The Singular Mr. Sinclair

by Marlowe Mia

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. But I do expect to be entertained. If your Mr. Sinclair is as awkward with his feet as he is with his tongue, this promises to be an amusing evening.”

  “He’s not my Mr. Sinclair,” Caroline protested, but her insides did a shivery little jig nonetheless. When she’d called him by his Christian name last evening, the look on his face was astonishing. He couldn’t have been more pleased if she’d offered him a handful of diamonds and pearls.

  “That insipid little smile of yours when you think we don’t see begs to differ,” Horatia said with a disgustingly knowing look. “Doesn’t she look positively moonstruck, Freddie?”

  “I am not.” Caroline gave herself an inward shake. “Never mind about the dancing lessons. If you’re intent on being hurtful, don’t come.”

  “Hold a moment.” Horatia abandoned the mirror, crossed the room to Caroline, and grasped one of her hands. “I was only teasing, Caro.”

  “I don’t appreciate being teased.”

  “Then I won’t do it. Besides, we know you’re only spending time with Mr. Sinclair to please Lord Bredon. And I won’t say a single unkind word to the man. I promise.”

  “Maybe you won’t say them, but you think unkind things about him and…it makes me feel so very low when you do.”

  “Why, Caro,” Frederica said, “if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you are harboring a tendresse for Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Oh, my stars and garters!” Horatia eyed her with such intensity, Caroline wondered if she could look directly into her heart. “Freddie’s right.”

  “She is not. Not that you aren’t right sometimes, Freddie dear,” Caroline hastened to add when Frederica’s face fell. It never failed to amaze her that her sensitive friend seemed to feel unintentional pricks from her more deeply than real jabs from Horatia. She pulled her hand away from Horatia, wondering, not for the first time, if their friendship, which had begun in childhood, had run its course. “Just because I don’t wish Mr. Sinclair to become an object of ridicule, it does not follow that I am enamored with the man. I merely feel we ought not to mock someone whose life has been so very different from ours.”

  Caroline thought she heard the dressmaker’s apprentice murmur “hear, hear” under her breath as she rose to her feet. Horatia had refused to stand still, so the woman was evidently giving up on pinning her hem.

  “You’ve hit upon the very thing that puzzles me, Caro,” Frederica said.

  “When are you not puzzled, Freddie?” Horatia rolled her eyes and returned to the raised area in front of the mirror. Mary Woodyard dropped to her knees and went back to work on the hem with all the urgency of a squirrel gathering nuts for winter.

  Undeterred by Horatia’s remark, Frederica continued. “Why should Mr. Sinclair’s life have been so different from ours? He was raised in Ware Hall. For pity’s sake, the man is heir presumptive to an earldom—”

  “Emphasis on presumptive,” Horatia interrupted.

  “At any rate,” Frederica went on placidly, “it does seem odd that he shouldn’t have learned how to dance…or converse…or manage his teacup…or—”

  “Yes, I know. He’s different, but I don’t know why he is as he is,” Caroline said in frustration. “The fact remains that Mr. Sinclair is a…a very singular gentleman.”

  “Singular,” Horatia repeated meaningfully. “As in one.”

  “Oh! You’re implying a deeper significance,” Frederica said, happy to have followed her clever friend’s train of thought. “You mean as in one and only?”

  “Not at all,” Caroline said testily, “and I’ll thank you two hens not to entertain such faradiddles.”

  She was saved from further mortification when the dressmaker returned with a gown of pale pink silk in her arms. “Madame Fournier, is that mine?”

  “Oui, bien sûr. This is the fine silk you have chosen, is it not?”

  “Yes. Good. Then I shall go next.” Caroline flounced away to the dressing room in the back, with Madame Fournier’s apprentice following close behind her to carry the gown and assist while she changed into it. Caroline loved Freddie—and Horatia, too, when she didn’t make Caroline the target of her barbed tongue—but she needed to be away from both of them. Immediately.

  Unfortunately, the dressing room wasn’t far enough.

  As Mary Woodyard helped her strip down to her chemise, she could still hear Freddie say in a stage whisper, “My word, I believe we have offended her.”

