by Nicole Byrd
Matthew gazed at him thoughtfully. “You might be right, at that.”
“Sadly, I know I’m right,” McGregor retorted. “I’ll need a really old coat and a few coins to start a game with.”
Despite all his anxieties, Matthew couldn’t help grinning. “Of course.”
“I said I had to blend in, didn’t I?” the Scot protested, his own smile raffish.
They shared a grin. But all jests aside, there would be the devil to pay, Matthew thought, when they caught up with Temming.
The next morning, Gemma rose early and waited for Lady Gabriel’s carriage to arrive, departing to spend another day helping Psyche supervise the refurbishment of the foundling home and the improvement of its inhabitants.
Louisa realized this was a worthy endeavor, but she found she sorely missed Gemma’s company. She went out for a walk with Lily and then returned home to interview several women for the position of her lady’s maid, eventually deciding on a redoubtable older woman with a French accent, which might actually have been real, who had until recently worked for a baronet’s lady and had excellent references.
“Lady Stirling was a joy to dress,” Madam Degas explained. “She had an unfailing air of style.”
But just as Louisa wondered uneasily if she would be forever compared to the late Lady Stirling, the other woman added, “Although, sadly, she lacked your lovely erect carriage, Miss Crookshank.”
Smiling, Louisa made up her mind. When generous terms of employment had been offered and agreed to, she rang for Lily to show the newcomer her room and acquaint her with the servants’ hall below stairs.
“I’m sure I will enjoy working here,” the older lady said, bestowing a small smile upon Lily. The younger servant smiled back and seemed impressed by the woman’s poise and air of decision.
With that settled, Louisa and Miss Pomshack shared a light luncheon. Then, with her companion beside her, Louisa went out for a fitting of her ball gown and looked in at the bookstore, this time without any alarming encounters with Society matrons. She also did not see any gentlemen of her acquaintance, and she thought a bit wistfully of Lieutenant McGregor. What was he up to, today, escorting Lady Jersey again?
Louisa and Miss P returned home with an armload of parcels, and Louisa sent her purchases upstairs with the footman. She followed, stopping in her room long enough to shed her pelisse and her hat and gloves and to glance into the looking glass.
A cup of tea would be just the thing, she told herself. She had sent Miss Pomshack off to enjoy her usual afternoon rest, and sitting alone in the drawing-room would allow Louisa to dip into the new novel she had purchased.
But just as Louisa had settled herself at the end of the settee, she was surprised to hear a knock at the front door. Was Gemma back so early? Or perhaps it was Lucas, feeling guilty for ignoring her!
Louisa closed her book and waited for the footman to appear, but to her surprise, a strange man stood behind him in the doorway.
“Mr. Arnold Cuthbertson, miss,” Smelters announced.
Mystified, Louisa stood and dipped a curtsy as the gentleman bowed. He was of medium stature and had brown hair of a medium hue. His face was ruddy from outdoor living, and his clothes were those of a gentleman, although they lacked the stylish appearance of those crafted by a London tailor. She tried to remember where she had heard the name before.
“It is kind of you to receive me,” the visitor was saying. “I am really in search of Miss Gemma Smith, whom I understood was staying with you? My sister had a letter from her not long ago.”
“Of course.” Louisa flashed him a smile. This was the young man from Yorkshire who had been courting Gemma, that was it! “I’m afraid she is not in, just now, but she may be returning before too long. Will you not have a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, that is very kind,” the gentleman said, his tone complacent. He waited for her to nod to the footman and then take her seat, then he sat down across from her.
“Have you just arrived in London, Mr. Cuthbertson?” Louisa asked politely. Was he missing Gemma? Was this a true romance? If it made her heart ache a little, especially with Lucas’s easy disregard of her company, Louisa would still be happy for Gemma if her suitor proved so constant.
“I came into town yesterday,” he told her. “But I was too travel-stained to seek Miss Smith’s company last evening, and anyhow, it was too late to pay a call.”
