by Regina Scott
He stuck out his lower lip. “Sounds simple enough.”
“It is,” she insisted. “You try.”
Matthew blinked. “What?”
“You try,” Charlotte repeated. “Look for someone you met at Lady Carrolton’s ball. That should be an easy enough connection.”
Easy, she said. Matthew frowned, gaze going out over the couples and groups approaching them along the path. Most veered away from him and Rufus, and he wasn’t sure the dog was to blame. No one looked the least familiar.
Except that one older lady in the purple short jacket, walking with a lady of about her age. Hadn’t she been the one to compliment his dancing at the Carrolton ball?
He put himself in their path. “Good day, ladies. Lovely weather for a stroll.”
The woman from the ball clutched her reticule closer, blue eyes wide. Her companion grabbed her arm and dragged her to safety.
“What did I do wrong?” Matthew demanded of Charlotte.
“Nothing,” Charlotte said, gaze following the women, who were hurrying off to the right, glancing over their shoulders from time to time as if afraid Matthew would set the hound on them. “That was Lady Callish and her sister. I distinctly remember you meeting them at the Carrolton ball.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like dogs,” Tuny ventured.
“I told you we should have left him at home,” Daisy said.
Tuny threw her arms around the dog’s shoulder. “It’s not Rufus’ fault that he’s big and scary.”
“No,” Charlotte murmured, turning her gaze to the path ahead. “Not at all.”
He wished he could convince himself she still spoke of the dog.
“Suppose I leave the conversation to you,” he said to Charlotte.
She raised her chin. “Nonsense. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“You can do it, Matty,” Ivy encouraged him.
“So you’ve gotten the hang of it, have you?” he asked her over his shoulder.
Ivy’s smile was apologetic. “Not at all. I find it difficult to talk to strangers. Daisy’s the only one who’s mastered it.”
Daisy shrugged. “You just have to have confidence.”
“And show interest in the other person,” Charlotte added. “Look, here comes a likely subject. Lord Kendall danced with both Ivy and Daisy at the ball.”
Matthew stopped, and Charlotte and his sisters gathered around, Daisy brightening and Ivy fussing with the fringe on her shawl as the lord approached them.
Matthew drew himself up. “Lord Kendall. You’re looking well.”
The fellow paused. He must know a tailor as talented as Mr. Ponsonby, for that bottle green coat fit his slender frame. Did he spend hours tending to his mustache and beard to prevent one hair from sticking out of place? No doubt he had a valet to tie so fine a cravat.
“Mr. Bateman, Miss Worthington, Miss Bateman, Miss Daisy,” he greeted them. “Good to see you again.”
“I’m Petunia,” Tuny said before anyone could respond. “This is Rufus.”
Rufus bobbed his head and barked as if to confirm it.
A smile hovered about his lordship’s mouth. “Miss Petunia and Master Rufus. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He was willing to acknowledge a little girl and an elderly hound. The fellow went up in Matthew’s estimation. Now, what had Charlotte said about furthering the conversation?
Daisy obviously remembered. “How refreshing to see a gentleman afoot,” she declared. “I find it much more enjoyable to see the sights that way, don’t you, my lord?”
“I do indeed,” he assured her. “I frequently walk at home.”
“And where is home?” Daisy urged, smile bright.
“Surrey,” he replied. “Not far from the Duke of Wey’s estate.”
“Ah, that is your connection with Lord and Lady Carrolton, then,” Charlotte mused. “I understand that area is particularly lovely.”
“I enjoy it,” he said. “Perhaps that’s why I generally find the park too congested at this time of the day.”
Charlotte nudged Matthew. That must be his cue to say something useful.
“It’s busier than I imagined,” Matthew allowed. “So what brings you out?”
His smile slid away. “One must do what one can to be part of Society.”
“One must also take a moment for reflection,” Ivy murmured, gaze on the ground.
He nodded. “Just so, Miss Bateman. Moderation in all things, I find, is best.”
