The carriage stopped in front of Mrs. Parton’s town house, a four-story brick building with five bays across the front. Beatrice glanced up to a second-floor window just in time to see her employer wave, then disappear. What was she up to?
“I do hope Mrs. Parton has recovered from her affliction.” Not waiting for the footman, Lord Greystone stepped down to the pavement and offered Beatrice his hand. “I should like to come in and find out so I can give my mother a report on her health.”
“How very thoughtful.” Once again the viscount surprised her with his kindness, something Beatrice had never observed in her father or brother. She accepted his assistance, and they both proceeded up the four front steps.
The butler had no doubt been watching, for he opened the door straightaway. “Lady Beatrice, Lord Greystone, Mrs. Parton is expecting you. Please wait in the drawing room.”
Lord Greystone chuckled. “I believe that answers my question.”
They did not have long to wait, for Mrs. Parton soon bustled into the room in her inimitable way and embraced them by turns.
“My darlings, I do hope you had a lovely time.” She cast an expectant glance at Beatrice.
“Indeed I did. We had a delightful picnic, and Lord Greystone took me on that promised stroll beside the Serpentine.” The enjoyment of the day bubbled over inside Beatrice, and she felt like a child reporting a happy event to her mother. “The river is beautiful, but I never realized it was man-made and more a lake than a river. Such lovely natural foliage grows all around it, and Lord Greystone pointed out the gardeners planting flower beds nearby.” Oh, goodness, she really must quit babbling. The viscount would think her a ninny. If she could only reclaim her air of indifference toward him—but that was becoming more and more impossible.
“Ah, flower beds. That’s just the thing to enhance the park’s beauty.” Mrs. Parton beamed her pleasure over the news. “I would imagine many gardens will be planted to celebrate Napoleon’s defeat.”
“But we are being neglectful, dear lady.” Lord Greystone studied Mrs. Parton’s face. “You look well, but have you recovered from your affliction?”
“Oh, pish tosh, of course I have.” She sniffed nonetheless. “I simply must avoid new mown grass or hay and certain flowers—oh, dear, I hope they aren’t planting marigolds.”
Beatrice traded a look with Lord Greystone, but neither said a word. That silent understanding made her heart skip.
“But enough of that,” Mrs. Parton said. “Now Greystone, your dear mama is out for the evening, so you must dine with us. That is, unless you have plans. Though I warn you, if you are going someplace interesting and proper, we will insist upon accompanying you. Will we not, Bea?” She squeezed Beatrice’s hand and gave her a maternal smile, but a hint of slyness shone in her eyes.
Cringing as always at the byname Mrs. Parton insisted upon using for her, Beatrice did not dare confirm her assertion. She had been entirely too bold several times that afternoon. Instead she gave the lady a noncommittal smile.
“Mother is out?” Lord Greystone appeared a bit discomfited. “With whom?”
“Why, with Mr. Grenville, of course.”
“My uncle?” His voice rose slightly, and his eyes widened, as if the idea shocked him, although Beatrice could not guess why.
“Why, of course.” Mrs. Parton spoke with feigned impatience and even waggled a finger at him. “Now, see here Greystone, you know they have reconciled at last and are deeply fond of each other. While it is true that the Church and English rules of consanguinity and affinity forbid a lady to marry her late husband’s brother, nothing prevents them from being good friends.” She chuckled. “And just to silence the gossips, Mrs. Hudson is accompanying them. Can you imagine that? A chaperone at their ages?” She wagged her head from side to side, and her curls bounced their agreement with her humorous remark. “Now, do you have any plans for this evening?”
“No, no plans, but—”
“Good. That settles it.” Mrs. Parton clapped her hands. “We shall dine at ten. In the meantime, go home and freshen up.” She clutched his arm and led him toward the door. “I feel cheated over not having my time in the park today, and you two simply must provide me with some diversion.”
“Of course, madam.” Lord Greystone’s smile was more of a grimace. “I am your servant.”
