Louise M Gouge (16 page)

As he drifted off to sleep, something nagged at the back of Greystone’s mind. Kit and Ben had been quite proud of their new leather shoes and always resisted surrendering them at bedtime. Yet those shoes had been left beside their bed, both pairs lined up perfectly as when they had been taken off the night before. Why would they leave behind their most prized possessions?

Simply put, they would not. At the thought, he jolted awake, eager for tomorrow’s arrival so he could investigate the matter in depth.

Chapter Seventeen

W
hile Lucy fussed with Beatrice’s hair, Beatrice fidgeted like a schoolgirl. No, like Kit and Ben had the day before yesterday while Lucy had ignored them. That thought settled her down. At each reminder of the children, her heart ached anew. They were innocent. She believed it, felt it, desperately wished it to be so.

“Oh, my lady, your first
at home.
” Lucy expertly wound a curl and pinned it with a paste jewel pin. “Won’t you be the talk of London when all the gents see what a beauty you are?”

Beatrice shifted again. “Crawford, you do not need to flatter me.”

“No, of course not, miss.” Her face reflected in the mirror showed no discomfiture at the rebuke. “I’m just saying what I see.” She put the finishing touches on the coiffure and stood back to admire her work. “Do you like the pink or the blue today, miss?”

“Remember, Lucy, the correct address is ‘my lady.’” Beatrice tempered her tone, but offered no smile. “If you do not use the proper address, you will never find employment, no matter how skilled your hands may be.”

“But, my lady—” the girl gave her a saucy grin “—I was hoping to work for you forever, like Mrs. Hudson for Lady Greystone.” She rolled her eyes. “Though I wouldn’t want to work for that old harpy. Lud, she can bite.”

“Crawford!” Beatrice stood and spun around, gripping the girl by her shoulders. “You must not say such things. Surely your grandfather has given you some training in how to respect those for whom you work.”

“Yes he did, my lady.” Lucy’s lower lip stuck out in a pout. “But you saw how his lordship treats them dirty little climbing-boys like they were his own born children.”

“Do not change the subject.” Beatrice huffed out a sigh and resumed her seat in front of the mirror. “In any event, you need not worry about Kit and Ben anymore.” Saying their names renewed her grief and disappointment. She prayed Lord Greystone would not abandon his efforts to help other sweeps because those two had betrayed his trust. No, she corrected herself,
if
they had betrayed his trust.

“That’s the truth.” Lucy snickered and went about finishing her work. “But oh, could I tell you stories.”

At the touch of her hands a raw shiver ran down Beatrice’s back. Why had she not followed her better instincts and told Lord Greystone about Lucy’s attitude? That alone was enough to send her back to her grandfather’s tutelage. Why had Beatrice thought it would be easy to train her?

“We will not discuss the boys any further, Crawford.” Beatrice swallowed her self-recriminations. She must present a pleasant face to Mrs. Parton’s guests this afternoon, whoever they might be. But she would do it on her own terms. “Bring me the green gown.”

If anyone found it less flattering than the pink or blue, so be it.

* * *

“I knew your father, Lady Beatrice.” The Marchioness of Drayton, an ancient lady with pale blue eyes and lavender hair, beamed at Beatrice from her chair across the small grouping of furniture. “He was diligent in his duties and well thought of by his peers.”

“I thank you, Lady Drayton.” Beatrice could well imagine that Papa had always done his duty, to king and country, if not his family.

“And you my dear, how is your search for a husband proceeding?” Fluttering a blue lace fan before her plump, laugh-lined face, Lady Drayton did not wait for an answer. “I will be having a ball in two weeks, so of course you must come. Many of London’s unattached gentlemen will be hastening to choose their brides before Wellington comes home, bringing in his wake war heroes who will want to flaunt their new titles and spoils of war.”

“Of course we shall attend, Lady Drayton.” Mrs. Parton laughed in her jolly way. “But there is hardly a dearth of young ladies for all of those gentlemen.”

“No, not at all. The young people of your time were quite fruitful in producing sufficient offspring to go around, as were mine in the previous generation.”

The two ladies laughed at their own wit, and Beatrice smiled at their merry ways, even as she considered the improbability that she could marry without a dowry. God had blessed her with Mrs. Parton’s friendship, but she could not expect the lady to provide her with that essential part of any marriage agreement.

“Lord Winston, my lady,” the butler announced from the doorway.

“Send him right in,” Lady Drayton said, although Mrs. Parton was the hostess. Beatrice guessed a marchioness could do as she wished, and Mrs. Parton did not seem to mind.

Lord Winston entered the large room and, locating the ladies, strode across the space and bowed over Lady Drayton’s hand. “My lady, I did not know you were here. Shall I postpone my visit?” He shot a glance at Mrs. Parton, who was blissfully busy with her tea.

