Prudence shoved away from the door. With hands clasped before her, she began to pace past the delicate vanity. She turned over Penelope’s revelations; words no doubt picked up at the keyhole and never intended to reach her ears.
“Blasted men,” she muttered under her breath. Why, with the bumble broth they made of life, was it any wonder the world was constantly embroiled in battles started by the illogical, bloody obstinate creatures? She came to such a sudden stop that her skirts slapped noisily at her ankles. She’d had enough of the both of them. Sin seeking to control and dictate her life. Christian for acknowledging the other man’s authority and thereby stripping Prudence of her deserved control.
Well, she’d had enough of it. All of it. The ton’s bloody mindless events. Serving as gossip fodder because of actions owned by her siblings. Prudence tightened her jaw. As such, she well knew her marital prospects were as grim as a church graveyard on a moonless night. She knew that with the same unerring accuracy that her mother and brother also did. Yet, she did not want one of those dull, proper dandies too cowardly to even dance with her. She wanted him. Christian Villiers, the Marquess of St. Cyr—fortune or no fortune.
And if her brother and sister and all the gossips were to be believed, there was no fortune. Which was just fine. For Christian didn’t need a fortune. She had dowry enough for the both of them. With a slow smile that would have filled her mother’s heart with terror, she strode over to her delicate secretaire and swiftly sat. After yanking open the drawer, she withdrew a sheet of parchment and reached for the pen. With Lady Drake’s recent lessons shoving back the “No scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages” pledge ingrained into her by her mother, Prudence dipped the tip into the crystal inkwell and began to write.
Lord Maxwell,
Though it is highly improper and certainly scandalous for a young, unwed lady to contact you, there is a matter of some import I wish to discuss with you. I require your absolute discretion…
Chapter 16
Lesson Sixteen
Sometimes it is beneficial to enlist the aid of a gentleman’s closest friend…
Christian stared at the untouched contents of his breakfast plate. With the direness of his family’s financial circumstances, he was best served in thinking of a bloody way to rescue them from dun territory. Yet, for the better part of five days, he’d thought of nothing but her.
The shuffling of footsteps brought his attention up from his plate. He stared blankly at the footman, Martin, who eyed the empty glass in Christian’s hands. “Ye need another drink, Lieutenant?”
God, how he despised his servants’ use of his military rank. It merely served as a mocking reminder of his past. “Thank you,” he murmured, allowing the one-eyed man to refill his cup.
With a slight bow, Martin returned to the sideboard. Christian blew on the steaming coffee and then took a sip of the black brew. The fate of his family and staff should occupy his focus. Instead, Prudence slipped into his mind as she’d been in Hyde Park challenging him and undaunted by his deliberate attempt at withering all her questions. He’d long ago sworn to not be weakened by a guileless miss. For ultimately, none of those creatures could be trusted and yet, once again, he’d been laid low by a virginal debutante. With a curse, he set his glass down and pressed his fingertips against his temple to drive back the deuced image of Lady Prudence.
“Never tell me you’ve been overindulging in spirits again?”
His head shot up. His sister stood in the doorway, a mischievous smile on her plump cheeks. He promptly dropped his hands to his side and rose. “It is but nine o’clock,” he drawled, adopting the carefully constructed façade he’d donned all these years. “I’d never be so gauche as to drink spirits before thirty minutes past nine.”
Lucinda laughed and then crossed over to the sideboard. She gave a jaunty wave to the servants and then proceeded to fill her plate with eggs, sausage, and bread. “Oh, do hush, Christian,” she chided teasingly. “I daresay I’ve seen you return home from your scandalous clubs all rumpled and smelling of spirits around this hour.”
He blinked rapidly, while his sister carried over her dish and sank into the seat beside him. What in blazes did she know of his gentlemanly, or in this case, ungentlemanly pursuits?
