by Kelly Boyce
“I made you no promises. Do you recall a time when I did?”
She couldn’t. That was the worst of it. His promises were implied through his actions, for what else could they mean? Yet, in hindsight, he’d always been careful with his words. Leading her on without promising anything. Making her believe with a touch of his hand, a secret smile, a searing glance that she read as something other than what it was. Which had been his intention, and which she had fallen for all too easily. She had been the proverbial lamb who allowed herself to be led to the slaughter.
“Miss Sutherland?”
Judith gave herself a mental shake and turned her attention back to Lady Henrietta. “Forgive me. I suppose I am still a little fatigued from last night.”
Lady Henrietta picked up her previous question. “Do you think he will call on me?”
“I cannot say.”
But she could hope. And her hope was that Lord Pengrin would steer his attentions elsewhere. At the time he’d toyed with her, Judith had little in the way of male protection. Her father was far away, her cousin, Charlie, busy chasing whatever lady had caught his attention at the time, and Uncle Arran had still been living in Scotland, nothing more than a childhood memory. At least Lady Henrietta had her brother.
But if Lord Pengrin did not stay away from Lady Henrietta, what recourse did she have? She was but an employee. Would her warnings hold any weight? Would they believe the truth if she were bold enough to reveal it? No. It would be assumed, as Lord Pengrin had informed her afterward, that the fault had lain with her. That she had tried to jump above her station and trap him into a marriage she would not otherwise have been able to achieve.
He would tell his lies and Judith would be ruined. How could she save Lady Henrietta from him when she couldn’t even save herself?
* * *
Benedict let his fingers run along the spines of the books lining the shelves of Marcus Bowen’s library wall. The room, with its large oak desk, also doubled as his study in the townhouse three doors down from Glenmor House.
He found it an uncommon kind of comfort, having one’s friends and family so close. He had not expected to experience such a thing again after Father and Roddy’s death. After their passing, he had been left scrambling, wishing desperately to return home to Mother and Abigail, but being refused. Mother, who still convalesced, feared if he returned from school, he would contract the fever that had taken her husband and youngest son. She had forbidden his return and instead of being with them in their time of need, he’d remained safely abandoned at school, with only Abigail’s regular letters to keep him connected.
They did not offer much comfort, nor had he yet cultivated the friendships he now had to help ease his pain. The other students, most of whom carried titles and family lineages far loftier than his, looked at him as some sort of anomaly. He’d been ignored for the most part, and looked down upon when ignorance no longer suited them. He’d learned how to defend himself, both verbally and physically when needed, though mostly he’d kept to himself. Father had insisted the education Uncle Henry offered would serve him well in his life and as such, Benedict had held on, learned how to shut himself off from others, to step outside of the situation and see it for what it was. Unimportant. A small speck of time that would eventually become a distant memory.
Or so he told himself. Reality proved a bit different.
“Glenmor, forgive me for keeping you waiting,” Marcus said as he walked into the room and immediately filled it with his quiet, commanding presence. For a man with no title and a rather enigmatic background, he carried within himself a presence most titled gentlemen wished they possessed. And it was Marcus, far more than the other two friends Benedict had inherited through his sister, who understood his common background the most.
For his part, Benedict straddled two worlds—the working class world he’d grown up in, and the high society world of London he’d been thrust into shortly after Father’s death. Even now, with the title of Earl of Glenmor weighing on him, he still felt like a pretender to the crown, wading deep into a world in which he didn’t fully feel he belonged.
The two men shook hands and Marcus waved them over to the table near the window, where they sat down. “Did you have any luck with Hawksmoor?”
Benedict scowled. “No. None. He was familiar with Mr. Crowley, though beyond admitting to that, he proved no help at all. Still, I cannot shake the sense that he knows more than he is telling, but the man is cagey and hard to read.”
Marcus rubbed at his chin. “Hm. Hawk always keeps more information than he gives away. And what he does give away usually comes with a price. It is simply a matter of discovering what he wants in exchange. In the meantime, have you managed to reach Crowley after his last letter to you?”
