by M C Beaton
“So I keep hearing,” said the earl dryly. “It seems I am become an ogre even to my best friend.”
Mr. Clifford blushed. “It ain’t that I’m not grateful to you for all the messes you’ve pulled me out of in the past, Rupert, it just seems terribly stuffy to go on like a Dutch uncle over an innocent taking of tea. When did you ever think it odd to look at pretty girls?”
“Never,” grinned the earl. “What has made this Bascombe’s so violently popular again?”
“Haven’t you heard? Little Miss Bascombe sent a statuette of Brummell to him, made out of sugar, the most wonderful thing anyone has ever seen.”
“Clever of her,” said the earl thoughtfully. “Very clever.”
“Why don’t you have a look at the place for yourself,” said Mr. Clifford eagerly. “I know what it is—you’re worried about Sarah stuffing her face with cakes. You’re not really worried about Charles or me. It’s not as if we aren’t old enough to look after ourselves. But Sarah has always had a terribly sweet tooth, and if you forbid her to either go or send the servants to Bascombe’s, she’ll simply go back to Gunter’s. Besides, you can’t stop anyone eating these days. There’s such a monstrous deal of food around.”
“For those that can afford it,” said the earl. “And those that can could exist on a fraction of what they eat. Someone who shared dinner for two at Lord Stafford’s told me they dined on soup, fish, fricassee of chicken, cutlets, venison, veal, hare, vegetables of all kinds, tart, melon, pineapple, grapes, peaches and nectarines, and with six servants to wait on the two of them.
“But I shall certainly call on Bascombe’s, Guy. It is ridiculous of me to damn a place I have never set foot in.”
The earl appeared at Bascombe’s just before closing time. He had decided that his fears were groundless and that the ladies there would prove to be quite ordinary shopgirls pretending to be duchesses.
He ordered turtle soup and sat at a small table and looked at Henrietta, Charlotte, and Josephine with a sinking heart. They were each of them beautiful in quite a different way. They were undoubtedly ladies by birth, although their present occupation had certainly reduced them to the ranks of the demimonde. But the earl knew how terribly susceptible his younger brother and best friend were. Beauty decked out in domestic aprons and surrounded by food. The combination was hellishly seductive.
Henrietta studied her customer curiously. He was drinking his soup as though it were poison. She decided he was by far the most attractive man she had ever seen since she had come to London. The exquisites were too feminine, the masculine members of the Corinthian set too brutish in their sports and manners.
This gentleman, mused Henrietta, looked powerful and strong, and yet there was a certain sensitivity in his harsh face and drooping eyelids. He glanced up and caught her staring at him, and looked steadily back, his black, black eyes giving nothing away. Henrietta stood rigid, one hand on the counter of the shop, feeling as shaken as if he had tried to assault her.
Josephine passed close to her with a tray of confectionery. “One of the ladies who has just left,” she murmured in Henrietta’s ear, “said that that over there, eating soup, is none other than our enemy, the Earl of Carrisdowne.”
“Oh,” said Henrietta weakly. “He is not at all what I expected.”
She had built up in her mind a picture of a middle-aged tyrant with a brutal face—despite the fact that the lady customers had said he was handsome. Anyone with a title and a fortune was vowed handsome, that much Henrietta had learned very quickly.
Since six in the evening was now the regular hour for closing, by ten to six the last of the customers had collected hats and canes, shawls and reticules, and were making their way out. Still the earl stayed.
Charlotte was the next to flutter up. “That is Carrisdowne,” she whispered, and when Henrietta nodded, added, “Why does he not go?”
“Because I think he wishes to speak to me,” said Henrietta. She was now calm. The earl was a man like any other. He had a great deal of power but fortunately not more than Mr. Brummell.
“Get Miss Hissop and Josephine, and stay in the back shop with Esau until I call you,” muttered Henrietta. “I can handle this better alone.”
The earl sat listening to the hissings and mutterings as the ladies tried to stay while Henrietta shooed them all into the back shop.
