by Jane Ashford
“I daresay,” said the duke. Only his blue eyes laughed, but they did it very well.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said the duchess.
“I was in charge,” said Randolph. “I should have noticed the ram.” The youngster who’d smuggled it in had been contrite—when he could stop laughing. But the damage had been done. “Time has passed,” said Randolph. “The memory must be fading. I have a new parish, a fresh start. But I don’t think a close association with a relative of the archbishop’s is—”
“Advisable,” supplied his father.
“Precisely.”
The duchess’s expression was hard to read. Randolph had seen her look that way when she was planning to canvas her country neighbors for contributions to her educational schemes, and when she was choosing jewels to match a ball gown.
“We’ll sing a few songs for the prince’s guests, and that will be that,” he declared. “No need for concern, Mama. Or…intervention.”
“I would never do anything you didn’t like,” she answered.
“Unless you thought it was good for me?”
“Don’t be silly. You’re a grown man.”
Which wasn’t exactly an answer, Randolph noted.
“So, that’s settled,” said the duke. “Nothing much to it after all.”
Not being musical himself, his father had no idea, Randolph thought.
Five
With the duchess’s aid, Randolph discovered that Miss Sinclair and her mother were staying near Cavendish Square. He sent a note ahead rather than simply turning up on their doorstep. Thus, when he arrived the following day, he was admitted at once by an unexpectedly stately butler. He found the ladies sitting alone in a pretty drawing room upstairs. They rose to greet him, but Mrs. Sinclair sank back onto the sofa as soon as her daughter had made the introductions. “I never dreamt of anything like this when I agreed to come to London,” she said. “Of course I had no idea that Verity would make a spectacle of herself.”
“Mama! I have done no such thing.”
It sounded like a much-repeated exchange. Taking in Miss Sinclair’s pained expression, Randolph was certain it was.
“The Prince Regent!” continued the older woman. “My husband does not approve of his…way of life. Mr. Sinclair is dean of Chester Cathedral, you know, and very conscious of his responsibilities.”
Randolph sat down beside the older woman. Thin and wren-like, she didn’t much resemble her daughter. He debated whether to encourage her doubts or try to assuage them. But a period of reflection had convinced him that refusing the prince’s request would be far more troublesome than acceding to it. The Regent went to great lengths to satisfy his whims. “I believe you are overly concerned, ma’am. The prince is proposing a private party, with a select guest list.”
“But his reputation is so very bad!” argued Mrs. Sinclair. “I am sad to say that about a member of our royal family. But the tales one hears!” Glancing at her daughter, she bit off a word.
“There’s none of that at his ton parties,” Randolph replied, mostly truthfully. He had an inspiration. “And certainly not with his mother present.”
Mrs. Sinclair turned to look at him. “The queen will be there?”
“You admire her,” murmured Miss Sinclair.
Randolph was sure, from the tone of the prince’s letter, that he could make this a condition. His father was well acquainted with the prince and could add his voice as well. “It will be no different than entertaining guests at your own home,” he added.
Mrs. Sinclair looked doubtful. “Our small circle in Chester can scarcely be compared. Who knows whom the prince might invite? Quite unsuitable people.”
“They’ll be on their best behavior. Perhaps you’d care to join my mother’s party for the evening?”
“The Duchess of Langford,” murmured Miss Sinclair.
“I don’t know.”
“Did I mention that Lord Randolph is a clergyman?” said Miss Sinclair. She was becoming positively antiphonal.
“Really?” Her mother perked up.
“He has a parish up North. Somewhere.”
Here was a change, Randolph thought. Suddenly the girl appreciated a country clergyman? And had she been inquiring about him? “In Derbyshire, actually,” he said. “I have a new post beginning in the summer. Quite a pleasant town, not the least bit countrified.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Miss Sinclair look self-conscious.
Her mother fixed her pale-blue eyes on him. “As a man of the cloth, you are not concerned about performing at Carleton House?”
“As a favor for the prince, no. I wouldn’t make a habit of it, of course.”
“Well—”
Randolph knew not to push. He’d had years of dealing with recalcitrant committees and quarreling parishioners.
“I suppose we can’t refuse royalty,” said the older woman with a sigh. “Perhaps you might write to my husband, Lord Randolph? You set forth the arguments very well.”
Randolph hesitated, wondering if the dean had heard about the incident with the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was more than likely that he had. Naturally, there’d been gossip among the clergy. Nor was Randolph eager to become further embroiled with Miss Sinclair’s family. “I’m not acquainted with the dean,” he pointed out.
“Oh, I shall enclose your letter in one of my own,” said Mrs. Sinclair.
She gazed at him expectantly. Randolph gave in with a nod.
“And perhaps you will reply to the prince for us, and make all the arrangements.”
She said it as if it was a foregone conclusion, giving Randolph some insight into the workings of the Sinclair household. Her daughter did not look pleased, but made no objection. He nodded again.
