The Gentleman's Daughter

by Bianca M. Schwarz

  Miss Chancellor laughed, and this time there was a note of bitterness in it. “If I were lucky enough to find the right man, perhaps. But it no longer matters. I now earn enough with my paintings to support myself, and soon enough I will be five and twenty. My mother will finally give up on my marrying some widower, and my father will release my dowry to me. He has promised to help me procure a cottage so I can dedicate myself to my art.”

  Henry felt a little disheartened by her attitude toward marriage, but admired that she had purpose and a workable scheme. “You seem to have your life well planned out.”

  She gave him a brilliant smile. “Oh, I had it all worked out by the end of my season six years ago. I am just biding my time.”

  Henry wondered what had happened during that season to put her off marriage. Eighteen seemed far too young to resign oneself to a solitary existence. “So you did have a season?”

  She shrugged dismissively. “Yes, but it didn’t take. The next year it was my younger sister’s turn, and the year after that my grandfather died. Then it was time for my sisters Millicent and Delia to come out, and by the time they were married, the babies had started coming. With one thing or another, I have managed to avoid a second season.”

  She seemed to take some pride in having thwarted her mother’s ambitions to marry her off, but Henry found it odd she had been allowed to stay behind in the country while her sisters had their seasons. He had many more questions, but he’d done enough prying for the moment, so he changed the subject. “May I escort you back to town, Miss Chancellor?”

  SMILING UP AT HIM, SHE shrugged. Her mother would be furious, of course, but there was no need for the baroness to find out.

  “I assure you it is not necessary, but I would be glad of the company.”

  Isabella was aware the man in front of her was attractive, and his interest in her disheveled self was flattering, but it did not explain her telling him things even her brother didn’t know. Good God, Sir Henry had caught her with her feet bare and she’d had to ask him to turn away so she could put her stockings and shoes back on. She would definitely have to remember to keep her boots on from now on. And what if he had been less of a gentleman? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  She wanted to paint; in fact, she needed to paint; it was her purpose, her profession and her way to be independent. She would not let propriety or an awareness of danger get in her way. After all, the worst danger lay in wait in places and with people considered safe. She knew that better than anyone.

  Isabella placed the board with the wet painting against the tree and dismantled her portable easel. Once everything was in her canvas bag, she jammed her wide-brimmed sun hat on her head only to realize she still wore a paintbrush in her hair. Wincing, she glanced over at Sir Henry, who had picked up her bag and watched her with bemusement. There was something utterly irresistible about the humorous warmth in his eyes.

  “Goodness gracious, you must think me a hopeless heathen.”

  Henry only laughed as she secured the hat with the attached scarf. He picked up the board with the painting and gestured for her to precede him back toward Brighton. “After you, Miss Chancellor.”

  Nodding her thanks, she fell into step beside him. They strode out steadily for a few minutes before Isabella asked, “Tell me, Sir Henry, do you live in the area or are you here for the summer?”

  Henry gave her an apologetic half smile. “My grandmother informed me recently it was time for me to clean up my reputation and get married to a respectable woman. So, I’m afraid, I’m here to find a wife.”

  Another peal of laughter escaped Isabella, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “The reluctant bridegroom and the unwilling bride! It sounds like the beginning of a rather lurid novel, the kind my mother would have hysterics if she found me reading.”

  Henry grinned from ear to ear, but felt compelled to elaborate. “I might be forgiven my reluctance after the season I just had.”

  Isabella stopped in her tracks and winced. “Oh my word, are you the same Sir Henry whose almost-fiancée caused a scandal in some duke’s ballroom not long ago?”

  Henry nodded and waited with some interest for any further reaction from her.

  “You have my sympathies, but if you ask me, you are well out of it if it’s true this woman would have mistreated your daughter.”

  He smiled and decided, right there on the cliffs, he would do everything in his power to change Isabella’s mind about marriage. “Lady Jane indeed said several things about my daughter I found unforgivable. And you are right, I am well out of it; she really only had love for my money. However, it was still distressing to discover these things about a woman I had liked, whose opinion I had respected.”

