Compromising Prudence

by Marguerite Butler

  No.

  She would not slink home only to be cast aside again. She had left on her own terms and it would remain that way. No more apologizing. No more humbling herself when she wasn’t really and truly sorry for her actions. She’d spent her life answering to others. First there was Nurse and then a series of governesses and always — always — there had been Papa blustering and ordering her about. Aunt Hetty. Two older sisters. Yes, she had been bossed enough for two lifetimes.

  Begging for forgiveness would be the final blow.

  “No.” She said the word quietly, but firmly.

  “Miss Wemberly…”

  “You have no idea what you are asking.”

  “I can’t believe you would be so cruel to your father.”

  “Cruel? I am the wronged party in this! Papa meant to throw me into the street.”

  “Miss Wemberly, even the most hard-hearted man would be in a terrible state to find his daughter has run away. He must be so worried.”

  “I won’t go back to him,” she said and crossed her arms.

  “I didn’t say you should.” Hatterly looked puzzled. “You don’t have to tell Sir Algernon where you are, just that you are unharmed. I was not suggesting you return and throw yourself on his mercy.” He retook her hand after coaxing her crossed arms open. “I’m not ready to give up my future wife yet. But do set his mind at ease. It’s likely he’s scouring the city for you. I don’t envy being arrested as a kidnapper.”

  “Yet he hasn’t raised a hue and cry, has he?”

  She felt like a petulant child. Another minute and she would stamp her foot and demand a pony. It didn’t help that Hatterly was right. Papa would be sick with worry. Good, thought a nasty little part of her. She’d felt nothing but sick for two weeks now. Let Papa have a taste of fear for a change. She would not budge on this. Hatterly couldn’t force her to. He made every effort, but Prudence remained resolute.

  She would not write to her father.

  True to his word, Hatterly’s friend had matters well arranged. He seemed more than simply pleased to be helping his friend with a hasty marriage. He seemed amused.

  “Tell me again how you met,” Mr. Parson said with a sparkle in his eye.

  “Didn’t I say in my message?” Hatterly said. “Private party of a friend.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Mr. Parson leaned on his desk, chin in hand. “Remarkable.”

  “Yes, it is. Look, can we get on with it?”

  “I never thought I would see the day. What have you done to him?” Mr. Parson turned his twinkling eyes on Prudence.

  “We’ve reached a satisfactory arrangement,” she said.

  “Apparently. I had no idea Hatterly would ever find a young lady who shared his interests. Are you mad for birds as well?” She shook her head. “Some other creature perhaps? Botany?” She shook her head again. “Do you even garden?” With each shake of her head he looked more perplexed. “Your father is a member of the Royal Society then? Maybe the new Zoological Society?”

  “I’ve never been to the zoo,” she confessed.

  Hatterly made a strangled noise in his throat.

  “Yes, well…” Mr. Parson shuffled the papers in front of him. “I assume you are both of sound mind and all that. If you’re ready?”

  The paperwork was not onerous and soon they were ready to leave. Mr. Hatterly was due in Hanover Square to deliver his lecture and she needed to visit her modiste.

  Pru was anxious about the visit to Madame Roquefort, but Madame had replied to her message with a promise of a private fitting. Since Madame was undoubtedly English, her word was good. Madame Marie-Evangeline Roquefort — née Miss Mary Elizabeth Rollins — was a tiny, round woman whose exuberant hair was barely contained by a cap and whose French accent was known to slip at times of great stress. But it was de rigueur for modistes to be French and the woman had been trained in Paris, so the ton conspired to ignore her slips.

  Pru slipped inside the shop as quickly as possible. The last thing she wanted was to be noticed. Shopping without her abigail and a footman was a new experience. She really would need to engage an abigail. Surely even in Strayfield women were not expected to function without assistance.

