by D. L. Carter
“Oh?” Felicity, Maude, and Millicent all leaned forward eagerly.
“Do tell,” commanded Millicent.
“If you must know…”
“Yes,” came the chorus.
“Mr. Simpson,” whispered Mildred, then she blushed.
“Who?” cried Felicity and Maude.
“Mr. Simpson,” cried Millicent. “The duke’s private secretary and creator of miracles, that Mr. Simpson? When did you meet him?”
Mildred gave her sister a look of mixed amusement and disdain. “Mr. North, you sent him to me yourself.”
Millicent stared at her in confusion. “When?”
“The coaches, Mr. North. The coaches. Mr. Simpson appeared one morning with four coaches, complete with drivers and outriders and demanded someone must make a decision. Since Mr. North declared that the ladies of the house were going to use them, the ladies must decide. Four secondhand coaches cluttering up Maricourt Place, with all the staff of our neighborhood sitting on the steps and staring, while Mr. Simpson and I climbed in and out of the wretched things examining the fixtures and commenting on the squabs.”
“Oh, dear God,” Millicent covered her face. She could well imagine the disruption four complete coaches could create in their small and fashionable square. Poor Mildred, the subject of those stares. “You did not say anything at the time. Just that we had a coach.”
“It was nothing.” Mildred shrugged and tried to return her attention to her food.
“Obviously, it was something.”
Mildred threw down her napkin in disgust. “Very well, it was. It was the merest hint of interest. It was noticing that the gentleman has nice eyes, that he spoke to the servants kindly no matter how impatient they were. It was the slightest thought crossing my mind that I would like to speak to him again and judge if it were possible, if the acquaintance persisted, that I might conceivably enjoy his company.”
Maude choked on her wine while Millicent and Felicity frankly stared.
“That is a good deal of words to describe a bare interest,” said Millicent.
“Well, it was not as if I was in his company for more than a quarter hour.”
“You were out for over two hours,” declared Maude. “And when you came in you were blushing to your toes.”
“The wind was chill. I had been exercised climbing in and out of coaches.”
“Now, girls!” Felicity raised one hand and both sisters subsided back into their chairs.
“Well,” said Millicent. “I may not be about to do anything about the penurious son of an earl, but I can do something about Mr. Simpson. Cousin Felicity, dear, please ring the bell.”
“What? What will you do?” cried Mildred, rising as Felicity rang the little silver bell at her elbow.
“Why, I can arrange for you to spend a few minutes furthering your acquaintance with Mr. Simpson.” When Merit appeared Millicent beckoned the butler nearer. “Be so kind as to send a footman over to the Duke of Trolenfield’s residence. Present my compliments to Mr. Simpson, his secretary, and ask him if he will do me the honor of taking a cup of coffee with me this evening.”
Merit bowed himself out. Millicent observed that the butler glowed as he left the room. Any opportunity to communicate with the household of the duke fairly made his day.
“So glad I can make someone happy,” she muttered.
“Milli … Mr. North, you cannot send for him. I will not allow it.”
“How can you stop me? The message is already sent.”
“I will not see him. It would be too humiliating. I will stay upstairs.”
Millicent again regarded her fish, sniffed it suspiciously, and set the plate aside. “It is not humiliating. It is merely coffee. The Duke of Trolenfield has asked his secretary to hold himself available should I happen to need something, and tonight I have decided to need his company.”
“Well, you cannot tell him you need a husband for me!” Mildred came to her feet.
“How ignorant do you think I am?” Millicent laughed. “Dear Mildred, I am only providing you the opportunity to decide if further acquaintance … I do not remember what you said exactly, but you wanted another opportunity to examine him. Therefore, I provide it. It is my duty to provide what you need.”
“But what will you say when he comes?”
“I will think of something.”
* * *
Mr. Simpson arrived promptly at six. He first made his bow to Mildred, seated beside the coffee service.
“Ah, Miss. Boarder. I do hope the coach you selected is giving satisfaction.”
“It has four wheels and does not turn over,” said Millicent before her sister could reply. “What else do we need?”
Mildred granted Millicent a frosty stare that would have done credit to the highest stickler of the ton.
“Mr. North has no understanding, and since he would walk from engagement to engagement if we were to permit it, he sees no need for the carriage.” Mildred offered Mr. Simpson a plate of cakes and a smile. “The ladies of the house, on the other hand, are very grateful for your assistance.”
“My pleasure.”
Millicent found herself staring at the familiar face of Shoffer’s trusted secretary. The man was hardly handsome by conventional measures and she could not tell by examination of his features if he were worthy of being trusted with her sister’s future. Would he turn into a drunkard as years passed? Would he be short-tempered and intolerant of the noise children made? As if suddenly aware of her thoughts, Mr. Simpson turned and gave Millicent a weak smile.
“His Grace asked me to apologize for his neglect the last few days. He has been busy with parliamentary business.”
That startled Millicent who missed him dreadfully, but had not thought gentlemen offered each other apologies.
