In My Lady's Chamber

by Laura Matthews

  “I haven’t known you a day when you weren’t in dun territory,” Steyne retorted. “You can’t seriously believe you can change overnight. And I don’t believe Ruth could accustom herself to having bailiffs at the door.”

  As yet unspoken was the thought James knew to be in Steyne’s mind: that a ne’er-do-well like himself must be considering marrying Ruth for her money, and that with his gambling propensities, her money, in spite of its immense amount, would likely soon be dissipated. James rather admired the cool way in which Steyne was handling the situation, but he had no compunction in pushing his own advantage. “There won’t be any more bailiffs, my dear Steyne. I have my own affairs well in hand, and I flatter myself I can keep them that way. Your sister, I feel sure, can manage a household economically if need be, and she would have her choice of living in the country or in town.”

  “Really.” For the first time, Steyne smiled. “Did you have in mind to install her here?”

  “Certainly not,” James snapped, then reminded himself to keep a better hold on his temper. “I would take a house in one of the more fashionable squares.”

  “Let it, you mean, or buy it?”

  “Whichever suited your sister.”

  The inexpressive face remained unreadable, the eyes hooded. Slowly, cautiously, Steyne spoke. “I presume you have some reason to believe my sister would listen to an offer from you.”

  James would have preferred to introduce the subject himself, but the opening would do. “I blush to say so, but, yes, some small indication. I have seen a great deal of Ruth this past season, escorted her several times, and I have some hope that she returns my regard. She is, of course, of an age where she doesn’t need your approval, or anyone else’s, but I didn’t wish to approach her without informing you. There were no children from her previous marriage, so she owes no allegiance to her in-laws. I would welcome your consent, because I feel sure Ruth would hesitate to marry without it.”

  The subtle innuendo with which this last was spoken surprised Steyne. Obviously James did not believe it. The words were belied by his confident air: He reeked of self-assurance. Can my sister possibly have been taken in by this jackanapes, Steyne wondered, while maintaining the calm exterior he had preserved through the various provocations of the interview. Surely Ruth has too much sense to be cozened by a few flattering words. True, there were not many men available for her to remarry other than the fortune hunters like James Heythrop, and it would be a great pity for her to spend the rest of her life alone—but this ass! A hardened gambler, a profligate womanizer, a selfish, conceited sportsman, to say nothing of his having the moral fiber of a toad! Lord Steyne had a remarkably low opinion of the man—and yet he allowed no emotion to show.

  “I’m afraid I would have to know a bit more about your prospects before I could see my way clear to countenancing the match.”

  James relaxed with an almost audible sigh. He had expected more opposition, but it was well-known that Steyne was fond of his sister and would want her to marry for happiness. And even a younger son of an earl was a step up from Morrison, no matter how prominent he had been in political circles. “Just so. Can’t say I blame you. This letter I've had,” he remarked as he flicked it with an indolent finger, "will necessitate my going into Somerset. You know my brother’s in America and his family calls on me for advice from time to time. I went down when his daughter died in the spring, a sad affair. Still, he has six other children. Ah, and that’s a matter I wished to mention as well. You may accept my word that it doesn’t bother me that Ruth can’t have children.”

  I’ll bet it doesn’t, Steyne fumed inwardly, clenching his teeth. “I see.”

  "I know it would put off other men, but I’ve never felt the necessity of producing an heir."

  Small wonder, his visitor thought.

  “What I suggest is that you come with me to Somerset. It would give you a chance to see my estate at Bicknoller. You’d have a better conception of my income after a look at the place and the books.” James had no doubt that everything was in order as far as the books were concerned. He’d taken a cursory glance at them when he was down in the spring, and they showed a very handsome profit. The income from the estate was not the reason he was forever at point non plus. Even Eastwick had no idea, he felt sure, how he managed (with the aid of a devil of an estate manager) to squeeze every last penny from the estate and his tenant-farmers. If he had, Eastwick would probably have discontinued the allowance as unnecessary, but there would be no question of that if James took a wife. And if he took the right one, there would be very little reason to worry about money and tradesmen’s bills for a long time to come. And James, if he had not precisely decided to change his way of life, had certainly tired of the perpetual nuisance of duns.