“If you mean to dismiss me, Winston, you will have no luck. I shall not give way, so do not think to ask me.” Lady Drayton winked at him, no doubt another privilege of her rank.

The baron gave her a little smile, clearly not offended. Beatrice wondered if she had misjudged him. Or was he cheerful only with his fellow aristocrats? He made his way over to Mrs. Parton, and the two exchanged the usual pleasantries. Then he settled his gaze on her. “Lady Beatrice, you look like a spring day.”

“Oh, he is a poet!” Lady Drayton laughed, with Mrs. Parton echoing her. “Let us warn Byron that his place in the sun has been usurped.”

Beatrice could not stop her own laughter, and she hoped Lord Winston would not misunderstand. “I thank you, Lord Winston. You honor me.”

“Not at all.” He took the chair beside her and accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Parton. “I have thought often and agreeably of our last meeting and hoped to see you again.”

“Again, I thank you, sir.” She could not honestly return the compliment, for another gentleman had filled her thoughts of late.

“Mrs. Parton.” Lady Drayton set down her teacup and rose. “Do show me that divine sculpture over there.” She pointed her fan at a statue of a horse and rider set near a side door.

Mrs. Parton gave Beatrice a knowing smile. “Of course, Lady Drayton.”

As the two women crossed the room, they whispered back and forth. Beatrice hoped Mrs. Parton would confide in her later about their intense conversation. Did she now regard Lord Winston, her own relative, as her favorite suitor for Beatrice’s hand? The thought mildly dismayed her, for her heart had settled on another, even though she had no hope that he felt the same way.

“Lady Beatrice,” Lord Winston said, “I have been spending some time with Melton since you and I last met.”

Every thought fled. Unable to speak, she stared at the baron, aware of tears stinging her eyes. The tender sympathy in his usually haughty expression changed every opinion she had held against him.

“I thank you, sir.” Remembering Mama’s teaching, she managed to reclaim her dignity by clearing her throat and dismissing her tears. “Did you find my brother well?” And sober?

He moved his hand closer to hers but did not breach propriety by grasping it. “As I told you at Lord Blakemore’s supper, I find him witty. But what I took for lightheartedness appears to be a mask for some deep—” He looked away briefly. “Forgive me. I can think of no other word but
despair.
”

Her heart sank, and she struggled to maintain control. “How kind of you to be concerned.” She would say no more on the subject. She had no doubt the baron knew of her brother’s debts. Determined to change the tone of the conversation, she offered a bright smile. “Someday I must visit the House of Lords and watch the proceedings. I should like to hear him address his peers.”

“I have yet to see him do so. Of course, you understand, not every peer addresses every issue.” He glanced toward the other ladies, then leaned closer to Beatrice in a confiding manner. “I did not mean to distress you. In fact, I mentioned it only as a preface to asking if I may be of service to you in his regard.” He drew back and frowned. “Forgive me if I am overstepping.”

His generosity astounded her. “Not at all. I do believe Melly needs a good friend, someone of character who can lead him away from evil influences.” Although she would prefer that a certain other nobleman would assume that office.

“Lord Greystone,” Palmer announced from the doorway.

Beatrice’s heart did its usual hiccup upon hearing his name, but she tried to keep from reacting to the viscount’s timely entrance, lest Lord Winston misunderstand.

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Parton bustled across the room to where Beatrice and the baron sat, with Lady Drayton close behind. The marchioness laughed the whole distance, while Mrs. Parton chuckled in her merry way. “We certainly do have an abundance of guests, do we not, Lady Beatrice?”

How kind of Mrs. Parton to address her formally in this company. Beatrice had yet to find the courage to correct her use of “Bea.”

Lord Greystone strode into the room but stopped halfway to where they were gathered. “Ah, Mrs. Parton.” His frowning stare settled on Lord Winston as he spoke. “Have I come at an inconvenient time?”

“Not at all, my boy.” Lady Drayton once again projected her rank. “I was just leaving.” She sailed up behind Beatrice’s chair and patted her shoulder. “Walk me to the door, my dear. I should like to know you better.”

Beatrice shot a quick glance at Mrs. Parton, who nodded. “Of course, Lady Drayton.” She rose and walked around the chair.

The marchioness captured Beatrice’s arm and ushered her out to the front entry. “Now listen to me, my dear. If neither of those two young imbeciles glaring at each other in the drawing room makes an offer for you, I have a grandson who has made a name for himself serving with Wellington. He is a younger son of our youngest son, so he bears no hereditary title, but he has a large inheritance from his mother. Lord Drayton means to see to it that the Prince Regent grants him an earldom.” She frowned, an expression at odds with her deeply embedded smile lines. “Of course we cannot guarantee that he has not taken up Wellington’s...habits with the ladies. But a spirited girl like you can take him in hand with no trouble.”

