by Julia Donner
Vera smiled, stroked the cat and murmured, “Do you hear that, My Precious? Cousin Adele will not abandon us to shift on the streets or endure the workhouse.”
Adele longed to roll her eyes. She sent the cat an evil squint instead, but its severity was ruined when Vera said, “Then I am glad that I asked Lord Hayden to bring Mr. Treadwell to our Venetian breakfast Friday next.”
If a cat could smirk, Precious did. Somehow, someday, she must find some way to exorcize the feline from hell out of her life.
Chapter 3
Gordon’s prayer to be run over by a wagon on the way to his club went unanswered. He entered the lobby, handed off his hat and cape, then climbed the stairs leading up to the main hall and his doom. All the while he resisted the urge to run before he got under the disapproving glare of his father.
Postponing the tongue-lashing to come, he swerved to an alcove where two of his friends had their faces hidden behind a magazine. When he got closer, he realized they weren’t hiding from him, but concealing something they were reading behind the journal.
That they fostered enough interest in any topic of the written word, unless it had to do with sports or opera dancers, brought Gordon’s curiosity to the fore. There was also the reason that he would use any excuse to delay the meeting with his father.
Cecil Chadwick noticed him first. His slightly bulging blue eyes peered over the page. Wisps of his fine brown hair floated around his head. His rounded cheeks were pinked by something other than the exertion of hauling his considerable weight from one place to the next. A sudden, wicked light gleamed in his gaze, which didn’t match his slighter companion’s, whom Cecil nudged so forcefully with an elbow that he nearly fell off the tufted bench they shared.
Tookie Arbothnot, as slender as Cecil was hefty, righted himself on the bench. Tookie fretted easily, but was adored by everyone, mainly because he could not be kept down. He doggedly got into the ring or any fight, and no matter how many times knocked off his legs, the man got up swinging. For this, he was widely admired. His glance held innocent surprise as he bit into a plump lower lip. A wild thatch of black wavy hair looked too much for his head and narrow face.
“Heigh-ho, you two. Since when do you read religious themes?”
Cecil attempted to clumsily fold the magazine by crushing it to his chest. A book dropped to the floor. Before either of his friends could snatch it up, Gordon seized the narrow volume encased in nondescript, leather binding. He scowled at the title then pinned Cecil and Tookie with a pretend scandalized stare.
“Poring over the Scarlet Lady’s latest installment? For shame! Is this what you read hidden behind a hymnal on Sundays?”
Cecil made a grab for it and Gordon, being taller, lifted it up out of reach. Tookie stood and whispered, “Give it back, Gordie, before the whole place sees it.”
Gordon handed it over with a chuckle. “Heavens forbid the usher should see you with that. It’s a wonder you don’t have singed fingers.”
Cecil had hoisted himself to his feet. “It’s not that risqué. It’s that the thing was written by a female. Dashed clever, if you ask me. Particularly admire the use of symbolism. Even so, quite shocking. Demmed near as delicious as that poem your cousin wrote about how nice it is to admire bosoms whilst engaged in a waltz.”
Gordon made his opinion on that apparent with a scoffing snort. “My point being women shouldn’t pen erotic material. It isn’t natural.”
His friends stared at him in unblinking disbelief. He was reminded why he was at his club this evening and wished he hadn’t tied his neckwear so tightly. He resisted the urge to rub the burn from his face, which worsened when Tookie said, eyes ingenuously wide, “Why, Gordon, ladies cannot be all that different from us. Why shouldn’t they enjoy it as much as we?”
Gordon hissed at Tookie to keep his voice down as Cecil choked on a laugh. Gordon glanced around before saying, “Zounds, Tookie, it has nothing to do with what or what not they like. My point is that they shouldn’t be so vocal about it. It’s not…feminine.”
Cecil and Tookie exchanged a puzzled look. Gordon’s face flushed with heat again. They had to be thinking of how he’d made a public fool of himself with that stupid wager. Hades fry him if he ever again drank gin and made another wager.
