The Courteous Cad (23 page)

“And you shall have it,” he replied. “As you know, my family has deep roots in Yorkshire, and from thence we have never traveled far. We are happiest in the country, you see, and through the centuries we have seen no reason to establish a permanent residence in London.”

“Ah, the picture begins to clear already,” Henry said. “I presume you wish to make some use of Delacroix House.”

“Very astute, sir. I do indeed, though with all possible humility. Having built a worsted mill a short time ago, the Thorne family are involved in trade.”

“I cannot disparage you for that, my good man. The aristocracy is not what it once was. As we discussed before the ladies arrived, I myself have taken partnership in a tea enterprise.”

William tipped his head. “That is my very reason for being so bold as to approach you with the request I now make. In an effort to court the merchants and brokers with whom I hope to do business, I wish to hold a somewhat intimate reception.”

“But why not a ball?” Mary asked. “I long for a ball.”

“As you wish, madam. If my hopes are fulfilled, you and your sisters will agree to accept the task of preparing for the occasion.”

“Of course!” Mary beamed at Sarah and Prudence. “We shall be delighted to assist you in every way.”

“But first I must obtain Lord Delacroix’s permission to make use of his home.”

“Without hesitation, sir.” Henry awarded William a warm smile. “Name your day, and we shall dispatch the invitations.”

They discussed the details of the event, sipped their tea, inquired after the health of various friends and acquaintances they had in common, speculated on the weather, and at last William stood to leave.

He knew he ought to depart the house after a brief but heartfelt farewell. Yet he could not resist posing a question.

“I wonder, Miss Watson, if I might have a word with you in the foyer,” he asked. “If your family does not object, I should like to resolve a matter left pending at our last meeting.”

“Of course you may take her,” Mary said. “Go, Prudence. Show Mr. Sherbourne to the door.”

The color heightened in the younger woman’s cheeks as she looked to her older sister.

Sarah nodded. “We shall await your return.”

Prudence cast a glance at Delacroix, then stepped away from the fire. William caught up to her, offered his arm, and escorted her from the room. The foyer was but paces away, and he knew he had too much to say.

“Dear lady,” he began, “I cannot express my surprise and delight in finding you here today.”

“Really?” she asked. “But where else would I be? Did you not request the attendance of both Mrs. Locke’s sisters?”

“I did, of course. Yet, I thought . . . I feared you might not come.”

“Why not? We are friends, and I am happy to see you again.”

“Friends?” He paused and took her hand. “Prudence, on our last meeting we professed our mutual love. Have you forgotten?”

“As I said, sir, I am very silly—”

“No! No, you are not the least bit silly. You are beautiful and good, so good that I am wholly unworthy—”

“I am not good,” she cut in. “No one is truly good. You said so yourself. We are all painted in shades of gray. Right and wrong—who can tell one from the other these days? A very bad man might perform kind and genteel acts now and then. A very good woman might do something . . . something . . .”

“Prudence?” He tilted her chin with his fingertip. “Are you weeping?”

“No . . . perhaps a little. . . . You must admit things are all at sixes and sevens.”

“Are they?”

“Indeed, for I had no idea you would come to Delacroix House today. And things are so much changed since last we met.”

“What has changed? You? Indeed you have, for you look more beautiful to me than ever. Your hair, your eyes. You are radiant. What has altered you? Dare I hope that I am the cause of it?”

She looked away, struggling again to control some emotion he could not interpret. But at last she faced him.

“If I am altered,” she said, “it is due to events I have experienced recently. Mr. Sherbourne, I regret to confess that I have not been fully honest with you.”

“In what way?” He gripped her gloved hand, alarm coursing through him. “How recently have these events occurred? Who has changed you? Prudence, are you in love with someone?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed the word, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear, I should not have said that. But it is true. And despite this great love, I have . . . I have . . .”

“Who is he? What man has captured your heart?” He took her shoulders. “You have been gone from me no more than two weeks. In such a short time, who has usurped your heart?”

“I cannot say.” She pulled away from him. “I must not say. I have to go. My sisters will wonder what has become of me, and Henry will have questions.”

“Henry?”
William barked the word. “
Henry?
Do you mean Henry Carlyle? Lord Delacroix has captured you?”

