by Amy Lake
The pearls eventually reappeared, of course; the theft had been accomplished as a lark, and it would never have entered Viscount Marbrey’s head to actually keep them. But the scandal in the meanwhile, with the Countess tearfully insisting that her husband call Marbrey out, and all of the males on both sides working doggedly to keep any such thing from occurring, had made the viscount’s removal from London a temporary necessity.
In contrast to Marbrey, Lord Rose was conservative and sedentary. He was additionally in the perpetual throes of thwarted love, and inclined to a pessimistic view of females, a view which he made known to his friends at every opportunity. And Peter Matthews, the youngest son of a rich baronet, was simply drunk rather more often than the rest.
All in all, a motley collection. Geoffrey was accounted the most responsible of the group, and the one to be applied to when another of its members, well in their cups, needed escort home after a hard night. He rubbed along well enough with his friends; he had also, however, endured several years of teasing from them with regard to Miss Asherwood. Elizabeth was liked by the viscount and Matthews, and tolerated by Lord Rose but—in their minds—she was stringing Lord Winthrop along, expecting him to be a patient suitor while at the same time denying him access to the entire world of female charms.
“It’s unnatural,” said the viscount.
Elizabeth and Geoffrey had never, of course, discussed anything so shocking, and if Miss Asherwood was aware of certain activities of many of the young gentlemen of the ton, she never let on. This did not stop Lord Winthrop’s friends from thinking that she was a millstone around his neck. If Geoffrey was disinclined to play fast and loose with those women of London who were amenable, so be it; but then let him be married and have the pretty Elizabeth with which to amuse himself.
Not that they expressed these sentiments in precisely those words, but pretty close to it, and Geoffrey was well aware, in particular, of Lord Rose’s views on the subject.
“They want your blunt and your name,” said Jonathan. “And that’s all.”
“Miss Asherwood has money of her own,” protested Lord Winthrop.
“It’s never enough. The chits always want more.”
“Miss Asherwood has never—”
“Think their bodies are worth a bleeding fortune. Well they aren’t, and that’s an end to it.”
Geoffrey had never told Miss Asherwood of his friends’ views regarding their extended non-engagement, and they were always perfectly polite to her face, even Lord Rose. Susannah had a few things to say about the viscount, but nothing too out of the ordinary for one of Miss Ware’s varied conquests.
No, Lord Winthrop had never said much of the subject to Lizzie. Nevertheless, he had taken certain aspects of these late-night conversations to heart.
“Time for the . . . the girl t’ marry you,” said Viscount Marbrey, who was beginning to slur his words.
“Amen to that,” said Peter Matthews.
“Marry you or cut you loose,” said Lord Rose. “You aren’t getting any younger, my boy, and there are plenty of little fishes in the London sea.”
Lord Winthrop was twenty-three, not old even by the standards of the century.
“Must . . . must set your foot down,” added Viscount Marbrey. He leaned forward and stamped his foot in emphasis, nearly falling from his chair. “Chit is entirely too independent.”
Geoffrey avoided another spray of the viscount’s drink and propped him back up, albeit with difficulty. Lord Winthrop had, on this occasion—perhaps to dull the memory of Peregrine Blakeley’s hand around Miss Asherwood’s waist—drunk more than his usual. And the viscount was starting to make sense. Elizabeth had shown her independence on many occasions; first refusing to accept any serious proposal before Sir Terence died, and then making him wait for more than the full year of mourning. And now—
Independence was to be expected in a man, but in a girl it was accounted a fault by society. And who was he to argue with society?
Set his foot down, thought Geoffrey. Yes. That’s exactly what he should do.
* * *
Chapter 19
Mrs. Caldwell
There were some nights Lord Blakeley would as soon stay home, reading or talking with Dewhurst, in a comfortable armchair, with a comfortable drink. And go to bed early. But the reputation of a rake must be nurtured. He needed to be seen out and about, and information could also be garnered from society talk. Most often it was nonsense, but occasionally he would glean a worthy tidbit.
