Lady Disdain

by Michelle Morrison

  Then Eleanor had arrived, and for the first time since she’d left her own family, Sarah felt a kinship with another person.

  They had never spoken about their individual circumstances that had prompted their radical life changes, instead focusing only on their work and the immediate future. Still, Sarah felt closer to her cousin than anyone she’d ever known. It was going to be difficult to return to her solitary life, for despite Eleanor’s deep commitment to their organization, she was an earl’s daughter, soon-to-be-wife to an earl’s son. Even if she wished to continue working with Sarah there would be no way her influential family would allow it, now that they knew where she’d been.

  Deciding to try and salvage some enjoyment out of the evening, Sarah pushed away from the wall. She would seek out the pastry table and gorge herself. Despite Mr. James’ claims to the contrary, there was plenty of food before the midnight dinner if one knew where to look. She would then beg Eleanor’s mother to be allowed to return to their home. Lady Chalcroft had insisted Sarah remain with them in their Mayfair house rather than returning to Southwark tonight and Sarah intended to make the most of the evening by poring through Lord Chalcroft’s library

  She took a deep breath and re-entered the great drawing room, making her way along the walls to the tables where she had seen vast quantities of desserts spread out earlier.

  “Drat!” she hissed under her breath. All that was left now were crumbs and a smear of chocolate on a crystal platter. She should have grabbed one earlier, she chastised herself. Well there was no sense in remaining here any longer. Eleanor’s reputation and supposedly their charity’s funding had been saved by tonight’s events. She stood on tiptoe to try and find Lady Chalcroft and scanned the room, noting Eleanor had returned on the arm of the Earl of Southampton—her new fiancée’s father. The two seemed to be thick as thieves, and Sarah lifted her eyebrows. Only this morning, her cousin had considered the man to be a cold-hearted evil reprobate.

  Sarah let her gaze continue to roam until it landed on an older version of Eleanor’s face. Keeping Lady Chalcroft in her line of sight, Sarah wove her way unobtrusively through the room. Her light touch on Lady Chalcroft’s arm drew the woman’s attention.

  “I should like to return home.” Sarah explained. “That is, to your home, if I might? This is all a bit…much for me.”

  Lady Chalcroft’s brows drew together briefly as she studied Sarah’s face, but she patted her hand and said, “Of course it is. Let me call for the carriage.”

  Sarah felt the tension drain from her shoulders. She was always unsure around Eleanor’s mother, wondering if the lady disapproved of her personally or simply her chosen vocation.

  “Please do not trouble yourself, my lady. I can see to it. You will wish to remain here with Eleanor.”

  “Very well, dear,” Lady Chalcroft said, her expression softening. Sarah turned to leave, but Lady Chalcroft’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

  “Sarah,” she began hesitantly. “I never thanked you properly.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to ask why, but the countess continued. “For taking care of Eleanor these past two years. I’m very glad she had you.”

  Sarah felt tears sting her eyes for the second time that evening. What a fusspot she’d suddenly become.

  “I was lucky to have her, my lady.”

  Lady Chalcroft dabbed at her own damp eyes and scowled briefly. “Sarah, do call me Cousin Elizabeth. We are related, after all.”

  Sarah couldn’t have been more surprised than if the woman had declared her intention to come work herself in Southwark.

  “I—” she began, then cleared her throat. “I shall see you at home, Cousin Elizabeth.”

  The older woman briefly touched Sarah’s cheek, then turned as an acquaintance called out to her.

  Sarah was grateful that she was largely invisible to the other guests as she made her way back to the entrance hall, for no one stopped her to talk. But when she reached the wide doorway, she felt a prickle along the back of her neck that she’d only ever experienced when she’d been in dangerous situations in The Mint. Frowning, she turned to see what danger there might be amongst London’s haute ton. Her gaze was drawn immediately to Samuel James who, while tall, certainly shouldn’t have seemed to tower above everyone around him, pulling her attention like iron filings to a magnet. He was staring at her with an inexplicable expression on his face, half smile, half challenge.

