by Regina Darcy
He met with Mrs. Keller, the housekeeper, a lugubrious woman who had maintained the household for his father. When he first returned home, she seemed relieved to learn that he had no plans, at the time, to do more than eat and sleep in the house. The main staff had long since been dismissed, or they’d left, without wages. Mrs. Keller had not been paid either, a matter which Christopher rectified as soon as he saw the accounts. He had saved most of his wages as an officer and this was one account which needed to be paid. She was very grateful and surprised as well, by which he realized that she’d had no expectations of being paid by his father. Nor by his brother, although it was unlikely that anyone expected Jasper to pay for anything.
He authorized Mrs. Keller to buy such provisions as they needed. As she was a housekeeper and not a cook, he was grateful that she was willing to prepare the meals, and he saw no reason to expect anything grand. “Whatever you can prepare will suffice, Mrs. Keller.”
“Whatever we can afford, Your Lordship,” she replied gloomily.
“Quite.”
He was surprised to see that several invitations had arrived in the post. If he intended to place himself in the matrimonial market, he’d do well to accept them. He glanced through the names, recalling friends from his past. He wrote to accept, thinking sardonically as he did so that the more meals he could cadge from friends, the longer the larder at home would last.
He spent the evening on errands that could not be avoided: a trip to Tattersalls to consider a purchase of a horse at some point and another trip to Bond Street. The suits he had ordered were ready for him. The tailor seemed surprised when Christopher presented him with payment for the garments. “If you receive any other orders,” Christopher directed, “send them to me.”
Understanding dawned in the tailor’s eyes, but he was too discreet to comment. Christopher did not intend to let Jasper know that he planned to cover his expenses, although at this point he had no means to do so except through his dwindling store of funds from his military savings. But a debt was a debt and deserved to be paid. He was no longer entitled to appear in uniform, having resigned and sold his commission, therefore the clothing which was a uniform of sorts, was necessary.
“Davenport! I say, hold up there!”
Christopher turned at the sound of his name and saw Everard Lancaster, a friend since their Eton days, hurrying toward him. “Sorry I missed your father’s funeral,” Everard apologised. “I was away on business. In your neighbourhood, actually. Davenport-upon-Kent. Fancy something to eat? Margaret won’t be up yet, but the kitchen will be able to provide something.”
Margaret . . . that would be Everard’s wife, Christopher recalled. Fashionable ladies took their morning meal abed, but apparently Everard had had reason to be up early. Christopher agreed.
The Lancasters lived in Mayfair in a small residence. Christopher’ newly attuned eye noticed when they entered that the rugs looked new, the draperies were brightly coloured and the furnishings were fashionable. After the servants had delivered a platter of cold meats, bread which had just come fresh from baking, cheese, apple tart and several wines.
“What’s the thinking on Bonaparte? Everard asked once the eating got underway.
“I could ask you the same,” Christopher said. “I expect he’ll overreach himself.”
“The word is that he has plans to invade Russia.”
‘”Isn’t the word that he plans to invade everywhere?” Christopher said. The food was very simple, but very good. Much better than Mrs. Keller’s, who despite her best intentions, was no cook.
“Yes, no doubt, but what do you think?”
“It depends on when he invades, certainly. Has he more brothers to put on thrones?”
“I’ve no idea. There seems to be an abundance of Bonapartes. Do you think he’ll succeed if he invades?”
“I think that we’ll have to stop him,” Christopher replied.
Everard seemed satisfied with this. “What about you?’
“I’m out of it. Resigned my commission.”
“Now what? Marriage, no doubt?”
Without going into detail, Christopher agreed that he would be looking for a wife.
Everard was thoughtful. “No objection to an heiress, I imagine?”
“None at all. Why, do have you someone in mind?”
“I do, actually. She’s a pretty thing, not out yet.”
Christopher made a face. “I’ve no mind to rob a cradle.”
