by Cheryl Bolen
"Then you'll just have to train the new cook on how to prepare food exactly the way you like it," Elizabeth said.
"Yes, you must see that your recipes are followed or we may have a mutiny on our hands," Margaret said with a laugh. "If there's one thing all the residents of Number 7 agree upon, it's the excellence of your cooking."
Mikey scooted down from his mother's arms until he was placed on the floor. " He moved to Margaret, his little brows lifted in query as he looked up at her. "Boy?"
Mrs. Leander's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, love?"
"I think he's looking for the lad who's just moved in today," Margaret said. "Georgie. I believe he's the closest to Mikey in age—or at least the closest male to him in age!"
Mrs. Leander laughed while shaking her head. "All my lads want to associate only with other boys, yet I do believe my girls would rather associate with lads than with other little girls!"
Margaret understood that only too well. Her husband would much rather be with his male friends than be with her—or with any females. Respectable females, that is.
As happy as she was that Mrs. Leander would be freed of her never-ending kitchen chores, Margaret was saddened, knowing the woman would now have more time with her youngest child. That would certainly diminish Margaret's opportunity to spoil him as his mother had formerly not been able to do.
"Would you like to see Mrs. Weatherford's new chambers?" Mrs. Hudson asked Margaret after the duchess and Mrs. Leander moved into the drawing room.
"Indeed I would."
The two women began to mount the stairs. "I cannot tell you how happy I am for Mrs. Nye," Margaret said. "The woman positively glowed when I said farewell to her yesterday."
"I'm happy for her, too. She has truly fallen in love with the man she's marrying."
Margaret's voice softened. "You know it's what Mr. Hudson would have wanted for you. How old are you?"
"Two-and-twenty."
A year older than Abraham Carter, if Margaret's memory served her correctly. "The time with your husband was but a short interlude in what I feel is going to be a long life. You cannot spend the rest of your days dwelling on your lost love. Not when you're pretty. And the object of another man's devotion. A breathing, living man."
Mrs. Hudson stopped climbing the stairs as if her feet were nailed to the tread, and she turned to face Margaret. "Pray, my lady, to whom could you be referring?"
"I think you know."
"Carter?" Mrs. Hudson whispered.
Margaret nodded. "You must be the only one who's not aware of his adoration of you."
Mrs. Hudson shook off the comment. "It's only that he's grateful to me because I taught him how to read and write."
"If you think that, you cannot possess the intelligence I credited you with."
Mrs. Hudson resumed the stair climbing.
It had been difficult for someone as reticent as Margaret to bring up so personal a matter, but after seeing how happy Mrs. Nye was on the previous day, Margaret was determined to see that Mrs. Hudson also had another chance at a loving marriage. The young mother obviously needed a push.
On the top floor, they found Mrs. Weatherford and Georgie's chamber at the end of the corridor. The beautiful widow whirled around to face Margaret, a smile brightening her face. "I am very happy with my chamber, and already George is begging to play with the other lads. I owe you and his lordship a great deal, my lady."
"Your happiness is our reward. I hope you will enjoy your time at Number 7 Trent Square. I think your son has already demonstrated his preference in lodgings."
"Indeed he has!"
Footsteps on the wooden corridor came closer and soon Mrs. Leander, carrying Mikey, stood in the open doorway to Mrs. Weatherford's chamber. "The first applicant’s not due for ten minutes, so I wanted to come and welcome Mrs. Weatherford to Number 7." She eyed the newcomer. "You must tell me if there's anything you need." She set down Mikey. "My little laddie wants to play with your young fellow."
Margaret's melancholy was vanishing over her satisfaction that John's dead friend's widow was happily ensconced at Number 7 and that Mikey had a playmate, both owing to her.
When she turned away to go to the music room, Mikey did not even notice her departure. She was pleased that he had a lad to play with. Sooner or later, he would have found other interests in things little boys liked to do. One couldn't keep a child on one's lap forever.
But it saddened her nevertheless.
