As he threaded his way back through the crowd, the general muttered, “Useless popinjay.”
“He is not useless, dear general, just perhaps a little enamored of his own importance. He is to be the squire at St. Hampton Heath one day.”
“I hope he’s learned some common sense by then.”
That might be too much to hope for. “He lost his betrothed last year, you know.”
“No, I didn’t. Remarkably careless of him, wouldn’t you say?” His teeth glinted in a smile.
She stifled her amusement, schooling her features to appropriateness. Perry had not seemed to take the loss with any great display of grief; had instead begun pursuing a young heiress whose visit to the neighborhood was quickly cut short. It had proved enough to set tongues wagging—
“I daresay I’m too harsh on the boy, but I’ve never taken too well to such dandies. Millinery men. Would be much better sent off to the army to straighten them out.”
“I believe there might be some men in this world who have attained sense without being forced into such measures.”
“You’re a saucy thing. Very well, I’ll concede. A few men, not many.” His brow creased. “Young Hale has a friend, I saw him once at the club in London. He wasn’t military, but by all accounts seems a good sort of chap. Hale met him out in India.”
Pulse racing, feigning disinterest, she nodded to an elderly couple as the general rattled off several names. Well his eagle eyes might spot a dandy, but she feared he would spot her distress if she spoke.
“Carrington? Castle? Carlew, that’s it. A merchant, connected to the Company, I believe, but as sensible a man as I’ve met. A man of such good principles one cannot but be impressed. Miss Winthrop?” He turned to her. “Your grip has tightened. Are you quite well?”
“Q-quite well.”
“Shall I return you to your aunt? I note the gossiping old tabbies are having something of a field day. I hate to think it’s at your expense, my dear.”
“It is quite all right.”
She smiled, the general returned her to Aunt Drusilla, and after the concert they departed back to Six Gay Street. And she fought to keep her attention on the pleasant evening, on the diverting entertainment—and not on the man, the mere mention of whom dipped her spirits and made her wonder whether living on a street with such a name was yet another one of life’s absurd ironies.
Whites, London
The streets of London in mid January owned a bleakness even the wintry wilds of Gloucestershire did not share. Jonathan forced his attention away from the Bond Street view to the men standing before him. The monthly business meetings over, he’d sought solace in his club, where he had the dubious pleasure of meeting certain shareholders who took exception to the recent downturn in the price of cotton, and were enquiring—none too softly—as to why their profits were not as good as last month.
Mr. Meade, heavy gray-tinged brows jutting out like a shop awning, clenched the chair back, knuckles whitening. “I simply do not understand!”
Jon glanced wistfully at his rapidly cooling meal. Why had the man waited until now to ask his questions? He strove for patience in his voice. “As I said earlier, business has its ebbs and flows. One cannot expect to garner a twelve percent profit every time.”
“Hmph,” grunted the other man, a portly owner of several Midlands mills. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen any great loss in your takings?”
Heat surged in his chest. Jon stared at him, jaw clenched to prevent answer, until the first wave of anger passed. “I assure you, gentlemen”—he forced out the word—“I take no pleasure in seeing your shares devalue. But may I remind you that they are not worthless. In fact quite the opposite. Indeed, if you feel the need to sell I could recommend numbers of people only too willing to take them off your hands.” He raised his brows. “Perhaps I should enquire—”
“Now, now there’s no need for that,” Meade interjected. “I may have been a tad hasty. I understand you to be an honest man.”
“If that is so, then perhaps you’ll refrain from making observations to the contrary.”
The factory owner’s cheeks mottled. “I said I am sorry.”
Did you? Jon wanted to say, but refrained. Perhaps Meade thought he really had.
“I best be leaving you to your meal, now. See you next month.”
Jon dipped his chin, waiting until the men disappeared through the glass doors before releasing his grip on the fork. It clattered to the table, drawing eyes that quickly withdrew. He pushed away his plate, the salmon half-eaten. The greed of some men sickened him; he had no appetite for more.
“Carlew! Or should I say, Lord Winthrop.”
He glanced up. Found a smile. “Carmichael.”
They gripped hands, and the viscount sank into the seat opposite. “Salmon not so good?”
“Try, the meeting not so good.”
“Unhappy shareholders, eh? I saw Meade steaming out as I came in. He invested with your lot, didn’t he?”
Jon managed a thin smile.
“Quite so, quite so. Well, let me order and then I’ll tell you about these amazing few days I spent at Derbyshire House. You’ll never believe who was there.”
The tight coil in his chest gradually unwound as Carmichael shared tales of life amongst the gentry that by turns shocked, horrified, and amused him. According to Carmichael’s stories, these people, this class Jon had stepped into, behaved worse at times than the heathen in far away countries to whom they sent mission monies. He shook his head.
“Too racy for you? You’ve always been a little straitlaced, as I recall. Never mind.” Carmichael tucked into his steak with relish. “Tell me, how is that marvelous mother of yours?”
“She is well, thank you. Enjoying her time shopping, and catching up with old friends.”
“Give her my best, won’t you? And your sister? How is fair Julia?”