Then she walked to the door and drew down the blind and, turning to the earl, said sweetly, “We are now closed, sir. I do not wish to hurry you, but as you have finished your soup…”
The earl’s black eyes locked with Henrietta’s brown ones. “I stayed quite deliberately, madam,” he said. “I have something to say to you.”
Henrietta unpinned her apron and folded it neatly on the counter. Then she unpinned her frivolous cap with the jaunty streamers. She would face this adversary as a lady, not as a shopgirl.
She sat down opposite the earl. “Very well, Lord Carrisdowne,” said Henrietta Bascombe. “What is it you wish to say?”
Chapter Four
The earl looked thoughtfully at Henrietta’s flushed face and bright eyes.
“I shall speak to you plain, Miss Bascombe. My brother, Lord Charles Worsley, and my friend, Mr. Clifford, are frequent customers here.”
Henrietta nodded. “They come every day when they are in town.”
“Delicious as your confections appear to be, I am persuaded that the attraction is either yourself or the two other ladies who work for you.”
“Indeed?” Henrietta tilted her little chin defiantly.
“Yes, indeed. Both Mr. Clifford and my brother are gullible young men.”
“I would not call Mr. Clifford exactly young,” interrupted Henrietta.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” said Henrietta.
“Mr. Clifford is twenty-nine but is young for his years. Charles is twenty-three. I have rescued both in the past from unsuitable alliances—an opera dancer and a member of the fashionable impure, to be precise.”
“Since no one here belongs to either set, I do not see—”
“Madam, I wish you to repel any advances these two men might make to you or your companions, or it will be the worse for you,” grated the earl.
“How dare you!” raged Henrietta. “We are all ladies.”
“It seems to me,” he said calmly, “that you were all ladies at one time. But not now. Ladies do not go into trade.”
“Let me tell you, my fine buck,” said Henrietta, “that I do not consider you a gentleman. Making malicious remarks to stop society from coming here. What on earth do you have against four poor women trying to make a living?”
“Women such as yourself, whom the good Lord has seen fit to place among the gentry, do not work. They marry.”
“Pooh,” said Henrietta. “I do not wish to get married. I am much better off as I am.”
“You… do… not… wish… to… get… married?” The earl looked dumbfounded. There had been an unmistakable ring of truth in her voice.
“No.”
He looked at her shrewdly. “And your female assistants. Do they feel the same?”
Henrietta bit her lip. The truth was that despite her desire to turn Charlotte and Josephine into businesswomen, she knew that in their hearts of hearts they were ashamed of being in trade and had their lives back in Partlett not been so thoroughly nasty, they would have returned on the first available stage.
“They are as competent as myself when it comes to making their own way,” she said. “Tell me, my lord, I can understand you forbidding your younger brother to go anywhere of which you disapprove. It amazes me, however, that you should be able to command Mr. Clifford.”
“I do not command my friend to do anything. I merely suggest—”
“And tag on a warning.”
“No. I merely point out the obvious. You have all gone into trade, and therefore you are none of you marriageable.”
“Let me tell you, my lord, that somehow, somewh
ere, there must be a man who does not care—who would be proud of us. We have proved that gently bred ladies can earn their wages.”
He rose to his feet. “Let me know when you find him, Miss Bascombe. I have never yet met a saint.”
“Oh, do not rush off,” said Henrietta sweetly, “without telling me what you will do should I not carry out your wish regarding your brother and friend.”
“If either my brother or Mr. Clifford should be so addlepated as to propose to one of you and be accepted, then I shall… I shall—”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Damn you, madam, I shall be very angry indeed!”
Henrietta’s enchanting trill of laughter followed him out into the street. He marched to the corner of Half Moon Street and Piccadilly and stopped. He turned and looked back.
It had been snowing lightly that day, a fresh fall. The warm lights from the confectioner’s shone a welcome into the cold street. The golden pineapple above the door swung in the wind.
He felt an odd mixture of fury and exultation. She had had the better of him, but By George he was looking forward to the forthcoming battle! But what on earth could he do to them now that they enjoyed the patronage of Mr. Brummell?
