A footman in the entry hall took Maggie’s hat, gloves, and cloak.
Jane chattered gaily all the while. “My eldest brother George is here in town already. You remember George, don’t you? He keeps a set of bachelor rooms in St. James’s Street. He’s agreed to squire us to all of the balls and parties we attend during your visit. But you must be sweet to him, Margaret, for I suspect he’s only being agreeable for your sake. He’s always had a bit of a tendre for you.”
Maggie smiled at her friend. With fair hair that refused to hold a curl, an unremarkable nose and chin, and brown eyes set a bit too close together, Jane Trumble was, as Bessie had said, no great beauty. She was, however, both kind and clever, and when she talked, as she was doing now, her face lit up with such cheerful animation, it was impossible for anyone to think her plain.
They’d met during Maggie’s come-out season in the ladies retiring room at a ball. Maggie’s hem had been torn—trod on by a clumsy partner—and, in the absence of a maid, Jane had offered to mend it. The repairs were executed in a trice, but Maggie and Jane had remained in the retiring room for over an hour, talking and laughing. When at last they’d emerged, they were bosom friends, and had been ever since.
“As soon as you’ve rested from your journey, we must go shopping.” Jane led Maggie up the stairs. “I’d wager that gown you’re wearing is more than three years out of fashion. And your hat! How many times have you made it over? You look an absolute dowd!”
“I haven’t bought any new clothes since Papa died. There’s been little need. I’ve worn nothing but mourning.” Maggie’s mouth tugged into a frown. “Besides, it’s Fred who controls the purse strings now.”
Jane ushered Maggie down the upstairs hall and into the bedroom that was to be hers for the duration of her stay. Bessie had gone ahead of them and was already bustling about in the attached dressing room, seeing to the unpacking of Maggie’s things.
Jane sat down on the edge of the bed and drew Maggie down beside her. Her expression became serious. “Does he really have so much control over your money? I know he was an executor of your father’s will, but surely…?”
Maggie plucked at a stray thread on the skirt of her carriage gown. The mere mention of her father’s will, the provisions of which amounted in her mind to nothing less than the worst betrayal a father ever perpetrated against a daughter, was still enough to send her into the deepest melancholy.
“Fred holds all of my money and property in trust until the date of my marriage. As long as that marriage is with his approval. And he’ll never approve of my marrying anyone but him.”
“How dreadfully unfair it is,” Jane said. “Your father must be turning over in his grave.”
Maggie gave a short, humorless laugh. “On the contrary. It’s just the outcome Papa was hoping for. He couldn’t force me to marry Fred while he was alive. In truth, he didn’t have the heart to force me to do anything. But now he’s dead, he leaves me no choice. If I don’t marry within the time allotted, Beasley Park will go to Fred for good, and I’ll be left nothing but a small income on which to live out my spinsterhood.”
“Oh, Margaret. Your father doted on you so. I can’t comprehend how he could give away your inheritance to a stranger. A man related to you by neither blood nor marriage. It makes no sense at all.”
“Papa knew precisely what he was doing.”
“Well, I can’t understand it!”
“Can you not, Jane? Papa raised me to run Beasley Park. To love the land just as he loved it himself. He knew there was nothing on earth I wouldn’t do to keep it. And knowing that…from the grave, he has forced my hand.”
Jane shook her head in disbelief. “Then you mean to marry Fred?”
“Yes…I…” Maggie faltered. “I haven’t told Fred my answer yet. I have a little time left.”
“How much time?” Jane asked.
“The will stated that if I wasn’t already married upon Papa’s death, I would have two years in which to become so. That allowed for one year of mourning, and one year to find a husband. Unfortunately, it didn’t account for the time I must spend mourning Aunt Daphne.”
“Your aunt would choose to die the week after you finished mourning your father.”
“Yes. And as a result, I have but six months left before I must wed.”
