by Amy Corwin
“Well, Lord knows I do my poor best. Always have.”
“No matter how poor your best might be,” he muttered. He grinned. “I’m sure you are too busy, Mrs. Dibble, to bother, and I wouldn’t want to trouble you. I understand, however, that you have a daughter who might be interested in some work.”
“Work? My Nancy?” Her shaggy brows rose toward the cap she wore over the thick twist of salt-and-pepper hair crowning her round head.
“I had understood that she was, er, unemployed at the moment.”
Mrs. Dibble nodded. “You might say that. Yes, you just might.”
“Would she be willing to run a few errands for me? Just for a day or two, until I am not so, um, tired.”
“Why, is that all, sir? A few days?”
“I should think so.”
A crafty look sparkled in Mrs. Dibble’s dark eyes. “You know, doing for two gentlemen is hard work, and I’m not as young as I used to be. Well-to-do gentlemen like Mr. Wickson and yourself might be expected to have a maid-of-all-work, as well as a regular woman.”
“Some might harbor such expectations.”
“And I don’t know that I could ask my Nancy to dedicate herself to nursing a bachelor gentleman such as yourself for only a day or two of work. Puts her at a disadvantage, don’t it? Seeing as how it’s only a day. Interrupts her finding a more permanent position, don’t it?”
John sighed. “Hand me that jacket, please.”
“Jacket?” Mrs. Dibble frowned and clasped her hands together at her waist as if to physically restrain herself from responding in any way to John’s request.
“The black jacket. Please.” He waited, his gaze fixed on the garment draped over the seat of a ladder-backed chair.
After casting a suspicious glance at him, Mrs. Dibble sniffed and picked up the jacket. She shook it out and then walked over to the bed, stopping a good yard away. “Here you are, sir.” She leaned over to lay the jacket on the edge of the bed next to him.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dibble.” His left hand patted the jacket until he found the pocket with his purse inside. Sweating and white-lipped, he fumbled with the recalcitrant leather pouch until he removed it from the garment’s pocket. He spilled a few coins into Mrs. Dibble’s hand. “Give your daughter these. She is to purchase some food and drink and bring them to me. Is that understood?”
Mrs. Dibble eyed the coins in her palm and prodded them with one knobby finger. “Very well, sir.” She studied him with a marginally softer gleam in her dark eyes. “We’ll take care of you, the two of us. I expect you could use a decent cup of tea while you wait. That crafty devil, Moreton, most likely left you dry as a bone—he does like his blood, don’t he? He’d take every drop you had, smiling all the time. Never you mind. My Nancy will fetch you a nice can of small ale. That, and a bowl of hot broth will do, I should think.”
“There’s enough there for a loaf of bread and a decent roasted fowl,” John said. He was not going to survive if everyone insisted on treating him like an elderly invalid with no teeth. His stomach rumbled.
“That Moreton won’t have it—”
“Then don’t give it to him.” He was repeating himself, something John disliked doing.
Mrs. Dibble slipped the coins into her own purse and grinned at him as she moved toward the door. “What? And have that old leech claim we murdered you with our own hands? No, you’ll do as we say is best for you—”
“And I’ll be dead by nightfall.”
“If St. Peter wants you, he shall have you, sir, and there’s no gainsaying that. But we’ll do the best we can to ease you on your way.” She granted him a gap-toothed smile and shut the door softly.
“I have no doubt about that,” John muttered, plucking at the edge of the sheet.
He glanced at the thin line of brightness filtering past the edge of his curtains. The quality of the light suggested that it was barely midday. He contemplated the relative merits of sleeping versus getting out of bed to stumble down to the kitchens in the basement to see what could possibly be retrieved in the way of drink and food. Surely, a loaf of stale bread would not be too much to ask. Even the prisoners on London’s hulks got that much.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was so parched he couldn’t even manage that. His lips burned.
Eyelids fluttering, he finally gave in again and sank into welcomed oblivion.
Chapter Ten
Lady Victoria splashed cold water over her face again. Despite every trick Rose suggested to remove the puffy redness encircling her eyes, nothing seemed to work. Her complexion remained splotchy, and her eyes revealed all too plainly that she’d spent the last few nights crying into her pillow.
