The Bashful Bride (Advertisements for Love Book 2)

by Vanessa Riley

  The boy stopped and looked up. “You asking me, Mr. Bex?”

  “Yes. I want your opinion.”

  The biggest smile Jonesy could manage with his malformed mouth blossomed on his ruddy countenance. “No one wants Jonesy’s opinion. Most look at me and think Jonesy’s dumb.” He stood up straight, maybe even puffing up his chest. “Yes, Mr. Bex. Jonesy put the strongest horses on this phaet…carriage. Much better than your gig. It’s wheels and axles are reinforced. You’ll make good time to a first stopping point near Stamford. But take care, it will still tip over if you drive bad.”

  It saddened Arthur that folks would discount a hardworking young man because of his looks. But that was the way the world worked. Anything different came under harsher scrutiny. “Stamford. Good, Jonesy. Well, my fiancée and I are off to Gretna Green. That is, if I make it to Nineteen Fournier on time, and if she hasn’t changed her mind.”

  “Fournier. You’ll make it to that part of town. It’s not far.” Jonesy went back to tugging and strapping the second horse in place.

  “You know that part of town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have no opinions on my selection of bride? She’s Blackamoor.”

  The boy was silent for a long time. Only hooves could be heard. Then he said, “You wantin’ Jonesy’s opinion again. Happiness is important. All folks but you look down on Jonesy. If you happy, that what matters.”

  It mattered a great deal to a lot of people. Arthur wasn’t naive to that.

  The boy brushed down the first horse with a stiff brown brush. “Jonesy would be happy being a footman with one of those shiny coats, but folks won’t hire me ’cause Jonesy don’t look right to them. That don’t make my heart happy, Mr. Bex. Makes me sad.”

  The look in the boy’s eyes—dull, covering pain—Arthur knew it. The ache haunted him, reminding him of everyone turning against him—the taunts, the fisticuffs, the busted lips—all for doing what was right. Yes, Arthur knew that look, and no matter how hard he tried, the pain always returned.

  “Jonesy, you work hard. No one is more loyal than you. If I ever live in one of those fancy houses that need a footman or groom, I’ll hire you. You do so well by me.”

  The boy handed him the reins. “Get Mrs. Bex’s yes afore you go promisin’. She might not like Jonesy’s looks.”

  “I have a feeling about her.” He tossed the boy a good tip, several farthings. “I think she values honesty and loyalty more than looks.” He hadn’t known Miss Croome long, but there was something about her, the way she puzzled things out, that made him believe she was like him, knowing character outweighed all. Hopefully, that nature of hers wouldn’t judge him too harshly if the truth came out. Perhaps, they could build enough of a life together that the past wouldn’t haunt him so much anymore.

  “You look like you still deciding, Mr. Bex…the route you want to go. Go the straightest route. That what Jonesy’d do. The Great Northern Route is best.”

  The straightest route would be to tell Miss Croome the truth about his past, but what if she became so upset that she told others? If the countess had known, she surely would have told reporters. Then everything he’d worked for would be taken away again. He’d kept the secret of his uncle for more than twenty years No. He couldn’t risk it now. Arthur would take the secret to his grave. “The straightest route might not make the best path. Sometimes it is more trouble than it’s worth, Jonesy.”

  Striking a match, the boy lit the lanterns on each the side of the phaeton, then handed Arthur the flint. “Use this to keep them lit as you travel through the night.” He wiped perspiration from his brow. “Jonesy trust Mr. Bex to do what is right. You a good fellow.”

  Arthur wanted to believe he was good, but the whispers of the past made him believe he wasn’t. He’d been careful at hiding and would let nothing take away the life he’d built. Arthur Bex had become a man people respected, and Arthur would use his talents to fight for abolition. That would forgive his family’s sins.

  He climbed on board his phaeton. “Thanks, Jonesy. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Bex.”

  He did need luck. Starting out with secrets wasn’t the best. Yet, having just met Miss Croome, he could assume that she had secrets, too. Didn’t most women have secrets? Yes, that was a good lie to tell himself.

