by Brooke, Meg
“Well enough, I suppose, though I’m still not used to being called ‘Danforth’,” Charles said. “Though I suppose I’ll be hearing more often now.”
“I suppose so,” Lord Brougham said, gesturing to a chair. Charles sat. In his late fifties, Brougham had the sort of formidable look that made kings and dukes feel honored to be in his presence, rather than the other way around. And he had earned their respect. Just last year he had pushed through the bill that had finally, absolutely abolished slavery in England and its colonies. Now he was poised to make major changes in the Poor Laws. All this from a man who had barely had the means to support himself in his youth. Perhaps it was possible, after all, for a man to rise above his birth. Brougham certainly had, and now he not only had the ear of the most powerful men in the country, he was one of the most powerful men in the country.
Charles felt a tremendous respect for Lord Brougham, and though he would never have admitted it, it was the Lord Chancellor’s influence that had primarily persuaded him to join the Whigs. “Now then,” Brougham said, “Lord Stowe tells me you’re preparing for the session. Will you be ready to support us on the Poor Laws Commission?”
“I hope so,” Charles said. “It certainly seems to me that there are a great many changes to be made. I understand that the conditions in the workhouses are terrible.”
Lord Brougham shook his head, looking grave. “They make them so on purpose, hoping to dissuade people from seeking their services. But there is no outside help, no assistance from the poor unless they do enter the workhouse.”
Charles nodded. “The lack of educational opportunities concerns me, as well. How can the poor be expected to better themselves without some learning?”
“You have been giving this some thought,” Brougham said, sounding surprised.
“Indeed.” Charles tried not to be offended by the fact that Brougham had clearly assumed he cared nothing for politics or the welfare of the people.
“Well. We are pleased to have you. Now, what do you think about this business in Ireland?”
It was nearly an hour later when Charles left Westminster, and already nearly eight when he reached Danforth House. As he handed his coat to Partridge, Imogen came out onto the landing. “Oh, Charles,” she called. “Thank goodness! We were beginning to despair of you. You do remember that we’re bound for Lord and Lady Farrington’s tonight, don’t you?”
Charles had to confess that he had forgotten, though it was not particularly troubling that he had done so. He had always been content to escort Imogen to balls and parties, and he had gotten used to her accepting invitations on his behalf and telling him about them the day of the event. He had, however, been planning to see Jacqueline tonight. Now that she was a woman of means, he was hoping to persuade her to give up the game and start over somewhere else, perhaps in Paris, where she could have a new life. He knew it was an uphill road—Jacqueline did not seem especially desirous of giving up her lifestyle—but he wanted to see her happy as much as he did his full sisters.
Gillian pouted a little as Charles and Imogen prepared to depart. At least she would not have to feel left out much longer, though Charles was sure that was of little comfort to his youngest sister.
“Mama wrote that she plans to come down at the end of the month,” Imogen said as they drove through the dark streets.
“Good. Perhaps being among her friends once more will be of some comfort. She has been isolated in Suffolk far too long, and Gillian needs her.”
Imogen frowned. “She’s worried about Gilly’s come-out. I think she believes people will say it’s too soon.”
“Nonsense. It’s already been put off once. It’s been long enough.”
“I suppose, but—”
“Why are you worried about what those prattlers say? It’s not as though our family has ever been embroiled in scandal. We could withstand a little gossip.”
She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I just worry about...well...”
Charles stared across the carriage at her. She seemed so agitated that he felt suddenly afraid. Had something happened? Imogen had always been so rational, so circumspect. Was it possible that she had done something wrong? “Is there something you’re not telling me, Imogen?”
She bit her lower lip. “I know, Charles.”
“Know what?”
“About Jacqueline Mirabeau.”
For a moment he could think of nothing to say. “How?” he managed at last.
“I found a letter from father to her. He never sent it. He trusted her, apparently, or he would never have written the things he did. But the letter made it perfectly apparent that she is our half-sister.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since just after he died. You?”