Benedict had filled Marcus in on where things stood with respect to Crowley’s refusal to meet and indication no profits would be forthcoming. “No, he remains elusive. I have stopped by his office twice now, but he hasn’t been there, which makes me both curious and concerned.” His assistant, a nervous little man who suffered from excessive twitching, was of little help as to when Crowley would return. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Marcus nodded in agreement as the afternoon sunlight poured over his dark hair until it shone, reminding Benedict of a raven. “Perhaps we should pay Hawksmoor another visit? He is usually more amenable to divulging information when he is beating me on the billiards table.”
Benedict raised his eyes brows. “There is someone who can beat you on the billiards table?”
“It is generally an even match, provided I have my wits about me, but he’s usually a bit more amenable when he believes he has won fair and square.” Marcus stood. “We shall pay him a visit this evening. But first, let us go to Crowley’s apartments. Perhaps he is holed up there. If we press him hard enough, he may give up the identity of this mysterious silent partner. It is worth a try, at least.”
The two men took the Glenmor carriage to Cheapside. Crowley did not answer his door and after a short search uncovered Crowley’s landlord, they interrogated him after promising to make it worth his while.
“Ain’t seen ’im in about a fortnight, but ’e said ’e was leaving after the Yuletide. Didn’t say where, jus’ somewhere more suited to a gentleman of ’is station.” The older man made a face, but otherwise did not seem overly fussed whether his tenant came or went. The information Crowley planned on leaving left a raw feeling in the pit of Benedict’s stomach. Something wasn’t right.
After slipping the landlord a few more pounds, he unlocked the door and allowed them access to Crowley’s apartments, but the rooms yielded more questions than answers. Nothing appeared out of place.
Benedict turned in a slow circle.
“What is it?” Marcus asked.
“It’s just that…it is surprisingly neat.”
“That strikes you as unusual?” Of course Marcus wouldn’t think so. His friend’s desk was much the same way, not a paper or quill out of place. Work neatly stacked in proper piles, likely all set out in numerical or alphabetical order. Benedict had actually seen the man stop whatever he was working on to straighten a pile of papers that had become ever so slightly askew.
“Yes. Very unusual. If you had seen the man’s office, you would know.” Though on his last visit, Crowley’s assistant had refused him entry, practically barring the door with his small, twitchy body. “The man is a bit of a disaster in that regard. To find his living space so tidy is nothing short of…odd.”
“As if someone came in and cleaned up, you mean?” Marcus cast a critical eye about the place.
Benedict nodded. What did it mean? “Perhaps he has simply tidied up in preparation to move to other lodgings.”
Marcus reached for a bureau drawer and pulled it open. It revealed a mess of underclothes and other sundry items, all of which were in the state of disarray Benedict had expected to see in the rest of the rooms.
“Odd indeed,” Marcus stated.
Benedict took his time, scanning each nook and cranny in the room. Something poking out from beneath the bed caught his eye. “What is this?” He bent to retrieve it.
“Anything?”
Benedict nodded and handed a slip of paper to Marcus. “A receipt for what appears to be several custom made suits from a proprietor on Bond Street. It’s dated two days before I sent him my missive, insisting that we meet.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Bond Street seems a little high end for the likes of Crowley, is it not?”
“One would think.” Any time he had met with Crowley, the man had appeared rather unkempt, his suits pieced together without thought or care. The material had been worn and the seams frayed in spots as if he could not afford to replace them.
“I think I’d best send a missive to Hawksmoor,” Marcus said. “Perhaps with the right cajoling he will give us the information we need.”
“Such as allowing him to trounce you at billiards?”
Marcus put a hand to his chest. “The things I do for my friends. I shall indicate I wish to speak with him on an important matter. Hopefully this will get us an audience sooner, rather than later. In the meantime, perhaps we might find some entertainment for ourselves this evening.”
