The Courteous Cad

by Catherine Palmer

  “You are smitten with her, William!” Olivia exclaimed. “Now I see the truth.”

  “I am not smitten. I merely make my case: her actions result from a forbidden love and not from any righteous zeal to save children.”

  “I suppose we cannot argue,” Randolph said. “You know the woman more intimately than we. You observed her behavior, and you interviewed the blacksmith. Now we have only to think of a way to revoke her invitation to dinner.”

  “We shall do no such thing,” Olivia declared. “Miss Watson and Mrs. Heathhill are welcome to visit us upon any occasion. But as we speak with the younger of the sisters tonight, we shall bear in mind her unsettled temperament and her tendency toward hysteria. While in our home, she will be treated with kindness. But we shall bear with fortitude her eventual return to London and the solace and protection of her family.”

  Randolph gave a snort. “I shall find it difficult not to envision her shouting at our overlooker in a preposterous attempt to draw the attention of our blacksmith. It will be impossible to give credit to anything she says.”

  With that pronouncement from his brother, William took another sip of tea and studied a patch of daffodils blooming just outside the open window. He had convinced his family of Miss Watson’s romantic purposes. They now thought her childish and a little mad. Their general pity would be felt by the young lady, and she would leave Yorkshire on the first coach tomorrow.

  Once again, William had succeeded in accomplishing the task at hand. But as he sipped his tea, he could not deny his own great doubt. It was entirely possible, he had to admit, that his overlookers were cruel to the mill labor. It might be true, in fact, that the children suffered daily abuse and lived in a state of fear.

  It might even be likely that Miss Watson had wished to aid those children this morning. That her attachment to the blacksmith might be entirely innocent. That her presence at dinner this evening would unsettle and disarm William.

  He had made her an object of scorn and condolence to his family. But he was the one who deserved their scorn and not Miss Watson at all, curly though she was.

  Five

  “France is lovely in the spring,” Prudence informed those gathered at the dinner table. She had gone to Thorne Lodge determined to capture the attention and admiration of everyone there, restore her good reputation, and squash William Sherbourne all in one evening. Thus far, she had succeeded admirably.

  “Calais, you must understand,” she continued her discourse, “is the very essence of all things beautiful and refined. But I cannot pronounce the former emperor of that nation to be as intriguing as most of my countrymen assert. I observed Napoleon’s actions firsthand at Waterloo, and he was too cleverly outwitted by our forces.”

  “You were at Waterloo?” Randolph Sherbourne, Lord Thorne, all but gaped at her across the table. “You witnessed the battle itself?”

  “Did I not, Mary?” Prudence turned to her sister. “You can attest to the truth of my account.”

  “Prudence was indeed at the battle,” Mary confirmed. “It was a most unhappy accident, of course. Along with her traveling companions, my sister hid in a barn very near the center of combat. She had accompanied her dearest friend Anne, Lady Blackthorne, on a mission to transport lace into France.”

  “A lace machine,” Prudence clarified. “As you all must know by now, I am never reluctant to fight for the greater good.”

  Lest anyone should mention her ill-advised visit to the worsted mill that morning, she drew in a deep breath and continued. “I believe that God expects us to spend our time on earth in worthy labors. A clear division exists between good and evil. The world is either black or white. There can be no gray.”

  “No gray?” William asked. “Madam, I see nothing but gray.”

  “Then you do not see clearly, sir. Honor, beauty, truth, justice—all these are good and right. When evil is discerned, it must be rooted out and destroyed.”

  “So, this lace machine of yours,” he said. “Was it an evil contraption? Or was it good? I am mystified.”

  Prudence favored him with the most condescending smile she could summon. “A machine, sir, is neither good nor bad. What must be judged is its effect on mankind.”

  “You refer, by extension, to my worsted looms.”

  “Dear Mr. Sherbourne, let us not quarrel this evening. Lady Thorne’s table is hardly the place for bickering and disagreement.”

  “You find the floor of my mill a more suitable arena?”