“Six years. Ever since Barney Goring took me to her club when I was twenty-three.”
“Oh, Charles, what a burden it must have been. Did Father know that you had met her?”
“I confronted him the day after I found out. He didn’t deny it. He told me outright that he had kept Lisette Mirabeau as his mistress for eight years, both before and after he married our mother. He truly cared for her, I think, and for the daughter they had together.”
The carriage was stopping outside the Farringtons’ mansion. Imogen looked out the window and then back at him. “It doesn’t make him a bad father, Charles. He always did what he thought was best for us.”
“So Jacqueline tells me.”
She rearranged her face into a smile as he handed her out of the carriage. “Are the two of you friends, then?”
He had never thought about it before. “I suppose we are.”
“I’m glad. I would hate to think of her being friendless.”
He nodded grimly and escorted her up the steps.
Since her father expected her to attend, there had been no way for Cynthia to avoid the Farringtons’ ball. Mercifully, he had decided not to go along with her, but when he had seen her off that evening he had reminded her to show the duke every attention. “For his sisters certainly seem impressed with you,” he said in a tone that indicated that he had no idea why such a thing should be the case.
She had promised to do her best and escaped before he could say any more. But she could see that he was becoming more eager for her to be wed. Did he want to be rid of her that much? Could he really dislike her so intensely? Or was it simply a desire to expand his control? If it was the latter, Cynthia now had another reason not to marry: no husband would ever put up with Roger Endersby as a father-in-law.
The house was ablaze with light and color when she arrived slightly earlier than was fashionable. Mariah greeted her cheerfully and reminded her husband who Cynthia was. “Delighted,” Lord Farrington muttered into his cravat, causing Cynthia to wonder as she had often done why Mariah seemed so enamored of him.
The ballroom had been done beautifully, with Grecian columns swathed in netting and bowls of fragrant flowers. Cynthia admired the scene for a few moments before proceeding further in. She saw Lydia Baxter sitting across the room, but just as she was about to join her, someone said her name.
“Miss Endersby?”
Cynthia turned and saw Miss Eleanor Chesney and her brother. Behind them were two girls who looked about Lady Gillian’s age and an older woman with a dignified sweep of gray hair. “Miss Chesney,” she said, curtsying.
“Do you know my brother, Viscount Sidney?”
Cynthia extended her hand. “We have met, though I’m sure you don’t remember it, My Lord.”
He smiled, brilliant blue eyes dancing. “Of course I remember. How could I forget? It was at the theatre last year, was it not? I believe the Countess of Stowe introduced us,” he said to his sister.
“And these are my younger sisters, Georgina and Maris. They made their come-out last year.”
Cynthia smiled at the girls. Now that she looked closely, she saw that they were twins, though they were dressed so differently that it was easy to miss. Though t
hey both had dark hair and small, pixie-like faces, one was dressed in the first stare of fashion in a gown so low-cut it was almost risqué for a maiden, while the other wore a dress even the most proper matron would have called conservative. Cynthia wondered which was which, but she didn’t have time to ask, for the party was moving into the ballroom, sweeping her along with them.
“Clarissa says you are quite the intellectual,” Miss Chesney said, appearing once more at her side. “You should attend one of her at-homes on Fridays. They are quite the academic affairs. Many of the peers who sit in the House of Lords attend.”
“It sounds quite amusing,” Cynthia said.
“Tell me, how do you know Lady Imogen?”
Cynthia froze. “We...we met through Lady Farrington,” she finally managed. “We have not known each other long.”
“And what do you think of her brother, the duke?” Miss Chesney did not notice it, but her own brother’s back suddenly went very straight. Cynthia had thought he was not listening to their conversation, but it had happened at the precise moment when his sister had mentioned the Duke of Danforth. Was there some history between them? Surely they could not have known each other long—Cynthia remembered teasing Lord Sidney about being a Cambridge man, and she knew that the duke had attended Oxford. But perhaps their paths had crossed at some other time.
