George’s head snapped up. “Lord Morganfield’s daughter?” Not too long ago, Josie had talked about the chit—thought he should marry her! He had never met Lady Elizabeth, but overheard comments made at White’s led him to believe the young lady was unmarried, quite spoiled and very beautiful.
The money to fund her little venture was probably coming from her father.
“Yes. In fact, I am quite sure of it,” Teddy went on. “I once saw her at the theatre before I left for France. I wouldn’t have given her a second glance except that my older brother was quite taken with her and thought to court her. Then, a few months ago, she was at Lady Worthington’s musicale. She seemed to want an introduction, but some old biddy from Almack’s refused to allow it.”
Frowning, George considered Teddy’s words. “Your brother thought to court the daughter of a marquess? Aiming a bit above his station, wasn’t he?” he asked rhetorically as he folded his uniform. An attendant would see to its storage on his behalf.
“I suppose, but why not? Her dowry is probably in the thousands. Who’s to say her father wouldn’t allow her a love match if that’s what she wanted?”
Daddy’s only daughter would not be allowed to marry for love, George thought to himself. Not if David Carlington was the father. The man was one of the most powerful lords in Parliament. Despite the scandal that had nearly knocked him out of power all those years ago, the man was quite resilient and well-respected by his peers. He would no doubt be the architect of an arranged marriage for political gain. “Because you’re speaking of David Carlington,” George countered, his grin returning. “And unless your brother had some way to become a member of the ton, it’s rather doubtful he would have a chance in hell at becoming a Carlington son-in-law.”
Teddy was forced to agree. And then his grin widened. “You’re a member of the ton now, George,” he commented with a cocked eyebrow. “Perhaps you should consider courting Lady Elizabeth. You’d like her,” he added as his elbow found its way into George’s ribs.
“Ouch,” the viscount replied as he stepped to the side. Trying hard to hide his sudden grimace, he regarded his friend. “And why would I be interested in a chit who runs a charity that is no doubt funded by her father? A spoiled chit, no less.”
As they took their leave of the changing room and headed toward the academy’s front doors, Teddy said something that stayed with George for the rest of the night. “I do not believe the marquess is funding Lady E’s venture. At least, not directly.”
A footman held open the doors for the two gentlemen as they left Angelo’s. “What makes you say that?” George wondered as he led Teddy down the street toward White’s.
“I could be mistaken, but I am almost positive she used her allowance to pay the bribe at the bank,” Teddy answered with a cocked eyebrow. “And when I looked at Lady E, I did not get the impression she was spoiled in the least.”
George cocked an eyebrow. “When you looked at her, were you looking at her … face? Or some other parts of her?” he asked in feigned disgust. “And was she looking down her nose at you? With her chin somewhere in the next layer of atmosphere?”
It was Teddy’s turn to huff. “I appreciate a pretty face when I see one, George, and hers is more than pretty. As to her other parts, I can’t say for certain since she was wearing one of those …” He waved his arm in the air as he tried to find the correct word. “Pelisses, that’s it,” he announced proudly. “She was wearing it over her gown. But I can imagine she’s a good figure. And she never treated me like a commoner, George. She’s got pluck, I tell you. And she is beautiful.”
Suitably dressed down, George considered his friend’s words. And he was surprised at the reverence he heard in his friend’s words. Obviously, this ‘Lady E’ had made quite an impression on Teddy. “It sounds as if you were saved by an angel, my friend.”
Teddy raised an eyebrow. “I do think of her as an angel. But I have a feeling she will be unable to share the good news of her charity with any of her own titled people.”
George gave his friend a sharp glance. Titled people now included him. And why shouldn’t he look kindly upon Lady E’s charity? He voiced the question and heard Teddy snort in reply.
“I would think it’s not seemly for an unmarried lady of the ton to be involved with cripples,” he replied in a matter-of-fact manner. “At least, not directly. Could be quite scandalous, in fact. She didn’t even have a chaperone with her when she met with the banker today.”
George stymied the surprise he nearly displayed at hearing the awful truth. Considering his friend’s words for the rest of the night as they played whist at White’s, George wondered how Lady E was funding her charity. Did she have to keep it secret from her family as he had kept secret the funding of the Chichester orphanage from his uncle all those years? Or had her father allowed her the privilege? Perhaps he would ask Lord Morganfield about his daughter’s charity in such a way as to discover if the marquess was providing funds for it. And, if it became clear the marquess knew nothing of the charity, then George decided Lady E should have some help with her charity.
Monetary help.
She would need a good deal of blunt if the enterprise wasn’t being funded by her family’s money. There were far too many wounded soldiers looking for employment these days, and once news of the charity spread, there would be a number of men lining up in Oxford Street seeking Lady E’s help.
An army of them, in fact.
Chapter 7
Charitable Thoughts
Later that night, Elizabeth Carlington climbed into bed feeling an immense sense of satisfaction. Despite having given a banker twenty guineas that afternoon, money she would have otherwise used to buy gowns, bonnets, ribbons or perhaps gifts for her dearest friends, she realized it had been far better to use it for a man’s welfare.
