The Courteous Cad (38 page)

“No, indeed.” She moistened her lips. “Your reputation is . . .”

“Reduced to rubble. I tried to tell you several times about my past.”

“You did. You were as honest as you could be without revealing all.”

“Perhaps I should have revealed more than I did. You must understand now why I am not at ease in London. The assembly at Lord Delacroix’s house was difficult, for I had not expected it to be so well attended. I confess, my sole aim in proposing it was to see you. But I managed somehow to elude my own ill repute and to acquire the patronage of several gentleman who were in attendance there.”

“Their support must have made your reforms easier to implement. I am sure the expense to you has been substantial.”

“Not so much as one might think. In fact, today I spoke to a number of my elder brother’s colleagues about the monetary benefits of reform. The men are all members of the peerage. I believe it will not be long before a law—a very good law— will be proposed in Parliament.”

“The very best law that ever was sent?”

He chuckled. “Or nearly so.” The muscle in his jaw flickered as he gazed at the sparkling flame of a streetlamp. “Guilt plagues me, Prudence. I bear the blame for Miss Bryse’s death. I have lived a life of vice and dissipation. My gaming habits and my dependence on drink caused me to owe a great sum. My debts threaten to keep me at the brink of financial ruin. That is what prevented me from reforming the mill sooner.”

“But you did reform it, and God has rewarded you. William, do you recall the words Jesus spoke to Nicodemus? New birth can happen to any man—any man who entrusts his life into the hands of a merciful Savior.”

“I live by those words. I have repented, and in my heart, I know I am reborn. But a wise young lady once told me that though our sins can be forgiven, the consequences of past wickedness often live on. I can never escape what I have done, Prudence. And I would never ask you to join your own life to another so encumbered.”

“Join my life . . . to yours?” She tried to breathe. “William, I—”

“You should go. Your family is waiting. I am sorry, Prudence. I did not intend to trouble you.”

He made her a crisp bow, then turned away, walking quickly. Standing at the edge of the street, she watched him round a corner and vanish. She heard the rattle of wheels and the clatter of hooves only moments before the carriage rolled to a stop beside her.

“Come inside with us, Pru,” Sarah called softly. “It is time to move on.”

“I had an appointment with Mrs. Norris,” William told the footman outside the front door of a grand home. He set a calling card on the silver tray in the servant’s hand. “Please deliver my sincerest apologies and inform her that I shall call again tomorrow.”

“Of course, Mr. Sherbourne,” the footman replied. “But she told me to bring you in. She wishes to see you—no matter the hour.”

“Ah, how very like her.”

The imposing edifice, just across from St. James’s Park, stood near Pall Mall and was uncomfortably close to the prince regent’s residence at Carlton House—as William had discovered only minutes before. Still shaken from the unexpected meeting with Prudence Watson, he stepped into the chilly foyer.

She had looked like an angel coming to him through the foggy London night. Her pink gown glowed as she materialized into view. Golden hair piled on her head and trailing down her neck in soft ringlets had entranced him. Unable to move, unable to think, he most certainly had been unable to elude her.

Dear God, why did You allow such a thing?
William lifted up in silent prayer.
Why did I have to see her? hear her voice?
remember again how much I love her?

It was hardly a punishment worthy of Job, but William nonetheless felt betrayed. He had come to London in such a way as to avoid Prudence completely, along with anything that might remind him of her. Carrying out his business, he had managed to stay far from Cranleigh Crescent and its semicircle of fine homes, where resided her closest society of family and friends. He had occupied himself from early morning to late at night, all in the vain hope of preventing a single thought of her to cross his mind.

“William! At this hour? We were all abed!” Hands outstretched, dressing gown billowing, Eugenie Norris floated toward him across the carpeted floor. His aunt, nearing her seventieth year, was as elegantly beautiful as ever. “Do come into the drawing room, my dear boy. We shall stir the fire and put on tea.”

She embraced him, enveloping the air around them in the scent of heliotrope and roses. Taking his hand, she led him into a vast room filled with too many settees and chairs to count.

“Aunt Norris, I must apologize for my late arrival.” William took a place near the fire. “I had hoped to come much earlier in the day.”

“I received the message you sent regarding your delay, dearest, and I am not at all put out.” Seated in a large chair, she smiled at William while her servants hastened to rekindle the fire. “And how do you like your new name?”

“New name?” He always enjoyed sitting with his aunt. Not only was she often amusing, but she reminded him very much of her sister—the mother he had loved so well. “I believe my name remains as it always has been.”

“Oh no, certainly not. You are no longer William Sherbourne,” she declared, availing herself of a sweet from a tray offered by one of her maids. “You are now and forever to be known as ‘Father.’”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Immediately uncomfortable, William leaned back in his chair and hoped that the retinue of servants would dissipate before his aunt took the conversation any further.

“I am mother to five,” she continued as the tea table was laid out with cups, saucers, spoons, and other accoutrements. “I much prefer that title to any other. They are all grown, you know, but I cannot think of them in any way other than as my children. They still call me Mummy—all of them.”

William found it difficult to imagine Rupert Norris, the eldest son and a renowned financier, referring to anyone as “Mummy.” Furthermore, her eldest daughter, Lady Broughton, seemed unlikely to let such a familiar word escape her lips.

“At home,” Aunt Norris was saying, “among our family, we never change. You will always be little Will, to me. And now you, blessed man, will always be ‘Father.’ Are you ready?”

“Ready to be a father? I believe I became one several months ago.”

“Eight months, to be exact.” She took a sip of tea. “Oh, my dear little Will, I am very pleased with you.”

“Pleased? I should hardly think my behavior worthy of any praise whatsoever.”