“He is...I have not been much in his company,” Cynthia said carefully, and then because Miss Cheseny appeared to be waiting for additional details, she went on, “I understand he is to take up his seat in Parliament.”
Was it her imagination, or did Lord Sidney actually scoff at that? He must have, because Miss Chesney said, “Honestly, Leo,” and frowned at his back. He turned to them.
“Georgina and Maris have already made sure I asked them for a dance, Eleanor, but would you favor me with your hand for the third? And, Miss Endersby, perhaps you would give me the dance after that, if you are not otherwise engaged?”
“Of course,” Cynthia said.
Eleanor glared at her brother, who bowed to them both and disappeared into the growing crowd. “He can be such a ninny,” Miss Chesney said after he had gone. Cynthia smiled, remembering how she had always wished for siblings when she was a girl.
As if thinking of siblings had summoned the one person who had been the closest thing she had ever had, Cynthia saw Clarissa come into the room on her husband’s arm. Clarissa appeared to be scanning the room, but she had not seen Cynthia yet. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Chesney, I will go and say hello to Mrs. Baxter,” she said quickly. Then she forced herself to walk sedately across the room to greet her former pupil. She did not look back, for fear Clarissa had noticed her leaving.
Cynthia knew Clarissa had been at home today, of course. She had purposefully not gone, just as she had studiously avoided her old friend at balls and parties. It seemed that now she had fallen in with a group who knew Clarissa well, however, there was no escaping her. Eventually, Cynthia knew, the confrontation she had been waiting for would come.
But not tonight.
For tonight, she had managed to avoid the pain she knew was coming. When she was finally at Lydia’s side, Cynthia breathed a sigh of relief.
“I didn’t know you were coming to see me,” Lydia said cheerily, holding her hand out to Cynthia. She was sitting, but the cut of her dress still betrayed her delicate condition. She would be confined in a few months, but for now it was still appropriate for her to appear in society. Cynthia told herself that she didn’t envy Lydia’s condition, that it was only the loneliness she sometimes experienced when she thought of never marrying, never having a home of her own that made her feel suddenly sad when Lydia took her hand.
“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly.
“Excellent, I thank you. Well enough to dance a little tonight, eh, Mr. Baxter?” she asked her husband, who smiled indulgently.
“Of course,” he said, and then because he could not politely do otherwise he asked Cynthia for a dance as well.
“Take care he does not trod on your feet,” Lydia cautioned when he had gone off to the drawing room. “He is not the best dancer, but that is not why I married him, of course.”
Cynthia smiled. “You seem very happy, Lydia,” she said.
“I am very happy, happier than I ever imagined being. And I have you to thank for it,” Lydia said, lowering her voice a little. “I made him want me, marry me. You made him love me.”
Cynthia knew that she was blushing. “Please,” she said, “I did very little. You owe it entirely to your own merit.” And it was true. Lydia might not be the brightest of women, but she had grace and poise, and these qualities were enhanced by the knowledge she had gained as Cynthia’s pupil. But she had had to do the work.
“You have been a good friend, Cynthia,” Lydia protested. “I cannot imagine a better one. If only I could see you so happily settled.”
Her face feeling very warm, Cynthia said, “I think there is very little chance of that.”
“I cannot believe you,” Lydia cried, “for you are certainly as beautiful as any woman here, and I cannot imagine that there are any who are as clever. Surely you have had suitors?”
Cynthia shook her head. “Not a one,” she said honestly, for she had discouraged any man who became too interested over the years, “and I am quite content with my lot, Lydia.”
“But I saw you talking with Lord Sidney just now,” Lydia argued. “Did he not ask you for a dance?”
“He did, but so did your husband,” Cynthia smirked.
“Oh, if you must be that way,” Lydia said in mock anger, “then go away and find someone who will put up with you.”
