by Jane Goodger
“But a rather terrible card player,” Mr. Norris said, a note of warning in his tone.
“Don’t worry, sir, George will not be playing cards again.”
“Good. And what time shall we meet at the exhibition?”
Marjorie turned to George. “You go on Thursday, do you not, George? What time?”
“Tomorrow is Thursday. I go to Hyde Park at one and then the Christy collection at four.”
Marjorie explained. “Oh, yes. That’s right. Perhaps at four then, George.”
Her brother nodded his head in agreement.
“It’ll be fine, George. I’ll be there, won’t I?”
“I have to go to Hyde Park on Thursday at one.”
Marjorie could feel her cheeks flushing slightly. She adored George, but she also knew his behavior could be a bit off-putting to most people. Well, all people, if she were honest.
“Yes, and after that, we’ll go to the exhibit. You don’t really mind if I come along, do you, George?”
George pressed his lips together, something he did when he was upset. “Okay. After I go to Hyde Park at one o’clock.”
“Good. Then we can meet tomorrow just past the hour?”
Marjorie knew the exchange with her brother was odd, but Mr. Norris’s expression showed nothing. “I look forward to it, Lady Marjorie. Lord Summerfield.”
“It’s a rock,” Marjorie said, frowning at a small piece of flint lying on a bit of velvet inside a glass case.
“Ah, but it’s a rock once held by an ancient hand, Lady Marjorie. And if you look closely, you can see how it was shaped. Do you see those angles?”
Charles watched with no small amount of impatience, as the skeptical lady peered—unimpressed—at the pieces of flint. George, on the other hand, seemed fascinated by them and kept referring to his guidebook.
What an odd pair these two were, Charles thought. Lady Marjorie, the self-proclaimed spinster, wore a delightful royal blue dress that turned her eyes bluish-gray. It was surprising to see such a lovely color looking back at him when he’d thought she perhaps had dull brown eyes like his own. He wondered, not for the first time since he’d met her, why she’d been unable to find a husband. Yes, she wanted a title, but there were plenty of those to be had in England.
He hadn’t found her shrewish. Indeed, she was rather delightful with a penchant for smiling and finding delight in the unusual. Then why . . . ?
“I have to go home at six o’clock.”
It was, perhaps, the fifth time her brother had said that, and each time Lady Marjorie gently acknowledged him. And that was when he realized that the fact she was unmarried perhaps had nothing to do with her, but everything to do with her younger brother.
“You’re protecting him,” he said softly, looking at George, who hovered over a display across the room. “From whom, I wonder?”
She looked at him, startled, then sent an affectionate look toward her brother. “My mother,” she said finally. “If I’m not around, she would crush him. Perhaps not on purpose, but she would crush him. He needs me. I understand him. I know he’s brilliant and loving, but I’m afraid all she sees is . . .”
“An embarrassment,” Charles supplied gently. When he was a younger man, he might have judged him the same. He’d been a bit close-minded back then, but he was a changed man now. The years had mellowed him and made him far more tolerant and understanding than he’d once been. So he was a bit surprised by Lady Marjorie’s fierce look.
“He is not an embarrassment,” she whispered harshly.
“You misunderstand, my lady. I don’t believe he is, but I wonder if that is how your mother feels.”
Her face immediately softened. “Oh. I do apologize. I tend to, as you said, be very protective of George.” She let out a soft laugh. “My mother is more than embarrassed by him. I fear sometimes she wants nothing more than to strip him of his title and see him spend the rest of his life in an asylum. As long as I am breathing, that will not happen. And that’s why I am here, sir. Because my mother can never find out that he lost all that money.”
Charles smiled gently at her. “My dear lady, never show all your cards. You don’t know me and yet you just told me your greatest fear. You have given me power over you, more power than I had previously.”
Her brows snapped together and he laughed aloud. “No fear, please, my lady. It is a cautionary tale only. I will protect your secret”—he gave her a bow—“with my life, if need be. But I thought it necessary to point out how foolishly naïve you are.”
