by Beverley, Jo
“Very regular,” she said, enjoying the prospect of him lurking in Winsom’s to no purpose, for she wouldn’t return here for weeks.
He showed no reaction, but then, he was looking at the spines of all her books. “An Animated Skeleton goes oddly with a book on the evils of the Freetrade, but why do I suspect that both are for you?”
“I have no idea.”
“I wouldn’t have thought the Freetrade of interest to anyone in the City.”
“There, sir, you are wrong. Those wretches bring in foreign goods to compete with British-made ones, and they avoid taxes that honest traders must pay. In addition, I understand their practices are vile.”
“The Hawkhurst Gang,” he said with a sigh.
“Precisely! Vicious, evil men.”
“I agree, but a century ago.”
“You defend them?”
“The Hawkhursts? No, but I’m sure not every smuggler is evil and nor are all the people who benefit from the trade. Are you entirely sure that everything you eat, drink, and use has paid full tax?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It can be hard to tell, except by price. Most people don’t look too closely at a bargain.”
Lucy remembered the cheap silks and wondered about her mother’s tea and her father’s brandy. She suspected he’d not be overly scrupulous about its origins.
“If you’re not careful, sir, I’ll suspect you of being a Freetrader.”
He smiled. It really was a very nice smile. “I’m merely a simple country gentleman, ma’am, struggling to make ends meet in hard times.”
They walked over to the desk where Winsom was waiting to take their selections. Lucy knew she should be glad to have done with the man and yet she felt a tiny pang of loss.
Perhaps it was because he’d talked with her as an equal, in an easy and direct way. She’d had too little of that recently. She was tempted to linger, but he glanced at the clock and she suspected he was in as much of a hurry as she was. Her urgency wasn’t acute. If the carriage had to wait ten minutes, so be it.
“Please, sir, pay for your purchases first. I’m thinking what else I might wish to buy.”
He thanked her and gave his books to Winsom.
As he’d read the spines of her books, she did the same with his. A New System of Drainage and An Introduction to Trade and Business. She couldn’t imagine a fortune hunter making those selections. Clearly he truly was a simple country gentleman trying to survive in hard times.
He paid Winsom and took his books, now neatly wrapped in brown paper tied with string.
He inclined his head. “I wish you good day, ma’am, and eternal freedom from the horrors of love.”
There was a hint of humor in that which could beguile. Lucy smiled as she dipped a curtsy and said, “Good day, sir,” with a true touch of regret.
It seemed as if he might say more, but he turned and took his leave.
She wished she knew what had brought such a man deep into the City.
She wished she knew his name.
She wished they might meet again.
Winsom cleared his throat.
Lucy turned, blushing. “I’m sorry.”
Winsom seemed to be concealing amusement, but he asked, “For how long will you want the novels, Miss Potter?”
“For how long?”
“Miss Hanway generally takes any one for a fortnight.”
Oh, yes. The novels were part of Winsom’s lending library. “I’m removing today to my aunt’s house in Mayfair. I shall probably be gone for a month.”
“That presents no difficulty. I shall make the lending period that long.” He wrote the price for that, the cost of The Evils of the Freetrade, and the pink journal, then gave her the total. She took a pound note out of her reticule and received back change.
He probably often wondered why she didn’t buy on account and have her bill settled monthly by her father, but for a long time now she’d not wanted her father to know what books she bought for fear he would disapprove. With hindsight that should have told her something. How easy it was to hide from an unwelcome truth—in her case, that her father had never really seen her as a possible heir.
As he wrapped the parcel, Winsom said, “I’ll miss your visits here, Miss Potter, but I predict mayhem amidst the gentlemen of the ton.” He tied the string and snipped off the ends. “You certainly had an effect on that gentleman.”
“Nonsense,” Lucy said, though inside her something purred.
That was truly alarming, and already she was late. She took her parcel and left the shop, wondering if he might be hovering.