As he bowed away from her and strode toward the door, Beatrice could not begin to guess why he would do Mrs. Parton’s bidding when he clearly did not wish to.
*
If Greystone had any doubts that Mrs. Parton was trying to pair him with Lady Beatrice, this evening wiped them all away tidily. But he could not be certain the young lady was involved in her machinations. After all, as evident as her enjoyment of the afternoon had been, she had been quiet, almost dour in the carriage ride after they had left Edmond and Anna. He had not pressed her to talk. Indeed he had not been able to think of a single subject they’d not exhausted at the park, not to mention their delightful debate over the miseries of last winter. Now while Mrs. Parton, seated at the head of the table, prattled on about this and that, Lady Beatrice sat across from him, concentrating on her white soup as if determined not to look his way. Yet he could not keep his own gaze from her.
She wore a new frock, a pretty pink creation that brought a lovely natural blush to her ivory complexion. Her golden curls were expertly arranged to frame her perfect oval face. And her blue eyes caught the light from the candelabra in the center of the table and shone with some deep emotion he could not decipher. Was she distressed about some important matter? Was that the cause of her silence? Was he the cause?
“And then I said… Greystone!” Mrs. Parton tapped her spoon against her crystal goblet, and both Greystone and Lady Beatrice jumped. “Are you listening to me?”
“Forgive me, madam.” In any other company he would have been embarrassed by his lapse. Should he worry that he felt so comfortable in Lady Beatrice’s presence? “I will confess my mind is on other matters, a habit in which I would only indulge when I am with an understanding friend.”
Mrs. Parton humphed her acceptance of his excuse, while Lady Beatrice tilted her head and focused her gaze upon him as if waiting for him to continue. But it was the older lady who spoke.
“Do go on.” She waved to the footman to bring the next course. “Naturally, if it involves government secrets, we shall not press you to divulge them. Shall we, Bea?” She did not wait for an answer. “But if it involves our little chimney sweeps, well, then you must tell us everything.”
He could hardly tell them he had been thinking of the lady seated across from him, but in truth, the boys were never far from his thoughts. “The boys’ health improves daily, and Kit’s arm is healing. When Parliament adjourns I plan to take them to my school in Shrewsbury, where they can enjoy the country air and learn a new occupation.”
“Ah, very good.” Mrs. Parton helped herself to the roast beef offered by the footman. “We are privileged, are we not, to be able to help the lower classes? I believe that is why God has given us so much. Our work at St. Ann’s never ceases to be a blessing to me.”
Lady Beatrice brightened. “Will we go again soon? I should so much like to see how Sally is faring.”
While the ladies conferred over their plans for the orphan asylum, Greystone observed their enthusiasm with interest. Mrs. Parton had played a large part in his own charitable leanings, for her generosity came not from duty like Mother’s but from a loving heart. Since his earliest days he had basked in her kindness and that of her late husband. Nor would he ever forget how the couple had saved Mother and him from his father. Would that he could depend upon Mr. Parton’s godly example for his own character. But he could not forget his youthful outbursts, so much like his father’s rages that had caused damage to the less fortunate. Perhaps this was another reason for his eagerness to dispense charity whenever possible, as if he could make up for his past ways.
“But I have been thinking,” Lady Beatri
ce began. Once again Greystone had let his mind wander. “As much as I am enjoying London, Melly depends upon me to manage Melton Gardens. Perhaps I should go home for a while and make certain everything is all right.”
Anger skittered through Greystone’s chest. The fact that Melton left his sister to manage his estate displeased him beyond words. Was there no end to the gentleman’s irresponsible ways? How Greystone would like to beat some sense into the earl’s thick skull. But such thoughts always brought him back to the dangers of his own temper.
