The Conundrum of a Clerk

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Having left the school the hour before, he had thought to simply head straight for Angelo’s Fencing Academy and wait there for his appointed time on the pisté with George. The reminder that he had funds he could spend—funds that would purchase anything from a new townhouse down to a new toothbrush—had him deciding it was instead time to shop. His townhouse might be modest, but that didn’t mean the furnishings inside had to remain so.

  I can use a new bed, he thought, trying with all his might not to imagine Miss Albright, naked, in the middle of it. Or all new furniture. An image of his new headmistress sitting primly and fully clothed on a velvet settee flashed through his mind.

  That was more like it.

  Prim and proper. Miss Albright had to be proper given her new position.

  His mind made up, he decided he could afford to pay a call in St. Martin’s Lane and place an order at Chippendale’s. From there, he would simply hail a hackney to take him to the Opera House in Haymarket where the academy was located.

  When he passed a tailor’s shop, he thought of what it would be like to have a different suit of clothing for every day of the week instead of the two he owned now. He could afford a pair of Hobys and a pair of Hessians. Another pair of shoes. Two of each, even. A thought of employing Stultz of Clifford Street to make his suits made him grin. He was smiling when he thought of ordering a new coat at Schweitzer & Davidson of Cork Street. Why, he could afford to be as well-dressed as any aristocrat!

  He stared at his reflection in the window at Floris, the purveyor of colognes, perfumes, brushes and combs a reminder he could use a new toothbrush. Although he had rarely used cologne, he was suddenly interested in the idea of it, which had him entering the fragrant shop.

  The scents of lime, flowers, and exotic spice filled his nostrils as he made his way to a display of bottles. He was about to lift a bottle of “Limes” from a display when the shopkeeper approached and offered to help.

  “It’s our most popular scent for the summer,” the man said as he regarded Teddy. “Would you like to try it?”

  Teddy gave a non-commital shrug. “I suppose. But I was interested in something more... suited to me.”

  The shopkeeper’s brows elevated. “A custom fragrance, perhaps?” he asked in surprise.

  Remembering how Mr. Whittaker at the bank made comments as to the fact that he only wore custom colognes, Teddy angled his head. “Perhaps,” he replied. “What might that... be like?” He knew he didn’t want to smell like Mr. Whittaker. The bank official could be mistaken for a molly given he exuded an odor akin to most of the women who attended the opera.

  “One of our chemists can assist in that regard,” the shopkeeper said. He turned and led Teddy to a back counter where a very young man was sniffing the contents of several different bottles, his face displaying various expressions ranging from disgust to approval. “Mr. Tennison has the best nose in the business, Mister...?”

  “Streater,” Teddy offered, giving a nod to the young man who held out his hand.

  “It’s good to meet you. Might I ask what it is you do?”

  Teddy frowned. “Do?” he repeated.

  “Yes. Do. Even men of leisure do something. Drink? Hunt? Play cards? Gamble? Archery? Attend the theatre?”

  “I fence,” Teddy offered, deciding he wouldn’t mention his occupation just yet. He wondered what the man might come up with for a working man.

  “Ah,” Mr. Tennison replied. “A sporting man.”

  It was at that moment that Teddy realized just how lucky he had been to have come to the attention of the former Lady Elizabeth whilst they both attended the same musicale at Lady Worthington’s house in Park Lane three years prior. How lucky he was that Lady Elizabeth had decided she would do what she must to see to it he was rehired in his old position at the bank. How lucky he was to be fitted with a prosthetic arm—a carved wooden arm on which he could pull on a glove and fool most people into believing he had two. For with his comment that he fenced, Mr. Tennison’s visage displayed a look of admiration and respect. “And I am the head of clerks at the Bank of England,” Teddy added, just to reinforce his claim.

  The man’s face fell. “Well, I suppose I can come up with something appropriate for both,” he said, without a lot of enthusiasm.

  Teddy blinked, realizing he shouldn’t have admitted to having a position at all. “I understand it will be a challenge, but I was told only you could rise to it,” he said with an arched brow, deciding that by daring the young man, he might regain the chemist’s interest.

