by Betina Krahn
“Well, yer lordship, this ’ad better be good.”
Chapter Five
The sun made a spectacular appearance that Monday morning in Piccadilly, giving a jewellike luster to Green Park, which lined one side of the broad thoroughfare, and making the windows of the fashionable residences on the other side of the street shine as if they were gilded. The air was filled with the rhyming calls of vendors, the clop of hooves, and the banter between servants and tradesmen, while the avenue itself bustled with traffic: greengrocers’ and bakers’ pushcarts, milk wagons, and tradesmen of all kinds hurrying to make deliveries to their most lucrative clientele.
Among those making their way down Piccadilly, just before nine o’clock, was Remington Carr. His exquisitely tailored dress—understated charcoal suit, black vest and matching silk tie, and fashionable, square-crowned Cambridge bowler—set him apart from the others in the street. Few of the social elite were ever out and about before ten in the morning, and if it had been up to him, he would not have been out and about either. Beneath his hat his dark hair was still slightly damp, and his freshly shaved face was a bit gray, the result of a late night and of being roused at an ungodly hour to prepare for his first day of “women’s work.”
Searching the house numbers, he mentally compared them to the one on the card in his vest pocket. It couldn’t be much farther, he thought to himself, reaching into his coat to check his pocket watch. He didn’t want to be late. Nor did he want to arrive too early or appear too eager—though, quite truthfully, there was little danger of that. In the clear light of day, without the golden glow cast over events by excellent champagne, the wager, and in fact the entire enterprise, was losing some of its allure. Romancing a matrimonially-minded dragon, while prowling around her house with a feather duster in his hand, was not an especially inviting prospect.
But before he could slide too deeply into disgruntlement, he found himself staring at a set of polished brass house numbers that looked familiar. His field of vision widened to take in a small iron gate and four stone steps that led to the front doors of Paxton House. Halting, he stepped out into the street to have a look.
It was a large town house, five or six stories, made in the Romantic Gothic tradition: gray stone, pristine white parapets, tall, arched windows, and graceful winglike shutters. The double front doors were painted black and fitted with brass handles and knockers that were kept at high gloss. On either side of the door were stone planters filled with ivy and blossoming geraniums. He scowled.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he had expected … something with gargoyles and flying buttresses, perhaps. But this house seemed so quietly grand and gracious, right down to its well-tended geraniums, that it somehow unsettled him. He checked the house number on the card and confirmed that it was indeed the place. Squaring his shoulders and fortifying himself with dire images of Antonia Paxton bursting through countless bedroom doors with holy fire in her eyes, he headed through the gate.
A hoary-headed old houseman answered his knock and gave him an insultingly thorough looking-over before shuffling off to announce him. The old fellow returned a moment later with Lady Antonia herself in tow. Remington felt that coil of tension in his middle tighten another notch at the sight of her.
She wore a charcoal-gray skirt and a matching jacket trimmed with rows of small velvet-covered buttons and a prim white collar. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a full chignon that somehow accentuated her large blue eyes, and her face bore a fetching brush of high color. As she came toward him, she smiled, and Remington felt an odd weightless sensation in his stomach … which he put down to vengeful anticipation.
“Your lordship.” She halted several feet away, clasping her hands at her waist the way school mistresses are wont to do when they are being extremely patient. “You’re prompt. That is good to know.”
“I have a number of redeeming qualities, Lady Antonia,” he said warmly, handing off his hat to the old butler, then dropping his gloves one at a time into its upturned crown. He closed the distance between them, smiling his most charming smile. “Punctuality is only one of them. I would not want you to think I had welshed on our wager … not even for a minute.”
“Excellent,” she said, stepping back. “Then you’re ready to begin. If you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you to my household and your duties.” She led him across a vaulted center hall that was constructed of soaring Gothic arches, and he could have sworn the daft old butler said something very like “poor bastard” as he shuffled away.