She tilted her head, her eyes snapping, but he could see a small smile tugging at her rather lovely mouth. “I begin to see now why you are as yet unmarried, sir. You are far too blunt.”
“I am not this way with women I’m courting. I’m a complete idiot when it comes to most beautiful women.”
“So good to know you are completely immune to my charms,” Lady Marjorie said dryly.
“While your charms are considerable,” he said, unable to stop his eyes drifting to her mouth, “I am, as you say, completely immune.” Even as he said the words, he realized, somewhat surprised, that he was lying.
“Wonderful.”
“Would you rather I become completely besotted and have my heart broken yet again?”
She smiled, her eyes turning to lovely half-moons. “I very much doubt your heart has ever been truly broken, sir. And I also very much doubt you have ever truly been in love.”
“Are you saying, my lady, that I don’t know what’s in my own heart?”
She tilted her head in thought. “Who would you die for?”
“My sister,” he said immediately. “Perhaps my mother and father.”
“And me. Don’t forget, you just told me you would guard my secret with your life.” She seemed far too delighted to recall this fact. “You give your life much too easily, sir. No doubt you would die for any woman who agreed to dance with you. I can see that was not a very clarifying question.”
He grinned down at her uptilted face, noting her smug expression. “That is my problem, you see. I give my heart far too easily.”
“Which again proves my point. You are infatuated. Not in love.”
“I believe that’s what I’ve been saying all along, madam. And it is your job to steer me away from women who are inappropriate, uninterested, and unavailable.”
They spent the next hour touring the museum and making plans for their operation. It would be difficult, they both acknowledged, to carry through with their scheme when Marjorie’s mother was in attendance. The operation would have to be clandestine. They would pass notes, whisper words in passing, secretly meet. Charles was charmed by how enthusiastic Lady Marjorie was. She seemed to carry no resentment that all this had been forced upon her by his extortion.
“I know!” she said, clutching his arm. “We shall have a spot where we can leave a note. I can give you instructions, and you can respond or let me know which party or ball you’ll be attending that evening, and I can make certain I am there. Or at least I can try.” She steepled her hands and pressed them against her lips, eyes shining with excitement above them. “I have the perfect place,” she announced. “Behind our townhouse, there is a wall separating our garden from the mews. There’s a narrow lane back there that is accessible to anyone. Near the gate there is a loose brick where I always keep a key to the house for George and me in case we ever need it. When we go out without Mother we use it all the time. I don’t like waking servants up, you see. We can leave the notes there.” She clapped her hands like a little girl about to open her birthday presents.
Charles had had enough excitement in the last ten years to last a lifetime, but it was clear this young woman led a rather sedate life. He hoped whoever married her gave her a bit of excitement once in a while.
“How often should I check this brick?” he asked.
“Every day. I shall write every day. Won’t it be fun?”
“Only if you find me a wife. Then, indeed, it shal
l be quite fun.”
Marjorie’s smile slipped a bit, almost as if she’d forgotten what all this note-passing was about. “It will not be as easy for me as you seem to think to find you a wife. What if you become enamored with someone I know you should not? How can I possibly dissuade you if you do?”
“I will simply have to trust your judgment,” he said, wondering if it would be a simple thing at all. He knew himself quite well at this point, and he knew he was giving her a difficult task. “In the process, perhaps we will find you a husband as well.”
Marjorie shook her head. “I very much doubt you will have success where my mother has failed. Finding a husband has been her province for forty years, starting with her own hunt.”
