by Liz Tyner
‘I cannot visit a lady’s residence in such a way. It is unthinkable.’
Fox regained his easy posture. ‘You can with Tilly. She’s a companion and her mistress will be away tonight. I can send her a note asking her to be at the servants’ entrance for a private message from me. She will do it.’
Andrew shook his head. ‘I cannot let the poor woman expect someone she loves and then tell her you will not be there.’
‘If anyone can convince her that I am a waste of her tears, it is you. You’ve recited the words to me so many times that you should certainly be able to recall them again.’
‘You must do this yourself.’
‘No. It will only increase her agony,’ he pleaded. ‘She will believe someone else telling her that I am not the one to lose her heart over. I have tried. She did not listen. And you can make certain she will not do something foolish like take her own life.’
‘We will find someone else to do it.’
‘You are the only one. There is no one else. If word were to get out and her reputation tarnished while she is so fragile, it would be too much. You must help me this one time. And I promise, I will mend my ways.’
* * *
Beatrice moved from the carriage on to the town house steps, then to the threshold. The door opened before her and she glided inside—until her dress stopped moving, jerking her to a stop. Turning, she snapped the silken hem of her skirt loose from the edge of the open door and heard the rip.
‘I would have corrected that for you,’ her brother’s butler intoned with a voice that could have rasped from a long-dead ghost. If one looked closer, most of Arthur’s appearance would have done well on a spirit, except for his height and posture.
‘I cannot wait all day,’ Beatrice grumbled to Arthur, but she stayed at the doorway, and dared him with her face.
‘I must beg pardon. It’s my age, you see. I’m slow.’ His face revealed no expression. ‘Forgetful. It is hard to remember how a person should act.’
‘Nonsense,’ she muttered. Then she appraised him. ‘How old are you?’
‘One hundred and three—in butler years.’
The maid stopped behind them, carrying Beatrice’s reticule, her book and her favourite woollen wrap that she only used in the carriage, because it was quite tattered, but so comforting.
‘And what is that in people years?’ Beatrice asked the butler.
‘I cannot remember.’
‘Arthur—’
‘It’s Arturo.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
He raised his nose, and spoke with the same air as King George. ‘I am quite sure, madam. I was there.’
‘It’s Arthur.’ Arthur’s father had been the old duke’s butler, and to lessen the confusion when both men were servants in the same household, Arthur had been called by his given name.
He gave a rumble from behind closed lips and then spoke. ‘Whatever Lady Riverton wishes. But Lady Riverton could take better care of her garments. Mrs Standen complains when you’re careless and she has to do extra mending.’
Beatrice smiled. ‘Listening to a wife is a husband’s duty, Arthur.’
‘Arturo.’
‘Arthur,’ she commanded. Shaking her head, she moved to the front door, using both hands to lift the dress so the torn hem didn’t drag. She stopped at the base of the stairs, turning back to see the butler’s eyes on her.
She gave him her best snarl, and even though his eyes were focused on nothing his lip edged into a smile.
She moved up the stairs and the maid followed along.
‘Dash it,’ Beatrice grumbled to herself, examining her feet. ‘I do not know what I was thinking when I chose these slippers to wear to Aunt’s house.’
Taking painful steps, Beatrice scrambled upwards, pleased to be spending time at her brother’s London town house instead of her country estate. ‘Go to the kitchen and have Cook prepare something delicious,’ she instructed her maid.
When Beatrice reached her room, she sailed past and moved on, stopping at her companion’s door. Without knocking, she pushed it open, speaking as she entered. ‘Tilly. I could not believe...’ She paused, staring at her companion. Tilly dropped the comb in her hand.
Tilly wore the amethysts. The amethysts Riverton had given her before they married. And—she gasped—Beatrice’s own dress. She’d recognise the capped sleeves with lace hearts anywhere. And the bodice. Fortunately, Tilly didn’t fill it out quite as well as Beatrice. She needed a few stitches to take in the gaping top.
True, Tilly was a cousin and deserved some leeway, but not the dress.