  She opened her mouth with a retort at the ready, but Olivia spoke up quickly.

  “At the mention of lace, Miss Watson, I must say I am entranced by the lace on your gown. Is it French?”

  “This is Nottingham lace, madam. In fact, it was made by the friend I mentioned before. Anne gave it to me not long after her wedding.”

  “It is delicate and exquisite,” Olivia murmured. “This lady’s skill is greatly to be admired. Such workmanship is of great value.”

  “Indeed, and such a friendship is even more valuable.” Prudence touched the scrap of bobbin lace at her throat and was gratified to discover William’s attention already fixed there. She absently brushed at a curl that had escaped her chignon to dangle against her neck. His focus traveled to it and lingered.

  Good, she thought. If you cannot be tormented by the evils of your mill, Mr. Sherbourne, you shall be tormented by me instead. Though Prudence feared she was not much of a crusader, she had no such doubts about her ability to conquer a man’s heart.

  “Dear friends are such a joy,” she purred. “A warm fire, a delicious meal, a lively conversation . . . what could be more delightful?”

  “Perhaps a turn at the pianoforte,” William said. “We are beside ourselves with joy at the prospect of yet another of your performances.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sherbourne. You are all politeness this evening. How very happy we are to be treated to this uncommon display of your good humor and wit.”

  “Oh yes,” Mary spoke up at once, rising from the table and nearly upsetting her chair. “It is many a month since we have enjoyed such fine food and such congenial company. Come, Prudence. We must choose a song for our kind hosts.”

  As everyone made to stand, the footmen hurried to remove chairs and clear the table. Prudence regretted the hasty end to the dinner, but it seemed that William was quite determined to spar with her at every opportunity.

  She did not mind. In fact, the man intrigued her to the extent that she had thought about little else all day. Her gown, her hair, even her scent were chosen with him in mind. She told herself that she intended to beguile and then discard him. He must become nothing more than another suitor to add to the growing list of men she had captivated and then abandoned to their misery.

  “You must speak to Mr. Sherbourne with respect, Prudence!” Mary hissed as she took her sister’s arm and hurried her down the corridor toward the drawing room. “After your demonstration this morning, the family easily might have withdrawn our invitation to dinner. But they have welcomed us, and you must be polite.”

  “I am as polite as he deserves,” Prudence whispered back. “I hate him.”

  “Ah, Mr. Sherbourne!” Mary said as the man himself joined them. “I was just saying to my sister how much we have enjoyed the evening. Your family is all kindness. Indeed, sir, I should be happy to play a jig or two if you wish to dance.”

  “Dance? But partners are too few, I fear.” He paused a moment. “However, I do recall that you praised your sister’s skills on the dance floor. Perhaps you might teach me a step or two, Miss Watson.”

  “Dance? With you?” Prudence was about to reject him in no uncertain terms, but Mary elbowed her in the side.

  “My sister would be delighted, I am sure,” Mary said. “Would you not, Pru?”

  “Of course, Mr. Sherbourne. I am always happy to come to the aid of a man who dances poorly. How bad are you?”

  He laughed as they entered the large drawing room. Mary had only just se
ated herself at the pianoforte when he took Prudence’s hand and turned her to face him.

  “Will you play a waltz, please, Mrs. Heathhill?” he called across the room. “I can think of nothing that would please me more.”

  “A waltz? Oh! But of course.” With a deep breath and a flutter of eyelashes, Mary hovered over the instrument for a moment. Her cheeks reddened as she searched through sheets of music, but she found a waltz at last and began to play.

  William drew Prudence closer and danced her across the floor toward the fireplace. As it happened, they moved in perfect harmony with the swaying one-two-three rhythm. And with each other.

  “I prefer the waltz,” William said, his breath stirring the curls against her cheek. “Some may consider it a scandalous dance, but you, I think, must enjoy it.”

  “And why is that? I am as happy with a jig or a reel as any lady. I take great pleasure in a quadrille or a country dance.”