  “If we have, it’s only for speaking the truth. Our Caro is dangerously close to forming an unwanted liaison.”

  If Horatia was only trying to protect her from making a mistake, perhaps she was right to be a little cutting. Caroline’s irritation at her friends began to fade.

  “I believe you’re wrong, Horatia. I don’t think Mr. Sinclair is unwanted at all. I think she rather likes him.”

  No, I don’t, Caroline almost shouted, but she held her tongue. As the only girl in a household filled with boys, she’d learned long ago that she might hear the most amazing things if others weren’t aware she was listening.

  “No, goose. I meant her attachment to him is unwise.”

  “But I’ve never known Caro to do anything unwise.”

  “Mark my words, she’s close to it now.” Horatia sighed expressively. “Honestly, one may see a puppy in the street and find it sweet, but one ought not to bring it home.”

  Frederica was silent so long, Caroline knew she was puzzling out the metaphor. Finally, she said, “Ah! I understand. Mr. Sinclair is the puppy. But…but Caro didn’t bring Mr. Sinclair home. Lord Bredon did.”

  Horatia made an exasperated noise and then got distracted with giving Madame Fournier suggestions for more embellishments on the little coronet. In the meantime, Mary Woodyard used a special hook to fasten the row of tiny buttons that marched down Caroline’s spine.

  It was a gorgeous gown. Beautifully sewn, it was of the best quality silk. Seed pearls embellished the bodice and the fully lined train was long enough to do credit to a princess.

  “If it not be impertinent,” Mary said, “I shouldn’t pay those two any mind were I you, my lady.”

  It was a little impertinent. Shopkeepers, like servants, were supposed to behave as if they didn’t hear or see anything their customers said or did unless it was related to an ongoing transaction. Clearly, Miss Woodyard had chosen to ignore that unspoken code.

  “They’re my friends,” Caroline said. “Why shouldn’t I listen to their advice?”

  “Because they aren’t going to live your life for you, are they?” Mary stood and met Caroline’s gaze. “You’re the only one as can do that.”

  “That’s true. You have some rather unexpected views. Have you, by chance, been attending the lectures of Mrs. Hester Birdwhistle?”

  Just then, Madame Fournier called out to her apprentice, pronouncing her name as if it were Marie in the French style instead of plain English Mary. “Do not make to talk Lady Caroline to death. And hurry. Vite, vite!”

  Mary smiled ruefully and whispered, “No, my lady. I’ve no time for lectures, save for those from my mistress.”

  “But your views are those of an enlightened mind.” Caroline doubted she’d have thought about an independent life if she hadn’t first listened to Mrs. Birdwhistle. “Whence do you hail?”

  “Surrey, my lady,” Mary said softly as she smoothed down Caroline’s train. “And you may blame my enlightened mind on my father. He was a vicar who believed his daughters should be as well read as his sons.”

  Caroline remembered her struggle to learn Latin without her father’s consent or knowledge. It would have been so much easier if she could have sat in on her brothers’ sessions with their tutor instead of having Teddy deliver each new set of verbs for her to conjugate. “Huzzah for your father, the vica
r.”

  “Indeed, my lady.”

  “Marie! Please to hurry. I need an extra pair of hands.”

  “Coming, Madame.” But Mary didn’t go immediately. Instead, she gathered up her sewing kit in one hand and Caroline’s train in the other. Then she said, “About your Mr. Sinclair…”

  “What about him?”

  “The only one who knows what a person’s life is like is the one who lives it. There are as many tragedies behind fine doors as there are in the ghetto around Seven Dials,” Mary said. “If you want to know why he is as he is, discover his tragedy.”

  “And then I’ll know the man?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Mary said as she trailed Caroline out of the back room. “But first, you must do the hard part.”

  “What might that be?”

  “You have to make him trust you enough to tell you.”

  When Caroline rejoined her friends in the main part of the shop, to her great surprise, Mr. Sinclair was there, hat in hand. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders stiff. He looked as if he feared to move a muscle lest he upset the displays of ribbons and lace. But when he saw her, the tension drained from his face and his shoulders relaxed. His gaze swept her form with obvious appreciation.

