The Courteous Cad

by Catherine Palmer

  An infusion of bright pink bloomed across the young widow’s cheeks. “Am I really?” Mary asked. “How odd. Perhaps I have been perusing Miss Pickworth too punctually.”

  Openmouthed, Prudence turned to Sarah, whose eyes had gone wide. Then both sisters faced Mary.

  “Are you Miss Pickworth?” Sarah voiced the very question on Prudence’s tongue. “You must confess at once, Mary. Is Miss Pickworth your nom de plume?”

  The silence following the question went on too long.

  “You are!” Prudence gasped. “I can see the evidence written across your face, Mary. You have been penning society news for The Tattler these many years, and none of us has guessed the truth until this moment!”

  “Do not be absurd.” Mary rose from the settee and bent to warm her hands over the fire. “How could I possibly be Miss Pickworth? I am a faithful reader of her column, and I often find my name there. Would I indulge vanity and write about myself?”

  “Indeed you would!” Prudence said with a laugh. “You would most delightedly write about yourself and all of us. How could I have missed it? This is really too amusing— my very own sister is Miss Pickworth!”

  “No, I believe we are in error,” Sarah murmured, touching Prudence’s arm. “If you recall, Mary was as eager as we to hear Miss Pickworth’s news.”

  “I did not care to hear her news at all,” Prudence declared.

  “But Mary did. Besides, she was recently traveling with you in the north for nearly a month. How could she have detailed society’s most intimate schemes and assignations without observing them firsthand?”

  “Not to mention the death of my dear husband,” Mary added. “Do not forget that I am in mourning. I could hardly attend assemblies and balls in such a situation. No, sister, you must surrender your suspicions.”

  “Very well,” Prudence said, “though you alliterated your way right through that last avowal. If you are not Miss Pickworth, Mary, you are certainly like her in every way.”

  “Prudence, you will wear the pink,” Mary decreed, turning from the fire. “You will dance first with Mr. Sherbourne and then with Henry Carlyle. After that, you will fill your dance card with as many different men as possible. Mr. Sherbourne will understand that his hopes are in vain and hasten back to his worsted mill in Yorkshire. Henry will consider you a challenge and do all in his power to win your heart. By the end of the evening, if all goes according to plan, you will select Henry or some other eligible gentleman, agree to wed him, and relieve your poor sisters of the constant headache they suffer in attempting to settle you.”

  Ending her pronouncement, Mary snatched the newspaper from Sarah’s fingers and stepped toward the door. “I do not alliterate,” she concluded. “And my silly sisters should surrender their speculations . . . oh! Hang it all, Pru, now I really am doing it!”

  As Mary bustled from the room, Prudence relaxed in her chair. “If all goes according to plan,” Mary had stated. But whose plan? Sarah and Mary, dear though they were, did not control their sister’s destiny. Only God held Prudence’s life in His hands. To Him—and only Him—would she submit her future.

  “I am all astonishment,” Sarah announced, casting Prudence a look of total bewilderment. “I think our sister is Miss Pickworth. Somehow, without anyone the wiser, she has been observing us and all our friends, penning her scandalous and rumor-filled missives, and sending them to The Tattler in complete anonymity.”

  “An investigation is in order,” Prudence stated. “It cannot be difficult to find her out.”

  “No, indeed.” Sarah stood and shook out the folds of her gown. “Do you know, Pru, lately I seem to have become quite the sleuth. I have written to friends in Plymouth asking for the history of your Mr. Sherbourne. I have gone down to the wharf and inquired about the character of Henry Carlyle— who is my husband’s business partner and must not be allowed to ruin him. And now I am determined to ferret out the truth about our sister’s secret life as Miss Pickworth.”

  “I can think of none more discerning than you,” Prudence said as her sister stepped through the open doorway. “You must send me word at once when you have any intelligence on these matters.”