  There was, also, the possibility that he had discovered the clue to the Heythrop treasure, but he had no intention of hanging all his hopes on that. His reading of the first earl’s verses might or might not be right; in either case it would be useful to have Steyne along on the journey to distract attention from his intended search. Lady Eastwick would consider it her responsibility to entertain the viscount, and that little prig Edward would undoubtedly latch on to such a Corinthian as Steyne. All around, the plan had advantages.

  "I'll consider your Somerset offer, though I have several engagements I’d be loath to break in the next few days. When did you contemplate leaving?” Steyne watched as James hastily revised his schedule to accommodate the viscount’s whims. No wonder the man had such poor luck at the tables; off guard, his face could be read like a book.

  “Next week. I can’t get away until then.”

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow or the next day.”

  To all appearances Steyne took his leave as composedly as he had arrived, but he drew in a deep breath when he stood outside the house in Deanery Street. James’ lodgings were in a perfectly respectable house, his landlady an older woman of reduced means. His talk of taking a house in one of the squares was laughable; he counted on moving into Ruth’s house in Mount Row beyond a shadow of doubt. Did he think Steyne was so slow as not to have seen the stack of duns on top of which he placed his nephew’s letter? The man was an incorrigible gambler and spendthrift, the scourge of his family and lacking any close friends. His position opened any club door, of course, and he had a certain ability in sporting activities, but there was an end to his virtues.

  Despite the heat, Steyne gave his tiger instructions to take the curricle back to his house in Piccadilly, choosing instead to walk to his sister’s while he contemplated what James had told him. It was true that Ruth, widowed for well over a year now, appeared in company to be her normal self, but Steyne had witnessed in private moments a despondency which alarmed him. She was still feeling her loss severely, struggling to come to terms with it and determined to carry on as she thought others expected her to. Did she think she was expected to remarry? Was she listening to the old cats with their litany of “A woman should be married; a woman needs a man’s support; a woman alone is unacceptable to society”? In the past months he’d heard all the clichés offered to her, but surely she could not have lost her balance to such an extent that she would consider James!

  His rapid stride set the tassels on his Hessians swinging wildly but disturbed the perfect set of the bottle-green coat and dove-colored pantaloons not a whit. The white cravat and gold buttons sparkled in the sunlight but he was too preoccupied to give a thought to his appearance. Brummell would doubtless register horror at the pace he set, and the possibility that his cravat would wilt from his exertions, but Steyne himself cared little for such matters. He submitted himself patiently each morning and evening to his valet’s careful ministrations, and then heeded Brummell’s useful piece of advice: to ignore his appearance until time to change again. Of course, Brummell exerted himself as little as possible to maintain the perfect effect he had achieved, whereas Steyne promptly forgot what he was wearing. With his eyes closed, he would probably hav
e been unable to tell you which of his coats he had allowed his valet to ease him into that morning, or which of the equally inoffensive pairs of pantaloons he had donned. Yet the end result was the same. Owing to Housett’s unparalleled skill and infinite patience, Steyne was always turned out quite unexceptionably, even admirably.

  The house in Mount Row where he eventually came to a halt was a classical stone building, unpretentious but stately, in which his sister had taken up residence after her year’s mourning. Until then she had stayed in Shropshire, and Steyne had frequently journeyed to the country to be with her. It was at his urging that she had come to town, and he was not at all sure now that it had been wise. In the country there had been some neighboring families whose concern for her had been decidedly more beneficial than the callous, superficial consolation of her society friends. She refused to be a damper or a burden on social occasions, and the supreme effort she made to appear constantly cheerful had taken its toll. Perhaps there was no lessening of her beauty, but the spontaneous quality she had always had was now lacking, and to Steyne she appeared pale and drawn compared with the robust health she had enjoyed in the country.

