Senseless Sensibilities

by K. L. O'Keefe

  SENSELESS SENSIBILITIES

  By K.L. O'Keefe

  Prologue

  1811

  On the dingiest streets of London, Nicholas Grey did not belong. His cravat was a bit rumpled, but other than that, he looked like a man of his standing. In his fancy attire, no one would doubt he had a promising career in politics, which he did. No one would doubt his grandfather was an earl, or his sister a marchioness. He would have been pick-pocketed by now, if not for the fact that he was a rather large man, in breadth as well as stature.

  He had consumed more spirits than any gentleman should—enough to drown his sorrows, but not his wits. Nicholas could feel his youth slipping through his fingers. A fortnight ago, he reached his thirtieth year, and it was certainly no cause for celebration. At his age, Nicholas was expected to find a wife. But how could he find a wife when all the debutantes were silly, young girls scarcely out of the schoolroom?

  Traversing the darkest parts of London was an oddly pleasurable pastime; it seemed to assuage his dreary mood. There were others with greater misfortunes than his. Here, they surrounded him. How could he complain about his own life when he was in the company of willowy waifs and toothless men? How could he possibly pity himself, when the man with the wooden leg looked so morose?

  His melancholy was replaced with a realization: Nicholas Grey was a very fortunate man.

  Unlike the young man approaching him right now.

  “Pardon me, guv’nor,” the young man spoke. “Can you spare some change, sir?”

  Nicholas shoved a hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and lowered his eyes, hoping to pass without a word. Beggars were not uncommon. If he gave money to every beggar, Nicholas would be inviting his own destitution.

  “Please, sir!” the young man beseeched him. “Just a few coins, that’s all I’m askin’!” He held out a dirty hand. “I haven’t eaten in three days!”

  How unfortunate, Nicholas thought to himself. Nevertheless, he kept walking.

  “I’ve a young sister to feed!” the young man called after him. “She’s nothing but bones, man! Flesh and bones!”

  Nicholas pressed on. He found a coach at the end of the street and approached it quickly. As he climbed onto the carriage, Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief.

  And his thoughts drifted.

  But they didn't drift far enough. For some reason, he could not get that young man out of his mind. Nicholas, like many others, had trained himself to look the other way when approached by a beggar. As a man of modest means, what else could he do? And yet, he felt connected to the man, as though an invisible thread was holding them together. He felt as if that man, in some way or another, was meant to be a significant part of his life. Nicholas had two options. He could either clip the thread, or meet the man at the other end of it.

  In the end, curiosity got the best of him. Nicholas climbed from the carriage and marched over to the young beggar.

  “Returned, did ya?” the young man asked, flashing a yellow smile. “What made you change your mind?”

  Nicholas squinted, taking a closer look at the young man’s features. At second glance, he didn’t look quite as young as Nicholas thought. The lad was about four and twenty, or thereabouts. “There was something about your dialect,” Nicholas observed. “Your coarse speech sounded unnatural.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You don't sound like you belong here.”

  “Here on the streets?” The young man turned his head, drinking in his dismal surroundings. “Well… forgive me for saying so, sir, but I don’t think anyone belongs here. I wouldn’t wish these circumstances on my worst enemy. Not even my old friend Napoleon.”

  “Yes, well…” Nicholas paused. “What’s your name, young man?”

  “John. Jonathan Winters.”

  “What’s your story, Jonathan Winters?”

  “I’m not sure what you want to hear, but I suppose I can start with my background. Who knows, maybe it will impress you?” The younger man gave a cheeky smile. “My father was a clerk, and my mother was a vicar’s youngest daughter.”

  “Aha. That’s respectable enough. So how did you end up in a place like this, begging for pennies?”

  “When my parents passed away, I became a soldier in His Majesty’s army.” Jonathan raised his right hand. Only it wasn’t a hand, it was a stump. “There aren’t many opportunities for wounded ex-soldiers without family or friends.”

  “Oh, dear,” Nicholas murmured, showing no pity or disgust. “You lost…your hand.”

