by Rose Lerner
Lord Bedlow could not have known that those words would advance his suit more than any amount of touching rhetoric. Mrs. Brown’s eyes took on an almost fanatical glow. “You have a Holbein?”
Lord Bedlow nodded. “There are over a hundred paintings. You ought to come out for a few days and look it over. They’re all over the house, and I think there are some boxes of sketches and things in the attic that no one’s looked at in years.”
Penelope grinned outright at the expression on her mother’s face-the face of a woman trying to remain honest when offered an overwhelming bribe.
Mrs. Brown returned to a safer subject. “So Venice really looks like it does in the paintings?”
“Exactly like. It is just as Childe Harold says, you know: ‘I saw from out the wave her structures rise / As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand…’”
Penelope was torn between laughing and gaping in astonishment. The Midas Touch indeed-her mother adored that passage.
“Really?” Mrs. Brown breathed.
“Oh, yes. I only wish the fourth canto had been published when Percy and Thirkell and I went, so that we might have read it to each other in St. Mark’s Square.”
“Will you read it to me?” Mrs. Brown asked. “Poetry isn’t the same unless you can hear it aloud, I find. But Mr. Brown doesn’t care for poetry, and Penny turns up her nose at Byron-”
Lord Bedlow shot a nervous glance at Penelope.
Penelope rolled her eyes. “Naturally I don’t insist that we agree on everything. If I did, it would only be an incentive to falsehood.”
He didn’t answer that; instead he said to Mrs. Brown, “Sometimes I read poetry aloud to myself, if there’s nobody about. But it does somewhat puzzle the servants, I find.” He gave her a smile that was like candlelight-bright yet somehow soft and friendly-and Penelope, for one insane moment, was jealous of her mother.
Mrs. Brown was clearly charmed-how could she help it? “I do that too. But you know-I haven’t got the voice for it, not really.”
“What do you mean?” Lord Bedlow sounded genuinely puzzled, and if Penelope hadn’t already been thinking of kissing him, she would have for that. “You have a perfectly pleasant voice.”
“Well,” Mrs. Brown said, nonplussed, “thank you, but what I mean is, it don’t sound quite like Lord Byron intended it, do it? With my accent, I mean. It doesn’t flow all crisp consonants and perfect vowels like yours.”
Lord Bedlow looked self-conscious. “All right. I’ll read you the fourth canto, but only if you promise to read me something by Mr. Keats.”
Penelope considered Keats a radical hothead. And she doubted the poet would be flattered by the notion that his verse might be best appreciated by hearing it read in Mrs. Brown’s motherly Cockney voice. But Mrs. Brown was flattered, so Penelope could not help being pleased.
Mrs. Brown fetched out the volume of Lord Byron, and Penelope prepared to feign interest; but she found herself rapidly enthralled. Lord Bedlow was a sensitive and engaging reader, and, what made him all the more dangerously appealing, it was evident that he read so well because he loved to do it-because he loved the poetry and wanted to share it. She was reminded disloyally of Edward, who was a charming conversationalist but could not read aloud at all. He had no gift for mimicry; he read everything as if it were a treatise on philosophy. Penelope had always thought it rather sweet. But she heard the music in Lord Bedlow’s voice, and something inside her echoed it.
No sooner had he finished than she impulsively asked, “Do you sing?” She was sure he must.
“What about Keats?”
She was impressed that he remembered and ashamed that she had forgotten. “Oh, of course, Mama-”
Mrs. Brown’s knowing smile made Penelope blush. “No, no, you children sing. I would love to hear that. Lord Bedlow can listen to me butcher the English language another time.”
Nev thought he had been doing all right; the Browns were less intimidating than he had expected and less different from himself. But Miss Brown had barely spoken all evening, and it worried him. So he was inordinately relieved when she asked if he sang-and asked with real interest. And he was, he admitted to himself, very eager to hear her sing.
She rose and went to the piano. She looked perfectly composed, but her movements were a little clumsy. She glanced at him while she was getting out the music and blushed when their eyes met. He smiled and went to her side.
