by Mary Nichols
‘Which he had no business to do.’
‘No doubt he feels responsible for you, since your father has not provided for you.’
‘I suppose he told you that too?’
‘Why, yes. I assume, being concerned, he was in a mood for confidences.’
‘And who suggested we should meet this afternoon?’
He wondered whether to deny anyone had, but realised she was too astute to believe it. ‘Why, I do not exactly recall. It might have been your brother, but it might have been Sir Ashley…’
‘Not you?’
‘No, certainly not me.’
‘Out of uninterest?’
‘Now, how am I to answer that? To say yes would not be chivalrous, would it? And to say no would imply a certain curiosity and that, too, would not be chivalrous. I beg you excuse me from answering.’
He was gratified to see her lips twitch into a smile. ‘You are excused.’
‘Your brother said you would like to marry.’
‘That was his idea, not mine.’
‘Why not? Do you prefer to be single?’
‘My lord, that is a foolish question and I will not answer it. And I thought we had decided you would cease your questions and answer mine.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘There, you see! You prefer to be single. Why is it different for men? They can boast of being bachelors, but women must be ashamed of being spinsters.’
He gave an elaborate sigh. ‘It is an unfair world, Miss Chalmers; however, I am not a bachelor, but a widower.’
She turned towards him and realised the rather languid look had changed and his eyes had darkened at some remembered pain. ‘Oh, then I beg your pardon.’
‘Granted. I have been in that sorry state for six years now.’
‘Six years? Surely you could marry again if you chose?’
‘An’ I could, if I could find someone to suit me.’ His brow had cleared again and he was once more ready to treat the world lightly.
‘Are you so particular?’
‘I fear I must be.’ Again that sigh, but it was accompanied by a smile.
She did break into a laugh then, understanding what her brother and Sir Ashley were concocting and he, hearing that laugh, knew she had realised what was afoot. ‘My lord,’ she said, a twinkle in those grey eyes, ‘shall we play a little game with them?’
He stopped to give her an exaggerated bow, took her hand and lifted the back of it to his lips. ‘It will be my pleasure.’ He offered her his arm and she took it, still smiling. Not that there was anything to smile at; she was no nearer a solution to her dilemma and really Max was an idiot.
They continued in this way, heads close together, pretending to be absorbed in each other’s conversation, though it was nothing but polite trivialities, until they had circumnavigated the park and were approaching their entry point, when she stopped to wait for Max and Ash to catch up with them.
The little party left the park and here they parted, the men bowing and Rosamund dropping a curtsy. She could not wait to tell Max exactly what she thought of his antics and turned on him as soon as the other two were out of earshot. ‘Maximilian Chalmers, I am thoroughly displeased with you. Do you know Lord Portman guessed what you and his friend were up to and he was highly entertained by it? I, on the other hand, was mortified.’
‘I see you took his arm when it was offered and went on your way, heads together in a most intimate fashion.’
‘What could I do, but treat it as a jest? I assume it was a jest.’
‘Not entirely. His lordship is looking for a wife.’
‘So he might be, but he told me he was very particular. He is a macaroni, so vain that I wonder he does not carry a mirror about with him, and you were trying to throw him at me. He can surely find himself a pretty young wife who will overlook his strange mannerisms.’
‘I believe that when you come to know him, you will appreciate his qualities.’
‘Come to know him! Max, how am I to come to know him? You are surely not intending to continue with this farce?’
‘It is no farce. The man needs a wife and you need a husband, if you are not to go to Lady Bonhaven. It cannot hurt to meet him again.’
‘You mean you have made the arrangements?’
‘Not exactly, but I have hinted we shall be at the fireworks in Ranelagh Gardens on Saturday evening.’
‘I have no intention of going. And I doubt Lord Portman will go either. He has no use for me and I have none for him. Do you think I am so desperate?’
‘But you are, are you not?’