  “Indeed. Your informant is most correct.”

  Teddy had to suppress his look of admiration as the young man was spurred into action. He watched as Mr. Tennison moved to a leather case of small bottles and began opening several, one after another. For the next five minutes, he used the eyedroppers in the bottles to create a mixture in a small, clear bottle, finally filling it from a large bottle of what Teddy realized was alcohol.

  “Hold out your wrist,” Mr. Tennison demanded, an eyedropper poised over the top of the bottle he had just mixed. “I’ve held off on including too much citrus, but I can always add more if need be.”

  Teddy did as he was told, extending his gloved hand. His sleeve didn’t retreat enough to expose his wrist though, and despite his attempt to bend his arm more so it would, Teddy thought his ruse would be discovered when he didn’t raise his other hand to help push back his sleeve.

  He was about to raise his hand to his lips and use his teeth to remove his glove when Mr. Tennison simply pushed back his sleeve and aimed a drop of his newly mixed cologne so it dropped onto Teddy’s bare wrist.

  “What’s it made of?” Teddy asked, before lifting his wrist to his nose, rather surprised when the scent proved rather pleasant.

  “Spices, citrus, the barest hint of a floral, and some amber,” Mr. Tennison replied. “Do wear it for a few more minutes before you decide, though.” And with that, he disappeared behind a curtain.

  Teddy gave a nod to the shopkeeper, who had been watching with some interest. “I’m in the market for a toothbrush, as well.”

  “Right this way, sir.”

  Before Teddy took his leave of the shop, he had a new cologne Mr. Tennison had dubbed “Head of Clerks,” a toothbrush, and a tortoise shell comb. He might have been talked into the matching brush, but he knew he had a perfectly good brush back at his townhouse.

  By the time he needed to be on his way to Angelo’s, he had visited nearly a dozen shops along the street and had orders in for suits of clothes, boots, shoes, stockings, and cologne.

  It wasn’t until the hackney was nearly at the fencing academy when he realized he had spent more money in two blocks than he had spent in his entire life. “Being wealthy is hard work,” he informed his valet later that day, when he finally stepped into his townhouse.

  Augustus Myers stared at his master for a moment before saying, “Of course it is, sir.”

  Chapter 13

  Sharing Good News

  A half-hour later

  Elizabeth looked up from writing the third invitation to Mr. Streater’s Saturday afternoon tea and found Bates regarding her with a look of expectation. He stood on the threshold of her salon. “Yes?” she prompted.

  “As I said, there is a Miss Albright to see you, my lady,” he said with a nod.

  Furrowing a brow, Elizabeth wondered how she could have been so engrossed in her project for Mr. Streater’s introductory tea that she wouldn’t have heard the butler’s knock. “Miss Albright?” she repeated, her voice betraying her confusion. “Already?” She glanced at the tiny clock on the edge of the escritoire to confirm it was still well before noon.

  “Shall I tell her you are not at home?” Bates asked, his hands going behind his back.

  “No. I’ve been expecting her,” Elizabeth replied, her gaze sweeping the salon to be sure her son hadn’t run pall-mall through it. At some point the night before, just before she and George had retired to their apartments, David
had escaped the nursery and gained entry into the first floor parlor. Somehow, the two-foot tyke had managed to arrange every vase, including one from the Ming Dynasty, into a circle on the floor. He was seated in the middle, surrounded by small rubber balls and practicing his ball toss when George discovered him.

  Elizabeth was sure they would be finding small rubber balls in the bottom of vases for years to come.

  “Have a tea tray brought up, would you?”

  “Very good, my lady.” He bowed and left the salon as Elizabeth turned to finish the invitation she had been writing. Once it was complete, she set it aside with the other two just as Daisy Albright appeared on the threshold.

  “Do come in, Miss Albright. Are you on your way to Warwick’s? I do hope you haven’t changed your mind about the position,” Elizabeth said as she returned her visitor’s curtsy.

