A London Season

by Patricia Bray

  But she had been unwilling to choose, and this, too, was Glendale’s fault. Jane laughed bitterly as she remembered her foolish hopes. Strange now to think that she had once considered him the most wonderful of men. She had preferred his company above all others, feeling complete only when she was with him. She had deluded herself into thinking the attraction mutual, and spurned her other suitors in favor of spending more time with Glendale.

  Well, she was paying for her vanity now. Not one of her erstwhile suitors had called in the days since Mrs. Elliot’s ball. She had gone from having too many choices to having none at all. It was a dilemma with no solution, but Jane refused to give up. “There must be a way,” she vowed. “I will find a way out of this fix, and be damned to Lord Glendale.”

  Glendale skimmed the morning paper with idle curiosity, but nothing caught his interest, and he tossed it aside irritably. Reaching down for his china cup, he took a sip of coffee. The coffee was lukewarm and bitter. He glanced at the silver coffeepot, but no doubt the liquid it contained was no better.

  “Fisk!” Glendale shouted, ignoring the brass bell that was supposed to be used to summon the servants.

  A young man in livery entered the room. “Yes, milord?” he asked anxiously. Fisk’s manner annoyed Glendale. There was no reason for the man to look like a frightened rabbit.

  Glendale pointed to the offending object. “Take this swill away and fetch me some real coffee. And be quick about it.”

  “Yes, milord. At once, milord,” Fisk replied, removing the silver pot. He returned scant moments later, bearing a new pot. Selecting a fresh cup and saucer from the sideboard, Fisk carefully poured out a new cup of coffee, then waited for Glendale’s nod of approval.

  “Will there be anything else, milord?” Fisk asked.

  “No,” Glendale said shortly, waving the man off. Why on earth did Fisk insist on hovering so?

  Glendale reached for the paper, before remembering that he had already discarded it. He glanced at the wall clock. It was just on nine o’clock. For the first time in weeks he had the leisure to enjoy his breakfast in peace. Now that the wager had been won, his life was once more his own. No more wasting his time squiring a young lady around London. No more trips to the galleries and museums and the fashionable spots of London. No more morning calls on tiresome biddies, or evenings spent in the company of the most respectable and boring members of London society.

  He had waited weeks for this day. He should be rejoicing. But instead all that he felt was a nameless irritation. He should be happy to be free from Miss Sedgwick’s clutches. Glendale cast his mind back to Saturday’s ball, trying to recapture his earlier feelings of righteous indignation. But as he imagined Jane’s face, all he could feel was a sense of loss.

  Glendale set his cup down with a suddenness that made the china rattle. He couldn’t be missing the chit. She was a coldhearted schemer. Her own words had condemned her. It was true that he had enjoyed her company, but she was nothing special. Glendale squirmed mentally, unwilling to examine that thought too closely.

  He was saved from further introspection by the arrival of his butler with the morning post. Glendale flipped through the invitations, not bothering to open them. Tucked among the missives was an envelope that bore Freddie’s distinctive scrawl.

  A piece of paper fluttered out as Glendale tore open the envelope. Picking up the paper, he found it was a bank draft for the sum of one hundred pounds. What the devil? Frederick’s note was equally cryptic. In payment of my debt of honor. Your servant, Lord Frederick, et cetera.

  Now what maggot had gotten into Freddie’s skull? Why would he mail the draft, rather than delivering it himself? And what did he mean by the tone of that letter? Glendale had received tradesman’s bills that contained more warmth. Only Freddie could give him the answers he sought, and Glendale decided to seek his friend out.

  It took most of the day for Glendale to track his friend down. Glendale had called at Freddie’s rooms, only to be told that Lord Frederick had just left. Freddie’s valet vouchsafed the information that his master had mentioned calling on his tailor, but it was all a hum, as when Glendale called on Weston, he found that Freddie was not there, nor was he expected to be.