She led him into a drawing room and into the midst of a veritable sea of women who were seated on plush divans, fringed settees, and at tea tables. All had some degree of white in their hair, all were clothed in dark colors done up with a white blouse or collar, and all wore tidy lace caps, except one—a rather knotty old woman who wore an extravagantly flounced red dress and a straw bonnet that seemed to be erupting with papier-mâché fruits. His confusion must have shown in his face, for Lady Antonia smiled as if she had expected it.
“Do come in, Lord Carr, and meet my family.” She went to stand beside the chair of a dignified elderly woman with a gently aged and beatific countenance. “This is my aunt, Dame Hermione Paxton-Fielding, widow of First Admiral Sir Thomas Edgerton Fielding.”
“Also of Sir Dennis Stewart, Mr. Peter Binghampton, and Brigadier Stephen Devere. It’s important to remember and give credit where it is due,” the old cherub said with an upraised finger. Then she rose and extended her hand with a twinkle in her eye. “It’s an honor, your lordship.”
“The pleasure is mine, madam,” he said, bowing over the old lady’s hand with as much dignity as he could muster while trying to make belated sense of what Antonia had said to him. This was her family? When he looked up, a tall woman with large, bony features and a severe expression filled his vision.
“May I present Mrs. Pollyanna Quimby, widow of Magistrate Farley Quimby,” Antonia said, “and her sister, Mrs. Prudence Quimby, widow of Frederick Quimby, late member of the Board of Trade.” The second woman was shorter, rounder and wore a rather engaging smile. “They are sisters,” Antonia explained, “who married brothers.”
Only the barest resemblance and the fact that they were dressed identically marked the two women as related in any way. He nodded, taking their hands while searching their faces for some trace of familial resemblance to Lady Antonia.
“This is Mrs. Eleanor Booth, widow of Edmond Booth, the inventor of the self-inflating fountain-pen bladder. And Mrs. Molly McFadden, widow of Cecil McFadden, who had a shop in the Farmer’s Market for many years.”
“A butcher, ’e was,” rotund Molly said, beaming. “Pleased to meet yer lordship.” She pumped his hand nervously and blushed. “Who’da thought I’d be shakin’ hands wi’ a belted earl?”
Bubbly Molly was shortly replaced by a slight, well-dressed woman: “Mrs. Florence Sable, widow of Mr. Jeremy Sable, tailor to the elite of Oxford for many years.” Another, somewhat younger woman appeared next: “Mrs. Victoria Bentley, widow of Harold Bentley, carriage maker.” When Antonia started to move on, Victoria prodded her with a frown that caused her to recall: “And also of Lieutenant Edgar Jamison, who had a brief but valiant career as an officer in her highness’s royal dragoons.” Victoria smiled and made a graceful half curtsy.
In short order he met three more women; Gertrude—Mrs. Somebody-or-other, Pansy—Mrs. Whatever-his-name-was, and Maude—Mrs. Dearly-departed. He couldn’t be sure later that there hadn’t been more, for he was distracted by the thought that this disparate group of females could not possibly be her relatives. But if not, what were they doing here, in her drawing room? He was just recalling that she had also made reference to them as her “household” when the realization came crashing down on him that the place was filled with widows … nearly a dozen of them!
Antonia Paxton’s household seemed to consist entirely of older women who had each ensnared, exhausted, and then dispatched a husband. Collectively, he realized with mounting horro
r, they had polished off more than a dozen specimens of English manhood—some had actually worn out two or three good men!
By the time they came to the old lady in the floozy-red dress and the bizarre fruit-motif bonnet, he was bracing internally. When Antonia’s voice rose and the old woman nodded and cupped her ear, he was already prepared for the worst.
“This is Mrs. Cleo Royal,” she said, bending so that the old lady could pick up her words. “Widow of the renowned actor Fox Atherton Royal. Together they played great halls and theaters all across the continent.”
“Pleased to meet you, my lord,” the old lady shouted, giving him her blue-veined hand. “Landon … Earl of Landon, eh? Then you must have known ‘Pinkie’ Landon. Took up with him briefly before I met Fox Royal. Now Pinkie was one man who—”
“Yes, yes, very good, Cleo!” Antonia said patting the old lady’s hand. “You mustn’t tire yourself now. And the earl has things to do.” With a smile that seemed to pacify the old lady, she steered Remington Carr back to the middle of the room.