She was leafing through Arne’s settings of Shakespearean songs and stopped at “Under the Greenwood Tree,” glancing up at him for approval. He nodded, though the choice was an awkward one; it was a song he had sung often with Amy. She played the opening notes and began to sing in a clear, sweet contralto. After a few bars he joined in.
She was no opera singer, of course-neither was he. But, Nev realized, their voices fit together somehow. They seemed instinctively to know when to rise and when to fall in harmony, when to soften and when to strengthen. When the duet was over, he found himself wanting to sing another, and another. Instead he shook himself and turned to her parents. “I don’t wish to overstay my welcome. I thank you for a very pleasant evening.”
Mrs. Brown smiled at him and opened her mouth, but she was forestalled by Mr. Brown, who cleared his throat. “If you’d wait in the other room for a moment, my lord, I’d be much obliged to you.”
He was taken aback, and Miss Brown said, “Papa, you can’t mean to ask the earl-”
But it was Nev’s role tonight to be obliging, so he said, “It’s no bother, honestly,” and let a servant show him into a room across the hall, where half a dozen fine wax candles were already lit. Nev looked at that sign of wealth and plenty, and prayed he had been charming and obliging enough. Or had he been too charming and obliging? What if they all thought him an even more inconsequential fellow than before?
He had begun to fidget when Miss Brown came in, sooner than he expected. He stood at once, waiting for her parents to follow her, but instead she was accompanied by a maid who took up a seat in the far corner of the room. Miss Brown came up to him, looking very awkward and pressing her hands together.
“If it’s a no,” he said, “just tell me straight out.”
She glanced up at him. “It isn’t a no.” He couldn’t tell whether she was pleased. “You have my father’s leave to purchase a license.”
He knew he should thank her and go before any of them could change their minds. “Are you quite sure? If you wish, I can wait a few days before I send the notice to the Gazette.”
She hesitated, but she shook her head. “I’m sure. Besides, the sooner you announce our engagement the better. Once the word is out, your creditors will stop hounding you.”
That would be nice for his family. “Thank you.”
She tried to smile. “You were very kind to my parents-thank you.”
“I like them.” It would horrify his mother, but it was the truth. He wasn’t sure she believed him, but her smile was real this time.
An hour after Nev announced his engagement to his family, his mother was still crying in her room. At last Louisa came soberly down the stairs.
“Has she turned off the waterworks yet?”
Louisa shook her head. “She blames herself, Nate. She thinks if she had been able to control Papa, you wouldn’t have to make this tragic sacrifice.” She looked at him sorrowfully. “You should have let me do it, Nate. I was prepared.”
“Louisa, don’t be a goose. We aren’t living in a Minerva Press novel. I’m just glad you gave me the idea. I might not have thought of Miss Brown otherwise.”
Her eyes flew wide. “I gave you the idea? Oh, my wretched, wretched tongue! Oh, poor Nate!” She flung herself on him.
“Don’t take on so.” He tried to fend her off. “I daresay you’ll like Miss Brown.”
“Never!” Louisa said fiercely. “I shall detest her eternally!”
“You won’t. Wait till you meet her. She likes music.”
“Oh, Nate, you’re so brave
!”
He threw up his hands and left the house.
Nev would have preferred to take a few days to screw his courage to the sticking point before going to see Amy. But he had sent the notice to the Gazette, and a gentleman did not let a woman find out a thing like that from the Gazette.
He walked slowly up the stairs to Amy’s house, as he had hundreds of times. He didn’t even make it all the way to the top before the door opened and Amy looked out. He looked at her, but he didn’t see her brown eyes or the mischievous tilt of her mouth or even the small, creamy breasts that curved into the clean white muslin of her frock. He didn’t remember the year of laughter and sex and casual affection they had shared. He looked at Amy and all he could see were the thousands of pounds she had cost.
She smiled. “Hullo, Nev. ”
He tried to smile back, but he felt a little sick. “Hello, Amy.”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “I was about to have lunch. Will you join me, or would you rather go straight to bed?”
“Actually, I-I need to talk to you.”
She frowned, but she took him into her salon and sat down on the settee, leaving plenty of room for him. He took a chair. Her face changed a little, but she didn’t say anything.
