her eyes dancing. Alice didn’t find it at all amusing. What on earth had Gerald been thinking, inviting this man? He couldn’t possibly believe that Lucy would be attracted to such an insensitive bore. Boar. Boor.
“And the best thing about the pigs I’m breeding—do you want to know?” Nobody said a word or moved a muscle. Alice decidedly did not want to know. “It’s their color,” he said triumphantly. “Guess what color they are?”
“I couldn’t possibly,” Alice said repressively. Had nobody taught this young man that it was not polite to prattle on forever, let alone dwell on the intricacies of pig breeding to ladies? Especially ladies he’d only just met.
“Go on, guess!”
“Puce!” Lucy guessed.
Mr. Carswell laughed heartily. “No, no. Try again.”
“Blue!”
“Ha-ha. Try again.”
Alice looked around, hoping for some release from what promised to be an endless guessing game. But there was no sign of Gerald or the refreshments, she could see nobody else she knew, and the concert hadn’t yet begun. The fireworks would come later.
“Pink?” Lucy said.
Mr. Carswell sniffed. “Pink? Common everyday, ordinary pigs are pink,” he said disapprovingly. “My pigs are special.”
“Then put us out of our misery and tell us what color your very special pigs are,” Lucy said.
“White!” he said triumphantly. “Pure, glorious white from snout to tail. They are refined pigs, you see, bred by refined people.”
“Is the flesh white too?” Lucy asked. “I can’t imagine eating white ham. Or white bacon.”
“Oh, we don’t eat them,” Mr. Carswell declared, shocked. “They are purely for show.”
“Then what’s the point?” Alice asked crossly.
“My dear lady,” he began, “the breeding of pigs is a complex and delicate process, rather beyond the lesser understanding of our dear females, but I shall try to simplify it for you.” He then embarked on a long and dreary explanation.
Alice gazed out over the throngs of people wandering through the pleasure gardens and wished Gerald would come back so she could strangle him for inflicting this appalling fellow on them.
Gerald finally returned at the same time as a waiter bearing a tray with champagne. Gerald glanced at Lucy, who was listening to Mr. Carswell with every appearance of fascination. She looked up, gave him an absent little wave and turned back to Mr. Carswell with a rapt expression.
Scowling, Gerald handed the drinks around, then said loudly and heartily, “Well, how are you all getting on?”
“Famously,” Lucy said. “Mr. Carswell has been telling us all about his fascinating pig-breeding program. Do you have any idea of the complex process in getting bacon onto your plate, Lord Thornbroke?”
“No.”
“Then you must tell him aaaall about it, Mr. Carswell,” Lucy said. “I’m sure he’ll be as fascinated as I was.”
“Oh, I will, I will,” Mr. Carswell said.
Gerald’s mouth tightened. Alice narrowed her eyes. So, he knew perfectly well the kind of man he’d inflicted on them. She would have words with Gerald.
“And did you know,” Lucy said, bright-eyed, “that Mr. Carswell is in line to become the Baron of Beef?” Alice choked on her drink.
“No, no, dear lady,” Carswell corrected her with an indulgent smile. “I’m to be the Baron of Buttsfield.”
“Silly me, my mistake,” Lucy said gaily. She raised her glass at Gerald. “Good health, Lord Thornbottle.”
The waiter then returned bearing more refreshments, including bread and butter, some chicken, an onion tart, some cheesecake and a dish of the shaved ham that Vauxhall was famous for.
“Call this ham?” Mr. Carswell picked up a slice with his fork and held it up disdainfully. “Paper thin. And not near enough fat on it.” He then embarked on a long-winded explanation of how other pigs he’d bred in the past produced a much finer ham than the stuff they were being served. He had just begun to describe the various breeds of pig and their entrancingly different qualities, when the concert began.
“Hush now, everyone,” Alice said crisply. “I very much dislike it when people talk through musical performances.” She directed a beady eye at Mr. Carswell.
He swallowed and the flow of porcine information abruptly stopped. The music swelled, and under cover of the sound she had a quiet word with Gerald. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at?”
“Playing at, Aunt Alice?” Gerald said with an innocent expression.
She eyed him narrowly. “You know very well what I’m talking about.”
Mr. Carswell leaned forward and gave her a reproachful look.
Alice leaned closer to Gerald. “I’ll speak to you later.”
* * *
* * *
I’m going to strangle Gerald,” Alice declared after he’d delivered her and Lucy home from Vauxhall. “I’ve asked him to call on me first thing in the morning. I was too angry to speak to him tonight.”