Now Daisy nudged Matthew from behind. What did she want him to do? Oh, right.
“Interesting approach,” Matthew said. “Perhaps you could explain further over tea some time.”
Lord Kendall stepped to one side as if determined to keep his distance. “My schedule in town is challenging, but I’ll see what I can do. Enjoy the park.” He touched his fingers to his hat, then continued on his way.
“Well done,” Charlotte said.
Matthew snorted. “He didn’t set a date.”
“He might have if Ivy had encouraged him,” Daisy complained.
“A gentleman who requires excessive encouragement isn’t worth the bother,” Charlotte said as Ivy shuffled her feet. “But as for Lord Kendall, time will tell if he’s interested.”
And who had attracted his attention. Daisy seemed to like the fellow, and Ivy might if she could get over her shyness. But was it his sisters or Charlotte herself who had drawn the young lord to their sides?
Chapter Nine
Step four was progressing nicely as they neared the date for Matthew’s elevation, but Charlotte had identified an impediment. Accordingly, she requested a moment of Ivy’s time the day after their meeting with Lord Kendall in the park.
“I was going to Covent Garden for flowers,” Ivy said with a glance toward Petunia and Daisy, who were listening avidly. “That is still permissible for a lady, is it not?”
Charlotte had driven past the teaming square between the theatre and St. Paul’s but never visited. Surely it couldn’t be dangerous. She agreed to accompany Ivy, and they set out, a basket over the blue cambric on Ivy’s arm.
As they came around the corner into the piazza proper, Covent Garden leaped at her to pull her into its embrace. It was loud, it was bright, and its smell was overpowering. Over the scent of fresh garlic and onions, plump cooks argued with flush-faced farmers. Bright-eyed beauties shouted over each other as they held out bouquets of flowers to passersby. Lush strawberries and heady gardenias also lent their scent to the air. If some of the women loitering along the edges of the great square wore rouge and had necklines plunging far too low over their chests for this time of the day, Charlotte chose to ignore them.
“How extraordinary!” she exclaimed, taking Ivy’s free arm and pulling her here to look at pearly seashells brought in from Lyme Regis, there to find dusky grapes from Somerset. “We must come here more often.”
Ivy paid the seller for the lilies she’d just purchased and arranged them in her basket. “It is a lively place. But I believe you had a reason for wishing to converse privately with me?”
Charlotte managed to tear her eyes away from a particularly pretty display of farm goods and led her back down the square. “Yes, actually. You seem hesitant around Lord Kendall. Has he done something to offend you?”
Ivy’s lips, the exact color of the deep pink lilies in her basket, lifted just the slightest. “I doubt Lord Kendall has it in him to be offensive.”
There was something tight and controlled about the young marquess, as if he held the true man deep inside. Charlotte understood. She had cultivated a similar demeanor.
“He is friends with the earl and countess,” she ventured. “And he is rather handsome.”
“Definitely handsome.” Ivy’s tone was wistful.
“Then why not encourage him, as Daisy suggested?” Charlotte asked.
Ivy was examining a rutabaga as if it held the secret to life. “I know you and Matthew hope to find me a suitable match—”
/>
“An excellent match,” Charlotte corrected her.
That smile hovered again. “An excellent match, then. But I sometimes wonder whether I’m ready. Until we moved to London, my world was very small. This,” she waved her free hand to encompass the market, “is a significant expansion. Then we attended the Carrolton ball and began promenading in the park and met those I once considered so far above me, and everything became much, much larger. I can’t quite accustom myself to it.”
So, it wasn’t Lord Kendall. That both encouraged and dismayed Charlotte. She might be able to, with great diligence, find a more prestigious suitor than a marquess for Matthew’s sister. If Ivy was uncomfortable with all of Society, that was a greater problem.
“Some find their first Season overwhelming,” she allowed as Ivy purchased several rutabagas and Charlotte decided not to comment that that was rightly Anna’s duty. “The second and third are more enjoyable.”