  As her frown deepened, he raised his glass to her and gave her a droll grin, displaying white teeth and a dimple that truly did not belong in a drawing room. Feeling her cheeks go hot, she whirled around and left the room.

  What on earth was the man up to, she wondered. It was not as if a man like him would consider a woman like her—well, the idea was preposterous, but even more absurd was that she should even allow such a thought to form. She had no interest in a man like Mr. James. She had no interest in any man, she corrected herself. She was entirely too consumed with her work. Besides, those thoughts only led to heartache. Clearly Mr. James took a perverse pleasure in tormenting all women, but plain spinsters most of all. And with that sour thought, Sarah felt her normal equanimity return and she took herself off to find food and the Chalcroft library.

  Chapter Two

  Samuel James was stabbed awake by a shaft of light that slid between the heavy brocade drapes of his bedroom at the Cavendish Hotel. Though he squinted blurry eyes and sought refuge beneath his pillow, he in fact was responsible for the gap in the draperies that otherwise would have sealed the room in tomb-like darkness.

  He could generally awake fresh and alert after even only a few hours of sleep if he could awake to the sun. However, if the room remained dark, or during the shortest days of winter, it was all he could do to drag himself out of bed. Now, even as he sought shelter beneath his pillow, Samuel’s mind was awake and planning his day.

  His sister was to be married in two weeks to Lord Trowbridge and he would have to escort her on any shopping errands she needed to finish as Caroline had not yet made any close friends with whom she could wander the many shops of Bond Street.

  With a groan, he tossed back the covers and got out of bed to dress and ring for coffee. He would address the pile of correspondence that arrived every two days from the States from his publishing company, then spend an hour dictating his responses to the secretary he had hired while in London. His father had started as a small map publisher in Philadelphia shortly after the Revolutionary War, and in a country that was ever expanding west, new maps were constantly needed. But when Samuel had taken over the reins, he had expanded the materials published to include two periodicals and, more recently, a series of travel books. Most Americans had not had the opportunity to travel the world, busy as they were building a country and recovering from two wars, and his inexpensive, pithy journals had been well received.

  Eschewing a valet as an English affectation, he quickly bathed and dressed and was already halfway through his stack of correspondence when his secretary arrived to begin taking dictation. When word arrived from his sister that she was ready for their expedition, Samuel immediately dropped what he was doing and dismissed his secretary until the next day.

  Samuel loved his younger sister dearly; she was all that was left of his family and he would do anything to make her happy, including spending hours on Bond Street and at Burlington Arcade, helping her acquire the finishing touches to her trousseau. He would then escort her to whatever society event her fiancée’s mother determined was best to cement her future daughter-in-law’s place in the haute ton of London, that rarefied society of wealth and privilege that absolutely thrived on rules, strictures, and hierarchy.

  He and Caroline were in a bit of a nebulous position. On the one hand, Caroline was engaged to Lord Trowbridge, the future Marquess of Huntley, whom she had met two years previously when she and Samuel had travelled to Italy. Sam had been in the process of compiling a travel book for his publishing house when Caroline and Trowbridg
e had clapped eyes on one another and immediately fallen in love. They had spent every available moment together while in Italy. Though Sam had extended their stay by nearly two weeks, Caroline was devastated when he could no longer delay their return to the States.

  In the intervening year, letters between Caroline and Trowbridge had flown across the Atlantic to the point that Samuel declared it was fortunate he owned a publishing company and could buy paper at a discount.

  Lord Trowbridge, it appeared, was having a difficult time gaining his parent’s approval for an American nobody as his wife, which made Samuel inclined to doubt his devotion to Caroline. What grown man would allow his parents to tell him whom he could or could not marry? Caroline had passionately defended Trowbridge when Samuel remarked as much and he was subjected to an hours-long explanation of the English nobility’s complicated hereditary lineage traditions.

