“Can’t. His father won’t let him leave Hertfordshire,” Sarah said shortly.
“Well, someone we know must have a baby they are willing to loan me,” Lydia said.
“You have an even more Machiavellian mind than I,” murmured Eleanor wonderingly. “Sometimes I fear I did you a disservice in befriending you.”
“On the contrary. You have greatly benefited me, Eleanor. Without your guidance I should be shivering in a corner right now, paralyzed with fear rather than preparing to go shopping for a new wardrobe, which, you must allow, sounds vastly more fun. I have my reputation as a fashion plate to uphold.”
“But . . . how can you afford to do so?” Sarah asked, then flushed. “I mean, you are poor. I will, of course, lend you whatever—”
“No!” Lydia said, flushing, then more quietly, “No, thank you. I shall do what everyone does; I will purchase on credit and expectations. Where those will not serve, I shall sell things no one will realize are gone: paintings, antiquities, and jewels.”
“And what if, after all that, no one offers for you?” Emily asked softly.
“Well, then,” Lydia said, refusing to think past the end of the summer, “at least I shall have had one last golden Season.”
Eleanor waited until Lydia was taking her leave of Sarah to beckon Emily Cod to her side. “We must do whatever is necessary to ensure Lydia’s success. She can be too hasty in her affection and too quick in her judgments.”
“Yes. But she often chooses true.”
“This is too important to trust to intuition.”
Emily agreed. “What do you want me to do?”
“I count on you to help me vet candidates. You hear things, Emily, the rest of us are not privy to.”
Emily nodded. People oft forgot that simply because one’s eyes were shut did not necessarily mean one was asleep. Ears wide open, she’d heard oftentimes how indiscreet people could be in front of those they considered incidental. She loved Lydia and she would do everything in her power for her.
The whole situation was most distressing. It recalled vividly the circumstances of Emily’s own ill-fated marriage and her husband committing her to Brislington Asylum.
Her stomach began to twist and her hands trembled. She didn’t want to think of that. She mustn’t think of that. She had to think of Lydia and how important it was to all of them that she wed someone who would not be Cod or Eleanor’s duke or Sarah’s husband. Someone who would let them all live happily together as they had these past three years.
Emily winced at her thought, knowing her motives to be self-serving. But so, too, were Eleanor’s and Sarah’s. Eleanor because she would have no one without Lydia. And Sarah needed Lydia just as much because no one else would ever think only the best of her, in spite of her actions. Emily knew no one but Lydia would ever overlook her mad, uncontrollable thieving and find value in her.
No, Eleanor did not have to advise her of what was at risk. She was quite aware, far more so than Eleanor, of how important Lydia’s choice of husband would prove to them all.
Chapter Four
April, 1816
As luck would have it, the goldsmith Roubalais had gone home for lunch and left his shop in the care of his daughter-in-law Berthe and thus was not there to receive Lydia. In the preceding few weeks, Terwilliger had discreetly handled the liquidation of a great deal of her personal property, but she wasn’t sure she could give up the amethyst parure entirely. Accordingly, she’d decided she would simply lend it to Roubalais until such time as she could reacquire it.
Roubalais, once jeweler to the French court, also traded in antiquities, and occasionally, and very discreetly, acted as a pawnbroker for the beau monde. It was for the latter purpose Lydia had ventured into the unfamiliar country of Cheapside. The store’s unassuming location was responsible for attracting much of the expatriate Frenchman’s clientele: gentlemen of the beau monde in need of some ready cash and those in the market for a good bargain. Which all men, regardless of their wealth, were to some extent.
Lydia had planned this trip for days, working out every little detail, down to where she would leave her carriage and how many footmen she would have shadow her steps and what she would wear to blend in with her surroundings. But she hadn’t reckoned on Roubalais going home to eat his midday meal. How vexing.
Every moment she spent here was a moment more someone could recognize her, and if there was one thing she did not need, it was to have it bandied about that she’d visited a pawnbroker. Not only would it begin the inevitable speculation about her fortune, but a lady never, ever visited a pawnbroker. And first and foremost and to the exclusion of all else, Lydia was a lady.