Each and every widow residing here was far richer than she. Would Margaret ever know the love of her husband? Ever have a child of her own?
* * *
When he reached White's, he was pleased to find his three best friends sitting at their regular table—two bottles of brandy reposing there also. He took the fourth seat.
Arlington looked up first, quirking a brow. "Ah, here comes Lady Finchley's peckee."
John frowned as he sat down. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I believe he's intimating that you're henpecked, old fellow," Knowles said.
"Which makes me believe that somehow the bride has coaxed our dear Finch into her bed." Christopher Perry gave his old friend a patronizing look. "And I believed you when you said you had no intentions of making the union a real marriage."
Since they'd been lads, the four of them had shared everything. They'd even passed around Cyprians as if they were a bowl of Brussels sprouts. But for reasons John was incapable of understanding, he did not want his three best friends to be privy to the intimate—or lack of intimate—details of his and Maggie's marriage.
He knew the fellows' code of honor would prevent them from gallantry with their friend's wife, but if they believed he and Maggie were not on intimate terms, what was to prevent one of these fellows from trying to make a conquest of sweet Maggie?
He could never condone that.
He glared at Arlington. Why was the fellow so obsessed over the details of John's marriage? "Henceforth," John said in a commanding voice whilst his gaze scanned the three friends, "There will be no discussions of my wife, no questions to be asked regarding . . . bedchamber activities. Is that understood?"
“But, my dear friend,” Arlington said, gleaming, “Your so-called bedchamber activities can be conducted anywhere.”
Perry snorted. “Like standing up behind the stage curtains at Drury Lane.”
“That was you—not I!” John protested.
Smiling, Knowles nodded. “Or on top the coachman’s box between St. Albans and Oxford.”
John had to admit they’d all had a go at that sport on the night to which Knowles was referring. At least, that’s what John had been told the following morning. An overabundance of spirits had been involved.
“Then there’s the fountain at Tolford Abbey . . .” Perry eyed him with mirth.
Not amused, John held up a flattened palm. “Enough!” It embarrassed him to think of Maggie ever learning what unorthodox activities had been performed in the fountain at his country home.
Another case of too much strong spirits.
“Then prove it to us. Tomorrow night,” Perry said, “That you’re our same old, fun-loving friend. Act like you did before you got shackled.”
John’s brows lowered. “What do you propose?”
“You’re in the blunt now. Get yourself a lady-bird.”
“And Perry’s got just the one!” Arlington nodded. “The new buxom little redheaded dancer at the opera. If I weren’t under an agreement with Mrs. Flannagan, I’d take her myself.”
“It’s too soon after his marriage,” Knowles protested. “The Duke of Aldridge would not approve.”
John nodded enthusiastically. “He’s right. I can ill afford to behave in a manner that would increase the duke’s hostility toward me.”
Perry’s face was screwed up in thought. “Finch, did you not mention that now you’ve got funds, you can afford to bribe the gossip writers to keep your scandals out of the newspapers?”
“
He most certainly did,” Arlington asserted.
Perry faced John, smiling. “There you have it! Come with us tomorrow night, and I'll introduce you to the gloriously top-heavy Loosey Lucy.”
“And,” Knowles added, “That’s L-o-o-s-e-y.”
“An apt description for the affectionate lady.” Perry grinned.
John could not have his friends thinking him henpecked. It was an affront to the agreeable woman he’d married. “Very well. Tomorrow night.”
Chapter 15
Seeing Barrow's white hair when he swept open the door of her former home was as welcoming as a warm hug. She had seen the beloved old fellow every day of her life. Until she married. "Hello, Barrow."
His bushy white brows scrunched together. "Did you not move away, my lady?"
"You know very well I did, but I must visit my sisters. Are they here?" She was one of the few who understood—along with the footmen whom he supervised—that to be heard by Barrow, one must greatly elevate one's voice.
"Yes, Lady Clair and Lady Caroline are both in, but Lady Clair will be departing soon. Mr. Rotten-Smelly will be collecting her."