Last week, for example, he noticed that Lord Terrebonne was serving a type of French brandy that had not been available in England—legally—for decades. Lord Blakeley didn’t care tuppence for contraband Armagnac, but he also knew that Terrebonne’s estate was close to Romney Marsh in Kent, which was a well-known hotbed for smugglers—and that his lordship, who had been in serious financial straits only months ago, was now clear of his last gambling debt.
What else has the man gotten himself into? wondered Peregrine, and he gave Anthony the task of checking.
Society had its uses. But tonight he particularly wished to stay home, even though he had agreed to escort Adelaide Caldwell to a dinner party at the Burke’s. Peregrine no longer cared to go, or in fact to see Mrs. Caldwell at all. She would have expectations, and although in the past these expectations had been his pleasure to fulfill, he was not much in the mood at present for a romp in Adelaide’s over-heated and velvet-stuffed bedroom.
Gods, thought Lord Blakeley. I’ve become a stick in the mud.
It wasn’t that he disliked Mrs. Caldwell. She had been a godsend, in fact, as he had no desire to ruin women, and Addy’s reputation suffered not at all by an association with Peregrine Blakeley, London’s worst rake. She was intelligent, funny, and they were absolutely honest with each other. Or—he was mostly honest. He hadn’t explained every detail of his work for His Majesty’s government, but he suspected that Adelaide knew anyway.
She also knew he was using her. As she was using him. Lord Blakeley had entrée into every London salon and ball, and if Mrs. Caldwell wished to attend a particular event to which she was not, perhaps, quite welcome, she had only to ask.
So, what was the problem? Peregrine was forced to admit that he simply didn’t know why he didn’t want to spend the night in Adelaide’s bed. And he dressed for dinner with a sinking feeling that he could not quite account for, but which was that evening to be amply explained.
* * * *
“Peregrine Blakeley, as I live and breathe!”
Lord Blakeley smiled at the voice, whose booming tones could not be mistaken. He turned around to see Sir Philip Glynde, an old friend. “This is a pleasant surprise,” he told Sir Philip. “I thought you were still in Spain.”
“Just got back this week, old man.” Glynde thumped Peregrine on the back, a teeth-rattling experience that all Sir Philip’s friends became inured to. He was a huge man, well over six feet, and some seventeen stone. “Couldn’t stay away from our happy little island for long, what?”
“Indeed. May I introduce you to—” Lord Blakeley gestured toward Mrs. Caldwell, who was heading their way. Adelaide was just the kind of woman Sir Philip would appreciate.
But Glynde interrupted. “And I hear you’re about to have your feathers cut! Who would have guessed it! Peregrine Blakeley, caught in the parson’s mousetrap!”
Lord Blakeley’s life often depended on anticipating situations before they arose, and he was rarely caught off guard. But this was a bolt from the blue.
“I . . . I beg your pardon?” He could see Mrs. Caldwell approach, and knew that she had heard. Everyone in London could hear Sir Philip, thought Peregrine.
“Ha! Ha!” boomed Glynde. “And who’s the little miss? I hear you’ve been paying special attention to some young chit, but nobody seems to have caught her name! What d’ ya think, Addy-me-girl?”
Mrs. Caldwell was now on Lord Blakeley’s arm. “I’ve no idea.” She smiled sweetly at him, and at Glyn
de. “Do tell, Peregrine! Who is she?”
“Ah,” said Lord Blakeley, in desperate retreat. “I see the two of you are already acquainted.”
* * * *
Addy was laughing so hard she’d begun to weep.
“You . . . you’re in love!” she crowed.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lord Blakeley. He stood at the foot of the bed and watched Adelaide with narrowed eyes. She had collapsed onto the duvet, holding her stomach and hiccupping with laughter.
“Don’t try to bamboozle me! I know it when I see it, my dear.”
“Addy—”
“Oh, my stomach hurts,” said Mrs. Caldwell, adding, “Lord Peregrine St. John Blakeley, calfling extraordinaire!”
“Adelaide.”
“Find me a handkerchief would you, my love?” She gestured towards her reticule, which she had thrown onto the floor. “The kohl is running—I need to wipe my eyes.”