Until today, she thought.
“I suppose I’ll have to come back,” she muttered.
Roubalais’s daughter-in-law shook her head. “No, madam. You mustn’t discommode yourself,” she said, shedding her voluminous and dirt-streaked smock and flinging it over the back of a chair. “I will go and bring him back at once.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“But it is no trouble at all and only a few short blocks away. Monsieur Roubalais would never forgive me if he should hear that you visited our shop and I did not fetch him.”
“Don’t tell him,” Lydia suggested. “I was only going to ask for an appraisal of an amethyst and pearl parure. It . . . it belongs to a friend.”
The girl was well trained. Her face gave away not a whit of doubt at this prevarication. “But of course! Now, please. You stay. Look about. It will be only a few minutes, I promise.”
Before Lydia could protest further, Berthe had hurried out the door, calling over her shoulder, “The baby just settled down before you came in and shouldn’t wake while I’m gone.”
“Baby?” Lydia echoed, but Berthe had already gone.
A short circuit of the shop proved that a baby did indeed sleep within the emptied bottom drawer of a bombé chest. Lydia had no idea of its age or gender and had no desire to remedy her ignorance. It looked quite content as it was, a drool bubble catching a prism of light, spiderweb-fine lashes sweeping a soft—and faintly sticky-looking—pink cheek, the blanket covering it rising and falling in time with its breathing.
Lydia knelt nearer, studying the little creature. As someone’s wife she would be obliged to produce one, if not several, of these. The idea was a touch terrifying. She knew nothing of children, having been the only child in a world of adults.
She hoped when she had children she would grow fond of them. At least, she assumed one would find parenthood more pleasant if one were fond of one’s offspring rather than indifferent. Her own parents had been most demonstratively affectionate.
She supposed she would feel the same about her children. If they were pretty and well behaved and bright. And if they were not . . . ? Would she love them then? Would she have been loved had she been a little golem with the manners of a hedgehog?
A sharp, sweet-acrid smell drifted up from the drawer, abruptly ending Lydia’s fascination. She shot upright and stepped away, accidentally backing into a ladder behind her. She spun and steadied it, her gaze rising to the top shelf lining the wall. Something colored a gorgeous royal blue glinted from far above. It demanded investigation.
She hesitated. Lydia was well known for her impetuousness, but she allowed herself to be devil-may-care only within the strict parameters of what Society allowed. Charge a stile on horseback? Of course. Tease a prince? Often. But clamber about the dusty shelves of a pawnbroker’s shop? It wasn’t done.
But . . . why not? No one knew she was here. What harm could come of it? Once more, Lydia’s insatiable curiosity joined forces with her impulsiveness to trump caution.
She looked around and spied the smock Berthe Roubalais had left behind. Without further thought, she donned the garment, rolled back the sleeves, and commenced climbing the ladder. It was a good deal more rickety than she’d expected and the notion that this might not be a wise idea occurred to her, but her
legs kept moving and before she knew it, she’d made it to the top. On the other side of a moldering cardboard box, a stunning Oriental bowl beckoned.
Her eyes widened with delighted discovery. She recognized this! Certainly it was Chinese. Kangxi? She had to get a better look. . . .
She grasped the edge of a box obstructing the bowl and gave it a cursory tug. The moldering side broke away. Startled, Lydia snatched her hand back, accidentally knocking over a silver candlestick holder and sending it rolling toward the edge. With a gasp, she ducked, but not before the candlestick fell, catching the brim of her hat and knocking it from her head, causing her elegant coiffure to come half undone. The candlestick clattered to the floor.
She held her breath and counted, praying the baby didn’t wake. It didn’t.
Relieved, she brushed her hair from her face and too late realized her hand was dirty and that she’d just smeared grime across her forehead. “Damn.”