“Charles Elmsley has invited me to attend the theatre this evening. Join us.”
“Ah, the theatre. I have not been in quite some time. It sounds like a most pleasant way to spend an evening.”
Benedict said nothing in response. He did not care to admit that his only reason for going was to further his acquaintance with Lady Henrietta. Though, in truth, it was Miss Sutherland he hoped to see.
* * *
If Judith had known she’d be attending so many events, she would have packed much differently. Not that her wardrobe would be considered fashionable by most of the ladies of the ton. Looking at the selections her cousin Patience had brought from Havelock Manor for her, it was a wonder anyone had noticed her at all during her first Season. She had resisted all of Aunt Beatris’s attempts to truss her up in frills and fripperies. The idea of making a spectacle of herself had always left her uncomfortable. Unfortunately, her reticence now left her awash in a wardrobe of browns and grays with an occasional navy and plum thrown in for good measure.
Then again, the only one who had noticed her had been Lord Pengrin. Had it been her rather subdued wardrobe that made her such an obvious target for his put-upon affections?
“Honestly, Judith. I cannot believe Mother allowed you anywhere near London with these,” Patience said, waving her hand at the dresses spread out over the bed. “You cannot honestly be considering wearing any of these to the theatre tonight.”
“What other choice do I have? I can hardly expect Lady Henrietta to alter another one of her gowns.”
“What of mine?”
Judith smiled. “Patience, I am at least four inches taller than you. I cannot wear a dress that reaches well above my ankles. Your poor mother would have an apoplectic fit and likely Lady Dalridge would relieve me of my position as companion on the spot.”
“That, I would not mind at all.” Patience flopped on the bed with a pout. “I hate that I cannot have you all to myself or that we cannot go here and there of our own accord. Why do you insist upon doing this? You know mother and father would be only too pleased to have you stay with us.”
“As a poor relation? No, thank you. I love you all, but I do not love the idea of being anyone’s burden.”
“Family is never a burden, Judith.”
Patience’s words caught her. For all of her flightiness, occasionally she surprised by uttering something so wise, there was no way for Judith to refute its truth.
“I simply want to make my own way in the world.”
“Isn’t that what a proper dowry is for?”
The mention of her dowry, such as it was, brought Lord Glenmor to mind. Not that it was a huge stretch. It seemed thoughts of him were always within reach, ready to taunt her at the slightest provocation.
“My dowry is hardly going to bring the gentlemen of the ton running to beat down my door. And even if they did, I would not be interested. I have had my fill of titled gentlemen, thank you.” She failed at keeping the bitter edge out of her voice.
“One bad apple cannot possibly spoil the whole barrel.”
“It is indicative of the species, I believe.”
Patience laughed, the sound light and airy. “Good heavens, Judith! They are hardly a separate species. I grant you, they are nothing like our uncle in many regards, but they are not all bad. Take Lord Glenmor, for instance? Or Mr. Bowen. And what about Lords Blackbourne and Huntsleigh, for that matter? All wonderful gentlemen and nothing like the despicable Lord Pengrin.”
“Hush!” Judith glanced over her shoulder at the door that adjoined her bedchamber to Lady Henrietta’s.
“What is it?” Understanding slowly dawned across Patience’s pretty features. “No! Oh, no, Judith. She cannot! Not him! You must warn her.”
“How can I?” Judith played with the buttons of her high-necked dress. Speaking of the subject always agitated her, even after all these years. “There is no way I can tell her what I know of Lord Pengrin without telling her how I know it. I simply cannot—” She stopped short, biting off the rest of her words. Only Patience knew the truth, and even she had been spared the most sordid of the details. “I cannot, Patience. I don’t think the words would come.”
Patience stood and walked to Judith, encircling her in her arms. “I’m sorry. I understand. And of course you need not speak of it. Perhaps we can find another way. Is there someone who may be privy to whom he truly is? Someone who we could enlist to relay the information to her?”