  Isabella knew a thing or two about people one had liked and trusted doing things one had a hard time forgiving, so she felt for him, but didn’t quite know what to say. They walked side by side in companionable silence until they reached the top of the last bluff and started to descend to the beach and the edge of town.

  Henry offered his arm on the steep decline and asked, “Where have you taken residence for your stay in Brighton?”

  Isabella smiled her thanks for the assistance on the path. “My mother and I are staying with one of her old friends, Mrs. Curtis, on Broad Street. It’s on the other side of the Steyne from here, just off the Marine Parade. Where are you located?”

  The question was out of her mouth before she could remember young ladies didn’t ask gentlemen where they lived. Henry, however, showed no sign he had noticed her impropriety.

  “I have taken a suite at the Waterfront Hotel. It has rather splendid ocean views,” he offered by way of an explanation.

  Isabella sighed with some drama. “You are lucky indeed! All I can claim for a view are the rooftops of Brighton and a couple of the Royal Pavilion’s turrets. If I want to see the sea, I have to walk a whole four minutes to the marina.”

  Henry grinned, rather enjoying her teasing. “Miss Chancellor, was I boasting so badly?”

  Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Rather! My beloved pater only agreed to this sojourn to Brighton because he was spared the expense of a hotel. Apparently they are rather dear during the summer months.”

  Henry nodded wisely. “Ah yes, I do remember the Baron Chancellor to be a rather cautious man.”

  Isabella laughed at that. “You must excuse him: he has a large family and a mistress to provide for.”

  Henry drew back in mock horror. “And how would a gently bred, unmarried young woman know about such things?”

  “Just because I’m female and advanced in age doesn’t mean I’m hard of hearing. You’d be amazed at what you can find out just sitting quietly reading a book.”

  Henry did know, all too well, but had no intention of telling his new acquaintance anything about his talent for finding out secrets, so he chuckled and resumed teasing her. They continued their banter until Isabella stopped at the corner of Marine and Broad Street.

  “Thank you very much for your escort, Sir Henry. It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, but I must strive to enter the house without attracting my mother’s attention, so I ask you to leave me here.”

  Henry handed her her bag and bowed over her hand. “The pleasure was all mine.” He then made to hand her the board with the nowdry watercolor, but paused to look at it. “You know, it isn’t as good as your painting of the Avon River, but I do believe it’s better than you give yourself credit for.”

  Isabella was stunned for a moment. She had indeed painted the Avon River, and the picture had sold, but that Sir Henry should have bought it and recognized her style was rather fantastic. “You bought the watercolor of the Avon?”

  “I saw you paint it in February and later found it in a gallery in Reading. You sign your paintings ‘IJC,’ do you not?”

  Since the gallerists preferred to hide her gender, Isabella had never met anyone who had bought one of her paintings through a gallery. “I do indeed and I must thank you
. The gallerist decided to take several more of my pieces because that watercolor sold within a week.”

  Bowing again, Henry handed her the board with the unfinished seascape. “I’m always glad to be of service. It made a most charming gift for my grandmother and now holds pride of place in her private sitting room.”

  The artist in Isabella was gratified beyond anything, and she beamed with the joy of it. “I’m so glad your grandmother likes it. That day was my first day painting out in the landscape this year and everything just fell into place.” She turned the painting toward herself and added quietly, “When it flows like that, it’s almost like magic.” Isabella studied her work for a moment, then smiled up at Henry. “Perhaps you have the right of it. I’ll see whether I can get away tomorrow and try again.”

  Henry felt inordinately proud he’d had a small part in encouraging her. But he was reluctant to part from her, and tomorrow, all of a sudden, seemed a very long time away. “There is an entertainment tonight at Lady Carmichael’s. Might I have the pleasure of seeing you there?”

  Isabella rolled her eyes dramatically. “Most likely you will. My mother is not only determined to drag me there, but has threatened to fill my dance card for me.”