  “My lady,” he said simply, followed by that quick nod of a bow of his. But the look on his face said, my goddess.

  “May I take it you approve of my gown, Mr. Sinclair?” she asked, a ridiculously happy sensation heating her chest as she basked in his open admiration.

  Caroline spread her arms and did a little spin, causing Mary Woodyard to drop her long train lest the gown tear. It was designed to be hooked up before the wearer launched into a dance figure, but Caroline had forgotten all about that. Unbound, the train turned into a flying whip at floor level. It caught on the bottom of the dressmaker’s dummy displaying a new style of frock fresh from Paris. The dummy toppled over onto a large jar containing assorted buttons, frogs, and hooks and eyes. The jar spilled onto the floor and shattered to pieces, sending hundreds of small bits of horn and shell, woven cord and metal, scurrying around the shop like ants pouring from an upturned hill.

  Madame Fournier shrieked. Then she lunged across the room, trying to collect the dearer fasteners off the floor, cursing in French at the top of her lungs. The dressmaker caught the hem of her gown under the toe of one of her shoes and she went tail over teakettle into the long row of upright bolts of fabric that ringed the room. They began to topple like dominoes. The last one smashed into a display of spangles. The small decorative leaves pattered to the hardwood like metallic raindrops.

  Once the last tinkling sound died away, the shop went completely silent.

  Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat. “Lady Caroline, I’ve come to assist you and your friends with your parcels whenever you are ready to leave.”

  “Oh, I think we’re ready to leave right now,” Horatia said, still perched on the raised dais before the long mirror, only now she was also clinging to Frederica. When the fiasco began, Frederica must have skittered over to join her there. The two of them were crowded onto that small buoy of safety above a sea of buttons and spangles, fallen lace and ripped muslin.

  “But shouldn’t Lady Caroline…and we, too, of course, help with…” Frederica began.

  “No, mademoiselles,” Madam Fournier said as she hauled herself from her sprawled position on the floor. “My poor shop, she could not bear so much as another thimbleful of Lady Caroline’s help.”

  Chapter 9

  On a positive note, Madame Fournier has offered to come to Lovell House in the future for all my fittings and millinery purchases.

  —from the diary of Lady Caroline Lovell, who suspects she may have been barred from the Fournier dress shop for life.

  Fortunately, the rest of Caroline’s day went much more to plan than had her morning shopping. Mr. Sinclair served as an admirable bearer of parcels as he escorted the girls and old Anna back to the Lovell carriage. He even rode alongside the equipage, making conversation that was less stiff than usual with Caroline and her friends.

  She began to hope he might yet find a place within Polite Society. Not that Lawrence would ever be high on the guest lists of the most fashionable houses. His prospects were too uncertain for that. And he didn’t have the personal charm that made the bon ton embrace someone on the fringes of their society. Lawrence wasn’t a bit like the remarkable Henry Luttrell, the illegitimate son of an earl. Without his wit, Luttrell would have been an outcast. Instead, his lively verse was celebrated among the ton.

  Caroline didn’t think Mr. Sinclair capable of rhyming a single couplet, but as she completed her most recent diary entry, his words describing the French countryside came back to her.

  He noticed the small things. The often overlooked things. And by marking them, he made them meaningful.

  My horse’s breath ghosting the air, frost sparkling on the field, and each blade of grass doubled by its own sharp-edged shadow.

  Not witty, but clearly effective, if the little tingle at the base of her spine was any indication. She could practically feel the cold kiss of that battlefield morning, its icy lips on her nape.

  Mr. Sinclair would never hold court in a parlor, regaling the room with stories. His remembrances were too intimate for that.

  But surely, she thought as she put away her diary, there must be room in this world for an overlooked, genuinely decent man. Even if he is far too duty bound for his own good.