No news about Mr. Archer’s fate had reached her. Even Miss Urick had lost interest, shrugging when Victoria asked her.
Unfortunately, her other sources of news were more limited. The other ladies she knew didn’t know Mr. Archer, and it would be a week or more before any death notice appeared in the newspapers, so there would be no immediate help there.
She hated the weakness her weeping exposed, particularly when her parents questioned her. Nightmares, she’d told them. Anything else was impossible. Mentioning Mr. Archer would invariably bring up the subject of the marriage list, and she didn’t want to think about that.
Patting her face dry, she stared out her window at the lovely streaks of blue, rose, and peach painting the sky as the sun slipped below the rooftops. A few puffy streaks of dark gray spiraled upward from chimneys, as maids started evening fires to warm the occupants while they prepared for their evening’s entertainments. Despite the faint chill in her bedchamber, Victoria had declined a fire, hoping the coolness of the air would fade the tearstains on her face.
Tonight was Sir Arnold’s supper, and as unbelievable as it seemed, her parents had assured her that all four of the men on the marriage list were to attend. The affair would provide Victoria with the perfect opportunity to compare one to the other and come to a decision. In fact, her parents had already made an appointment with her for tomorrow morning at ten. They wanted her answer so that her father’s lawyers could draw up the final marriage contract.
Nonetheless, she doubted a decision would be as easy as her parents believed. She didn’t even know if Mr. Archer remained alive. A sharp sob caught in the back of her throat at the thought that he might already be resting in his coffin, awaiting burial. She coughed and finished wiping the water from her cheeks before her maid could remark on her unsettled state.
A bit of rice powder covered some of the splotches, although it left her cheeks deathly pale, and her eyes rimmed with dark red. She sighed as Rose pinned the last curl into place, the tip of the maid’s tongue peeping out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated on perfecting Victoria’s sophisticated, upswept hairstyle.
At least there was one bright spot. If Lord Taggert and his sister were at Sir Arnold’s supper party, it most likely meant that Mr. Archer was still alive. Otherwise, Lord Taggert would have been engaged in packing hastily for his proposed trip to Vienna to visit his cousins.
Staring one last time at her reflection in the mirror, Victoria’s shoulders slumped. Another thought sobered her. Perhaps Mr. Archer had succumbed to his wounds and no one cared sufficiently to stir up a scandal or demand justice. By killing him, Lord Taggert might have proved, once and for all, that Mr. Archer was a nobody, a man unworthy of notice or concern.
Blinking and swallowing back an intense sense of loss, of nearly overwhelming loneliness, she accepted her evening gloves, reticule, and fan from Rose. When she cast one last glance at the mirror, her sadness was so complete that she felt numb. The silver threads woven into the muslin fabric of her gown glinted softly in the last, pale amber evening light. The Van Dyke points gracing the neckline and hems of her sleeves and the intertwined vines of silver embroidery on the bodice looked beautiful in the soft light. Her mother and she had worked hard on that embroidery, muttering more than once when they had to snip an
d pick out an errant stitch and redo it. Even the hem ended in Van Dyke edging below a thick band of embroidered embellishment.
Despite her somber, tear-streaked face, the dress flattered her, although it failed to lift her mood. She might just as well have worn rags. With a sigh, she fixed a smile on her face, left her room, and joined her parents, waiting for her in the main hallway. Her mother gave her a searching glance, a worried frown carving a V between her brows, but she didn’t make any comments.
Breathing more easily with relief, Victoria climbed into their old-fashioned carriage after her parents.
“Sir Arnold, Colonel Lord Parmar, Lord Taggert, and Mr. Fitton will all be present.” Her father folded his hands over the silver knob of his cane, holding the stick upright between his knees. “Best opportunity you’ll have, my girl, to see them all in one place and make a decision.” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a gusty sigh. “Be glad to get the business done with and you settled at last. Can’t remember your brother having such a time of it, but he’s always been a decisive devil—bit like myself. He no sooner set eyes on Lady Hannah than he decided to approach her father. Married her two months later.” He studied Victoria. “I suppose you take after your mother.”