  It was not Madame who greeted Pru, but Madame’s draper, Antoinette, who guided Pru into the back room. Madam sailed through the door behind them, arms flung wide as she proclaimed theatrically, “Ma chérie! I had not expected to see you again so soon. What a rare treat and for such an occasion.” She clasped her hands to her bosom. “Oh Antoinette, it is a bridal gown for ma petite. But, chérie,” she lowered her voice confidingly, “I was shocked that you requested a display of ready-made garments. A bridal gown must be made for that bride alone. Antoinette!” She clapped her plump hands. “Bring the fabrics. You see, I have been in the fabrics and I know just the thing for your delicate complexion, chérie. Fabric first and then the pattern books.”

  “Oh, no, Madame. Please, I wish you had not troubled yourself. It must be from your ready-made dresses. Time is of the essence.”

  “I assure you, chérie, that there are none faster at the sewing than my girls. Time is no bother.”

  “But it is, Madame.”

  Madame Roquefort drew herself up to her full five feet. “And I tell you, Mademoiselle Wemberly, that it is not.”

  “But the wedding…”

  “Your dress will be ready.”

  “…is tomorrow.”

  Madame froze. “What?”

  The accent was missing.

  Pru smiled to soften the words. “I am to be wed tomorrow, Madame.”

  “That is not possible.”

  “You see my dilemma now.”

  “Tomorrow? Sacré bleu!” Madame remembered she was French. “I do understand these matters, chérie, but surely Petworth’s family is not in such a bother. I cannot imagine your father to allow such a thing. Such a hasty marriage implies…” She caught herself. “It is not done. There is not even time for a notice in the paper.”

  So word of my disgrace has even reached the ears of the shopkeepers. Ah well, Madame collects gossip the way men collected snuff boxes.

  “No,” Pru said. “There will be an announcement after the wedding.” At least she hoped Hatterly would attend to that detail. She would remind him to do so after they were safely ensconced in that village of his. “I am not marrying Lord Thomas Petworth.”

  She said it with as much dignity as she could muster, but her face burned.

  “I see,” Madame said slowly. She gave Antoinette rapid instructions in French.

  Pru knew the dress the moment Madame brought it out. It was a bright green satin with a broad hem around the border. Three ribbons of the same laurel green descended from the waist. “C’est modes des Paris,” Madame said, fingering the Provence roses which finished the border. “And for your trousseau, chérie?”

  “My trousseau?”

  Madame coughed discreetly into her hand. “There are items in another room of the sort that a bride might wish to add, items of a personal nature.”

  “Oh!”

  Undergarments. That was what Madame was saying. Or perhaps intimate things for the marital bed.

  Her blush intensified at the notion of parading about before Hatterly in her unmentionables. Wives did such things. She knew because Constance had confessed all to her — in direct contradiction of Papa’s orders, of course — but that is what married sisters were for. She had no Mama to lift the shroud concealing marital intimacies and Aunt Hetty had refused. It had fallen to her sisters to enlighten her.

  “My trousseau. Of course.” And why shouldn’t she have lovely things? Hatterly said she could spend his money freely. A woman needed a wedding trousseau. Hatterly would probably expect it.

  The thought made her slightly dizzy and not in an unpleasant way.

  She meekly followed Madame into another room without windows. There were drawers and drawers of frilly items and books
with still more to choose from, but what drew her eye most of all a gown hanging on a maker’s form.

  She had no idea what such a concoction was for.

  Made of deep rose silk, the gown had a touch of lace along the bodice. It might have been a nightrail, but the sheer fabric was far too flimsy to keep one warm. The skirt was the wrong length for a chemise. Its cool material rustled through her fingers, soft as a whisper.

  “Mademoiselle, likes it, non?” Antoinette said behind her.

  Pru nodded. “But what is it?”

  “It is a negligee.”

  “Is that…is that like a nightrail?”

  Antoinette hesitated. “Oui,” she said with a smile in her voice. “But one is not expected to sleep in it. A negligee is for entertaining one’s amour in the bedroom. I know it to be your size, mademoiselle.”