  “Send you word? You are not seriously planning to return to Yorkshire, are you?” Sarah shook her head. “I see that you are, and I cannot dissuade you. I understand you better than you suppose, for I once felt the urgency of a godly mission myself. Only my darling Charles was able to help me see reason and learn to balance my pious ambitions with good sense. Do go to the ball, Pru. If only to please Mary. She must have something scandalous to write about, must she not?”

  Both women were giggling as Sarah shut the door.

  William stepped out of his carriage onto the street outside Delacroix House. The intimate gathering he had suggested a fortnight ago obviously had taken on a life of its own, rising and swelling with pomp, grandeur, and a magnificence far beyond the paltry sum he had offered Henry Carlyle in compensation for the use of his home.

  As he watched lords and ladies clad in their finest silks, satins, diamonds, and gold ascend the massive staircase to the home’s double front door, William sincerely hoped he would not be expected to produce further funding for the event. His own guest list had been short-a few shipping barons,the financial patrons of several noted haberdasheries in London, and a collection of well-heeled gentlemen who might be inclined to invest in his worsted mill. Thirty attendees at the most. The current count of guests filing into Delacroix House must exceed a hundred.

  He joined them—climbing the stairs, stepping into the grand foyer, removing his top hat and cloak, handing them to a footman, and shouldering his way through the crowd in search of the object of his quest.

  But he was soon waylaid.

  “Aha, there you are, Mr. Sherbourne!” Henry Carlyle clapped William on the back. “I began to fear you had changed your mind and returned to Yorkshire. How do you find London these days?”

  “Busy, as always, Lord Delacroix,” William replied, forcing a smile.

  He saw at once that his host had outdone him in a grandly ruffled neckcloth, a red brocade vest embroidered with game birds, and a suit of fine gray wool featuring a faint checked pattern. William had worn nothing more elegant than a black worsted suit with tails, a white shirt with a simply tied white muslin neckcloth, and a vest of dark sapphire silk.

  Had they been peacocks in pursuit of a mate, William would have been forced to bow in surrender to the grand plumage of his rival. As it was, he elected to judge himself a worthy competitor for the affections of Miss Prudence Watson.

  “London is busy indeed,” Henry agreed. “Though I suspect its lively pace might make one long for the sedate charms of a country life.”

  “One might suppose we bumpkins have little to do but loll about, napping under haystacks. But I challenge you to visit my family’s estate, Lord Delacroix, for I shall keep you occupied enough.”

  “Milking cows and shearing sheep?” Henry guffawed at his own humor. “I should like that very well indeed. But let us dispense with formalities. I am Delacroix to you, and you must be Sherbourne to me. After all, we are friends and colleagues now—each of us having added tradesman to our résumé, and each, I daresay, rather pleased with the outcome.”

  “Your tea trade thrives, I take it?”

  “Indeed it does, and here is the very reason why.” He moved them toward a tall, good-looking gentleman who appeared perfectly at ease in the crowded room. Henry singled him out with a tap on the shoulder and then made the introduction. “William Sherbourne, I should like you to know my business partner and boon companion, Charles Locke.”

  They exchanged niceties and made brief mention of their respective trades. From Sarah Locke’s husband onward, Henry compelled William to make the rounds of the ballroom, meeting everyone and discovering that he was “the finest of men.”

  Henry, it became obvious, was given to superlatives. “Lord Blackthorne!” he exclaimed as they neared the marquess. “Yo
u must meet my dearest friend, William Sherbourne, a man whose character and lineage surpass all but your own.”

  Ruel Chouteau bowed upon encountering William again. “But Mr. Sherbourne and I are acquainted already,” he informed Henry. “My wife and I were recently compelled to make a hasty journey northward. Our aim was to rescue a certain young lady whom everyone feared had lost her heart to this gentleman.”

  “You must now congratulate yourselves on a successful undertaking,” William suggested. “For I am told that the lady in question retrieved her missing heart, departed Yorkshire posthaste, and promptly lost the fickle organ once again the moment she arrived in London.”