“Didn’t you enjoy yourself, Alice?” Lucy asked. “I did, immensely. Especially the fireworks.”
Alice looked at her. “You can’t possibly have enjoyed Mr. Carswell’s conversation.”
Lucy gave a gurgle of laughter. “The Baron of Beef? I did, in a way.”
“But the man was such a bore!�
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Lucy giggled. “I hope you spell it b-o-a-r.”
Against all inclination, Alice laughed. “Exactly! But how could you have possibly enjoyed talking to him—or listening to him, I should say. You looked quite rapt.”
“I wasn’t. I was just pretending to listen. Men like that only need the appearance of an audience.”
“Then why—”
“Didn’t you notice your nephew’s face?” Lucy said with a mischievous smile. “The more I doted on Mr. Porker’s conversation, the crosser Lord Thornton got. It was the same with Mr. Ffolliot. I cooed agreement with that dreadful man while Lord Thornton sat there glowering. It was so entertaining.”
“So you think Gerald is doing it deliberately?”
“Offering me impossible men? Yes, of course. I must say, he’s showing a great deal of ingenuity in coming up with them. I expect he’ll be running out of impossible gentlemen soon and will have to dig up some poor creature out of the gutter. Or debtor’s prison.” She laughed.
“Don’t you mind?”
“Not at all. It’s vastly entertaining.”
“But why is he doing it?”
Lucy’s smile was like the cat’s that ate the cream. “Perhaps to punish me for making him lose his race. He certainly gets cross when I seem to enjoy these men’s company, doesn’t he? And they enjoy mine.”
Alice doubted it had anything to do with the wretched race. “Well, you might not mind these ridiculous stratagems, but I do,” she said with asperity. Getting Lucy safely married was not a joke to her. Her future peace of mind rested on it.
Lucy seemed to realize this. She leaned forward to place a hand on Alice’s arm. “Please don’t worry, Alice. I promise you I will find myself a husband, and quickly. It just won’t be with your nephew’s help, that’s all.”
* * *
* * *
But, Aunt Alice, you said you wanted your goddaughter to meet suitable eligible men.”
“Don’t try that flummery on me, Gerald,” Alice said. Gerald had called on her, as she’d requested the previous night. Lucy had gone off with Lady Peplowe and Penny to visit Hatchards bookshop, so Alice had her nephew to herself.
“Not one of the men you’ve produced has been in the slightest bit suitable—eligible, perhaps, but you can’t possibly believe that a girl like Lucy, who is bright and lively, could be interested in marrying a man who never speaks or one who never stops speaking, and then only about pigs! Or one with the kind of attitudes that Mr. Ffolliot espouses? Or the rest? Honestly, Gerald, you couldn’t possibly have dredged up any worse candidates if you tried!”
“Nevertheless, she seems to have made a conquest of them all,” Gerald muttered.
“Is that disappointment I hear in your voice, Gerald? Because if Lucy has made a conquest of any of those impossible gentlemen, it is simply because she is a polite, kindhearted girl. She might appeal to them, but none of them could ever appeal to her.”
Gerald snorted. “Polite and kindhearted? She’s just trying to annoy me.”
Alice wasn’t going to argue with that. Lucy was playing her own deep game, as was Gerald. “At least now that we’re getting more invitations to balls and parties, she’s starting to meet suitable gentlemen at last.”
“Does that mean you no longer have need of my services?”
“If you were in the least bit serious about it, I would, but since you seem to want to make a mockery of my difficulties—”
“I’m not.”
Alice merely looked at him with brows raised.
“Oh, very well. I might not have chosen the more suitable of my acquaintances for Miss Bamber, but—”
“They were, I have no doubt, the least suitable, and if you are determined to waste our time, I beg you will desist. Now, how have you been doing with your search for Lucy’s father, or have you been spending all your time on finding ridiculous matches for Lucy?”
Gerald grimaced. “I’ve made inquiries all over, but it’s as you said: the man seems to have no permanent address. He’s as slippery as an eel. I’ve tracked him to several different addresses, but at each one he’s been long gone. Have you thought about hiring a Bow Street Runner?”
“Are you mad? Word would be out in no time. No, we need to make discreet, private inquiries, not have it on public record.”
“Then may I share the problem with Lord Tarrant.”
Alice looked at him in horror. “Lord Tarrant? No! Why on earth would you want to tell him my private business? I barely know the man.” Bad enough that he haunted her thoughts with his offer of friendship. She didn’t want him involved any deeper in her life.
