The Bachelor List (2 page)

“Elizabeth, how are you?” Constance bowed politely. “Terrible weather for the middle of summer, isn't it?”

“Yes, indeed, terrible. How are you all, my dears? You look charming.” Lady Armitage had recovered her poise and greeted the younger women with a dowager's smile. “You're out of half mourning now.”

“Lavender and dove gray grew a little boring,” Constance said. “And Mother was never a stickler.”

“No, indeed. Poor woman.” Lady Armitage allowed a small sympathetic sigh to escape her, then remembering her companion, turned in her chair.

“My dears, allow me to introduce Max Ensor. He just won the by-election for Southwold and is newly arrived to take his seat in Parliament. His sister is a dear friend of mine. Lady Graham . . . so charming. I'm sure you're all acquainted with her. Mr. Ensor, may I present the Honorable Misses Duncan.” She waved a hand between the gentleman, who had risen to his feet, and the ladies.

He was taller than she had expected, Constance thought, and his rather powerful frame was set off to great advantage by the formality of his black frock coat, black waistcoat, and gray striped trousers. She found the contrast between his silver-threaded black hair and his vivid blue eyes set beneath arched black eyebrows most striking. “Constance Duncan, Mr. Ensor,” she said. “My sisters, Prudence and Chastity.” She smiled. “We are certainly acquainted with Lady Graham. Do you stay with her at present?”

Max Ensor bowed in both greeting and assent. “Until I can find a suitable house in Westminster, within hearing of the division bell, Miss Duncan.” His voice was surprisingly soft, very rich and dark, emerging from such a powerful body.

“Of course, very important,” Constance agreed with a knowledgeable nod. “You couldn't risk missing an important vote.”

“Quite so.” His eyes sharpened as he wondered if he had heard a slight hint of mockery behind the apparently solemn agreement. Was she making fun of him? He decided he had to have been mistaken; a man's devotion to duty was hardly cause for ridicule.

“Do sit down again, Mr. Ensor,” Chastity said. “We only stopped for a minute to greet Elizabeth. We have to be on our way.”

The gentleman smiled, but remained on his feet, his gaze still sharp.

“Have you ever seen this publication, Elizabeth?” Constance laid the copy of
The Mayfair Lady
on the table.

“Oh, it's a dreadful thing!” Lady Armitage exclaimed. “Lord Armitage won't let it in the house. Where did you get it?” She reached a hand towards it with an eagerness she couldn't disguise, although her mouth remained in a moue of distaste.

“In Elise's Salon on Regent Street,” Chastity responded promptly. “She had three copies on sale.”

“And I saw several in Helene's,” Prudence put in. “She had the most delicious straw bonnet in the window. I couldn't resist going in to try it. Quite impractical in this rain, of course. But there were copies of the broadsheet right there.”

“For sale?” exclaimed Lady Armitage. “It was never for sale before.”

“No, but I think there's more in it now,” Constance said thoughtfully. “Some of the articles are really quite interesting. There's something in here about the Maguire wedding that you might enjoy.”

“Oh, really, well, I . . .” Lady Armitage's hand hovered over the sheets. “Perhaps I could just take a peek.”

“Keep it,” Constance said with an airy gesture. “I've read it already.”

“Oh, how charming of you, my dear, but I couldn't possibly take it home. Ambrose would have a fit.” She folded the sheets carefully during this protestation.

“Leave it in the retiring room when you've finished with it,” Prudence suggested casually. “No one need know you'd read it.”

“Oh, I shall tear it up and throw it away,” Elizabeth declared, deftly tucking the sheets into her handbag. “Such a scandalous rag, it is.”

“Quite so,” murmured Chastity with a tiny smile. “The Maguire article is on Page 2. We'll see you at the Beekmans' soirée this evening. They have an opera singer, I understand. From Milan, I believe.”

“Oh, yes, I shall be there. It's not dear Armitage's cup of tea, but I do so adore singing. So charming.” Elizabeth patted her throat as if preparing to break into an aria.

The sisters smiled, murmured their farewells to the Member of Parliament for Southwold, bowed again in unison, and left the salon, their heels clicking on the marble floors.

“How are we going to make any money if you give the broadsheet away?” Prudence demanded as they waited for Constance's hat and umbrella.

