“Of course I do not mean to encourage him,” said Letitia. “I was merely wondering if he would be at all interesting, since I will be forced to receive him if he calls upon me.”
Isobel picked up the letter. “He is ‘worthy...with a sober turn of mind and a good understanding,’” she read. “A dead bore, obviously, exactly like Bainstall. Letitia, you must allow me to introduce you to Lord Eynsford. If this Bishop were to encounter him here, Eynsford would surely give him a sharp set-down. He is very good at that, you know.”
“You are incorrigible, Isobel. I do not care for Dr. Wolfe as a suitor, nor do I care to meet Lord Eynsford. You are nearly as bad as my cousin!”
“An unkind cut, Letty!” said Isobel. “My choice is at least young and handsome, while I feel sure that Dr. Wolfe is of middle years and stout. But you know I am only teasing; I would never pester you if you did not wish it.”
The talk turned to other matters, with Isobel supplying her friend with the latest gossip and the newest novels that she had purchased that morning. It was a pleasant time, and Isobel spent some hours, returning home late in the afternoon to find her husband and Lord Eynsford ensconced in the library. She greeted them casually, for the marquess had become quite a fixture at Strancaster House over the past weeks.
“Such a delightful visit I had with Letty,” she said, stripping off her gloves. “Her house is charming, and although I hate to see her hiding herself away in this manner, she seems very content.”
“I trust she is finding ways to amuse herself?” asked Lord Exencour.
“Oh, yes. She is quite taken with managing a house for herself. She walks in Kensington Gardens each day with Jamie and Emily, and the children are thriving. I am convinced Letitia is right and Kensington is very good for them.”
Lord Eynsford looked up. “She is fortunate to have the Gardens so near. Did you say they walk there each day?”
“Every day in the early afternoon. Letitia is quite comfortable, for she is certain she will meet no one she knows, and that seems to fulfill her present wishes. I am glad that she is happy, but I hope that in time she will go out more into the world.”
“Doubtless Letitia will grow more at ease as time passes,” said Lord Exencour. “You must not cause her discomfort by teasing her to go about before she wishes to.”
“Of course I will not,” said Isobel. “Her cousin is doing quite enough of that. Only imagine, Francis, he has written a letter recommending his friend, Dr. Wolfe, to her, and telling her he will come a-calling. He is a bishop and a widower, you must know, and both sober and sensible!”
Lord Exencour laughed. “So Letitia is to have a suitor. Well, you need not fear for her, Isobel. I have no doubt that she can defend herself quite ably from a bishop.”
“But it did perturb her,” said Isobel, “and I can hardly blame her. She is quite uninterested in being courted, and now she is faced with someone to whom she must be polite. I could strangle Bainstall, I think. Only fancy, Francis, he said in his letter that despite your unbecoming levity and your indulgence of me, he thinks you may be a reasonable gentleman.”
The marquess had been inspecting the shine on his boots, but at that he looked up. “I think you have reason to call this gentleman out, Francis,” he observed. “That is an intolerable slur on your character.”
“You see, my lord, what poor Lady Morgan must put up with?” asked Isobel.
“If I were forced to deal with such a person, I might conceive an antipathy for the peerage myself,” agreed the marquess. “Of course, I have done that, to some degree. It is merely that my position and sex make it possible for me to flout Society, rather than having to hide from it. Lady Morgan has my sympathies.” He returned to the inspection of his boots.
The marquess soon took his leave. He was thoughtful on the drive home, as an idea slowly grew in his mind. The past weeks had not served to erase the thought of Lady Morgan from his mind, or rather the thought of the young lady with whom he had once danced. It was foolish, he felt, to dwell on the memory of youthful encounter, but if the thought could not be banished, it could be challenged by reality. It was necessary to meet Lady Morgan, and prove to himself that she held no power over him. If he could not call on her as Lord Eynsford, perhaps there was another way to meet her.
His lordship’s groom watched as his master drove, and saw with concern the look in his eyes. Chisholm knew that look well, and he reflected that his lordship was up to something, no doubt about it, and it was likely mischief.
