A Gentleman For All Seasons

by Shana Galen, Vanessa Kelly, Kate Noble, Theresa Romain

  “That was quick. You were gone no more than two hours this morning.”

  “I make friends easily.” Whether or not he kept them was another matter.

  “True enough. I’ll ask Georgie, but I don’t think we’re engaged that evening. Who is it?”

  “The Martin family. They’re neighbors of yours. I met Miss Martin returning from Tunbridge Wells, or so I assume.”

  “Martin?” Bertie swirled his port. “I don’t know them, although I do believe I’ve seen Mr. Martin and his son a time or two. They’re neighbors, you say?”

  “Miss Martin said her father lives about a mile from where… we made our acquaintance. I would estimate two or three miles from the Friar’s House. We should ask Georgie what she knows. Shall we return to the drawing room?”

  Lochley rose and followed Bertie to where Miss Gage and her companion, a Mrs. Clotworthy, were taking tea and chatting.

  The drawing room was small but warm in feeling. The gold paper-hangings and rose accents enticed one to linger and study the variety of gewgaws displayed on cabinets and the mantel. It was a testament to the tedium of the country that Lochley had spent several hours staring at the portrait of the man above the mantel and sketching a life story for him in his mind. Lochley followed Gage into the room, and there was his old friend Felton—as he’d named the man in the portrait—and Miss Gage and her companion seated together on the chintz couch.

  “There you are,” Mrs. Clotworthy said with a yawn. “The hour grows late, and I would like Georgie to retire.” She reached over and patted Miss Gage’s hand. “You do need your rest, my dear.”

  Miss Gage looked quite well to Lochley—a little thinner and paler than before her illness, but well nonetheless. Certainly she didn’t need to retire at—he glanced at the bracket clock on the mantel—half past seven in the evening.

  Gad, but these country hours would be the end of him. Up at dawn and in bed before the sun had even set.

  “Before you retire, Georgie, Lochley informs me he has already made the acquaintance of our neighbor Miss Martin and has invited the Martin family to dine two nights hence.”

  Miss Gage’s brows shot up. “Really? How exciting.”

  Lochley could not think why another early dinner where the guests spent the majority of the evening discussing sheep would be exciting. He did want to see Miss Martin again. He’d been wondering what shade of red her hair was under that straw bonnet.

  “Martin?” Mrs. Clotworthy asked, perking up. “Oh dear, no. We can’t have them to dinner. Think of the scandal.”

  Lochley had been about to sit on the lounge to be lulled into a mindless stupor by chatter about livestock, but he straightened at the word scandal. That was a word with which he was familiar. His father said too familiar.

  Across from him, one arm resting negligently on the mantel, Bertie ceased swirling his port. “Only Lochley could root out scandal in Hemshawe.”

  “What scandal?” Lochley asked, somewhat offended. And perhaps secretly pleased. “Miss Martin seemed perfectly respectable to me.” Perhaps even a bit too respectable considering she’d had no qualms about covering herself in mud in order to free his curricle.

  “Oh, but she’s not respectable,” Mrs. Clotworthy said, her hand over her heaving bosom. “She’s not received.”

  “Why?” Lochley asked.

  Miss Gage leaned closer to her companion, her face the picture of anticipation. Whatever the sin Miss Martin had committed, Miss Gage had not been informed of its nature. Of course, there was really only one sin a woman committed that mattered, and Hemshawe hardly seemed a den of iniquity.

  “Well…” Seeming to know she’d captured her audience’s attention, Mrs. Clotworthy drew the word out. Miss Gage leaned even closer, until she was practically sitting on Mrs. Clotworthy’s lap. “I don’t know precisely, but I have heard rumors.”

  “Rumors.” Bertie scoffed as any reasonable man would. Gage was a reasonable man, Lochley thought, except when it came to his sister. “What could she have possibly done? Danced with the wrong man? Drank too much wine at an assembly?”