  Pru struggled to breathe. She was wearing that negligee in her mind. Hatterly drew the sleeves off her shoulders and down her arms, which wouldn’t be difficult as there was barely enough sleeve to hold the gown up. In fact on closer inspection, the bodice was frightfully small and constructed like a corset. The lacing held the bodice in place, not the sleeves which were hardly more than puffs. She suspected that the lace was actually the top of the bodice and was designed to cover the breasts without covering them. She slipped a hand inside the gown and realized that her hand was visible through the fabric. It would be like wearing a gown made of mist and fog.

  “Yes, I want this,” she said, even as she was aware that the tips of her ears burned. They were probably as red as her cheeks. A new thought struck her and she turned back to Antoinette with a gleam in her eye.

  “I’ll take the negligee with me. I do not wish for these items to be delivered. I will arrange to have them picked up tomorrow. The bill may be sent in the usual way. You know where to send the bill, of course. In fact, I do believe Papa would like an itemized list of the things I’ve bought for my trousseau. Send the list with the bill.”

  That would give Papa the apoplectic fit he so richly deserved. She and Charles would be safely gone by the time he received the bill.

  Antoinette gave her a puzzled frown. “You think so, mademoiselle?”

  “Oh, I know so,” Pru said. “List everything for him. And let’s shop for more. Show me everything. I want to see every lovely, decadent, frilly garment in the shop.”

  Charles tossed back the remains of his drink. As lectures went, this one had been moderately successful. Arguing about taxonomy was never a thrilling discourse, but it was damned important. Next to Moncrief’s droning treatise on Lesser Egrets, Charles had been positively fascinating.

  Now he was enjoying a well-earned nuncheon at his club while Miss Wemberly did her best to lighten his purse.

  “Hallo, cousin,” drawled a lazy voice at his shoulder.

  Charles stiffened and didn’t turn. “Petworth.”

  His hand tightened around his glass.

  Lord Thomas Petworth dropped into the vacant chair across the table from Charles, drawing off his gloves. He gestured to the chair next to him which was immediately occupied by another man. Charles wondered briefly if the blond man was yet another Petworth or perhaps a Kindley. The two young tulips were quite interchangeable with the same sunny good looks, improbable neckcloths, collars so stiff and high they could barely turn their heads and naturally the same smug expression.

  “Wilson, this is my country cousin,” Petworth said. “Don’t suppose you two have met. Hatterly, Wilson.”

  He nodded to both men and waved a hand at the server. After the important business of choosing a wine and a nearly invisible flick of his snuff box, he turned back to Charles.

  “What brings you to London, cousin? Must have something to do with birds, I suppose. One of those dreary old meetings. Hatterly is a bird watcher,” he confided to Wilson.

  “I’m an ornithologist; a scientist,” Charles said through clenched teeth.

  “Fascinating, I’m sure,” Wilson drawled.

  Charles leaned back, forcing himself to relax. When the server brought Petworth’s wine, he refilled Charles’ glass.

  Charles took a slow swallow. “Actually, I’m here for the same purpose you are Petworth, the marriage mart.” He took another swallow.

  Petworth froze, glass in hand. “Marriage?”

  “I mean to take a wife.”

  Petworth surprised him by laughing. “How many years have you played at this farce?” He leaned toward Wilson. “Hatterly comes to London once a year to feign a bridal hunt, but spends all his time with the Zoological Society talking bird watching.”

  “Ornithology.”

  Petworth waved his hand. “I, on the other hand, am legitimately in need of a wife.”

  “Heard you had found one,” Charles said tightly.

  Petworth raised an eyebrow. “Wherever did you…? Never mind. It isn’t so. Sir Wemberly made noises about forcing me to marry that freckled chit of his, but it was only that. I never did a thing to the girl. No, my parents are being…difficult.” He flicked his snuff box open and shut with a neat gesture, but the tension around his mouth belied his casual pose. “I’m legitimately on the wife hunt — or rather, the heiress hunt.”

  Fighting the urge to fling the contents of his glass into his cousin’s smug face, Charles leaned back in his seat. “Wemberly’s daughter isn’t exactly a beggar.” He studied Petworth over his glass.