Chapter 12
The Marquess of Eynsford stood before his mirror, surveying his reflection. The glass reflected back a very Nonpareil of fashion, dressed with great restraint and elegance. His bottle green coat and buff pantaloons fit as though they had been sewn onto his body, the cravat was of an impenetrable whiteness, its elaborate folds arranged in a wonderful style of his lordship’s own creation. Spotless white topped riding boots shone brightly, reflecting the room almost as clearly as the mirror. His golden curls were cunningly tousled, his only decoration a single fob and an emerald ring. He was the very image of a fashionable gentleman: tall, broad-shouldered, aristocratically featured, a haughty expression in his blue eyes.
“Terrifying,” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?” said his valet, who hovered nearby in case any slight element of his master’s dress should be out of order.
“I said, terrifying,” answered his lordship, raising his quizzing glass and gazing into the mirror with a thoughtful expression.
The valet’s face fell. “I think your lordship looks very fine,” he ventured. “That coat has an excellent cut.”
“No doubt,” said the marquess. “I am sure it is very fine indeed, Boothby. But do you not find me a trifle overpowering?”
“Overpowering, sir?” asked the valet.
“Or frightening?” murmured his lordship.
“I am sure I do not know what your lordship means. You look precisely as you should.”
“Perhaps that is the problem,” observed the marquess.
Boothby gave up the struggle to understand and stepped forward with a brush, energetically sweeping some nonexistent lint from the coat. The marquess waved him away.
“Have done, Boothby,” he said. “I am impeccably dressed. And yet--tell me, Boothby, if you were a young lady who did not care for gentlemen of fashion, would you find me overwhelming?”
Boothby appeared to be confused. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“I’m sure you heard me, Boothby.”
“I think any woman who does not find you handsome is a fool, my lord,” said the valet stoutly. “You have a fine figure and wear your clothes very well.”
“Thank you, Boothby. You comfort me.” The marquis turned from the mirror and confronted his valet. “If I wished to resemble a solicitor, or perhaps a banker, to which tailor would I go?” he asked.
“My lord!” Boothby turned quite pale. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“I thought I made myself quite clear,” said his lordship plaintively. “I would like to find a tailor who could prepare for me some suits such as those a solicitor might wear. I can hardly ask Weston to do that for me, can I?”
“No, sir,” said Boothby, quite sure of at least that one fact.
“Then where,” said Eynsford slowly, “might I find someone who could?”
“But my lord, why would you want a suit like a solicitor’s?” asked Boothby.
“A whim,” said the Marquess airily. “I grow tired of being a nonpareil. Perhaps I will set a new fashion.”
Boothby swallowed. “But sir, our reputation! Yours and mine both!”
Eynsford smiled. “Do not worry, Boothby, you will not suffer. Now tell me where I may find a tailor.”
“Well, my brother-in-law is a tailor, my lord. Not a Bond Street man to be sure, but he is competent and has quite a following. I am certain he could make you something suitable,” said Boothby mournfully.
�
�Very good. Have him come here to discuss it with me, will you? As soon as possible,” said the marquess.
“Very good, sir,” said the valet woodenly. “Is there anything else?”
The marquess was once more studying himself in the mirror. “Hmmmm?” he said. “Oh, no, I will be going out now, Boothby.”
The valet staggered from the room and repaired to the servants’ hall, where he informed his colleagues that the master had gone stark, raving mad.
Chapter 13
The Marquess of Eynsford wheeled his elegant curricle through the streets of London. He was dressed in the simplest of black coats, a plain waistcoat, and a cravat tied without pretension to fashion, much to his groom’s consternation. Even though Boothby had relayed to the other servants their master’s recent odd behavior, Chisholm had received quite a shock when Eynsford made his appearance. The groom had considered the story to be merely one of his lordship’s whims, and thought the valet was making too great a fuss. Now, from his perch behind the marquess, his countenance betrayed no emotion at all, but he privately wondered if Eynsford had run quite mad.