She tried not to burst out laughing at the butler's mispronunciation of Clair's suitor's name. She turned to scurry up the stairs. "Thank you, Barrow."
Both sisters were in Margaret's old bedchamber that she had shared with Caro. Clair was seated in front of Caro's dressing table, peering into the looking glass. "Can you not make my hair look like yours?" she said to Caro. "You've received eleven proposals of marriage, and I've not received a single one."
They turned when Margaret entered.
"But, my dear Clair," Margaret said, "You've never wanted but one proposal—and speaking of Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley, why is Barrow now under the delusion the poor man's name is Rotten-Smelly?"
Both sisters giggled. "That's because Aldridge took it upon himself to try to correct Barrow's mispronunciation of Rotten for Rothcomb," Caro explained, "and the poor old hard-of-hearing butler thought he'd got the Smedley part wrong. Barrow immediately changed the name to Rotten-Smelly, informing Aldridge he was a dutiful servant who intended to abide the master's wishes—even if he did not agree with them."
"And," Clair added, "Aldridge didn't have the heart to attempt to correct him a second time."
Margaret's gaze locked onto the image of her two sisters in the looking glass. Sadly, there was nothing Clair could do to be as pretty as Caro. The singular deviation in their appearance was their skin. Where Caroline's had the colour and luminosity of fresh cream, Clair's was dotted with freckles. Margaret did not find freckles at all offensive, but the comparison to Caro's completely unblemished skin was not to Clair's advantage.
"What does Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley think of dear Barrow's moniker?" Margaret asked.
"He's been very polite when poor Barrow addresses him as such, but when others playfully call him Rotten-Smelly, he gets rather miffed," Clair said.
Caro shrugged. "As long as it doesn't come out in the newspapers, it makes for great fun."
The very mention of newspapers reminded Margaret of that odious newspaper man and his vile practices. "If the press did get a hold of that name and start using it—particularly in the political caricatures—it could be disastrous to Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley's Parliamentary aspirations."
"That has also occurred to me," Clair said, her voice troubled.
Caro adopted a unconcerned air. "I daresay it's too late now. That cat has been out of the bag a good long while. I believe if someone were going to pass that name on to the press, it would have occurred by now. And it's not as if we can erase memories of those who've already heard it."
"Caro does have a point." Margaret began to circle her seated sister. "Pray, dearest, what's all this fuss about copying Caro's hair in order to wrangle a marriage proposal?"
Clair pouted. "I'm desperate. It's been nearly a year now since Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley became my suitor. We are infinitely compatible with one another. We never tire of each other's companionship. Everyone in the ton has been expecting an announcement of our nuptials for several months. The only explanation must be that I'm not pretty enough."
"Nonsense!" Margaret said. "I have on more than one occasion heard Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley praise your beauty. Besides, you truly are pretty."
"I am aware that I'm not as lovely as you two."
"I have no doubts," Caro said authoritatively (but then, Caro said everything authoritatively), "that Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley admires you vastly. I have no doubts that a marriage between you two would be spectacularly successful. I do have doubts, though, about Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley's desire to be shackled. I believe he's likely petrified at the prospect of being tied down in marriage."
Just like John. "Many men are."
"Then perhaps we need a scheme to make the man realize how much he wants to marry Clair," Caro announced.
"That sounds devious." Margaret's eyes narrowed as she regarded Caroline.
"That's because you're so beastly honest!"
"There's nothing beastly about being honest," Margaret defended. Though, she must own, she was hardly one to exemplify honesty, not with all the secrets she was harboring about her own marriage.
"You are absolutely sure that you desire to wed Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley?" Margaret asked.
Clair nodded. "I've never wanted anything more."
"That does it!" Caro flung down the comb she'd been using on Clair's hair. "I know exactly what is needed to coax a declaration."
Through their reflections in the looking glass Margaret saw Clair's eyes widen as she regarded Caro with skepticism.