“I reckon you’ve heard my father left us just about ruined.”
She nodded. “I’d heard, but I hoped the rumors were exaggerated.” She paused and looked down. “ Nev, my friends would laugh at me if they heard this, but-I’ve been saving. I could loan you as much as five hundred pounds, if you needed it.”
“I owe tens of thousands.”
“Oh.”
“That’s not the problem.” He waved his hands about, as if maybe they could say this for him. They couldn’t. “I’m fixing that. That’s what I came here to tell you. Amy, I-I’m getting married.”
For a second her face was blank-and then, to his surprise, it flooded with relief. “Oh, Nev! You frightened me for nothing! Did you think I would scream or throw the gravy boat at your head?” She smiled at him. “I don’t say I won’t be sorry not to have you all to myself anymore, but I know I’m spoiled. Don’t worry about it any longer.”
Nev knew it was unreasonable and unfair, but he felt an instinctive revulsion, a delicacy he would have sworn he did not possess, at the idea of leaving Miss Brown quietly sleeping at home and sneaking off to see Amy. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Amy. I can’t do that. This is good-bye.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
He couldn’t tell her she was too expensive. So he told her the other reason. “I promised her. No mistresses.”
Amy’s eyes narrowed. “She made you promise that, did she? The slave trade’s been abolished, or hadn’t you heard? She’s bought your title, Nev, but she doesn’t own you. What’s it to her if you get a bit on the side?”
“That’s not fair, Amy. The poor girl’s getting a bad enough bargain.”
Amy raised her eyebrows. “Oh, is she? Who is it?”
Nev looked away. “Miss Brown.”
He heard Amy draw in a sharp breath. “Oh. Well, I said she was your type, didn’t I?”
Nev nodded.
“I daresay she’s thrilled. A brewer’s daughter generally has to settle for the old, ugly earls, never mind how pretty she is, and instead she gets you, handsome and young and charming and foolish enough to believe you’re a bad bargain.”
Nev looked up at Amy, remembering her wistfulness when she’d said Wouldn’t me mum have liked to lord it in a fine house in Russell Square? It was in her voice again. He didn’t understand it at first, but she thought he had, and she answered the question she thought he was asking.
“No, I never thought for a second you’d marry me, Nev. I wasn’t dropped on my head as a baby. But a girl can’t stop herself wishing it every so often, can she?” She smiled ruefully at him. “Even if you wanted me, I wouldn’t have you now you’re penniless. Don’t worry about me, Nev. I’ll be fine. I do hope you’ll be happy.”
“I hope so too.” Nev was relieved that the awkwardness seemed to be over. “Listen, Amy, I wanted to buy you a pretty diamond bracelet or something for a good-bye present, but I thought-well, I thought maybe the money would be more useful. Your rent’s paid to the end of the quarter, and-I brought you a hundred and fifty pounds.”
She looked at the money as he counted it out of his pocket. “How very practical of you,” she said with a smile. “I suppose you’ve learned this week how hard it is to sell pretty diamond bracelets for what you paid for them. Thank you, Nev. ”
He smiled back at her.
“Did her father give you an advance?”
He shook his head. “I sold Tristram.”
Her mouth flew open. “Oh, Nev! Not Tristram! He was your favorite horse!”
“Second favorite. I kept Palomides.”
She sighed. “I can’t believe you sold Tristram to pay my rent. But I suppose you couldn’t soil the future Countess of Bedlow by using her money to pay off a girl like me.” She looked at him. “I did make you happy, Nev, didn’t I?”
He nodded.
She swallowed hard. “Well, thank you, Nev. It’s been a good year. Would you like to stay to lunch?”
He shook his head.
She stood and held out her hand-not palm-down to be kissed, but sideways to be shaken, just as Mr. Brown had at the conclusion of their negotiations. He shook her hand; she showed him to the door. “Good-bye, Nev. Look me up if you change your mind.”
Thirkell beamed. “Congratulations! Bring on the champagne! Who’s the lucky girl?”
“No champagne,” Nev said.
Percy looked as if he understood a little better. “An heiress?”
Nev nodded. “Miss Brown.”