His lordship, in turn, was pondering what response he might receive were he to be seen by an acquaintance. He fully appreciated that the appearance of a soberly clad man of business tooling a sporting curricle with prime cattle was odd enough to attract attention, and he knew that his clothing would not long disguise a figure as well-known as his own. Nothing, however, could persuade him to be driven in a closed carriage, and it was obviously impossible to change clothes once he had arrived at his destination. If he were seen he would doubtless think of a plausible story; his known eccentricity might even obviate the need for explanation.
The best solution, however, was to avoid being noticed, and so he bowled along at a considerable rate, maneuvering the vehicle deftly in and out of the busy London traffic.
“Where are we going, my lord?” asked Chisholm.
“Kensington Gardens,” said the marquess cheerfully.
“Kensington, my lord?” asked Chisholm. The idea that his lordship had gone mad took deeper root; only dowdies lived in Kensington, and he could not imagine why they would be going there.
“Certainly,” said Eynsford. “I have an ambition to stroll about there. I grow weary of Hyde Park.”
“Weary, sir?”
“Exactly.” The marquess swung the curricle neatly about a farm wagon blocking their path. The burly driver gave them a surprised look; businessmen were seldom such neat whips, and the horseflesh between the shafts of the curricle was far beyond the touch of anyone but a nabob.
“What are you about, sir?” asked Chisholm. He had served the Marquess since he was a boy, and thought little of speaking his mind.
“About, Chisholm? Simply because I choose to visit Kensington today does not mean I am about something,” observed Eynsford.
“My lord, I’ve known you since you were a lad, and if you were ever up to mischief I knew it then and I know it now. I can tell from the look on your face, much less your dressing up in strange clothes and going to strange places.”
Eynsford’s lips twitched. “I think these clothes are very respectable, as indeed are Kensington Gardens.” he said.
“Aye, but when were you ever respectable?” asked Chisholm. “You can’t fool me, my lord.”
“Perhaps my behavior is a trifle unusual, Chisholm, but it is in a very good cause. I assure you, I am doing nothing illegal or immoral.”
“That is as may be, sir,” said Chisholm, “but it hardly reflects well on your credit to be seen in such a way.”
“I had no idea that you held my reputation so dear, Chisholm. You were always wont to tell me if I grew too high in the instep, and now you are positively encouraging snobbery.”
They bowled into Kensington Gardens and the marquess drew up his horses. He waited for Chisholm to go to the horses' heads, then leapt from the carriage. He tossed the reins to his groom. “Walk ‘em,” he said. “I have no idea how long I will be.”
Chisholm stood, shaking his head, as Eynsford strode off into the park. He had no notion what game his master was playing, but felt that if the marquess thought he was going to gammon anybody into thinking he was anything but a highly-bred nobleman, he was doomed to fail. No person of the middle class walked with that assured stride or held his shoulders in quite that confident way. His lordship carried himself as though he owned the world. Chisholm spat contemplatively and began to walk the horses.
Eynsford strolled through the grounds, seeking an angelically blonde head. A turn around the park revealed nothing but some giggling schoolgirls and a young couple who looked at him guiltily as he sauntered past. But his second pass achieved its aim; he perceived Lady Morgan and her two small children at some distance, Jamie and Emily frolicking with a ball, their mother watching from a bench, a fond smile on her face, and a nursemaid hovering in attendance. Her fair hair was bound back in a severe style and her dress was still of sober black, but her eyes held a depth of happiness and calm. Phillip paused, gazing at her in admiration.
As he stared, Emily failed to catch the ball tossed by her brother, and she came running across the lawn, her ringlets flying out behind her. As providence would have it, for the marquess if not for Emily, she stumbled and went sprawling only a few feet from where Eynsford stood. Immediately she let out a wail.
Phillip, grateful for once that his sister had a large brood of children that she insisted on bringing to his country seat every summer, ran a few steps and, kneeling down, lifted Emily to her feet. Her pretty white dress was stained with grass, but she was otherwise unhurt. He found himself gazing into tearful eyes as blue as Letitia's.
