Louise M Gouge (22 page)

Tears reddened the old man’s eyes. “I did what I could, milord. But, oh, what a brave little lad you were.”

“Mother was the brave one.” He had been too harsh in thinking she should get over the past. “What lady could endure such treatment and survive to raise her sons so well?”

“Indeed, milord.”

Gilly’s revelations stunned Greystone. This man had been more than a valet, more than a friend. He had been his lifelong protector and guide. Like a shepherd he had gently led him along the right path, always appealing to his better instincts. Without his realizing it, Gilly had been a father to him, despite the disparity between their stations.

Healing peace settled into Greystone like warm soup on a cold day. He could not entirely dispense with caution over his temper, but he could dispense with the fear that he would be like his father. Hope for a bright future with Lady Beatrice swept away all his former concerns, and he anticipated Lady Drayton’s ball all the more.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“M
ilord, a woman to see you.” Sims hesitated outside of Melton’s bedchamber, wariness in his eyes. “’Tis the wife of that Slate fellow, sir, and I fear she may be wanting more money.”

Melton finished tying his cravat, a skill he had yet to master. He sighed as he studied his poor appearance in the mirror. Nothing could be done for it, of course. He simply must go out as he was: rumpled, tattered and a bit stained. But after many days of sober thinking and much prayer, he had resolved that his first step in regaining his self-respect was to go to Beatrice and beg her forgiveness. If Mrs. Parton refused him admittance, he would simply sit on the lady’s doorstep until they tripped over him on their way out.

But first he must deal with Slate’s wife. Over a week ago the poor wretch had fetched her still-unconscious husband home with the help of two other Runners. Melton had emptied his pockets and his small stash of money into the woman’s hands so Slate could continue to receive visits from the surgeon. Perhaps she came now to say the good man had died without ever waking up. At the thought a sick feeling threatened to overwhelm Melton, and he longed to drown it with a drink. But he quickly dismissed the impulse. From now on he would be made of sterner stuff.

“Tell her I will see her shortly.” He would wait at least fifteen minutes for effect, just in case she had nefarious intentions. Rumbold had taught him that was the best way to unnerve beggars, creditors and blackmailers—perhaps even put them off entirely.

Rumbold! How could he still be heeding that murderer’s advice? Two Bow Street Runners had pursued the man and pulled him from a ship in Southampton about to set sail for Italy. When they reported the incident to Melton, they took pride in the fact that Rumbold had been treated none too gently for his conduct toward their fellow officer of the law, not to mention his murder of a harmless lady of the street. After a hasty trial in Old Bailey, he now sat in Newgate Prison awaiting hanging. Melton shuddered to think he had ever wished to emulate such an evil man as Rumbold.

Lord, may I never again consider his wicked advice nor follow his wicked ways.

With that prayer in mind he made haste to see poor Mrs. Slate. He found the woman standing in the drawing room.

“Mrs. Slate, please be seated.” He waved a hand toward the settee, which Sims had attempted to improve in recent days. The Runner’s bloodstains had blended into the faded floral pattern, but it still was a shameful piece of furniture for an earl’s residence.

The woman, who appeared near to thirty years old, stared at it askance. “No thank you, milord.” Her slight grimace suggested that its deplorable condition kept her from sitting rather than a reticence to sit in an earl’s presence.

Now that he looked at it with a clear eye, he wondered how he ever could have sat there himself. He returned his attention to his guest and saw no anxiety in her expression. Perhaps she had good news.

“Is your husband well?”

Her slender face lit up in a smile. “He’s awake, milord, and soon to be up and about.” Her brown eyes dimmed only a little. “He don’t remember what happened to him, but he feels a bit anxious about something he was supposed to do.” She shrugged. “The surgeon says he’ll remember soon enough if he’s supposed to.”

“Ah, very good.” And a huge relief to Melton. One less thing on his conscience. “Now, how may I help you?” He gave her an encouraging smile, hoping she would not ask too much. At odds with that thought, he longed to give her a small fortune, as if that would make up for the evil done to her husband. Perhaps when he received his rents—

“Nothing, milord, but I may be able to do something for you.” She pulled a sealed vellum page from her reticule. “This here was in my Jeremy’s pocket, and we don’t know what to do with it. He don’t remember what it’s about, and none of the Runners know nothing. Was it something you gave him?”