  “Oh no!” Mrs. Clotworthy’s voice had turned somewhat breathy. “It’s far worse than that. She left suddenly and without explanation, and she did not return for six months. When she came home, her mother said she had been visiting a distant cousin in the Portsmouth. ”

  Miss Gage’s face scrunched in bewilderment, and it took Lochley a beat before he understood what was implied. There were only two reasons a woman left suddenly—elopement or to birth a bastard. As Miss Martin had not returned with a husband, presumably she had birthed a child out of wedlock. She’d gone away for her confinement to keep her condition a secret and then presumably given the babe up for adoption.

  Lochley met his friend’s gaze. He could read Bertie’s expression without trying very hard. The two had been friends for a long time.

  Is this plausible? Bertie’s look asked.

  “Doubtful,” Lochley said aloud.

  Mrs. Clotworthy drew in a breath. “She was not visiting a distant cousin?” Her gaze flew to Miss Gage with concern. Poor Miss Gage still looked utterly mystified.

  “Doubtful that there is anything more to the story,” Lochley clarified. “As I said, the young lady seemed quite respectable to me.”

  Except, of course, now that he recalled their encounter, details stood out that hadn’t before. She hadn’t spoken as an innocent young country miss might. She’d understood he offered the mare a conjugal visit with Gage’s stallion, and she hadn’t shied away from calling it sexual favors. No innocent miss would use such a phrase lightly. And when he’d invited her to dinner, she’d asked if his hosts would approve, meaning she was well aware of her reputation and perhaps even accepting of it. Had she tried to defend herself in the face of such rumors? Or had she said nothing because, perhaps, the rumors were true?

  He would not venture down that avenue of thought because he knew all too well how often rumors were false. Why, he’d been rumored to have perpetrated dozens of acts he had never even considered, much less accomplished. More was the pity.

  “Then we shall be happy to have them to dinner,” Miss Gage said, rising. “Bertram certainly trusts Mr. Lochley’s judgment, and so do I.”

  Lochley cut his eyes to Bertie. If his old friend did trust his judgment, he wasn’t as intelligent as he used to be.

  “Right.” Bertie pushed away from the mantel. “I’ll send a note formally inviting the Martins in the morning. I don’t suppose you brought any suitable wine for the evening?”

  Bertie gave Lochley a sly look. The rogue. Lochley knew very well his friend had witnessed Victors overseeing the unloading of the crates with his favorite bottles of wine upon his arrival.

  “I’ll find something suitable,” Lochley promised.

  “Mr. Lochley is quite the wine expert,” Bertie told his sister and Mrs. Clotworthy. “When we were in France, he had the uncanny ability to taste a wine once and thereafter never forget the region from whence it hailed, the year it was bottled, and the vintner.”

  “How extraordinary!” Miss Gage exclaimed. “How ever did you develop such a talent?”

  Lochley gave her a polite smile. “You know they say Mozart composed his first concerto when he was but four or five? He was born with a propensity to play instruments and to compose music. I was born with a similar ability, only I have a very sensitive palate.”

  “Some men know horseflesh, others numbers, and Lochley knows his wine.”

  Lochley scowled at Bertie. It had long annoyed him that his one talent was not only one he had done nothing to develop but one that led to the innumerable and inevitable jokes about drunkenness. In fact, Lochley was rarely, if ever, drunk. And when he did seek that particular oblivion, he chose a decent brandy or a godawful gin, never a wine. He’d not waste a good wine on debauchery, and he couldn’t stand to drink a bad one.

  “How interesting!” Mrs. Clotworthy said. “You do know there are several viney
ards in the region around Hemshawe? I am told Hemshawe is second only to Wrotham in wine production.”

  “I have heard something of it,” he answered. Wine-making was not new to England. The Romans had introduced it when they’d conquered the island. It had declined in the intervening years, but the wealthy often maintained greenhouses and grew grapes under the heated glass. Lochley had tasted any number of gentleman’s amateur efforts at dinner parties and was of the opinion the English were quite right to smuggle French wines into the country, even during the Peninsular War.

  Miss Gage jumped to her feet, quite startling her companion. Lochley took an involuntary step back. He didn’t like the fervent look in Miss Gage’s eyes.

  “But this is wonderful, Mr. Lochley.”

  He forced himself to stand his ground, although the fire in her hazel eyes concerned him. “Why is that?”

