A Gentleman Undone

by Cecilia Grant

  “Lydia.” The word barged into her sweet symphony of thought like a screech from one of the reed instruments. Singular. She’d never supposed there might be a right way and a wrong way to pronounce her name. “Have you gone into a trance, there?” He’d opened his eyes, finally, to investigate the lapse in her ministrations.

  “Forgive me. I was distracted by the light.” She wiped the razor dry and glanced at the mirror to find he’d closed his eyes again.

  Some men there were who knew how to look at a lady, and make her feel she’d been seen. Or perhaps there was no question of knowing how. Some men just looked at ladies that way.

  Nothing to the purpose. Here was the man to whom she’d attached herself, and here was the task immediately before her. She angled the blade, set it to his cheek and drew it back, the soap mounding up as she went. But some men, one couldn’t help observing, would have kept their eyes open. Tell me what absorbs you so, such a man might say. I wonder at your thoughts. He might even guess: It’s to do with cards, isn’t it?

  She brought the razor away and tipped it above the washbasin, its dollop of lather and bristles sliding off to land with a faint plash among the rest of the sudsy flotsam. Some men had no valet or even mistress, and must see to their own shaving. Standing shirtless before a mirror, perhaps, the towel draped carelessly over one well-articulated shoulder.

  Not that anything was amiss with Edward’s shoulders. Indeed his whole form could bear comparison with any man’s. Still, when she’d shaved her last stroke, wiped the remnants of soap from his face, and then glanced in the mirror to find him eyeing her with the first stirrings of unmistakable intent, she pivoted away to catch up his waistcoat.

  “Perfectly timed.” She gave the waistcoat a brisk shake. “I do believe that’s your phaeton I hear outside.” Perfectly timed, indeed. The shave was usually followed by several minutes of more particular attentions, if not a full-scale return to the bed.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the window, though of course he could not see to the street below. One corner of his mouth pulled down with indecision. His palm, flat atop his right thigh, smoothed the nankeen of his trousers. Clearly he was struggling with some personal calculus involving the questions of how quickly she could work, how long he could decently keep his driver waiting, and whether or not his appetite had been roused to such a pitch as to render the first two questions moot.

  She moved her thumb infinitesimally over the fine stitching at the waistcoat’s armhole, her only outward manifestation of unease. What would she do if he should bid her come and kneel? She’d never refused him before.

  No. I don’t want to. The novel words loitered just back of her teeth. She could taste them. She could feel the way they would resonate from the roof of her mouth to the bridge of her nose. She could picture Edward’s astonishment, but her brain balked at picturing what might come next, in answer to such open defiance.

  Never mind. A clever woman needn’t resort to defiance. “What a fine waistcoat this is.” She moved a step nearer. “Did you choose it on purpose because you knew you’d be going to luncheon at your mother’s house?” She would mention his mother just as many times as were necessary to wilt his ardor.

  “Hang it, Lydia.” He got grudgingly to his feet. “Why did you have to squander so much time in staring at the ceiling and talking of cards? I had no idea the hour had grown so late. Next time you must keep to the task.”

  “Indeed I shall,” she said as she helped him into his waistcoat, and “The fault is mine,” and “Your mother is fortunate to have so dutiful a son.” Near a dozen such trifling pleasantries she’d uttered by the time the front door closed behind him.

  She stood for a moment with her back pressed to the door, her palms flat against it at thigh-height on either side. Her muscles all tensed, unaccountably, gathering themselves as though Edward might turn about and pound on the door to demand his indulgence after all—of course he wouldn’t—and as though she might dig in her heels and oppose his efforts with all her weight and strength.

  She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. But she stood nevertheless, poised above her own revulsion like a tightrope-walker above a moat boiling with sharp-toothed eels, until she heard the clop of horses pulling his phaeton into the street. Then she mashed the strange sentiments small, put them away, and went to begin her work.

  I VOW I can’t tell one from another. You?” Nick spoke in an undertone, though there was little chance of his being overheard.

  “The tiny red-faced one that can’t so much as lift its head is Andrew’s latest. Master Frederick. Kitty’s got him now.” Will nodded toward the corner of the room where babies were being passed about.

  “Well for Heaven’s sake I hope I know that much.” Indeed they’d all been invited expressly for the purpose of viewing that most recent addition to the family, though by some obscure process the event had mushroomed into a full-on celebration of Blackshear fertility. Already there were ten children in the next generation, and all ten were present in his eldest brother’s drawing room, some doing their best to sit straight and be worthy of the honor; some conducting themselves with blissful infant ignorance of manners. “Keeping track of the very smallest is no trick. It’s when they get a bit older that they all start to blend together.” Nick gestured at the sofa nearest the bow window where they stood. “I believe one of the two climbing on Mirkwood may be my godson, but I’m hanged if I can tell you which one.”