Cynthia squeezed Lydia’s hand and rose, seeing that the ballroom had filled considerably. There would be others who she knew. And sure enough, just as she stood Mr. Altington appeared to ask her for the first dance. She agreed gratefully, eager for some activity. Her mind was abuzz. But as he led her into the dance, she saw Clarissa watching her from down the line, a sad, strange expression on her face.
It was late when Charles and Imogen finally made their way into the ballroom—they had been waylaid by Lord Hemley, a cousin of their father’s, in the hall. By the time they were inside, Lord and Lady Farrington had abandoned their posts at the door, and the first set had begun. Almost immediately a young man appeared to ask Imogen for the next dance. “Who was that?” Charles asked when he had gone away again.
“Do you know, I’ve quite forgotten his name,” Imogen laughed. “But I shall dance with him all the same. I am determined to be merry tonight, for all that I am still in half-mourning,” she said, casting a glance down at her deep rose-colored gown.
“Our father would not have wished us to be miserable for his sake,” Charles comforted her. “You must save me the dance after the next, Imogen.”
“Of course,” she promised. Then she spotted a friend and stopped to introduce Charles.
“It is a great honor to meet such an esteemed personage,” the girl gushed stupidly. Charles fought the urge to make a caustic remark. Then he spied Lord Beresford across the room.
“Excuse me, Imogen,” he said, and made his escape.
It was only as he was crossing the room that a flash of brilliant green caught his eye. He glanced out at the floor and saw Miss Endersby spinning in the arms of James Altington. She was smiling—perhaps even laughing—and as she pulled away into the next form she clapped her hands in time to the music. She looked so happy that she was almost unrecognizable as the stern tutor who had sat in his library the day before. But there was the creamy paleness of her skin, the bright copper of her hair, her lithe form. He knew her.
“Bain,” Beresford called as he approached. “Here we go again, eh?”
“It seems as though it never ends,” Charles replied. The Season was six months of the year, but already in its first week it was beginning to feel interminable.
Beresford leaned back against a pillar, crossing his arms. He looked out ov
er the sea of people. “There’s a fair selection this year,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll find one tempting enough to marry. My father’s been after me since I was twenty-five to take a bride, though my older brother has a wife and three little ones. I’m in no hurry.” Then he let out a low whistle. “But that redhead might change my mind.” Charles did not need to turn to see whom he was watching. He knew it was Miss Endersby. But he nodded and looked over his shoulder anyway. “Do you know her?”
“She is Miss Cynthia Endersby. Her father was one of my professors at Oxford.”
“Was she that pretty at Oxford?”
Charles shrugged. “I didn’t know her then.” In truth, he hadn’t even known Roger Endersby had a daughter when he was his pupil. Some professors were more forthcoming than others, but the few tutorials he had attended had been all about Endersby, with absolutely no room for details about anyone else.
“Will you introduce me?”
Charles almost said no, but then he realized he had no good reason to do such a thing. He had no prior claim to Miss Endersby, nor did he have any knowledge about Beresford that would preclude him from introducing the two of them. “Of course,” he ground out. But as the dance ended and Beresford followed him through the throng, his feet felt like lead.
What on earth was the matter with him?
Miss Endersby was standing with his sister. Charles presented Beresford, who immediately claimed her for the next dance. Then, because he could not stand not to, he asked her for the one after that.
“I would, Your Grace, but I have already promised it,” she said, and he thought he detected a note of regret in her voice.
“Then the next, Miss Endersby, or is your card full already?”
“Oh, no, Your Grace. The next is free.”
“Good,” he said, only realizing at that moment that it was probably the supper dance, and that that would also likely mean it was a waltz.
As he led Imogen out onto the floor she said, “It was good of you to ask Miss Endersby for a dance, Charles. If you’re feeling charitable you might also ask Georgina Chesney, for she has been sitting down almost all night and has only danced with Lord Sidney, poor girl.”