“Come, Christian,” she scoffed, as though hearing that unspoken question. She neatly sliced off a piece of sausage. “I am not Mother who operates under the illusion you are a perfectly proper, dull sort of gentleman.”
A dull flush stained his neck and he tugged at his cravat. From over by the sideboard, an odd rumble filled the room and he looked over to the two servants who stood side by side with their shoulders shaking in silent mirth. He opened his mouth to point out that he’d not visited those scandalous clubs she spoke so freely of but then promptly closed it, recalling that: one, she was his younger sister, and as such, talks of clubs and spirits and his rumpled garments after returning from those same clubs were not appropriate, and two, he didn’t have to answer to her for his actions.
Lucinda waved her fork about. “Are you going to sit?” She giggled as he swiftly reclaimed his seat. “Have you found her?”
He closed his eyes and prayed for patience. By God, she was worse than their mother. “Have I found who?” He knew very well whom his sister referred to. She was not as unaware of their dire circumstances as he’d believed. Mayhap hoped, rather.
Lucinda finished her bite and then dabbed at her lips with her crisp white napkin, in this instant looking vastly older than her fifteen years. “Your wife?” she said as though speaking to a child. “Mother said it is essential you find a wife—”
“Mother says too much,” he bit out. By God, their loose-lipped parent had no business discussing their circumstances before Lucinda. Who now had no business speaking of those same circumstances before servants. He gave a look to the footmen, and the two young men sketched deep bows, and then filed out of the room.
“Did you do that because you truly believe they are unaware we are in dun territory?” Amusement underscored her question.
Ah, God love her. That was the innocent she was. She could speak so casually about their circumstances, either failing to comprehend or recognize the implications it would have on her own life in three years’ time. “I did that because I do not need the servants whispering about our personal circumstances.” It was enough the whole of the ton was gossiping about the Marquess of St. Cyr and his desperate bid for a wife.
The Earl of Sinclair’s condescending grin and coldly authoritative command to steer clear of Prudence slipped into his mind. By God, he wished he was the total bastard the earl took him to be, for if he were, then he’d pursue Prudence just for the right to claim the effervescent light he’d not known existed within any woman.
“Are you now thinking of the woman you’ll have to wed?”
His sister’s curious question pulled him back to the moment. “I am thinking about how you are going to drive me to Bedlam,” he responded and grabbed his knife. He set to work buttering a piece of hard, flaky bread.
“Who is going to Bedlam?”
He and Lucinda glanced up as Maxwell strode past the butler and into the room.
“The Earl of Maxwell,” the butler said belatedly and then exited the room.
Lucinda shoved back her chair and hopped to her feet. “Tristan,” she cried. She skipped over to the other man who, with his presence in their home and life through the years, had been more brother than newly titled earl. Though it hadn’t always just been Maxwell. It had also been Derek. Guilt twisted around his belly at thoughts of a ghost who would always be with him.
“Hello, sweet,” Maxwell greeted with his patent half-grin.
Alas, his sister, who hovered between child and woman, hesitated and then cleared her throat. “It is splendid to see you, my lord.” She followed her polite greeting with a deep curtsy.
Both Christian and Maxwell snorted, earning a disapproving frown. “Should a lady not practice fine manners?”
His friend gave Lucinda a long, slow wink. “I cannot speak from any real experience, Miss Villiers. I do not make it a habit of keeping company with ladies who practice fine manners.”
A startled giggle burst from Lucinda’s lips and she swatted Maxwell on the shoulder. “Oh, you are insufferable. Isn’t he insufferable, Christian?”
He took in the sight of his sister’s fingertips upon his friend’s sleeve and a slight frown pulled his lips down in the corner. Close familial connection or not, she really had no place touching the other man.
His friend, however, appeared wholly unaware of Christian’s disapproval, for he casually strolled over to the sideboard and made himself a plate of breakfast. “We never did sort out who was going to Bedlam.” He claimed the seat on the opposite side of Christian.