“It's one way to create demand,” Constance pointed out, regarding her somewhat sad-looking hat with a grimace. “I knew the feather would be ruined.” She peered into the mirror as she adjusted the pins. “Perhaps I can replace the feather and keep the hat. What d'you think, Prue?”

Prudence was diverted by the question that appealed to her highly developed fashion sense. “Silk flowers,” she said. “Helene has some lovely ones. We'll go there tomorrow. Then we can see if she's sold any
Mayfair Lady
s
.
”

“So what did you think of the Right Honorable Gentleman, then?” Constance inquired as they went out onto Piccadilly. She laid gentle stress on Max Ensor's official title as a Member of Parliament. It had stopped raining and the pavements glistened under the feeble rays of the late-afternoon sun.

“Certainly distinguished, and quite possibly pompous,” Chastity pronounced. “We're bound to meet him if he's Letitia Graham's brother.”

“Mmm,” murmured Constance, looking up and down the street for a hackney cab. She raised her umbrella and a carriage clattered to the roadside beside them, the horses' wet flanks steaming in the now muggy summer air. “Ten Manchester Square, cabby,” she instructed the coachman as she climbed in, her sisters following.

If Prudence and Chastity noticed their sister's reluctance to impart her own impressions of Max Ensor, they said nothing.

Max Ensor gazed thoughtfully after the three sisters as they left Fortnum and Mason. He was convinced now that not only he but also Elizabeth Armitage had been exposed to a degree of gentle mockery. He wondered if Elizabeth had noticed it. Somehow he doubted it. It had been so subtle, he'd almost missed it himself. Just a hint in the voice, a gleam in the eye.

They were a good-looking trio. Redheads, all three of them, but with subtle variations in the shade that moved from the russet of autumn leaves to cinnamon, and in the case of the one he guessed was the youngest, a most decisive red. All green-eyed too, but again of different shades. He thought the eldest one, Constance, with her russet hair and darkest green eyes was the most striking of the three, but perhaps that was because she was the tallest. Either way, there was something about all three of them that piqued his interest.

“Are they Lord Duncan's daughters?” he inquired.

“Yes, their mother died about three years ago.” Elizabeth gave a sympathetic sigh. “So hard for them, poor girls. You'd think they'd all be married by now. Constance must be all of twenty-eight, and I know she's had more than one offer.”

Tiny frown lines appeared between her well-plucked brows. “In fact, I seem to remember a young man a few years ago . . . some dreadful tragedy. I believe he was killed in the war . . . at Mafeking or one of those unpronounceable places.” She shook her head, briskly dismissing the entire African continent and all its confusions.

“As for Chastity,” she continued, happy to return to more solid ground. “Well, she must be twenty-six, and she has more suitors than one can count.”

Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice at a conspiratorial volume. “But they took their mother's death very hard, poor girls.” She tutted sorrowfully. “It was very sudden. All over in a matter of weeks. Cancer,” she added. “She just faded away.” She shook her head again and took a cream-laden bite of hazelnut gâteau.

Max Ensor sipped his tea. “I'm slightly acquainted with the baron. He takes his seat most days in the House of Lords.”

“Oh, Lord Duncan's most conscientious, I'm sure. Charming man, quite charming. But I can't help feeling he's not doing a father's duty.” Elizabeth dabbed delicately at her rouged mouth with her napkin. “He should insist they marry—well, Constance and Chastity certainly. He can't have three old maids in the family. Prudence is a little different. I'm sure she would be content to stay and look after her father. Such a sensible girl . . . such a pity about the spectacles. They do make a woman look so dull.”

Dull
was not a word Max Ensor, on first acquaintance, would have applied to any one of the three Duncan sisters. And behind her thick lenses he seemed to recall that Miss Prudence had a pair of extremely light and lively green eyes.

He gave a noncommittal nod and asked, “May I see that broadsheet, ma'am?”

“It's quite scandalous.” Elizabeth opened her bag again. She lowered her voice. “Of course, everyone's reading it, but no one admits it. I'm sure even Letitia reads it sometimes.” She pushed the folded sheets across the table surreptitiously beneath her flattened palm.

Max Ensor doubted that his sister, Letitia, read anything other than the handwritten menu sheets presented to her each morning by her cook, but he kept the observation to himself and unfolded the papers.