Blakeley retrieved the small bag and tossed it to her, grateful for even a moment’s break. Adelaide was still making weak, mewling sounds of repressed hilarity.
How could this have happened? How had he gotten into this mess? He had driven Mrs. Caldwell home in his carriage, as usual, and escorted her to the door. She had invited him upstairs, again as usual, albeit this time with a particular twinkle in her eye, and a hint in her tone that he would—or should—refuse.
And he had fully intended to refuse, had planned so from the beginning of that night, but Sir Philip’s suggestion that he was about to be engaged—to some young chit—
Lord Blakeley couldn’t even convince himself that he had no idea what the man was talking about. He certainly hadn’t convinced Adelaide. And he couldn’t let the idea take hold, least of all in his own mind. And so he had accepted Mrs. Caldwell’s invitation, intending to bed her forthwith, but making love to a female who was convulsed in laughter was beyond even Peregrine’s considerable abilities.
He glanced over at Adelaide, who had finally calmed down. “Come, sit by me,” she said, patting the bed. “Oh, don’t worry. I have no intentions on your honor. Not tonight, at any rate. But, my dear, you must tell me everything.”
“I think I’ve met her,” said Mrs. Caldwell, thoughtfully. “Yes, I’m sure I have. She is friends with Susannah Ware.”
She and Lord Blakeley were lying on the bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows, side by side. He had taken his boots off, but they were otherwise both fully clothed and as respectable as possible, considering that they were alone in the lady’s bedroom. Mrs. Caldwell was sipping from a large glass of sherry; Peregrine had eschewed drink for the moment, feeling that he was having a difficult time as it was in keeping his wits.
Peregrine had told Addy about Elizabeth Asherwood, every detail, from start to finish. She had listened without comment, only the occasional twitch of her lips betraying her amusement.
“You’ve met her?” Lord Blakeley was surprised.
“Oh, don’t be so shocked. Yes, usually the dragons keep the young things away from me, but the Ware chit gets around. I haven’t spoken to your Miss Asherwood at any length, of course—”
“She is not my Miss Asherwood.”
“As you will.” Adelaide paused. “She seems intelligent, and she’s quite pretty. I think she’ll do for you very well.”
“Addy, I have no intention—”
“Of offering for her? Oh, I wouldn’t just yet. Young Winthrop seems to be first in line, for all the good it’s done him.”
“You know perfectly well I cannot marry.”
“I,” said Mrs. Caldwell, “know nothing of the kind. Do you think the situation in France will go on forever?”
“No, but—”
“They’ll tire of cutting off heads soon enough, and then what will you do with your time?”
Lord Blakeley sighed. “I’ve no desire to marry,” he informed her. “I never have had.”
Adelaide smiled. “Very well,” she said. “But I won’t hold you to it.”
* * *
Chapter 20
A Second Quarrel
Elizabeth and Lord Winthrop once again fell into a disagreement, this time occurring two days after the Tallfields’ ball, when Geoffrey called upon her, unexpectedly, at the earliest possible hour. Miss Asherwood had not been ready to receive visitors, having worked late into the previous evening attempting to compose a letter to Monsieur Jacques Rabaillat. She was in exceptionally bad spirits, since the letter writing had not gone well.
She should have explained to Lord Blakeley that her French was so poor, but he had spoken to her—c’est bien?—with such ease, and assurance, and Elizabeth had been too flustered to enlighten him. Young ladies of her class were supposed to speak French.
And now it was too late to confess. She’d look a fool, and what on earth was she to do about this letter?
Elizabeth was possessed of A Dictionarie of the French and English Tongues, compiled by one Randle Cotgrave and a gift from her father, but as it was the original edition, and gave entries only in French, she had been reduced to guessing the word she might want and then looking to see if the English matched. It did not help that Mr. Cotgrave’s work had been first published nearly two hundred years earlier, so that the spelling of the English—and, one supposed, the French—was archaic and difficult to read.
She had sent a note off to Penny that morning, and was waiting for a reply. Miss Perrin’s father, the free-thinker, had eschewed French instruction for his daughter, but Penelope had picked up more of the language from Elizabeth’s lessons than Lizzie had herself.