“Well, there you have them.” She proudly swept the group with a hand. “Your tutors for the next two weeks.”
“My what?” he demanded, his civility evaporating.
“Tutors,” she said, savoring both his shock and his attempt to hide it. “These ladies will be teaching you the fundamentals of women’s work. Unfortunately, in two weeks we will have time for only the rudiments. The finer points you will just have to acquire on your own.”
“But I understood—” He straightened imperially, his face darkening. “It was part of our agreement that you would be my tutor.”
“Oh, but I will be, in a way. I intend to oversee every detail of your education, my lord. You’ll be in most capable hands.”
The full depravity of her plan unfolded in his mind. She intended to make him a pupil—a lackey—to a dozen elderly females! It was inconceivable … intolerable … being bossed about by women, truckling after their demands, waiting on them hand and foot. Good Lord, they had already depleted and disposed of more than a dozen men! But most devastating of all, he realized, her devious substitution made a shambles of his plans for her comeuppance.
“This is absurd,” he declared with quiet vehemence. “I won’t stand for it.”
“Of course, if you’d rather, you can just yield the wager to me now,” she said in musical tones that hid none of the prickly resolve beneath them. “Just write an article and insert it in The Times by the end of the week stating that you recant your previous views and now believe that a woman’s rightful place is in the home. A simple statement on the order of ‘Men everywhere ought to marry and be grateful for the part women play in their otherwise dissolute, bereft, and aimless lives’ would do nicely.”
Yield to her? The thought of abasing himself and compromising his heartfelt convictions in writing made his stomach turn. But the only other escape from this horde of man-consuming females would be to walk out on both the wager and his plan to compromise her. The thought of welshing on a bet was appalling. If word got out, he’d be ruined. And this nasty little gambit of hers was the proof that if there ever was a woman who needed humbling, it was Antonia Paxton.
He could no more abandon this cursed wager than he could fly. And he could see, from her cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile, that she knew it.
He looked around at the Dragon’s widows, their graying hair and bespectacled faces, their matronly shapes and probing gazes. In their aged eyes he glimpsed secrets … womanly things … feminine wiles untold. He squared his shoulders and struck a determined pose, concealing behind an aristocratic sneer the dread those experienced womanly countenances roused in him.
“I wouldn’t dream of surrendering this bet, Lady Antonia,” he declared fiercely. “Especially when the odds are so heavily in my favor.” It rankled him that her superior smile only broadened in response.
“Excellent. Now if you’ll follow me into the dining room, I shall explain what plans we have for your education.”
Something about the way she said the word “plans” made him tighten internally. He strode after her, relieved to escape the scrutiny of that flock of aging females. His relief was short-lived; soon the hall behind him filled with whispering women, migrating like aged doves toward the dining room, as well.
It was a large, stately room with silk-clad walls and elaborately carved cornices and moldings. The furnishings consisted of a huge walnut table, ranks of high-backed Jacobean chairs, and two elegantly carved sideboards, above which hung elaborate gilt mirrors. At the far end two floor-to-ceiling windows admitted both sunlight and the fragrance of the small garden beyond. The jewellike colors of the walls and upholstery—rich crimson, hunter green, and royal blue—made a princely pallet indeed. He was struck by the harmony of the architecture and furnishings.
Then his gaze dropped from the intricate chandelier medallion on the ceiling and landed on Antonia.
She was standing in a half circle of women, eyeing him … holding what appeared to be a very large corset.
Across the street, leaning on the massive iron fence that surrounded Green Park, Rupert Fitch huffed an impatient breath and folded his arms with a jerk. He had waited through the night outside the earl’s fancy house in Grovenor Square, then followed him to this address, hoping to uncover a salacious tidbit around which to build a byline that afternoon. A fine house in Piccadilly, he thought, searching his memory for some clue to its owner. His watchfulness was soon rewarded: the driver of an ice wagon exited the alley beside the residence in question. Fitch pulled on his most unctuous and ingratiating smile and strolled over to have a word with him.