The night of the dinner party flashed in Judith’s mind, the way Lord Glenmor came to her defense when Lord Pengrin mocked her. And again, afterward, when they tried to draw Lady Henrietta out to sing. Bit by bit he had shown himself to be colored by a different palate than Lord Pengrin and much as Judith fought against being fooled again, somewhere deep inside, she had begun to trust him. After all, was it not Lord Glenmor she looked to the instant she needed a champion to save Lady Henrietta from being made a spectacle of? Instinct had made her do it. But could she trust it? Her instincts had let her down before, after all. Still, Lord Glenmor may be the only avenue she had.
“Perhaps there is someone.”
“Wonderful.” Patience clapped her hands and turned back toward the dresses. “Now, what are we to do about making you presentable for the theatre this evening? You cannot sit in Lord Ridgemont’s box looking as dowdy as a housekeeper.”
Judith perused her choices and determined that unless Patience had the ability to work miracles, she had little choice in the matter.
As it turned out, Patience was indeed a miracle worker. She had chosen the plum gown and disappeared with it, hurrying off to enlist Mr. Bowen’s housekeeper, Miss Cosgrove. She had traveled ahead of her employer’s arrival to set up the newly purchased townhouse and hire the proper staff.
The young woman was a wonder with a needle and thread and had recently altered the Dowager Countess of Blackbourne’s gown for her birthday party only weeks before. Toiling away as housekeeper to Mr. Bowen and Lady Rebecca was a true waste of Miss Cosgrove’s talent, according to Patience. After her cousin returned with the finished gown, Judith was of a mind to agree.
Tiny seed pearls had been stitched along the bodice in an intricate pattern. A bodice that, upon putting the dress on, Judith realized had been lowered and brought in, lifting her décolleté to a rather daring degree. The sleeves had also been shortened and expanded with a lovely cream satin inset, creating a striped appearance. The same striping was repeated in the hem, now a flounce, and a cream sash added as well. How the woman had accomplished all of this in one afternoon boggled the mind.
With her thick hair coiled atop her head and threaded through with matching pearls, Judith truly felt as if she stared at someone else’s reflection in the
full-length mirror.
“Absolute perfection!” Lady Henrietta clapped her hands, then reached out for Judith’s. “You will be a shining star tonight, Miss Sutherland and most successful at keeping all eyes on you and off of me.”
Judith tried to smile, but the edges of her mouth caught before the expression could take flight. Being the center of attention appealed to her about as much as it did to Lady Henrietta. The idea of playing the part of buffer for her made her insides flip and flop until she feared eating, in the event whatever went down came back up. She’d hardly be a vision then, would she?
“That is kind of you to say, my lady.”
“Honestly, must we be so formal? You should call me Hen. All my friends do.” Lady Henrietta’s smile turned downward. “Or they used to. When I had them.”
It struck Judith, as it often did in moments like these, how lonely Lady Henrietta must be. Locked away by the fears and insecurities her scars had created within her. And what courage it must take for her now to step outside into the world once again, after hiding in the shadows for too many years. Judith wished she could tell her that the ton would be accepting, but she could not make herself lie in such a way and send the poor girl out into society unarmed. She was right to be wary. Right to be fearful of what they might say or do.
If only someone had given her such warning, perhaps she wouldn’t have made the mistakes she had in trusting so easily. Mistakes that had landed her here, playing the part of lady’s companion.
“Lady Dalridge would not like me using such familiarity with you, I’m sure.”
“Nonsense.” Lady Henrietta lifted her nose in the air. “It is my name and I say who shall uses it.”
Judith allowed a small laugh. Had Lady Henrietta not suffered such devastating scars, what a force she would have become. Could still become, if she allowed herself.
In that moment, Judith made a promise to herself she would do everything in her power to help Lady Henrietta—Hen—become the woman she would have been, before the fire robbed her of it.
“Then Hen it shall be,” she smiled. “And you must call me Judith.”