‘Cousin, dearest...’ Beatrice kept her voice sweet—overly kind ‘...when you took ill and couldn’t go with me to your mother’s, I understood. Now I wonder what kind of illness requires amethysts.’ She walked closer, examining Tilly, noting the redness of her face. ‘In case you hadn’t guessed, I didn’t stay at your mother’s as long as planned. Returned early to make sure you were feeling better.’ She frowned, taking a step closer, noting again the colour of Tilly’s face and not all of it belonged to emotions. Beatrice sensed a hint of rouge on her companion’s lips and some face powder. ‘I believe your megrim has quite faded. Am I right, Tilly?’
‘Yes,’ Tilly mumbled, eyes not quite subservient.
‘Tilly.’ Beatrice stopped. ‘You will personally launder the dress this moment and return it to my room. You know full well it is The Terrible Dress.’
‘Yes.’ Tilly dropped her head. ‘I know you never wear it, so I thought—’
‘I never wear it because it is the one I had made for— And I had it on the day that...’ She crossed her arms.
‘But he’s dead now.’ Tilly’s chin jutted. ‘Died in another woman’s arms, I heard.’
‘Fine, Tilly.’ Beatrice took a step forward. ‘You may have the dress. Keep it. I will have your things sent after you. Go tell the groom you’ll be leaving as soon as they’ve eaten. Tell them to take you to my house to work with the housekeeper.’
‘I refuse. I am sick of the smell of your paints and I am sick of not going to soirées and I am mostly sick of you.’ Tilly reached behind her neck and unclasped the amethysts, and thrust the necklace into Beatrice’s hand. ‘You truly are a beast.’ She pulled at the pearl earrings, removing them, and putting them in Beatrice’s grasp as well. ‘But thank you for the dress. I look better in it than you anyway.’
Tilly reached into the wardrobe and took out a satchel, and thrust a few folded things into it. Then, leaving the wardrobe door open, she sauntered to the dressing table. She placed her brushes and scents into her case. ‘Do send my things to my mother’s house.’ She strolled across the room, Beatrice’s imported lavender perfume wafting behind her. The special blend.
Looking over her shoulder, Tilly stopped at the door. ‘And by the way, the night you threw the vase at your husband...’ her voice lowered to a throaty whisper ‘...I made it all better for him on the library sofa.’ The door clicked shut.
Beatrice shut her eyes. Riverton. The piece of tripe had been dead over two years and she still didn’t have him properly buried. He kept laughing at her from the grave.
She’d moved from the house and stayed with her brother to get Riverton’s memory to fade, but nothing worked.
Love. The biggest jest on earth. Marriage. A spiderweb of gigantic proportions to trap hearts and suck them dry.
She kept the jewellery in her left hand, then went to the wardrobe and looked inside. A stack of linens. She picked up a pair of gloves she remembered purchasing, but wasn’t certain she’d given Tilly. She slammed them back into the wardrobe. Tilly could have them with good wishes.
Beatrice shuffled through more things belonging to her companion, then she sat on Tilly’s bed. Looking around the room, she noticed the faded curtains. Those had once been in the sitting room and they’d been cut down. And the counterpane on the bed, it had once belonged— She supposed it had been on her bed, then later someone had altered it to
make it smaller.
So Tilly thought she had a right to the discards—even Beatrice’s husband. She held up the amethysts. But these were not tossed out. She doubted she’d ever wear them again. She’d visit the jewellers and see if he might reset them into something more cheerful.
A tepid knock sounded at the door.
She supposed it was Tilly, wanting to beg for forgiveness—or a chance at the pearl earrings.
‘Enter.’
The maid opened the door, then took a step back. ‘My apologies, Lady Riverton. I came to tell Miss Tilly a note had arrived.’
Beatrice clenched the jewellery in one hand, and then held out the other, unfurling it forward, palm up.
The maid’s eyes showed her realisation that she had no choice. Slowly, she put the paper in Beatrice’s hand.
Beatrice gave a light nod, both thanking and dismissing the servant.