“Oh, that there’s old Sir Geoffrey’s house,” the burly fellow answered, giving his nose a sideways swipe. Fitch’s heart sank, until the fellow shook his head and continued: “Ol’ Paxton’s dead now. Just his laidy and a passel o’ old cats there now.”
“Paxton? Lady Antonia Paxton?” Fitch said, catching fire again. “Thanks, mate.” Snugging up his tie and tilting his bowler to a jaunty angle, he shoved his hands into his pant pockets and sauntered down the alley toward what he knew would be the kitchen door of Paxton House. He knew a few things about how gossip flowed in great houses. And he’d always had a way with women who cook.
“What in blazes are you doing with that … thing?” Remington bit back a profane adjective just in the nick of time. His eyes began to burn as he stared at a rectangular piece of canvas stitched at regular intervals around wicked-looking slats of steel and bone and adorned with pink ribbon rosettes.
“Well, in order to truly appreciate the work women do,” Antonia said calmly, “one must understand the conditions under which it is done. Women, you see, perform all their labor under a special burden: their clothing. Did you know that the average woman’s day-to-day garments and shoes, totaled together, weigh seventeen pounds?”
He didn’t like the direction his answer might take them and refused to respond.
“I thought not. Few people do,” she continued, encouraged by murmurs and nods from the other women. “How much do your garments weigh, your lordship?”
He hadn’t even the foggiest idea and wouldn’t have told her if he had.
“Nine pounds, if you are anywhere near average for a man,” she supplied. “Nine versus seventeen. A considerable difference. And women suffer the additional constraint of wearing boned corsets that distort their figures, shorten their breath, and make bending all but impossible. Now if you are to truly experience an average woman’s work …”
She held up the corset, looking between the contraption and his dapper middle.
His eyes widened in comprehension.
“I will not wear that damnable thing!” he declared, making a stand with his feet apart, his shoulders inflating, and his hands curling into fists at his sides.
“Under the terms of our wager, you are to do an average woman’s work. And you cannot do that unless you do it the way an average woman would—in a corset.”
“I agreed to work, and I will. But I will not permit this wager to be turned into a ridiculous joke, or myself into a fool for your amusement.” He stalked toward her with his eyes blazing, and several of the women took a step back.
“None of us are laughing, your lordship,” she said, holding her ground and glancing at the others, who shook their heads with serious expressions.
He poured the full, intimidating force of his person into a glare that had at various times brought MP’s, fellow peers, and even archbishops to their knees.
“It wasn’t part of the bargain,” he said angrily. “I won’t wear it.”
She met his fury without flinching. “Then perhaps you should consider the alternative once again: an article recanting your former views of women and marriage.” She paused, tailoring her next words for impact. “For if you do not wear it, I will most certainly send word straight to Constance Ellingson that you have reneged on our wager.”
She would do it; he could see it in her eyes. Dangerous eyes. Blue as a midsummer sky and deep as a Scottish loch. Treacherous woman. He could cry foul from now until Doomsday, but the very fact that he had participated willingly in such a preposterous wager in the first place would lend credence to whatever distortions she might decide to weave into the story. He could see it splashed all over the headlines of Fleet Street’s oiliest rags: “Nobleman Spurns Corset … Loses Bet.” His credibility, even among suffragists and reform-minded radicals, would be irretrievably damaged.
He stalked closer, and still closer, his eyes blazing and his features taut with patrician outrage. She was goading him, throwing obstacles in his way. And a moment later, staring deep into those beguiling eyes, he realized that she wasn’t throwing obstacles, she was erecting them carefully … between him and her. She had sensed the direction of his interest in her and made plans so there would always be a human buffer between them.
Antonia watched him stalk closer and wondered belatedly if he was prone to violence of any sort. When he settled before her—his wide shoulders filling her vision, his heat engulfing her—she tightened her fingers around the boned canvas she held. To meet his gaze, she would have to tilt her head up, so she stared at his shirtfront instead. It was a pristine, expensively tailored expanse of white with gold studs instead of buttons. No buttons.