  “Don’t look to me for help. I would have sworn those were both girls.” He oughtn’t to say so—doubtless he’d offend some parent if he was heard—but his brother’s poorly stifled snort of laughter was a tonic he couldn’t resist. It seemed years since he’d laughed so easily, so carelessly with Nick. With any of his siblings, for that matter.

  Across the room his elder sister glanced up from the baby she’d been admiring, and smiled. Kitty was Miss Slaughter’s precise opposite, wasn’t she? All he needed was half a second to see her fierce joy and relief at the sight of her two younger brothers giving way to some secret hilarity, as they’d been wont to do in simpler years.

  He cut his own gaze away from the emotion in hers, fixing vaguely on the sofa where Martha’s Mr. Mirkwood was in conversation with Kitty’s Mr. Bridgeman. Surely he would soon come to feel as though he belonged among these people once more. They were his kin, after all, his blood, the only souls in the world who shared his memories of a delicate mother and a sober-minded father who’d both left the breathing world too soon.

  And yet he’d found himself making excuses to avoid them, these months since coming home. He’d had more to do with Nick than any of the others, but that had been largely on account of business. Even now, though he might have gone on joking about the little nieces and nephews, a particular obligation was tugging at him. He brushed a bit of lint off one cuff. “Do you remember that Grigsby fellow you introduced me to? The one who set up the trust?”

  “Saw him just yesterday by Lincoln’s Inn.” Nick swung about to fix him with the full force of his curiosity. “What, are you wanting his services again? Found another orphan in need of an anonymous benefactor?”

  Will shook his head. “Rather I’m hoping to do a service for a lady this time.”

  “Not the boy’s mother, I hope. According to what Grigsby tells me, you’ve already done more for that family than anyone could reasonably expect.”

  Grigsby needed to learn a bit of discretion, clearly. And he was in no position to render judgments as to the degree of Will’s obligation. “No, it’s another acquaintance and the money is all her own. She’s put a bit by and she’d like to invest it, but she hasn’t the means to retain a man of business. I offered to see whether I couldn’t find someone to help.” He laced his hands behind his back and stretched his shoulders, a gesture that would, with luck, suggest an attitude of casual indifference.

  “What is she, someone’s spinster aunt?” His brother’s eyes held more bafflement than suspicion; that was to the good. “What s
ort of company are you keeping these days?”

  He nodded vaguely, with uncomfortable thoughts of perjury. “She’s a connection of someone at the club I frequent.” That was entirely true.

  This prodded Nick’s curiosity in another direction, and he was now obliged to tell a bit about Beecham’s, in terms that left vague the character of the place. Nick had never set foot in a gaming establishment of any sort, and heard the club’s name without a glimmer of recognition.

  From the corner of his eye, however, Will saw Mr. Mirkwood straighten and throw one quick glance their way before taking a sudden animated interest in some story Kitty’s Bridgeman was telling.

  World’s worst dissembler, his little sister’s husband. He’d been a bit of a good-for-nothing before marriage, if Andrew was to be believed, and obviously the name of Beecham’s wasn’t new to him.

  And indeed, no sooner had Nick gone off in search of some refreshment than the fellow hoisted himself up from the sofa, one child in the crook of his arm, and made his painstakingly casual way round to the bow window. “Hold this for a moment, will you?” he said, brandishing the child with both hands.

  A dirty trick, that. Will couldn’t very well excuse himself and dash away if he was holding the man’s child. “Does my sister know you refer to your daughter as this?” His hands fumbled for a second—even a sturdy baby seemed an impossibly fragile thing—but then Mirkwood let go and her weight was all his, her arms flung out to either side and her legs pedaling in the air as though she thought she might lift off like a bird.

  Panic simmered up his spine. If he should drop her … those tiny vulnerable bones … He hauled her in against him, his elbows bent awkwardly out, his hands clutching her under her arms, his heart thudding so hard she must feel it. Confound people and their young. Clearly this wasn’t the right way to hold her, but—

  “Not on the shoulder. You see what she’s done to mine.” Mirkwood had pulled out a handkerchief and was dabbing at a damp patch on his expertly tailored coat. “You might sit her at your waist and support her with one arm round her back. That way she can look about. See who’s holding her. You have the sort of face babies like.”

  “Indeed. What sort of face is that?” Carefully he rearranged her. She’d been a mere insensate bundle of three months when he’d last held her, on his one visit to Martha’s grand Brook Street residence. She’d grown a good deal less floppy since then.

