Читать книгу A Suitable Wife - Louise Gouge M. - Страница 10

Chapter Two

“The very idea.” Mother snapped the pages of the Times over her breakfast plate, barely missing her sausages. “It even made the papers. How dare Melton attend your ball uninvited?” She sniffed with indignation. “And bring a guest whom no decent member of Society will receive.”

Greystone well understood she expected no response, and he was in no humor to give one. His mood was as gray as the London weather outside the tall, narrow windows of the town house’s breakfast room. Since the early hours of last evening’s ball, he had pondered the situation with the young earl and his beautiful sister. Mrs. Parton was of course above suspicion, but he could not be so certain “Miss Gregory” was innocent in the matter. His inner turmoil had kept him awake for hours.

Before sleep had at last claimed him, he’d come to the conclusion that Frank Rumbold had devised the whole plan. That culprit was nothing less than a sharper, an ill-born scoundrel who had ensnared more than one young aristocrat new to London’s gaming dens. And a newly raised peer of two and twenty years, one with a known penchant for gambling, was a prime target for an older man intent upon forcing his way into Society. Rumbold was reputed to be a peer’s illegitimate son with ambitions to advance to the nobility, an utter impossibility. Had he accepted his fate, he might have found some acceptance and a reasonable position in life. But because of the path he had chosen, misusing naive nobles and their heirs, he could scheme all he wanted, but the best he could hope for was to slink around the dark edges of Society. No one of significance would ever grant him consequence, unless forced to. Fortunately it had taken very little convincing to send the two men packing last evening.

“Did Melton not have a sister?” Mother’s question cut into Greystone’s thoughts, and his hand stilled with a bite of jam-covered bread halfway to his mouth. “I seem to recall the late Lord Melton had two children.” She folded her paper and set it on the table. “Surely she is out by now. Poor gel. Surely no one of breeding will associate with her.”

Just as Mother spoke, he made the mistake of taking the bite and was rewarded by almost choking on it. If only she knew.

“Really, Greystone, do chew your food.”

“I beg your pardon.” He gulped his entirely too-hot coffee, which brought forth another bout of coughing.

Mother stared at him, her eyebrows bent into a scolding frown. Even the footman behind her watched him with alarm.

“Never mind.” He held up a hand to prevent the man from coming to his aid. “I am well.”

Another sip of coffee ensured his physical recovery, but not his mental improvement. Now was the time for him to tell Mother about Lady Beatrice. Now.

No, not now. Maybe he would leave it up to Mrs. Parton. She was to blame, after all. Had she not brought the girl to London, had she not brought her to last night’s ball, Melton would never have had the nerve to seek entrance. Yet had she not brought the young lady, Greystone never would have been introduced to the most enchanting creature he had met this Season. Or during any of the previous six Seasons since he had taken his seat in the House of Lords.

As often before, the accusation resounded in his mind: coward! At eight and twenty years, why did he still try so hard to avoid stirring his mother’s anger? This situation was not of his making, but rather, the result of her best friend’s machinations. Let Mrs. Parton sort it out for her.

Yet shame, or some emotion he could not name, would not let him go. Last week he had waxed eloquent in Parliament in support of Wilberforce’s proposal to abolish slavery in all British colonies. He was even now working with Lord Blakemore on a bill to grant pensions to soldiers and sailors wounded in the recent wars with France and America. Soon he would find his own cause to champion and had every confidence he would achieve success with it. Why, then, could he not speak up to his mother about a matter of minimal social significance?

“Her name is Lady Beatrice, but I do not know whether she is out.” He bent over his plate, cutting into his sausage as if it were a beefsteak. “She is the mysterious companion Mrs. Parton has been raving about for weeks.” Awaiting the explosion, he risked a glance at his parent.

Her lined but still lovely face paled, and her jaw dropped ever so slightly. “And exactly when did you plan to tell me this?” Now her eyes blazed. She stood so abruptly that her chair tipped, caught by the able footman. She slapped her serviette onto the white damask tablecloth and strode toward the door, muttering words he could not decipher.

Greystone forced away the familiar childish guilt and anxiety that tried to claim him. He had done it. Had faced Mother’s ire. And yet he survived.

But would Mother’s friendship with her lifelong friend survive, as well?

* * *

“Now, now, my dear, you really must eat your breakfast.” Mrs. Parton nibbled daintily at her own food, three gravy-covered Scotch eggs and a pretty French pastry filled with vanilla crème, the aromas of which failed to excite Beatrice’s appetite. “You must maintain your health if you are to keep pace with me.” Seated at the small round table in the brightly decorated breakfast room, she chuckled at her own wit, a habit which Beatrice had, until last evening, found agreeable.