  “And I’m still trying to find it!” John added with a chuckle. “When I find the bastards who took it, at least I’ve got a good hand to strangle ‘em with.”

  “Oh.”

  “That was a jest.”

  “Right. Of course.” Nicholas stared at the missing hand. “It’s like Lord Nelson, isn’t it?”

  “Well, not quite. He lost his whole arm. I’m lucky enough to have everything up to the wrist.” John shrugged. “But as far as I know, Lord Nelson never had to beg in the streets… so I suppose we’re even.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “Oh, right. The flesh and bones sister.” Jonathan crossed his arms, tucking his stump beneath his left elbow. “Yes… well… I might have lied about that part. When you’re as desperate as me, you’ll say anything to get sympathy.” He shrugged again. “But the rest is the truth, I swear!”

  “You’re desperate, are you?” Nicholas asked. For some unexplainable reason, he felt obligated to rescue this young man from his desolate fate. Jonathan Winters seemed intelligent enough. He had even maintained a sense of humor, in spite of his misfortunes. Nicholas wanted to help him.

  “Do I need to answer that?” Jonathan asked, flashing his missing hand a second time.

  “What are your talents, Mr. Winters? How might you be of service to me?”

  The formal address made Jonathan blink. It had been ages since anyone called him Mister Winters. “Well, I can read and write. That’s more than some people can do.”

  “Yes. And what else?”

  “Um, I can fire a rifle over my shoulder. With deadly accuracy too.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “I am afraid I would have no use for that. What else?”

  “I know!” Jonathan exclaimed, his dark eyes widening. “I can tie a cravat with one hand!”

  “Really? Now that is something I must see!” Jonathan’s comment about cravats, however sarcastic, was certainly timely. Nicholas’ current valet was close to retirement. “Would you be interested in working for me, Jonathan Winters?”

  “Would I!? If you were to offer me a job of any sort, I would be a fool to turn it down! It's not like I wanted to live on the streets forever, you know.”

  “What if I were to make you my valet?” Nicholas asked. “The pay would be meager, but you would have a roof over your head.” His conscience told him he was acting too hastily. Was it foolish to take such a leap of faith?

  “I would love the job, sir,” Jonathan said. “Should you hire me, I’ll make your shoes shine brighter than ever. I’ll make your hair look better than it’s ever looked!”

  “Spoken like a true gentleman’s gentleman,” Nicholas said with a grin. “When can you start?”

  “You will have to give me a moment, sir… to say farewell to all of my rodent friends,” Jonathan joked. “Squeaky and Ratcheon will miss me terribly.”

  “I do hope you are jesting.”

  Jonathan nodded. “I guess my sense of humor is the only thing I haven’t lost,” he said, looking a bit sheepish. “My sense of humor, and three out of four appendages.”

  Chapter One

  1815

  Lady Penworth was a widow. As she watched them put her hus
band in the ground, she felt nothing. No sadness. No remorse. She was dressed in mourning clothes, but she did not mourn. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't.

  If Lady Penworth felt any sadness at all, it was for her young daughter. One should not have to lose a father at the tender age of seventeen, but Evangeline was a very willful girl. She kept her chin up the entire time, her eyes shaded by her dark bonnet.

  Did Evangeline cry for her father? Lady Penworth could not tell. If her daughter could muster no tears for the man, it would be no surprise. Lord Penworth never was a loving father. Even when he was younger, he was a cold and distant man.

  Though she had spent eighteen years with him, Lady Penworth had never seen her husband as a young man. He was sixty years old when she married him. She was five and twenty, with absolutely no prospects. She was just a simple girl named Anne, a spinster and a governess. When the rich earl set his sights on her, she could not decline his offer of marriage. Her father would not allow it.

  Their wedding was the beginning of a miserable life for Anne, who traded her freedom to provide for her family. At least she could bring a daughter into the world with no regrets. Evangeline could have whatever she wanted.

  But Lord Penworth did not want a daughter. He had wanted a son, which Anne had never given him. That fact drove an even deeper wedge between husband and wife.

