Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2)

by Isabel Simonds

  Elton grinned. “Brother, you are distracted today. Mayhap we both needed more sleep,” he added, lifting his tea and taking a sip. “I asked if you think we should go to Edgehill's today.”

  Bradford blinked, bringing his attention back to the breakfast. A half-eaten pastry languished on the plate before him, almost forgotten. He nodded and focused on Elton's question. “Well, we could go to Edgehill's. But it's far from the park, and if we want to be at Bainsford's this afternoon...” He trailed off as Elton frowned.

  “Assuming they accept our invitation for today.”

  “Assuming that, yes,” Badford nodded. “I don't see why they shouldn't.”

  “They might have other plans. It's Lady Elington's ball tomorrow. Maybe they're going and need to get ready.”

  “Is it?” Bradford frowned, recalling the date. “Yes, I suppose it is. Are we going?”

  Lady Elington, a generous and exuberant dowager duchess of Carringmure, always gave a party for her birthday. She invited especially the young folk, wanting to make a special ball for them to meet.

  Elton shrugged. “I don't know. We might do.”

  “Let's decide later,” Bradford said.

  Elton nodded, drained his tea and pushed back his chair. “I'll go and get ready, then.”

  “Good idea. I'll ask Whitstock to hail us a coach.”

  “Capital.”

  When his brother had gone, Bradford leaned back, finished his pastry and thought. He felt pleasantly happy this morning, a little sparkle of excitement inside him that he hadn't felt for a long time. He couldn't imagine it was because of being in London – after all, he'd hesitated before even considering the trip. It had to be because of the woman he'd met.

  The conversation played through his head. You were watching the ball. And thinking, I think. I tend to do that.

  He shook his head, setting his teacup down heavily on the table. Anyone who was part of Arundel's circle was going to take one look at him and judge him as an utter halfwit. And probably not-unfairly, he reckoned. He hadn't exactly behaved like a suave, sensible gentleman! More like a puppy with feet too big for its small frame.

  If he ever saw her again, he'd probably do best to run and hide. She wasn't going to be pleased to see him.

  “Exactly, Bradford North. So you can stop being silly and forget about it.”

  Thus ruthlessly talking himself out of his moping, he stood, pushed in his chair and headed up to his bedchamber. He paused at a mirror on the stairs. It showed him a twenty-five year old man, with honey-brown hair and big brown eyes, dressed in a tan-colored velvet suit, suitable for a jaunt about a fashionable park. His cravat was loosely knotted, appropriate for day. He looked a bit dandyish, if anything, but no better or worse.

  I suppose I don't need to get dressed to go out. I'm fine as I am.

  He shrugged, trying not to wonder what the ballroom lady really had thought of him. She probably dismissed him as a young fop. And maybe that was what he was.

  A silly, shallow young fop. That's probably what Father thinks too – no wonder he wants William to get me married and settled down in the countryside somewhere.

  Whatever the case, he was no match for the steely blue eyes and fine wit of her. Stalking away restlessly, he straightened his cravat and headed downstairs to the hallway. Waiting for Elton to arrive, he walked from the stairs to the door and round the hallway, feet ringing on the marble below. He felt restless.

  Probably just been indoors too long. And the ball was crowded last night. A breath of fresh air will do me the power of good.

  “Brother! Sorry that took so long. I couldn't find where Estfield had put my shirts.”

  Mr. Estfield was their valet, shared between them for many years now. Bradford nodded.

  “Well, you seem to have found them,” he added, raising a brow. His brother had dressed carefully, choosing a new shirt with a fashionable high collars and flamboyant, high-knotted cravat. He was clearly making sure he was presentable in case they went straight to the tea-house.

  Bradford smiled. Oh, to be as innocent as his brother! He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt the sweet tingle of joy Elton must be feeling. He paused, frowning. A sweet tingle of joy. Exactly like the one he felt this morning.

  “Stop it,” he muttered to himself, turning away. This was silly. He'd exchanged a few sentences with the woman! How could be even consider that she might have an effect?

  “Sorry, brother?” Elton frowned, concerned.

