Louise M Gouge (12 page)

Lady Beatrice brightened. “Will we go again soon? I should so much like to see how Sally is faring.”

While the ladies conferred over their plans for the orphan asylum, Greystone observed their enthusiasm with interest. Mrs. Parton had played a large part in his own charitable leanings, for her generosity came not from duty like Mother’s but from a loving heart. Since his earliest days he had basked in her kindness and that of her late husband. Nor would he ever forget how the couple had saved Mother and him from his father. Would that he could depend upon Mr. Parton’s godly example for his own character. But he could not forget his youthful outbursts, so much like his father’s rages that had caused damage to the less fortunate. Perhaps this was another reason for his eagerness to dispense charity whenever possible, as if he could make up for his past ways.

“But I have been thinking,” Lady Beatrice began. Once again Greystone had let his mind wander. “As much as I am enjoying London, Melly depends upon me to manage Melton Gardens. Perhaps I should go home for a while and make certain everything is all right.”

Anger skittered through Greystone’s chest. The fact that Melton left his sister to manage his estate displeased him beyond words. Was there no end to the gentleman’s irresponsible ways? How Greystone would like to beat some sense into the earl’s thick skull. But such thoughts always brought him back to the dangers of his own temper.

“But my dear, you cannot go.” Mrs. Parton frowned. “Why, the celebrations have barely begun. You cannot miss the fireworks and balls. And I have learned from a reliable source that the Russian czar and his sister, the Grand Duchess, are coming soon to join the revelry over Napoleon’s defeat. Do you not wish to see them and perhaps even be presented to them?”

“Well—”

“Oh, do help me convince her, Greystone. She simply must not leave.”

Greystone took a bite of the too-salty roast to give himself time to consider a response. Of one thing he was certain: Lady Beatrice indeed must not leave London until her friends found her a worthy gentleman to marry. As for Melton Gardens, surely there was a steward to see to the tenants’ needs. If not, and if perhaps matters there took a bad turn, Melton would be forced to accept his God-given responsibility and learn how to manage it all himself.

“Lady Beatrice, I believe that, should you go, Mrs. Parton will be bereft. Then what shall we do?” He offered them a playful smirk. “I cannot leave my duties to console her, so I fear that office remains yours.”

She returned a serene smile that reached clear to her expressive eyes. “As your kind sister-in-law reminded me today, even when every man deserts us, God will be our consolation.”

As she voiced that holy truth, peace flooded Greystone’s soul. Apparently the two young ladies had bonded over more than bonnets and frocks. “Yes, Anna has a gift for reminding people about God’s goodness.” For some reason, he felt pressed to tell her of his own faith. “During my illness last winter, when I was all too aware of my own mortality, she led me to scriptures that assured me of my salvation in Christ.”

Now tears shone in her eyes. “I am so happy for you, sir. Would that someone would lead my brother in that way.”

A shard of guilt cut short Greystone’s moment of joy. Never once had he tried to befriend Lord Melton or lead him away from Rumbold’s influence, much less
to
a faith in Christ.

It is not too late.

The startling thought brought him no pleasure, just a heavy weight of conviction. But, he reasoned as he lay abed that night, dealing with a prideful young earl was hardly the same as helping poor little chimney sweeps. Whereas the boys were pliable and grateful, the earl might react with anger or devise some sort of retaliation that would hinder Greystone’s charitable endeavors.

But his arguments to the Almighty sounded hollow no matter how he tried to word them.

Chapter Twelve

“A
nd forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation...” Concentrating on the holy words, Beatrice prayed along with the other congregants in Mayfair’s St. George’s parish church. As always during services, today she laid her own sins before the Lord and gratefully acknowledged His forgiveness. Then, feeling the nudging of the Holy Spirit, she also made the decision to forgive Melly for squandering her dowry and for all of his prodigal ways that brought shame to their family name. As if to confirm her thoughts, the minister presented a lesson about the Prodigal Son in his homily. Surely God had spoken to her this day, and she would endeavor to keep His words in the forefront of her mind.