She thought back to that week after the last ball of the Season. With most of the ton summering at their estates outside of London and very few social occasions at which to spend time with eligible bachelors, Elizabeth’s thoughts of marriage were put on hold until the Little Season began in the fall. It was the need for diversion during those summer months that led to her thoughts on starting her own charity. The memory of almost meeting Theodore Streater at Lady Worthington’s musicale had stayed with her, haunted her for all those weeks before she determined she should offer some kind of assistance to the man.
For when she had voiced her desire for an introduction to the wounded ex-soldier, she had been told quite firmly by an older lady of the ton that she simply could not meet him. It would be unseemly, the old biddy had said, her nose raised in such a fashion as to suggest there could be no argument to change that fact. Stunned, Lady Elizabeth had acquiesced, not expecting to think of the episode later that night or again and again for the rest of the summer. By late August, she had arranged to let the office from the solicitor whose advertisement she had seen in the window whilst shopping, visited a print shop for calling cards and stationery, and discreetly distributed cards to those she recognized as needing assistance. Now, she took great pride in the fact that Theodore Streater was gainfully employed. He would one day be able to pay back some of the money it had cost for his bribe.
Then she would have those funds to help another.
And once more men were gainfully employed, they might help fund the charity, too. With a steady stream of money, she could afford to send applicants to tailors for suits of clothes, to pay bribes, and to hire help in the office. She would need assistance in searching the newspapers for job openings and in interviewing soldiers to determine what positions they might be best suited to work.
Yes, there was a good deal of work to be done if this charity was going to be successful. But in the end, funding from those who had already been helped would be the key to its success.
Chapter 8
A Mistress Pays a Call on a Marquess
August 1815
The butler opened one of the fr
ont double doors of Carlington House. He might have been a bit surprised by the identity of the visitor. If he was, he did not reveal it when he greeted Josephine Wentworth, once he figured out it was her beneath the black veil, black bombazine gown and black mantle she wore. “Miss Wentworth,” he acknowledged with a nod. He stepped aside as Josephine entered the vestibule and held out her calling card.
“Alfred,” she said brightly. “If his lordship is in residence, would you be so kind as to ask him if I might have a few minutes of his time? It’s about politics, of course,” she added, wanting to be sure the butler didn’t get the wrong idea about her infrequent visits. The last thing she wanted was for the household staff of Carlington House to think she was there in any other capacity than as a visitor. Wearing widow’s weeds was merely a way of hiding her identity from nosy neighbors. Although it was unlikely, should someone recognize her as a mistress, the gossip would last at least a week and put David Carlington in a very precarious position with his wife. The very last thing Josephine Wentworth wanted was to be the on-dit in London. She had spent more than eight years ensuring she was unknown among the ton.
Alfred hurried off to the Marquess of Morganfield’s study and was back before Josephine could complete her perusal of the vestibule. A few things had changed since her last visit. The color of the satin on the walls was a dark forest green, and the addition of an oil painting on the west wall seemed to warm up the room considerably. Adeline Carlington was obviously having a positive effect on the household, even if it was several years past due.
“Lord Morganfield will see you in his study,” Alfred said with a nod as he turned to lead her there. Josephine followed at a respectful distance, allowing the butler to set the speed at which they walked down the wide hall. It gave her time to study the slight changes in decor in the hallway. A new painting here and there, a dais displaying a suit of armor from what looked liked the age of the Crusades, a marble bust of a Greek god—Apollo, she thought from her quick glance—and myriad objets d’art atop pedestals. No matter how many new things might be added, she decided that Carlington House would always seem old, somehow, as if the place were a museum.
Even before they reached the door to David Carlington’s study, Josephine detected the scent of an expensive cheroot recently extinguished. She hoped the marquess hadn’t stubbed it out on her account. Alfred stepped to one side and motioned for her to enter. “Thank you, Alfred,” she said with a nod as she crossed the threshold.
Once inside the marquess’ study, Josephine curtsied before reaching up to push back the black veil off the front of her hat. “Hello, Morganfield,” she said with a nod in his direction. “Thank you for seeing me.”
David Carlington stood up from behind his massive desk, the surface of which was covered in papers and a few books. The remains of his cheroot were still giving off tendrils of smoke from the crystal ashtray in the center of the desk blotter. “As if I would not,” he replied warily. “Should I ask who died?” he wondered with a nod toward her gown.
Josephine gave him a wan smile. The expression helped to soften the effect of the severe coloring of her gown against her pale skin and light auburn hair. “I would hope you have heard about the Wainwrights,” she answered, her smile suddenly gone.
The marquess sobered, motioning her to a chair. She took the seat that was offered, carefully arranging her skirts as she did so. “The on-dit has it that the entire family was lost to a fire,” he finally offered, wondering why Josephine would see fit to wear widow’s weeds for a ducal family based in Sussex.
Josephine shook her head. “Then you have not heard of Lady Charlotte’s involvement.”
David straightened in his chair, leaning his elbows on his desk as he did so. “What has my daughter’s best friend done now?” he asked, his brows becoming one.