Ivy glanced her way as they started back toward the house, brows up in evident concern. “How many did you endure?”
Endure? This was worse then she’d feared. “Three, but I am an aberration.”
Ivy glanced at her again as the sounds of the market began to fade. “Why would you say that? I find you admirable in all ways.”
Charlotte squeezed her free arm. “Thank you, Ivy. But I see the differences between me and the other ladies of my set. Most are content to marry well and continue the social whirl. That would never satisfy me. I crave purpose, order.”
“So do I,” Ivy said. “Is there no hope for us, then?”
Why did Matthew’s face spring to mind? Helping him and his sisters was her purpose right now. Who knew what the future held?
“There is always hope,” she told Ivy. “We simply have to find the right man for you. And when we do, you must try to put yourself forward.”
Ivy sighed. “I will do my best, Miss Worthington, but I am happiest among my family.”
Charlotte patted her arm before pulling back. “I understand. Perhaps we should work on broadening your definition of family.”
Ivy’s smile blossomed at last. “I have already broadened it to include you.”
The summer sun could not have made Charlotte feel warmer. “Thank you, Ivy. I would be delighted if you’d call me Charlotte.”
“I would be honored, Charlotte.”
They returned to the house in high companionship, to find Daisy gazing out the front window. Ivy’s sister hurried to the entry to meet them as they came in the door.
“What must I know?” she demanded. “I’m having a Season too, if you please. You cannot teach Ivy something and leave me out.”
Charlotte pressed her fingers to her chest. “Dear me. And here I thought only Ivy was ready for the secret curtsey.”
Daisy glanced between them. “Secret curtsey?”
“She’s bamming you,” Ivy said, pulling the basket from her arm. “Charlotte asked me aside to take me to task on my attitude. I must do better at welcoming those we meet.”
Daisy’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you didn’t need Charlotte to tell you that. I could have done as well. Even Mrs. Bateman knew when to try butter sauce.”
Ivy’s face tightened. “I do not intend to copy any behavior from our stepmother. If you’ll excuse me, I should take these to the kitchen.” She swept down the corridor.
Daisy gazed after her and heaved a sigh. “There. I’ve put her in a pet.”
“None of you particularly like your stepmother,” Charlotte surmised.
“Tuny does, a bit. Mrs. Bateman favored her. Still, our stepmother does manage to take care of herself and in style.”
Charlotte could not encourage envy. “And now through Matthew’s efforts and valor, you have a chance to make your own mark on Society. Let’s collect Petunia and work on that secret curtsey.”
Daisy glanced up the stairs. “What about Matty?”
Matthew was entirely another problem, and one she wasn’t ready to deal with yet. “He claims to be ready,” Charlotte said. “I’d like all of you to feel so confident.”
Especially Ivy.
~~~
Despite his comments to Charlotte, the day of his elevation arrived before Matthew was ready. He stood in the anteroom in Carlton House with a dozen or so other men, all in tailored coats and satin knee breeches, stockings as white as their elegantly tied cravats. A few had collars so high they could barely turn their heads, or perhaps they stared straight ahead because they too doubted they deserved to be here.
At least his coat was comfortable for a change. Mr. Ponsonby had done an excellent job fitting the black velvet to Matthew’s frame. Matthew looked as if he belonged to the prince’s set. He still expected one of the haughty men to approach him and tell him it had all been a mistake.
As if drawn by his thoughts, the Vice-Lord Chamberlain strode up to him. All too easy to look down that imposing nose, peer out from under those heavy black brows. Still, one hit to that jutting chin a few inches below his would take the fellow down.
What was he thinking!
“You will be presented next, sir,” the Vice-Lord Chamberlain said in a precise voice, as if incising every word on stone. “Are you prepared?”
Matthew nodded.
He consulted his silver-cased pocket watch, its fobs jingling. “I don’t understand why His Royal Highness insisted on doing this publicly. Many knighthoods are granted in private.”