"We must make him jealous."
Margaret and Clair both gawked at Caroline. "How does one do that?" Margaret asked.
Caro puckered her lips in thought. "I believe I have a plan, but first, Clair, before I can bring my plan to fruition, you must give me your word you will feign encouragement of another man's interest."
"I cannot possibly pledge to any such ridiculous scheme! Nothing could be more calculated to drive away Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley."
"She's right!" Margaret concurred. "Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley's a very proud man. If he thought for a moment Clair preferred another man over him, he'd bow out."
"Allow me to rethink this." Caro began to pace the carpet. After several moments, she turned around and eyed Clair, smiling brightly. "Then I propose you continue those things you do exclusively with Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley, things like your afternoons riding in the park, but at the more public functions, another man will give the impression to all that he's prostrate with love of you. He will need to be handsome. And rich. Otherwise Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley could never consider him a threat to his secure position in your affections. He will be so charming in public, and you will appear so flattered over his attentions, that Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley will hasten to secure your affections for himself."
Clair's jaw dropped. Margaret's eyes widened. Both stared at Caroline as if she'd started speaking in extinct tongues. "Where, may I ask," Clair demanded, "will you find such a faux suitor?"
Caro favored her sisters with a smug smile. "Actually, I met the man at the Finchley ball."
It was a moment before Margaret remembered she was Lady Finchley, and her sister was referring to their ball. On the night of The Kiss. Even before Caro told her who this man would be, Margaret knew. Christopher Perry. He was handsome. He was exceedingly wealthy. But he had scarcely noticed Clair. All his attentions had been on Caro.
"Pray tell, who?" Clair squinted at her sister.
"Mr. Christopher Perry."
"I've never heard of him."
"That, my dear sister," Margaret said to Clair, "is because he's not in Parliament, and you are only interested in matters of government."
"He's a great friend of Lord Finchley. He's called on me once or twice. I'm persuaded that, as a favor to me, he would pretend to be infatuated with you. Shall I ask him?"
Margaret knew that Mr. Perry's interest in Caro on the night of the ball had been decidedl
y keen, but she'd not heard that he’d actually called on her sister since that night. How very novel! John and his friends had heretofore never been attracted to well-born ladies. "Would you tell Mr. Perry the truth?" Margaret asked.
"I don't know yet how much I will tell him. I'm not sure if I know him well enough to trust his confidentiality."
"Men are supposed to be better at keeping confidences than women," Margaret said.
There was a knock at Caroline's chamber door. "A caller for you, Lady Caroline," Barrow said. "Mr. Christopher Wren."
All sisters exchanged amused glances, then burst into giggles. No doubt, by the time poor old Barrow had hobbled up two flights of stairs he'd gotten Mr. Christopher Perry's name mixed up with London's most famed architect, who'd been dead for many years.
Caro turned to Margaret. "Won't you accompany me?"
It took no persuasion since Margaret was always happy to have the opportunity to visit with her husband's life-long friends.
Mr. Christopher Perry was pacing the drawing room when the two ladies entered. His gaze leapt from Margaret to settle upon Caro, and he effected a bow, first to Margaret before resting his admiring gaze upon her sister. "How remarkably you two beautiful ladies resemble one another."
"I declare, Mr. Perry, you shall make us blush," Caro said. "Pray, won't you take a seat?"
He waited until the ladies sat, then he lowered himself into the nearest chair.
"I'm surprised to see you here," Margaret said. "I assumed you were with my husband." Then she clapped a hand to her mouth. "I beg that you not think me a prying wife."
He shook his head. "Finch says you're one in million. If a man has to be shack- -" He coughed. "What I'm trying to impart is that Finch is most gratified that he's wed a woman of your good nature and understanding."
It did not escape Margaret's notice that Mr. Perry had failed to address her husband's whereabouts. Her heart sank. Was he with his ladybird? Had he been with his ladybird on all these afternoons she'd thought he was at White's or race meetings, or boxing mills with his friends?