“Joshua Wainwright survived. But he was badly burned and is in hospital. St. Bart’s. Lady Charlotte saw to it he was transported from Kirdford yesterday. Apparently the village doctor who was seeing to his care used all of his stock of morphine in the first few days following the fire.”
Sucking air through his teeth, the marquess eyed Josephine with a bit of suspicion. He was having a hard time believing Lady Charlotte would have enough pluck to get herself down to Kirdford and arrange for a badly wounded man to be brought back to London. But her father would have been useless, and her mother suffered from vapours when anyone looked the least bit askance at her. Someone had to have helped. Since Charlotte Bingham’s charity was to assist in the children’s ward at St. Bartholomew’s, it didn’t surprise him that she would have Joshua placed there for his medical care. “Will he live?”
Josephine shrugged. “He must. He is the sole heir to the Chichester dukedom,” she replied in a manner that said she fully expected the new duke to survive. “And since Lady Charlotte was betrothed to the Earl of Grinstead, and since he, the older brother, perished in the fire as did the duke, it seems she will become a duchess upon her marriage to Joshua.” She paused a moment before adding, “A far better fit for Lady Charlotte than John the younger was, to be sure.”
David couldn’t argue there. John Wainwright II was a rake of the worst kind. He wouldn’t be missed by anyone but those whose clubs and brothels he frequented when he was in town. The marquess realized then his attention had been deliberately misled by the woman who sat across from him. “But the Wainwrights’ deaths aren’t the reason you wore black today,” he stated finally, realizing there was more to Josephine’s visit than news he could get from The Times.
“Indeed. I had word from the Continent that my sister died.” She said the words without the least bit of sadness to her voice.
David blinked and then furrowed his brows. “I take it you two were not close,” he ventured. He wondered if he should extend sympathies but thought better of it when Josephine shook her head.
Josephine had to breathe very carefully in order to stave off the warring emotions she was experiencing. Relief, at hearing her sister had finally died of the French pox she had contracted while a mistress to a French army general, and hatred that her sister had been a traitor to the Crown. “At one time, we were. Before she broke one of the cardinal rules of being a mistress,” Josephine remarked, wondering if she could now tell David Carlington the true identity of the woman who had sold his pillow talk to the French and nearly forced him to give up his marquessate and his seat in Parliament.
“There are rules?” he teased, trying to lighten the mood in the study. He thought of asking if he might light another cheroot. Even if it was still morning, this type of conversation warranted a smoke. Or perhaps a brandy. “I wasn’t aware.”
There were rules, of course, and Josephine knew the man was aware of at least a few of them. Or perhaps he wasn’t, and that’s why he had been so unguarded back then.
Shame on him.
Josephine regarded David Carlington for a long minute, deciding she should tell him what she knew. “My mother taught my sister and me that we were to take only one client at a time,” she commented lightly, as if she were reciting a rule of business. “You see, if a mistress takes money to warm a man’s bed, then she cannot in good conscious take money from another in exchange for the knowledge she has gained at the expense of the first.” She sat very still for a moment, wondering if the marquess would make the connection. Apparently, he did not. At least, not right away.
It had been ten years, after all.
The marquess stiffened, his gaze on her suddenly wary. “Does this have anything to do with the note you sent me about my mistress sharing information with the enemy?” he wondered, remembering the day he received the damning parchment. The beautifully written but startling missive described how everything he had shared with his mistress was being passed onto the French. He hadn’t known Josephine back then, so the signature on the note meant nothing. And he chose to ignore the warning, thinking a jealous peer was trying to stir up trouble. He was sure Genevi
eve could be trusted. “How did you … know?” he asked, his face suddenly hardening.
Back then, when they had finally met in person, he didn’t ask Josephine how she knew about Genevieve and her arrangement; his only query regarding the note, asked of her during one of their late morning meetings, had to do with why she would send a note to a man she had not yet met telling him his mistress was selling his secrets to the enemy. And she was quick to explain that she was loyal to Crown and country, having already gained an appreciation for politics from her second protector.
Josephine realized from David’s face that he was making the connection. “Genevieve’s real name was Jennifer Wentworth. She was my sister.”
The marquess held very still for a long time, his expression not giving away the tumultuous feelings he was experiencing at that moment. There was relief, to be sure, in finally knowing the true identity of the woman who had betrayed him, but the addition of grief and anger made for a heady mix. He shook himself from his reverie. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said quietly, realizing he meant what he said. Despite her traitorous turn, the woman was Josephine’s sister. A woman he at one time had happily bedded and perhaps even loved. A woman with whom he had shared far too much and, as a result, had been forced to pay dearly for the mistake.
“Thank you,” Josephine replied, knowing the sentiment only applied to her and not to the dead relative.
“A drink?” he asked, reaching for the brandy decanter on the counter behind his desk. He was tempted to offer her a cheroot just to discover if she would accept.
“It’s not even half past ten, Morganfield,” she countered, although the sound of her voice indicated she would welcome the drink. Even before she finished her comment, the marquess had poured a finger’s worth into a small snifter. He held it out to her. She took it with a black kid-gloved hand and waited as he poured one for himself.
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