“She is of age.” Everard seemed to be considering something. ‘See here, you’re a decent sort. Not many in London are, these days. Too many young bucks with nothing but gambling debts and drink to speak of. You seem to have kept your vices to a minimum.”
Christopher laughed. “Perhaps I simply haven’t been tempted. Why are you so mindful of this girl?”
“It’s a bit of an odd story. She’s a novice.”
“A what?”
“You know, a novice. In a convent.”
“I should think that takes her neatly out of the marriage mart.”
Everard waved a hand. “She doesn’t want to be a nun. Her aunt is the Abbess, but the girl doesn’t have a vocation or whatever they call it. The Abbess is looking for a husband for her niece.”
“How are you acquainted with an abbess?
“I do business with her. Her abbey makes medicines; you know the sort of things. Salve for burns, rashes, tonics for agues, and I’ve gone into business.”
“What sort of business?”
“Selling products from the abbey. It’s proving very profitable too. The convent members know everything about herbs and that sort of thing and their cures are quite effective. I should think you know the place, Boxley Abbey; it’s in your village.”
“Yes, but it is a catholic abbey,” Christopher pointed out with a frown. “We’re members of the Church of England.”
“”It’s nothing to do with church,” Everard replied. “It’s what they produce to run the Abbey and they’re very good. If you’re interested, I could use a business partner.”
“I’m regrettably out of funds right now,” Christopher replied.
“You won’t be if you marry Beatrice, the wealthy debutant I have in mind for you.” Everard told him. “Margaret is having a supper tomorrow night; Beatrice is invited. She doesn’t know anyone fashionable.”
“I don’t know if I quite qualify as fashionable.”
“You’ve a title,” Everard said bluntly. “Beatrice has a fortune. You’ve nothing to lose by coming to supper.”
CHAPTER 4
Beatrice looked doubtfully at her décolletage appearing above the low neckline of her gown. “I don’t know if it’s quite . . .”
Margaret Lancaster placed her finger underneath the girl’s chin, raising it so that Beatrice could see her eyes. “It’s quite,” she said firmly. “You want to look like a fashionable young lady, not a novice. Correct?”
“Yes, but I don’t know if Auntie Jane would approve.”
“The Abbess wants you to make a successful marriage. She wants you to meet people of quality. She would not want you to look dowdy.”
“You will be happy to know that we’re having a rather nice mix to supper tonight.” Margaret adjusted the placement of Beatrice’s jewelled necklace. “You’ll enjoy meeting them. Particularly the Earl of Kent.”
“Why particularly him?” Beatrice asked, her curiosity peaked.
“He’s very good looking,” Margaret whispered, linking arms with Beatrice as they headed down the stairs. “He’s just come into a title. He’s been in the army, so he’s sure to have interesting stories, and he’s a bachelor.”
Beatrice took a deep breath to steady her nerves. It had sounded so simple when she’d asked her aunt to let her go out into the world.
But now that she was out among people in society, she found herself tongue-tied in the company of others, particularly the glib young men who, she was certain, found her attractive only because she was an heires
s. They were bored by her conversation and no wonder. What did she know of the ton? She couldn’t converse about the actors appearing on Drury Lane, or Lord Byron’s poetry. No wonder they thought her dull; these elegant, drawling young men with their impeccable cravats and their snuffboxes. What did she know? She knew herbs, she knew the holy hours, and she knew, more than anything, that she was sadly out of place in London.
“I’ve seated him beside you,” Margaret told her.
Beatrice felt a knot form in her stomach. He would be expecting a witty young lady and instead he would have her for a conversation partner. No doubt he would decide to talk to the woman on his other side and she would spend another miserable supper with no one to talk to and no conversation worth listening to.
She decided to put her best foot forward. She had begged her aunt to let her enter Society. She could not admit defeat so soon. Boldly, she turned to the gentleman on her right, who had been introduced to her as the Earl of Kent. As the footmen began to serve the plates, she asked tentatively, “What do you think of Lord Byron’s latest poem?”