The decision gave her a strong sense of peace that remained with her until the next afternoon. That is, until Mrs. Parton announced that she must visit an old pensioner and leave Beatrice at home. She also left a litany of instructions.

“I know Melton is your brother, Bea.” The lady pulled on her driving gloves and adjusted her bonnet. “But while I am gone, you must not grant him admittance to my house. These past days Palmer has made our excuses four times. But he must go with me today, and the young footman on duty may not wish to turn away an earl. If Melton comes, you must stay in your room and refuse to see him.”

Beatrice’s heart sank lower with every word. After speaking with Lord Greystone about her brother’s soul two nights ago and receiving God’s message yesterday, she had felt her own spirit craving just a few moments with Melly. If nothing else, they could recall their happy childhood days together. Melly must be experiencing that same longing, or he would not have come to call
four times.

“I must visit Mrs. Dooley, and I must take Palmer. Without his superior height and air of authority, I would not dare to visit the tenement. And of course I would not take you to such a place.” Mrs. Parton held Beatrice’s gaze with a frowning stare. “Will you do as I say?”

Biting her lower lip, Beatrice nodded. “Yes, madam.”

Mrs. Parton patted her cheek, then kissed it. “Oh, my dear, I know you love him. But I fear you will indulge his every whim. This is for your protection. Remember, you cannot trust him.”

Again, Beatrice nodded. “Go on now. Enjoy your visit with Mrs. Dooley.” The old woman’s only son, once a young footman for Mrs. Parton’s husband, had died in the war. Although nothing obligated Mrs. Parton to care for her, she did it freely and generously, as with all of her charities. Beatrice wished her employer could extend the same charity of heart to Melly.

The afternoon was overcast, with rain falling intermittently. Once Mrs. Parton left, Beatrice found herself at loose ends. Nothing to which she set her mind or hands seemed to satisfy her, so she decided to walk about the house for exercise. After a third trip up to her bedchamber and back, she descended the front staircase just as someone pounded on the door.

The nervous young footman by the door eyed her with concern. “Milady, should you wait in the drawing room?”

“Yes, of course, John. But do open the door. It is pouring outside.” She walked across the parquet floor to make her escape. Behind her she heard the footman’s wavering voice.

“Begging your pardon, your lordship, sir, but milady is out and—”

“Beatrice!”

She turned back in time to see Melly lunge against the footman’s outstretched arm, but he could not get past the tall servant.

“Begging your pardon, milord, but—”

“Great day, man, can you not see the rain?” Melly stopped struggling and began to cough, but it sounded familiarly artificial to Beatrice, as when he had faked illness to avoid schoolwork as a boy. “I shall catch my death if you force me out there.”

“But, sir—”

“Beebe, please.”

At his childhood name for her, her heart plummeted, and she burst into tears. Racing across the wide entrance hall, she launched herself into Melly’s arms, eager to forgive and forget all his trespasses. Throwing his wet cloak to the floor, he held her close, murmuring assurances and all the silly words they had made up as children.

“Oh, Melly, I shall be in such trouble with Mrs. Parton.” She nonetheless grabbed his hand and led him toward the drawing room. “But I cannot bear to be separated from you any longer. Please tell me everything,
everything
you have been doing.”

He laughed playfully, almost wickedly. “Well, I shan’t tell you
everything,
but I will tell you that in my third year in the House of Lords, I have begun to have some influence.” He plopped down on a settee and stared around the room. “Nice place. I’m glad you have such a pleasant home away from home.”

Beatrice’s heart did another plummet, this time with guilt for the way she had neglected him. “Are you still living at the town house?”

“Um.” He toyed with the tassels on a small pillow. “No. I, uh, I sold it.”

“What—”

“Now, don’t get in a mood. I did nothing wrong, and it was not entailed. And it did belong to me.” He studied his fingernails and brushed them across the front of his coat. “You didn’t leave anything there, did you?”