Gordon spat out in exasperation, “Oh, very well, I’m an ass tonight. Just haul me off to the gallows. Anything would be better than what’s coming.”
Concerned, Tookie asked, “Is there any way in which we may be of service, Gordon?”
His friends stepped back, their dismay obvious, when with a baleful glare, Gordon said, “Father is expecting me. An interview.”
Cecil whispered, “An interview? Bad luck, old fellow.”
Tookie shook his head. “So sorry, Gordie. Interviews with one’s fathers are not pleasant. My own is so very kind, you know, but I cannot bear the thought of his disappointment in me.”
Gordon huffed a rueful laugh. “Mere disappointment would be a Godsend. No, I expect to have my ears pinned, allowance cut off, and banishment to the hinterlands. At the very least.”
Cecil muttered, “An interview regarding that wager Hayden perpetrated on you while you were disguised. The man has no scruples. All of it over a female of whom no one is sure of her identity. Who is AP, I ask you?”
Tookie’s black eyebrows came together in a frown. “It mustn’t be Annabelle Percival.”
Cecil gave Tookie’s arm a shove. “Idgit! Miss Percival is a diamond of the first water, the most beautiful girl to come out since Lady Ravenswold. Hayden wouldn’t put up her name on a wager. The girl has dukes and princes offering for her. Annabelle Percival, indeed! No, it must be a recluse, a spinster. With poor Gordie’s present luck, a veritable crone.” Realizing what he’d said, Cecil gave Gordon a sheepish look. “Sorry, Gordie.”
Tookie wrapped the wicked novel in the discarded magazine and handed it to Cecil. “Here, you may have it, and if you don’t mind, I should very much like it if you wouldn’t bandy Miss Percival’s name about. It’s not appropriate, you know, discussing a lady at one’s club.”
“Oh, stubble it, Took!” Cecil scolded before turning back to Gordon, “See here, I know it’s not the thing, but we’d be most happy to go along with you and give evidence to Sir Charles. We were there and can vouch for you.”
“Vouch for what? That I lost badly at cards, drank too much gin, and made a reprehensible wager that involves an innocent female?”
Tookie released the grip his upper teeth again had on his lower lip. “Oh, Gordon, then she is a lady then, not something…other?”
Gordon clapped his hand on Tookie’s bony shoulder. “There’s the rub, my friend. She’s not one to go out in society, but she is of good family. Entirely blameless and undeserving of this public humiliation.”
Tookie’s eyes swam with sorrow. “Oh, Gordie, I fear Sir Charles is going to put your head on a pike.”
Gordon shook the hands his friends solemnly offered, inhaled a deep breath for courage, and strode away to his doom.
Chapter 4
A lackey escorted Gordon to a private card room. The fact that his father considered the upcoming conversation so distasteful that it had to be conducted elsewhere than his home validated Gordon’s sense of impending tragedy. He loved his father dearly and feared his displeasure more.
Sir Charles stood by the window, gazing out at the darkened street. His posture, ever erect, contained a stiffness across his shoulders that revealed his tension. He held his chin a notch higher, his hands fisted and cupped behind his back. The only softness about the man was his stark-white hair, which was so thick and fine it looked like curled fluff. Gordon hoped he would present an equally dignified picture when he reached his father’s age. If he reached it. There was still the possibility of reprieve or the good fortune of being run down by an overloaded lorry that hadn’t shown itself earlier.
Even though his father presented his back, Gordon inclined his head in a respectful bow. It di
dn’t matter that his father wouldn’t see it, or notice it from a reflection in the window glass. His father deserved every civility. No one was more aware of the years of leniency shown to a most undeserving son than this most undeserving son.
His father was known and respected for his wisdom, his exemplary speeches in Parliament, his charitable works, and military honors. He’d been gravely injured in one of the Mysore battles, but there was no mention of its nature among the family, and certainly nothing was said by his father. Weaknesses, illness and error were not allowed. Sir Charles made no comment on these failings in others, but what he allowed in others was not condoned in him. Nor in his son.