  Arthur waved to Jonesy as he turned the phaeton up Gracechurch Street. The crisp air cooled his brow. It was at least four days travel to get to Gretna Green. That time alone, just the two of them, would cement the foundation of their relationship. Then he’d know if he could go through with marriage, and if it was possible to trust Miss Croome with the darkest secrets of his past.

  Chapter Six

  The Longest Five Minutes

  At twenty to midnight, Ester stood against the wall in the drawing room. The musicians’ tune sounded louder than the last. She tried smiling as Theodosia and Ewan twirled past, but the weight of what would happen and what might happen made Ester fret.

  What if Bex was in an accident?

  What if he was lost in this part of town?

  What if he were set upon by footpads?

  What if he changed his mind? That was her greatest fear—that somehow he had decided Ester wasn’t worth the trouble of eloping after midnight. Had he decided that a full night of sleep was better than risking the mad dash to Gretna Green with a stranger?

  Travel late at night could be dangerous, and they’d be on the run.

  Ester looked down at her shiny satin gloves, spotless, without a wrinkle. They had been made for her. Was Bex made for her, too?

  Frederica and Charles Jordan spun near. Her friend had rescued Ester from dancing with the rakish man again. Grabbing below Ester’s waist and eyeing her décolletage had been two times too many.

  Except for his manners and average height, she had to admit that Charles Jordan was nice to look at. A smooth complexion of warm bronze skin, with a muscular frame—probably from helping his father with gas lighting installations. But he had been too busy looking at every other girl at the party as he danced with Ester. He hadn’t even pretended to be interested, not the way Bex had in their one meeting at the White Horse Cellar. No. Charles Jordan would never be for Ester.

  Mr. Jordan, Charles’s father, came to her side. “He looks so odd out there. Him and his brother.” They were eye-to-eye, since he wasn’t a tall man, but his gaze had narrowed. He looked distressed.

  Ester fluttered her fan while glancing at the grandfather clock. “What is odd, sir? Is something wrong?”

  “Seeing the famed playwright Fitzwilliam-Cecil and Lord Hartwell here. They are enjoying themselves too much, as if they owned the place.”

  Ester squinted and searched for the men. Nothing seemed odd. Just a man twirling his love in and out of the chalked lines, the other standing in the corner. “I see nothing amiss.”

  “Look closer, Miss Croome. You don’t see how they size us up, looking at our women and our treasure for their taking?”

  Cupping her hand to her eyes, Ester looked again and saw Theodosia’s brother-in-law, the viscount, leaning against the wall with an expression that looked pained. He looked uncomfortable, only smiling when Clancy brought the punch tray around. She saw nothing of what Mr. Jordan saw. Maybe a man no taller than Napoleon saw conspiracies everywhere.

  She lowered her arm. “Mr. Jordan, I am confused. I see none of the aggressions you see.”

  “Maybe with gaslights in here you would.” He chuckled, a sneering laugh. “You are young, girl.”

  So, age made one see things that weren’t there? “Fitzwilliam-Cecil is a very pleasant man, and Lord Hartwell—” Ester became distracted at Frederica’s turn with Charles Jordan. She was pulling at her sleeve as if it had been manhandled. Ester’s gut twisted with guilt. “My friend, Miss Burghley, has missed a few steps in this set. I wish this dance was over so she could refresh herself.”

  “Good, I see you looking at Charles. He’s a g
ood dancer. You’ll have him to yourself soon enough.”

  She wanted to say aloud she didn’t want him, and to point out how rude and awful he was being to Frederica, but Ester wouldn’t make a scene. That would embarrass her Mama. Protective hackles raised, Ester moved to save her friend. She’d take the abuse and even a lecher’s harassment to save someone she cared for.

  “What is Lord Hartwell doing?” Mr. Jordan’s gruff tone deepened. “He’s cutting in on Charles.”

  The viscount had moved from his spot and was taking Frederica’s hand from Jordan. Her friend’s lovely face looked bright, like a pixie, when she and Lord Hartwell twirled by.

  Ester sighed in relief and Charles moved on to another girl, maybe one with virtue to match his appetite. “Don’t be concerned, sir. Your son has found a new place to warm his hands.”

  Mr. Jordan frowned, his upper lip covering the lower one for a moment. “If you can’t see the problem, Miss Croome, then you are naive. Don’t worry. My Charles will protect you when you are wed.”