“No one is going to Bedlam,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. Though in truth, between his sister’s maddening teasing and Maxwell attempting to needle details about him, he really was just one cart away from a bumpy ride to Bedlam.
“Christian is going to Bedlam.” Lucinda’s loud whisper was clearly meant to be a secret to no one.
His friend studied him a moment. He captured his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I daresay you are in a foul mood.”
Which happened to be because he was in a foul mood and had been since that damned meeting with Lord Sinclair. Nay, that wasn’t altogether true. He’d been in a rotten temper since he’d discovered he’d inherited an empty title and nothing else to care for his family.
“It is because he has to marry,” his sister said with entirely too much cheer, when Christian still failed to respond.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Maxwell drawled. He leaned back in his seat and rested his hands upon the arms of his chair. His friend proceeded to drum his fingertips along the smooth, polished wood. There was an uncharacteristic solemnity to the man now, all earlier amusement gone.
They had shared an innate connection that came from years of fighting alongside one another and the need for silence on the eve of battle. It was how he knew Maxwell’s was no mere social visit. “Will you excuse us, Luce?” Christian asked quietly.
His sister pouted. “Why do I…?” Lucinda too must have seen something in their expressions, for she looked between them and the protest died on her lips. With a sigh, she pushed back her chair. “Very well,” she drew out that last word. “If you are discussing your future marchioness without me, I will be very cross. I, at the very least, should know who intends to claim the role of my sister-in-law.”
His lips pulled up in one corner. “I assure you, the lady will surely meet with your approval.” As soon as the words left his mouth, his grin died. For he couldn’t truly promise her that. The woman he’d wed would be interested in the title of marchioness and not much more. Not for the first time since he’d settled on the requirements for his bride, reservations crept in.
“Goodbye, Tristan.”
The earl inclined his head. “Good day, Luce.” His sister walked with deliberate slowness to the exit and when she reached for the door handle, Christian called out, “I don’t expect you’d do anything as improper as listening at the keyhole.” She swung back around, a guilty blush on her cheeks. “The whole French lessons business,” he said with a wink.
Lucinda wrinkled her nose in clear displeasure. “Oh, very well. You are not at all fun. You used to be until you started looking for a bride,” she complained. Snapping her skirts once, she swept from the room, head held high with a regality to rival a queen. The effect was wholly lost when she slammed the door closed behind her, shaking the foundations of the heavy, wood panel.
“You are going to have your hands full with that one,” Maxwell said wryly. He continued to tap his fingertips in that infuriating manner.
“Indeed.” There were no truer words spoken. At his friend’s amused expression, he pointed out, “It could always be a good deal worse. I could have three sisters to worry after like you.”
Maxwell scowled and he braced for the other man’s sparring rejoinder. Instead, he continued to tap his fingertips.
Christian took in that distracted movement, the serious set to his friend’s face. Unease stirred. Even with the hell he’d suffered through, the Earl of Maxwell had maintained his carefree, relaxed demeanor. Oh, Christian knew from his own hellish time fighting Boney’s forces and the nightmares that still frequently came, that Maxwell’s was merely a carefully crafted façade. Nonetheless, he was unaccustomed to this distracted, serious figure before him now. “What is it?” he asked quietly, mindful that despite his warning, Lucinda could very well be listening at the keyhole.
Maxwell stopped his incessant drumming. “I received a missive earlier this morning.”
He furrowed his brow. “And—?”
“And,” the earl interrupted, fishing around the front of his jacket. “I thought you would be curious as to its content.”
Perplexed, Christian stared at the folded ivory velum. “How does your note—?”
His friend shook the paper. “Go on, read it.”
The other man had always had a flare for the dramatic. Giving his head a wry shake, he reached for his spectacles atop the forgotten copy of The Times. Placing them on, he unfolded the note and stared at the delicate, if messy, scrawl that hinted at a lady’s hand. Black ink marred the page as though the writer of those words had either been in a deuced hurry or had a dreaded hand. He picked his gaze up. “I daresay I’ve got enough in terms of the theatrics from my sister and mother where I do not also need the unnecessary addition of—”
“Read it,” his friend repeated with a trace of humor underscoring that order. He jabbed his finger in Christian’s direction.