Beside him, her mother gave her an exasperated smile that barely curved her mouth. She shook her head and shrugged.
When her father sank into such a pompous mood, there was little anyone could do except allow him to talk until he wound down, rather like permitting the monotonous chirping of a wind-up mechanical bird to continue until the spring uncoiled.
While he rambled on, both ladies focused on the windows, watching the last of the deep blue evening light fade. A few lamplighters were already lumbering down the walkways, reaching up with long, curving poles to light the street lamps.
The journey wasn’t long, just a few blocks at most, but the coach kept their shoes and the delicate hems of their dresses clean.
When they were a block away from Sir Arnold’s townhouse, Lady Longmoor caught her daughter’s gaze. “Your friend, Miss Urick, should be there, my dear, as well as several other young ladies, so you should enjoy yourself.” She smiled and leaned forward to pat Victoria’s clasped hands. “That gown turned out remarkably well; I’m so pleased you wore it.”
Though the cloak she wore hid her gown, Victoria glanced down. Perhaps the other guests would only notice the silver-shot gown and not her red-rimmed eyes. With so many other younger ladies present, fortune might smile on her tonight after all, she thought wryly. Her splotchy complexion and maturity might convince the men that the fresher, and certainly happier, young ladies were more to their taste.
Some of the heaviness crushing her chest eased. She smiled at her mother.
“I believe even that Mr. Wickson, who so interested you before, may be there,” her mother said.
“Wickson?” her father frowned thoughtfully and tapped the tip of his cane against the wooden floor. “Wickson? Is he on the list?”
“No, dear,” her mother said. “However, his family is respectable and quite well off, I believe.”
“Wickson? The son of George Wickson? Blithering idiot at Oxford—can’t imagine he’s changed much in the intervening years. Stout enough in a fight, however, and a decent friend. Not a bad sort. If this Wickson of yours is anything like his father…” His words drifted off, and he shrugged. “Well, of course he’d be easy enough for an intelligent girl to manage. If she wished to.” His eyes studied her from beneath lowered brows. “Hadn’t thought you’d be the managing sort, but you women will go your own way, I suppose. Your mother will advise you on the best course. I won’t interfere. My only advice is to listen to her—a sensible woman, your mother.” Chuckling, he gently elbowed Lady Longmoor.
Smiling, she leaned over to give him a light kiss on the cheek. “Yes. After all, you always take my advice, don’t you, dear?”
The carriage rocked and jerked to a halt before her father could respond to his wife’s sally, much to Victoria’s relief. While part of her was pleased to see her parents enjoying one another’s company, a greater part of her wished they would do so behind closed doors. She shifted uncomfortably as a footman came to open the door and let down the narrow steps.
Inside, the butler relieved them of their outer garments and escorted them up the staircase to the drawing room on the first floor. Victoria followed her parents, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in her stomach. If Mr. Wickson were there, she might be able to discover how severely Mr. Archer had been wounded. Or if he had succumbed to his injuries.
The large drawing room they entered had a bow window framed with forest green brocade curtains at one end, overlooking the street below. Several comfortable sitting areas, arranged like islands atop oriental carpets in rich shades of green, cream, gold and brown, broke up the wide expanse of the wooden floor, and a pair of Grecian urns graced half-columns on either side of the doorway.
While the furniture mostly consisted of graceful Queen Anne style chairs with elegant cabriole legs and low, oval tables, it clearly lacked a woman’s touch. The absence of any flower arrangements or decorations other than the urns framing the doorway and a mixed collection of portraits and landscapes on the walls made it clear that Sir Arnold rarely used the room except for the occasional soiree.
The butler announced them, and Sir Arnold came forward, along with a stately woman he introduced as his aunt, Mrs. Stedman.
She was almost as tall as her nephew, with similar gray eyes and curly brown hair held away from her high forehead by a sparkling diamond tiara. However, where he always seemed to be smiling and jolly, she seemed more reserved, though she smiled kindly at Victoria and nodded in greeting. Her gown was a lovely dove gray with blue, green, and rose embroidery around the neckline and hem, and the soft colors flattered her. Sloping shoulders and a very long neck gave her a swanlike appearance, and when she tucked a hand through Victoria’s elbow to draw her further into the room, Victoria felt a sense of welcome and relief. The evening might not be so bad, after all.