  From what could a future adulterer protect Ester? Not from couch-sitting and wondering if and when he’d be home, or worse, like Papa, the pretense of happiness, only to discover later the lies in old love letters. Stomach turning, she nodded. “Yes, I saw how he protected Miss Burghley from a chill with his wandering hands. And she heated them by hitting them with her fan. Lucky for her, Lord Hartwell’s not cold like your son. Her shawl will stay unwrinkled.”

  The man’s eyes went wide, shocked at the directness of her words, and Ester was surprised she’d said them.

  The dance came to an end. Frederica gave her new partner a bow before heading to Ester. “Charles Jordan is a monster,” she said behind her fan. “How can he be so aggressive in front of you on the night of your engagement?”

  “I’m not marrying him, Frederica.”

  “So, you’re standing up to your father? Or are you talking about eloping with Bex?”

  “I tried to tell Papa, but he’s still set on this match. Once I elope with Bex, well, he’ll come around. He’ll have no choice.”

  Ester fluffed up the languets, the oval silk butterfly-like wings that she had designed for Frederica’s silver dress, but her friend pursed her lips. “Your mother will be so hurt.”

  “At first, but she’s forgiven Papa for worse without even raising her voice.” Ester flicked another languet in place over the sheer lace that formed the overlay of Frederica’s gown. “I’m sorry you were manhandled by Jordan.”

  “It’s what men like him expect they can do to someone like me, one borne of an illicit nature.” Frederica covered up with her long creamy shawl of fine silk, as if her gown were indecent.

  “You are lovely, Frederica. Don’t let anyone make you feel less.”

  Her friend’s countenance cleared. “You believe Bex will show? And after talking with him for an hour, you are ready to elope? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am, Frederica. We leave five minutes after midnight.”

  Ester’s tone must not have convinced her, for the girl took a punch glass from a servant and sipped like she’d thirsted for days. “That’s ten minutes from now.” She took Ester by the shoulders into the hall. “How can you be so calm?”

  “You just danced with Charles Jordan. Do you see him as anyone who could be a faithful husband? I’m calm and reasoned about Bex because I let him know how important honesty and fidelity is. It seemed just as important to him.”

  Frederica squeezed her hard. “I want the best for you. If you are determined to elope, tell me how to help.”

  “Yes,” Theodosia said. She waved her husband off, who left, shaking his head.

  Fitzwilliam-Cecil surely knew the three friends needed to plot.

  Theodosia embraced Frederica. “I’ll never ever say you are stingy.”

  Ester leaned in and joined the tangle of arms. “Never, ever from my lips again. She gave me Bex.”

  “Men aren’t bonbons.” Frederica laughed. “Of course, I’d share. Well, maybe not the bonbons… You two know what I mean.”

  They all did. They were more like sisters, each looking out for the other. This love had helped Ester when she missed Ruth. Maybe she and Bex could go visit her in the country if they could manage around his plays. “This must be meant to happen.”

  Theodosia waved her lacy fan. “Last chance to count the costs, Ester? You could remain up here or hide on the third level in your bedchamber. We could get word to Bex.”

  Her friend didn’t understand; maybe no one would. Sighing, Ester looked at the floor, at how each of their hems floated about their pretty slippers. The delicate lace, the tiny stitches, all gliding above the polished floors. The Vandyke points of Theodosia’s gown almost touched her shoes but remained inches away. Not wanting to be inches from a dream, Ester raised her head. “I’ll take my chances with Bex.”

  Theodosia reached into her reticule and pulled out gold coins. “Take these with you. It’s enough to catch a stage if things don’t go well. I want you safe. If, for any reason, you change your mind, you will not be at his mercy.”

  “I can’t take your money.”

  She put the money in Ester’s hand and closed up her palm. “Consider it a wedding gift.”

  Even in a happy marriage, Theodosia still carried money with her, still planned out everything in great detail, as if she were alone.

  The way Bex had protected Ester from the drunk, she felt safe with him. “I can’t go into this looking for an out.”