  “Do you refer to Miss Prudence Watson? I cannot believe she has fallen in love again so soon. What would Anne say to that?” Ruel turned to search for his wife, who stood at the edge of a cluster of young women. “No, Mr. Sherbourne, Anne did not tell me her friend had cast you off in favor of another. Indeed, if I heard her recitation of the report aright, Miss Watson’s affections for you have now grown to colossal proportions.”

  “Really?” William frowned in confusion. “But I fear you have developed a husband’s most heinous flaw—failure to give adequate attention to his wife’s chatter.”

  Henry and Ruel chuckled at this.

  “No, Mr. Sherbourne, I believe I have learned to avoid that matrimonial pitfall,” Ruel assured him. “Besides which, my wife’s conversation usually contains much sense. I discovered early the peril of failing to heed it.”

  “But, Sherbourne, which man did you believe had captured Miss Watson’s heart?” Henry asked. “I am mystified.”

  “Are you?” William studied his rival. “If you have not been told by the lady herself, perhaps she does not wish it known.”

  “Want what known?” Mary Heathhill stepped up to the group. “Gentlemen, it is very rude to keep gossip to yourselves. You must announce the topic of this conversation to one and all, that we too may revel in its intricacies and thrills.”

  While the men protested and the petite brown-haired woman entertained them with witty quips, William made an effort to decipher the information given him by Ruel and Henry. Was it possible he had been mistaken in his assumption that Prudence now loved Lord Delacroix?

  If they had formed an attachment, surely the man himself would know about it. And what of Lord Blackthorne’s assertion that Prudence not only loved William but that her love had been growing since their separation in Yorkshire?

  As Mary wandered away to seek further amusement, William could dally no longer. Where was Prudence? He had searched the ballroom countless times—sorting through any number of ostrich-plumed, silk-gowned, pink-cheeked ladies without success. Was it possible she would not attend the ball? Her tears upon their last parting told him her emotions ran deep. He had assumed she wept for the pain of hurting him as she confessed her love for another. Now he wondered what the real truth could be.

  “Shall we ask Miss Watson to give us the unmitigated facts?” Henry was saying. “I see her there—dancing in the arms of a single man of large fortune. Sirs, we must set ourselves in place to capture the lovely creature the moment this tune is ended, or we are doomed to languish in ignorance.”

  William caught his breath as he finally saw Prudence. In a gown of pale blue that floated about her feet, she stepped and turned across the floor. Her partner was an older man—far too old for her. But William knew Prudence gave such differences little heed. She had once loved the American blacksmith, a man of mature years and little education, wealth, or standing.

  Not only immune to the dictates of society, the woman was beautiful. She knew it. Every man in the room knew it. Every lady, too. There were none to compare, though they tried.

  As William watched, she turned her head, and he noted a silver chain clasped about her long neck. A pearl pendant lay at her throat, a creamy white orb against her velvet skin. Gold ringlets were caught in a knot atop her head, blue ribbons wove their way through tiny braids, and gossamer curls danced at her cheeks. Her form was perfect in every aspect, and he ached at the fear that she would never be his.

  “Worry, indeed!” Charles Locke was saying with a laugh. “That man is my father, and I would wager my fortune that he views Miss Watson as nothing more than a pretty child. She is perfectly safe with her present partner, gentlemen. Safe for the moment. James Locke has captured her, but soon he must set her free. Which of you will be next to beg a dance?”

  William and Henry looked at each other, the competition between them finally surfacing.

  “I am the better man,” Henry announced, “and I shall prove it by generously offering the next dance to Sherbourne.”

  “Why?” Ruel asked. “Because you have already filled the lady’s dance card for the remainder of the evening?”

  The men were chuckling as the music died and the couples drifted across the floor in search of refreshment or the night air. Prudence stepped away in the direction of her sisters, who were laughing with a group of friends over some small amusement. William could endure the suspense no longer.

  “I shall take your offer, Delacroix,” he said, “and endeavor to usurp your reign as the king of hearts as swiftly as possible.”

  “Best of luck,” Henry replied. “You know the knave never wins.”