Returning his attention to the page, he quickly scanned the words.
Lord Maxwell,
Though it is highly improper and certainly scandalous for a young, unwed lady to contact you, there is a matter of some import I wish to discuss with you. I require your absolute discretion…
A sharp bark of laughter escaped him. “You are receiving scandalous letters from…from…” His words trailed off and all hilarity died. A thick haze of confusion blended with rage momentarily blurred his vision as just who, in fact, his friend was receiving scandalous notes from registered.
“I thought you might care to know the identity of the lady writing me.” His friend’s droll words came as though from down a long, empty hall. Christian glanced at the end of the missive.
Your Servant,
Lady Prudence Tidemore
His fingers tightened reflexively upon the edges of the page and he swung a furious gaze to Maxwell. “Why in blazes are you exchanging missives with the lady?” Some sharp, ugly emotion that felt very nearly like jealously slithered around his belly, filling him until the metallic taste of rage burned within.
“Should it matter if I am exchanging missives, as you’ve said, with the lady?” the other man returned, shifting his large frame in the shell-back chair.
Goddamn Maxwell and his sardonic half-grin. Christian fought to regain control of his volatile thoughts and inexplicable emotions. “No,” he forced out between clenched teeth. For ultimately, what business was it of his whether Lady Prudence was meeting or arranging to meet Maxwell or any other blasted lord? And yet…
“I do not believe you.”
And Christian didn’t believe himself. How could he when his fingers twitched with the need to drag the other man across the table and shake an answer out of him? He carefully folded the note, hating the faint shake to his hands as he turned the ivory sheet back over to Maxwell.
His friend held his palms up rejecting the missive. “For what it is worth, I have never spoken to the lady beyond our exchange in Hyde Park.”
“What in blazes does she wish to speak with you on?” He unfolded the page once more and quickly skimmed his gaze over the contents. By her heavy hand with the pen, she wrote with the same zeal and passion she moved through most aspects of l
ife. Unrestrained. Bold. Audacious.
And now…writing to an unwed gentleman—scandalous.
“I have little idea what the lady requires.” Maxwell rolled his shoulders. He caught Christian’s gaze. “Which is why I thought, given your relationship with the lady, you’d care to see it.”
With that potent flare of jealousy now receded, he tried to put order to the significance of that note. The lady asked to meet with Maxwell at the Old Corner Bookshop. He continued skimming the note and then quickly yanked his attention back to that previously twice read meeting location.
…If you would be so gracious as to grant me a meeting, I can be found at Old Corner Bookshop at ten o’clock. In the morning. The evening is entirely too late for a clandestine meeting…
Christian’s lips twitched with the first real humor since receiving that damning note from his friend’s hands. Why, the lady rambled even in her notes. There was something so very endearing about that.
Maxwell planted his elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “Why are you smiling in that manner?” Suspicion laced his inquiry.
Christian quickly smoothed his features into an unreadable mask. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” Just as he had no idea what it was that Prudence wished to discuss with Maxwell. He captured his chin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed. Though having now re-read that same line twice, the faintest doubt worked its way around his mind. For the lady wished to meet the other man at the Old Corner Bookshop, where he might find a copy of Sir Walter Scott’s The Bride of Lammermoor.
“Well, what do you make of the lady’s note?” Maxwell prodded.
By that slight, evidential detail, there was only one specific matter the lady surely intended to discuss with Maxwell.
It is me.
Christian folded the slip of paper and then tucked it inside his jacket. He withdrew his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. “If you’ll excuse me?” Deliberately ignoring the question, he shoved back his chair. “I have a meeting to see to at the Old Corner Bookshop.”
Captivated by a Lady's Charm Page 19