  Anne closed her eyes and listened to the Lord’s prayer. She felt no ill will toward the man in the coffin, but she did not care to see him in the afterlife. There was no rule that one must love her husband, or even be fond of him. How could she like him? In the final years of his life, she rarely spoke to him. After the birth of their daughter, visits to Anne’s bedchamber became an annual labor. When he could not get her with child, Lord Penworth stopped the visits altogether. He decided she was useless to him.

  Now she was a widow at three and forty. Where had her life gone? Her life was filled with empty years, brightened only by the presence of Evangeline. Lady Penworth would do anything for her daughter. Even if Evangeline was a bit shrewish at times, she was her life’s only joy.

  When her daughter drew near, Anne could see streaks on the girl’s face, evidence of the tears she shed. So she had cried. As unfriendly as he was, Evangeline still loved her father. Her sadness wrenched Anne’s heart.

  Anne wrapped an arm around her daughter’s back. She was frail. Too frail. “I am so sorry, dear. I know this must be hard on you.” She kept her arm on Evangeline as she led her to the carriage. At long last, the ceremony was over.

  “Poor Papa,” Evangeline said with a sigh. “He was so… so…” As she tried to think of the perfect word to describe her father, the girl nibbled her lip. “He was so old.”

  Anne helped her daughter into the carriage. “That is not a bad thing. He lived a long life.”

  “Yes, but it must have been so unfulfilling! What did he do all day, besides smoke his pipe and read his paper?” Evangeline asked with a sigh. In the confines of the carriage, she tore the bonnet off her head, and her brown curls tumbled free. “I suppose he was not so old. Lord Trevelan’s father was nearly ninety when he died!”

  Anne sat beside her daughter, wrinkling her nose at the mention of Lord Trevelan. History was repeating itself. Evangeline, like her mother, was being courted by an older beau. Lord Trevelan had fixed his interest on Evangeline, though he was closer to fifty than forty. Anne did not want to see her daughter make the same mistake.

  “Do you think Papa loved you, Mama?”

  “I… I believe he felt a kinship toward me.”

  “Do you think he loved me, Mama?”

  “Of course he did.”

  Evangeline shook her head. “I do not think he did,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I don't think I'll ever be loved by any man!”

  Anne’s thoughts echoed her daughter’s. Neither will I.

  Evangeline, who had been holding a handkerchief in her hand, dabbed at the corner of her eye. “But I am sad, Mama. I feel very, very sad.” As if to demonstrate her sadness, she clenched the material in her lacy glove. “Now we will have to move into the dower house, and Papa won’t be around to buy me pretty things.”

  Maybe it was the dismal atmosphere, or maybe it was the frankness of her daughter’s words, but Anne realized something for the first time. It was something she had been loath to admit.

  Evangeline, her precious daughter, was a very spoiled girl.

  Chapter Two

  When the parcel arrived, Nicholas brushed it aside. He had no reason to think it required his attention, so it sat on his desk for nearly three hours. He did not think its contents could be more important than breaking his fast. And he certainly did not think its contents could be more important than Christine, the lovely opera dancer who shared his bed.

  When Christine was gone, and Nicholas was fed and dressed, he finally turned his attention to the mysterious parcel. His valet, Jonathan Winters, had just put the finishing touches on the intricate knot of Nicholas’ cravat. Jonathan’s ability to single-handedly manipulate something as confusing as a cravat never ceased to amaze his employer.

  Employer? Where his valet was concerned, Nicholas rarely thought of himself as such. Jonathan was more of a friend than a valet. It was uncommon to feel a kinship toward one’s servant, but Jonathan was the wittiest man he knew. How could Nicholas deny himself such a friend, servant or not?

  Nicholas peeled open the envelope with apathetic, half-slit eyes. Jonathan stood behind him with Nicholas’ greatcoat draped over one arm. He peered over his friend’s shoulder as he unfolded the letter.

  They read it together.

  “Oh my…” Nicholas murmured.