  “Oh, very well,” Samuel finally said, throwing up his hands. “He’s not strangled by his mother’ apron strings. Don’t see what good it does you, though.” At which point Caroline had burst into tears, leaving Samuel feeling like a complete ass. He’d done his best to reassures his sister that everything would work out, but she grew morose as weeks passed without a letter from Trowbridge.

  The reason for his silence became clear when Lord Trowbridge presented himself at Samuel’s Philadelphia manor.

  Lord Trowbridge’s father had died, and with his death had come the family’s realization that he had poorly managed the hereditary estates and the coffers were drained. Suddenly, the idea of a wealthy American daughter-in-law was not so appalling to the dowager Marchioness of Huntley, and Lord Trowbridge, now the Marquess, had pushed his advantage and without even a letter of warning, had hopped a ship to the States to ask for Caroline’s hand. Valuing his own life, for he knew the insanity of denying his sister that which she most wanted, Samuel had not hesitated to grant his permission.

  The only request the dowager marchioness had made was that the wedding take place in England so that she could ensure Caroline was accepted into the ton.

  Now, nearly a year later, Caroline was days away from becoming the next Marchioness of Huntley, and Samuel’s life seemed to revolved around the acquisition of satin gloves, embroidered slippers, and beaded reticules. It was a far cry from his daily routine of ink, paper weight, and letter dies. It was also, he realized, a damn site easier to acquire such fripperies than it was to find decent writers for his periodicals and travel books.

  However, despite Caroline’s soon-to-be elevated status, the Jameses were still Americans, decidedly lacking in either lineage or prestige. Or manners and refinement, apparently, though Samuel had not once propped his feet on a table or slurped his soup. Well, he considered, perhaps he was lacking in the finer qualities. For her part, Caroline seemed to have picked up things like which spoon to use for blancmange and when to say, “my lady,” or “your grace,” as if she were born to the life. Samuel suspected she had ransacked the back rooms of his publishing house’s book collection and dug out any book on English etiquette she could find. Were it not for her accent and vivacious disposition, she could easily pass for an English debutante of good family. And considering her determination to fit in, he suspected her American accent would disappear soon, though he hoped her open disposition would not be so easily dampened. There was a freshness to the way Caroline greeted each new person and experience that made those around her feel they were seeing things for the first time as well.

  Straightening his cravat and running a comb through his recalcitrant hair, Samuel grinned at his reflection in the looking glass. What a sentimental old sot he was becoming, he chided himself.

  Once back in the receiving rooms of their suite, he found his sister adjusting a hat pin in her bonnet.

  “Lady Trowbridge said I accounted myself well last night and that she thought I should make an adequate marchioness,” Caroline reported, forgoing any morning greeting.

  “And good morning to you as well,” Samuel said wryly. He was about to offer an opinion on the old biddy when Caroline continued.

  “I declare her effusive compliments nearly bowled me over. Imagine if she’d said I would make an acceptable wife for George? I fear such flattery would go to my head and I should turn into an unbearable bore.”

  Samuel opened the door and offered his arm. “And what makes you think you’re bearable now?” he asked.

  Caroline stuck her tongue out at him. “Lucky for me, I care not what either you or the marchioness think. George is the only person whose opinion matters to me and he thinks I am quite perfect.”

  “Well you’d best hurry up and marry him before he discovers the truth.”

  His sister raised a haughty eyebrow. “Such an ungentlemanly remark is going to cost you a new bonnet.”

  “I’ve no need of a new bonnet, thank you.”

  “Good, because you shan’t be wearing it,” she said as she led the way to the modiste.

  Two hours later over ices, Caroline informed him of their evening plans. Samuel was content to let her words flow over him, confident that she’d tell him three more times what to wear before tonight.

  “Samuel!” Caroline exclaimed in a tone that implied it was not the first time she’d called his name. “Who was that dark-haired lady with whom you were speaking last night?”