“Brandy, then.” Percy strode to the decanter and took out the stopper. Nev could smell the brandy, and he wanted it; he wanted something that would burn as it went down, burn away the worry and the confusion and the sad look on Amy’s face. It smelled like a sickly sweet promise of heaven.
“No brandy either,” he said with difficulty.
Percy raised his eyebrows. “ Nev, you’ve done nothing but mope since Lord Bedlow died. You’re wound tight as a spring, and you need to relax. Now have a glass of brandy and then we’ll go out and have some fun, forget about all this for a few hours, and in the morning things won’t seem so bad.”
Percy was right, Nev thought. What could it hurt? A few glasses of brandy, a few games of cards, a few hours when he wasn’t thinking about Louisa turning shabby-genteel or the look of politely hidden disapproval on Miss Brown’s face. He deserved that, didn’t he, after the past few weeks? Percy was already pouring the glass; Nev held out his hand.
“Yes, come on, Nev,” Thirkell said. “Perhaps you’ll have a run of luck and you can call the whole thing off!”
Nev plucked the decanter out of Percy’s hand and stoppered it. “Yes.” He hardly recognized his own voice. “I suppose that’s what my father kept telling himself too.”
Percy gave Thirkell a sharp glance. “Thirkell didn’t mean that, Nev. Stop being so melodramatic. A glass of brandy won’t send you to the graveyard. Now drink it, and then we’ll go to the theater and have a good time. We’ll even go the opera if you like.”
“I sold the box,” Nev said. “All of them.”
Percy sighed. “All right, we’ll stand in the pit. Amy won’t mind. You’ll be married soon enough, and then you can buy them all back.”
Nev was suddenly furious. “No. I can’t. And I gave Amy her congé.”
Thirkell gaped. “You did what? Nev, how could you?”
“I’m getting married!”
Percy gave Nev the severe look that meant he was about to read Nev a lecture in which common sense featured prominently. It reminded him of Miss Brown a little. “It’s not as if it’s a love match, Nev. You’re mad about Amy. You deserve to keep something fun in your life. I think sobriety has unbalanced your brain. Pan métron áriston, you know.”
>
“Don’t quote Greek at me!” Moderation in all things-that was exactly what Nev was trying to do. He was trying to curb the excess that had led his father to ruin. “And anyway, Miss Brown asked me to be faithful. What was I to say? ‘Thank you for your money and your future, but I’ll do as I please’?”
Percy’s jaw set. “How dare she? Trying to get you under the cat’s paw already and not even married! What business is it of hers if you keep a mistress? She’ll be Lady Bedlow, isn’t that what she wants? That’s the problem with Cits, they think everything can be bought, even affection-”
Nev snatched the glass of brandy out of Percy’s hand and splashed the liquor into the fire, aware that it had been expensive and feeling guilty and furious. Moderation had never been his forte. “Stop it. That’s not fair. She’s-” He stopped. He did not know how to explain Miss Brown.
Besides, part of him was touched by Percy’s anger on his behalf. And, worse still, there was a small shameful part of him that agreed with Percy. He had looked at Miss Brown’s neat little list and thought, Merchant. In a minute he would give in; in a minute he would apologize and let Percy pour another glass.
Nev looked at his two oldest friends and hated his father. But that wasn’t fair either. It was his own fault, his fault for being too weak. His fault for wanting that glass of brandy and a night at the theater with Amy more than anything else in the world.
He had lived like this for the past six years: drinking the night away with Percy and Thirkell at a never-ending stream of gaming hells and Cyprian’s Balls, curricle-racing, attending the theater, spending as little time as possible at Loweston except when the three of them had a mind to do a little fishing. Just like his father. He could scarcely imagine any other way of living. That was why he had to do this. “I think that you two need to leave.”
Percy threw up his hands. “Fine. We’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe by then you’ll have come to your senses and begged Amy to take you back.”
“No. I-oh, Christ.” Nev ’s voice was still firm, but on the inside he could feel himself cracking. He was weak and miserable and nothing could ever make this right, but he had to do it. “Percy, Thirkell, you can’t come back. I’m sorry, but you can’t.”