  “Sorry, Elton. Nothing. Just distracted.”

  “Oh.” His brother shrugged and they headed out into the morning air.

  “I don't think we'll need Whitstock to hail us anything,” Bradford said, sticking his arm resolutely into the air as a Hansom coach rolled across the cobbles towards the gate. “The place is packed with the things.”

  “Where to, guv'nor?” the cabbie asked, leaning down from the driver's seat with an avaricious grin.

  Bradford sighed, putting his hand into his pocket to feel for his cash. He found a shilling there, and held it up.

  “To St. James', please. Stopping at Wescote Place on the way.”

  “Yes guv,” the man agreed cheerily. The coin disappeared into a capacious pocket and Bradford rolled his eyes, knowing he wasn't likely to see any change, if there was any to be had. He hadn't even asked the price.

  Elton raised an inquiring eyebrow and Bradford nodded.

  “Let's go,” he said.

  He swung himself into the coach and Elton followed, slamming the door shut behind them. They were off.

  “Wretched things,” Bradford winced as the coach raced along the cobbles, jarring his spine. He could almost swear the drivers did it on purpose, jolting a person about like they were riding in the Newmarket races. But he had to admit it was convenient. And fast.

  “Well, we're almost there,” Elton agreed, wincing as they rattled over a dent in the road. “Wescote Place isn't too far away.”

  “No,” Bradford agreed. “After our walk, we'll head into town toward the tea-house?” he asked, reaching into his pocket to check his watch. It said ten o' clock.

  “That sounds good,” Elton agreed cautiously. Bradford smiled, knowing his brother was excited at the prospect of seeing Laurel at the tea house.

  “I'll write half an hour past four on the card?” he inquired, reaching into his pocket to pull out a pencil. He regretted having to scribble it so hastily, but they hadn't thought to do it before they left the house.

  “Yes,” Elton said, then looked moodily out of the window. Bradford frowned.

  “You think we should meet earlier?”

  “I haven't seen her for two months, Bradford,” Elton said, and the pain in his sky-blue eyes was raw.

  Bradford swallowed.

  “I'll put half an hour past three. That'll give us time for a pie at Mullinshall before we go.”

  Elton leaned back in the seat, but seemed satisfied. Bradford smiled. His little brother was moody in a way William never understood – it wasn't hard to see he was upset, but it took some knowing him to judge it well. He guessed that, now, he was at least slightly mollified, even if he was still fed up with him for being so callous in the first place.

  “...at half an hour past three...” he talked aloud, swearing as the carriage jolted again, making his pencil streak down the middle of the card.

  He crumpled up the card, stuffed it into his pocket and reached for another.

  “I'll write it when we stop,” he added, looking across at Elton.

  “Thanks.”

  The carriage pulled to a halt in front of Wescote. Their cheerful cabbie rapped on the roof with his whip, jarring Bradford, whose nerves were already on edge.

  “Fine,” he called up loudly. “We're coming. Right,” he added, resuming his note. “We'll invite them to Bainsford's, at half an hour past three. Looking forward to seeing you, and the whole crowd, there,” he suggested.

  “Sounds good,” Elton agreed.

&nbs
p; “There,” Bradford said, signing it with a flamboyant hand. He nodded to his brother, alighted from the coach and walked up the flight of stairs to the black-painted door. Old and sandstone, the residence of Culver made him aware that the family was old, and wealthy, and gave themselves all the airs that implied. He shrugged, recalling he'd never really liked Culver.

  Culver doesn't think anyone's quite as good as he is. Or, he hopes they aren't – and that's the important point.

  Culver spent a good deal of his time trying to convince Elton of his own superiority in everything – a matter which didn't endear the fellow to Bradford, not at all.

  He knocked again, and the door was answered by the butler.

  “A card for Master Culver,” Bradford said, handing it to the dignified-looking older man, who bowed. “Tell him Lord Bradford sent it, with compliments.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Bradford nodded and headed down the stairs again, swinging up into the coach. He nodded to Elton.