Forty years earlier
Dorothea Stockbridge knew when she looked in the mirror that she was no beauty. Her mother called her handsome, and she supposed she was that. She did have a rather mannish square jaw and her figure could be described as square as well. The only way she could show off her waist was to tie her corset excruciatingly tight, which she had her maid do on a regular basis. Still, for a girl lacking certain physical charms, she did all she could to look her best. She wore the latest styles, whether they flattered her or not, dressed in the finest materials, the most expensive lace. She adored hats and was rather proud to be a trendsetter in that department. The bonnet she wore now, for example, had an outlandishly large brim decorated with tiny florets, and she was constantly having to hold it to her head, for it was rather breezy. The large satin ribbon tied beneath her jaw fluttered against her cheek as she walked down Regent Street with her best friend, Mary Marshall, Lady Benningford. They were shopping, of course. But what Dorothea was truly doing was looking for Lord Smythe, a man she’d been impossibly smitten with for the past four years.
Dorothea was unmarried, of course, and at an age when most women had children and a home. At age twenty-eight, she was so long on the shelf she was considered dusty. But even at that age, she continued to have hope that someday she would marry, would have her own home, and perhaps children (though her mother hinted she was already far too old to begin down that road). And Lord Smythe, ever so polite, ever so attentive, was her last hope. He always asked for a dance, and the two of them had strolled together in more gardens than she could count. While he’d never expressed any feelings toward her other than friendship—they shared an interest in botany—Dorothea allowed herself to imagine that he did have them.
“He always goes to Briggs on Wednesdays at two o’clock because that’s when the new shipment of books arrives.” This wonderful tidbit had come from Mary. And so that’s where the two of them were heading.
Dorothea knew Mary felt sorry for her, but she hid it well most of the time. She saw Mary’s look of hesitation each time Dorothea would mention Lord Smythe. She knew she had no chance with him, not when there were so many other far younger and far prettier girls to pick from. But she couldn’t stop her heart from wanting what it wanted. Four years of wanting. Four years of lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, and wondering if there were any hope at all that he was doing the same about her.
Regent Street was busy this time of day, with men going about their business and women out for a stroll and shopping. The wide street was quite filled with traff ic, the sounds of carriage wheels loud against the pavement, and brick walkways that stretched between the side streets. They’d just crossed Hanover Street when Dorothea spotted a dear old friend holding the hand of a small child. As she watched, her friend bent down and tapped the child on her nose, then kissed the child’s cheek before straightening and turning away from them.
“Oh, look, Mary, it’s Lenore,” she said, pulling Mary along so they could catch up.
Mary dug her heels in, resisting. “We can’t, Dottie,” Mary whispered harshly. “We can’t acknowledge her. You know that. It would be embarrassing to her, not to mention what it would do to our reputations.”
Dorothea stopped in her tracks. “Of course,” she said with sad resignation. “I wonder how she is doing.”
“How do you think? She married a land steward, for goodness’ sake. I thought they were living in the country on his farm. I wonder what she is doing in London?”
Dorothea watched as her old friend got lost in the crowd of pedestrians and then disappeared from sight completely. “Perhaps she’s reconciled with her family.”
“I hardly think that,” Mary said. “Besides, did you see what she was wearing? I’m surprised you recognized her at all, but it was Lenore.”
“She has a daughter,” Dorothea said, unable to keep the wistfulness from her voice.
“Yes, and no doubt they have a grand time churning butter together and milking cows.”
Despite herself, Dorothea laughed. “I still can’t believe she eloped with that man. I cannot imagine how her parents felt about it all. I remember, at the time I was so angry that she hadn’t told me. Surely I could have convinced her to abort their plans. And her sisters are all unmarried, you know. Did she not think of how her actions would affect them?” Dorothea shook her head. “I think I’m still angry with her.”
“It was most shocking at the time. The daughter of a duke running off to Gretna Green to marry a land steward. What could she have been thinking? And him. What a scoundrel to lure a young girl like that. He must have known they could not remain with the family. What did he think, that he would live with the family, eat meals with them?”
Dorothea remembered that behind the anger she’d felt that her friend hadn’t confided in her, was the thought of how romantic it had been to run off with the man you loved. That Lenore was so very much in love she was willing to give up everything to be with him, land steward or no. Now, however, she realized how very foolish Lenore had been. Her parents had cut her off completely, as had her friends. Who were Lenore’s friends now, other tenant farmers’ wives? What on earth did they talk about?
