Candice Hern (3 page)

“And yet the Busybody constantly offers that sort of moronic follow-your-heart advice. So many of her readers are young girls filled with romantic ideals, each of them panting to become the heroine of a tale of tender sentiment such as they read in the pages of
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
and other magazines. Not to mention the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe and her like.” She rose from her chair and Simon sensed that he was in for a lecture. He stood as well and returned to his place before the mantel, facing her this time.

He wished he could forget the enormity of her unmasking of the Busybody, and the potential harm she could wreak with that knowledge. He wished she were there on some other errand so he could just sit back and watch her. The lovely Mrs. Tennant was glorious in her outrage.

“All these girls,” she continued, “are seeking the heroes of their dreams, and will never find them in the upstanding, suitable young men brought to their attention by parents or guardians who only want what’s best for them. But instead of being sensible, they are encouraged by the likes of the Busybody to receive a good impression from the first man answering their ideas of a handsome, romantic hero.

“In the case of my niece, Belinda, that man is one whose reputation would strike fear in the heart of any conscientious guardian. He is a gamester, a
profligate libertine, and very likely an adventurer. He is known to be in dun territory and in dire need of an heiress. Belinda is no heiress, Mr. Westover. Now, I ask you: what does a man such as I’ve described want with a beautiful young girl with no fortune?”

Though there was likely some validity to her fears, Simon suspected the woman was overreacting. Despite the horror stories mothers often used to instill the fear of impropriety in their daughters, most gentlemen of the
ton
did not go about debauching innocent girls. Those men with reputations as libertines generally kept to widows, willing matrons, and Cyprians. There was the odd blackguard, of course, but he was rare. It was all the fault of Richardson and his
Clarissa
. Mothers, and guardian aunts, saw the villain Lovelace in every man who dared to flirt with their charges.

“I hope with all my heart that you are wrong,” Simon said. “I never dreamed of such an outcome when I responded to your niece’s letter.”

Mrs. Tennant sucked in a sharp breath. “What did you say?”

“I never meant any harm in my response. I was just—”

“Are you saying that
you
write the answers to those letters? Not your mother?”

“My mother?” What the—oh, dear God. She had
not
known. She hadn’t known the truth after all. She’d thought his mother—his
mother
, of all people!—wrote for the magazine. God help him,
what had he done? Why hadn’t he sat quietly and listened without admitting anything?

“
You
are the Busybody?”

Simon stifled a groan.
Idiot
. If he had only been patient he could have assured her that his mother was not the Busybody, and left it at that, giving nothing away. How could he have been so stupid?

“Well? Are you the Busybody, Mr. Westover?”

There was nothing for it now. It would be ridiculous to deny it. But his mouth had gone dry, and he did not believe he could speak the words. He took a deep breath and nodded.

“You scoundrel!” She drew her arm back and slapped him hard across the face.

H
e reeled back from the force of her blow, then gave her a look of stunned disbelief. Eleanor felt not even the tiniest twinge of regret—well, perhaps the tiniest, but no more—for the bright red hand-shaped mark on his cheek. How dare the Busybody be—

“A man! I simply cannot believe it. It was bad enough thinking one of my own sex was capable of penning such nonsense, but the very idea of a
man
spouting such naïve, romantic, sentimental drivel is beyond belief.”

He rubbed his cheek and continued to look thoroughly confused. “You do not believe men can be romantic?”

She felt her own cheeks flush. That was not what she had meant at all. She knew full well how ro
mantic men could be, filling a girl’s head with sweet lies.

“You might get an argument or two from Mr. Coleridge, or Mr. Wordsworth. But perhaps you have not read the
Lyrical Ballads
,” he said.

Eleanor raised her eyes to the ceiling in silent exasperation. She ought to have known he was speaking of the ideal of Romance and not the more earthly notions of flirtation and seduction. “I was not referring to Romantic poetry, though heaven knows it is sometimes horribly foolish. No, I am simply astounded to discover that a
man
is the purveyor of such frivolous opinion, and in such florid language, as that doled out by the Busybody.”

He seemed to wince at the comment about florid language. Recollecting his high-flown sentiments of a few moments ago, it should come as no surprise that Mr. Westover could have written those horrid bits of head-in-the-clouds advice.

“Why do you so object to the notion of the Busybody being a man?”

The question surprised her. Could he really be so blind? Or so stupid? “Well, for one thing, you pass yourself off as female. Your readers certainly believe the Busybody to be a woman.”

“That is not unusual, I assure you,” he said. “Perhaps it will surprise you to learn that most of the content of women’s magazines is written by men. We assume feminine pen names so that our readers will be more comfortable. Like you, others might not be very receptive to a man’s opinion of
current fashion or instructions in housewifery.”

“But you are not simply making note of the latest designs from Paris, are you? You are offering advice to young girls—”

“And the occasional young man.”

“—
primarily
young girls and women who want advice on matters of the heart.”

He arched a quizzical brow. “And why can a man not have as valid an opinion on such important matters? We are equally involved, are we not?”