Melton accepted the sealed letter and turned it over. The address, written with a flourish, said only
Lady Beatrice Gregory.
Beebe! Who would be writing to her, and why had Slate had it in his possession? It seemed odd that none of the Runners knew about it.

“No, it is not mine, but as Lady Beatrice is my sister, I will take care of it.” He fished in his pocket for a coin, but found none. He cleared his throat. “Sims, by any chance—”

The man winced. “It’ll be either supper for you tonight or a tuppence for her today.”

Mrs. Slate blinked her eyes, then chuckled as if it were a fine joke. “I don’t need yer coin, milord. I just wanted to do the right thing.”

“That is very noble of you, madam. Sims, give her the tuppence.”

After the woman departed, Melton overcame his reluctance to sit on the ruined settee and settled in to study the letter. In former times he would have opened it without a hint of guilt. Now he could only reason that God had placed in his hands the very tool for gaining admittance into Mrs. Parton’s home.

* * *

Beatrice could not help but feel a wave of pride over her perfect performance before Her Majesty. As much as she stood in awe of the regal queen, as much as her legs threatened to buckle beneath her, she had managed to walk and kneel and rise and back away with a grace that would do any royal personage proud. The queen’s approving kiss on her forehead would remain with Beatrice all her days, as would her devotion and admiration for the king’s consort. Pale and slender in her old-fashioned silver gown with wide panniers and flared sleeves, the queen had nonetheless presented an elegant picture of imposing majesty wearing a king’s ransom in glittering jewels. And yet this German princess also exuded a genuine kindness that had won every English heart for the past fifty-odd years. Observing the serenity in her eyes, Beatrice could not help but wonder if she herself could have such peace if one day her own husband went mad like poor old King George.

That is, if she ever had a husband. Lord Greystone, the gentleman who owned her heart, had not attended the Drawing Room, so he was probably still in Shropshire. Polite but distant, Lord Winston had attended the event and had briefly congratulated her on her honor. Not that she felt any serious attachment to the baron, but his previous attentions had been flattering. And now in the open landau wheeling away from Buckingham Palace, her ostrich feather headdress fluttering in the breeze, Beatrice refused to be dismayed by her lack of prospects. From now on she could hold her head up with unabashed pride as a true member of London Society. Never mind that she still possessed no fortune or dowry.

* * *

The next afternoon, perhaps hoping to put that pride into proper perspective, Mrs. Parton insisted that they must visit St. Ann’s Orphan Asylum. There among the sweet girls seeking to find their own places in the world, Beatrice was reminded of all her blessings. Most were destined for work as housemaids, a situation to which she would never be reduced. Even those who showed talent for other occupations, such as cooking, sewing or hairdressing, were not ensured an easy future.

After finishing their usual duties as audience and encouragers for the girls, Beatrice and Mrs. Parton bade them all farewell and made their way to the awaiting carriage. But Beatrice felt her heart lingering with the orphans.

“You seem reluctant to leave.” Mrs. Parton gave her an understanding smile as she tugged at her gloves.

“I am.” Beatrice hesitated, knowing she had no right to ask her mentor for yet another expenditure on her behalf. While Mrs. Parton had never hinted that any form of repayment was necessary, Beatrice felt the weight of the debt on her soul. No, she could not ask another favor, not after Lucy’s betrayal. “But we will return, will we not?”

“Oh, indeed we shall.” Mrs. Parton accepted the footman’s hand to climb into the phaeton, then took up the reins from the tiger while he handed Beatrice up. “What would you say if I told you I have arranged for young Sally to become Poole’s student?”

Beatrice’s heart skipped. “I would say, madam, that you are the most generous lady I have ever known.” She laughed. “I would also say that you have a singular talent for being able to read my mind.”

* * *

Sally arrived the next day, a picture of shy eagerness and a study in wonder over her good fortune. Poole took her in hand, and within two days, Beatrice was treated to a new and flattering coiffure just in time for Lady Drayton’s ball.

“Do you like the way I’ve done the curls, my lady?” Sally stood back to study her work with a critical eye.