Jane exhaled a deep breath. “Oh dear. No wonder you’re looking so wan and sickly. I didn’t like to mention it, but…”
Maggie wasn’t offended. She knew full well how she must appear to her friend. “The Burton-Smythes believe in the strictest possible interpretation of the rules of mourning. I wasn’t permitted to leave the house after Papa died except for walks in the garden with Bessie. And I wasn’t allowed visitors or to…” She faltered again, raising a hand to her forehead. A headache threatened. “Fred already runs Beasley as if it were his own. He’s joined it to the Burton-Smythe estate. I haven’t any say, not even over the tenants that I’ve known my whole life.”
“You have no power at all?”
“Not to speak of. Papa’s steward, Mr. Entwhistle, keeps me apprised of estate matters as he can, and I know he still takes my opinions under advisement. He’s promised to write to me during my stay here. As for my own personal needs, I must apply to Fred directly. And if I purchase something, even as small and personal as garters for my stockings, he insists upon seeing the receipts. He’s not tightfisted. Indeed, he is exceedingly generous with me, as he’s fond of saying. But he loves nothing more than making certain I recognize the power he holds. I have come to hate asking him for anything.”
“He was always a vile worm,” Jane said feelingly. “And I’m sure having to defer to any man seems intolerable to you, for unlike the rest of us poor females, you’ve never had to bear it before.”
“Sometimes I think I cannot bear it. I’m so tired, Jane. And I have been so blue deviled.”
Jane took Maggie’s hand and held it in both of hers. “Poor dear. But you must take heart. I’ve just this morning heard some news that might cheer you.”
Maggie proffered a weak smile. “Have you?”
“Oh yes. You’ll be pleased to know that Frederick Burton-Smythe will be getting his comeuppance very soon. Tomorrow in fact.” Jane leaned toward Maggie, lowering her voice so the servants going in and out of the dressing room couldn’t overhear. “At dawn tomorrow, he is engaged to fight a duel!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s the truth. We ladies aren’t supposed to know of such things, but I heard it from Mrs. Beauchamp, who heard it from her husband. He was present at the gaming hell when it all happened.”
“When what all happened?”
“It seems that, while Fred was in the middle of a card game, one of the players gave up his seat to the Viscount St. Clare. Well, St. Clare and Fred were at odds right from the start, apparently, for you know what a hothead Fred can be. Someone made a passing reference to a problem with the count of the cards. One thing led to another, and then, the next thing everyone knew, Fred was on his feet, shouting that St. Clare would answer for what he’d said. And St. Clare replied, as cool as you please, that he wasn’t in the habit of meeting country nobodies on the field of honor, but that he’d make an exception in Fred’s case.”
Maggie’s head was spinning. “Fred issued the challenge?”
“That he did, the arrogant fool.” Jane laughed. “But I’m leaving out the best part. Lord St. Clare is the grandson of the Earl of Allendale!”
Maggie stared at Jane. “What does that signify?”
“Why, the earl was once considered to be one of the foremost shots in England, and his son, if all the tales are true, was even more deadly. He killed a man in a duel decades ago and was forced to flee to the continent, where he promptly killed another. Dueling is in their blood, you see. And I’ve heard that Lord St. Clare is the most lethal of them all.”
/> Maggie rose abruptly from her place on the bed. She paced the length of the bedroom and back again. “But this is terrible, Jane! If Fred is killed, what will happen to Beasley Park? What will happen to my money?”
“He won’t be killed. Only frightened, and perhaps humbled a little—or so I hope! That’s why the tale is so diverting.” Jane’s smile faded. “Isn’t it?”
“No, Jane. It’s not diverting at all. It’s maddening. Infuriating. Only think what the consequences might be if anything should go wrong.” Maggie wrung her hands as she paced. “Oh, how utterly thoughtless of him—and how completely typical! He never considers anyone but himself. He’s the most selfish, inconsiderate man alive!” She stopped suddenly, turning back to her friend in a whirl of overlarge blue skirts. “I shall have to put a stop to it somehow.”