She gulped back her unreasoning anger. What he said was true. It all belonged to him. Once again she determined to forgive him. “No. I have never even seen it. You know this is my first time in London.”

“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten.”

How could he forget? Was he becoming just like their neglectful father? The thought stung as she paced across the Wilton carpet in front of the hearth. “And so, where are you living?”

“I have an apartment not far from St. James’s Square.” He looked rather pleased with himself.

The Grenvilles lived in St. James’s Square, too. Perhaps...

He grasped her hand and pulled her down on the settee. “Now, Beebe, you must listen to me before the old bat returns home.”

A chill went up her spine. “Mrs. Parton is not an old bat. She’s loving and good and—”

“Humph. The way she keeps me from seeing you?” His lower lip stuck out in a pout. “More like Cerberus guarding the gates of—”

“Stop that.” Smacking his shoulder, Beatrice laughed, even as an odd foreboding crept into her thoughts. “I forbid you to compare her to a monster from Greek mythology. Listen, dear brother, she is Mama’s old friend, and she’s very much like a mother to me.”

His eyes began to glaze over. He had not come to hear about her. Remembering her prayers for him, she set aside her own concerns. “Tell me more about your influence in Parliament.” Brushing damp curls from his warm forehead, she thought he looked very much like a Botticelli cherub.

“John.” She summoned the anxious footman who stood by the drawing room door. “Please send for tea and bring some towels.”

Melly grasped her hand and pressed it to his round cheek, which was also warm. “See, you always take care of me.”

Beatrice leaned over to kiss him, but drew back at the smell of whiskey. “You have been drinking.”

He stared at her as if she, like Cerberus, had three heads. “Of course I have been drinking. Every gentleman drinks.”

She had never noticed the scent of spirits on Lord Greystone. Perhaps he had a little port after dinner, but nothing to undo his senses, as drink always did to Melly.
Forgive him,
her inner voice said once again.

“Tell me more about your influence with the other lords.”

He laughed, a rather giddy sound, not at all like the dear boy she had grown up with. “My good friend and, dare I say, my mentor, one Frank Rumbold, is guiding me in the right path, telling me what to say, whom to support—something no one has ever done for me. Certainly not our
esteemed
father.”

Beatrice sighed. To voice her agreement would not help. Papa may have been neglectful, but he had managed his estates with a wise, careful hand. She brushed a hand across Melly’s sleeve, sending a sprinkle of water over her skirt. “I am glad you have a friend. But are you certain he is the best one to guide you?”

“Of course he is.” He stopped when the footman brought the tea and towels.

While Melly used the towels to dry his coat, Beatrice set about pouring the tea. She took pride in remembering his preferences for two lumps of sugar and a generous splash of cream.

“I thank you, my dear.” Melly took a sip. “I don’t suppose we could add something to this to make it a little more interesting?”

She answered with a frown.

“Hmm. I didn’t think so. Well, anyway, regarding our dear old father, you cannot imagine how many times he told me how disappointed he was in me. He said I should be more like you.”

“What? Why, that’s ridiculous. He never even noticed me, never gave me a compliment or—” This was wrong. To join him in condemning Papa would make it appear as if she were making excuses for Melly’s wasteful ways. So she tried a merry chuckle that did not quite succeed. “If he thought I was so good, he simply failed to notice the mischief we both got into.”

“Oh, we did have some larks, did we not?” Melly set his tea down and grabbed another towel, ruffling it over his hair and across his neck. Then, tossing it over the back of the settee, he grasped her hand. “But never mind that. Beebe, you must permit me to present Mr. Rumbold to you. He is—”

“I must do no such thing.” She tried to stand, but he held her firmly. His horrid desperation frightened her. Surely the whiskey was at fault. “Please release me.”