  Daisy shook her head. “I’ve just come from there, in fact, my lady.”

  The viscountess’ eyes widened. “Already?” She led the young woman to an overstuffed chair and indicated she should be seated. “Mr. Streater has already interviewed you? Did he say when he might have an answer for you?”

  Daisy settled into the comfortable chair, her grin of satisfaction as much from the furnishing as from Elizabeth’s query. “He did. He hired me on the spot. I can move into the apartment in Glasshouse Street today.” She paused before she sighed. “Besides acting as headmistress, it seems I will also be teaching grammar as well as my sister’s classes, at least for a time.”

  Elizabeth blinked. “Well, this is a bit... unexpected,” she replied. “Or not,” she whispered, remembering how desperate the bank clerk had sounded the day before. “Tell me. How did you find Mr. Streater?”

  The former operative allowed a shrug. “A bit overwhelmed, I thought. Not as bereft as I would have expected, seeing as how his mother has just died. Eager to please. Scared to death. Generous.” She gave the question another thought before her eyes widened. “Oh, and charming,” she added with a wan grin.

  Angling her head, Elizabeth regarded her client with new-found appreciation. “Do you really think so? I only ask because...” Here, she paused, not sure if she should tell Daisy about her intention to find a wife for the young woman’s new employer. “Well, he is in need of a wife.”

  Daisy frowned. “Eventually, perhaps,” she replied. “I wouldn’t have him courting anyone just yet, though. He seems a bit... overwhelmed, what with his mother’s death and all.”

  Returning the frown, Elizabeth was about to argue the point, but a maid appeared at the door with the tea tray. “I do hope you’ll join me for a dish of tea,” she said, noting Daisy’s look of surprise.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” her visitor said, watching as the maid set a tray of warm biscuits before her. She hadn’t expected such hospitality, especially since she was paying a call well before noon.

  A curl of steam rose from several of the biscuits, a testament to how recently they had been removed from the oven. The salon was soon filled with the delightful scents of gingerbread and spices.

  Elizabeth leaned forward and said, “I’ve learned the exact moment to request a tea tray,” she said in a whisper. “Cook makes biscuits most mornings.”

  Daisy shared her grin. “A different flavor every day?” she guessed in a whisper.

  The viscountess’ eyes widened. “Indeed.” She sobered then. “May I inquire as to why you think Mr. Streater isn’t yet ready to take a wife? Besides because of his mother’s death, of course.”

  Angling her head to one side, Daisy gave her response a good deal of thought before she put words to it. “In my prior... position,”—she said the word carefully, even though she was fairly sure the viscountess knew she had been a spy up until just a year ago—“I find that men who have undergone a series of life-altering events in quick succession tend to be a... a bit addled. They are so overwhelmed, they are no longer capable of critical thought, or of making rational decisions. Unlike us,” she said as she indicated Elizabeth and herself with a quick wave of her hand, “We can handle any number of tragedies on any given day, while they simply cannot.”

  Rather startled by Daisy’s words, Elizabeth blinked. Her guest had the right of it, although when Elizabeth considered her husband, she thought he would be quite capable should life deliver a series of unexpected events his way. The man had helped deliver David when the babe wouldn’t wait for the midwife, after all, his manner so calm, Elizabeth remembered yelling at him to at least pretend to be in a panic.

  Although, come to think of it, she had done enough of it for the both of them.

  But then she wondered how George had dealt with his uncle’s death and his inheritance of the Bostwick viscountcy. In a matter of minutes, he went from a life of fencing and riding and other gentlemanly pursuits, including twice-weekly liaisons with his mistress, to that of an aristocrat with responsibility over property, tenants, gypsum mines, dilapidated cottages, a run-down townhouse, and the need to give up his mistress and find a wife.

  Her thoughts turned to Theodore Streater. Perhaps Daisy was right. With the recent death of his mother, Teddy would want time to mourn. Time to ensure the estate was settled. Time in his new position at the bank. Time to meet his new employees and to take stock of his mother’s legacy. “You’re right, of course,” she finally agreed, her head nodding. “But I do think I may be onto something with regard to finding wives for the wounded.”