  The men’s eyes met again, and for the first time that evening, William sensed hostility behind Henry’s smile. He gave his rival a curt bow and strode off in search of the lady.

  Prudence did not move from the cluster of women as he neared. He was forced to approach them, capture their attention, and endure an endless round of introductions. Finally, he focused on the one he sought.

  “Miss Watson, I wonder if I might have the honor of the next dance.” He assessed her reaction but could make nothing of it. “Unless you have promised it already?”

  “I am not engaged,” she told him. Without bidding her friends farewell, she linked her arm through his and moved toward the dance floor. “I had not planned to attend tonight. You must believe me.”

  “I do believe you, though I cannot understand why you would absent yourself. You are the most beautiful woman in the room, and every man who dances with you must consider himself fortunate indeed.”

  As he turned her into the dance, his hand rested for a moment at her waist. At the intimate touch, her green eyes darted up, meeting his. They circled the floor together, each unable to look away.

  “You danced with Mr. Locke,” he said in a foundering effort to initiate conversation. “I met his son. Your sister’s husband is an amiable man.”

  “Sarah is blessed to have married Charles Locke. He is very good to her.”

  “And you? Are you blessed as well?”

  “Indeed. But not as Sarah is. She and Mary have known true love—its beauty and its agony. I have known only its heartache.”

  As the dance parted them, William struggled to understand her meaning. Did her heartache arise from the loss of Walker the blacksmith? Had it something to do with Henry Carlyle? Or might it be a reference to William himself—to the many obstacles that seemed determined to part them?

  “Are your efforts to enhance the worsted trade rewarded tonight?” she asked him when they came together again and joined a line of dancers moving down the floor. “Do you find your aims achieved?”

  “My true aim for this evening had little to do with the trade and much to do with you. Prudence, I beg you to speak plainly. Do you and Delacroix have an understanding?”

  “What is your meaning, sir?”

  “Do you love him?”

  “He is more nearly my brother than any other man. In that way, I love him well.”

  “How can you tease me?” he demanded. “You know my feelings for you are unchanged. Once you loved me too. I doubted you; I distrusted my own heart; I did all in my power to convince myself we could have no future together. Even now, when I consider the facts, I know it must not be. Yet I cannot rest.”

  She drew away from hi
m, circled with another man, and returned. When she spoke again, her voice was tinged with despair. “If you know it must not be, why do you persist in your effort to make me love you? Stop at once, I beg you, or I shall come undone!”

  “Prudence, nothing I say or do can make you love me. But if you do, only say the words and bring me some relief.”

  “Relief for you and increasing agony for me? Is that your desire?”

  “No, indeed. My agony must always be the greater, for I hang suspended like a spider over a flame. If we cannot speak the truth, Prudence, I—”

  “Truth about love? No, I cannot. I must do as God leads me. That is all there is, and it is enough. Do not ask for more, William.”

  The music died; the dancers bowed and clapped. He took her hand and led her from the floor. “Will you give me the next dance?” he asked. “Or accompany me outside onto the portico, where we might find a place to speak privately?”

  She hung her head for a moment, pain written across her face. When she looked at him again, her eyes were rimmed in tears. “I have promised this dance to Henry. I do not wish to speak to you further. I find I cannot confess the truth about my feelings or my actions. I am all confusion. You must understand that I am not set against you, William. Far from it. If the situation were different, if our paths had not been laid out in such contrary fashion, perhaps this moment would not be so difficult. But we are not intended to walk through life together, and we must accept it.”

  “How can you know that? We have hardly given love room to flourish. Do not dismiss me, Prudence. I will not be so easily shed.”

  “I shall never cast you off, William. You must leave of your own accord. Henry comes now. We cannot meet again.”

  She made him the briefest of curtsies and hurried away. Smiling as she neared, Henry caught her about the waist and spun her into the dance. She did not look back.

  Fourteen

  Outside the ballroom, William stood on the long portico that opened into the garden. At least an hour had passed since his dance with Prudence. Henry Carlyle and other suitors vied to fill her card, but William made no effort to add his own name to the list.