His Lordship smiled. “I’ve no idea,” he confessed. “I’ve been away for so long that I barely know who Lord Byron is. I believe he’s accounted a good poet, or so I’ve heard, but for myself, I have no opinion. What do you think?”
Beatrice’s smile was a combination of relief and delight. “I have no idea,” she said. “I only asked because his name seems to come up at every social occasion that I’ve been invited to, and I felt that I had to say something before you thought me hopelessly stupid.”
“Why would I think you stupid because you have no opinion on a poet?” he asked curiously.
“Because I feel as if I should know. Only I don’t know anything, you see, because I’ve never been out in Society.”
Christopher took a sip of wine. It was very good. The medicine business must be going very well for Everard.
“I’ve been in the army for the last ten years,” he shared. “I don’t know anything either. We can both be hopelessly stupid and perhaps have a very enjoyable evening.”
Everard hadn’t exaggerated, Christopher realized. She was very pretty, with thick golden hair arranged in ringlets that cascaded to her bare shoulders. Her simple white dress was not ostentatious but Christopher estimated that the look was deceptive; a dressmaker had no doubt put a great deal of effort into designing a dress that complemented Beatrice’s youthful beauty. Her eyes were brown and enormous with thick black lashes that opened like curtains as she reacted with unfeigned response to a comment. As she smiled, he noticed the dimples that created two tiny little indentations into her cheeks.
She was more than pretty; she had the makings of a beautiful woman, once she acquired the poise and assurance that would eventually come her way with more experience. It would be a shame, though, if she lost that fresh spontaneity that led her to say what she was thinking and learned to conceal her candour with the practiced art of the ton.
“Yes, but you can talk about the army. Everyone is curious about what Bonaparte will do.”
“I don’t know any more about what Boney will do than the next man,” he countered.
Her smile showed her dimples. “Yes, but you can pretend to know,” she said. “It won’t matter; I daresay people will repeat it tomorrow as if they’d heard it straight from the Prime Minister.”
“The more fools they, then. The Prime Minister doesn’t know either. Although I suppose he’s not in a positon to have to pretend that he knows. There’s some virtue in being rather unimportant.”
She showed her surprised. “Unimportant? Why are you unimportant?
He let the footman place the second plate. Beatrice followed his lead. “This food is very good, isn’t it?” she said.
“Very. Much finer than anything I’ll be serving at my table.”
“Unless you marry well,” she said.
“True.” Her candour didn’t make him uncomfortable. It was no more than the truth.
“Margaret said you’re looking for an heiress.”
“I must look for them; they are unlikely to be looking for me,” he replied with a bemused smile.
Her beautiful eyes were intent upon him. “Why not?”
“I don’t know anything about Byron,” he said promptly. “Besides that, my estate is in ruins and I intend to repair it.”
He wasn’t sure why it was so easy to tell this chit of a girl about the repairs that needed to be made in order to restore the estate to its former standing in the village.
But she seemed knowledgeable, nodding eagerly when he talked about the mould problem. It had been the same at the Abbey outbuildings, she agreed. “It seemed to take us forever to make it right.”
“You did the work?”
“Who else?”
“Who else, indeed. Well, perhaps I should hire you; you know a damned sight more about it than I do.”
She laughed out loud, a lovely peal of gaiety that was genuine and not the artificial humour of a society lady intent on making a good impression.
“Margaret is the one who told me that you plan to marry an heiress,” she admitted. “I suppose I should not say that?”
“It’s the truth,” he replied. “Why not say the truth?
She considered him, her lovely gaze intent upon him as if she were not sure whether he was speaking in jest. “That seems to be a quality ill-suited to Society,” she said, sounding as if the realization troubled her.