The broadsheet was competently printed although he doubted it had been through a major press. The paper was cheap and flimsy and the layout without artistry. He glanced at the table of contents listed at the left-hand side of the top page. His eyebrows lifted. There were two political articles listed, one on the new public house licensing laws and the other on the new twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit for motorcars. Hardly topics to appeal to Mayfair ladies of the Elizabeth Armitage or Letitia Graham ilk, and yet judging by its bold title, the broadsheet was addressing just such a readership.

His eye was caught by a boxed headline in black type, bolder than any other on the front page. It was a headline in the form of a statement and a question and stood alone in its box, jumping out at the reader with an urgent immediacy.
WOMEN TAXPAYERS DEMAND THE VOTE
.
WILL THE LIBERAL GOVERNMENT GIVE WOMEN TAXPAYERS THE VOTE
?

“It seems this paper has more on its mind than gossip and fashion,” he observed, tapping a finger against the headline.

“Oh, that, yes. They're always writing about this suffrage business,” Elizabeth said. “So boring. But every edition has something just like that in a box on the front page. I don't take any notice. Most of us don't.”

Max frowned.
Just who was responsible for this paper?
Was it a forum for the women troublemakers who were growing daily more intransigent as they pestered the government with their demand for the vote? The rest of the topics in the paper were more to be expected: an article about the American illustrator Charles Dana Gibson and his idealized drawings of the perfect woman, the Gibson girl; a description of a Society wedding and who attended; a list of coming social events. He glanced idly at the Gibson article, blinked, and began to read. He had expected to see earnest advice to follow the prevailing fashion in order to achieve Gibson-girl perfection, instead he found himself reading an intelligent criticism of women's slavish following of fashions that were almost always dictated by men.

He looked up. “Who writes this?”

“Oh, no one knows,” Elizabeth said, reaching out eagerly to take back her prize. “That's what makes it so interesting, of course. It's been around for at least ten years, then there was a short period when it didn't appear, but now it's back and it has a lot more in it.”

She folded the sheets again. “Such a nuisance that one has to buy it now. Before, there were always copies just lying around in the cloakrooms and on hall tables. But it didn't have quite so many interesting things in it then. It was mostly just the boring political stuff. Women voting and that Property Act business. I don't understand any of it. Dear Ambrose takes care of such things.” She gave a little trill of laughter as she tucked the sheets back into her handbag. “Not a suitable subject for ladies.”

“No, indeed,” Max Ensor agreed with a firm nod. “There's trouble enough in the world without women involving themselves in issues that don't concern them.”

“Just what dear Ambrose says.” Elizabeth's smile was complacent as she put her hands to her head to check the set of her black taffeta hat from which descended a cascade of white plumes.

She glanced at the little enameled fob watch pinned to her lapel and exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness me, is that the time? I really must be going. Such a charming tea. Thank you so much, Mr. Ensor.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Armitage. I trust I shall see you this evening at the Beekmans' soirée. Letitia has commandeered my escort.” He rose and bowed, handing her her gloves.

“It will be a charming evening, I'm sure,” Elizabeth declared, smoothing her gloves over her fingers. “Everything is so very charming in London at the moment. Don't you find it so?”

“Uh . . . charming,” he agreed. He remained on his feet until she had billowed away, then called for the bill, reflecting that
charming
had to be the most overworked adjective in a Mayfair lady's vocabulary. Letitia used it to describe everything from her young daughter's hair ribbons to the coals in the fireplace and he'd lost count of the number of times it had dropped from Elizabeth Armitage's lips in the last hour.

However, he would swear that not one of the Honorable Misses Duncan had used it.

Women taxpayers demand the vote.

It would be both interesting and enlightening to discover who was behind that newspaper, he reflected, collecting his hat. The government was doing everything in its power to minimize the influence of the fanatical group of headstrong women, and a few foolish men, who were pressing for women's suffrage. But it was hard to control a movement when it went underground, and the true subversives were notoriously difficult to uncover. Unless he was much mistaken, this newspaper directed at the women of Mayfair was as subversive in its intended influence as any publication he'd seen. It would definitely be in the government's interest to draw its teeth. There were a variety of ways of doing that once its editors and writers were identified. And how difficult could it be to uncover them?