Though his manner was serious, his blue eyes twinkled, momentarily distracting her from her purpose. Now who was being foolish? She gave herself a mental shake and refused to be diverted. “Perhaps you are right. But let us put aside for the moment the fact that you assume a false identity and deliberately dupe your readers. Let us consider the advice on its own merit. It is irresponsible and capricious.”

“I am sorry you feel that way. As a strong advocate of the free agency of the heart, I do not feel it is my place to offer judgments on the direction the heart takes. My advice to your niece was simply to follow her heart’s desire, something I believe we should all be allowed to do. Within reason.”

“Ah, but you never do say ‘within reason,’ do you?”

“I always give my readers the benefit of the doubt, Mrs. Tennant.”

“You tempt fate with such confidence, Mr. Westover. Many of your readers—my niece, for
example—take your word as gospel, without any qualification. With the Busybody, they hear what they want to hear. You do not challenge them to think, to examine, to reason. You give them validation to make unrealistic and unreasonable choices. You do not dispense wisdom. You offer a crutch to their exquisite sensibilities and encourage them in their romantic follies. That is precisely why I am so upset over this entire business.”

His mouth turned down in a grimace, and Eleanor thought a few of her arrows might have struck home.

“Perhaps you underestimate your niece,” he said. “If the gentleman in question is as unsuitable as you believe, and for the reasons you believe, then it is likely your niece will eventually come to that same conclusion on her own.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure she will. But it will be too late. She will be ruined.”

He gave her a pained look. But Eleanor suspected it was not because he regretted his advice, but because he did not believe her. He did not believe Barkwith was out to ruin Belinda. No doubt his foolish Romanticism did not allow for such reprehensible behavior. He believed in love. He was quite wrong, of course.

“Had you simply added the words ‘within reason,’” she continued, “I would have had some room for persuasion with Belinda. As it stands, I have none. She has placed the Busybody upon a
lofty, ornate pedestal and will listen to no one else.”

“And so you want a retraction? You want me to publicly refute my advice?”

“I had wanted that, yes.” A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “But it is more complicated now, is it not?”

“How so?”

“Because you are a man, of course.”

“What difference does that make?” His voice rose in frustration.

“It makes you a fraud. I wonder what your readers would think to discover the Busybody is a man? I wonder what your father would think?”

He gave a short intake of breath. “Leave my father out of this.”

“Oh, I do not think I can do that. Sir Harold Westover is rather outspoken in his politics, is he not? If I am not mistaken, he is a very vocal supporter of the judicial attacks on private separation deeds. In fact, is he not a sponsor of the recent parliamentary bill to abolish such deeds?” She silently thanked Constance for providing her with so much background on the Westovers. Before tracking down the Busybody, Eleanor had never even heard of Sir Harold and Lady Westover. “My goodness,” she said, “I should hate to imagine what such a formidable public figure would do if he discovered his son masquerading as a female and passing out advice to the lovelorn. The mind boggles.”

Color drained from Mr. Westover’s face so that
the pale freckles she had not noticed on his cheeks now stood out like flecks of burnt umber. She had him! She had wanted the Busybody to squirm, and though he stood still as a statue, Eleanor was quite sure he was squirming inside.

“What do you want of me?” he asked.

“Afraid for Papa to learn the truth, eh? Rather intimidating, is he?” She must be wicked indeed to so thoroughly enjoy his uneasiness.

Color was returning to his face, and his blue eyes blazed with anger. She had to give the man credit. She would have expected someone of his sentimental temperament to suffer a nervous collapse in such a situation. He was uncomfortable, to be sure. In fact, she guessed he was furious with her and more than a little anxious. But he stood tall with a sort of stoic dignity in the face of surrender. “What do you want of me?” he repeated.

“I suggest a bargain of sorts. If you will do something for me, I will promise not to publicly reveal your secret identity.”

“What do I have to do?”

“You
are
anxious to keep your little secret, are you not?” It was almost intoxicating to know she held his future in her hands, and she could not seem to help taunting him.

Yet his gaze did not waver. “I have my reasons,” he said, “for not being publicly associated with the Busybody or
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
. Please put an end to this game and tell me what I must do to ensure your silence.”

He was right. It was self-indulgent to toy with the poor man any longer. “I want you to come to Charlotte Street with me and admit to Belinda that you are the Busybody, and that you made a mistake in the advice you gave her. She must be told that upon reconsideration you have decided you can no longer support her wish to destroy her life with the wrong man.”

“But I—”

“If you do not agree to my request, I shall be forced to use whatever means necessary to ensure that Belinda and other impressionable young girls will think twice before seeking your advice. You may be sure that I shall waste no time in publicizing the true identity of the Busybody. Perhaps in a rival publication.
The Lady’s Monthly Museum
, for example. Or better yet,
The Gentleman’s Magazine
.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Eleanor could see that he made an effort to hold his temper in check. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was direct and startlingly intense. Eleanor guessed she was seeing that part of him inherited from his indomitable father. “Can you swear to me,” he said in a voice bristling with taut control, “that only your niece will be told, and that she can be trusted to keep silent?”