“Indeed I do. You have done a very fine job.” Beatrice saw in the dressing-table mirror that her compliment brought a blush to the girl’s cheeks. How different her demeanor was from Lucy’s brashness. Once her training was completed, she would surely have a secure future as a lady’s maid, perhaps Beatrice’s.

A knock sounded upon the door, and Poole, who had hovered over Sally’s work, answered. When she returned, she carried a letter in an unfamiliar hand and passed it to Beatrice.

“For you, my lady.” Poole instinctively picked at a spot or two of Beatrice’s coiffure. “Lord Melton is requesting an audience with you.”

The address on the folded and sealed vellum page was not in Melly’s handwriting, nor anyone else’s whom she could recognize. No doubt it was from that Rumbold person. She tossed it aside. It would make good kindling for a morning fire, should the summer turn cold.

“Does Mrs. Parton know, Poole?”

“Yes, my lady. She said to tell you it is your decision whether or not to see his lordship.”

Beatrice heaved out a great, unlady-like sigh. An interview with her brother would only ruin her mood for Lady Drayton’s ball. It would be sufficiently difficult for her without Lord Greystone in attendance. She had long ago forgiven Melly for squandering her dowry, but she would give him no further opportunity to do her injury.

“No, I will not see him.” Even as she said the words, her heart wrenched. But how could he expect her to receive him and his despicable friend after their last visit? How did they even dare to come here? Did they expect to impose themselves upon Mrs. Parton, assuming they could tag along on her invitation to the marchioness’s ball? After all, it was one of the grandest of the Season, and everyone coveted an invitation. She could just imagine Lady Drayton’s horror at seeing Mr. Rumbold in her ballroom. All of the decent attendees would scatter like geese running from a fox. And Beatrice’s standing in Society would be forever tainted.

Before her mind could conjure up any more bad scenes, she inhaled deeply. “Now, Sally, my gown.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“M
y lord, Lady Greystone has already left for the marchioness’s ball.” Roberts seemed to have taken well to his new role as butler. His posture, his grammar, even his inflections replicated Crawford’s flawless form. And although he could not have known Greystone was about to arrive, he stood completely unruffled at the front door to greet him when the coach stopped in front of the town house. An added indication of his suitability for the position was his instinctive understanding of what Greystone would like to know upon returning home.

“Ah. Very good.” He hurried up the front staircase, motioning for Gilly and the butler to follow him. “I must hurry and get ready to go, as well. Did the viscountess take the landau?”

“No, my lord.” Roberts kept up with his pace without losing his breath, something Crawford had not been able to do in recent years. “Mr. and Mrs. Grenville came in a barouche to accompany her, along with Mr. James Grenville.”

At the top of the staircase Greystone stopped so suddenly his two servants almost collided with him. “My uncle Grenville?”

“Yes, my lord.” The perfect butler, Roberts recovered from the near mishap without so much as lifting an eyebrow
or
tumbling down the stairs.

“Well, well, well.” As they proceeded up the corridor, Greystone could not help but feel a slight unease about his perfectly proper mother’s activities of late. It was commendable that she wanted to spend time with Edmond and Anna, and they with her. But exactly where did Uncle Grenville fit into all of this? Before the night was over he would insist upon an explanation from her.

“What can you tell me about, uh, Mrs. Parton these days?” Asking about Lady Beatrice’s comings and goings would hardly be appropriate.

“Lord Melton visited some days ago, accompanied by his friend. Lord Winston called once or twice.” He coughed into a gloved hand. “The lady has employed an exceptional new cook, a Frenchman, if I am not mistaken.” Obviously the man had tasted some of this new cook’s creations, for a jolly smirk crossed his face. It quickly disappeared.

That brief lapse did not disturb Greystone. He had never been one to think his servants should behave like wooden soldiers. But then perhaps his kindness to Lucy had fostered a lack of discipline in her.

Nor was he concerned about Melton and Rumbold visiting. Mrs. Parton no doubt made quick work of whatever scheme they had presented to her.

What did disturb him was the idea of Winston visiting Lady Beatrice. He had suspected that adventurer would try to step in, knowing Greystone would be gone. At least his letter should have ensured her patience in awaiting his return. Perhaps he should have declared his deepest love and devotion in the missive. No, that was a responsibility and a pleasure one reserved for a private conversation.