She eyed the bowl, still resting above her. It glinted enticingly. She must see if she was right. She stretched to the top of her toes, sliding aside the torn box. It caught up on something and there was no way she could reach around it to the bowl. She dared not attempt to move the crumbling box lest it disintegrate completely. Which meant she would simply have to reposition the ladder—
The bell above the shop’s front door jingled jauntily, announcing someone’s arrival. And not a moment later, a deep masculine voice said, “Excuse me.”
Lydia looked over her shoulder and down toward the door. A tall, broad-shouldered gentleman stood below her, his hat in his hand, the sun glinting off guinea-gold hair.
He was quite simply one of the most handsome men Lydia had ever seen. His face was composed of strong, sculpted features: a high, straight-bridged nose, a wide mouth, and a square, clean-shaven jaw. And was that . . . ? Yes. His chin sported a cleft. She’d always had a weakness for men with clefts in their chin. Her father had had one. He, too, had been a strikingly handsome man.
The gentleman’s expression was pleasant but reserved. His bearing was strictly erect but without self-consciousness, the results of training, not of conscious effort.
“Can you help me?” he asked.
Lydia realized that not only was she gawking like a shopgirl at the handsome stranger but that he had, in fact, mistaken her for one. And why not? Her hair had come half-undone, a dusty old smock covered her stylish dress, and there was dirt on her face.
She came to her senses with a start. She couldn’t have a gentleman see her like this. Here. First and most important, because no one had ever seen Lady Lydia Eastlake in such a grimy state—not that she’d never been in one before, but no stranger had ever caught her in one. And second, because ladies did not engage in vulgar transactions with pawnbrokers. And since being a nonpareil and a lady were amongst the few things she still possessed, she was not going to be disowned of them, too.
There was nothing for it but to pretend she was exactly what he’d mistaken her for. She composed a pleasant, helpful smile and started down the ladder. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Just doing a bit of tidyin’ up like,” she said, pleased with her Cheapside accent even though the real Berthe Roubalais did not have one. She stepped off the bottom rung onto the floor and dusted her palms off on the smock. “How can I ’elp you?”
The man drew closer, and now that she was back on the ground she could see that his eyes were a soft blue-gray, like spring ice, and banked by thick, sooty lashes. In addition, he was smiling now, making his good looks even more devastating.
Who is he? She knew everyone in Society and she had never seen him before and she’d wager none of her companions had either. They would have mentioned someone with his extraordinary looks. Yet his manner was that of a gentleman and his coat had clearly been cut by the great Weston.
“I was told that you had some fine walking sticks. I’m interested in seeing them.”
“Walking sticks?” she echoed. She had no idea whether Roubalais carried walking sticks. She did know, however, that Littner and Cobb on St. James Street did.
“Yes. Something in silver or ivory, if possible.”
“I see.” She glanced around as though fearing an eavesdropper and sidled closer, beginning to enjoy her spontaneous stagecraft. “Look ’ere, sir. I’m going to tell you something maybe I oughtn’t.” She eyed him closely. “ ’Cause you seem a nice sorta fella, new to town and all.”
For a second his surprise flickered in his gray-blue eyes, but his smile remained easy and neutral. “Oh, I am a nice fella,” the gentleman avowed. The neutrality in his expression had relaxed into subtle amusement. “And I am new to town. But however did you know that?”
Because someone would have told me about a gentleman like you, Lydia thought. She gave him a cheeky smile. “Because your coat is brand-new. Not a seam turned. As are your boots and trousers. And that hat in your ’and ain’t never seen a London pea souper.”
“How very astute of you. And intriguing.”
She tipped her head. She liked the notion of intriguing this gentleman as much as he intrigued her. Tall, lean, and dressed in the height of masculine fashion, he might have been any London gentleman. Except, he did not look like a London gentleman. His skin was too tanned and his gaze too frank and his tall figure too straight and . . . formidable.
“What’s intriguing?” she asked, knowing she was staring but giving herself permission because she was Berthe the shopgirl and Berthe had never seen the likes of him. True, neither had Lady Lydia Eastlake, but she would never stare.