“Truly I must go.” Tears spilled freely now, tumbling down her cheeks as she backed away from him. “I am sorry, William. So sorry.”

He stood rigid, unable to move, powerless even to draw breath as she turned and fled through the house toward the drawing room. Toward her sisters. And toward the man who had stolen away her love.

Thirteen

“I cannot go to the ball,” Prudence announced for the third time that afternoon.

Her sisters had insisted on forcing her into the bedroom at Mary’s home where she had been staying the past two weeks. With the express purpose of making her as miserable as possible, they began opening her trunks and sorting through her bonnets, slippers, gowns, pelisses, and jewels in anticipation of the ball to be held three evenings hence at Delacroix House.

“I shall
not
go,” Prudence reiterated. “He will be there, and I shall be obliged to dance with him, and I shall wish for a life I cannot have, and everything will be worse than it is already.”

“Do you prefer the pink brocade, Sarah, or the pale yellow silk?” Mary held two gowns aloft for her elder sister’s evaluation. “The pink will heighten the color of her complexion, making her appear more lively than ever. The yellow favors her hair so well, yet I confess I do prefer the pink.”

“Our sister has been lively enough to make at least a dozen men fall violently in love with her,” Sarah remarked. “Perhaps wearing pink she will capture several more beaux, and one of them will charm her into abandoning poor Mr. Sherbourne’s mill and letting him get on with his life.”

“I beg your pardon,” Prudence retorted. “I do not intend to abandon the mill workers. In fact, I mean to return to Otley and take up my quest as soon as this dreadful ball is ended.”

“Then you ought to put Mr. Sherbourne out of his misery and try not to love him so dearly.” Reclining on a settee near the fire, Sarah was perusing the latest issue of
The Tattler
. Periodically she read bits of news aloud to her sisters.

But she had not yet finished meting out advice to Prudence. “You must make a sincere effort to find Henry Carlyle irresistible,” she instructed, “for he is as handsome as any other man, is richer and better titled than most, and is laboring to quell his former reputation as a cad.”

“Former?” Mary asked. “How do you know Henry’s days as a cad are ended, Sarah? Although he claims to have reformed, Henry may be as much a rake as ever. Perhaps more so, for he has been to sea, and you know the havoc island girls can play with a young man’s morals. I have decided on pink. This gown is so lovely. Besides, we have nothing but the yellow one to replace it. Yellow may make her appear sickly. We cannot have Pru looking ill if she is to win Henry’s heart and cast off poor Mr. Sherbourne.”

“Dear sisters, I must remind you that I am in this room too, in case you have forgotten!” Prudence exclaimed. “You will no more dictate my future husband than my ball gown. I am old enough to choose the direction of my life, and I have decided neither to go to the ball nor to marry anyone. I certainly will never relinquish my position as a crusader against injustice.”

“Flowers would be lovely in her hair, do you not agree, Sarah?” Mary examined a pink ribbon adorned with tiny silk roses. “This would look charming woven into a small braid near the top of her head. Have you found Miss Pickworth yet? I am eager to hear what she says about the Delacroix ball.”

As Prudence fumed, Sarah turned another page and scanned the newspaper. “No, it is largely news of Napoleon,” she told her sisters. “America is causing no end of trouble, as always. And of course our honored prince regent can be relied upon to concoct one scandal after another—as if we had nothing else to keep us entertained.”

“Oh, dear.” Mary laid the ribbon on a table near the bed. “Has he forgotten he is to be king one day? Why must he always keep England in peril of losing her last shred of decency? It is not bad enough that he has
two
wives, for he must insist on siring sons by any number of mistresses. I am truly
quite
put out!”

As her sisters chatted about nothing, Prudence drew back the curtain over a window near the fire and studied the busy street below. Sarah and Mary had little to do but fuss over gowns, beaux, the
haute ton
, and the antics of the prince regent. Once upon a time, she had been no different.

But her journey across the moors had altered everything. When God had commissioned her to save the mill children from their plight, Prudence had been transformed into a different woman. Such an undertaking required persistence and an ardent determination to overcome all obstacles—the current most pressing of which were named Mrs. Charles Locke and Mrs. John Heathhill, better known to her as Sarah and Mary. Surely the Lord, in all His sovereign wisdom, had not intended sisters to be so incredibly annoying.