Every woman had her price, the earl thought cynically. Imagine any woman declaring—and meaning it—that she had no interest in marriage.
Although he had not yet met any woman who had found enough favor in his eyes to make him want to take her as wife, he was well aware that, for their part, the ladies fell before him like ninepins. He had not been back in London a week before they were up to every plot and plan to catch his attention. But cynical acquaintances were quick to point out that his title and fortune were the attraction. And I imagined it was because I might be perhaps as handsome as they claim I am, the earl had thought gloomily.
“Miss Bascombe has now made me feel that she, at least, would not take me under any terms,” he muttered to himself.
He walked up Piccadilly past the Green Park, still deep in thought, with a bright little picture of Henrietta, all flushed face, bright eyes, and heaving bosom, dancing before his eyes.
Suppose… just suppose he made Miss Bascombe fall in love with him… . She was the owner and the driving force behind the business. Were she in love with him, she would gladly go for walks and drives with him, and the business would falter and die. By the time she discovered he really had no interest in her at all, other than keeping her and her assistants away from his brother and friend, it would be too late.
He had never tried to make a woman fall in love with him before. But it should be quite easy. Women had nothing else in their heads but fashions and flowers, beaux and romances.
Yes, definitely a challenge. And by pretending to court Henrietta, he could visit the shop often and make sure Guy and Charles were behaving themselves.
Something, also, would have to be done about Sarah. Although he was quite good at disciplining Charles, he had never been able to do anything with Sarah. His face cleared. His mother, the Dowager Countess of Carrisdowne, who had been taking the waters at Bath, had written only that day to say she was much improved.
Very well. Sarah should be sent to Bath. Instead of making her come-out at the Season in London, she could make her debut at the famous spa. It would not matter if nothing came of it. She was still very young. But Mama would see to it that she kept away from treacherous confectioners and their devilish wares.
The problem of Sarah having been dealt with, the earl turned his mind once more to Miss Bascombe. He enjoyed thinking about her. She was such a defiant little miss. It would be enjoyable to bring her down a peg. He could hardly wait to begin.
“And,” ended Henrietta, looking around the kitchen, “do you know what his terrible threat was? He threatened to become very angry with me.” She laughed and laughed, until she realized no one was joining in.
The kitchen maids had returned to their homes, and Henrietta was seated at the kitchen table surrounded by Charlotte, Josephine, Miss Hissop, and Esau.
“What is the matter?” she cried. “There is nothing to be afraid of. He can’t do anything to Bascombe’s.”
“No,” said Charlotte sadly. She stood up and kissed Henrietta on the cheek. “And now you must excuse me. I am so very tired and shall feel better for an early night.”
“I, too,” said Josephine, trailing out after her.
“Going out for a bit, mum,” said Esau, sidling out the back door.
Henrietta looked in amazement at Miss Hissop. “What is wrong with them? I told them the wicked earl cannot do anything to Bascombe’s.”
“I think he can, however, make sure that Mr. Clifford and Lord Charles do not marry either of them,” said Miss Hissop quietly.
“Oh.” Henrietta put her hands up to her hot cheeks. “I was feeling so triumphant at having got the best of him that I quite forgot. Bascombe’s means so very much to me. But alas for Josephine and Charlotte. All they want to do is fall in love and get married. It is most odd of them.”
“Henrietta,” cried Miss Hissop. “I beg of you… you are not talking sense, you know. What is it all for? The Season and the gowns and the duennas? Almack’s, the Italian opera, the routs, the fetes, the breakfasts? Why… so that John may marry Jill! There is no other future for a lady! If she does not marry, and the family is not rich, then she may be lucky enough to find a post as a companion… or governess.
“Have you not considered my plight? We are making a great deal of money, but we also spend a great deal creating novelties. Flour is a wicked expense. What if we lose all? And I… poor Miss Hissop… am buried in a pauper’s grave? Have you no feelings? Why not be done and give my poor old body to the anatomists at St. George’s Hospital? Oh, lovely black horses and weeping mutes, where are you now? Gone. Alas, all gone.”