“No, but I know him very well,” Gerald said. “And there’s no one I’d trust more with my problems.”
“It’s not your problem, though, is it?”
“You’re family, Aunt Alice, and your problems are my problems.”
“That’s all very well, but Lord Tarrant—”
“Has connections.”
Alice eyed him cautiously. “What sort of connections?”
“There’s a fellow in the Horse Guards who runs the most extraordinary network of investigative agents. They’re famed for efficiency and discreet inquiry. They don’t usually do private work—the network was built during the war to gather wartime intelligence—but there’s not as much work for them in peacetime, and there might be a possibility that one of the agents could track down Bamber’s whereabouts on your behalf. If anyone can swing it, it would be Tarrant. He’s a friend of the fellow who runs it.”
Alice didn’t like the sound of it. She didn’t want Lord Tarrant to be involved. She hardly knew him. She didn’t want him to know she was being blackmailed, didn’t want him to think badly of her. And she would die if he ever read those dreadful letters.
“You can trust Tarrant, Aunt Alice. He’s the most honorable, capable, trustworthy man I know.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t want him to—”
“Don’t you want Bamber found?”
“Yes, of course I do. It’s just . . .” She took a breath and tried a different tack. “What would you do to Bamber if you found him?”
“Force the swine to give up those letters.”
“Yes, but how? You wouldn’t hurt him, would you?”
“What do you care if I did? The man deserves a dam—a dashed good thrashing.”
“Yes, but it could get you into terrible trouble. People go to gaol for that kind of thing. Besides, scoundrel as he is, he’s also Lucy’s father.”
Gerald gave a derisive snort.
“And none of this is her fault.”
“It’s not yours, either. Now, may I tell Tarrant about the problem or not?” She hesitated, and he added, “It’s the best chance we have, and if Miss Bamber is refusing to have anything to do with lords, you’re effectively breaking your agreement with her father. Finding him and getting the letters back is your only hope, and for that we need Tarrant and his connections.”
Alice sighed. It made sense, but she really, really didn’t want Lord Tarrant to know. He would never look at her in the same way again.
“I know you’re uneasy about it, Aunt Alice, but it really is the best solution. Tarrant is off fetching his children at the moment, but he should be back in London soon.”
“In that case, give me until then to think about it. When Lord Tarrant returns, I’ll let you know my decision.”
Gerald then took his leave. Alice took herself outside to walk in the garden. Fresh air and greenery always helped her think more clearly.
But from the uncomfortable question of allowing Gerald to tell Lord Tarrant about her problems, her thoughts drifted to notions of a friendship between a man and a woman. Exactly what did Lord Tarrant imagine it would entail?
What did she know about bringing up young girls anyway? She’d never had anything
to do with children.
* * *
* * *
Miss Coates’s Seminary for Young Ladies was a tall, gray, stone building just outside the village of Daventry. Surrounded by a neat green garden, it didn’t really look like a prison for young hoydens. Though appearances could be deceptive.
Inside, James met Miss Coates, a tall, thin spinster with a calm, intelligent mien. Once he’d established his identity and shown her his credentials, her attitude warmed considerably. “I’ve never before taken in a child as young as Deborah,” she told him, “but her grandmother was adamant that the girls had to stay together.”
“Her grandparents were of the opinion that the girls were difficult to handle. I believe ‘hoydens’ was the word they used.”
“ ‘Hoydens’?” Miss Coates laughed. “Far from it. They have all the usual energy of children of that age.” She eyed him. “I understand that Judith and Selina spent their earliest years traveling with Wellington’s army.”
“That’s correct. Their mother returned to England for Deborah’s birth.”
She nodded. “That explains why they follow orders so well. They’re lively and high-spirited—at least Judith and Deborah are—but they’ve never caused me or my staff any real difficulty.”
He wondered again at his mother-in-law’s description of them as hoydens. “And Lina?”
She hesitated, then said, “Selina is a dear, sweet child, but quite shy and withdrawn.”
James wondered what that might mean, but he said nothing.
Miss Coates continued, “Your daughters don’t sleep in the dormitories, as the other girls here do. They have their own bedchamber. During the day, my servants care for Deborah, but outside of class time and in the evening, she is with her sisters.”
“I see.” He was agreeably surprised by the woman’s good common sense.
She gave him a thoughtful look, then said, “May I speak frankly, Lord Tarrant?”