“How your H appears and disappears,” he said, then clarified, “You said, ‘the hat in your ’and.’ ”
Drat! Heat rushed into her cheeks. It was impossible to say from his tone whether he was twitting her or not.
“I’m trying to improve myself,” she said, pulling herself up to her full five foot, four inches. “My uncle says as how one ought to speak like a lady if one is serving ladies.”
“Ah!” He nodded. “That explains it. But now, what was this thing you were going to tell me because I am a nice fella new to town?”
“Well . . . truth to tell, we ’aven’t”—she paused to correct herself, feeling very clever—“I mean haven’t the selection of walking sticks that Littner and Cobb over on St. James do.”
There. That ought to get rid of him before Berthe and Roubalais returned. . . . Except she realized she didn’t want to get rid of him and he didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.
“Do they?” he asked. “How kind of you to suggest it, even though it means the loss of a sale for your master.”
“He isn’t my master,” Lydia said without thinking and then quickly amended, “He’s my uncle and he sells lots of other sorts of goods, antiquities and jewelry and such, and I assure you he shall not miss the price fetched by one walking stick.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Sir.”
“That is kind of you. Miss,” he said. “But before I go, let me first return the favor you’ve done me by purchasing something from your uncle’s shop. What can you show me?”
Show him? She hadn’t any idea. She doubted he was in the market for a parure unless there was some lady . . . “We have a beautiful parure of amethyst and pearls that might be for sale. Perhaps you’d like to look at them for your . . . wife?”
“Alas, I am not so blessed,” he said. One corner of his mobile mouth twitched. He knew quite well what she’d been about.
She blushed as she was visited by the notion that the reserve she’d noted on first seeing him was, as his posture, a matter of habit, not something he consciously adopted, and that there was more that went on beneath his handsome countenance than his mild expression allowed one to see.
“So no jewelry. Something for myself, I think,” he was saying. “Something, well, that you might like.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” he said, clasping his hands lightly behind his back. “You.”
Good heavens. Was he flirting with her? She was caught between being appalled
that she was receiving the attentions gentlemen reserved for shopgirls and thrilled that she’d elicited them. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. What if he pressed his attention further? How horrifying that would be for both of them, because then she would be forced to reveal herself.
Her distress must have shown, for his gaze softened. Not spring ice, twilight fog. “Miss,” he said gently. “I am asking for your opinion, not offering you carte blanche.”
She blushed deeply. Now she truly felt like a fool. The poor man! Of course he hadn’t been flirting with her. A gentleman of his obvious quality wouldn’t impose on a girl dependent on his goodwill for her livelihood.
“Of course not,” she denied. “I was just wondering what to show you.” Now she’d have to think of something. What sort of ridiculous mull had she gotten herself into? Her eye caught on the ladder and she had an idea. “There’s a splendid Oriental bowl on the top shelf there that you might be interested in.”
“That sounds promising,” he said.
“Here. Let me get it for you.” She’d just put her foot on the first rung when his hand, broad, long fingered, and masculine, appeared above hers on the ladder rail. She swung around, nearly bumping into him. He was very tall. She had to tip her head to look up into his eyes. This close she could discern a coppery corona around the blue-gray irises.
“This ladder doesn’t look too sturdy,” he explained.
She backed up, bumping into the ladder, feeling ridiculously callow, stammering and blushing like a fifteen-year-old debutante. Her friends would have laughed themselves ill if they could see her now.
“Kind of you to worry, sir, but I’ll be fine,” she said, clambering up the rungs past the arm steadying the ladder. Unfortunately, she clambered too quickly.
Her foot slipped and she lost her balance. Before she could even gasp, strong hands had caught her around the waist and plucked her deftly from mid-tumble, swinging her up against a broad, hard chest. For one timeless second she was held gazing into his eyes. Something flickered in their depths. Did he catch his breath or was that her? Her. Because then he was lowering her lightly back to earth and releasing her, his expression showing no more than slight concern.
The Golden Season Page 5
