Removing his topcoat, Stephen slipped into the one the tailor held for him. “You have known her a long time?” he asked carefully, wondering at their casual manner.
Jeffrey nodded. “She has been one of my wife’s friends since... since before our marriage,” he said, suddenly hesitant with his response.
Frowning, Stephen wondered at the man’s words. “You said that as if your wife didn’t have many friends,” he commented, pulling the coat onto his shoulders until it settled into place. The sleeves, a bit long, were barely large enough to encompass his muscled upper arms.
Studying the fit of the coat with a critical eye, Jeffrey shook his head. “She does not, my lord. She married me, you see, despite my warning of what would happen when she did.”
Stephen regarded the tailor a moment. “I don’t understand,” he said with a shake of his head.
Plucking a piece of lint from the sleeve and shaking his head as he regarded the coat for another moment, Jeffrey sighed. “I am a tailor,” he said simply, as if that was reason enough. At Stephen’s continued look of confusion, Jeffrey sighed again. “My wife is Lady Rebecca Grandby. Oldest cousin of Lord Torrington and Michael, William, and Gregory Grandby, among others,” he said quietly. “And she is nine years older than me.”
Finally taking the man’s meaning, Stephen nodded. “I see,” he murmured before removing the coat. “However, if you knew her station in Society would be so adversely affected by marriage to you, why, pray tell, would you ask for her hand?” he wondered, realizing almost immediately his query was far too personal. “Forgive me, I—”
“I didn’t,” Jeffrey replied with a crooked grin and a shake of his head. “I did, however, finally agree to her marriage proposal.” At Stephen’s look of surprise, he added, “I believe it was her fourth or fifth. I lost track, you see, given the number of times she asked, and I declined for obvious reasons. Who could abide an earl’s daughter married to a tailor? But she was so insistent, I finally realized I had better do her bidding or lose her forever. Something I couldn’t abide, as it turns out.”
His face coloring up, Stephen finally allowed a grin. “You dog!” he whispered hoarsely, realizing there had to be some reason the woman wanted the man so much.
The tailor allowed a grin, apparently feeling more at ease with Stephen. “Happy wife, happy life,” he said lightly. “Try this one,” he urged as he held another topcoat open for Stephen.
“Even though she doesn’t have many friends?” Stephen queried.
Jeffrey angled his head. “Or perhaps because of it. She does not put on airs, nor does she pretend a status she cannot attain given our marriage, so her friends are true friends and not just acquaintances.”
Stephen nodded his understanding, pulling the coat onto his shoulders. The fit was far better than the first, and the sleeves did not extend beyond his wrist. “My wife may have the same challenges,” he murmured, realizing that a daughter of the aristocracy wouldn’t marry a bastard unless she truly felt affection for him. He always figured he would end up with a commoner when he had given any thought to marriage, but how would he meet one if he was attending balls and soirées where only members of the aristocracy were in attendance?
“Pardon?” the tailor replied, his brows furrowed.
Sighing, Stephen thought he may as well admit his relationship to the Marquess of Devonville. “I am Devonville’s bastard.”
The tailor shrugged. “But he has acknowledged you as his son?” he half-questioned, knowing the answer since Lady Devonville had been on his arm when he walked in.
“He has,” Stephen agreed.
“Society will accept you then,” Jeffrey said with some authority. He turned his attention to the topcoat. “This is a good fit, but would you like to try another?”
Stephen shook his head. “I’ll take this one,” he said. “And a rather... decorative waistcoat, should you have one that’s already finished?” he asked hopefully. “But not... flamboyant. I shouldn’t want to look like a molly.”
Jeffrey Garth regarded Stephen with a quirked eyebrow. “That’s the spirit,” he said as he led them to another area of the shop. He opened a drawer to reveal an elaborately embroidered waistcoat, the satin fabric shimmering in the dim light. Pulling it off the tissue on which it rested, he carefully unbuttoned the fabric-covered fastenings and opened it for Stephen. “Lady Devonville will be ever so pleased with your choice.”