One ball—that was all she had prayed for, a harmless enough request for an earl’s daughter. She had resigned herself to Divine Will for the rest of her life, but could she not enjoy one evening worthy of someone of her station? Even wearing another lady’s cast-off gown, which she’d not had time to alter, she had found herself eager to dance once she’d heard the music. But she had not even been able to so much as observe the elegant Lord Greystone gracing the ballroom floor, much less dance herself. And all because of Melton’s horrid intrusion. While she did have some curiosity about the handsome older gentleman with her brother, he could in no way match up to the nonpareil Lord Greystone.

Beatrice sighed. The Lord had spoken. She must bear the burden of shame cast over every wastrel’s family, as though their lack of restraint tainted all of their relatives. No one would ever give her a chance to prove her own character. No one would ever wish to attach himself to the sister of such a man. Still, she could never despise Melly. Had he not defended her from a pack of wandering dogs when they were but children? Had he not taught her to ride her pony? Had they not grieved together when Mama died? But such brotherly devotion would not recommend him to Lord Greystone, whose disapproval of her brother had been obvious when he cut off Melly’s attempt to follow her from the ballroom. What had the viscount said to him? She found herself hoping it was a scathing setdown, for surely someone of Lord Greystone’s character could turn her foolish brother from his imprudent ways.

“Eat, child.” Mrs. Parton tapped her fork on the edge of Beatrice’s plate. “You must have energy for our outing this morning.”

“Outing?” Beatrice shook off her sullen musing, for sullen was the only proper name for her mood. She had never been one to pout, but these days she could hardly cease to do so.

“Why, yes.” Mrs. Parton laughed in her merry way, and both her plump jowls and her rusty curls bounced. “If you are to accompany me out into Society, you must have proper clothing. We must shop on Bond Street before it is too late.”

“Too late?” Beatrice’s face heated. Her absurd questions made her sound like a ninny.

“Why, yes.” More chuckles. “Ladies generally shop in the morning before the gentlemen and the lower classes take over the shopping district.”

“Ah. I see. How interesting.” In the village near Melton Gardens, Beatrice shopped whenever the mood struck her. Or rather, whenever she managed to set aside a few coins for her own needs. “But surely you know I am without resources.”

“Why, my dear girl, you are my employee. Have you noticed my servants’ fine purple livery? Do you think I brought you to London to follow me about wearing tatters?” She took a sip of tea and another bite of her French pastry. “Indeed not. I shall provide a wardrobe for you to suit every occasion.”

Beatrice avoided looking down at her gown, a faded, much-mended orange chintz. Should Lord Greystone happen to see her dressed so meanly, she would never live down the shame. But why should she care what he thought when he clearly held her in no regard? Still, her eyes stung with unshed tears over her miserable situation. “I thank you, madam. You are too kind. But what of your children? Will they not resent your spending their inheritance on me?”

“Ha. They have more than enough.” She leaned toward Beatrice and winked. “More than enough and to spare. Furthermore there is no entail on my property, so I can spend as I please. And this afternoon I shall show you one place where I am very pleased to spend it.”

Beatrice’s heart leaped. “St. Ann’s?”

The lady beamed. “St. Ann’s.”

“Oh, how wonderful. I have longed for this day.”

“More than for a ball?” Mrs. Parton’s eyes twinkled with kindness.

“Well,” Beatrice drawled, “at least as much as for a ball.” Indeed she had always looked forward to being involved with St. Ann’s, Mama’s favorite charity. She would concentrate on that worthy cause, not on some unreasonable peer who happened to live in the town house next door. Besides, she had no doubt such a gentleman would prove as distant and neglectful a husband and father as Papa had been. Despite his obvious admiration last night, she could expect nothing more from him.

On the other hand, Mrs. Parton’s promise of a new wardrobe was far more than Beatrice had expected. She was, after all, the lady’s hired companion and now had no claim to pride or vanity of any sort. But in less than an hour she found herself in a pretty little dressmaker’s shop on Bond Street, where the delicate scent of rosewater filled the air.

The modiste fluttered around Beatrice like a butterfly, not at all put off by her plain country clothing. “Mais non, mademoiselle. Ze orange is not for you.” The brown-haired woman, perhaps in her mid-forties, cast a quick glance at Mrs. Parton. “For madam, of course, eet ees perfection. But mademoiselle must have ze blue, ze pink and perhaps even ze pale green to enhance her flawless complexion and beautiful eyes.”

Beatrice did not care for Giselle’s excessive flattery, but she did admire the woman’s skill, which was exhibited in lovely gowns draped over molded female forms. Beatrice longed to try on one of the exquisite dresses. Not since before Mama died had she worn such beautiful clothes, for Papa had never given her wardrobe the slightest consideration.

“Do you not think so, Miss Gregory?” Mrs. Parton’s question interrupted Beatrice’s dark musings.

“What? Oh, yes, I am certain—” She had no idea to what she was agreeing. “Forgive me. I was admiring this lovely gown.” She fingered the delicate lace edging on the low-cut green bodice of a dress on display. Without doubt, this style would demand a fichu. Her hand involuntarily went to her neckline. While her dress might be old and an unflattering color, at least it was modest.