“I can speak only for myself, and you have my promise. But if you agree to my terms, I will do everything in my power to ensure Belinda’s silence. She is a good girl. Once she knows the truth,
I believe she can be trusted. So, do you agree? Will you come with me to meet Belinda?”

The distance to Charlotte Street was not great, but the traffic was thick this time of day and the going was slow. Simon took advantage of the delay to study the woman on the seat opposite. Mrs. Tennant was a very attractive woman, despite the rather smug set of her mouth at the moment. She was extraordinarily pleased with herself.

Her white muslin dress and green velvet spencer jacket, though neatly made, were not of the latest mode. Simon knew more about such things than most men, due to his association with a ladies’ magazine. He cared little for fashion, however, and generally only took note that a woman’s dress was becoming or not.

Mrs. Tennant looked decidedly becoming in her morning dress. She wore a straw bonnet with the brim turned up to reveal dark brown curls spilling forward over her brow and framing her cheeks. Her eyes reflected the green of her jacket, and he wondered if they shifted tones depending on what she wore. It was her mouth, however, that truly captivated him. The upper lip was fuller than the lower, and dipped down to a slight point. Succulent. Ripe for kissing.

Simon jerked his gaze away. This was not the time or the woman to be inspiring such fantasies. She held an important part of his life in her hands, and if he made the mistake of showing an inappro
priate interest in her, she just might renege on her promise and trumpet his secret from the rooftops.

Besides, there was probably a Mr. Tennant.

It was time to turn his mind to more pertinent matters. “May I ask,” he said, “how it was that you tracked the Busybody to Westover House?”

She flashed a sly smile. “What’s the matter, Mr. Westover? Are you afraid others might unmask you as easily as I did?”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“Though I probably should not admit to it—I much prefer to see you squirm with apprehension—you may rest assured that it was no easy task. The publisher was silent as an oyster.”

Thank God.

“It was my cousin, Mrs. Poole, who conceived the idea of sending a distinctive package to the Busybody and following its path.”

“The packet tied in red and blue ribbons.” He ought to have guessed something was afoot when he received that odd package with nothing in it but an old issue of the magazine. Damnation. He thought he had protected against just such discovery by a complicated series of couriers. She smiled, as though reading his thoughts.

“If I had not been so determined in my quest, Mr. Westover, I would have given up the chase after the second handoff. That was quite an elaborate ruse you set up. You must be quite desperate to conceal your association with the Busybody.”

He was. But he had no wish for the tenacious
Mrs. Tennant to make it her business to discover
why
anonymity was so important to him.

“Tell me about your niece,” he said, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction, “and about her unsuitable suitor. It might help to know something more of the situation if I am to convince her to ignore my earlier advice.”

“Belinda is my brother’s daughter. He is Captain Benjamin Chadwick of the Royal Navy and has been away at sea off and on for most of her life. I have acted as guardian to Belinda since her mother died five years ago. I’ve had to run a tight ship, as Benjamin would say. She can be a willful creature, and I have often regretted she did not have a strong father figure in her daily life.”

“What of your husband?”

“I am a widow, Mr. Westover.”

Simon tried to look solemn, but felt inappropriately gleeful at this news. He could now, in better conscience, continue in his admiration of her mouth. Perhaps when he returned home, he would attempt an ode to her upper lip.

“Belinda has always been a bit headstrong,” she continued. “She is quite beautiful and is used to having things go her way. When her father agreed to sponsor a Season for her, and Mrs. Poole agreed to introduce her to a higher level of society, I knew her beauty would attract a great many admirers. And a lot of trouble.

“My cousin helped to bring Belinda to the atten
tion of several eligible, and perfectly suitable, young men. But from the moment she set eyes on Geoffrey Barkwith she had no interest in anyone else. Do you know Barkwith?”

“The name is familiar,” Simon said, “but I cannot recollect meeting him. Perhaps my mother knows him.”

“I’m sure she would tell you he is a gazetted rake. Not only a libertine, but a gamester as well. He has a very unsavory reputation, and I have no doubt of his true intentions. I depend upon my brother’s goodwill, Mr. Westover, and I cannot imagine he would take kindly to me allowing his daughter to fall into the clutches of a man such as Geoffrey Barkwith. Besides, I am very fond of Belinda.” Her voice took on a more gentle tone. “I have no wish to see her hurt. I only want her happiness.”

Her eyes shone brilliant with contained emotion. Simon knew in that moment he could trust her. If asked, he could not have explained why he knew this, but he did. She would keep her promise to him. She had no hidden motive that he must guard against. She was simply a protective hen guarding her chick. No, that was too mundane an image for Mrs. Tennant. She was no hen. A mother dragon, perhaps. An avenging fury. A warrior queen. Boadicea enraged by the violation of her daughters.