by Cheryl Bolen
What will Mrs. Pr__t think if it’s true her Lord A__le__n is truly to wed the city’s newest heiress?
Now all those things Dot had previously read about Forrester being a profligate came rushing back. Was it not said he kept a mistress? A Mrs. Surname Beginning with the Letter P? Would he keep his mistress after they were married? Dot’s breath stilled. Was he lying with his mistress right now?
Dot could not marry a man who was an unfaithful husband.
Chapter 11
Appleton crumpled the paper. It simply would not do to dismiss Betsy Pratt with a letter. After all, she had been his mistress for the past two years. He thought. He wasn’t very good with dates, and it wasn’t as if he spent very much time with her.
It wasn’t as if one went about in public with a woman of that sort. He had three young sisters to consider. And it wasn’t as if Mrs. Pratt was the kind of woman one wished to spend a great deal of time with. She was pretty enough. And obliging enough. But the woman, who was some half a dozen years older than he, was as dull as a wooden spoon.
There was nothing to do but to go to her tonight and explain the reversal in his fortunes which necessitated a break between them. First he penned a letter to the woman he’d rather go to tonight, the woman whose fortune would rescue his family from ruin. He needed to notify Dot that he would not be seeing her until the next day when they’d go back to Ellie’s street.
With Digby’s assistance, he made himself agreeable looking and presented himself at Mrs. Pratt’s modest but most respectable looking house east of the river not long after dark. “Good evening, my lord,” her butler said, swinging open the door from him to enter. It was clear from the tone of the butler’s voice he was surprised to see Appleton. It had been quite a while since he’d last visited Betsy Pratt.
“I shall tell Mrs. Pratt you’re here. Permit me to show you to the drawing room.”
Though small, the lady’s drawing room was tastefully furnished with a Turkey carpet on the floor and scarlet draperies at the single narrow window. The draperies were not of costly silk but of a cheaper fabric that mimicked it. A single sofa in the same scarlet fabric faced the fire where a mantelpiece featured a fine wooden case clock on balled feet.
Instead of sitting, he paced the chamber.
A few minutes later, she entered. “My lord! I’ve missed you most dreadfully. Have you not come rather early tonight? I am delighted, of course. Shall we go upstairs?”
He looked at her. Even though she was not in mourning, she wore black. That was to perpetuate the myth she was a widow when in fact she had never been married.
Her hair had been a shade of medium brown. Why had he never noticed how many gray strands had woven into it? There was an artificial look about her. Some kind of white powder covered her face and made her look even older, and she’d darkened her cheeks with bright red rouge.
He supposed he’d not noticed these things before because he and she normally spent their time together in her bedchamber with only the light from a single taper or the fire.
Then, too, he’d been more interested in her figure, which he found pleasing, owing to his appreciation of a generous bosom—the only physical trait this woman shared with his betrothed.
Just being here with Mrs. Pratt made him feel unclean, unworthy of Dot. Just being here with Betsy Pratt made him appreciate the purity of the woman he planned to marry. In addition to Dot’s innocence, she was possessed of a tender heart unrestricted by a person’s rank.
He did not presume to harshly judge Mrs. Pratt because of the misfortune of her birth. He was certain she had many good qualities, too. But comparing her to Dot was like contrasting coal to diamonds.
He was not worthy of Miss Dorothea Pankhurst.
“I can’t go upstairs with you,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ve come to tell you I can’t see you anymore. I’ve lost every farthing. It’s fortuitous that I was able to pay the lease on your house through the end of the year—before I lost my fortune.”
Her eyes moistened, which made him feel beastly.
“I will endeavor to endorse you to my gentlemen friends,” he added.
She nodded. “I’ll miss you.”
He drew a deep breath and put even more distance between them. Then he turned and walked away. He would have felt less guilty were he in a position to offer her a financial settlement, but at present he wasn’t even in a position to dower his sisters.
* * *
The clouds and cool winds outside did little to lift Dot’s spirits the following day when Mr. Gibby came for a final dancing lesson before the next assembly. She had looked forward to dancing skillfully in one of her beautiful new dresses with the handsome peer to whom she was betrothed.
But gloom filled her heart as well as the chamber in which they practiced their dance steps. She’d had a wretched night. Sleep eluded her as she tortured herself imagining Forrester in the arms of his mistress.
She wondered if Mrs. Surname Beginning with P was beautiful. How long had the woman been under Forrester’s protection? Was he in love with her? Had he offered for Dot merely to secure her fortune?
This was the first time since Dot had come to Bath that she regretted having left her home in Lincolnshire. For if she had stayed at Blandings, she would not be suffering like this. She and her kitties would have slept soundly in her bed without a care in the world.
“I sincerely hope, Miss Pankhurst, that you will be merrier at the next assembly,” Mr. Gibby said as she moped along an imaginary longway with him.
“Don’t know what’s gotten into my gal,” Mr. Pankhurst said. “Any other young lady who’d just become betrothed to the best matrimonial prize in all of Bath and who was wearing such fashionable attire—not to mention having been instructed in dance by the city’s finest dancing master—would be looking forward with delight to Tuesday’s assembly. You do know, do you not, Mr. Gibby, that my daughter is betrothed to Lord Appleton?”