“Put a stop to it? But how can you?”
“I shall…I shall summon Fred and tell him… Oh, what shall I tell him, Jane?”
Jane’s brow creased. “I cannot think. I’ve never heard of a woman stopping a duel before unless… I suppose you could find out where they’re to meet, and throw yourself between them. But that doesn’t seem advisable, does it?”
“No, indeed.”
“Well then, at the very least, you must summon him here. You must reason with him as well as you can.” Jane paused. “And while you’re at it, you must demand as much money from him as you require for the season, and then some. You have the moral high ground now, Margaret, and Frederick Burton-Smythe will not be able to deny you anything.”
Maggie’s note requesting Fred come and see her was taken round to his lodgings by a footman at half past four. The footman promptly returned with Fred’s reply: Mr. Burton-Smythe would do himself the honor of calling upon Miss Honeywell in half an hour.
By the time Fred arrived, Maggie had washed and changed into a fresh gown and put her hair into some semblance of order. She received him alone in the Trumbles’ drawing room, sitting composedly in a chair near the fire with a tea tray arranged in front of her.
“Margaret.” Fred executed a smart bow. It caused the lines of his coat to strain against the brawny muscles of his back. “I’d have thought you had the good sense to rest after your journey.”
Maggie had resolved to make an effort at civility, but at Fred’s words, she couldn’t refrain from a sharp retort. “You presume to lecture me on good sense?”
“You’ll never regain your strength if you don’t rest.”
“How can I rest, when the first thing I hear upon my arrival in London is that you’re engaged to fight a duel?”
Fred’s face turned a mottled red—a particularly unbecoming shade when contrasted with his copper-colored hair. “I needn’t ask how you heard such a rumor. Your friend Miss Trumble, no doubt.”
“Do you deny it?”
He pokered up, his broad, stocky frame as stiff and unyielding as Sir Roderick himself. “I shall not admit it or deny it. Indeed, I shall not say another word on the subject. It’s the height of impropriety to be discussing such things with you.”
“Oh, do stop acting like your father!” Maggie glared up at him. “And why must you loom over me in such a disagreeable fashion? Sit down for pity’s sake. Here. I shall pour you out a cup of tea, and then we’ll talk like a lady of six and twenty and a man of thirty instead of bickering like two half-civilized children.”
Scowling, Fred grudgingly did as she bade him. His expression slowly softened as he watched Maggie preside over the tea tray. When she held out a cup to him, his tea prepared just as he liked it, he took it from her with a complacent smile. “What a good little wife you’ll be.”
A flicker of temper sparked in Maggie’s chest. “To whom, I wonder?”
“Why, to me, of course.”
The flicker quickly kindled into a low, smoldering flame.
Fred drank his tea, oblivious to Maggie’s worsening mood. He was dressed in what she assumed must be considered the first stare of fashion here in London. Skintight pantaloons, gleaming Hessians, and shirt-points so high that they inhibited the movement of his thick neck. To Maggie, however, he looked no different from the surly, squarely built bully of her youth.
She disliked him intensely. And yet, in six months, she would have to consent to be his wife. Mrs. Margaret Burton-Smythe. Then, he would not only have rights over her fortune, he’d have rights over her body as well. The thought of it had caused her many a sleepless night these past months.
“I didn’t summon you here to talk about that,” she said tightly. “I summoned you here to discuss this duel of yours.”
Fred lowered his cup. “I can see you’re concerned. And I can’t tell you how much it gratifies me to know you care about my well-being. However—”
“I care about Beasley Park.”
“However,” he continued, unperturbed, “even if I were to engage in a duel in the morning, it doesn’t follow that I’ll be the loser.”
“How not? When, by all accounts, the man you’re dueling with is the most fiendish shot in all of Christendom?”
Fred’s condescending manner gave way to a flare of masculine indignation. “Oh, that’s what they’re saying, is it? And how might anyone know, pray? St. Clare has been on the continent for the better part of his life. I don’t recall anyone ever having seen him shooting at Manton’s.”