“Then you must have one just like it, but in pink sprigged muslin. Giselle, write it down.” Mrs. Parton wagged a finger toward the modiste’s growing list. “But for now, for this afternoon, you must have something to wear. Giselle has this blue already made.” She took a walking gown from the modiste’s assistant and held it up in front of Beatrice. “What do you think?”

Beatrice embraced the Irish linen garment and stepped in front of the tall mirror. By its delicate finishing stitches she could see it had been skillfully completed, no doubt for another lady near her size, perhaps someone like her who in the end could not pay her bill. Or, more likely, some spoiled miss who thought the waistline too high for the latest style and had changed her mind, leaving Giselle with an expensive castoff no wellborn lady would have. If Mrs. Parton took Beatrice to all the promised events, she risked being seen by the lady who had ordered it. Perhaps this was a part of God’s journey for her, this stripping away of all her pride. But never mind. The people she would meet this afternoon would not judge her by her clothes.

“It is lovely. I thank you, Mrs. Parton.” After measurements were taken for her other gowns and fabrics chosen, Beatrice donned her hastily altered new dress and followed her employer out to the black phaeton.

Mrs. Parton insisted upon driving the small carriage herself, but at least a tiger and a footman sat behind them in the jump seat, which eased Beatrice’s mind. Melly once overturned his smaller phaeton while racing, and thereafter Papa had forbidden his sole heir to use the sporty conveyance. She prayed her brother had not taken up racing again, but she would not seek him out to ask him.

They wended their way through the busy streets, and Beatrice soon understood why upper-class ladies shopped before the crowds descended upon the area. The lower classes, even the women, shouted in the most colorful language she had ever heard, generating frowns from Mrs. Parton and heat in Beatrice’s cheeks. Even gentlemen in fine suits and top hats, riding excellent steeds, seemed to have left their proper manners at home, for they rode as if the streets belonged to them and berated anyone who stood in their way, again in language no one should hear, much less use.

“Well, my goodness.” Mrs. Parton waved her whip toward a wide boulevard where the crowds had thinned. “There’s Greystone. I suppose he is on his way to Parliament.”

Beatrice located the viscount among the few carriages and carts filling the street. He was the very picture of grace upon his black gelding. Her heart jolted, but she forced down her emotions. “Hmm. How interesting.” She managed to keep her tone calm as she sank back into her seat, wishing all the while the phaeton top were raised so she could hide from his view. To her horror, he spied them and turned his steed in their direction. They met at the edge of the street in front of Westminster Abbey.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” His expression appeared guarded, but he did tip his hat. Here was one gentleman who remembered his manners in the midst of all the rudeness and hubbub. “Did you complete your shopping before the crush?”

Beatrice noticed his gaze briefly touched on her new gown, and a look of approval flitted across his face. Then he frowned and gave his head a little shake, as if to snuff out any admiration. But how foolish she was. Why should she hope for his good opinion when he seemed determined not to give it? Humph. That was a favor she could easily return.

“Yes, we have finished,” Mrs. Parton said. “And now we are off to St. Ann’s. Miss Gregory has a great interest in my work there.”

“Indeed?” The viscount’s gruff expression softened. “Very admirable, Lady Beatrice.”

Beatrice’s face warmed, something she was growing tired of. At home at Melton Gardens, she had never felt so discomfited so often. Had never, ever blushed. “I thank you, sir.” She gazed upward and beyond him toward one of the Abbey’s two square spires, lest he see how his small approval pleased her. How quickly she had abandoned her resolve not to wish for his good opinion—and all against her will.

“Most young ladies I know never give a thought to orphans or any other needy soul.”

“Indeed?” Even her eyes betrayed her, turning back as if of their own accord to view the handsome viscount so grandly mounted on his fine horse. “Why, how do they occupy their days if not in service to some worthy cause?”

He shrugged. “My lady, I cannot guess. Perhaps shopping, visiting, gossiping, planning parties and balls. You have my utmost respect for your generosity.” No smile confirmed his compliment.

Once again an infuriating blush heated her face, and she waved her fan to cool it. “You are too kind, sir.”

“Not at all.” He stared at her, and for several seconds she could not move. Or breathe.

“Well, go on then, Greystone,” Mrs. Parton said. “We shall not keep you.” She waved him away. “You are excused to go solve all of Prinny’s problems.”

“Madam, if I could do that, the world would stop spinning upon its axis.” At last he smiled, then tipped his hat again. “I bid you both good day.” He reined his horse around and rode toward the Parliament building in the next block.

Beatrice still could not turn her eyes away from his departing figure. What a handsome gentleman, so refined, so considerate of his mother’s friend. But admiring him or any gentleman would bring her only heartbreak and disappointment. She must concentrate on the work ahead rather than dream of having the friendship of a gentleman who clearly did not wish to befriend her.

How annoying to realize that no matter what she told herself, her heart raced at the sight of Lord Greystone.