“Nonsense! You are exactly as I had hoped you would be. A courteous cad. A reformed rake. A moral, upright gentleman of the first order.”

“Thank you, aunt. But I am sure there are many who would disagree with your assessment.”

“Reform, we must agree, is a lovely thing. If one has never been anything but good, kind, even tempered, and pious, what sort of character can one have built? No, as odd as it may seem, I think a man who has been a little
bad
can be much more interesting, and certainly much more intensely
good
, than those simpering fops one can hardly abide.”

William could not hold in a laugh. “Dear Aunt Norris, surely you jest. Your sons have all turned out very well indeed, and you would not have it any other way.”

“And you have turned out well too,” she pronounced. “Now, shall we introduce you?”

“Introduce me . . . to whom?”

“To your son, of course.” She gave her footman a little wave. “Please send Matilda in.”

“I—I thought tomorrow might be—,” William began.

But he fell silent as a woman entered the room bearing in her arms a bundle of laces, blankets, and trailing gossamer fabric. For a moment, he could not move. His fingers clenched the arms of the chair in which he sat. The blood drained from his cheeks. He feared he might never breathe again.

“Ah, here is little Timothy!” Aunt Norris rose and laid her hand on William’s. “Stand up, dearest, and meet your son.”

William pushed himself from the chair. His legs felt like they were hinged with rusted metal. His mouth was dry and his heart thundered. He managed a single step.

The bundle of lace and fabric squirmed. A pink arm emerged—an arm ending in a hand with five of the tiniest fingers he had ever seen.

He took another step.

Large brown eyes—exactly like those that looked back at him in the mirror each morning—gazed up at him. And he saw the small nose, no more than a tiny pink button. Lips, soft and formed into a perfect O. Hair, brown hair, just like his own.

He stared . . . stared until tears blurred his vision . . . and at that moment knew he loved with a love deeper and fuller and more painfully exquisite than any love had ever been or ever would be.

“Hello, Timothy,” he whispered. “I am your father.”

Twenty-one

Prudence stood at the window and gazed across the rolling purple moors. At the sound of footsteps, she turned. A beautiful woman entered the parlor and caught her breath.

“Miss Watson?” Olivia Sherbourne lifted a hand to her throat. “This is an unexpected pleasure!”

“Lady Thorne,” Prudence said. Taking a step, she made a deep curtsy. “Forgive me for not sending word ahead. I have come on a delicate matter.”

“Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you, but I cannot stay long.”

“You are passing through Yorkshire?” Olivia approached her guest. “Or have you come to inspect the mill again?”

Mortified, Prudence looked away. “I am so sorry for all the trouble I—”

“Oh, my question was not a condemnation!” Olivia cut in. “On the contrary. I have been among your most ardent supporters. I merely wondered if you had come to see the astonishing changes you brought to the mill.”

“Truly I brought no changes. Indeed, it is my fault your laborers joined the March of the Blanketeers. I am to blame for their unrest and rebellion. If any alterations occurred, they were at Mr. Sherbourne’s hand.”

“He is very grateful to you, as are we all. A ten-hour day. A new school—the teacher arrived two weeks ago. And kitchens refurbished to provide good hot meals for the labor. Did you know William is attempting to improve the air inside the mill? He has a great interest in machines and engines. My husband cannot believe his brother’s efforts to invent an air-cleaning machine will succeed. But I say anything is possible.”

Both humbled and amazed, Prudence crossed the carpet until she stood near Olivia. “Is he well?” Prudence asked. “Mr. Sherbourne?”

“In the best of health. It is you about whom we worry most.”

“I am much recovered from my illness, though . . . though it is quite possible that I may suffer the effects of it throughout my life.”

“I hope it will not prevent your riding. William said he had never seen a finer figure on a horse.”

“Did he?” Prudence took another step closer and lowered her voice. “I have come to you today to learn if Mr. Sherbourne is at home. I should also like to know whether my unexpected visit would be accepted.”

“William is at Chatham Hall today, meeting with his steward. I am certain he would like nothing better than to see you, Miss Watson. He often speaks very fondly of you.”

“Thank you, Lady Thorne.”

“You must call me Olivia.” She put her arm about Prudence’s shoulders as they walked toward the foyer. “William’s situation, you must understand, is somewhat altered since you saw him last.”

“Altered? In what way?” A secret fear she had harbored came tumbling out. “Has he formed an attachment? I see by your face that he has. I suspected such might have been the reason for his recent trip to London. He did not call on us, and I supposed he wished to sever all contact.”

“Yet you came here anyway?” Olivia tilted her head as she appraised her guest. “I can see why he likes you so well. You have a spirit as determined and resolute as his own.”

The two women stood at the door as Prudence prepared for the words she dreaded to hear. Yet Olivia smiled tenderly as she spoke.

“William has indeed formed an attachment. He is quite smitten. One might even call him besotted. Go to him now, Miss Watson, for I am sure you will soon share our great happiness.”

Fighting a sudden lump in her throat, Prudence managed a curtsy. “Thank you, Olivia. But I believe I shall return to London instead.”

“Oh, nonsense. You must go to Chatham Hall. It is not far, and William will wonder why you did not call on him when you came so near. Here, you must take our footman in your carriage. Steeves, please guide Miss Watson’s driver to Chatham.”

Stunned, Prudence made her farewell and hurried down the steps, eager to hide the tears that rose unbidden. She could not possibly go to Chatham Hall. Seeing William so blissfully happy in the anticipation of marriage to another woman would destroy her.

But even as Prudence determined never to go near William’s home, the footman helped her into the carriage and took his seat. The driver started the horses, and she could do nothing to forestall the results of yet another of her disastrous schemes.