‘No,’ she lied. ‘I would rather be a companion to Lady Bonhaven. And why, in heaven’s name, would Lord Portman even consider me?’ She paused, as a new thought came to her. ‘Unless you have offered an inducement?’
‘What inducement could I offer a man like him? He is rich as Croesus. No, he simply wants a wife who will not outshine him.’
That hit home and hurt badly, but she endeavoured to turn it against the gentleman in question. ‘Oh, I should certainly not do that! I never met such a shining example of a coxcomb.’
‘That is all put on. He fancies himself an actor.’
‘Worse and worse. I beg you to say no more on the matter.’
He fell silent and she fumed the rest of the way back to Holles Street, where he took his leave. She went into the almost empty house and stood looking about her. It had been her home for most of her life, but it was home no longer. And tomorrow she must go with her aunt to be interviewed by the elderly Lady Bonhaven and accept whatever she was offered. ‘Oh, Papa,’ she murmured. ‘Did you know what a pickle you were going to leave me in?’
She climbed the stairs to her room to take off her hat. The chamber was empty of all but the bare necessities. A trunk, standing on the floor at the foot of the bed, was half-filled with clothes Janet had begun to pack. How much would Lady Bonhaven expect her to take with her? And what about her books and her escritoire? Would she be allowed those?
She sat on the side of the bed, from which the hangings had already been removed for cleaning before being sold, and contemplated her future. That led to thoughts of her brother. He had offered her a home, but had made it abundantly clear he did not want her. He was doing his best to marry her off. And to that macaroni! But even as she derided Lord Portman, she realised there was more to him than met the eye. When they were alone and talking seriously, he had suddenly stopped his mincing gait and matched her stride with his and that high effeminate tone of voice dropped to a more masculine level. What sort of a man was he? Why could he not find himself a bride in the conventional way?
Harry was ringing a peal over Ash, but his friend was unrepentant. ‘No harm was done,’ he said, as they made their way slowly along Piccadilly towards the City.
‘A great deal of harm was done. She guessed what her brother was about and passed it off as a jest, but I knew she was mortified. I felt very sorry for her.’
‘So did I. Poor thing, she is like to drown in deep water unless someone throws her a lifeline.’ Ash was an ex-naval man and his conversation was littered with nautical phrases. ‘And you must admit she is not the antidote we had been led to expect. Not a beauty, I grant you, but strong and healthy enough to bear children. She could be the mother of your heir with no trouble.’
‘I wish to God I had never told you about Beth. I don’t know why I did. I never told anyone before.’
‘That was because you have been dwelling on the problem and hoping to find a solution. I have given you one. You could at least think about it.’
‘I would rather not.’
‘Why not?’ Ash persisted. ‘She is not ugly, or stupid, or idiotish. Marry her, install her at Bishop’s Court, make her with child and then get on with your work for the Club and forget her.’
‘How callous you are. I am not at all surprised no woman has ever wanted to marry you.’
‘Oh, I could have married a dozen times over, an’ I so chose. And do not change the subject.’
‘I wish to change it.’
‘Very well. Do you go to Ranelagh on Saturday? I hear the fireworks are to be especially fine in honour of the royal wedding and coronation. We could patrol the crowds and keep an eye out for pickpockets. And what better place to winkle out people passing counterfeit coins?’
This was true and reminded Harry of the counterfeit guinea he had taken home the day before. He ought to be doing something about that, not bothering himself about women and marriage. ‘Very well, I will go.’
Satisfied with the success of his ruse, Ash spotted a couple of chairmen plying for hire and called them over. The two men took their leave of each other and were conveyed on their separate ways.
Once home, in an effort to put Miss Chalmers and her problems out of his mind, Harry went to the safe box he had had installed under the floor of his library and took out two counterfeit guineas, one the wine merchant had given him and the other he had brought home from the card game the day before. He weighed them carefully in his hand, deciding they weighed about the same, which was a fraction less than a genuine guinea. Then he studied them through a strong lens he took from a drawer in his desk, examining the milled edges carefully. He would swear that they had been done by the same hand with the same instrument. He was sure he had two coins by the same coiner, but they had come to him in very different circumstances and there were undoubtedly many more circulating about the capital.