  Henry laughed, relieved he wouldn’t have to wait until the next day to see her again. “In that case, will you save me a waltz, please? Preferably the one before supper.”

  Isabella sent him a crooked smile. “You can have whichever one you want. I’m not exactly anticipating a stampede.”

  Henry winked. “Oh, you never know! There are a few old rogues in this town still capable of a turn about the dance floor.”

  That got him another eye roll, then the lady turned her back on him, lifting her hand in a careless goodbye. “I shall see you tonight, Sir Henry.”

  Henry smiled and watched until she disappeared into the side entrance of one of the town houses a little ways down the street.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A SHADOW OF THAT SMILE STAYED WITH HENRY right into his hotel suite. But there, William presented him with two notes he’d obtained from the fathers of the two girls in service in London.

  At first glance there was nothing amiss. The notes were written by the same hand, but the girls knew each other, so they could be employed in the same household and using the same scribe. The only problem was, Henry did not believe the notes had been penned by a scribe. A scribe usually wrote what his customer told him to write, while these notes were formal and polite. They didn’t sound like they could have been dictated by illiterate girls from the province. They could have been written by someone in the house, but then they most certainly would have been more personal. Both notes contained a generic greeting to the parents, an assurance the girl was well, and no signature of any kind. They also had no sender address, which indicated the sender did not want to be found. Beyond that, William reported the missives were sent quarterly and contained two pounds each time, a generous wage for a domestic servant. That then begged the question what money, if any, the girls kept for themselves.

  “Is there anybody in either family who can read?”

  William shook his head. “Makes ya wonder why bother to ’ave someone write a note in the first place if there’s no one to read it.”

  There was nothing in particular wrong with these notes, or the money they contained, but as Henry’s and William’s eyes met, both men scrunched up their noses as if they could literally smell the proverbial rat.

  William pointed to a faint ink stamp on the outside of one of the letters and an identical one on the other. “I know that stamp, sir. The post office at Lincoln’s Inn Fields uses that one. Lots of lawyers and barristers around there. Could be them notes were sent by someone’s man of business.”

  Henry nodded thoughtfully and reached for the paper, pen, and inkwell the hotel had left for his convenience. “I’ll ask Allen to go to London and investigate further. He’s getting restless in Oxfordshire, and you know what scrapes our Allen is liable to get himself into if he gets too bored.”

  William’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Not to mention Rick getting bored right along with ’im. Do you think Miss Eliza will come down as well?”

  Sir Henry dipped his quill and started to write. “I’m counting on it.”

  William moved to the sideboard and poured his master a drink. “Good, that’ll keep Daisie ’appy for a while.”

  Henry didn’t look up when William set a drink by his elbow. “I need my blue evening suit pressed and my dancing shoes polished.”

  TWO HOURS LATER, THE LETTER to Allen was posted, and Henry, resplendent in his dark blue silk evening coat, embroidered waistcoat, and white satin breeches, stood under the arch into the dining room and waited to be seated.

  Lady Kistel spotted him from her table by the window and waved. “There you are, my boy, and all dressed for the occasion.” Then she imperiously commanded the waiter’s attention. “A second place setting for the gentleman, if you please!”

  Henry reached her side and bowed over her hand. “Thank you, and a very good evening to you, my lady. Did you enjoy your day by the water?”

  “Yes I did, and I saw you escorting a young lady down the esplanade. Fast work there, my boy. Who is the girl?”

  Henry chuckled and took the seat opposite her. “A Miss Isabella Chancellor, daughter of Baron Chancellor. She will be attending tonight, and I was wondering if you are familiar with the baroness. I would very much like to be formally introduced to Miss Chancellor.”

  Lady Kistel eyed him through her lorgnette and heaved a sigh. “I hope the daughter doesn’t take after the mother. That woman is an icicle. No wonder the baron has kept a mistress these past fifteen years.”