Gordon clenched his teeth against the rise of an old ache. He’d let his father down again. It got him wondering about his life. What had he done of worth or value? He played too much, drank too much, and failed to set up his nursery as his father and aunts begged him to do for the last five years. He hadn’t mustered the courage to approach his father with supportive company after his mother passed away. Perhaps if he had done so, the breach between them would not have grown as wide and impenetrable.
Whatever punishment his father had in mind, he would stand submissive. There was no excuse. His latest betting fiasco left him in the suds, no exaggeration there. And there was the added, niggling shame that wormed its way to the surface about involving an innocent lady. Damn and blast Hayden. He’d beat the lout to flinders the next time they got in the ring.
“You may sit if you wish, Gordon.”
“Thank you, Father, but I believe I should stand for what is to come.”
Sir Charles turned and Gordon bolstered his nerve as his father scrutinized his miscreant child. Although they looked similar, his father had piercing black eyes. Gordon had his mother’s blue-gray, large and dark lashed. He would have preferred to have his father’s dynamic glare, for when imposed, it sliced through like a flaying whip.
Sir Charles vacated the window embrasure to pace to the unlit fireplace. “Wise of you. We shall dispense with all niceties and move directly to the meat of the reason for this interview.”
“Yes, Father, whatever you wish.”
“You are your usual, verbally compliant self, but as we both know from past experience, that is merely a sop. Once away from me and this room, you will do exactly as you please.”
“Not so, sir. I promise to behave in a more gentlemen-like manner. As befitting you and the family.”
“Gordon, I ask you to adhere to your word this time. Not for my sake, but for your own. Now you will tell me how you plan to resolve this unsavory predicament you’ve caused.”
Gordon forced down a swallow. “I will ask permission to call on the lady. Beg her forgiveness.”
“What else?”
“Spread the word that I was in my cups and should never have invoked her name, especially not in a betting book.”
“And what else.”
Sweat dampened the hair across his brow. A trickling bead rolled down and along his right cheek. He did his best to ignore it, because his father stared at a picture on the wall and not at his shame-riddled son. Collecting his courage, he forced himself to answer.
“I will beg her hand in marriage.”
His father’s shoulders relaxed, but only slightly. “Yes, you will. And do you know what I find curious, if not peculiar, in regards to this contretemps?”
“No, Father.”
“Miss Primrose was one of the choices your aunts proposed as a suitable match during her come-out season. She was thought of as a level-headed girl. Although her family is merely respectable, she comes with a much more than respectable fortune.”
“I had not known that. Will Aunt Henrietta and Frederica vouch for me? Perhaps set up a reason for me to call?”
“They have preceded you. It was quite easily accomplished. Your aunts are friends of Mrs. Abercrombie, Miss Primrose’s cousin, who has given her consent for you to call tomorrow. My expectation is that you will make a favorable impression. Miss Primrose is no longer a susceptible girl. I leave it to her good sense as to whether or not to accept your suit. I urge you to convince her to do so to save the family grievous embarrassment. Marriage could be the making of you, my son. This interview is concluded.”
Gordon opened his mouth to ask another question, to beg for a reprieve, or request another penance, then pressed his lips into a tight line. Argument was futile. His father held the purse strings and many obligations were due now. Some past due. The extent of his financial encumbrances had not yet reached his father’s desk. If they had, this interview would have been terrifying as well as humiliating.
His father’s precise manner of speaking cut into his thoughts. “And Gordon, if I should receive another notice of a gaming debt not honored, I shall pay it out of your next quarter’s allowance.”
Unpaid gambling debt? He usually paid those first and let the tradesmen wait. His confusion must have shown, for his father supplied an answer.
“It was a wager with Buffindon, over which horse in the team he was driving would supply the street with its next droppings.”
Gordon closed his eyes. He couldn’t blame that one on too much to drink. Sober as Sunday he’d been, feeling free and fine after a visit to an obliging widow. He supposed it was drunkenness of a sort, but that didn’t make it any less dim-witted.