  “All done?” Elton said. Bradford bit back a smile, hearing the hesitant way his brother asked it. He was nervous and excited and trying not to show either emotion.

  “All done,” he confirmed. “Now, to the park.”

  “Hurrah,” Elton said, and Bradford felt himself smile, seeing a little of Elton's natural high spirits returning. He was glad he could do something – no matter how small – to help his brother.

  And, he reflected, as the coach jolted remorselessly over the cobbles, it was something to take his mind off how awfully confused he himself felt.

  The last thing Elton needs is me moping about.

  He looked out of the window, watching the houses speed past, and wondered if the park would be crowded.

  Chapter 5: A day out in London

  Mirabelle leaned back in the chair in the breakfast-room, hoping the second cup of tea would fight off her headache.

  “Hinsley?” she asked the maid, a dour older woman with white hair. “Have you the papers from downstairs?”

  “They're in the drawing-room,” Hinsley said, barely turning from her work of dusting the mantel. Mirabelle raised a brow.

  I might be impoverished, but that's scant reason to be rude.

  “I'd like to see the Gazette, if you please,” she said. She heard the woman's faint sigh as she headed out of the room and a flush of color shot to her cheeks at the affront.

  She is my maid, after all – the only staff we keep at the London house.

  That, she reflected, sipping the tea when she had left, was probably the source of the woman's chagrin – doing the work of five people on her own was enough to sour anyone's mood.

  “Here we go, mistress,” Hinsley said, thudding the papers down dolefully on the table of the breakfast-room.

  “Thanks,” Mirabelle said. She saw Hinsley's posture straighten, as if she was surprised by her politeness.

  Well, I suppose I understand her predicament. We are under-staffed, after all.

  Mirabelle reached for the papers, letting the headlines momentarily distract her from her own worries. The aftermath of conflicts with France was all over the papers – men coming back from the war on the Continent maimed and wounded, shortages in this or that commodity reported daily.

  Dash it all, isn't there something cheerful in this world?

  Mirabelle closed her eyes and leaned back, sighing, closing the Gazette. She felt moody this morning and the headache wasn't helping. Likely, though, the headache was a result of the tension.

  She sighed. It's the diamonds, and having to sell them, she convinced herself. I'm worrying myself too much about it.

  In her heart, she knew that wasn't so, but she wasn't going to consider that the young man from yesterday had made an impression, discomforting her.

  He's too young, and too different to me. And besides, I shouldn't even think like that.

  It wasn't something she intended to contemplate. Arthur had been more than enough for her and he'd convinced her she was barely suitable as a partner as it was. What did she want to do all that again for?

  She lifted the Gazette and turned to the back pages, looking for any mention of reliable dealers in gemstones. She had to find someone who could give her a fair exchange for the diamonds. It was why she was here.

  “Begging your pardon, mistress,” Hinsley said, coming back into the room. “But there's a coach pulled up outside.”

  “Oh?” Mirabelle frowned, feeling her heart beat faster. A visitor? That was odd. A fleeting thought – that it was him, the youth from the ball – passed her mind. She shook her head at herself, viciously.

  Fanciful woman, she chided herself. But that did beggar the question – who was it?

  “I'll go down,” she said decisively, pushing back her chair. The ignominy of answering her own door would have to be borne.

  “I'll go, mistress,” Hinsley said, looking almost shocked. “It's me job, after all.”

  Mirabelle sighed. Like cooking, and cleaning, and seeing to the supplies, and everything else was too.

  She felt guilty, but what could she do? The London house was a drain on her accounts as it was, and she'd more often than not considered letting it go. At this moment, though, she was glad something – some fondness for the place – had always stayed her hand.

  She stood and headed down after Hinsley, who went to answer the door.

  “A card for you, mistress,” Hinsley said, coming back up the stairs a few minutes later. Mirabelle, already on her way down, took it, nodding. She read it swiftly, and her frown cleared with amazement.

  “It's from Marguerite!” she said, grinning. “How extraordinary! I didn't know she recalled where I stayed!”

  This testimony of Marguerite's friendship warmed her heart. She smiled at the indecipherable scrawl of message.