  “This isn’t about quitting,” Theodosia said, “It’s about safety. When you leave your father’s home and are away from your friends, you become a girl who some will see as foreign, a thief who has stolen a gentlewoman’s clothes, a servant to mistreat, or worse, a runaway slave.”

  Ester’s eyes popped wider. “Slavery is illegal in London.”

  Frederica shook her head. “Tell that to slave owners who still have men enslaved in vessels offshore. Some of my father’s friends joke about it, when they think I’m not listening.”

  “That’s what Bex was fighting for in the basement.”

  Theodosia voiced real concerns, ones Ester had no way to argue. Both of them were privileged and faced fewer of the evils that many who looked like them did. Ester put the coins in her reticule. “I’ll be safe, but I’ll come to you if something goes wrong. I’ll be like one of those shop girls you rescue. I’m too old to be one of Frederica’s urchins she sends to the charities.”

  Theodosia hugged Ester and held on tightly. The air seeped out of Ester’s lungs when Frederica wove her arms around them again.

  Frederica gave Ester an extra embrace. “I hope this is the love you’ve waited for, the love you deserve.”

  The clock moaned. It was midnight. Each friend released their holds and dried their eyes. Five minutes to Ester’s appointment.

  Slowly, Ester, followed by her two friends, dipped down the stairs and slipped into Mama’s first-floor parlor.

  Frederica went to the window and pulled back the curtain. “The glow of the link torches is bright enough to see Bex arrive. Not the gas lighting we have about Mayfair.”

  “Don’t mention gas lighting.” Ester took her bag from the closet. “That’s the Jordans’ livelihood.”

  “I don’t see anyone,” Frederica said. “Just carriages, with more of your parents’ guests.”

  All Ester’s big talk, her fight for a dream, crushed in upon her. She sat on the back of the couch to keep her balance. “He has a few minutes.”

  Frederica wore a wide frown. She turned back to the window. “There’s still time.”

  A knock on the door echoed in the silent room. “Come in,” Ester said. Her voice warbled.

  A servant entered. “Miss Croome, your father wants you in the main drawing room. They’re about to cut Mrs. Croome’s cake.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. Tell him to do so without me. I’m out of sorts.”

  “I’ll let him know.” The man left, closing the door
behind him.

  “I’m leaving here, with or without Bex. I won’t be given away to this marriage, not for a business deal, never to Jordan’s son.”

  “Well, I think you will be leaving with Bex.” Frederica’s voice had recaptured its normal lilt. “A fellow in a gig—no, a phaeton—has arrived. A surprisingly tall man just parked across the street.”

  Ester’s heart pounded as she flew to the window. Even in the moonlight, she knew Arthur Bex’s athletic six-foot form. “Seems I am off to get married.” She scooped up her bag, moved to the window, tossed open the sash, and climbed onto the sill. “Help with a delay?”

  “Of course. Yes.” Her friends’ voices blended.

  “Miss Croome?” Bex’s rich baritone floated inside. “I’ll catch you.”

  She let her bag go, and he seized it in his big hands. From the shine of the candlelight in the near sconce, Ester saw his kind eyes and the smile that made her heart flip-flop. She was ready to jump, ready to leap into a future with Bex. She put her feet out first.

  The breeze whipped about her, lifting the light netting of her gown. “Not the ideal dress to elope in.”

  “Nonsense,” Theodosia said. “You’ll make the prettiest bride in robin’s-egg blue. Take care.”

  Frederica gave Ester the shawl from about her shoulders. “Make haste. One of my friends… She was caught by her guardian halfway. There was no marriage, and she lives with endless shame.”

  “I’m here, Miss Croome. Jump.”

  Taking a quick breath, Ester pushed from the sill. The air squeezed out of her lungs as Bex caught her. She now balanced in his strong arms.

  She opened her eyes and saw Bex’s smile. He scooped her bag up in one hand while he carried her in the other. “Glad you could drop in. My small chariot awaits.”

  In the dark, they slipped across the street to his phaeton. He put her feet on the platform. “I’m not a wealthy man, but this carriage should take us to Gretna Green and back.”

  Ester stared at Nineteen Fournier. The window had closed. The sconce had gone out. This elopement was starting.

  Bex climbed next to her, crowding her on the seat. And she liked that.