“Indeed I had heard, and I cannot convey what an honor it is to have the future Lady Appleton as my patron.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Miss Pankhurst’s reticence is merely because she’s shy. This will be your first assembly, yes?”
She shook her head. “Second, actually, though I was not really at liberty to dance at the first.”
“Now you will be as accomplished a dancer as any young lady in the highest social circles in all of Bath,” Mr. Gibby said. “Even in London, I daresay.”
She should be comforted by his praise, but it wasn’t as if she were worried about her reception at Tuesday night’s assembly. Whether strangers thought well of her mattered little. What mattered to her was Forrester’s feelings—especially toward his purported mistress.
At some point before they married she would have to bring up the subject of his mistress because she could never countenance an unfaithful husband. Even if it meant she would have to break the engagement.
The time for such a conversation, though, was not now. She wasn’t sure if Forrester had even become comfortable with the notion of being married. It was harder for men, especially men who were thirty years of age, to easily adjust to such a complete change in their lives. It would take time.
For the last few minutes of her lesson, she forced a smile simply to please her patient dance master and her indulgent father.
After Mr. Gibby left she reminded her father that he must accompany her Tuesday night. “I should love to see you dance with Mrs. Blankenship.”
He perked up. “Will she be attending?”
“I’m not precisely sure, but think how disappointed you’d be if you didn’t go and you found out the next day that she went and you weren’t there. I believe she’d be very disappointed, too.”
“Do you really think so?” he asked.
“Indeed I do.”
* * *
“Should we again take your coach to Lower Richard Street?” Dot asked Appleton late that following afternoon.
He was unable to suppress a smile as he stoo
d there observing her. She held one of those cats of hers in the most adoring manner. He couldn’t say which one it was. The only one he knew was that annoying orange male cat whose name he refused to repeat.
It was as if thinking about the wretched creature signaled him to come and rub himself against Appleton’s leg.
He ignored it.
Over these past two weeks Appleton had come to understand a good bit about the workings of Dot’s mind. “Knowing you, my dear one, you’ve analyzed this and have a mental list of reasons for and against taking my coach.”
She giggled. “That is true. If we arrive in your aristocratic coach, it will draw attention from those on the modest street who are not accustomed to seeing a carriage of the nobility calling upon their neighbors. Because of that, I believe it may be easier for us to find residents who will be willing to talk to some fancy lord.”
He tossed his head back and laughed.
“On the other hand,” she continued, her eyes narrowing at his joviality, “if we act like we don’t consider ourselves above them—though really it’s only you who is actually above them in station—they might speak more candidly. Those not accustomed to the nobility could be too shy to speak to said fancy lord.”
“As said fancy lord, I’d like to weigh in on this. I tend to agree with your idea of arriving in the coach. I have found it does tend to draw attention from those in the lower classes—none of whom have I ever felt were too shy to speak with me.”
“But you didn’t come in your coach.”
“There is that,” he said with a shrug. He leaned into her and pressed a kiss upon her cheek.
Why had he gone and done that? He’d not ever kissed her before. Now that it was done, he felt awkward, but at the time it seemed perfectly natural. Recovering quickly, he added, “My betrothed appears to be far more analytical than I.”
The unexpectedness of the kiss must have stolen her tongue, which was uncharacteristic for Dot. She looked downward. “Oh, look how much Lover Boy loves you, Forrester! How can you not want to pick him up and get a good kitty cuddle?”
A kitty cuddle? Spare him, please. He peered downward. “My valet would have apoplexy if I allow cat hair on my dark coat.”
She put down her black and white cat. “You sound just like my Papa.”
He assisted with her fur-trimmed cloak, and they left to walk back to Appleton House on Camden Crescent to fetch his coach. Neither spoke at first. Was she, too, pondering his spontaneous cheek kiss? It only now occurred to him that this was the fourth day since she had agreed to marry him, and he’d never kissed her.
Having never been betrothed before, he had no knowledge of how one did act with the woman one meant to wed. Of course, were he in love with her, he would have taken her in his arms and properly kissed her on the mouth when she consented to become his wife.
When it occurred to him that his failure to kiss her might have offended Dot, he almost stopped dead in his footsteps. He’d rather sever a limb than hurt her. He might not be in love with Dot, but he most certainly had come to care about her. She was eminently admirable.
Because she had consented to marry him, it must mean that she fancied him. Therefore, it would stand to reason she would wish to be kissed by the man she favored.
What a complete oaf I’ve been! Kissing shouldn’t be something one had to contemplate. Just like back at her house, he’d kissed her because he bloody well wanted to, because he enjoyed being with her, and being with her made him happy. That’s why he’d so spontaneously leaned over and pecked her on the cheek.
He vowed that henceforth he would make a conscious effort to kiss her when leaving her each night.
A pity he didn’t lust after her. It would have made the prospect of their marriage much more appealing.
He looked down at her delicate hand resting on his proffered sleeve, and he covered it with his. The idea of being married no longer revolted him. He could have done far worse than marrying Miss Dorothea Pankhurst.