When the door closed, Beatrice sat alone with the amethysts, the memories, and the note. She’d worn the lace-sleeved dress on her wedding trip. She’d also worn it the day she’d pried Riverton from the screaming maid. Then she’d had to grasp scissors from his shaving kit to keep him from her own throat. It was a wonder he didn’t get blood on the cloth, but she’d only grazed him.
The nickname she’d received had infuriated her brother, the architect. Enraged him. No one dared mention it around him and he insisted she repair it. Although in truth, he was more likely to snap someone in two than she ever was.
The irony of it did not escape her. She was called the Beast and yet he was the one with the temper.
Her brother had hated Riverton’s indiscretions more than she had. Wilson had raged, feeling the need to protect his sister. She’d not wanted even more scandal, so she’d worked hard at keeping a happy, uncaring facade. She suspected her brother had thought of having Riverton killed, but neither of them had wanted to risk such tales getting about. She didn’t mind the stories about her family, as long as they were adventure-filled and showed her relatives in a dashing light. Except, she hadn’t done so well in keeping the on dits adventurous with the scissor incident. Memories of that day returned. Her husband would have strangled the servant—and the girl’s crime had been in not realising he was at home and taking the cleaned bedclothes into the room. He’d thought the maid some kind of burglar.
Riverton. Might he rest in pieces. Small ones. With jagged edges.
She opened the note.
Tilly,
I have procured the amethyst earrings you so desire. They can be in your hands on the morrow if you can convince Lord Andrew you are a retiring sort and deeply distressed because I have tossed you aside. But mostly you must be able to get him to console you and overcome his reluctance to enjoy all the treasures a man can have at his fingertips. Sadly, he has refrained from such joys in the past.
He will arrive at the servants’ entrance as the clock strikes midnight. If he stays until morning and you put a smile on his face, I’ll have the amethysts to you by next nightfall.
Sincerely,
F.
Chapter Two
Beatrice flipped the paper over, saw no other markings, and then read it again.
A virgin? Lord Andrew? The name was familiar. Perhaps she’d heard it from her brother, but if so that meant he was the duke’s brother.
She folded the paper and tapped the edge against her bottom lip, a scent of masculine spice touching her nose. But he was too old, surely, to be a virgin.
Sniffing the paper, Beatrice remembered the curling warmth she’d first experienced in Riverton’s arms and how precious she’d felt. She grimaced. Those feelings had changed. Riverton had a gift for saying anything a woman wanted to hear, up to and including a marriage proposal.
When he’d told her that her lack of height made her even more beautiful, she’d not minded wearing the slippers with no heels. He’d even complimented the bit of imperfection of her nose being longish and the way her brown hair always curled and curled. He’d sworn sirens must have looked exactly the same to have been able to entrance so many men. Riverton knew exactly what she’d been unsure of and he’d fanned the insecurity away, pulling her into his web.
She’d never again be so daft. But no matter how much she wished otherwise, she’d loved the feeling of being cherished. Of course, she later discovered she’d have been better off falling in love with a maggot-infested rotting carcase. She was hard-pressed to tell the difference.
Now she was left with the memory of betrayal, and how much a man’s caresses could soothe and deceive. And the utter aloneness of being utterly alone. A man could visit a brothel and heads turned the other way, pretending to see nothing. Women, however, had no such meeting place.
She had no wish to court, or do anything to risk another marriage, but she longed to be held. Most widows could be free with their affections—but ones with the notoriety she had didn’t get many requests for late-night waltzes. She hadn’t really been aiming for Riverton’s private parts after he’d released the maid and turned on her instead, but he’d spread that tale from Seven Dials to Bond Street. He’d even claimed to have been asleep at the time.
What man would court a woman who might trim his anatomy while he slept?
To be held again would be nice... But for him to have to pay Tilly? She shut her eyes and shook her head. One could not imagine how ghastly he must look. She shuddered, imagining the popping waistcoat buttons and a scalp with little white flecks outnumbering the strands of hair. Perhaps his nose was longish, too. She gazed in the mirror, turned her head sideways and sighed. Her mother’s nose.