Although he didn’t much care if he did impress his stepmother, Stephen hoped perhaps other women at the soirée would be. Pulling on the waistcoat, he had a glimpse of himself in a cheval mirror on the other side of the room and decided right then and there he would buy the waistcoat. “Indeed, Mr. Garth. I do believe she will be. Now let’s hope some other young ladies are as well.”
The tailor gave him a nod. “They will be, I assure you, my lord.”
Chapter 7
A Man of Business Minds His Own
Later that afternoon in London
Finding Lord Greenley’s man of business wasn’t difficult. Will had been told his office, located in Oxford Street, was right next door to one of London’s busiest charities. “Lady E’s,” the Pendleton House butler had said as Will took his leave. “I’m told broken, unemployed men go in, and they come out all dressed up with a position awaiting them. Several have been hired into service in Park Lane, in fact.”
Will rather doubted the charity worked that quickly, but he could certainly applaud any endeavor that helped men who had fought for King and Country and were left with the scars to prove it. He wondered if any of his own injured men had availed themselves of the charity when they returned to London.
Sure the charity didn’t exist when he was last in this particular neighborhood, Will studied the shingle above the door. Lady E’s ‘Finding Work for the Wounded’, est. 1815. Even before he could wonder as to the identity of Lady E, a trio of bedraggled men, two limping and one whose face sported a scar along his temple, made their way into the office. One held the door as a young woman stepped out, her attention on the men who had just entered.
“Mr. Overby will be with you shortly,” she called out over her shoulder, nearly colliding with Will when she resumed her exit from the office. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said, turning her aquamarine eyes onto the tall man who was staring through the glass of the charity’s front door.
Will tore his attention from the men who had just entered the charity and stared at the woman who appeared in the later stages of breeding. “Lady Elizabeth?” he murmured, his brows furrowed in doubtful recognition.
Elizabeth Carlington Bennett-Jones, Viscountess Bostwick, returned the stare, finally blinking when she realized the identity of the rather handsome man who stood before her. Darkly tanned and sporting long hair pulled back into a queue, he looked entirely out of place in Oxford Street. “Bellingham?” she cried as she extended a gloved hand. “Oh, my, I almost didn’t recognize you,” the viscountess said as she openly examined the man who stood before her.
“Nor I you,” the earl countered, his face splitting into a huge grin. “You look...” Will stopped, his gaze sweeping over her fashionable pelisse and hat, stopping for a moment on the protrusion that had her pelisse opening just below the buttons on the bodice.
“Fat, I know,” Elizabeth said with a roll of her eyes. “By this time next month, I won’t be, though,” she added with a happy grin. “When did you return? I’ve heard nothing!”
“Just a couple of days ago, in fact. Is this charity yours, by any chance?” he asked waving to the shingle above Elizabeth’s head.
She gave a nod and seemed to grow several inches taller. “It is, indeed. The result of a rather odd situation I found myself in because of a rather uncharitable old biddy,” she added, implying there was a story behind the charity’s beginnings. “There are times I think I must have been mad, but the rewards have been well worth it.”
Will grinned at how much Elizabeth Carlington had changed since he las
t saw her. She hadn’t yet had her come-out back then, but she was ever-present at her parents’ annual soirées and the garden parties offered by other aristocrats during the early summer months.
“I cannot help but wonder if any of the men under my command might have made their way to your endeavor,” he said with a furrowed brow. “Although the Greenwich didn’t have to fire her canons very often, nor did we take fire as others who were not so lucky, I still had some injured crewmen.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t recall anyone mentioning having served on that particular ship,” she replied. “But then, I no longer have the opportunity to read every application that comes in.”
The comment had Will realizing there were probably hundreds of wounded soldiers seeking assistance. “I rather imagine there are far more than you are able to help,” Will suggested sadly.