That revelation sealed a death warrant on any possible interest Beatrice might develop for the gentleman. Putting Mama’s graciousness firmly into place, she gave the marchioness a warm smile. “You have paid me the highest compliment, Lady Drayton. Please be assured that I will consider it. But of course the young man will have his own preferences.”

“Just so.” Lady Drayton patted Beatrice’s cheek. “But do keep him in mind.” She gave her a wily smile. “You could do worse than marrying into the Marquess of Drayton’s family.”

But she could not do worse than marrying an inconstant gentleman. No, she would rather live her life as a companion, or even as a governess, than to marry someone with all the wealth in the world, but not a whit of character.

Chapter Eighteen

A
fter a restless night with little sleep, Greystone had longed for nothing more than the consolation of the two people who would understand his concerns regarding Kit and Ben. He should have remembered this was Mrs. Parton’s afternoon at home, should have recalled her remark about inviting Winston to visit her. But events of the past two days had obscured those memories, so he offered the requisite bows and greetings and sat for the obligatory cup of tea.

Once she returned from her conference with Lady Drayton, Lady Beatrice poured, adding one lump of sugar and a splash of cream before handing him the cup. Clever, thoughtful girl. She had noticed his preferences. His heart warmed at the thought. Everything she did drew him closer to the decision that he must pursue her. Despite his fears of being like Father, he felt the Almighty’s nudging him toward this beautiful lady, and he had little power to resist.

“A fine day.” Winston spoke to no one in particular.

“Indeed,” Greystone said. “A fine day.”

“Fine if one does not mind the fog.” Mrs. Parton fingered the biscuit balanced on the edge of her saucer. “Even now one can hardly see across the square.”

“Very true, madam.” Clearly not listening to their hostess, Winston tapped a foot on the carpet and stared at Greystone.

Was that a challenge in his eyes? Greystone would gladly accept. He would not leave before he spoke to the ladies, and he would not speak to them while his rival was here.

Rival? Yes, exactly so. A thread of jealousy wove into his chest. While he could not yet declare his growing attachment for Lady Beatrice, he did not welcome the complication of Winston’s competing for her affection.

“More tea, Lord Winston?” Lady Beatrice was the picture of grace and composure, and Greystone could detect no favoritism for the baron in her countenance.

“Why, yes.” The baron held out his cup and saucer. She must have remembered his preferences as well, for he retrieved the well-sugared beverage with a self-satisfied grin. “I thank you, Lady Beatrice.” He stirred and sipped while Greystone stewed. How long had he been here? A gentleman never stayed beyond fifteen minutes, twenty at most, so his hostess could see other guests. Was it not past time for Winston to leave?

“I must thank you again for your kind words about—” Lady Beatrice paused and looked around the group. “I mean...”

“Say no more, madam.” Winston gave her a syrupy smile as sweet as the four lumps of sugar in his tea. “I flatter myself that my efforts to befriend Melton have not been without success, and I shall not cease until our goals are accomplished.”

Our
goals? Greystone almost spit out his beverage. But conviction forced him to swallow hard. Perhaps Winston was a good choice for Lady Beatrice after all. Now he recalled seeing him outside of Westminster clapping the young earl on his shoulder as if they were old friends. Melton had resembled a pleased puppy, not a peer who had been in Parliament for two years longer than Winston. But Greystone had been so determined to keep his hands clean, his reputation spotless for the sake of his charities, that he had not so much as offered Melton a handshake. Nor even a nod.

You, Greystone, are a pompous Pharisee.

And look what had happened to his so-called good works. Mother’s necklace stolen. Two little boys lost. Shame ate away at him. Perhaps he should be the one to leave.

“Lord Greystone,” Lady Beatrice said. “Did you bring us any news?”

Her gentle smile chased away his dejection as surely as morning sun dispersed fog. A strange new assurance gripped his heart. He did indeed care deeply for Lady Beatrice, and he would not stand aside and let Winston win her unopposed. And he would depart only when she sent him away.

“No, madam. No news.” He brushed a hand over the brocade chair arm and stared up at the ornate rococo molding above the pink floral wallpaper. If need be, he would wait to speak to her until spiders spun their webs from corner to corner and across the sparkling chandeliers—something that would never happen in this immaculately kept house.

“Oh, Greystone.” Mrs. Parton clapped her hands, startling everyone. “I just recalled that other matter we need to discuss. Can you wait?” She blinked her eyes innocently.

“Other matter?” Greystone questioned her with a look, then realized her ploy. “Ah, yes indeed. I do have that information you wanted.”

Winston frowned and set down his teacup. “Well, I can see I am delaying some important business.”

“Not at all, my dear kinsman.” Mrs. Parton stood, requiring everyone else to follow. “Do come back anytime.”

The speed with which she graciously dispatched the baron impressed Greystone so much that he could hardly recall why he had come.