“If he’s been on the continent for most of his life, it’s because his father killed someone in a duel and they were forced to flee England. Dueling is in their blood, I hear.”
“No more than it is mine. My father fought two duels when he was a young man.”
“And in each one, he and his opponent deloped. I’ve heard the stories too, Fred. It isn’t the same at all.”
Fred glowered. “What do you know of affairs of honor? You’re a woman.”
Maggie answered him in a voice of perilous calm. “And women don’t have honor?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Margaret. Naturally a woman has honor. But a woman’s honor is as different from that of a gentleman’s as the sun is to the moon. You can’t begin to compare them.”
“On that I agree. You and I have exceedingly different notions of honor.”
In the past, her words would have prompted an out-and-out row with Fred. But this time he didn’t take the bait. Instead, with a visible effort, he regained his composure. He resumed sipping his tea, a mulish set to his jaw. “As I said before, this isn’t at all a suitable subject for us to be discussing.”
“No doubt,” Maggie replied. “But we must talk about it, and we shall talk about. For if you’re killed in the morning, what will happen to Beasley Park? What will happen to me?”
Fred’s large fingers tightened reflexively on the handle of his teacup. “Having not spent a great deal of time contemplating my own death, I can’t say with any certainty. I’d have to review your father’s will. And as it’s at the solicitor’s, and I won’t be at liberty to go into his office until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, it’s rather a moot point, don’t you think?”
Maggie stared at him blankly. “What do you imagine happens, then? My money and property won’t simply go up into a puff of smoke, will they? Who is to be in control of my inheritance if you’re unable? Did Papa name someone?”
“No. I don’t believe he did.”
“Then…?”
“I expect if, for any reason I wasn’t able to fulfill my duties, the office would go to your distant uncle. That elderly fellow in Yorkshire. I can’t recall his name.”
“Mr. Arkham?” she said in tones of disbelief.
“Yes. That’s the chap.”
“Good lord, he isn’t even a blood relation! He was married to some distant aunt, or half-sister of somebody or other, so far removed that Papa didn’t even recognize them in our family Bible!”
Fred returned his teacup to the te
a tray. He leaned forward in his seat. “Your cheeks are flushed. Shall I ring for Bessie?”
“No!”
Ignoring her protest, he rose and went to the bell pull by the fireplace. After giving it a sharp tug, he came to stand beside her chair.
Maggie fairly trembled with suppressed rage. The bloody nerve of Fred. Using her ill health as a means to win an argument. “I don’t need Bessie,” she said stiffly. “I am not unwell. I’m merely angry that you—”
“Enough of this now. I shouldn’t have indulged you so. There’s reason such topics are kept from women. I’ve told you there’s no need for you to worry. That should be more than sufficient. I wouldn’t have given permission for you come to London if—” He broke off his lecture as the doors to the drawing room opened and Jane entered. His eyes narrowed. “Miss Trumble.”
“Mr. Burton-Smythe.” Jane crossed the room to Maggie, seeming to register her overwrought state in one comprehensive glance.
Fred moved to intercept her. “A word, if you please. I am informed that—”
“Yes, yes, I daresay.” Jane brushed past him to the tea tray. She swiftly poured out a cup, stirring in a generous helping of sugar. “Here you are, dear.” She handed it to Maggie. “A few sips of this.”
“I’m fine, Jane. Truly.”
“Drink,” Jane commanded. At that, she turned on Fred, drawing herself up to her full, and not inconsiderable, height. “This is my house, and Miss Honeywell is my guest. I’ll not allow you to browbeat her into a faint or a fever. You know she’s not been well since—”
“I’m perfectly aware,” Fred said through gritted teeth. “I can only wonder that you, being so solicitous of Miss Honeywell’s health, should have thought it a wise idea to burden her with a lot of baseless town gossip.”
Gentleman Jim Page 3