  Glendale finally ran his friend to ground at White’s. Entering the main room, Glendale spied Mr. Charles Givens in his usual spot by the fire. Charles Givens was a permanent fixture at the club, there at all hours of the day and night. A popular rumor had it that Givens hadn’t set foot outside of the club in twenty years. Glendale knew that for a lie, having once encountered Givens in the City. But it was still a good story, and when Givens was at White’s, he served as the unofficial doorkeeper.

  “Good afternoon, Charlie,” Glendale greeted him. “Have you seen Freddie today?”

  “Afternoon, Glendale,” Givens growled from behind his paper, without bothering to look up. “You’ll find Lord Frederick in the card room with Mountjoy.”

  Glendale thanked him for the information and headed for the card room. He spotted Freddie easily, the card room being mostly empty at this hour of the afternoon. Freddie was in conversation with Mountjoy, as they watched a desultory round of whist.

  “Afternoon, Freddie,” Glendale said. “I’ve spent half the day looking for you, and worn out my best boots. Where have you been hiding yourself?”

  Freddie appeared startled to see him. “I regret having caused you such inconvenience, Lord Glendale,” he said stiffly.

  Glendale stared at his friend. What was wrong with him? “Mountjoy, I’m certain you will excuse us,” Glendale said, grabbing Freddie by one arm. Without waiting for a response, he dragged his friend over to a secluded spot by the window.

  “What has gotten into you, Freddie? And since when did you start calling me Lord Glendale?”

  Freddie minced no words. “No friend of mine would have behaved so badly.”

  Glendale shook his head, hoping that would clear the confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “Miss Sedgwick,” Freddie said.

  “What about her?”

  Freddie gestured impatiently. “Miss Sedgwick? Mrs. Elliot’s ball? Where you publicly branded the poor girl a heartless schemer?” Freddie finished by crossing his arms and looked at him challengingly.

  “And if I did? It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Glendale said.

  “So you say now. But a few days ago you were singing her praises.”

  He couldn’t believe that Freddie was taking Miss Sedgwick’s side. Had she worked her wiles on him as well? “I was wrong,” Glendale said tightly. “She admitted it herself, saying that she needed to marry a wealthy lord, and had no time for someone like myself.” Glendale’s conscience pricked him a little at the exaggeration. Miss Sedgwick hadn’t exactly said those words, but he knew that’s what she had meant.

  “So that’s it. She pricked your pride, and you retaliated.”

  Freddie’s words stung. They couldn’t possibly be true. Glendale’s anger had been caused by his failure to see through her deception earlier. “What does it matter what I said?”

  “We should never have made that damnable wager,” Freddie said, turning his head to look out the window in apparent fascination. “No gentleman makes a wager involving a lady.” Freddie turned back to look at Glendale, and the anger in his face was clear to see. “Or at the very least, you could have kept your mouth shut. There was no need to mention it in front of witnesses. The news of the bet was all over London within the day.”

  Glendale opened his mouth to reply, then shut it. There was no defense he could make. Freddie was right. The wager had been a breach of the unwritten rules that governed the ton. By now Miss Sedgwick’s reputation was in tatters. She would be lucky if she was received anywhere publicly again. He felt a twinge of unease at that thought, and tried to convince himself that he didn’t care what happened to Jane.

  “After all, she brought it on herself,” Glendale finally replied.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact
she did,” Freddie answered. “She should have known better than to consort with two reprobates like ourselves. Too bad no one thought to warn her.” Rising from the chair, he paused for a last word. “For my part, I’ve grown to like Miss Sedgwick. And, schemer or not, she didn’t deserve what we did to her.”

  Glendale sat for a few minutes after Freddie had left. He tried to convince himself that Freddie would soon get over his anger. Surely Freddie wouldn’t throw away years of friendship over a silly quarrel about a woman.

  Women. They were the bane of the male sex, Glendale concluded, as he left White’s environs. Not a one of them was to be trusted. Look at Miss Sedgwick. Or his former fiancée Miss Hanscombe. Or even Violetta, his erstwhile mistress.