He had good manners, Louisa told herself, another good sign. When Smelters returned with a tea tray and cakes and sliced bread and butter, she poured out the tea and encouraged the visitor to chat.
As it turned out, he was quite willing to talk, mostly about himself. Louisa had been hoping to hear something of his courtship of Gemma, perhaps a declaration of his feelings for her friend. Instead, she learned how lush were his father’s pastures and how well bred were his sheep.
“Our wool is the best in the district,” Mr. Cuthbertson was explaining. “We are quite proud of our breeding record. Our ewes have dropped more sound lambs than any farm for half a league around.”
“How lovely,” Louisa said, trying to maintain her air of interest. But she was sincerely glad when she heard the sound of a carriage outside the house, and soon Gemma herself appeared in the doorway. She paused, looked at their visitor in astonishment.
Gemma had stepped out of the carriage thinking only of her aching back—she had found it impossible to stand by and watch the children wrestle with the soiled, heavy mattresses they were removing from the dormitories without coming to their aid—and the usual longing for a warm bath, which a visit to the foundling home always engendered. When she entered the house and looked up to see the man who, at her entrance, stood and made his bow, she felt a jolt of surprise.
Somehow, he seemed as out of place in Louisa’s drawing room as if York’s great cathedral had uprooted itself and marched south.
“Arnold!” she exclaimed. “That is, Mr. Cuthbertson. This is a surprise. Your sister did not tell me you were coming to London.”
He had bowed to her, but to Louisa’s obvious disappointment, did nothing more, his manner more crisp than loverly. “Since we are not formally betrothed, it would have been improper to correspond with you and tell you of my impending journey. Still, I decided to come and see how you were faring.”
“That’s very good of you,” Gemma told him slowly. She had forgotten how he pomaded his wavy hair in the old-fashioned style still favored by his father, the squire. And his coat did not sit well across the shoulders, not like Captain Fallon’s, but then, she could hardly fault her Yorkshire admirer for not having access to a London tailor.
“And my mother has been telling me I should visit the capital. Everyone needs a little town bronze, you know,” he told them both.
She had also forgotten how pompous he could sound. Surprised at her own response, Gemma nodded. Had Arnold altered so much during her short tenure in London, or was it possible that it was she who had changed? What could explain her response to him, her initial feeling of dismay, when she should have been delighted that he cared enough to come?
“My mother and sister send their regards,” he added.
“That is kind,” Gemma said. “I hope Elizabeth is well, and your parents.”
“My father is troubled by a tinge of gout,” he answered. “But otherwise, they are doing quite well, thank you.”
While they talked of his family in Yorkshire, Louisa sipped her tea and tried to hide her own thoughts. This squire’s son seemed rather tame, compared to—to—well, she could not compare every man to the dashing and somewhat wicked Lieutenant McGregor. And if Gemma loved him, that was all that mattered.
But when she heard a note of censure appear in the man’s voice, Louisa looked up again. Gemma had been explaining where she had spent her day, and Mr. Cuthbertson had frowned.
“Why on earth would you devote time to such a place, Miss Smith? You will appear little more than a nursery maid!”
He sounded as
prosy as Louisa’s last governess.
Gemma sounded defensive when she answered. “The children are greatly in need of help, Arnold—Mr. Cuthbertson, and—”
“I know that you came to town hoping to nose out intelligence that would tell you more about your parents’ identity, a worthy goal. You must think about appearances, my dear. This will not advance your quest to establish your true class. My mother is eager to welcome you to our family, as, I hardly need to add, am I, but first we must know if your background disqualifies you as a suitable candidate.”
“It was for that reason I approached the foundling home to begin with,” Gemma argued, her cheeks a bit flushed. “And when Lady Gabriel—”
“Lady?” he interrupted.
“Yes, Lord Gabriel has been kind enough to agree to look further into the matter of my parentage. And when his wife saw the condition of the home, she was moved to help improve the situation for the orphans there. I wanted to give her any help that I could.”