As Prudence scanned the large semicircle of grand homes that formed Cranleigh Crescent, memories of Bettie’s small, thatch-roofed cottage on the outskirts of Otley filled her thoughts. The occupants of these residences enjoyed a vast difference in rank, wealth, and the expectation of a happy future.

Prudence had little doubt that despite Mr. Walker’s love and protection, Bettie would die too young. No one could breathe the lint-filled air inside the mill without developing one or more illnesses of the lungs. Bettie often endured fits of unabated coughing, and nothing Prudence tried could ease her condition.

Her children, Bettie had lamented, would never learn to read or write. Their mother could do neither, and with no school nearby, what hope had they for education?

Furthermore, why should they bother to learn at all, when their destinies lay within the ear-shattering din of Mr. Sherbourne’s mill?

Prudence’s stomach tightened into knots as she thought of the stone edifice, its churning waterwheel, its clanging carding machines, its whirring looms. What were young Tom, Martha, and Davy Smith doing even now as the sun set over England?

No doubt some other woman already had taken her place at the billy, a woman who would look down at the scrawny children scuttling back and forth beneath the dangerous metal contraption. Davy would never grow up straight and tall like William Sherbourne, Henry Carlyle, Ruel Chouteau, or the other gentlemen of the
beau monde
. Tom would help his brother hobble to and from the mill day after day until the child’s crippled limbs could no longer bear his weight at all.

“I have found her!” Sarah cried out, waving the newspaper in the air. “You were right, Mary—Miss Pickworth’s first matter of discussion is the Delacroix ball.”

“Let me see!” Mary abandoned the pink gown and raced to take a place beside her sister on the settee. “Oh, indeed, it is! Read it to us, Sarah. Dearest Pru, leave your gloomy thoughts and join us for a moment of fun.”

Fun?
Prudence let the curtain fall back into place and settled onto a chair. “If Miss Pickworth is going to alliterate her way through the society gossip,” she told her sisters, “I shall be unable to abide it.”

“Miss Pickworth always alliterates, Pru,” Mary reminded her. “Steady yourself, for our sister is now prepared to enchant us.”

Sarah began with the headline. “‘Dancing at Delacroix Destined to be Delightful.’”

At this, Prudence emitted a loud groan. “Oh, this is too agonizing to endure. Truly I must go.”

“Stay and listen,” Mary said, catching her sister’s arm. “Perhaps you will learn something useful.”

“‘Friday’s festivities,’” Sarah continued, “‘will feature fortunate friends and fine fashion. Delacroix House, Cranleigh Crescent’s most coveted abode—’”

“That is untrue,” Mary cut in. “Trenton House is equally sumptuous.”

“Do you mind not interrupting? And I refer to both of you,” Sarah intoned, sternly regarding her sisters over the top of the newspaper before beginning again.

“‘Cranleigh Crescent’s most coveted abode will warmly welcome the
haute ton
. A celebration of Lord Delacroix’s deliverance from stormy seas and weary wanderings awaits. Miss Pickworth presumes to propose the guest list. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Locke will likely attend—’”

“Oh, Sarah, you are named first!” Mary cried. “Such an honor.”

“‘Mrs. Mary Heathhill, widow to the esteemed late John Heathhill—’”

“That is I. How kindly she words the mention of my dear departed husband.”

Sarah continued reading. “‘Miss Prudence Watson, sister to the aforementioned belles of the ball, will be ardently admired as always.’”

“There!” Mary said. “How esteemed you are, Pru.”

“Indeed,” Sarah agreed. “You cannot fail to attend now, Prudence, for everyone in town will be waiting for you to make an entrance.”

“If you avoid an appearance,” Mary added, “you will humiliate Henry and sadden your sisters, all of whom hold high hopes for your success in society.”

Prudence stared at her sister in astonishment. “Mary . . . you are alliterating.”

An infusion of bright pink bloomed across the young widow’s cheeks. “Am I really?” Mary asked. “How odd. Perhaps I have been perusing Miss Pickworth too punctually.”