  Thoughts of Violetta reminded him that he had yet to inform her that the liaison was over. He could send a note, but that would be too cold. After all, the rupture was partly his fault. He had been too caught up in his supposed courtship of Miss Sedgwick to spare any time for his mistress. Small wonder that Violetta had sought another protector. The least he could do was send her a parting gift with his message.

  It was nearly dark, and the clerk was preparing to close the shop when Glendale arrived at Blackman’s. But at the sight of a noble client, the clerk hurriedly opened the door.

  “Lord Glendale, what a privilege to see you again,” Mr. Johnson said, rushing out from the back room. Mr. Johnson waved one hand at the clerk, who immediately began relighting the lamps that had been extinguished earlier.

  “I need a gift for a…friend,” Glendale said.

  “Of course, my lord,” said Mr. Johnson smoothly. “And is there anything in particular you had in mind?”

  Something that she can easily pawn in case of need, Glendale thought. But he didn’t voice the thought aloud, giving in to Mr. Johnson’s attempt to preserve appearances. Glendale didn’t mind. He valued the staff at Blackman’s for their discretion. Unlike the more fashionable Rundell’s, no word of this transaction would reach the gossips.

  “I have a set of rubies here that are very nice,” the clerk said, lifting them out from the display case.

  Glendale admired the rubies, but decided against them. Rubies were for passion, and his passion for Violetta had died long ago.

  “Perhaps a diamond collar?” Mr. Johnson suggested. Glendale gave a brief glance at the item in question. It was perfect. It was gaudy and tasteless, and Violetta would undoubtedly love it.

  “Fine. I’ll take it,” Glendale said. Borrowing a pen, he scratched out a quick missive, and then sealed the note and wrote Violetta’s direction on the front. “Have it sent round to this address.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Mr. Johnson said. “I am certain your friend will be delighted with your choice.”

  She should be, Glendale thought. The collar had set him back nearly three hundred pounds. Gathering his gloves and hat, he prepared to leave, when an object under the counter caught his eye.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Johnson looked down, following his glance. “Oh that. It’s a very fine matched set of pearls we just received in.”

  “May I see them?” Glendale demanded. There was something about those pearls that struck a chord in his memory.

  Johnson hesitated, then removed the tray from under the glass case. “These pearls are very fine indeed. Especially if you are considering a gift for a young lady,” he said.

  From the way the clerk stressed the words young lady, Glendale realized that Johnson was trying to hint that the pearls were not at all the thing to be presented to a member of the demi-monde. “No, no, the collar is fine,” Glendale reassured the clerk. “I just wanted to see this.”

  Glendale picked up the pearl necklace and turned it over in his hands. It was a lovely piece, set in the old-fashioned style of his grandmother’s day. It was strangely familiar, and he closed his eyes, trying to remember where he had seen them before. The image of Jane came to him, smiling up at him in happiness as they danced at her come-out ball. She had worn pearls much like this around her slender neck, and the earbobs had danced in accompaniment to her laughter.

  Glendale dropped the necklace as if it burned.

  “Is something wrong, my lord?” Johnson asked.

  “No,” Glendale said shortly. This business with Miss Sedgwick had addled his brains. It was just a set of pearls. Hundreds of women had similar sets all over the country. There was no reason why they should remind him of her. Miss Sedgwick was nothing to him. In a few weeks he would be hard-pressed to recall her name or her features. And that would suit him just fine.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Mr. Whitmore to see Miss Sedgwick,” intoned the officious Browning.

  Jane looked up in surprise. She hadn’t expected any callers, not after that dreadful scene two days ago at Mrs. Hatcher’s. Even Lady Barton’s acquaintances had ceased to visit. Mr. Whitmore was the first visitor in days. Unless you counted Lord Frederick, of course. He had made a brief call to apologize for any distress that he and Lord Glendale may have caused her. Lord Frederick had seemed genuinely contrite, and she forgave him his minor role immediately. But it was an extremely awkward visit. The real culprit, Lord Glendale, was nowhere to be seen. Lord Frederick’s apology only served to spotlight Glendale’s continued absence.