  Sir Henry coughed into his hand and lowered his voice. “Ah yes, the baron’s mistress. I may have introduced him to his current companion.”

  Lady Kistel looked at him in astonishment, then barked a delighted laugh. “Handed off one of your light-skirts, eh? Don’t worry, my boy, the baroness was positively relieved to be done with her duties in the bedroom when the baron took his first mistress. Besides, she takes very little interest in her husband’s affairs these days, so it is unlikely she would know about the introduction.”

  Henry grinned, somewhat relieved to hear Lady Kistel’s assessment, and wondered if her parents’ indifferent marriage had influenced Miss Isabella’s opinion of matrimony. They ate halibut in white sauce and veal fillets for dinner, and an hour later, Henry handed Lady Kistel into his carriage to take them to Lady Carmichael’s entertainment.

  THEY WERE GREETED BY CANDLELIGHT streaming out of every window and the strains of a string quartet drifting on the salty breeze.

  Lady Kistel leaned close to Henry. “Entertainments in Brighton are rather lavish affairs since every hostess sends an invitation to the king in hopes he will attend, which on occasion he does.”

  Henry winked at the old lady on his arm. “The king is still in London and will remain there for at least another week.”

  Lady Kistel’s eyes widened a fraction, and her aged face folded into a sly grin. “I’m almost afraid to ask how you might know that, but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Henry grinned right back, having no doubt she would use the information to good social advantage.

  Walking up the broad shallow steps to the house, they made their bow to their hostess and strolled through a series of salons where guests engaged in polite conversation, some already playing at cards. They greeted friends and acquaintances until Henry spotted Miss Chancellor standing awkwardly in a corner. She was flanked by a hard-looking woman coldly assessing the scene and a middle-aged dumpling of a chatterbox fussing over her.

  Isabella’s beautiful dark hair had been ruthlessly pulled back and twisted into a tight knot at the top of her head, and her face was framed by the obligatory three tightly sprung corkscrew curls. Henry knew her hairstyle was all that was proper and fashionable, but to his mind it was far too strict to suit
the free spirit he knew dwelled within her breast. As if to prove his point, at that very moment a curl sprang free from the severe top knot and resettled itself along Isabella’s delicately sculpted nape, causing Henry to breathe a sigh of relief. He nudged his companion and nodded toward Miss Chancellor’s group. “Which one is the baroness?”

  Lady Kistel looked in the indicated direction and groaned in despair. “The ice queen on the right. Who put the poor child in that hideous gown?”

  Taking a second look at the object of his interest, Henry had to admit Isabella’s gown was rather arresting in its ugliness. The color was a horrid bright pink that clashed with her complexion and did nothing for her eyes. In fact, it made her look pale and washed out. But as bad as the color was, it was not as bad as the countless ruffles, bows, and flounces completely obscuring what Henry knew to be a splendid figure.

  “It certainly wasn’t Miss Chancellor herself. She is an artist and I feel confident she’d never pick that color. My guess is the busybody to the left is to blame.”

  Lady Kistel grunted her agreement. “That makes sense. I never met a woman with less taste than Mrs. Curtis. I swear to God, the woman is color-blind.”

  That statement was corroborated by the lady’s own outfit: a yellow and turquoise gown, a bright orange feather in her hair, and a red shawl.

  Henry chuckled. “That might explain the color, but the style is no less disturbing.”

  Lady Kistel was prevented from sharing more of her opinions. The Baroness Chancellor had noticed Lady Kistel’s approach in the company of an unknown and possibly eligible male, and did her best to rearrange her face into a welcoming smile. Stepping toward the old lady, she offered both hands to support her and guide her toward a nearby sofa, completely oblivious to Lady Kistel’s resentment at the assumption she was too frail to stand at a social gathering. Lady Kistel ignored the baroness’s helpful hands and greeted the ladies with regal condescension before she directed Lady Chancellor’s attention to Henry. “May I make known to you my dear friend, the Duchess of Avon’s grandson, Sir Henry March.”