  Mrs. Morrison was seated at the piano-forte in the silk-hung drawing room, quietly playing a melancholy country tune. Steyne had not had himself announced and he stood observing her for some minutes, noting especially the lone tear which had slipped out and marked a path down her cheek. Her light brown hair was drawn up in a rather frivolous knot, a style which her dearest friend had insisted was all the rage, and the deep brown eyes were moist with unshed tears. As she finished the piece, she happened to glance up and see him. “Marc! Why didn’t you speak? Forgive me for leaving you standing there.”

  Hastily she pressed a handkerchief to her eyes, trying to make it look as though she were dabbing her nose, and rose to greet him with outstretched hands. “What brings you out so early?”

  “You do, my dear. Have you time to talk?”

  “Certainly. Take the Wig chair, Marc, and I’ll ring for tea. There should be some plum cake. Do you fancy that?”

  “Please.” He waited until she had seated herself opposite him, but even then he found it difficult to come to the point of his visit. To erase the impression of sorrow she had masked her face with a cheerful smile and inquisitive eyes but her hands twisted restlessly in her lap. Finally he said bluntly, “Ruth, I’ve just been with James Heythrop.”

  If he had expected a maidenly blush or some indication of her attachment to the fellow, he was startled by her flashing eyes and the rare hard note in her voice as she asked, “What did he say about me?”

  “Basically that he had a great admiration for you and wished to marry you. And that he felt you reciprocated his regard.”

  "Is that all?”

  "Dear Lord, I would have thought that enough,” he returned faintly. “He did, of course, assure me of the strength of his financial position.”

  “He doesn’t have a financial position,” Ruth retorted. “You know that, Marc. If he wanted to marry me, it would be for my money.”

  They were interrupted while Ruth gave instructions to the footman who had appeared to her summons, but Steyne spoke the moment the door closed. “You don’t sound as though you would welcome an offer from him.”

  “Do you think I’ve lost my mind?” Suddenly she put her head in her hands and whispered between her fingers, “Maybe I have. I’ve behaved very foolishly with him. I don’t suppose you would understand, Marc, but I’ve been so desperately lonely.”

  Steyne felt a twitch of apprehension and came to lay a hand on her shoulder. “I know you have, my love, but I can’t think James is the one to alleviate your loneliness. There is certainly no comparison between him and Stephen Morrison.”

  “Oh, I know it. Marc, I’m thirty-six years old. There are no men around like Stephen. And I can’t understand why I am going to all these parties and smiling and talking and acting as though I were having a lovely time. I hate it. Without Stephen it seems empty and useless. No one even has a sensible thing to say about politics. When Stephen was in the House the people who came to us were interested, concerned. Now all they talk about is Prinny’s entertainment last month. My God, it was wretched. Such a show and a waste of money. I feel so removed from everyone else.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” He stroked her bowed head and said gently, “Tell me about James.”

  Ruth took the opportunity provided by the entry of the footman with the tea tray to rise and walk to the windows. She stood with her back to her brother. “After a few weeks in town I began to feel that I was an imposition to you and my married friends, tagging along without an escort. I’ve known James for years, of course, and when he offered to escort me about, I thought it a satisfactory solution. Everyone knew he had no interest in marrying and a string of light-skirts to keep him busy. He wasn’t my only escort, of course. Old Mr. Hawkesbury and young Notgrove often took me places, too, and occasionally Lord Enstone.

  "They were all . . . correct. When young Notgrove appeared to be developing a most inappropriate tendre, I dropped him from my train as gently as possible. One evening, on the way home from the Yarntons, I was with James and feeling low. He’s like a rat; he can smell vulnerability.” Ruth swallowed painfully. “I have missed the physical . . . closeness of marriage, and I allowed him some freedom with my person. Marc, I was just so tired of putting on a front, and I didn’t care what James thought of me. I don’t have a very high opinion of him.”