  “Oh my!” Jonathan’s sentiments mirrored his master’s. “That’s very shocking, sir. Or shall I call you my lord?”

  “My uncle?” Nicholas whispered. As he reread every word, his jaw never returned to its rightful place. His mouth had fallen open in disbelief. “My great uncle!? I don’t think I’ve ever met the man! My father never mentioned an uncle.”

  “Perhaps he should have mentioned him. Apparently, you’re his heir.”

  “His heir?!” Nicholas repeated the word, but it still didn’t sound true. “This is impossible. Me? An earl?” He turned the paper in his hand, as if searching for some hidden script that would expose it as a hoax. “But he had a wife. She’s the one who sent the letter.”

  Jonathan leaned closer, examining the letter in his master’s hands. “She mentions a daughter, sir, but not a son.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t feel happy about someone else’s loss. The man is dead, and his widow grieves,” Nicholas said. “But… as much as I hate to say it, Jonathan, I’m feeling very lucky this morning!”

  “That is understandable, sir.” With a wry smile, Jonathan corrected himself. “My lord.”

  “I have an estate!” Nicholas exclaimed, springing from his chair, waving the letter in the air. “I have an estate in Yorkshire! And I… I have a title!”

  Jonathan snatched the paper from his friend’s hand, searching its contents. “You’re Lord Penworth!”

  “Lord Penworth…”

  “Your companions can call you Penny.”

  “I’ll pass on Penny, thank you,” Nicholas said with a chuckle, grabbing the letter from his valet. “Look here.” He pointed at the words with a long finger. “Penworth Park. That's the name of my estate.” Nicholas laid the letter on the desk, smoothing its creases, treating it with utmost care. “We must go there at once!”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s quite a distance from London.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  “I'll start giving you proper wages!”

  Jonathan lowered his eyes. “Perhaps you should hire a proper valet?”

  “Are you serious? You’re the best damn valet there is!” Nicholas exclaimed, giving the other man a pat on the back. He took his greatcoat from Jonathan and slipped his arms through the sleeves. “Look at these buttons, Jonathan! I’ve
never seen such shiny buttons. You polished them, did you not? If that isn’t proof of your greatness as a valet, I don’t know what is!”

  “I didn’t touch the buttons, sir.”

  “Well, no matter.” Nicholas folded the letter and stuffed it in his pocket. “Come, Jonathan. We mustn’t waste any time. Ready my valise. Find my hat.” A crooked grin worked its way onto his face. “Lord Penworth has business he must attend to.”

  “Business?” Jonathan asked. “And what sort of business might that be? Do you think, perhaps, the widow will be pretty?”

  “My uncle’s wife? I highly doubt it. It’s my great uncle we’re talking about. I’m sure she’ll be an old crone,” Nicholas said. “But the daughter? She could be a very different story indeed.”

  * * *

  Evangeline Fremont had a wicked gleam in her eye as she stared out the window. Until the idea dawned on her, she had been having a miserable day, cooped up indoors. She couldn’t go outside because of the wind, and she refused to subject her hair to such an onslaught. And her best friend, Catherine Rimsdale, was too wrapped up in her new beau to consider spending time with an old friend. Catherine, who was two years older than Evangeline, was getting married in autumn.

  And it troubled Evangeline to no end.

  “Mama,” Evangeline said, rather breathily. “I absolutely must find a husband.”

  Lady Penworth looked up from her needlepoint. “A husband? But you are still very young, dear. Why the sudden urgency?”

  “Catherine is getting married, and Papa is gone,” answered the daughter. “I need someone to dote on me. I want to be treated like a princess.” As she spoke, she twisted an errant curl around her finger. “I think I'm pretty enough to be worshipped. Don’t you think so, Mama?”

  When she heard her daughter’s words, Anne nearly pricked herself with her knitting needles. Where did her vanity come from? Anne had never encouraged this sort of behavior. “You are a very beautiful girl, Evangeline. But you would sooner find twenty men who demand to be treated like kings before you would find one to treat you like a princess.”