  Dear Mirrie, she managed to make out. I am staying at Hatton Place. If you'd care to join me for morning tea, it would make my life joyful. Yours, Marguerite.

  Mirabelle smiled. That was typical Marguerite! She turned to Hinsley, frowning.

  “If you could fetch me my lace day-dress? I'm going out.”

  Hinsley's expression was a picture. As if having helped her dress once wasn't bad enough! She could almost read her thoughts. She shook her head, smiling.

  “It's not often I go out,” she reminded herself following her maid up the steps. If she wanted to dress for tea, she had every right in the world to do so. It cost nothing, and made her happy. She headed up the steps to her bedchamber.

  Twenty minutes later, she was climbing into a cab, heading the relatively-far distance to her friend's home. As she looked out of the window of the Hansom coach, she watched the streets rush past and thought about her meeting with Marguerite the night before.

  I had forgotten what lively conversation felt like.

  Talking to Marguerite had been a balm to her soul. She felt as if she'd been in a desert, aching for a drink of water, and someone had appeared with a pitcher of ice-cold water from a stream. It was a relief, to say the least.

  “And I'm glad she can fill me in on all the news.”

  She had been so long out of London, she didn't even know which poets were fashionable anymore, or what people were reading. It was time to refresh her knowledge.

  After half an hour, she was drawing up outside the stylish Hatton Place house. Built in Chelsea, the up-and-coming area where all the fashionable new town houses were going up, the house glowed with fresh sandstone and the clean style of the new architecture.

  “Thank you,” Mirabelle called up to the coach-driver, who doffed his cap at her.

  “Pleasant day, milady.”

  He rattled off, leaving Mirabelle on the white stone steps in a splash of sunlight.

  She reached for the knocker, nervously. This was the first time in a long while she was making a call on anyone. What should she do? It felt as alien to her as if she had been standing on the stage in the London playhouse. Her heart beat fast, as if she was.

 
What will I do, or say? I'll make a fool of myself. I know I shall. Arthur was right – people dislike me because I'm too haughty, too stuck-up. Marguerite probably thinks that too, after last night...

  She felt the stream of real terror go through her mind and was still standing there, unsure whether or not to lift the knocker, when the door opened. A face looked out.

  “Milady?”

  “Epping!” Mirabelle said, recognizing the housekeeper distantly. “It's Lady Mirabelle. Is Marguerite in?”

  “She's up in the parlor, waiting for you,” Mrs Epping said warmly. She stood aside for Mirabelle to enter, and she brushed past, noticing that the housekeeper had been about to take a sack of something or other out into the street.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling at the woman as she headed past, walking up the marble-faced steps towards the upper floor, where the parlor and the drawing-room were.

  “Epping?” a voice called out of the parlor as Mirabelle walked up. “Who's there? Is it Sanderson, coming about the coach? 'Cos if it is, tell him that I don't have the documents for him...” she trailed off as Mirabelle appeared at the top of the steps. She stared. “Mirabelle!”

  Mirabelle smiled as her friend gathered her into a big, rose-scented hug. She felt something in her heart melt a little. Why had she been so worried?

  “Mirabelle,” Marguerite repeated, putting her hands on her shoulders and studying her face, wonderingly. “I'm sorry to have sent a card so soon – only I saw you at the ball last night and couldn't believe how lovely it was to speak with you! I had to repeat the experience again, as soon as possible.”

  Mirabelle grinned, feeling touched. “I felt the same,” she nodded. Her throat was oddly stiff and she cleared it, looking round the room. “It's changed a bit,” she added.

  Marguerite chuckled. “I'm pleased you think so! I tried my best to renovate it – the old drapes were so outmoded! – but I didn't get my way about the furniture, I'm afraid. It's still the same old stuff that looks as if it came from three generations ago.”

  Mirabelle smiled at the exasperated look on her friend's face. She drew out an elaborately-carved wooden seat from beside the table and settled herself on it. “I like it,” she said, sincerely. “It's nice to see something from when I was here. Brings back memories.”