“Oh, has he neglected us? I hardly noticed. But then, we can hardly expect such a high ranked gentleman to be always dancing attendance upon us.” Millicent shrugged as if she were not painfully aware of each of the hours and minutes since last she had seen him. Of the hours spent speculating on with whom he had spent those hours and minutes. On the possibility that he had set up a mistress or was seriously courting some young woman out of Millicent’s sight. “Please tell His Grace that we continue to go on as planned. Lady Beth is happily escorting my cousins about town and they have come over quite popular, if the number of invitations on my desk is any indication.”
“His Grace will be gratified. Now, what service may I provide you?”
Mildred winced and almost spilt scalding coffee over her guest’s hand. Her agitation was understandable since Millicent had teased her all afternoon, claiming that she was going to announce that she needed someone to take Mildred off her hands, would Mr. Simpson have any opinions to offer? After all, he was so efficient in finding a house and carriage, would husbands be that much more difficult?
Given that Millicent’s humor was unpredictable, Mildred was still not certain what she would say.
Neither was Millicent.
She had been so busy that afternoon that she had put aside any thought of the excuse she would use hoping to be struck by inspiration.
Fortunately, Mildred had her own plans.
“Mr. North, nipfarthing though he is, has granted us permission to host some form of entertainment, provided we do not beggar him in the process,” she said.
Mr. Simpson raised both eyebrows. “I hardly think I am the best person to ask for advice in such matters.”
“You are the only person we know, Mr. Simpson, that we can ask,” continued Mildred. “After all, you selected this house, which is far too small and lacking a ballroom for traditional tonnish entertainment. We were hoping you would be able to suggest an assembly hall or some such we could hire.”
Millicent groaned, all in the interest of staying in character, she told herself. To her surprise Mr. Simpson did not turn to her in male sympathy, but continued to concentrate on Mildred. Millicent found her own eyebrows rising.
Could it be that Mr. Simpson returned her sister’s interest?
“We have been offered such kindness by the hostesses of the ton and it would be impolite to consume without offering reciprocation,” continued Mildred.
“Impolite, but inexpensive,” muttered Millicent and was ignored.
“A rental hall is not that unprecedented,” said Mr. Simpson, “since not all houses have the necessary facilities. Some hostesses take over the pleasure gardens for the evening, but I would not recommend that since it is generally regarded as a low class sort of entertainment with many opportunities for scandalous behavior.”
“Oh, no, of course not.” Mildred’s gasp was suitably shocked.
“Might I suggest an afternoon tea party? A picnic at one of the public gardens. An area can be reserved…” Mr. Simpson glanced toward Millicent. “At a reasonable rent.”
“And extra servants and food and tea,” muttered Millicent. “And new dresses and hats.”
“And an open carriage in which to arrive,” added Mildred.
“And parasols for when it rains,” shot back Millicent.
“I would recommend pavilions for the tea area itself, with both inside and outdoor seating, should the weather be unfavorable.” Mr. Simpson directed a smile to Mildred. “I would be honored to assist you with arranging the rentals.”
“Thank you, Mr. Simpson, but I simply could not take up so much of your time,” Mildred blushed and lowered her eyes. “If you would just direct me to the most reliable providers.”
“Oh, no. No trouble at all. It would be my pleasure.”
Millicent threw up her hands at that point. Mr. Simpson, it appeared, was as taken with her sister as her sister was with him. And the upshot was Millicent was going to have to pay for a party, and eventually, a wedding.
Fortunately, Mr. Simpson already knew how small a portion Mildred would have for a dowry. Since he was employed by the duke it was likely that for a wedding gift, Shoffer would grant him a small house for Mildred to occupy to begin her wedded life. Millicent could count on Simpson having well paid employment lifelong and a reasonable exposure to country society for Mildred to enjoy.
While Mr. Simpson and Mildred moved across the room to the escritoire to begin making lists for the party, Millicent began totting up in her mind the expenses of Mildred’s future life. Perhaps the amount in the Exchange could be added to annually? A gift for each child?
Mr. Simpson did not leave until quite late. Millicent escorted him to the door.
“I understand from His Grace, he intends to go to White’s after escorting Lady Beth to Almack’s tonight.” Mr. Simpson paused in the process of pulling on his gloves. “He did say something about applying to the patronesses for vouchers for your sisters.”
“I wish I had known,” said Millicent, “I would have begged he would not. An evening at home is not to be sneezed at. I find myself looking forward to Wednesdays.”
“Well, if you wish to find him, that is where he shall be. You are well enough known now, Mr. North, that if you were to go to White’s some other fellow might escort you in.”
“I have no intention of hanging about outside White’s like some ill-mannered dog banned from the house for chewing rugs with my nose pressed to the window waiting to be let back in. Tomorrow is soon enough to talk with Shoffer.”
Mr. Simpson gave her an odd look, but shook her hand without comment and departed. Millicent watched Mildred float up the stairs, her eyes glowing with the twin joys of becoming a society hostess and the promise of future meetings with Mr. Simpson to plan the details of her party. Sighing, Millicent retreated to her study.