  Jane thrust the treacherous Glendale from her thoughts, and rose to greet her caller.

  “Mr. Whitmore,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Your servant, Miss Sedgwick,” Mr. Whitmore replied, crossing the room and taking her hand in greeting. Behind him, Browning made a point of leaving the door open, since Jane had no chaperone. Jane had scarcely resumed her own seat when her maid Sally scuttled in. Sally gave a quick curtsey, and then sat on a bench in the back, trying her best to look invisible. Browning appeared intent on preserving whatever shreds were left of Jane’s reputation.

  “I trust I did not disturb you,” Whitmore said, after a moment of silence had passed.

  “On the contrary, your company is a welcome relief from my own thoughts.” It was the simple truth. Earlier this morning Jane had decided that it was no use staying in London. Her best course was to return home, and to help Angus MacLeod salvage what he could of their fortunes. All that remained now was to inform Lady Barton of her decision, so Jane had been sitting here, impatiently waiting for Lady Barton to return from her shopping.

  Mr. Whitmore’s gaze swept the room. “I must confess, I did not expect to be so fortunate as to find you alone. The last time I called, you were surrounded by admirers.”

  “Well, as you can see, that is no longer a problem. It seems I am quite out of fashion.” Jane’s pride still stung over the defection of her one-time suitors.

  “Well, I am neither young nor wellborn, but if an elderly admirer would suit, I gladly offer myself in that role.”

  “You are not elderly,” Jane protested, for lack of anything else to say. It was true, she thought, looking up at his kindly face. Mr. Whitmore’s hair was more gray than brown, but he was still a vigorous man. She hadn’t thought of him in terms of a suitor, but it wasn’t that improbable. True, he was twenty years her senior. But girls younger than she married older titled lords all the time. Twenty years wasn’t a large gap, in the eyes of society.

  Her answer seemed to please him, for he smiled back at her, and Jane found herself basking in the friendliness of that smile. It seemed ages since she had seen a friendly face.

  “There is a special reason why I called on you this morning,” Mr. Whitmore continued. “I wonder if I might have a moment of private conversation.” With a nod of his head, he indicated the silently watchful maid.

  Jane was well and truly puzzled now. But she trusted Mr. Whitmore, so she didn’t hesitate. “Sally, I believe you are needed upstairs,” Jane said firmly.

  “But Mr. Browning said—”

  “Enough. Please attend to your tasks upstairs.”

  Sally got up, a mutinous expression on her normally plac
id countenance. The maid walked with deliberate slowness to the door, then hesitated on the threshold. Finally, with a last look backwards at Jane, the maid left.

  The doors were still open, but it was as much privacy as they were likely to get in this rigid establishment.

  Mr. Whitmore took a deep breath. “I think you know that I have always held you in the highest admiration,” he began. “Your success this season was truly earned. If it did not last, it is only because London society has lost the ability to appreciate honest virtues. Their refusal to accept you is their loss, not yours.”

  “You are too kind,” Jane murmured. So news of her disgrace had reached even Mr. Whitmore. His calling on her was a mark of his true worth, showing that he cared little for the opinions of the ton.

  Mr. Whitmore looked closely at her, then down at the tips of his boots, which appeared to hold some special fascination. “I hesitated to approach you before, but now I hope you will forgive my presumption. As you know, my wife died over a year ago. It was a happy marriage, but my one regret is that we had no children.”

  Jane nodded, as she wondered where this was leading.

  “I have given some thought to remarriage,” Mr. Whitmore continued. “Provided I could find someone suitable. I believe that I have found that someone, and I would be greatly honored if you would consent to be my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Jane could scarcely comprehend the meaning of his words.

  “It may not be the match you were hoping for,” Whitmore rushed on. “After all, with your connections you could do far better for yourself. But despite this, over the last few weeks I have seen enough to know that we would suit each other very well indeed.”

  It was beyond belief. After all the heartache of the last week, Jane had received an offer from a most unlikely source. She opened her mouth, then closed it when she realized she had no idea of how to respond.