A maid came in with a tray. “There you are at last,” said Mrs. Sinclair. When the girl had set down the tray and gone, Verity’s mother added, “We’ve hired only part of this house, you know, with use of the landlady’s servants. It’s not like having our own staff who know what we like. But I couldn’t see taking a whole house and finding servants just for one season. Would you care for some marzipan, Lord Randolph?”
Randolph refused without visibly shuddering. He couldn’t bear the sweetness of the confection. Turning, he found Miss Sinclair’s blue-green eyes fixed upon him. “I feel we must make some preparations for this concert,” he told her. “It can’t be impromptu, even though our first…collaboration was successful.” He saw his vivid recollection of that occasion mirrored in her gaze, and he couldn’t look away.
Lord Randolph had managed her mother in a truly masterful manner, Verity thought. The subtlety of it might have been lost on some, but she was impressed.
“Do you agree?” he said.
“What?”
“Do pay attention, Verity,” said her mother, nibbling on her sweet.
Which was quite unfair. But Verity couldn’t complain. She’d gotten what she wanted; she was going to Carleton House. The prince’s fete would be stuffed with interesting people, perhaps the very ones she’d have found at the Travellers Club. And as the central attraction, she’d be in a position to meet whoever she pleased. Lord Randolph had done her a service by getting her mother to agree, and very neatly, too. “Yes,” Verity said firmly. “We should plan and rehearse.”
“Shall I tell the prince the performance must be, say, two weeks from now?”
That wasn’t a great deal of time, but probably enough. Verity nodded. “I have no pianoforte here.”
“We can work at Langford House,” Randolph answered. “There’s a fine instrument in the music room.” He smiled at her mother. “You must both come, of course.”
Verity watched that enchanting smile take effect. She’d never seen Mama flutter and dither in quite that way before.
“My mother will be delighted to welcome you,” Lord Randolph adde
d.
Verity didn’t understand the wry expression that accompanied this assurance. Was he amused or concerned?
“Tomorrow afternoon perhaps? I could send a carriage for you.”
“We’ll get ourselves there,” Verity replied before her mother could accept. She was grateful to him, but she wouldn’t be managed. The coming duet was enough. She wasn’t going to be taken over by a handsome parson.
“A charming man,” said her mother when Lord Randolph had taken his leave.
“Umm,” said Verity noncommittally.
“So very handsome, too. And the son of a duke. I daresay he’ll go far in the church.”
Verity ignored her mother’s sidelong glances. If she became engaged, Mama would pack up and drag her back to Chester the following day. Not that Lord Randolph and engagements had anything to do with each other. The point was: she meant to accomplish her goals, and she wouldn’t let her London season be cut short.
* * *
When Randolph returned to Langford House, he found Flora deep in conversation with his mother. To no one’s surprise, these two had taken to each other at once, finding common ground in their charitable works. The duchess had established several schools for poor girls over the years. Robert’s new wife oversaw a refuge for street children in rather the same vein. Plans were already in motion to funnel some of Flora’s charges into the schools.
“But we shouldn’t neglect the boys,” Flora was saying when Randolph entered the drawing room.
“Life is not quite so hard for them,” said the duchess.
“I don’t agree. They may not be dragged into prostitution, but they often see no choice but crime and drink.”
Another thing these two had in common, Randolph thought. They didn’t mince words.
“There are charity schools for boys…” his mother began.
“Not enough. At the least I would like to be able to offer the same opportunities to the boys at my refuge as to the girls.” Flora’s fiery blue eyes glowed with conviction. She showed no consciousness of their difference in rank.
Smiling in appreciation, the duchess nodded. “We must see what we can do then. Hello, Randolph.”
“Mama. Flora. Don’t let me interrupt your plotting.”
“We are down to matters of detail,” said Flora.
“Which I intend to leave to you, my dear, because I know you will be thorough and relentless,” the duchess said.
Flora gave her mother-in-law a wry glance. “Is that how you see me?”
“It was a compliment,” said the duchess.
The younger woman laughed. “Thank you. I believe I do know how to organize that effort,” she said. “There’s something else, however, on which I’d like your advice.”
“Of course.”
“I’m trying to help a young lady I met at Salbridge.”
“Miss Reynolds?” said Randolph.
“Yes. She’s here for the season,” Flora told the duchess. “Staying with a relative who isn’t much interested in her. I’ve gotten her into one or two parties.”
“Shall I drum up a few more invitations?”
“Thank you. That would be very kind.” Flora sighed. “The trouble is, Miss Reynolds isn’t really…enlivened unless there’s a chance of meeting one particular man. Are you friendly with Mr. Charles Wrentham, Randolph?”
“I’ve met him. No more than that.” A very odd fencing match didn’t constitute an acquaintance. And he wasn’t going to be dragged into matchmaking.
“Robert says the same,” Flora said. “I don’t know just what to do. I could try speaking to Mr. Wrentham again, but if he wished to see Frances, wouldn’t he call on her?”
Randolph wondered what she meant by again. He wasn’t going to ask, however. His mother had no such qualms. “Again?” she said.
Flora gave them a wry smile. “I tried to…intercede at Salbridge. It did not go well.”
The man who’d flailed at him at Angelo’s wouldn’t appreciate interference, Randolph thought.