She sat again at her writing table and glared balefully at Mr. Cotgrave’s accursed volume. “French to English does not help me,” she told it. She frowned at the two words she’d managed to commit to paper.
Cher monsieur
The letter was to continue with I would like to ask your assistance— , and Miss Asherwood knew that ‘to love’ was aimer, but ‘to like’ was a linguistic mystery. She remembered the phrase je voudrais, and thought it might mean something similar, but she could not find any word resembling voudrais in the dictionary.
Where was Penelope?
It was at that moment, unfortunately, that Lord Winthrop chose to make his call.
“Miss?” Daisy scratched at her door and Elizabeth stood up from the table with relief, anticipating the news that Miss Perrin awaited her downstairs.
“Lord Winthrop, miss.”
Geoffrey, and so early? Miss Asherwood sighed.
“Thank you, Daisy.”
The maid left, and Elizabeth pressed her hands to her temples, wishing away the headache that had always accompanied any attempt at French. She felt guilty for feeling that Geoffrey was the last person she wanted to see at the moment, and apprehensive, because she suspected that Lord Winthrop was not at all pleased with her. He’d danced with her a second time at the Tallfields’ ball, but his conversation had been impersonal and strictly correct, not like Geoffrey at all. Elizabeth had wanted to say something, and to explain about Lord Blakeley, but she had no opportunity.
Lord Winthrop did not suggest, on that occasion, that they take a walk in the gardens, and had left her with a polite bow.
Geoffrey was, in fact, displeased with Miss Asherwood, and wished to make that point clear at once, but unfortunately for Lord Winthrop, he was not skilled in the tactics of confrontation, and his current state, which was barely post-inebriation, did not help. He had an appalling headache, and the light from the library windows—it was a cloudy, dreary London day—was hurting his eyes.
It was perhaps a mistake to begin with a demand.
“We have discussed this before, and I thought you agreed,” he said to Miss Asherwood, without preamble. “You cannot associate with that man.”
Good heavens, thought Elizabeth. He looks like Henry Perrin after a night of hard drinking.
“Please sit down,” she said. “I will ring for tea.” You look like you could use a strong cup, she thought, but did not
add it aloud.
“I . . . prefer to stand,” said Geoffrey. “And tea will not alter the facts.”
“You are referring to Lord Blakeley, I assume?” said Lizzie, deciding that it was pointless to play ignorant. She rang for tea. Even if Geoff didn’t need it, she did.
“Yes.”
“And your objection—?”
“His reputation is suspect. His company is unfit for a well-bred young woman.”
“Mmm,” said Lizzie. She felt this was untrue, but had no evidence with which to disagree.
“If Miss Cavendish knew—”
“Miss Cavendish!” This was a low blow, and Elizabeth felt anger begin to get the upper hand over guilt. Was Lord Winthrop threatening to tell Aunt Philippa?
“Why did you allow him a dance?” said Geoff. His voice grew louder than she had heard it before. “He is a rake and . . . a wastrel!”
“A wastrel?” cried Lizzie, stung into raising her own voice. She thought she saw Lord Winthrop wince. “He is nothing of the kind!”
Her defense of Lord Blakeley made Geoffrey even angrier.
“I forbid you to speak to him again!” To give Lord Winthrop credit, he probably knew this was a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth; but it was too late.
Elizabeth stood up, furious, and at that moment Bessie entered with the tea.
“Oh!” said Miss Asherwood. “Thank you, Bessie.”
The maid set down the tray and left. Elizabeth saw that she tried to shut the library door, but as usual it popped open again, and remained a few inches ajar.
The whole household can hear us, she thought, distressed at the idea. Pivens and Mrs. Talliaferro would be upset.
“You forbid me!” hissed Elizabeth, who now tried to keep her voice low. “On what grounds do you have the right to forbid me anything?”
“I am your fiancé, or have you forgotten that?”
Another mistake, but it was said, and could not be unsaid. There was an uncomfortable silence, and it continued uninterrupted until Elizabeth sat down on the settee and put her head in her hands. “Oh,” was all she said.