She crumpled the paper slowly. Even for the most dazzling earrings Tilly was terrible to do such a thing.
Or maybe Tilly was lonely. Incredibly lonely. Beatrice wrapped her arms around herself. Snuffed candles could do wonders for a man’s bad complexion. And wine. A lot of wine.
And a duke’s younger brother. She wasn’t sure which duke—most of them were so advanced in years she’d paid more attention to their grandsons than younger brothers or even sons. Surely this one would appreciate a little less than what Tilly would have offered. A virgin could be cuddled and coddled, and would leave thinking he’d been given a quite wonderful treat. She could even give him the little love nibbles that had always sent Riverton into those spasms of bad poetry.
And she would not let his age diminish him in her sight.
The lord might appreciate the care of a sensitive woman. Small niceties. She believed strongly in helping those less fortunate. The needy. The terribly, terribly lonely. Perhaps he was just very shy.
She walked to Tilly’s mirror and reached up, releasing her brown hair to flow around her shoulders. Then she grasped the strands, jerked the hair into a severe knot to capture the curls and jabbed the pins in. Not her best look, she realised, noticing how the bun listed to one side. She’d have to cover her hair anyway.
But if Tilly could wear Beatrice’s clothes, and her perfume, then perhaps Beatrice could wear a mob cap with ties under the chin and take Tilly’s room. And the housekeeper, Mrs Standen, had some hideous frocks stored. A pair of spectacles she used when mending. Even if Beatrice happened to meet the lord later, she doubted he’d recognise her.
Beatrice hoped Mrs Standen wouldn’t mind parting with some of her perfume, too. Beatrice swore the old woman mixed vanilla and cinnamon—because she always smelled as though she’d been rolled in confectioneries. A perfect scent to entice a mature virgin. She’d see if she could turn a sow’s ear into a delightful diversion—and give the poor old man a memory to take to his grave.
He’d never know she was Lady Riverton, or—she snorted—according to the scandal sheets, Beatrice the Beast.
* * *
Andrew ignored the view of the town houses out the carriage window, thinking back to Fox’s words. This was just another example of uncontrolled emotions destroying someone’s life. This woman had let her heart lead her and now that same heart was on the verge of destroying her.
<
br /> This would not be the first time he’d seen a woman distressed over a man’s perfidy and had to calm her. Fox knew. Andrew had confided in Fox years ago.
But that was the past. Life went on—usually.
He’d taken great pains with his appearance, knowing the importance of creating a look of assurance and authority. Fawsett, his valet, had practically hummed his approval. The white cravat lay just so and the black frock coat accentuated Andrew’s lean form, and fit him with the same precision a suit of armour might. His chin burned from the close shave and the careful application of the shaving soap which reminded him of the mild scent of freshly sawn wood. He inhaled deeply.
He’d been pleased at the maid’s quick appraisal before she skittered away when he’d been leaving his home. He’d seen a certain glint behind her eyes.
The boots, new. The clothing—impeccable. Hair freshly trimmed and he’d had to stop Fawsett to keep him from combing the dark locks into waves.
He stepped down from the conveyance and paused. He recognised the house. He’d not heard the address or he would have known. This was the architect’s house. The one he’d hired to make drawings for the renovations he’d had done. A brute of a man who would have been entirely too tiresome except he was better than Nash. Only his reputation for throttling people who disagreed with his quest for perfection kept him from being the most sought-after architect in England.
But, perhaps a mistake had been made.
He looked to the driver. ‘Are you sure this is the residence Fox mentioned?’
The man nodded. ‘Yes. Foxworthy told me to see you to the servants’ entrance.’
Andrew felt little hiccoughs of despair in his midsection. He hoped this woman was not someone he’d seen before or would be seeing again. He did not want to meet her and feel her embarrassment later when she recalled their conversation.
He trekked the steps which led to the tradesmen’s entrance almost directly under the main door and was one level lower than the street.