“I’d be happy to come back another time,” Matthew said, hoping that tickle on his cheek wasn’t sweat.
The court official tsked and snapped shut his watch. “No. We all dance to the royal whim. Take your place before the door, if you please.”
Matthew walked across the thick carpet, knowing every eye was on him. He thought men walking to the gallows looked happier.
Servants in white-powdered wigs and crimson livery stood on either side of the door. They stared past him as if he wasn’t there. Someone must have signaled them, however, for as one they opened the carved double doors, and Matthew stepped through.
The hall was crowded. Voices rose and fell like waves, pulsing against the massive oil paintings, the thick draperies. Somewhere he heard a violin playing, the warm sound gentle against the noise. He walked up the center carpet as he’d been instructed, past cabinet ministers in black coats with silver buttons, swords at their waists; military heroes in scarlet and gold, plumed hats in one hand; and bishops in black silk. One fellow stood head and shoulders above the others. The Earl of Carrolton offered him a smile. Matthew took in a breath.
Closer to the top of the room stood the yeoman guards, halberds gleaming. One inclined his head ever the slightest. At least two people agreed to Matthew’s elevation.
So did the fellow sitting on the raised dais under the crimson canopy.
Though he had never personally led his troops into battle, His Royal Highness wore the red of a cavalry officer, golden epaulets heavy on his shoulders and medals sparkling on his broad chest. His hands clasped the gilded arms of his chair, which was upholstered in red velvet a shade deeper than his coat. The fellow certainly liked the color. Eyes gleaming, he smiled as Matthew stopped in front of him and bowed deeply.
“Matthew Bateman, Your Highness,” the Vice-Lord Chamberlain intoned.
“I know who he is,” the Prince Regent declared. “Everyone in my kingdom knows who he is. Is there a man in this room who says otherwise?”
Voices quieted, men stilled. Matthew waited for the outcry, the laughter. None came.
As if to make sure of it, His Highness swept his gaze over the space, then returned it to Matthew.
“On May twenty-sixth of this year,” he said, voice ringing, “you courageously protected Our Royal Personage from imminent danger, saving the life of your Prince at the risk of your own. The kingdom owes you a debt of gratitude. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“Your servant, Your Highness,” Matthew said, bowing again.
Prince George held out one h
and. “The patents, if you please.”
The Vice-Lord Chamberlain’s thin lips curled just the slightest as he handed a heavily decorated piece of parchment to the prince, who raised it and squinted at the words.
“George,” he read, “by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom and Ireland and of our other realms and territories, Prince Regent, defender of the faith, to all lords spiritual and temporal and all our subjects whatsoever to whom these patents shall come. Know ye that we of our especial grace, certain knowledge, and direct volition do by these patents erect, appoint, and create our most trusty and much-admired Matthew Bateman to the dignity, state, and degree of a baronet.”
There was more. Surprisingly more. His Royal Highness droned on for a number of minutes. Matthew heard little of it. He was a baronet. He kept expecting someone to shout against it, demand that the prince come to his senses, tell Matthew it was all a cruel joke. But it wasn’t.
He was a baronet, a hereditary knight.
The prince finished, rolled up the parchment, and handed it to Matthew with a flourish. He bowed over the paper, accepted it. What, were his fingers trembling? He tightened his grip and straightened.
“What say you, my lords?” the prince demanded.
“Well done, Sir Matthew,” someone called. Others took up the cry, until the room shook with the thunder. Matthew stood, stunned, humbled. He was a baronet.
“Yes, well done,” a familiar voice put in as the echo faded. From one side of the dais, Lord Harding moved out of the shadows. Unlike many of the others, his coat was a deep blue velvet, the silver buttons large and filigreed. Their gleam matched the gleam in his cold blue eyes.
“If I may, Your Highness, I have followed the Beast of Birmingham’s previous career,” he explained. “He was quite talented. While I applaud your generosity in elevating him, I can only find it a shame that he must abandon the boxing square.”