Elizabeth gave the comment some consideration. “True, but we do our best. Not everyone is employable, either, but we help those we can.” She paused, wondering why the marquess’ son was outside her charity’s office. “Were you about to go in?” she asked, concern suddenly on her face.
Will allowed a chuckle when he realized she might have thought he was wounded. “Next door,” he replied as he motioned to the office of Andrew S. Barton, Esquire. At Elizabeth’s suddenly arched eyebrow, he added, “I’m in search of some information I think he may know.” He paused a moment when a thought struck him. “Did you... were you an acquaintance of Lady Barbara Higgins, by any chance?”
The viscountess angled her head, wondering at the earl’s question. “She was a few years ahead of me at Warwick’s,” she replied, referring to the grammar and finishing school most of the daughters of the aristocracy attended in London. “But now that you mention it, I have not seen Lady Barbara in... years,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “Nor her father, come to think of it.”
“Brothers?” Will prodded, realizing either one of them might still be in London.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Somewhere in Staffordshire, I imagine,” she replied with a shrug. “Some families haven’t yet returned to London for the Season.”
Will nodded, realizing the entire family may have taken their leave of London and moved to the seat of the Greenley earldom. If the butler’s news was true, they were no doubt dodging the bill collectors. “I’ve taken entirely too much of your time, my lady,” he said as he reached for her gloved hand and brushed his lips over the back of it.
“Nonsense. And now that I know you’ve returned, I’ll be sure to have George make your acquaintance.”
Will blinked. “George?” he said with a frown.
Elizabeth grinned as a hand moved to rest on the evidence of her impending motherhood. “George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick,” she said proudly. “The best thing I’ve done in my entire life was propose to him,” she said before her eyes suddenly widened, as if she had just then realized to what she had admitted. “And if I hear that bit of gossip from anyone else, Will Slater, I shall know who to scold at the next ball,” she warned with an arched eyebrow.
His eyes widening at the surprising news, Will shook his head and assured her he would tell no one. “And if you see someone at a ball who looks exactly like me but isn’t me, be assured your eyesight is fine. I’ve brought my brother with me to London.”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to blink. “But, you haven’t got a brother. Have you?” she responded, her own eyes suddenly widening.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. He was born on the wrong side of the blanket, but bastard or not, he’s the best brother a man could hope to have,” he claimed in a low voice. “Perhaps you can rescue him at a ball if he seems a bit lost at sea,” he hinted.
Elizabeth beamed. “I shall look forward to it. Now, I really must go, or George will send out an army of footmen in search of me,” she said as she angled her head. She dropped a decent curtsy, despite her belly.
Will bowed and watched as the viscountess hurried to a waiting town coach, the Bostwick crest painted in bright gold on the door. Damn, she looks happy, he thought as he watched the coach merge into traffic and disappear down Oxford Street. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to face the door to the solicitor’s office and let himself in.
“If you’re here about the leak in the roof...” The solicitor looked up from a stack of papers on his desk and regarded Will for a moment, his gaze taking in the earl’s expensive top coat and polished boots. “Pardon. I’ve been expecting a repairman most of the morning,” he said with a shake of his head.
Will took note of a pair of crutches leaning against the end of the man’s desk. “Please, don’t get up on my account. I’ve just come for some information you may know.”
Andrew Barton regarded the young man who stood before him and realized two things: The man had served in either the army or the navy, and he was probably in search of a woman.
What was it with the men who visited his office these days? Why, just the week before, he had spoken with Randall Roderick, Marquess of Reading, as to the particulars of one Constance Fitzwilliam, who was in London to discover the whereabouts of her inheritance. Apparently the marquess had been successful in his quest to find and marry the gel—the notice of their marriage had been in The Times only the day before. The marriage had saved Barton from having to send out an investigator in search of a supposedly stolen inheritance. Thank the gods Lord Norwick, her cousin, had stepped in and provided her the supposedly missing funds.