Anyone who wanted to buy wine could have passed the one to the vintner, but which of the card players had put the guinea in the pot? Benedict was certainly too drunk and too foolish to bother his head about the size of the coins he had in his purse. Max Chalmers was a wily bird, but it was unlikely he would knowingly pass bad coins in White’s for fear of being excluded very publicly from its portals. Even Ash could have picked it up somewhere else and unknowingly put it down as part of his stake. It could have been done by any of the three, more interested in the game than in the weight of their coins. They would not be looking for bad money, which was something the counterfeiters relied on, more often than not successfully. The question was: if all three were innocent, who had passed them in the first place?
He locked them carefully away again and sat contemplating his next move. The trouble was that a pair of grey eyes kept coming between him and his deliberations. They were a redeeming feature in an otherwise unremarkable face. He imagined her as a companion to some demanding old lady and knew, without doubt, she would hate it. He wished he could help her. It was a pity he did not need a housekeeper; Mrs Rivers had kept house at Bishop’s Court for more years than he cared to remember and was entirely satisfactory. And in town, all he needed was his cook and the usual complement of other servants. Besides, Miss Chalmers with her straight back, firm chin and independent mind, not to mention her lineage, was certainly not servant material. If he could not love again, could he bring himself to marry without it? At her age and in her circumstances the lady would not expect it, would she?
He shrugged his thoughts impatiently from him. He must be going mad even to contemplate such a thing. What he needed was a little diversion, something to take his mind off that walk in the park. He sent a footman out for a chair and instructed the chairmen to take him to the Baltic Coffee House in Threadneedle Street. It was the favourite haunt of traders and he might pick up some useful information, perhaps find another bad guinea. He would do the rounds of the coffee and chocolate houses and when they closed for the night, he would move on to the gentlemen’s clubs. That should keep him occupied until the early hours and he could go home to his lonely bed.
Mrs Bullivant arrived at Holles Street at noon the following day, which showed how determined she was; she hardly ever rose from her bed before that hour. Rosamund, who had given up hoping for anything else to save her, put a short jacket over her mourning gown, sat a black bonnet right at the back of her coiffure and tied it on with wide black ribbons. Picking up her reticule, she announced herself ready to go.
Her aunt had brought her carriage and they were conveyed in some comfort to Brook Street, though they could easily have walked or taken chairs. ‘I do not want her to think we are beggars,’ her aunt said. ‘You must comport yourself with some pride, after all.’ Her aunt was nothing if not conscious of her rank in society.
‘She is unlikely to employ me if I am too toplofty,’ Rosamund said, half-wishing the lady would turn her down.
‘There is a middle road. Be polite, a little subservient perhaps, but not too much. Keep your head up and do not mumble.’
‘I am not in the habit of mumbling, Aunt.’
The lady ignored that. ‘It’s that or go to Max. Can you rely on him to treat you with compassion? If ever there was a chip off the old block, it is he, and besides that, he is truly under the cat’s paw.’
‘I know that, Aunt.’
They drew up at the door of Lady Bonhaven’s substantial house and were admitted by a footman. He bade them wait while he ascertained that her ladyship was at home and then led them upstairs to a boudoir that looked out over the busy street. Her ladyship was sitting by the window, so she must have seen the carriage arrive. She was extremely fat and with her padded black skirt and petticoat she left little room for anyone else on the sofa. She wore a black cap tied beneath her chin with a narrow ribbon and her tiny feet rested on a footstool. Beside her, on a small table, stood a half-empty glass of negus, a box of sugar plums, a hartshorn and a little silver bell, all readily to hand.
‘Come in, Jessie,’ she said, lifting her quizzing glass to examine Rosamund from to top to toe. ‘You have brought the girl, I see.’
‘Indeed I have, Clarissa. This is my niece, Rosamund Chalmers.’