  Daisy straightened. “Because you don’t believe they can find them on their own?”

  The viscountess gave a slight shrug. “How likely is a man who is missing an arm, or a leg, or an eye, or any number of... parts to find a woman willing to marry them?” she countered, an elegant eyebrow arching with her query.

  Frowning, Daisy realized her hostess had a point.

  To a point.

  “There are any number of women who are in the same situation,” she said softly, remembering a neighbor in Kent whose right arm had always been twisted. The woman was a spinster, and behaved as if she had never considered herself biddable.

  She thought of her own situation. Her limp, when she couldn’t hide it late in the day, made her appear almost a cripple. Although the Marquess of Plymouth had claimed he rather liked how it caused her hips to sway provocatively, he never appeared in public with her.

  Well, he rarely appeared in public the entire time she had been in his employ in her guise as his mistress.

  “There are any number of seamstresses, or milliners, or costermongers who would choose marriage to an old fogey over a life of loneliness,” Elizabeth said, “Or the opportunity to live in better accommodations,” she added, remembering that her modiste employed seamstresses who lived in squalor because they were paid so little. George always saw to it she had coins to surreptitiously slip to the girls who hemmed her gowns as she stood on a box. She always made sure the modiste didn’t pay witness to the secret tips lest she dock their pay.

  Daisy regarded Elizabeth for a moment, deciding not to mention that not all marriages made life for a woman better. Some men were despicable. Violent in nature. Selfish, or rude.

  At the thought of Theodore Streater, she furrowed her brows. She couldn’t imagine him as a violent man. He didn’t seem selfish or rude. “May I ask your opinion of Mr. Streater?” Daisy queried, realizing too late the question wasn’t in line with Elizabeth’s last comment.

  The viscountess regarded her guest for a moment, a secret grin causing a dimple to appear. “Mr. Streater’s father was a baron, but his older brother holds the title now,” she replied, deciding a bit of background was required before she answered the question.

  “Then how did the finishing school end up in Mr. Streater’s possession and not the baron’s?” Daisy asked, one brow furrowing in confusion. The usual inheritance rules would have the baron inheriting the school.

  “Mrs. Streater—Baroness Streater, I should say—didn’t hold her oldest son in high regard, it seems,” Elizabeth replied. “She a
pparently decided that her second born was a better choice when it came to running the school, so she bequeathed it—and her fortune—to Theodore.”

  Fortune? Daisy had to bite her tongue, about to repeat the word in disbelief. How could the baroness have amassed any kind of fortune? Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School couldn’t be that lucrative!

  Could it?

  Then she remembered Mr. Streater’s less than complimentary comment about his mother. She lived the life of a pauper. If she died with some fortune, that meant she was really a miser.

  Elizabeth noted her guest’s concentration, and then she leaned over the low table that separated them. “When you discover how she managed it, would you tell me? I admit I am beyond curious, especially since her husband apparently left the family deeply in debt.”

  Allowing a wan grin, Daisy replied, “If Mrs. Streater died having a fortune, then she was probably a miser. She lived in near squalor in an apartment next to her office at the school. The same apartment I’ll be moving into later today.”

  Frowning, Elizabeth tore her gaze from Daisy and lowered it to the tea tray. For the two years she had attended the boarding school—a large Carlington House footman had been assigned to act as her protector whilst she was in residence—Elizabeth had despised the headmistress. To learn that Mrs. Streater lived on the premises in less than comfortable surroundings was a shock. To learn she was Theodore’s mother—and a baroness—was even more so. “I never would have guessed,” she murmured.

  Daisy sighed. “I don’t believe her son was aware of her circumstances, either. He seems... a bit overwhelmed at what he’s discovered.”

  Allowing a nod, Elizabeth said, “My husband knows him far better than I do. Seeing as how they’ve been friends for years. They fence, you see—”