Barton had far more important matters to see to than chasing down wayward bank accounts and women.
He had half a mind to open a locator service so that men might more easily find the women they had somehow lost along the way. He could name it Find Her, Keep Her, he thought with a grin, deciding if a man was stupid enough to lose a woman after finding her, then lose her, weep for her would be their lot in life.
He wasn’t about to repeat the process.
“What’s her name?” Barton asked as he motioned for the young man to take the chair in front of his desk. Not, “What’s your name?” which would be of no help if he didn’t know the identity of the chit in question.
Will couldn’t help the flush of color he suddenly felt on his neck and cheeks. At least his cravat would cover the worst of it. “Lady Barbara Higgins. The Earl of Greenley’s daughter,” Will stated evenly.
Barton kept an impassive expression on his face as he considered the name. “And when was the last time you saw her?” he asked, suddenly rather more curious than he expected to be. He hadn’t heard Barbara Higgins’ name mentioned in...
“Eight years, sir. The night before I reported for duty on the HMS Drake.” He didn’t add that he had asked after her when he had returned to town for his mother’s funeral a few years ago. His leave had been far too short to attempt contact, especially when someone mentioned that her family was at their country estate.
Navy, then. Definitely an officer from the looks of his clothes, Barton figured.
“Letters?”
Will blinked. “A few. And then... nothing. I’ve been told mine might have been burned before they could reach her ladyship. The butler at Pendleton House recommended I call on you, by the way.”
Barton resisted the urge to groan. The servant was probably the only other man in town who knew he had been the Earl of Greenley’s man of business. At least, he had been until the earl’s sudden decline in wealth left him unable to pay Barton—and the gambling debts that might one day force the Crown to take back the earldom.
“The last I knew, she was occupying a cottage near a village in Oxfordshire. Broadwell. It’s very near to Ellsworth’s summer home, although I do not believe he still holds title to that property.”
Will’s first thought was of sheep and a barony somewhere near there. And then he realized Ellsworth’s summer home must be adjacent to the Earl of Gisborn’s lands. “How far from Gisborn, do you suppose? From Bampton?” he wondered. “I only ask because Gisborn is my brother by m
arriage.”
Andrew Barton straightened in his chair, blinking as he considered the identity of the young man who sat before him. “Devonville?” he said with some alarm.
Will shook his head. “Not yet, and hopefully not in my lifetime. Bellingham.” At the solicitor’s look of confusion, he added, “My father has married a younger woman who seems to have youthened him,” he whispered with an arched eyebrow. “Good thing, too, since I’m not looking to inherit a marquessate anytime soon.”
The solicitor nodded, not sure how to respond. But the thought that he was interested enough in Lady Barbara’s fate to pay a call not only at Pendleton House but to follow up with him had Barton suddenly wanting to help the earl.
“I have not been in contact with Lady Barbara for over a year. I used to...” At this, he paused, realizing that if he said more, he would be divulging that he had been secretly sending funds to Barbara—funds he had skimmed from the Greenley earldom.
“Please know that any information you provide will be kept in the strictest confidence, Mr. Barton.”
The solicitor angled his head, suddenly suspicious of the young man’s motives. Perhaps he was looking for Lady Barbara in an attempt to use her to collect a debt owed by her father. “What are your intentions toward the lady?” he asked then, a hint of anger coloring his words.
Despite the change in the solicitor, Will allowed a lopsided grin. “I intend to marry her, of course,” he claimed happily. He sobered a bit, though. “But first, I have to find her.”
Andrew Barton let out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “Well, then, I suppose I had better draw you a map,” he murmured, pushing aside the pile of papers in front of him to place a sheet of blank parchment onto his blotter.
“Just give me the directions, if you would,” Will said. “I’ve been a commander of a British naval vessel for the past six years. I do believe I’m capable of following verbal directions.”
The Caress of a Commander Page 6