  Later that evening, Frederica and Horatia joined Caro’s family and Mr. Sinclair for supper. Conversation with her brothers was stilted, which was a surprise; she and her friends had practically lived in one another’s pockets since they were children. Then, when she caught Benjamin giving Frederica a sidelong glance, it occurred to her that this was the first meal they’d all shared since her friends had come out. Freddie and Horatia weren’t children any longer. They were debutantes, and her brothers eyed them with the suspicion due such unfamiliar beings.

  Then, fortunately, a near calamity ensued.

  Frederica was wearing a new gown for the first time that bared more of her shoulders than usual. It fit admirably over her bosom, but the tabs in back hadn’t been tied snugly and there was a bit of a gap beneath her bared nape. Dudley, the ham-handed first footman, accidentally dropped a serving spoon down the back of Freddie’s gown. She squealed and leaped to her feet. Only Mr. Price’s swift intervention stopped the footman from reaching in after it. Then Caroline’s mother came to the rescue, took Freddie behind the chinoiserie screen in the corner, and retrieved the spoon. Everyone had a good laugh about the incident. The ice was broken, and they were all friends again.

  Dudley, however, was relegated to the kitchen for the rest of the meal.

  But while everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, Caroline was mildly disappointed to find herself seated between Teddy and Thomas. She loved her brothers, and enjoyed teasing and being teased by them, but she couldn’t help wondering how Mr. Sinclair came to be seated between Frederica and Horatia instead of beside her. When she considered it, she realized she hadn’t been seated next to him once since he’d arrived at Lovell House, even when it was just her immediate family and he.

  At the thought, she glanced at her mother sharply. But if Lady Chatham bore responsibility for the seating arrangements, she didn’t betray any guilt over it. The countess was smiling and laughing along with the rest of the company.

  After supper, Caroline’s plan to educate Mr. Sinclair in the ways of the ballroom went swimmingly. Teddy came and went, sending one of her other brothers down to the parlor in turn to serve as his surrogate. Ben played as softly as he could, and everyone kept conversation to a minimum because Lawrence needed, first and foremost, to hear her instruction as they executed the dance figures. When neither of their parents climbed to the fourth floor to investigate their offspring’s doings in the ba
llroom, Caroline could only conclude they had accomplished their caper mastering without Lord or Lady Chatham’s detection.

  After several hours, Benjamin ended the final reel with a flourish and the dancers all nearly collapsed, partly in relief that the strenuous dance was finished and partly in amazement that Mr. Sinclair had held his own. Sucking wind, Charles and Thomas both slapped him good-naturedly on the back and made approving masculine noises.

  Why must men communicate by punching and grunting at each other?

  “Very good, sir,” Caroline said between panting breaths. She wished being a lady didn’t mean she couldn’t mop her brow with a handkerchief as her brothers were doing. She’d simply have to continue to glisten, as her mother called it. “I think it will be safe for you to join in the cotillion, the country dances, and the reel.”

  “But you might do well to offer to deliver punch to some of the elderly ladies seated around the room during the quadrille,” Horatia said with a sniff. “My toes still hurt.”

  “Again, Miss Englewood, I’m terribly sorry for treading on them,” Lawrence said.

  Horatia waved away his apology. Just as she’d waved it away the last six times he’d offered it.

  “And remember, it might be easier if you situate yourself and your partner at the bottom of the line,” Frederica suggested. “That way you can refresh your memory by watching the other dancers go through the steps until it’s your turn.”

  “But don’t stare at their feet directly,” Horatia warned. “It’s considered rude.”

  Frederica drew her lips together in a tight line as she mulled over this problem. “Perhaps if Mr. Sinclair turned his eyes to follow the footwork but didn’t turn his head?”

  “People might still follow the direction of his gaze.”

  “No one but you will notice, Horatia. We must be practical, Mr. Sinclair.” Caroline called him Mr. Sinclair for the sake of her brothers and her friends. Sometime between the trifles after supper and the end of the country dance, she’d begun thinking of him as simply Lawrence. “You have learned a great deal in a short amount of time. If I were your partner at a ball, I’d rather the steps were fresh in your mind. Should you need to, I see no harm in glancing discreetly at the dancers who are before you and following their steps.”