“But my dear, you cannot go.” Mrs. Parton frowned. “Why, the celebrations have barely begun. You cannot miss the fireworks and balls. And I have learned from a reliable source that the Russian czar and his sister, the Grand Duchess, are coming soon to join the revelry over Napoleon’s defeat. Do you not wish to see them and perhaps even be presented to them?”
“Well—”
“Oh, do help me convince her, Greystone. She simply must not leave.”
Greystone took a bite of the too-salty roast to give himself time to consider a response. Of one thing he was certain: Lady Beatrice indeed must not leave London until her friends found her a worthy gentleman to marry. As for Melton Gardens, surely there was a steward to see to the tenants’ needs. If not, and if perhaps matters there took a bad turn, Melton would be forced to accept his God-given responsibility and learn how to manage it all himself.
“Lady Beatrice, I believe that, should you go, Mrs. Parton will be bereft. Then what shall we do?” He offered them a playful smirk. “I cannot leave my duties to console her, so I fear that office remains yours.”
She returned a serene smile that reached clear to her expressive eyes. “As your kind sister-in-law reminded me today, even when every man deserts us, God will be our consolation.”
As she voiced that holy truth, peace flooded Greystone’s soul. Apparently the two young ladies had bonded over more than bonnets and frocks. “Yes, Anna has a gift for reminding people about God’s goodness.” For some reason, he felt pressed to tell her of his own faith. “During my illness last winter, when I was all too aware of my own mortality, she led me to scriptures that assured me of my salvation in Christ.”
Now tears shone in her eyes. “I am so happy for you, sir. Would that someone would lead my brother in that way.”
A shard of guilt cut short Greystone’s moment of joy. Never once had he tried to befriend Lord Melton or lead him away from Rumbold’s influence, much less to a faith in Christ.
It is not too late.
The startling thought brought him no pleasure, just a heavy weight of conviction. But, he reasoned as he lay abed that night, dealing with a prideful young earl was hardly the same as helping poor little chimney sweeps. Whereas the boys were pliable and grateful, the earl might react with anger or devise some sort of retaliation that would hinder Greystone’s charitable endeavors.
But his arguments to the Almighty sounded hollow no matter how he tried to word them.
Chapter Twelve
“And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation…” Concentrating on the holy words, Beatrice prayed along with the other congregants in Mayfair’s St. George’s parish church. As always during services, today she laid her own sins before the Lord and gratefully acknowledged His forgiveness. Then, feeling the nudging of the Holy Spirit, she also made the decision to forgive Melly for squandering her dowry and for all of his prodigal ways that brought shame to their family name. As if to confirm her thoughts, the minister presented a lesson about the Prodigal Son in his homily. Surely God had spoken to her this day, and she would endeavor to keep His words in the forefront of her mind.
The decision gave her a strong sense of peace that remained with her until the next afternoon. That is, until Mrs. Parton announced that she must visit an old pensioner and leave Beatrice at home. She also left a litany of instructions.
“I know Melton is your brother, Bea.” The lady pulled on her driving gloves and adjusted her bonnet. “But while I am gone, you must not grant him admittance to my house. These past days Palmer has made our excuses four times. But he must go with me today, and the young footman on duty may not wish to turn away an earl. If Melton comes, you must stay in your room and refuse to see him.”
Beatrice’s heart sank lower with every word. After speaking with Lord Greystone about her brother’s soul two nights ago and receiving God’s message yesterday, she had felt her own spirit craving just a few moments with Melly. If nothing else, they could recall their happy childhood days together. Melly must be experiencing that same longing, or he would not have come to call four times.
“I must visit Mrs. Dooley, and I must take Palmer. Without his superior height and air of authority, I would not dare to visit the tenement. And of course I would not take you to such a place.” Mrs. Parton held Beatrice’s gaze with a frowning stare. “Will you do as I say?”
Biting her lower lip, Beatrice nodded. “Yes, madam.”
Mrs. Parton patted her cheek, then kissed it. “Oh, my dear, I know you love him. But I fear you will indulge his every whim. This is for your protection. Remember, you cannot trust him.”