“She is also well, though prone to a ticklish cough.” And occasional bouts of the sullens, but he didn’t think his friend needed to know that.
The viscount spoke through a mouthful of steak, “Heard from Hale?”
“No.” Guilt panged. Nor was he likely to. Jon drained his glass of wine.
“Hmm. He seems to have gone to ground again. I don’t mind telling you that Hale has always been something of a puzzle to me. It’s not as though he’s swimming in lard—I think his father but a parson in Norfolk or some such place—and yet the ladies flock to him. Ah well, probably just found himself a new fancy bird.”
As long as it wasn’t Julia, or …
“Why the frown, Carlew? I would have thought you’d be glad he’s not dangling after your sister.”
“You truly think he would?”
“I think he might wish to, but I suspect a certain big brother might have something to say about that.”
Jon forced his fists to unclench. “I cannot help but feel sorry for whomever is his next fancy.”
“I shouldn’t worry. Unlikely to be anyone you know.”
“I suppose,” he muttered.
But how could he be certain? And why did a little niggling suspicion demand he care?
DINNER THAT NIGHT was at the Beauchamps. Julia’s friendship with Miss Beauchamp had cooled somewhat, a fact he was grateful for, as it lessened the need for him to find excuses to stay away. Jon forked in a mouthful of venison, confliction cramping within. Yes, she was pretty. Yes, she was all that was amiable and seemed to share his faith. Yes, he was aware of speculation that matched her name with his, but …
And that was the problem. He couldn’t define the “but.” And until he held no hesitation in his heart, he did not want to fully commit by uttering words that could not be undone.
But despite his reservations, some things could not be absented, such as tonight’s meal that he attended with Julia and his mother. So he ate, made conversation, engaged in light banalities, all the while thinking, wondering, wishing—
“Lord Winthrop?”
&n
bsp; Miss Beauchamp’s smile regained his attention. What was the topic of conversation? Something about … “Silks?” he guessed.
“Precisely! See? I knew dear Lord Winthrop would know.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “He has such an eye for fashion.”
He smiled guiltily, catching Mr. Beauchamp’s frown. “Please forgive my abstraction. My time in London is not all my own.”
His host grunted. “I suppose a man like you would have much to occupy him.”
A man like him? His dinner soured. Did Mr. Beauchamp mean a man of the merchant class? Jon might have secured the affections of the ladies Beauchamp, but his host was quite another matter.
As if sensing his discomfort, his hostess inclined towards him. “Tell me, how does your work at Avebury go on?”
He forced a smile. He suspected Mrs. Beauchamp’s interest in the old estate had less to do with wanting to know his plans for refurbishment and more to do with showing her husband just what a prize catch he was. He kept the details short, to the point.
“And your friends who stayed? How are Major Hale and the Viscount Carmichael?” Miss Beauchamp’s enquiry was offered with a sliding glance at her father, as if she, too, wanted to reinforce Jon’s aristocratic connections.
“I saw Carmichael today. He is well, and sends you his greetings.” This he offered to his mother, but doubtless his sociable friend would offer it to all.
“Henry is such a dear boy,” his mother said. “Utterly charming.”
“And the major?” Miss Beauchamp turned to her father. “You’d like him, Father. Can you believe he fought the natives in India?”
“Hmph.”
“We do not see much of Major Hale anymore,” said Julia. Was that accusation in her eyes?
“Really? Oh.” Miss Beauchamp’s smile dimmed, and the conversation soon turned to something else.
Later, in the carriage ride home to Portman Square, Julia turned to him. “Why do we not see Major Hale anymore?”
“I—that is we—had a slight difference of opinion.”
“Difference of opinion?” Julia said, brows aloft. “So you and Hale argued? I know you, and something of the major, and rather suppose he objected to your highhanded ways.”
“Oh, Julia, dear—”
“No, Mama. I want to know. I suspect Jon might have chased him away.”
“I didn’t chase him—”
“You did something to make him not want to stay. And all this time you have refused to answer.” Julia crossed her arms. “What is it you’re trying to hide?”
“Nothing.”
“No?”
“Julia, that is enough.”
“But Mama, men like the major don’t run away. He has saved countless lives, and is a hero, and courageous, and—”
“Julia, how well do you know Hale?”
She stared at him, lamplight streaking across her face as the carriage turned the corner. “Well enough, I suppose.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I might not be the one with something to hide?” He pushed down the sliver of shame. His words did the former soldier no great disservice, but …
“What do you mean?”
“Jonathan, this is neither the time nor place.”
“Mother, I believe it’s time Julia learned something of his reputation.”
“His reputation?” Julia’s voice was small.
“He is not a man I want being friendly with my sister.”
The sounds of London streets filled the carriage: the creak of timber and leather as they rounded another corner; the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones; the huff of horses breathing in cold air; the call of working children, announcing their skills and wares.
Julia coughed. “But I thought he was your friend.”
In the wash of darkness he caught his mother’s raised eyebrows.
He swallowed and turned away, as the questions, guilty questions, in his heart began again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Six Gay Street, Bath
February
CATHERINE SMOOTHED HER gloves, admiring the sheen of satin and the way they perfectly complemented her evening gown and pelisse. Tonight’s musical performance at the Assembly Rooms would feature a selection of arias sung by a famous Italian soprano. Anticipation for the evening had had Bath’s inhabitants humming for days.