“I thank you, Roberts. That will be all.” He hurried to his bedchamber and began the process of washing and putting on his new evening clothes. He had missed the last fitting, but Gilly quickly applied needle and thread to shorten the jacket’s sleeves to keep them from crowding the ruffled, white lace cuffs.

Roberts returned to the bedchamber some twenty minutes later, and his expression was decidedly disapproving. “My lord, Lord Melton awaits you in the front drawing room.”

“Melton?” Greystone snorted out his disgust. “What does he want? Tell him I am going out and have no time to receive him.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler walked toward the door.

“Wait.” Curiosity seized him. He had certainly prayed for Melton at every turn, but with little hope for his rehabilitation. Perhaps this was an answer to those prayers. “Is that Rumbold fellow with him?”

“No, my lord. He is alone. And rather disheveled, if I may say so, sir.”

Gilly snipped the last threads of his alterations and assisted Greystone with donning the blue satin jacket. Without his valet, he would no doubt look a bit disheveled himself. Something must have happened to bring Melton here. All Greystone could do was pray it was something good. Melton could not prevent him from marrying Lady Beatrice, but if he could have a decent relationship with the man who would be his brother-in-law, so much the better.

“Tell him I will be right down.”

Roberts’s face became a granite wall. “Yes, my lord.”

Greystone hoped his new butler’s instant stoicism did not portend a bad interview with the earl.

* * *

The Marquess of Drayton’s mansion lay on a broad green property about a half mile from Greystone Hall. Standing apart from other St. James’s Square residences, it had the air of a royal residence, though was not quite as grand as Buckingham Palace. As Mrs. Parton’s landau rolled up the drive amidst dozens of other conveyances, Beatrice looked from side to side to enjoy the estate’s impressive grounds. With sufficient daylight to showcase the immaculately kept lawns and flower gardens, the landscape was a tribute to wealth but not excess. The closer they came to the house, the more her anticipation grew. By the time they reached the front portico, she felt a giddy, girlish excitement over seeing Lady Drayton again and meeting the marquess.

Beneath the front portico, green-liveried footmen and black-uniformed maids hurried about, making certain every guest received proper attention. Once guests crossed the threshold into the broad entryway, wraps and cloaks were surrendered, slippers brushed and coiffures straightened, so each visitor could make an entrance befitting his or her station in life.

“Humph.” Mrs. Parton adjusted her turban, checking the angle of her albino peacock feathers in a mirror beside the front door. “I am quite put out with Lord Greystone. He should be here to escort us into the ball.”

“But, why?” Beatrice would not admit to her mentor that she longed for the viscount’s company, as well. “In spite of your conjecture, we have no claim upon him.”

“Humph,” the lady repeated. “I do hope that changes soon.” She linked an arm in Beatrice’s, and they ascended the elegant staircases to the second-floor ballroom.

At the door the butler bowed to them, took their calling cards and announced in a rich baritone, “Lady Beatrice Gregory. Mrs. Julia Parton.”

All around them the fragrances of countless perfumes mingled in the air, giving Beatrice a heady sense of having arrived. This was just the sort of event Mama had often spoken of. Although she would have liked to have been presented at her own coming-out ball, this was more than sufficient, considering her current circumstances. Despite Lord Greystone’s absence, despite Melly’s attempt to waylay her, she resolved to enjoy the evening to its fullest.

The June daylight lasted until after nine of the clock, but finally it faded into a hazy purple darkness. In the vast ballroom hundreds of candles blazed in crystal chandeliers, with several servants carefully attending to the dripping wax lest it fall on the guests while they danced. As Beatrice entered arm in arm with Mrs. Parton, music met her ears, and she located the source: musicians on a dais at the end of the ballroom. As if they had a mind of their own, her feet ached to move in time with the merry tune.

“Over here, my dear.” Mrs. Parton ushered her toward a group of brocade chairs set off from the dancing area by a row of large potted plants. “Shall we sit?”