  “Because of the Hemshawe Fair! Ever since Belinda Leonard married Adam Sturridge and went north to Scotland—”

  “Adam doesn’t actually live in Scotland,” Bertie interrupted.

  Miss Gage waved a hand. “—we’ve been at our wit’s end. The fair is rapidly approaching, and one of the most anticipated events of the fair is the wine-tasting.”

  “Oh, dear me, yes,” Mrs. Clotworthy added. “Lady Sturridge remarked just last week that the tasting would not be possible this year without a suitable judge.”

  “Why not use the judge from previous years?” Bertie asked.

  “Because Mr. Greenleaf was the judge in previous years,” Miss Gage said, as though the name itself was explanation enough.

  Lochley tossed Bertie a helpless look. “Mr. Greenleaf?” he asked. “The same Greenleaf from whom you let the Friar’s House?”

  “Yes, the same. He was quite the expert on pinot noirs—that is the wine made in Kent,” Miss Gage informed him. Fortunately, the fervent look in her eyes had waned. “But over the winter he contracted an ague that impaired his ability not only to smell but to taste.”

  “I see. I assume now that June is all but at an end, he has recovered.”

  “That is just it, Mr. Lochley.” Mrs. Clotworthy climbed to her feet, and Lochley felt as though he faced half the force of Napoleon. “The ague passed, but Mr. Greenleaf’s senses never recovered. To this day, if his eyes are closed, he cannot differentiate an apple from an onion or an orange from a carrot.”

  “But surely the texture—”

  She waved a hand, dismissing his objection. “Lady Sturridge saw the man bite into a lime and eat the fruit without even so much as a grimace. His palate is quite destroyed.”

  “That is indeed a tragedy, but I fail to see—”

  “Mr. Lochley, do not be obtuse,” Miss Gage said.

  Lochley exerted a valiant effort not to point out that when it came to rumors of young ladies disappearing to mysterious distant cousins for extended periods of time, he was not the one who was obtuse.

  “We will put your name forth as a judging candidate. Oh, I cannot wait to inform Lady Sturridge we have saved the Hemshawe Fair!” After this pronouncement, Miss Gage linked arms with Mrs. Clotworthy, and the two ladies glided from the room as though the question were quite decided.

  Lochley fell back into a chair and glowered up at Gage. “They didn’t even ask me.”

  “You were doomed from the first mention of wine.”

  “Your mention of wine.”

  Gage swallowed the last of his port. “The truth would have come out at any rate.”

  “I don’t suppose I can refuse. English wine.” He shuddered visibly for Gage’s benefit.

  “You’d hardly be a gentleman if you refused to save the Hemshawe Fair.”

  “I’m hardly the most chivalrous of gentlemen on my best days.” Today was certainly not one of his best days. The recent weeks in Town had not been among his best either.

  “I believe you came to the country to”—Gage cleared his throat—“turn over a new leaf—shall we say a grape leaf.”

  Lochley groaned.

  “Here is your chance, and you must admit, an afternoon tasting wine is no real hardship.”

  He’d certainly endured worse, and perhaps Miss Martin would attend the fair, though why he should care if Miss Martin, or any other country miss, attended the fair was beyond him. He didn’t care for the country or the young ladies who populated it. He need only endure until his exile from Town ended. Miss Martin would only be an unwelcome complication, and from the sound of it, her reputation would heap more scandal upon him. That was certainly an outcome to be avoided.

  She was to be avoided.

  After he hosted her at dinner. And, no, he was not counting down the hours.

  * * *

  Caro did not want to go to dinner. Amazingly enough, the formal invitation from Mr. and Miss Gage had arrived yesterday morning, sending the entire house into an uproar. Gowns must be retrimmed with new lace or ribbon, gloves must be cleaned, slippers must be examined.

  While Matthew and her father had looked on in bemusement, Caro’s mother had fluttered hither and thither, all aglow with excitement. Caro couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother so pleased or looking so pretty.

  She would have been thrilled to see her mother thus if not for the fact that it resulted from an invitation to dine. She tried suggesting she cry off because of the sudden onset of a megrim, but her mother would not hear of it. This was Caro’s chance to return to society. First the Gages, next the Greenleafs, and then Lord and Lady Sturridge. Caro rather doubted it, but she could not be so heartless as to disappoint her mother.