  “But not exactly of the first water either. I don’t suppose such a thing would matter to you when your own fortunes came from trade, but my standards for a wife are more exacting.” Once more, Petworth leaned toward Wilson and Charles fought the urge to smash the two blond heads together. It would make a satisfying thump, like two empty melons coming together. “Hatterly’s mother was quite the black sheep. Married an American, you know.”

  “Fascinating,” Wilson drawled. Perhaps he was only capable of a single word at a time. Clearly his only role was to play the foil to Petworth’s ego which did not require excessive intelligence.

  “Fascinating indeed, but who is bamming the family now? This charade may pacify your father, but you can’t put me off with your sham of a wife hunt. You have no interest in taking a wife. I am in earnest.” Charles permitted himself a little smile. “Bet you a monkey I marry before you do.”

  Petworth laughed. “Done! How about you, Wilson?”

  Wilson stopped, his brow wrinkled and his drink almost to his lips. “About me what?”

  “Are you in for a monkey?”

  “That your cousin marries before I do?”

  Petworth made an annoyed sound. “That I marry before my cousin, you twit.”

  “Oh!” Wilson’s face cleared. “Yes, of course I’ll take the wager. Bet he doesn’t know you’ve got Lady Caroline on the string.”

  Petworth glared at him. “But it’s done,” he said, turning back to Charles. “A monkey to the one who takes a wife first.”

  “Yes,” Charles said. “The wager is done.” He placed his hands on the table and stood. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.”

  He left his club, smiling broadly, and went to collect his bride-to-be at the modiste’s.

  Chapter Five

  MISS WEMBERLY NESTLED BACK against the squabs of the carriage, clutching a parcel in her lap. She’d refused to part with that one and her only response was a smirk when Charles asked to know the contents. She must have felt the weight of his stare because she ceased peeping out the curtain.

  “You seem to have been successful,” he commented.

  “Very successful, thank you. The rest will need to be picked up tomorrow.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that. “You bought out the shop?”

  “I barely scratched the surface. But this will do for now. I still will need to visit the shoemaker and milliner. Gloves,” she said as an afterthought. “I shall need gloves as well.”

  “Of course.”

  He could hardly complain now. He had promised her free reign with his purse.
Apparently, his bride-to-be was a neck or nothing shopper. He shuddered to think what she would do to Strayfield Manor. The furnishings hadn’t been updated in ten years. He suspected that a bored wife plus outmoded house would equal a steady stream of tradesmen visiting the premises.

  “How was your paper received?”

  He blinked, startled. “My paper?”

  “Did you not present a paper this morning? I’m certain you said that you would.”

  “The presentation went well.”

  “What was the paper about?”

  He blinked again. No one ever asked about his work.

  “Should I not have asked?” Her forehead wrinkled in confusion.

  “Taxonomy,” he said. Her face remained confused. “The scientific classification of things. There is controversy with the new subclass of Neornithes. And…and it’s probably very boring.”

  “Alas, I am no bluestocking and I have no grounding in the sciences,” she said ruefully.

  “Let me guess. Papa didn’t consider it seemly for women to study science.”

  “I don’t think he considered it seemly for anyone to study science. He considered science an affront to the church. But he especially disagreed with ladies thinking too much. He subscribed to the notion that thinking over taxed the nervous and led to hysterical disorders and ill health.” The carriage rumbled over a rough passage and she adjusted her parcel.

  “You don’t seem prone to fits,” he said.

  Miss Wemberly laughed. “I’ve never fainted a day in my laugh.”

  Her warm, inviting laugh suited her. Her laugh was genuine, not the studied titter of the ballroom. Sir Algernon had fought hard to keep his daughter unspoiled. In some regards, he’d succeeded admirably, whether she thanked him or not.

  Would he have noticed her in one of those ballrooms? Would she have stood out among the other demure misses in white gowns? He would like to think so, and yet the odds were good that they had been in the same place at the same time and he simply had no recollection of her.