He wasn’t, and she was aware of a twinge of regret. That meant she’d had a lucky escape. She hurried home and found the coach already waiting outside the house. She apologized to the coachman, and then to her father, who opened the door, asking where she’d been and why she wasn’t dressed. She ran upstairs to change, trying to wipe the incident from her mind.
She rang for Hannah, dumped her package on the bed, and began to undress. She could get out of these clothes by herself.
That purr of satisfaction when Winsom said she’d had an effect on him.
Her enjoyment of that man’s conversation.
How she’d not wanted it to end.
How she’d wished she knew more about him.
Hannah ran in, also exclaiming over how late she was, where had she been. . . .
“Don’t fuss,” Lucy said, quickly washing with cooling water. “Pack that package.”
At least her stays and petticoat were suitable for the fine gown, so it didn’t take long to put it on. Her stockings weren’t soiled, so they would do, even though they were an everyday pair. She put on her new pink leather half boots and sat so Hannah could brush out her hair.
Thank heavens it didn’t require elaborate dressing. She wanted to arrive at Aunt Mary’s in prime twig. That was the important matter, but the country gentleman wouldn’t leave her mind.
She always tried to be honest with herself, so she accepted that she wished they might meet again.
Even if he was a fortune hunter.
If he was a fortune hunter, she had a fortune. . . .
“No, no, no!”
“Beg pardon, miss?” said Hannah, startled.
“Not you, Hannah. Only that time’s flying. That’ll do. Where’s my bonnet?”
Lucy tied the ribbons on the tall confection, wondering whether this was how her mother had felt on the day her life had been turned upside down.
If she’d brushed against the idiocy of love at first sight, she’d escaped before it could take root, and she thanked the heavens for it.
Chapter 6
David hurried in search of a hackney stand. What had possessed him to linger in that bookshop when he was already late?
He knew what—or rather, who.
What he’d first taken for a plain Jane had turned out to have the biggest, clearest blue eyes he could remember seeing. Those eyes, that heart-shaped face, those pretty lips, all together with intelligence and a fine ability to debate.
A shame she had strong opinions on smuggling.
What did her opinions matter? He was here in London to win the hand and fortune of Miss Lucinda Potter. That was what had brought him into the City of London this morning. He’d thought he might learn something from her home and area. Now he was shamefully late for an appointment. He found a hackney stand and ordered the driver to make all speed to Bond Street.
He’d arrived in London last night to stay with his sister, Susan, and her husband, Viscount Amleigh. He’d claimed the earldom largely for Susan’s and Con’s sakes, but there’d been another reason, gently argued by his uncle Nathaniel and aunt Miriam, the people who’d raised him and whom he regarded as his true parents. Though Con would do his duty, his first love would always be Somerford Court. If the domain of the Mad Earl was to be healed and restored, it needed a resident earl who cared only about it.
So he’d accepted his fate, b
ut with the need to come to London and win Miss Potter’s money, he’d written to Con and Susan, pointing out that the least they could do was support him through the ordeal. They’d replied that they were already in London for the season, and that the Company of Rogues were in Town en masse, ready to help, including Nicholas Delaney, leader of the Rogues.
Nicholas had formed the group at Harrow School for protection from bullies, be they senior boys or masters. The bond held, and they stood ready to help one another by fair means or foul. Now, they would help David, for a Rogue’s sake. For Con’s.
All very well, but David was wary of the Rogues, even Nicholas.
He’d accepted the earldom of his own accord, but he wasn’t sure what would have happened if he’d refused. Would Con’s need have overruled his own? The schoolboy group had become a coterie of formidable men from all ranks, with a range of expertise and influence and a cavalier attitude to convention and the law.
Nicholas had visited Con’s house the previous evening to plan how to smooth David’s way into society and help him capture Miss Potter. He’d brought two other Rogues, ones David didn’t know. Sir Stephen Ball was a skilled lawyer and politician, and the Earl of Charrington was known for his diplomatic skills. Lord Vandeimen hadn’t been there, but he’d been promised for this tailoring expedition. He, at least, wasn’t a Rogue. He was simply a friend of Con’s known for dressing in the latest style.