  “But unlike those, the waltz brings a man and a woman into an embrace as they accompany the music about the room. It requires a certain intimacy, and you like that.”

  She gave a little laugh. “You profess to know everything about me, sir.”

  “I know almost nothing. Yet this much is plain.”

  “But you are wrong. The waltz removes a woman’s command over her own movements. She is left powerless in her partner’s arms.” Prudence glanced toward the pianoforte. “And you have made my sister blush.”

  “Do you blush, too, Miss Watson?” He drew back for a moment. His warm treacle eyes searched her face, lingered on her lips, and met her own gaze. “I see you are not as easily shocked as she. But you have been to France, of course. You must have danced the waltz many a time.”

  “And with many men,” she added. “You, perhaps, rank among the most perplexing.”

  “Why is that? I have been forthright with you at our every meeting. Yet I see you are baffled by my character. I am, on the one hand, exceedingly charming—an officer of the Royal Navy, the son of a baron, the owner of a large worsted mill. On the other, I am a cruel taskmaster who thinks nothing of tearing children limb from limb. Have I assessed the source of your bewilderment correctly?”

  “Not at all,” she replied. By now he had danced her to the far end of the drawing room, near an alcove lit by candles. “I am perplexed by your skill at waltzing.”

  “Ah,” he said with a laugh. “But I have traveled too, Miss Watson. France, Spain, Portugal, Belgium. Such places are perhaps more forward-thinking than our beloved misty isle. The waltz, in Paris, is quite a common dance, and no one blushes.”

  “Do you prefer Paris?”

  “To Yorkshire? Never. I am country born and bred, and a countryman I shall always be. I believe we are alike in this. Yesterday, you professed a passion for riding.”

  “I do like riding.”

  “Good. Tomorrow I shall take you on a tour of the family estate. Now that you have finished abusing my overlookers and setting my weavers into an uproar, we may speak to each other as friends.”

  At this mention of the morning’s calamity, Prudence stumbled a little. William checked her faltered step and set his hand more firmly at her waist. This had the effect of drawing them so closely together that she began to fear she might lose what little composure she had left.

  All day, she had fretted over the evening’s encounter with William Sherbourne. She had hoped that her pink gown, cascading curls, and lacy décolletage might soften the resentment she had created in him. Her air of confidence and her sharp wit, she had prayed, might elevate her in his estimation. And somewhere along the way, she might actually summon the courage to plead once again for fair treatment of the children at his mill.

  But now she melted in his arms, set her cheek against his shoulder, and allowed the music to seep inside her. She was not a crusader, Prudence realized as William turned her into the shadows. She was not in love with Mr. Walker, she admitted as he lightly kissed her cheek. She was weak and imperfect and far too easily swayed.

  “Have you reached a conclusion about me, Miss Watson?” William murmured against her ear. “Am I black, or am I white? Am I good? or evil?”

  “Oh, dear.” She realized suddenly that Mary was no longer playing. The waltz had ended, yet she hung suspended in this man’s arms.

  She tried to recall his question as she stepped away from him. “Good or evil? I cannot say.”

  “Perhaps you require more study. Will you ride with me tomorrow? I shall send my carriage for you at ten.”

  He bowed as he spoke the last words. Prudence dipped a curtsy and started to move away. But he caught her hand.

  “I must have your answer,” he said. “I shall not sleep tonight unless I know I may see you tomorrow.”

  Glancing across the room, Prudence saw that Olivia had taken Mary’s place at the pianoforte. Mary stood beside the instrument to turn the pages of the concerto their hostess had selected. Randolph had taken a chair nearby, his attention centered on his wife as he sipped a cup of tea.

  “I must join the other women,” Prudence told William. “You must excuse me.”

  She stepped toward the fireplace, but he caught her again. “Ride with me tomorrow. You will see that I am not so evil as you suppose.”

  “You are good, then? A Christian. An honorable gentleman. You exist to make the lives of others easy and content. In all your choices you are moral, upright, honest—a man of good principle who is respected wherever he goes.”