* * *

For the first time since her brother ascended to the peerage, Beatrice had a measure of confidence that he could be redeemed from his foolish ways. How grateful she was to Lord Winston for befriending him. Still, when Mrs. Parton accompanied the baron from the room, Beatrice found herself alone with Lord Greystone, and her heart skipped. A quick glance at the footman just inside the door reassured her that all was proper. “Lady Beatrice.” Lord Greystone reclaimed his seat next to her. “May I speak with you?”

Worry threaded through her. “Is this about Melly?”

“Partly. Lord Winston has put me to shame, and I have no excuse for it.”

“Sir?” She forced herself to breathe.

“Madam, I have been a Pharisee.” Sorrow filled his expression. “I should have reached out to your brother three years ago when he first came to London, but his brashness...no, I will offer no excuse. I should have been more persistent in offering friendship.” He seemed to struggle for words. “Now a better gentleman has set an example for me, and I shall endeavor to influence Melton to reform his ways.”

“Oh, sir, you give me hope.” She could barely keep from grasping his hands. “Perhaps you and Lord Winston can work together. The fourth chapter of Ecclesiastes tells us that two are better than one when trying to accomplish any worthy thing.”

An almost comical grimace passed over his face, though she could not guess what it meant. “Yes, of course. I shall address the matter with the baron.” He cleared his throat. “But I must tell you something else.”

Again, worry teased at the corners of her mind. “Very well.”

“You have occupied my thoughts since the moment I met you.” He said the words simply, as if stating that the sky was blue. Again her heart skipped. “Yes, that is but a short time, yet long enough for me to know where my mind is leading me.” A tender look filled his eyes. This was the admiration she had longed for since she had left the schoolroom, and she desired it from no other gentleman than the one seated beside her.

“Sir—”

He held up one hand. “Please permit me to finish. Then if you wish to cast me out, my fate will be well deserved.”

She pressed her lips together. Casting him out was the last thing on her mind.

“Lady Beatrice, I pray it will not be offensive to you for me to say I have developed a great attachment for you.”

She sniffed back tears. “It most certainly is
not
offensive.”

He chuckled. “That gives me great encouragement. However, there are impediments to our deepening this attachment.”

Yes, of course. Her brother. His mother. Yet the gentleness in Lord Greystone’s voice made her heart ache with hope. “I understand.”

“Then I shall speak plainly.” He glanced away, frowning. “A peer is expected to marry and produce an heir, yet I cannot take on the responsibilities of a husband and father until I am certain I will not be the man my father was.”

Beatrice drew back. This was not what she had expected. Yet his candor moved her. How easy it would be to protest that he would make an excellent husband, even though she had no assurance that he would. Nor did she have any idea what his father’s failings had been. All she could offer back to him were her own doubts about marriage.

“I will not ask you to explain further,” she said, “but I will confess my fear of marrying an ardent suitor only to find him as neglectful as my father was to my mother. To all of us.”

Understanding lit those remarkable blue eyes. “Ah. That explains—”

“My brother’s...desperate ways.” And her own deep longing to be admired by a constant husband.

He exhaled another long sigh, obviously relieved by these confessions. For her part, Beatrice felt more than relief. She felt as if their friendship had embarked upon a journey that would ultimately lead to their mutual happiness.

“I realize you are of age and may do as you wish. But I believe that we honor God when we bow to conventions and do things properly. Therefore, if you have no objections, when I extend the hand of friendship to Melton, I will also tell him of our mutual feelings and ask his permission to continue our...acquaintance.”

Once again, this was not what she expected, yet she could only admire his caution. He would forge ahead in spite of Melly’s reputation, yet would not declare himself if her brother refused his friendship. As much as that hurt her, she managed to say, “That would please me very much.” But another troubling thought must be spoken. “You must know that he can provide no dowry for me.”

“I am not at all surprised.” He brushed away her words like a bothersome fly. “But first things first. I cannot think he will lightly agree to accept me as a friend after I cast him out of my house the night of my ball. Thus I must go to him in all humility and first beg his pardon.”

“Must you?” She recalled how Melly had used her gentleness to his advantage. “I would not like to see you humble yourself to him.”

“Yes, I must.” He took her hand and leaned close, resting his forehead against hers, an endearing gesture that portended a meeting of their minds. “And you must trust me in this.”

In this closeness she detected the delicate scent of his cologne, an orange-blossom fragrance that made her delightfully dizzy. With some effort she sighed as she said the words, “I will trust you in this and in everything.” Indeed, her trust in him had been growing since the moment she had seen him holding a dirty little chimney sweep in his arms.

He echoed her sigh. “Then we have an agreement?”

“We have an agreement,” she whispered. Now if God would soften Melly’s heart, there would no longer be any impediments to their happiness.

Unless, of course, one considered Lady Greystone.