“There, my girl,” he said. “I think you took no harm.”
The child's lips quivered as she stared at the strange gentleman and wondered whether to continue crying or not. The marquess fished out his watch and held it towards her, catching the sunlight on its gold surface.
“See, isn't it pretty?” he asked. The glinting piece of jewelry distracted Emily from her woes, and a smile broke out on her face as she contemplated the watch.
Letitia ran up, James close behind her, with the nursemaid trailing behind.
“Emily, are you hurt?” she asked, a nervous edge to her voice.
“I believe she is quite well, ma'am,” said Eynsford, rising to his feet. “Her dress may never be the same, but she most certainly will recover.”
Letitia kneeled down and inspected Emily hastily. The stranger's words appeared to be true, for Emily merely smiled at her and then reached chubby hands towards the watch the gentleman still held in his hand.
Letitia laughed. “You are right, sir,” she said softly. “You have succeeded in driving her fall from her mind. You must have children of your own.”
“Unfortunately I do not,” said the marquess. “But I have many nieces and nephews who enliven my existence.”
“I thank you for your aid, sir,” said Letitia. “It was very kind of you to stop for a small child.”
“I am glad I could be of assistance, ma'am,” said Eynsford. There was a small pause. “I realize the circumstances are unusual, but perhaps you would allow me to introduce myself,” he continued. “I am Mr. Phillip--Markham, a solicitor in the Inner Temple, visiting a client in Kensington.”
The nursemaid gave him a look of astonished disbelief, but Letitia only smiled at him and extended her hand. “I am Lady Morgan,” she ventured. “I live here in Kensington.” She reflected that this solicitor was a remarkably handsome man. Lady Morgan had always thought of solicitors as resembling Mr. Linkwall or Mr. Askworth, Isobel's solicitor, who were elderly gentlemen. This very tall and excessively beautiful individual did not resemble them in the least. He was, however, dressed like other solicitors she had met. Naturally, she thought, there would have to be some young solicitors, for where else did the elderly ones come from?
Eynsford took her hand and smiled down at her. “My condolences on your recent bereavemen
t,” he said, indicating her mourning dress.
“Yes, 'twas very sad,” said Letitia, feeling a pang of guilt at her lack of actual sorrow. “My husband died in a hunting accident.”
“How terrible for you,” he said.
“It has been difficult,” murmured Letitia. “But my children make me very happy.”
“Children are indeed a great blessing,” agreed his lordship.
Jamie tugged on his mother's dress and held his ball up to her.
“If you will permit me, Lady Morgan, I will play with your son. That will give you some moments to comfort your daughter,” said the marquess.
Letitia hesitated. Though Emily seemed to be little in need of comforting, James' face had lit up at the prospect of playing ball someone other than his mother and sister.
“Thank you,” she said. “That would be kind of you.”
Any of Lord Eynsford's acquaintances would have been startled to see how he conducted himself in the next few minutes. As Letitia and Emily sat on the bench and watched, the haughty tulip of the ton engaged in tossing a red ball back and forth with a sturdy youngster. Oddly enough, he found himself enjoying it, and gave James considerable advice on the correct way to hold and handle the ball. Lady Morgan looked on with pleasure, and reflected that James' own father had never given him this sort of attention. The gentleman was kind to take an interest in her son.
After a quarter of an hour the marquess detached himself from James and strolled over to where Lady Morgan sat.
“You have a delightful boy there,” he said. “A fine young man.”
Letitia beamed at him. “You are very kind, sir. I hope he will be a credit to his family.”
“I am sure he will,” said Lord Eynsford, reflecting that he could hardly help being an improvement on his father. “And now I must be going. It was very pleasant to make your acquaintance, Lady Morgan. Perhaps I will see you again here in the gardens?”
Letitia favored him with a smile. “I come here almost every day,” she said. “If you are a frequent visitor we will doubtless encounter one another again.”
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