  Her back was still to him and he clenched the arms of his chair. “You will have to be more specific, Ruth. I’m sorry, but it is essential that I know. Did you go to bed with him?”

  "No . . . No. Not then, not since. But I have acted very imprudently on several occasions. Once I invited him in and we might have . . . I couldn’t take him to my room—the servants, the memories of Stephen. I wanted to, and he knew it. As I said, all the others had been very correct, and I began to allow James to escort me more and more simply so that I could have that contact. It was foolish of me, heaven knows, but I’ve felt so unhappy and for a while I could forget. I had no intention of marrying him, and never thought that he might entertain the idea of making me his wife.” She sighed. “I suppose I should have. The man has absolutely no scruples.”

  So that’s why he felt so sure she would marry him, Steyne thought, allowing himself to relax ever so slightly. This was not necessarily the end of the matter, however. James could not be trusted to take the shattering of his dream with equanimity, and Steyne shuddered to think of the chaos, the ruin he could cause with a few well-chosen remarks in company. Poor Ruth. Though he deplored her choice of companion, he could sympathize with her need for solace, be it only physical. And ladies hadn’t the freedom of choice and action that gentlemen had. He poured out two cups of tea.

  “Come and have some of the plum cake. It’s delicious.” He met her eyes, stricken, lost, as she turned to him. "Come, Ruth. You haven’t done anything so dreadful but we’ll need to discuss strategy. James has invited me to go into Somerset with him to see his estate, and I think it might be a wise idea if I did.”

  “Whatever for? Marc, I wouldn’t marry him if he were the last man on Earth!”

  “I should hope not, my dear. He is in a position to do some damage to your reputation, though, and I think it would be best if he felt the refusal was entirely my doing. If, after I have seen his estate, he should attempt to let an unsavory word drop, it will easily be countered by my having investigated his financial standing. Do you follow me?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry to cause you such trouble, Marc.”

  He reached out and pressed her hand. “Don’t be. I wish I could do more for you. I hate to see you unhappy. Perhaps you should return to the country after this is settled. You could visit Aunt Margaret, but I wouldn’t advise it. In August I plan to go to Kingswood for several months. Come with me.”

  “Thank you. I’ll consider it.” She smiled tremulously. “How very confusing life
is.”

  Life, for Lord Steyne, had never seemed the least confusing. No, that was not perfectly true, but for the most part he felt he had a strong influence over the events and personages surrounding him, and a confidence in his own ability to control his affairs. At one period that had not been the case, of course, but he had survived that disappointment to become a wiser if possibly more cynical gentleman. One could not, after all, plot the direction of one’s life with certainty when the necessity to take into account a woman’s whimsicality intruded itself.

  His wry smile emerged as he took leave of his sister. "Yes, my dear, there are times when everything seems indescribably bleak, but, believe me, they improve. No confusion, no hurt, no disappointment, lasts forever.”

  Chapter Four

  James Heythrop was gratified to receive Lord Steyne’s message that he would be willing to accompany him into Somerset. There was no mention of the reason for their expedition, and no comment on the possibility of a marriage between James and Ruth Morrison. But James was confident that Steyne must by now have spoken with his sister, and that the acceptance of the invitation was as good as a promise that the two of them would marry. Not that Steyne would necessarily view the proceedings with pleasure. James knew him better. It would cause the viscount vexation, if nothing worse, to see his sister wed to a man he considered a loose screw and a jackanapes.

  James had no delusions about Steyne’s opinion, or even that he had convinced the younger man of his intentions to reform his way of life, but Steyne was unlikely to chance a feud with his sister, considering Ruth was his senior and a mature woman. Very mature, James decided smugly as he sealed a note addressed to Lady Eastwick. He would not honor that puppy Edward with the courtesy of a reply. And since his own arrival was the only matter of importance to him, he mentioned simply that he was bringing a companion. Let them stew wondering if it would be a female companion. They had made such an ungodly fuss the time he had brought a female that he found it amusing to leave the possibility up to conjecture.