“Yes, madam.” Beatrice felt a pinch of disappointment. Once they had settled into the green chairs, she found the courage to ask, “Will I be introduced?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. The marchioness will present you and several other young ladies to the room.” She gave her a knowing smile. “But of course you must not speak to anyone until they are presented to you. You are, after all, the daughter of an earl.”

Beatrice smiled her appreciation, even as sorrow pushed aside her happy mood. Yes, she was the daughter of an earl, but she was also the sister of his heir. To think of Melly being forever shut out of this grand company almost broke her heart.

* * *

“What do you want, Melton?” Greystone stood in the doorway of the drawing room, refusing to cross the space to greet the earl.

“Greystone.” The man’s clothes were as rumpled as Roberts had reported, but his hair was combed, and he appeared clean-shaven. As he strode over, hand extended, the usual stench of cheap brandy did not accompany him.

Greystone stared at the presented hand and crossed his arms. “As I said, what do you want?”

He withdrew the appendage and shrugged. “I do not blame you for...see here, old man, I came to apologize...to ask forgiveness for the unforgivable.” His words were uttered in a tone that could only be described as humble, almost beseeching.

A strange chill at odds with the warm evening swept down Greystone’s back. Was this an answered prayer or some sort of trick? Something Melton had learned from Rumbold in order to get into Greystone’s good graces and renew his plea for the eighty thousand?

“Go on.” Greystone sauntered toward a nearby grouping of chairs and waved to one. “Sit.”

Although Melton ranked above him in precedence, he had the courtesy to honor his unwilling host’s order.

Greystone dropped into a chair opposite the one Melton had taken. “Talk.”

He coughed out a laugh, clearly embarrassed. “I have been a fool. No excuses. No explanations. Please forgive me for dismissing you so rudely from my home, when was it? Over two weeks ago.” Another ironic laugh. “My
home,
rotten hole that it is.”

All this self-abasement rang true, but Greystone still found himself unable to put any faith in his words. “Very well. You are forgiven.” He put a note of finality in his response, not wanting to invite the inevitable plea for funds.

Melton exhaled a long sigh shaded with yet another laugh, this one resounding with relief. “I understand you just returned from Shropshire, so perhaps you have not heard...?” He tilted his head in question.

Greystone said nothing, but curiosity burned within him.

“Very well. Here is the whole story, which I bring to
you
only because my sister—”

“You will keep Lady Beatrice’s name out of this conversation.”

“Yes, of course.” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “A double shame,” he muttered, “that another gentleman must defend her honor.” One more explosive sigh. “Very well, then. The long and the short of it is this. My creditor—I will not call him friend—lies in Newgate Prison where he awaits hanging for the murder of his mistress.”

Greystone’s jaw dropped, and his tongue could not form words.

“’Twas a speedy trial. Seems there were few to defend him, and many will be glad to see him gone. Of course all of his possessions are forfeit to the Crown. Of the eighty thousand I owed my creditors, his note was for sixty thousand. His mistress burned it, hoping to stop his marriage to—” He grunted. “So he murdered her.”

“God have mercy.” Greystone could hardly take in these developments.

Melton breathed out a heartbreaking sigh. “Like the devil, Rumbold took hold of my soul. To free myself, I became willing to sell him that which is most precious to me, my sister.” He winced. “In spite of what you may think, I hold her in highest regard.”

Greystone swallowed the rage this admission engendered. “But why come to me with this tale?” As much as he was glad to know what had happened, he could not easily accept Melton’s claim of caring for Lady Beatrice.

“Because God has granted me a grace I do not deserve, and I am prepared to accept your offer to hold me accountable for my finances and m-my excessive consumption of brandy. And wine. And many other such beverages.” There was a boyish quality to his half grin that reminded Greystone of little Kit, except that Kit had never been this pathetic. “If I place myself at your disposal, will you help me find the right path?”

“I?” Greystone felt another chill sweep over him. “Why do you ask
me?
” When he had spoken to Melton of accountability, he had planned to suggest the ever-patient Lord Blakemore.

Melton’s childishly wily expression held no cunning. “Because if you are going to be my brother, I know you would prefer to make certain that I bring no further scandal upon the family.”

Greystone suddenly had the feeling that he had walked right into a trap as clever as any that Rumbold had set for his victims.