“Here we are,” Mary said, wrapping one arm around Dorothea’s. “Shall we buy a book?” Mary gave Dorothea an impish smile.
They entered the bookstore and were immediately hit with the wonderful scent of beeswax and books. The clerk looked up as they entered and gave them a polite smile. Dorothea immediately headed to the section on botany toward the back of the store, and clutched Mary’s arm tighter when she saw the familiar form of Lord Smythe. He was simply beautiful.
The sun streamed through a window high above him, hitting his golden yellow hair and creating a halo of light around his head. He looked up and saw the two coming toward him and gave Dorothea a smile. She very nearly swooned.
“Good afternoon, Lord Smythe,” Mary said. Thank goodness, because Dorothea could not bring herself to utter a single word. Her stomach was aflutter and she could feel her face flushing bright red.
“Lady Benningford, Lady Dorothea.” He nodded, looked down at the book he was holding, and then with slight hesitation, said, “The latest Revue Horticulture is available. Lovely pictures of roses in it.”
“Oh?” She was breathless, could hardly move. But Mary gave her a subtle shove in his direction and she forced herself to walk toward him, her eyes on the journal. If she looked up at him, she was quite certain he would see the rapt adoration in her face.
“Here, you take this. There are other copies.” He handed her the periodical and Dorothea took it as if she were taking a rare object.
“Thank you,” she said, daring to look up at him. She smiled, hoping she looked at least a little pretty, and he smiled back.
“Will you be going to Ascot this year, my lord?” she asked, rather proud, under the circumstances, to have introduced a new subject.
He darted a look to Mary and back to her. “Of course. I have a horse racing this year. Emilius. Finest horse I’ve ever owned. Keep an eye out for him, will you?”
He gave her a wink and he might as well have given her his heart for the fluttering that occurred.
“I shall be rooting wholeheartedly for Emilius,” D
orothea gushed.
“Good, then. Perhaps I’ll see you there. If you will excuse me, ladies, I must be on my way. Good day.”
Dorothea moved aside, letting him pass, clutching the periodical to her breast. When he’d gone, she turned to Mary and whispered, “Did you hear that? He’ll look for me at Ascot.”
Mary smiled. “He did not quite say that,” she said gently.
Dorothea refused to have her mood dampened by the truth. “No matter. I will look for him.”
Chapter 3
Hebert ball. Saturday.
Marjorie looked down at the cryptic note and smiled. How fun it had been to pull the brick out and find that small bit of paper there. “Hebert ball. Saturday,” she said aloud, mimicking his baritone.
Pulling her pencil from her pocket, she wrote: Yes. And I have a list. She stuffed the note back in the hole and walked, smiling, through their garden and into the house. She did, indeed, have a list. At the top was Miss Susan Mitchell, daughter of Sir Robert Mitchell. Nineteen. Pretty. Wealthy enough to attract lower titles, but, as far as Marjorie knew, had no great aspirations. Then there was Penelope Richardson, daughter of the third son of the Baron of Werington. She’d gone through at least two unsuccessful seasons—she had a rather large nose that had a tendency to drip—but she was intelligent and pleasant enough. At the bottom was Lavinia Crawford, placed there only because Marjorie liked Mr. Norris far too much to subject him to such a ninny.
It was a good, solid list, but Marjorie frowned. Knowing men as she did, she feared the first time he laid eyes on Miss Crawford, he would be as smitten as every other man in London. She wasn’t awful, but there was something about the girl that Marjorie just didn’t like. Perhaps it was because the same men who used to hover over her were now hovering over Miss Crawford. Marjorie shook her head, not liking where her thoughts were going. If she were truthful, she couldn’t imagine being married to any of the men who’d tried to court her or had even asked for her hand. So why was she jealous of a silly girl?