“I can’t just shove him at her,” Flora concluded.
“Perhaps she’ll be diverted if she meets more young men,” said the duchess.
“I hope so.”
Robert strolled in, dress immaculate, air assured. “Has my wife cajoled a pile of money out of you for her orphans?” he asked his mother.
“You all talk about me as if I was some sort of despot,” Flora objected. “I only want to see justice done.”
“And we all love you for it,” said Robert, dropping a kiss on her dark hair. “A thing I am very good at, I might add.”
“Did Herr Grossmann tell you so?” Flora replied with a shake of her head.
“That and more.” Robert pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and showed them a smaller version of the cranial diagram Herr Grossmann had exhibited at the ton party. Handwritten notations had been made upon it. Randolph couldn’t read them from his place by the hearth. “You will be interested, but hardly surprised, to learn,” his brother continued, “that our esteemed phrenologist considers my skull fascinating.”
“I would be surprised to learn that he expresses any other opinion in his sessions,” said Flora dryly.
“Nonsense. My head is extraordinary,” Robert insisted. Randolph noted that his blue eyes were dancing with laughter. “For example, my bump of comparison, which is to say intelligence—”
“How is it to say that?”
“One demonstrates intelligence by making comparisons.”
“I would argue with that definition,” said Flora.
“Of course you would, my love.”
Randolph exchanged an amused glance with his mother. Robert and his wife couldn’t seem to talk without bickering. They appeared to relish the jousting.
“I have little propensity to remain permanently in the same place or residence,” Robert went on, reading from the page.
“You’re nomadic?” replied Flora. “You never said so.”
“Say flexible, rather. The most amiable fellow in the world.”
Flora laughed.
“My alimentiveness is not pronounced, which seems to mean that I am not greedy for food.”
“It’s true. You never were,” said the duchess.
“Not like Sebastian,” said Robert.
“I wouldn’t use the word greedy.”
“No, that would be snatch-pastry.”
“Active boys need fuel,” replied the duchess with a smile. “And Sebastian was more active than the rest of you.”
“Bigger, too. With a longer reach.”
“Did Herr Grossmann call you a jokesmith?” asked Randolph.
“He said I have a bent toward mirth.”
“That was certainly on the mark,” said Flora.
“As well as strong self-esteem.”
“Or vanity,” teased his wife.
“Quite different. A healthy understanding of my own merits. And finally, I have a strong tendency to hope.” He gazed at Flora.
Their eyes held for a lingering moment, then Flora bent to look at the chart. “Look here. Combativeness and conjugality are placed right next to each other in the brain.”
“They are indeed.” Robert’s smile was tender. “In a cluster with friendship and parental love and amativeness. Perhaps there’s something to this new science, eh?”
Randolph watched his mother gazing at them, reveling in their marital harmony. He felt a pang. He would probably never see that pleased expression directed at him. The thought was surprisingly painful.
“Herr Grossmann is putting on an exhibition tomorrow, if any of you would care to see him at work,” said Robert.
“I can’t,” Randolph replied somewhat curtly. “I have to rehearse.”
“Rehearse what?”
His brother’s bright,
inquisitive gaze made Randolph wish he’d kept mum. Everyone would know soon enough though. He might as well get the telling over with. “The Prince Regent has ordered me to sing at one of his parties,” he said. “With Miss Sinclair.”
“Ordered you?” exclaimed Flora. “How outrageous.”
“And typical,” said Robert. “Prinny has to get his paws on any new thing. Mark my word, he’ll be telling his guests that he discovered your extraordinary talents.”
“I hoped we might use the music room for our preparations, Mama.”
“Of course.”
Robert gave him one raised brow. “Assignations behind the harp strings?”
“Miss Sinclair’s mother will be present,” answered Randolph stiffly. Usually, he didn’t mind Robert’s teasing. But somehow, just now, it grated.
“How disappointing.”
“Really?” said Flora. “Is that the sort of tryst you used to arrange?”
“I can’t sing,” said Robert.
“And that is not what I asked you.”
“I studied Akkadian in secluded libraries,” he said with a smile.
“Our library is not secluded,” Flora replied. “That is an exaggeration.”
They could go on like this for hours. At the moment, Randolph had no patience for it. “We agreed on one o’clock,” he told his mother.
“I’ll be happy to welcome them,” said the duchess. “I have an appointment at the dressmaker’s at two, but I could change it.”
“No need. We have to choose pieces to perform and try them out. This isn’t a social visit.”
“Very well. But I wouldn’t want Mrs. Sinclair to feel slighted.”
“I’m sure she won’t.” He rose. “I should look over the music you have, to see if I need to add to it.” Not waiting for a reply, he walked out, conscious of eyes on his back.
The music room was a gracious space at the back of the house, overlooking the small walled garden. As he closed the door behind him, Randolph immediately felt better. He’d spent many happy hours here as a youth, and these surroundings soothed him. The walls hung with blue damask; the cello on a stand in the corner had occupied his youngest brother, Alan, for a while and then bored him; the antique instruments decorating the walls, none as old as his lute.