  And so on the appointed day, with Fanny’s help, she’d donned her best dress and allowed her hair to be curled and pinned until it barely resembled its usual straight, wispy style. Caro sat at her dressing table and stared in her tarnished mirror. Her eyes were wide and so blue they looked like bruises in her pale, drawn face. She pinched her cheeks so she did not look quite so pale with anxiety. Caro sincerely hoped Miss Gage knew nothing of her reputation. As that was quite impossible, she hoped Miss Gage was not the sort to make veiled remarks all evening that would shame her and embarrass her mother and father and anger her brother. She had endured situations like that one too many times and had no desire to ever do so again.

  Which was why she should not have agreed to this dinner! She should have pleaded a megrim no matter her mother’s objection.

  “Caro!” her mother called from the bottom of the stairs.

  The sound was like the clock striking the appointed hour on the day of her execution. That dashed Lochley and his dashed curricle. She jumped up and stomped out of her room, cursing the rainy weather, the roads, and even herself. Why had she agreed to walk into town that morning? She should have allowed her mother to send Fanny.

  She tempered her step before descending the stairs rather than face a scolding from her mother for sounding like the Royal Ascot. At the bottom of the stairs, her family turned to gaze at her, which sent a hot flush into her cheeks. She didn’t know why as she’d been gawked at and inspected on many occasions. Perhaps it was because this time she cared about the verdict.

  Her mother, who looked lovely in a russet gown that showed off hair a few shades darker auburn than Caro’s, smiled and nodded encouragement. Her father, dressed in breeches, coat, and cravat, gave her a stiff nod. His white hair had been slicked back from his high forehead, emphasizing his long thin nose and high cheekbones. Matthew had the same cheekbones and forehead, but his hair was a ruddy brown. He wore the same dress clothing as his father and looked even more uncomfortable. He was much more at home in his stained trousers and patched coat.

  “That’s something I haven’t seen in a while,” Matthew said, nodding at her hair.

  Caro touched a hand to it, hoping the curls hadn’t begun to go limp already.

  “You have a ribbon in your hair.” He pointed to it, his hand coming near enough to her coiffure that she shied away, afraid he would muss it. He loved nothing better than to ruffle
her hair on Sunday morning so she had to repin it. Inevitably, by the time she’d finished, it would be time to depart, and she’d have no breakfast.

  “You look very pretty,” her mother said. “The blue of the ribbon perfectly matches the dress. Doesn’t she look pretty, Matthew?”

  He grunted.

  “The carriage waits,” her father said. “I don’t like to keep the horses standing.” He opened the door, and she and her mother walked arm in arm.

  “Are you certain this ribbon doesn’t make me look too young?”

  “You are young,” her mother said. “Miss Gage is undoubtedly younger.”

  “But will she be festooned with ribbons?”

  “Stop fretting,” her mother said, and climbed into the carriage. Caro climbed in after her, wishing she’d told Fanny to leave the ribbon. She wasn’t sixteen any longer. She was twenty and too old for ribbons.

  And even if she hadn’t been twenty, she was no longer the sweet, innocent girl who wore ribbons and curls in her hair. She clenched her hands in her lap and stared out the window as her family made stilted conversation on the road to the Friar’s House. All too soon they’d arrived at the strangely beautiful building. She’d always admired the Friar’s House. She loved how the owners had retained the ancient architecture and incorporated the new. The old stone made her think of knights and fair ladies, valiant kings and princes battling dragons. A footman with a French accent helped her down from the coach, and a butler—also with a French accent—showed them into the drawing room. Strange. She had not known Hemshawe had such a large population of French émigrés.

  She knew she ought to pay attention to the furnishings, for her mother would surely wish to discuss it all later, but it took all Caro’s concentration to put one foot in front of the other.

  Finally, the drawing room doors opened. She had the impression of gold and porcelain before they were greeted by a dark-haired man with brown eyes. She judged him to be about five and thirty. “Welcome to the Friar’s House. Mr. and Mrs. Martin, how good of you to come. And Mr. Matthew Martin, I do believe we have met before.”