  He looked away. For the first time, Prudence saw a darkness blot out the good cheer and mischief that usually lightened his face. Was it shame? or anger? Or was it something worse?

  She waited for his answer, watching as he battled some unknown emotion. When he looked at her again, the treacle eyes were hooded by something she could not decipher.

  “No man is as good as that,” he said.

  “No man is perfect, yet many make it their aim to take the high road.”

  “You will find, Miss Watson, that I am the exception to your tidy view of life. I am neither wholly good nor wholly bad. Neither black nor white. I am, in fact, quite irredeemably gray.”

  “I do not believe that,” she told him, lifting her chin. “If you have strayed from the straight and narrow path, you must acknowledge your misdeeds to God, turn away from evil, and let Him direct your path ever after.”

  “As easy as that, is it?”

  “Mr. Sherbourne, a wholesome life is not so difficult as you make it. If you are truly baffled by my conviction in this matter, let me set you out an easy means to perfect understanding.”

  “I should be ever grateful for such instruction.”

  “Come, then.” She slipped her arm through his and guided him toward a bookshelf near the fire. A moment of searching turned up what she had been seeking. She removed the volume and set it in his hands.

  “The Bible?” he asked.

  “Read the Gospel of St. John. It will not take long, and it is perfectly easy to comprehend. White, black. Good, evil. Heaven, hell.”

  He opened the book, turned through the pages, and then shut it again. “You are quite sure that in reading this I shall attain the level of perfection you require?”

  “Perhaps not.” She smiled at him. “The road you choose, sir, lies at your own feet. But—if you read St. John’s Gospel tonight and give me a thoughtful review of it tomorrow, then you will attain something nearly as delightful.”

  “And what is that?”

  “My company, of course. I shall be happy to ride out with you to survey your family’s estate.”

  Leaving him with Bible in hand, Prudence hurried across the room to the pianoforte. She joined her sister, but she made a less than earnest effort to sing with the other women.

  She had arrived at Thorne Lodge this evening, she realized, with the aim of beguiling and bemusing the entire company with her beauty, wit, and charm. But she would depart it with her heart in grave danger of surrendering everything. Everything . . . for
the affection of one man.

  William elected to stay inside while his brother, sister, and several footmen escorted Miss Watson and her sister to the door. Now he watched from a window as their carriage began to move down the graveled entryway, through the iron gates, and onto the main road toward Otley.

  Only when he no longer could see the carriage did he look down at the book in his hand. Had Prudence Watson set him up to fail? She must expect he would find the task too onerous and give it up. He flipped the pages, located the Gospel of St. John, and scanned the text.

  “I thought she was perfectly delightful,” Olivia was saying to her husband as they entered the drawing room again. “You seemed to like Miss Watson better tonight, William.”

  Randolph gave a laugh. “By the look of that waltz, I should surmise my brother felt more than friendship for his sweet adversary.”

  “Do you call her sweet?” William tossed the Bible onto a small table near the settee. “You would not say that had you danced with her. She is anything but sweet.”

  “How would you describe her, then?” Olivia asked. “Is she a temptress? a tease?”

  “She is a vixen.”

  “Oh, ho!” Randolph set his hands at his waist and assessed his brother. “A vixen, is she? Then you are in great peril.”

  “I am in no peril. Have I ever fancied a woman who would rather scratch my eyes out than submit to my will?”

  “I can hardly say. I have not met half the women you liked. I do recall one particular fling, a Miss Caroline Bryse.”

  At the name, a wash of unease spilled down William’s spine, and he quickly crossed from the window to the fireplace. But Randolph took no note as he continued to revive a memory his brother would give anything to erase.

  “You accompanied Miss Caroline to Thorne Lodge in a party that included her brother and sister.” Randolph turned to his wife. “She was a pretty enough girl, but I soon saw in her a most determined flirt. You met her once or twice, I believe, my dear.”

  “The two Miss Bryses were determined to wed you and your brother,” she replied. “How could I forget them? Beatrice and Caroline were my rivals for a time.”