David had been given his say and his opinions had been listened to, but he’d still felt like a deftly manipulated puppet. Susan had assured him everyone had his best interests at heart. Perhaps, but he’d keep up his guard.
Being still used to country ways he’d woken early. Rather than twiddling his thumbs he’d set out to clear his head with a walk. After a stroll around the orderly streets of Mayfair he’d headed east toward the City of London to scout out the Potters’ world.
He’d not breakfasted, so he’d corrected that at a tavern alongside laborers of all kinds. He’d learned much from their conversation, in particular about the great needs of the metropolis. Goods poured in and money flowed out to those who provided them. Fish was particularly appreciated. Fresh was best, and in shortest supply, but smoked and dried would do. He was sure his coastal area could produce more smoked fish if people turned their energies to it instead of smuggling.
He’d found Nailer Street and been surprised by the simplicity and dignity of Daniel Potter’s house. He’d expected such a self-made man to blazon his wealth, probably in a tasteless way. Potter’s house was the finest on the street, but not ostentatious. It was double-fronted and had probably once been two properties, but they’d been blended well. Everything about it was of the best and maintained excellently. David didn’t know what it said about Miss Potter, but it made him uneasy.
A quietly elegant house didn’t mean the daughter would be quietly, elegantly perceptive, but he’d decided to observe her before making a final decision.
The hackney came to a stop, pulling him back to the present. He was about to open the door, but he realized he wasn’t at his destination. Instead, they were tangled in a press of vehicles, most of them carts and wagons.
All very well for Fred to say that the million people in London were spread out. The fashionable part was appallingly crowded, even in the morning when most of the ton was asleep. That was when goods were delivered and this jam came from such wagons and carts. The shouts and curses almost drowned out the street vendors crying their wares. Could anyone be sleeping through this?
The jam broke up and his carriage could progress again. He called to the driver to make haste. The man obeyed so that David was rattling over cobblestones at a speed likely to loosen his teeth. Grit and bear it. Vandeimen would be waiting for him at the premises of Messrs. Storn and Watkins.
The hackney rocked to a halt and David jumped out and paid the driver. In moments he was inside the elegant establishment and ushered into the parlor, where Lord Vandeimen awaited. He was certainly the epitome of a beau, with his stylishly cut blond hair, brown jacket, and cream-and-gold-striped waistcoat, not to mention the elaborately knotted white cravat stuck in place with a golden pin. He was also wearing pantaloons.
David had purchased many new garments to fit his role as earl, including two pairs of pantaloons, but he much preferred breeches and boots.
“I was beginning to think you’d turned tail,” Vandeimen said.
“Why would I have done that?”
“Because you’re dressed appallingly?” his advisor asked, looking him over.
David reminded himself that Vandeimen had been a cavalry officer from the age of sixteen and carried a jagged scar on his cheek as evidence of action. If he could bear to dress like a damned dandy, David could tolerate it, too.
“I was ordered to send all my better clothing here to be assessed and updated. In any case, I’ve been exploring London in the early hours where ton style would not have been appropriate.”
“Did you discover wonders?”
A heart-shaped face and big blue eyes . . .
“Gossip in a tavern and a book on drainage. Shouldn’t we get to business?”
“Mr. Watkins stands waiting,” Vandeimen said, indicating a tall, thin man who’d stood so still David hadn’t seen him.
He decided an earl wouldn’t apologize and went with the tailor and Vandeimen into another room, where his clothing was laid out.
“Evening clothes first, Watkins,” Vandeimen said. “Lord Wyvern is to attend the Countess of Charrington’s ball four days from now.”
David shot him a look that said, “I am?” but saw no point in fighting that battle. One ball was as good as another as long as Lucinda Potter was there.