Again, Beatrice nodded. “Go on now. Enjoy your visit with Mrs. Dooley.” The old woman’s only son, once a young footman for Mrs. Parton’s husband, had died in the war. Although nothing obligated Mrs. Parton to care for her, she did it freely and generously, as with all of her charities. Beatrice wished her employer could extend the same charity of heart to Melly.
The afternoon was overcast, with rain falling intermittently. Once Mrs. Parton left, Beatrice found herself at loose ends. Nothing to which she set her mind or hands seemed to satisfy her, so she decided to walk about the house for exercise. After a third trip up to her bedchamber and back, she descended the front staircase just as someone pounded on the door.
The nervous young footman by the door eyed her with concern. “Milady, should you wait in the drawing room?”
“Yes, of course, John. But do open the door. It is pouring outside.” She walked across the parquet floor to make her escape. Behind her she heard the footman’s wavering voice.
“Begging your pardon, your lordship, sir, but milady is out and—”
“Beatrice!”
She turned back in time to see Melly lunge against the footman’s outstretched arm, but he could not get past the tall servant.
“Begging your pardon, milord, but—”
“Great day, man, can you not see the rain?” Melly stopped struggling and began to cough, but it sounded familiarly artificial to Beatrice, as when he had faked illness to avoid schoolwork as a boy. “I shall catch my death if you force me out there.”
“But, sir—”
“Beebe, please.”
At his childhood name for her, her heart plummeted, and she burst into tears. Racing across the wide entrance hall, she launched herself into Melly’s arms, eager to forgive and forget all his trespasses. Throwing his wet cloak to the floor, he held her close, murmuring assurances and all the silly words they had made up as children.
“Oh, Melly, I shall be in such trouble with Mrs. Parton.” She nonetheless grabbed his hand and led him toward the drawing room. “But I cannot bear to be separated from you any longer. Please tell me everything, everything you have been doing.”
He laughed playfully, almost wickedly. “Well, I shan’t tell you everything, but I will tell you that in my third year in the House of Lords, I have begun to have some influence.” He plopped down on a settee and stared around the room. “Nice place. I’m glad you have such a pleasant home away from home.”
Beatrice’s heart did another plummet, this time with guilt for the way she had neglected him. “Are you still living at the town house?”
“Um.” He toyed with the tassels on a small pillow. “No. I, uh, I sold it.”
“What—”
“Now, don’t get in a mood. I did nothing wrong, and it was not entailed. And it did bel
ong to me.” He studied his fingernails and brushed them across the front of his coat. “You didn’t leave anything there, did you?”
She gulped back her unreasoning anger. What he said was true. It all belonged to him. Once again she determined to forgive him. “No. I have never even seen it. You know this is my first time in London.”
“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten.”
How could he forget? Was he becoming just like their neglectful father? The thought stung as she paced across the Wilton carpet in front of the hearth. “And so, where are you living?”
“I have an apartment not far from St. James’s Square.” He looked rather pleased with himself.
The Grenvilles lived in St. James’s Square, too. Perhaps…
He grasped her hand and pulled her down on the settee. “Now, Beebe, you must listen to me before the old bat returns home.”
A chill went up her spine. “Mrs. Parton is not an old bat. She’s loving and good and—”
“Humph. The way she keeps me from seeing you?” His lower lip stuck out in a pout. “More like Cerberus guarding the gates of—”
“Stop that.” Smacking his shoulder, Beatrice laughed, even as an odd foreboding crept into her thoughts. “I forbid you to compare her to a monster from Greek mythology. Listen, dear brother, she is Mama’s old friend, and she’s very much like a mother to me.”
His eyes began to glaze over. He had not come to hear about her. Remembering her prayers for him, she set aside her own concerns. “Tell me more about your influence in Parliament.” Brushing damp curls from his warm forehead, she thought he looked very much like a Botticelli cherub.
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