He did, then patted her wrist. “Forgive me.” Resting his head against the back of the settee, he placed a hand against his forehead. “You cannot imagine how much pressure I have to endure. Without Rumbold’s guidance I would have made many mistakes. I owe him so very much. You simply cannot know. As it is, the best hostesses refuse to send me invitations to their balls and soirees.”

Beatrice cringed at the thought of her brother—an earl, for goodness sake—being cut from the best social lists. So much political influence could be gained at those events. But he had brought it upon himself. Was this the time to confront him about his gambling and drinking? No, that would only bring forth more excuses.

He sat up and grasped her hands, but more gently this time. “You cannot imagine my mortification when Lord Greystone sent me away from his ball. Had Rumbold not consoled me, I should never have lived it down.” He flung himself back against the settee. “And to think you are forced to live next door to that popinjay.”

Never mind that it was his fault she was “forced” to live anywhere other than the town house Mama had loved so much when she came to London. She had promised to decorate a special apartment for Beatrice for her coming-out Season. With that memory she found it more and more difficult to maintain a forgiving spirit. At least she managed to refrain from reminding him of his failures. But when she opened her mouth to contradict his ill-fitting description of Lord Greystone, he sat up again.

“You must listen, Beebe. Even in the short time we were there, Rumbold came to admire, no,
adore
you. You were the only lady at the ball he would have considered dancing with—that is, had we not been thrown out.”

“What?” Beatrice recalled her curiosity about Melly’s handsome, older companion that evening. But how could a gentleman form an attachment with a lady whom he had never met and had seen only briefly across a room? Surely her brother was exaggerating. Still, if he had done so much for Melly, perhaps she was wrong in refusing to meet him, even though Mrs. Parton held the man in contempt.

Melly stood and marched toward the hearth, then swung around to face her with a triumphant grin. “I have no doubt that once he meets you, Rumbold will make an offer to me for your hand.”

“What?” Horror swept through her.

“Yes. Isn’t that beyond generous? And you with no dowry.”

Her stomach twisted. “No, of course I have no dowry. You have gambled it away.” Beatrice could not stop herself, even though she sounded like a petulant child. Where was the forgiveness she had thought to offer him?

Her accusation rolled off of him just as the rainwater had. “Humph. What do you know? It was all mine, anyway. I am merely trying to take care of you.”

She would not point out that Papa had expected Melly to set aside at least twenty thousand pounds for her, and more if the estate tenants continued to produce abundant crops.

“Do you owe him money?” She tried to keep an accusing tone from her voice.

He shrugged. “A little.”

The sick feeling in her stomach increased. How much was a little? Had this man taken Melly’s entire fortune? Or had he saved Melly from further loss? What did Melly mean about the man guiding him in the right path? Was Mr. Rumbold a good man who had been excluded from Society because he lacked an acceptable social rank?

“Will you receive him?” Melly’s earnest gaze, even accompanied by that slightly wild look, cut into her. Their childhood friendship claimed a large part of her heart. He’d once saved her life. She had no idea what pressures he endured in Parliament. Did he have projects as dear to him as Lord Greystone’s little chimney sweeps were to him, projects he could not sponsor because he had gambled away his money? Oh, she truly must forgive him, whatever it took on her part.

“Yes.” She could barely speak the word, but she had no other choice.

* * *

Melton should have felt a sense of victory, but oddly, he was disappointed that Beebe agreed to meet Rumbold. Yes, he’d cajoled her into seeing things his way, as he often had in childhood. But she had always been the strong one, the wise one, while he had never felt anything but unsure of himself. Well, he was sure of one thing now: if he did not arrange this marriage, Rumbold would ruin him.

Out in the rain again Melton tried to raise the umbrella the footman had given him, but the ridiculous thing broke. He turned back to the town house to get another one, but the door was closed. He could not face that obstinate servant again, so he hurried down the street to hail a hackney just leaving a residence across the square.

The driver stopped none too soon. “Where to, sir? Oh, Lord Melton.” The ruddy-faced man eyed him skeptically. “Payment in advance, milord.” He held out his hand.