She was so young; heartbreakingly young, with an innocent belief that people should tell the truth. He was moved by her innocence; it was not a trait with which he was familiar. Innocence had no place in the army, to be sure, but London Society, with its stylized responses and rigid code had no interest in innocence, except as something to debauch.
He picked up his glass of wine. “To truth,” he said softly.
She raised her glass, smiling brilliantly. “To truth.”
CHAPTER 5
Christopher felt lighter of heart than he’d ever felt before. He had met the heiress, only to find that she was much more than a young woman with an ample income to bring to a marriage. She was charming and natural; clever too, but not in the brittle manner he’d come to expect from the ladies of the ton.
Christopher was surprised to see his brother Jasper at the house when he returned after the supper. Jasper looked up expectantly as his brother entered the drawing room.
“A good hunt?”
Christopher unknotted the cravat it had taken him an hour to knot. “The supper was enjoyable. And your evening?
“Well enough. I daresay yours was more profitable.”
“Did you lose?”
Jasper gave a crooked grin that lacked mirth. “One does, upon occasion. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ve one or two options that look promising.”
Christopher wondered what those options were, but he decided not to ask. Tomorrow he would be heading back to the village to speak to the Abbess and request her permission to call upon her niece, who was staying with the Lancasters. Everard, who had business at the Abbey, would be going with him. Everard would be able to vouch for the fact that Beatrice was willing to be courted and that Christopher was a man of good character. He had warned Christopher to expect to be interrogated; the Abbess was accustomed to being in authority and she was fond of her niece. She would not spare his feelings or his sensibilities in her questioning. Christopher thought it was probably a very good thing that he’d been out of the country for the better part of ten years, returning sporadically when he was on leave, until two months ago. He hadn’t lived a blameless life abroad, but he had avoided the usual transgressions that a member of the haute monde would engage in as a matter of course.
Jasper rose from the chair. “Good night, brother. I’ve business to attend to. I’ll leave at first light.”
“Business? What sort of business?”
Jasper grinned. “You’re not the only one on the hunt, brother.”
“A marriag
e? Excellent.” Marriage might settle Jasper down. “Do I know her?”
Jasper’s grin spread farther across his face, as if he were privately amused by what his brother had asked. “You do. But I daren’t reveal her name; the lady hasn’t given me an answer yet.”
“Do you feel hopeful?”
Jasper turned at the door before leaving the room. His eyes were bright, almost feverish. “How can she, when she doesn’t yet know that I’m going to marry her?”
Christopher didn’t like the look of Jasper’s smile; there was desperation there, and also audacity. That was a dangerous mix. “Jasper. . .” he said in warning. “Have a care.”
But Jasper had already left the room and Christopher voiced his warning to no one but himself and his vague fears that his brother was heading for mischief. Then Christopher’ thoughts turned from the problem of his brother to the tantalising prospect of his future wife, banishing all worries away.
Just a few streets away, Beatrice was confiding her thoughts to Margaret. ‘He’s quite admirable, Margaret.”
“I told you that you’d like him,” Margaret replied smugly.
“Everard thought from the beginning that you two would make a match.”
The two women were in their nightgowns and wrappers, their hair loose. Everard had already gone to bed but Margaret, understanding that Beatrice would want someone to confide in, had gone to the girl’s bedroom to hear the story of how she and Christopher had gotten on.
“He’s not at all like the other gentlemen I’ve met,” Beatrice said wonder colouring her voice. “He says what he means.”
“I suppose, being a soldier, he would.”
“And he doesn’t make one feel stupid or clumsy.”
“My dear, you are none of those things and no one should make you feel so.”
“He doesn’t even mind that I don’t know Lord Byron’s poetry.”
Margaret started to laugh then thought better of it. The young were so earnest. “Everard says,” she told Beatrice, her voice low as if someone would overhear, although there was no one else in the room, “that Byron is a shocking libertine, poet or no poet, and that if he weren’t a lord, he’d be horsewhipped.”