“Now, Catherine,” her mother said, “the general is quite respectable it is true, but perhaps you should not let him claim your attention all evening.”
“Yes, Mama.”
She glanced at Aunt Drusilla, caught her glance at the ceiling. Smiled.
“Now, Elvira, you are sure you do not wish to come?”
“I am content,” Mama said, with the air of a martyr.
That might be a slight exaggeration, thought Catherine, but at least it made a change from Mama expressing her discontent.
“Now just be sure to not let the general monopolize you all night.”
“Mama—”
“No, I do not like the gossip that comes my way.”
“Perhaps if you did not indulge in it yourself, dear sister, you would be rather less likely to hear it.”
Catherine swallowed a giggle at her mother’s shocked expression, kissed her cheek, collected her cloak, and followed Aunt Drusilla outside to the carriage. A few minutes of travel and they came to a standstill, the crush of vehicles forcing their early exit and a hurried dash to the colonnades marking the entrance.
The air was sharp and cold, but the assembly rooms were warm and lively. After being welcomed by the host and handing off their cloaks to the attendants, they made their way to the site of tonight’s musical performance.
The Octagonal Room, with its yellow painted walls, high windows, and four carved fireplaces was centered by a magnificent chandelier, with its sparkling drops of shimmery light highlighting the gleam of diamonds and the sheen of silks and satins. Multiple conversations pulsed with happy expectation, gossip, and mild flirtation, the clamor rising to the musicians’ gallery above.
“There are so many people!” Catherine whispered to her aunt.
“I’ll grant you that it is not as sparse as some winter nights, but I suppose that’s the effect of having such a well-known musician perform.”
“We were fortunate to get tickets.”
“That was not good fortune, my dear, but good management.”
Catherine chuckled, glancing around, looking for any familiar acquaintance.
The general caught her eye, his face brightening. She smiled as he drew near. No wonder Mama was concerned. For the casual observer, the general’s marked attention, his singling them out above all other acquaintance, was almost enough to make a person believe him to have something of regard for Catherine—except he only ever treated her as he might a daughter. And she felt nothing but sincere affection for his kindness and willingness to share her wry humor.
“Good evening, General. It is good to see you.”
“And you, sweet girl. How are we tonight, my dears?” He smiled at Aunt Drusilla, whose treatment of him—a mix of condescension and approbation—bore further witness to his good nature. “A pretty crowd indeed to hear the pretty signorina.”
“It certainly seems—oh.”
At her aunt’s disgruntled look, Catherine turned, and promptly felt a similar lowering of spirits. “Lady Milton.” She offered a small curtsy to the plump figure, then an even smaller one to the figure standing alongside her, brushing invisible particles from his sleeve. “Perry.”
“Mrs. Villiers, Catherine.” The turbaned head bowed before a frankly curious gaze set upon the general.
He took out an eyeglass, his inspection of Lady Milton serving to grossly magnify his eye, whilst making the object of his attention obviously quite uncomfortable. He turned to Perry. “I presume this is your mother.”
“Yes, of course.” Perry performed the introductions, under the watchful eye of one personage and the outrage of the other.
The general bowed. “I should have known him as your son, madam, the moment I set eyes upon you.”
“Oh?” Her face thawed from its frosty lines, clearly expecting a favorable response. “And how did you know? He is considered to have a certain air, I know, and is often thought quite handsome—”
“He has something of your figure.”
And with another bow, and a muttered excuse, the general moved to the other side of the room and claimed a seat beside another gentleman of military persuasion.
“Well!” Lady Milton exclaimed. “I hope you’ve not had much to do with that man, Catherine. He is obviously not of our class.”
“You may speak for yourself, Lady Milton,” said Aunt Drusilla. “The general is connected to some of the finest families in England.”
“Oh, but I—”
“Come, Catherine. Let us take our seats. Good evening, Lady Milton, Mr. Milton.”
Catherine nodded and followed her aunt to the front row, next to the general and his companion, whom he introduced as Lieutenant Harrow. They spent a few minutes quietly conversing, until the musicians entered the room and tuned their violins.
The music was good, the program called it “excerpts from commedia in musica,” but Catherine couldn’t help but think that while Italian arias were all very well, one’s appreciation might be greater if one more fully comprehended Italian. Still, to be out, to be dressed in finery, to not be stuck moping at home, was such an improvement she could scarcely complain even if the songs be sung in some tribal language from the South Seas!
Afterwards, they reconvened in the Tea Room, their enjoyment fading as Lady Milton and Perry exchanged seats with their neighbors to sit beside them.
“Well, that was certainly interesting,” Lady Milton said. “However I must say I did not understand very much of the shrieking. Perry did not understand a great deal, either, I’m afraid.”
“Why are you afraid?” Aunt Drusilla asked.
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Milton’s brow furrowed. “I do not quite take your meaning.”
“I thought it was just Italian she did not understand,” the general murmured. “I didn’t realize she had a problem with English as well.”
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 17