Watkins picked up David’s dark evening wear, made by his tailor in Honiton only six months ago.
“Not intolerable work, my lord,” Watkins said, “but we would like to attempt some small improvements. If you will consent to undress—a tiresome business, I know, my lord—and put on the coat?”
Vandeimen sat with elegant ease in an upholstered chair and a minion appeared to assist David in undressing and then re-dressing. There was nothing wrong with his coat. He’d worn it to an assembly attended by some of the best in Devon and no one had turned pale with horror.
“This is well made for provincial work, my lord,” Watkins said, smoothing the shoulder, “but the fashion now is for a greater rise in the collar. With your permission, we can devise that. And there is a slight creasing at the waist. That will never do. Pins!”
David surrendered to being a clotheshorse.
After two hours, he escaped and Vandeimen carried him off to his town house for refreshments. As they settled with coffee in a comfortable, manly parlor, Vandeimen smiled. “Feeling hard done-by?”
“Lady Charrington’s ball? I have no say in what entertainments I attend?”
“In unknown seas be guided by skillful pilots. Best to make your first formal appearance at a Rogue event, and Miss Potter will be there.”
David nodded. “Until then I’m a free man?”
“Until then your time is planned to the minute, but all manly events where fashion doesn’t matter. There’s a select gathering tomorrow at the Duke of St. Raven’s country haunt, Nuns’ Chase.”
“‘Select’ hardly sounds like the appropriate word.”
Vandeimen’s lips twitched. “You’ve missed the best days, but so did I, alas. Cyprians and shocking wildness. Now St. Raven’s married, it’s to be hard drinking and virile contests. Riding, fencing, shooting, even quarterstaff.”
“Pity there’s no cliff climbing on a dark night.”
“Wrong sort of terrain. It doesn’t matter how you perform. The purpose is to show the guests you’re a good ’un and on warm terms with men of good repute. They’ll report back to their women, and the women rule this world.” Perhaps David didn’t look convinced, for Van added, “The Rogues en masse are very effective.”
“I know it. They had a hand in my becoming
the legitimate son of the Mad Earl.”
“Being an earl brings advantages.”
“Name them.”
Vandeimen seemed truly surprised.
“The earldom is almost bankrupt,” David said. “What remains—the title, the seat in Parliament, and Crag Wyvern—hold no value for me. I wasn’t raised to be noble. It’s only by the kindness of my uncle and aunt that Susan and I weren’t raised in a tavern.”
“But you were raised in a manor house, firmly in the gentry.”
“As known bastards. When I attend elegant events it’s obvious that in the eyes of most I’m still a well-raised bastard suitable at best for employment as an estate manager.”
“They’ll come around. The British nobility are surprisingly pragmatic. There are quite a few cuckoos in the nest, some of whom have inherited titles, and some of them bear an inconvenient likeness to their true fathers. It’s simply not mentioned, for what would be the point? To tamper with the rules, to allow fathers to pick and choose, or declare grown sons not their own, would create chaos.”
David drank more of the excellent coffee. “Nicholas thought that some who suspected the truth would be glad that the Mad Earl’s blood wasn’t being passed on.”
“He’s right. Insane peers are bad for business, especially with unrest because of hard times. The French Revolution is a close memory.”
“I’m surprised my supposed father didn’t set up a guillotine somewhere about the place. He installed a torture chamber among other monstrosities.”
“So I heard. And raped his way around the county.”
“There, you’re wrong. The women came to him willingly, because if they didn’t conceive, he sent them off with enough money to make a nice dowry. If any did, she’d become his countess.”
“And yet he was married to your mother.”
“Secretly, and he meant it to stay that way so he could marry if he wanted to.”
“Pardon my confusion . . .” Vandeimen said.
“Oh, I do. The Mad Earl’s ways confuse everyone.”
“. . . but why not hold to the marriage with your mother and establish you as his heir?”