Grinning jovially, Sir Arnold bowed and waved them into the room to perform swift introductions. When Victoria looked at him, she realized he had similar sloping shoulders, although his were far wider and heavier than his aunt’s. His brown curls were already starting to recede from his wide forehead, but he had a pleasant, open face and his consistently good mood was infectious.
“We have an excellent assortment of unattached gentlemen tonight, Lady Victoria, so you single ladies ought to be pleased, though I can’t say as I enjoy the competition, eh?” He started to move his bent arm as if to nudge her in the ribs before he collected himself and covered the abortive gesture by raising a fist to his mouth and coughing. “I daresay you can take your pick, eh? A pretty woman has but to make her choice.”
“I suppose,” Victoria replied. “Though it rarely seems that easy.”
“Easy?” He shook his head and chuckled, raising his hand as if to clap her on the shoulder. Ruddy-cheeked, he brushed off his lapel, instead. “No—never easy. Love’s course never runs smoothly and all that. But you’ll be settled and surrounded by a gaggle of young ones before you know it—mark my words.”
The picture of children leaning against her, their plump arms around her neck, brought such a sudden stabbing of desire that it nearly took her breath away. She’d always wanted children—expected to be a mother by this time—but she’d never realized how much she longed for them.
She smiled and nodded, only half listening as he made a few introductions. When he brought them to Colonel Lord Parmar, Sir Arnold made a sly jest that seemed to completely escape the stiff-backed, ex-military man. The colonel stared down his nose at Sir Arnold and greeted Victoria as if Sir Arnold had not spoken.
It was hard not to smile when Sir Arnold chuckled and winked, sharing his amusing, private joke with her. His fine, gray eyes—his best feature—twinkled with good humor.
Her spirits lifted, and Victoria found that he
r smile was no longer forced as the tall widow, Mrs. Stedman, led her over to a group of ladies seated in front of the cavernous fireplace.
But Victoria couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder, searching for the plump figure of Mr. Wickson. He wasn’t there, and her fragile hope flickered and died. There would be no news of Mr. Archer, after all. Her smile faltered, but at Mrs. Stedman’s light touch on her arm, she pinned a pleasant expression on her face and straightened her shoulders.
Perhaps it was for the best. After all, her parents hoped that she would make a decision tonight. Mr. Wickson—and news of Mr. Archer—would only be a distraction. Her gaze went to Sir Arnold, watching as he chuckled over some statement her father had made.
Her host was certainly pleasant, and would surely make a good natured and indulgent husband. He had many good qualities, she was certain. Perhaps she would grow to love him, even if she felt no attraction and nothing but a mild friendship for him now. At least he didn’t repel her, and he had a very nice aunt.
“Lady Victoria, I believe you know Miss Urick and Miss Jacobs, do you not?” Mrs. Stedman asked courteously.
“Yes—you are both looking very well,” Victoria replied wrenching her attention back to the ladies.
The two ladies wore similar white dresses, but Miss Urick’s was white muslin while Miss Jacobs wore silk. Extensive pin tucks and white-on-white handwork decorated Miss Urick’s gown, while wide lace framed Miss Jacobs’s short neck. Their jewelry was simple, as befitted two young ladies. A lovely cameo graced a thin gold chain resting on Miss Urick’s bosom, and matching earrings dangled from her ears. Miss Jacobs wore a gently glowing necklace of pearls, as well as a pearl bracelet and earrings.
“And Mrs. Grisdale and her daughter, Miss Grisdale, were also kind enough to join us,” Mrs. Stedman said, drawing a middle-aged lady and young girl forward.
Miss Grisdale looked to be barely eighteen, if that, with lustrous black hair and dark eyes that gave her an attractive, exotic appearance. Her pale pink dress, however, was not particularly flattering to her dark coloring, and gave her skin a washed-out, sallow appearance, which was too bad, as her oval face and regular features were beautiful.