Rosamund dipped a curtsy. ‘My lady.’
‘She is taller than I thought. And older. You did not tell me how old she was.’
‘I am six and twenty, my lady,’ Rosamund answered before her aunt could do so.
‘Past the age of being giddy for marriage,’ Jessica put in.
‘That is a point in her favour.’ She waved them into chairs, then addressed Rosamund. ‘What accomplishments do you have, miss?’
‘I have been educated…’
‘Pah! I did not mean that. Your education is of no interest to me so long as you do not flaunt it when I am in conversation with my friends. If I take you on, you will be my shadow, not my mouthpiece. I shall expect you to accompany me when I go out, to make sure I have everything for my comfort, to fetch and carry and keep your tongue between your teeth. Is that understood?’
‘Perfectly, my lady.’ Rosamund understood only too well. The idea of being at the beck and call of this autocratic lady filled her with misgivings.
‘I am a little chilly,’ the lady went on. ‘Fetch my shawl. You will find it in the cupboard in my bedchamber.’ She indicated a door to an adjoining room. ‘The lilac-and-cream one.’
Rosamund went to obey, murmuring to herself that her ladyship obviously did not adhere to the rule that, however high one’s rank, it was courteous to say please when giving an order. She found the shawl easily and returned with it, only to be castigated for bringing the wrong one. ‘I said lilac and cream,’ the lady said. ‘That is mauve and white. Can you not tell the difference?’
Rosamund, who was tempted to argue the colours, instead begged her pardon and went in search of the right one, knowing the old lady had deliberately set a trap for her. When she returned with the correct shawl, she was instructed to put it about her ladyship’s shoulders and that also met with criticism. When at last her ladyship was settled, she said, ‘Well, I am not sure you will suit. You have not been brought up in a way that fills me with confidence.’
‘I was not brought up to be a paid companion, my lady.’
‘My niece means no disrespect,’ Aunt Jessica put in quickly. ‘But she will soon learn what is expected of her.’
‘Le
t us hope so,’ her ladyship said. ‘I shall give you a month’s trial, Miss Chalmers. Without pay, naturally. You may start at the beginning of next week, that will give you time to sort out your affairs. Now, you must excuse me, I am expecting callers at any moment.’ She picked up the bell from the table and shook it vigorously. When the footman answered the summons, she directed him to escort the ladies to the door.
As they crossed the pavement towards the carriage, they found themselves face to face with Lord Portman, who was on his way to a meeting of the Gentleman’s Club. Today he was in blue and white, elegant as ever. He swept off his sugar-loaf hat and executed a graceful leg. ‘Good morning, Miss Chalmers. A fine day, is it not?’
Rosamund curtsied. ‘Yes, indeed, very fine.’ She turned to her aunt. ‘Aunt, may I present Lord Portman. My lord, my aunt, Mrs Jessica Bullivant.’
He bowed. ‘Ma’am, your obedient.’
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Lord Portman.’
He hurried to open the carriage door for her and handed her in and then turned to do the same courtesy for Rosamund. He closed the door and ordered the coachman to proceed, then watched as the carriage drew away. Then he went on his way, mincing a little and twirling his cane, looking thoughtful.
‘When did you meet that gentleman?’ Jessica demanded, jerking her head backwards towards Harry.
‘Yesterday in the park. Max introduced us and we walked together for a little.’
‘I had no idea Maximilian knew his lordship,’ her aunt said, evidently aware of Lord Portman’s consequence.
‘I think they met at White’s.’
‘I am surprised that Max can afford to game with someone as prodigious rich as he is.’
‘How do you know he is rich?’ Rosamund asked. ‘Just because he evidently spends a fortune on his clothes does not mean he is wealthy. He could be in debt to his tailor.’
‘Oh, undoubtedly he is. What gentleman of his rank is not? But I have heard he inherited forty thousand a year besides Bishop’s Court in Middlesex and a hunting box in Leicestershire. Every unmarried girl for miles around would like to catch his eye.’