“Ah, then it is a very different matter,” the gentleman declared. “I understand you now. Gaining the approval of Lady Gabriel is worthy of your time.”
“Helping the children is also worthy of my time!” Gemma retorted, and for a moment her blue eyes flashed.
He gave her a patronizing smile. “Of course it is. We understand each other perfectly.”
Feeling uneasy, Louisa glanced from one to the other. She was not so sure that he did. But Mr. Cuthbertson seemed a man who was very sure of his opinions and the rightness of them.
“Will you not stay and have dinner with us, Mr. Cuthbertson?” she asked, with more politeness than enthusiasm. It was for Gemma’s sake, she told herself, even if they did have to listen to more lectures about sheep.
But to her private relief, Mr. Cuthbertson stood and gave her another correct, if not very graceful, bow. “I would not presume upon your hospitality without proper warning, Miss Crookshank. Perhaps another day. I shall allow you ladies to enjoy a quiet evening. I’m sure my dear Miss Smith—not that we do not hope to eventually replace that name with her true family designation!—requires rest after her exertions. But I shall call on you again soon.”
“We shall look forward to it,” Louisa lied.
And when he had shaken Gemma’s hand and made his exit, Louisa turned to peer at her friend.
“I suppose you are pleased to see him,” she suggested somewhat tentatively.
Gemma didn’t answer for a moment. She stared after their visitor, and her expression was twisted. “You must understand, I met very few gentlemen during my time at the girls’ school in Yorkshire. When Mr. Cuthbertson seemed interested in me, I was gratified. . . .”
And perhaps now that she had had the opportunity to widen her acquaintances, Mr. Arnold Cuthbertson did not look quite so appealing, Louisa thought.
“You are not yet engaged to him, Gemma. Don’t commit yourself if you are not sure! You know what you told me—”
Gemma bit her lip. “It would be base of me to cast him aside just because—because—he might not quite measure up to more sophisticated gentlemen. It is not his fault he has spent his whole life in Yorkshire.”
No, it was not a crime to be boring, Louisa thought, but it could hardly add to one’s happiness if one were forced to spend a lifetime with such a man. Boring and pompous and judgmental . . . None of these traits sounded appealing in a future husband!
Gemma was still speaking. “It’s ironic, actually. He has the same concern about me, that my antecedents might not measure up, that marrying me would dishonor his family name if my own is not certain.”
“If he cares enough about you, he should not mind that—” Louisa began, but Gemma shook her head.
“No, I cannot fault him for thinking of his own family’s reputation. Surely he has the right to know whom he is marrying!”
Louisa sighed. Perhaps Mr. Cuthbertson would improve upon further acquaintance. At the moment, no one’s suitor seemed to be acting very loverly. She thought of Lucas, spending his evening with his new friends, and even of Lieutenant McGregor, likely dancing attendance on the unyielding Lady Jersey. A pox on them all!
But in fact, Colin McGregor’s thoughts were far afield from the subject of titled ladies. In the end, he had decided on his own coat, the one that had been ruined by the bullet. With an obvious patch covering the hole and the scorched edges that surrounded it, the coat looked disreputable enough, to his sorrow, just the kind of garment that might have been bought off a used-clothing cart.
Captain Fallon and his valet had offered several other choices, but the two men were not quite of a size, and Colin found he was more comfortable with his own much-abused garment, even if its appearance did make him sigh, knowing what it had cost and how quickly it had met a bad end.
After they shared a quiet dinner in the captain’s rooms, Colin left the hotel and waved down a hackney, giving the address of the tavern in Whitechapel.
“You sure you want to go there?” the driver inquired, looking uneasy. “I can take you to a dozen better spots for drinking, with warm bodies for fondling if that’s your hunger, all closer and safer, too.”
Colin raised his brows. “Sadly, it’s this establishment I need,” he said. “I’ll add a shilling to your fee.”
The driver shrugged. “Your grave,” he said. “But you’ll have to walk ’ome. I’m not coming back there in the middle of the night to pick you up.”