She looked up at him with those soulful dark eyes and smiled.
Then he lifted her hand and pressed his lips to it. “I am happy that the woman with whom I’m going to share life sees eye to eye with me much of the time.”
“And I’m happy that the man with whom I’m going to share my life does not treat me as if I’m empty headed.” Her amused gaze met his. “Most of the time.”
“When have I not?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “That day when you picked Annie and me up from the lending library.”
An aggravated expression on his face, he nodded. “Forgive me for initially thinking your taste in books would parallel that of most maidens—many of whom are empty headed. I should have known if Annie got on so well with you, you couldn’t be stupid.”
“Surely you haven’t forgotten all my father’s accolades,” she said with a laugh. “Does he not sufficiently praise me?”
“I have found his praise to be well founded.”
“I believe you’re prevaricating again, my lord. And now that you’ve been properly chastised, I must make a confession.”
He turned to her. The chilled air had turned her cheeks red, something he hadn’t expected to see in one with her dark colouring. He thought again of that Italian opera singer whose colouring was very similar to Dot’s and to whom he’d been so attracted. “You thought I would be stupid?”
She shrugged. “I hadn’t actually considered whether you’d be intelligent.”
“But you were expecting me to be . . . surely you didn’t think I was as bad at that blasted Bath Chronicle paints me?”
She nodded sheepishly. “I thought you would be quite dissipated. A profligate, to be sure.”
His stomach dropped. She’d no doubt read that he kept a mistress. He hoped to God she did not bring that up. He cleared his throat. “So, it’s certainly a cold day today.”
She laughed at his efforts to redirect the conversation. “Indeed. I believe we’ll welcome a ride in your carriage.”
Once they were in his coach, they arrived at Lower Richard Street in just a few minutes. She turned to him. “You did bring your calling cards?”
“I’m a most obedient husband-to-be.”
“I shall take comfort in that.”
“Where do you think we should begin? I’m sure you’ll have thought it out.”
“Indeed. We ought to start at Mrs. Thorpe’s next-door neighbors on either side.” As she spoke, she peered from his coach window. “I see that the arrival of your coach has already resulted in more than one curtain being lifted.”
“Good.”
A moment later, he was knocking upon the front door of the house west of Mrs. Thorpe’s. Customarily, one of his rank employed his coachman to knock and announce him, but he thought these working class people might not be acquainted with the ways of the nobility. Better to come himself. That might even establish a more casual atmosphere in which to question the neighbor.
A middle-aged woman whose brown hair was streaked with gray opened the door warily.
Appleton presented her with his calling card. “Good day to you. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lord Appleton, and I wished to make inquiries about a young lady who resided next door to you.”
It seemed apparent to him the woman did not know whether she should invite him in, or if she should keep him on the step. She chose the latter. “The pretty one what was murdered?”
“Yes.” He bowed his head reverently. “My fiancée,” he indicated Dot, “and I were acquainted with the lady and distressed over her death. We wondered if you ever saw her with a man.”
The woman shook her head. “Never. And I wondered about her not having a fellow, seeing as she was such a pretty girl.”
“Did you ever see any man loiter around this street?”
“Loiter?”
This neighbor must not know the meaning of the word. “Did you ever see a man hanging about?” he asked.
She pursed her lips. “I don’t think so. I
believe I’d have noticed if there was some deranged sex maniac ’anging about.”
He wasn’t surprised. “Do others reside here, others whom we could question?”
“Just me husband now, and he has trouble walking. He’s a shut-in and can’t even make it to the window to peer out.”
“Well, we thank you for your time,” he said.
“If you should think of anything,” Dot said, “please contact his lordship.”
The woman looked again at his card. “I’ve read about Lord Appleton in the Bath Chronicle! Fancy getting to meet you myself!”
“I beg that you not judge me by what is written in that newspaper,” he said with a smile and a wink.
“He’s really a very nice man,” Dot said. They bid farewell and walked to the house on the other side of Mrs. Thorpe’s.
At that house they got the opportunity to question three different persons, but none of them had ever seen Ellie with a man, and none had ever seen any suspicious men in the neighborhood.
“I suggest we try across the street,” Dot said. “Those people can more easily peer from their windows to watch the comings and goings from Mrs. Thorpe’s establishment.”
They met with no more success at the first two houses they tried, but got a glimmer of encouragement at the third where an elderly woman invited them in and asked them to sit in her parlor. She introduced herself as Mrs. Flint and said she’d lived alone since her husband had died twelve years earlier. Her cluttered parlor was similar in layout to Mrs. Thorpe’s sparsely furnished chamber.
“Now what can I help you with?” the old lady asked.
Appleton went into his practiced query.
Her brows lowered. “I was aware of the young girl who lodged with Mrs. Thorpe. She was—as you know—uncommonly pretty. I’d been noticing her for . . . I’d say about three years. And not once in those three years did I ever see a young fellow call on her. Of course, Mrs. Thorpe is noted for keeping a respectable establishment. But now that you bring it up, I did see the pretty lodger with a man at Sydney Gardens about two weeks ago.”