Utterly debased, he inclined his head with a sharp bow and swiftly left the room. In the hallway, he leaned his back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. What was to be done? There was nothing else for it. He had to do as his father wished. And what did she look like? He scoured his memory and came up with a vague image of a Friday-faced young female, always too serious and disapproving. Certainly not the sort who could be designated as young or vivacious, and definitely someone who wouldn’t consider him prime husband material.
Perhaps Miss Primrose would send him off with a flea in his ear. He could pray for that. Then he would only have his debts to settle. Never again would he be so foolish. This is what happens when one gives in to heavy drinking, deep play at the card table, and lending handfuls of banknotes to friends. He’d finally learned his lessons. If only Miss Primrose would be so obliging as to loathe him on sight and reject his offer.
Chapter 5
Adele sat in expectation of Mr. Gordon Treadwell. If she’d pegged her victim correctly, he’d be making his bow before the clock struck twelve. He would want the interview done and over before his friends were up and about. Making a call on an unsociable spinster would devastate his reputation for consorting with only high-flyers.
Dear Cousin Vera lurked in the passageway. She didn’t have to see through the walls to know this. Vera was in a dither over any possibility of an actual marriage. Mustn’t upset the coin cart, especially when it was loaded down with Adele’s inheritance, but mutual friends had asked for a favor. Her cousin had no choice but to comply. Even though a money grubber, Vera had no wish of having it broadcast to the world by turning away an eligible suitor.
Adele had her own plot and plan. She sat in state in the best drawing-room, hands clasped, ankles together as she’d been trained, but she was no wilting miss. She felt more akin to a spinning spider, preparing and plucking its web. Gordon Treadwell was about to get stuck in her strands. Poor lad. When she caught an insect specimen to pin, she knew how to stick it in place so that it could never be removed.
A tap on wood preceded a footman entering and holding the door. Adele stood as her cousin preceded the caller. Adele may have been a wallflower but never a faint of heart sort. She looked him dead in the eye after he lifted his head from a bow. His remarkably fine eyes widened then glanced away. He hadn’t expected her bold regard.
Cousin Vera was no slow-top and proved it when she said with a smarmy smile, “I believe there is a household calamity that requires my immediate attention. Please excuse me, Mr. Treadwell.”
He inclined his head and waited for the door to close before he turned back. This time, his
gaze was noncommittal. She took mercy on him, asked him to be seated and about his health. Before they moved on to the obligatory subject of weather, her impatience took charge of tedium and ejected boredom.
“Mr. Treadwell, shall we cut directly to the reason for your visit?” When he stared, startled, she asked, “Would that be altogether too irregular, sir?”
“Well, yes, but that is…it’s that you reminded me of someone. He recently said the very same thing.”
“Ah, Sir Charles, no doubt. Forgive another impertinence, but I have long admired your father. He is an altogether extraordinary person.”
“That he is, madam.” He raised his hand to touch his knotted neckwear, as if he sought to loosen the noose of his own making. He dropped his hand and straightened his shoulders. “Since we are both sensible of the nature of this visit, I must first apologize in the most abject manner possible for my deplorable conduct.”
“The betting book incident?” she calmly asked.
“Precisely. It was quite the outside of enough to invoke your name…your name…what is that odd smell?”
Adele darkly replied, “The cat.”
Mr. Treadwell’s intelligent brow wrinkled. “Is it dead?”
She choked on an inelegant snort of laughter. Perhaps he wasn’t the mutton-headed twit she supposed. She gravely answered, “Only in my nightly prayers, sir.”
My Precious appeared around the couch corner and sprang up on the cushion beside Mr. Treadwell, who stared at the cat with a mixture of repulsion and awe. Adele noticed a diminishment, an alteration in her suppressed hostility toward her caller, when he sat perfectly still as the cat rubbed his smelly head and ears on his blue superfine sleeve. The rattle of a loud purr and a rusty mewl announced the cat’s inexplicable adoration. Although Mr. Treadwell preserved manly stoicism, he also looked ready to bolt.