Colin nodded, hoping he lived through this experiment in philanthropy. However, it was not only benevolence that motivated his offer to help. He had meant what he’d said to Fallon. He now had his own grudge against the cowardly weasel who hired other men to kill for him. Colin’s side seemed to be healing, and he had put aside the sling that had kept pressure off the sore muscles, but though it was a small wound, it was still painful, and there was always the price of his coat. . . . For a half-pay officer, barely eking out an existence, determined to maintain his status as a gentleman, a well-made and almost-new coat was no small loss.
As the carriage wound its way out of the more respectable areas of London and bounced down narrow, less well-lit streets, Colin remembered his childhood in the southwest corner of Scotland. His father had held a small farm in Ayrshire; his mother had been a vicar’s daughter from the north of England. Neither had had any great wealth, although the family had never gone hungry. He had worn patched clothing often enough then, hand-me-downs carefully mended by his thrifty mother. As a young man, he’d been tempted by the dashing red coats of the King’s army, even though his father had scoffed at the notion.
That was, perhaps, what had sealed his fate, Colin reflected now, grinning ruefully into the darkness. He’d had no wish to be a farmer, and anyhow, he had an older brother who would take over the farm when his father passed on. A small inheritance from a great-uncle had been enough to buy his commission, and since the war with Napoleon was still at its height, he had gone off dizzy with ambition and long-repressed energy, sure that he would defeat the French single-handedly, and advancement and fortune would soon follow.
But, although he had not made such a bad officer, he thought, the tides of a fickle fate had thrown him up against unexpected shoals. And here he was, having survived the dangerous currents of combat only to find himself adrift in peace time, surviving on half-pay, no more battles to fight and no resources within his grasp.
But he was a survivor, and bitterness buttered no bread, as his old granny had always said. He had enough Scot in him to be both quick-tempered and fatalistic. He’d never thought to fall so low as to strive to marry for money, even though better men, more prominent men than he, did it every day, but this was where he’d ended. If he could choose any woman to wed—his thoughts flew unbidden to the impulsive and appealing Miss Crookshank. She had money, true, but even without a farthing to her name, he would have been drawn to her. But she was already spoken for, and as he had warned her, she deserved better. He shook his head. And now the crowning irony—he’d survi
ved more battles than he could easily remember only to be wounded by some street thug hired by a dishonest solicitor. The idea offended him. He did have some pride left!
So when the cab pulled up at a narrow crossroads in what looked to be the worst part of a bad neighborhood, Colin was ready. He handed over the fare and climbed out. The driver lashed his horse and made a quick turn, then the hackney hied its way back to safer streets.
Colin entered the tavern.
Inside, the murky air reeked of stale beer, of smoke drifting from an ill-swept chimney, and strongest of all, the stench of unwashed clothes and even grimier bodies. Most of the tables were crowded with men whose coats were much less pristine than Colin’s and whose expressions, when they looked his way at all, were far from welcoming.
He knew all about being unwelcome. Colin had survived his first years in the army enduring the not-always-innocent baiting of his fellow officers—his fellow English officers—until he’d learned to moderate his strong Ayrshire accent and had also met two of his fellow subalterns with bare blades, easily drawing first blood. After that, they had treated him with respect, and in time, he’d even made friends among his fellows. Now, he hesitated not a moment. He made his way to an empty table, pulled up a three-legged stool and waited for a slatternly woman in a soiled apron to approach him.
“Ale, please,” he said, passing over a coin. This was the type of establishment where one paid first. With his own pockets empty, it was a good thing he had Fallon to back him. His gaze deliberately idle, Colin looked around. Yes, the stalwart Bow Street Runner Fallon had hired to watch the place would have stood out here like a ripe ear of grain amid a field of nettles.
As for Colin, he had no doubt he could appear as disreputable as anyone here. Most of them, anyhow, he thought as he glanced at the next table where sat a man with a peg leg and a missing ear. By the time the woman returned with his mug, Colin had located a game of bones in the corner. Taking his drink with him, he rose and made his way across the room.