  “I’m sorry, sister dear. I was envisioning what a beautiful bride you are going to be.

  “Of course you were. Now answer my question.”

  “I spoke with many ladies last night, dark haired and otherwise. Trying to ingratiate myself with your ton, you know.”

  “Yes, but only one caused you to have That Look.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? I don’t have A Look.”

  “No, you have eighty-seven. But the look I’m talking about is the one that says you’ve met someone who peaks more than your usual interest in women.”

  “And what do you know about my usual interest in women?” he asked with as much haughty older brother-ness as he could muster. Not surprisingly, it had no effect on her.

  “Plenty,” she scoffed, her American accent sharpening. “You are interested in all women. You don’t have a preference in shape, form, or hair color. Debutante and widow appeal to you equally.”

  “One might think you were implying I had no standards,” he said sardonically.

  “Not at all. You simply appreciate all women. But I digress…”

  “You don’t say,” he said, motioning for the cheque.

  “You only get That Look when someone challenges you. When she attracts your wit and brain as well as your…well,” she flushed and Samuel raised his eyebrows at her.

  “Well, the rest of you. You know what I mean,” she finished, flustered.

  Samuel took pity on her and laughed softly. “I do indeed.”

  Grasping at her composure, she stood as he held out her chair. “The point being, you had That Look last night when you were talking to a dark haired lady in blue.”

  “She was not a lady,” he said, smiling as he recalled his lesson in who was called lady and who was not.

  “Samuel!” Caroline said, clearly appalled.

  “Smooth your feathers, goose.” He proceeded to explain what the mystery woman had told him.

  “And so who was she?”

  “I’ve no idea. She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “How very vexing for you,” Caroline mused in a near-perfect English accent.

  “Not at all. She did, as you say, appeal to my wit and she certainly challenged me, but I assure you, it was a momentary attraction. The lady showed no interest in me and if you are so astute as to note the fine points of my preferences, you will have also noticed that I do not rise to an unnecessary challenge. If a woman does not return an interest in me, I move on. I’m not going to tread where I’m not welcome.”

  “Yes, but perhaps you are missing out on a true gem of a woman because you do not first seek to get to know her. Not all women
are drawn only to your stunning good looks, you know.”

  “Stunning good looks, eh?” he said with a smile as he guided her out of the ice shop and across the street to her final shopping stop.

  “Yes, well, I find your face only passable, but I do seem to be in the minority. The point being, I think you should try getting to know what’s in a woman’s mind before you dismiss her. You might be pleasantly surprised.”

  “Fell in love with Trowbridge’s mind first, did you?” he asked mischievously. “As I recall, you declared that he was the man for you after just one dance.”

  “Yes but you and I are quite different,” was her response, delivered as haughtily as only a younger sister could.

  “And what is this sudden interest in my love life? You’re not generally such a nag. I should warn Trowbridge that you’ve the makings of a fishwife. He may want to reconsider the marriage.”

  “He won’t change his mind,” she said with a sly little confident smile that made Samuel wonder how much he didn’t know about her and her betrothed’s relationship.

  “But to answer your question, the reason for my nagging, as you call it, is that I’m worried for you. You shall be all alone when you return to Philadelphia.”

  “I’d scarcely call a house full of servants being alone.”

  “You know what I mean, Samuel. It’s been just the two of us for so long now. I fear you shall be lonely. I should like nothing more than for you to find the kind of love Trowbridge and I have.”

  “I hate to burst your romantic little soap bubble, but I don’t see myself leg shackled to one of these proper English roses. They just don’t appeal to me.”

  “Except the lady in blue,” Caroline persisted.

  “Let it go, Caro,” he snapped, at the end of his patience. “I appreciate your concern, but I shall be fine. Unlike your English lord, I’ve no need of an heir or a dowry to carry on the family estate and should I require companionship, I assure you I shall not be found lacking it.” With this statement, he delivered her into the care of the seamstress and announced he would return in an hour.