She had no idea how other land owners managed during the season. Despite her efforts during the summer months to see to the properties and the conviction that once the harvest was in she could rest until next year, letters continued to arrive from her various tenants. Roofs, it seemed, waited until winter to leak, stock chose the worst weather to become ill, mines to flood. With her night hours caught up with taking her sisters about to tonnish events, the days spent visiting shops, Millicent found she had little time to manage those things that made the others possible. And, all the time in the back of her mind was the worry that one day her stewardship would be judged insufficient, the money would run out, and her deception would all be for naught.
After all, she was a young lady under this masculine clothing. With every letter that brought another potential farming disaster to her attention came the fear that she was missing something important. Something Mr. North, as the true heir to all this knew and she, as his mere secretary, had never learned.
Millicent settled at her desk reading and rereading her correspondence. She did not hear the clock ticking and chiming the hours of the night, nor the knock at the door that had one of her footmen shuffling to answer.
Shoffer’s voice, however, was enough to penetrate her concentration.
“I saw the lights still on downstairs. Are the family still awake?”
“Mr. North is in his study,” came the sleepy reply. “The ladies are abed.”
“If you would inquire…”
By that point Millicent was out of her chair, through the door, and facing Shoffer.
“Your Gracefulness, I did not think to see you tonight. Did Almack’s close its doors forever? Is White’s out of brandy? Come in. Come in and be comfortable. Is there anything you need?”
She could not wait to welcome him into her study. These were the times she enjoyed the most. Not those times when they walked and talked at balls, or explored London, but the quiet times seated near a fireplace. Shoffer’s face and body at rest, slumped in one chair while Millicent watched and admired and lusted from the other. These times when she alone held his attention. She did not need to be silly or strive to entertain him. Despite her disguise, these were the times when she was most herself and he was most desirable. Sometimes he would discard coat and cravat and she would be blessed with a rare opportunity to admire his form. She would watch his well-shaped lips form words and bathe her soul in the warmth of his voice and no one was the wiser.
Never for any money would she permit him to know her thoughts on such occasions. The heat filling her nether regions, melting her in that mysterious way, making her feel empty and hungry, was her own private pleasure and agony.
“We could not be so lucky,” said Shoffer wearily. “Almack’s survives still. No, I provided Beth with escort there and took her home and now I was thinking to spend the evening at one of my clubs. I thought you might wish to come along. It is past time you gave up your solitary ways and joined one or two. Boodle’s, perhaps. I am certain the gentlemen there would enjoy your conversation and company. I would be pleased to put your name forward. You need to make more friends than just myself, North.”
“Hardly that,” Millicent looked closely into his dear face. It hardly seemed possible that she could love him more when she saw him less, but that was the truth. He did look tired, even sad. “You do not look your usual self, Shoffer. Was Almack’s legendary lemonade worse than usual? Did you dance with every young lady and wear out your shoes?”
Shoffer sighed and glanced toward the footman currently leaning against the wall outside with eyes half closed.
“No, this cannot be avoided. I wish a private word with you, North.”
Millicent could feel the blood draining from her face. Whatever had happened to make Shoffer stern?
“Go to bed, James,” she said to the footman. “I shall find the brandy for His Grace.”
“I do not need brandy, thank you.”
The footman shambled off, too tired to remember to bow. Once the study door was shut Shoffer refused a chair and every other courtesy Millicent offered, choosing instead to stand, hands clasped behind his back, staring into the fireplace. Millicent hovered behind him.
Shoffer struggled to unclench his jaw. The words he needed to say sealed his mouth. Gossip at the clubs had intensified over the last few days. The betting books c
ontained all manner of subtly phrased bets. Now it was not only that North would be revealed as a person of degenerate morals, but the location and who else would be caught as his partner in crime was being discussed. No one dared to name Shoffer as yet, although the look in some of the ton elders' eyes hinted that speculation was rife.
Shoffer was forced to bite his tongue and ignore the looks, the snickers, and an unsubtle hint from one old roué that he would be happy to join him in his frolics.
He did not, could not, would not believe it true. He knew the rumors were not true of himself and North was an innocent, ignorant of the worse debaucheries of the world and Shoffer had no wish to be the person who ruined the virginity of his mind.
And yet he could not permit North to go wandering about in society unaware of the rumors that chased him. It occurred to him that if North was better known by his fellow gentlemen then the rumors would die. Who meeting North would think him capable of such a thing? Yes, he was a silly rattle. Yes, he found more opportunities to jest than seemed reasonable, but no, he was not degenerate in his person, opinions, or actions. A truly honorable, gentle, man.
Shoffer himself with rank to support and protect him was safe, but North was a mere country gentlemen and his cousins, ordinary misses, were particularly vulnerable to the worst damage gossip could cause.
Something had to be done, and soon, else the family would be cut from all good society.
“Shoffer? Your Grace?” There was a note in North’s voice that tore Shoffer’s conscience. “If I have offended…”
“No. No, North, you have not offended.” Shoffer turned to face his friend. “It is not you. It is the gossips of the ton. Purulent minds who see in innocent friendship degenerate intentions.”
Those words set North back on his heels. “I have no understanding of what you are saying.”
“I am certain that you do not and I wish I were not the one tasked with delivering this information, yet I cannot permit you to go on as you, as we, are!”
To Shoffer’s shock he saw a hint of tears forming in North’s eyes that were rapidly blinked away.