“If only I were a man, the Carrisdownes of this world would not plague me so,” said Henrietta. “Please, do not distress yourself. We are all so tired. So very tired. You may stay in bed tomorrow, all day long, and rest.”
“No,” said Miss Hissop, striking her scrawny bosom with her fist. “I shall see it through. When Bascombe’s lies at my feet in ashes and ruins, I shall say hah to the Fates.”
“Go and say hah to your pillow, my good friend,” said Henrietta gently. Miss Hissop was behaving so oddly and so… well, insanely… that her conscience was smiting her. She should never have persuaded this timid spinster into coming to London.
Had the shrewd Earl of Carrisdowne been there, perhaps he might have told Miss Bascombe that Miss Hissop was enjoying her dramatics immensely. But he was not, and so Henrietta led her old friend upstairs to the dormitory, waited until she had undressed, and then tucked her into bed as if she were a child.
“Do not worry about a thing, dear Ismene,” she said, kissing a worn cheek. Henrietta had never called Miss Hissop by her first name before, but the older woman now appeared to her as defenseless as a child.
Henrietta quietly blew out the candle beside Miss Hissop’s bed and left the room—but not before she had heard a stifled sob from Charlotte’s bed.
“Should I have left them all behind?” anguished Henrietta to herself. “But Josephine might have been beaten to death by now, and Charlotte might have died of cold or starvation, or both.”
Then she thought of the earl. Somehow, things would work out. She would make them work out. If only for the pleasure of showing the earl that he could not stop her.
Why, oh why, had Josephine and Charlotte had to fall in love so soon? Henrietta had planned to amass a fortune and then persuade Miss Hissop to take them all to Bath and chaperon them at the assemblies. They would be respectable again by that time and with large dowries. Henrietta did not plan to find a husband for herself. She had only dreamed of the pleasure of seeing Josephine and Charlotte comfortably settled.
She tidied up the remaining dishes in the kitchen and washed out the sticky metal trays.
Water was supplied to the shop—as it was suppl
ied to all the houses of the West End—only twice a day, and then it had to be pumped up into a cistern on the roof. It was one of Esau’s many chores.
Esau. Esau, too, would need to be taken care of. He must never return to the workhouse.
Feeling suddenly exhausted, Henrietta went out into the street and paid the night watchman sixpence so that he might shout extra loudly outside their shop at six in the morning and wake them up.
The next day they were as busy as ever, and each had little time to worry about personal matters. Mr. Clifford and Lord Charles were, however, upset to find that neither Josephine nor Charlotte had a smile for them.
Lord Charles and Mr. Clifford finally took their leave and walked along the street, arm in arm.
“Not so jolly there today,” remarked Lord Charles casually. “Pretty widow, Mrs. Webster. Don’t like to see her so quiet and withdrawn.”
“Miss Archer didn’t even look at me,” said Mr. Clifford, tossing a coin to a crossing sweeper. They gloomily picked their way across Half Moon Street and into Curzon Street.
“Tell you what it is,” said Lord Charles. “I think Rupert’s behind this. Think he’s scared ’em off.”
“Think you’re right,” said Mr. Clifford.
“By George,” said Lord Charles, “I wish I could handle him like Sarah. She ups this morning and tells him he’s a horrible martinet, has no soul, no feeling, and is nothing more than a piece of cannon fodder in dandy’s clothing.”
“Did he whip her?” asked Mr. Clifford with interest.
“Not he. Wouldn’t strike any woman, especially not his own sister,” said Lord Charles. “He’d told her she was to go to Mama in Bath and drink the waters and forsake the confectioners, so she ripped up at him.”
“But she went, didn’t she?” asked Mr. Clifford.
“Yes.”
“Well, ain’t that what always happens? He always gets his way.”
“But, dash it all, she’s only seventeen and has been summoned by Mama as well as being bundled off by Rupert. Not the same as me.”