  “Dark hair, dark eyes. Brows. She’s very fond of looking at Mrs. Bridgeman, too.” He folded his handkerchief to produce a clean spot, and wiped her chin. She was drooling like some rabid thing and she was, as her father had promised, studying Will’s face with rapt attention.

  Lord, but she was absurd in her innocence. No idea in the world of the mistakes a person could grow up to make; the wreckage he might leave behind. To her he was nothing more than what her eyes could see: black hair, black brows, brown eyes, and a mouth threatening all in spite of itself to smile. “She’ll feature you, won’t she?” With his free hand he lifted one wavy lock of her pale hair, paler and wavier than anything his own bloodline had yet produced.

  “I think so. Mostly.” Fool was scrubbing at his shoulder again, as though Will would not know a pretext when he saw one. “Everything but the eyes.”

  “You’ve got proper Blackshear eyes, haven’t you?” He wouldn’t croon, as some people did when addressing a baby, but he did pitch his voice to let her know that his words were meant just for her. Her downy infant brows pushed together in response, giving her the air of a scientist confronting some puzzling outcome.

  Did he look at all familiar to her? She wouldn’t remember him from that earlier visit, but might his eyes remind her of her mother’s eyes? He sent her a smile and abruptly she returned it, in such open-mouthed, toothless glory that he nearly had to avert his gaze.

  “I knew you were her sort.” Bastard was playing him like a fiddle, for all his clumsy subterfuge. He folded up his handkerchief, finally, and stowed it back in a pocket. “Listen, Blackshear.” Now they would come to it. “The fact is nobody here much likes me.”

  “I should hope Mrs. Mirkwood does.”

  “To be sure.” He nodded once, his mouth straightening into what must pass for a serious expression, with him. “But between persuading her into remarriage so early in her widowhood, and … well, and some general concerns in regard to my character, I suppose, I’ve never quite found my footing with your brothers and your elder sister. Altogether I’m in need of an ally in this family.”

  Will waited, a wary humming in his blood.

  “So if I could put myself in the way of doing you a service, I should consider it a favor to myself, really.”

  Oh, God. Charity. Of all insupportable things, charity under the guise of fraternal fellowship. He angled his head to face the baby again and touched her small fingers, which curled immediately round one of his.

  “I have a great deal of money and no dependent relations. Pardon me for saying so.” From the corner of his eye Will could see him glance down at the carpet as though considering whether to proceed. “For all I know you might frequent Beecham’s for the company. But most men don’t. And damn it all, I don’t see any sense in letting some members of a family want for capital, and perhaps pursue it through imprudent and degrading means, when others have more than they need.” His well-intentioned words fell like hot cinders, and clearly he knew it, and the fact that he knew it somehow made it that much worse.

  “That’s quite generous of you.” He sounded like a schoolboy slogging through an ill-rehearsed recitation. “If I ever find myself in such a position of need, I shall remember that offer.” Every word of this was delivered to the baby, who listened with an increasingly sober face.

  Probably he was being perverse. But it wasn’t Mirkwood who’d promised a dying man to look after his wife. The promise, the penance, the debt was Will’s to shoulder, and what would he be worth if he allowed some other man to relieve him of that burden? “She’s a charming child, your Augusta.” He caught her under the arms and lifted her briskly toward her father. “You must be quite proud.”

  “Prouder than I’ve ever been of almost anything.” Bless the man, he knew when to quit. “Martha has been wishing you’d come to visit. Nothing formal.” He busied himself with arranging the baby in the crook of his elbow, attention half averted as though he knew that this, too, might be an uncomfortable topic.

  “So she said. I must see whether I can’t find a day soon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been waiting for a chance to address my other sister and I see she’s between conversations.” And away he hastened, lest enough time spent under the influence of kind intentions, and a winsome child, might after all shred his resolve and persuade him to succumb to charity.

  IN A full deck, how many cards have a value of ten?” Miss Slaughter’s sharp features warmed as she leaned near the candles, removing her left glove. She’d arranged her hair to include a few curls tonight, about the cheek and temple, and they swayed distractingly when she moved.

  “Sixteen.” He dragged his mind back to business. “Tens and court cards; four of each. And that leaves thirty-six cards of other denominations, in case you intended to ask.”

  “Good. You’re on the right path.” She bunched the glove down to her wrist and started working her fingers free. “Tell me the ratio of non-tens to tens.”

  A simple problem of division oughtn’t to be beyond him. Sixteen into thirty-six went … “Two times, with four remaining. Two and a quarter. There are two and a quarter times as many non-tens as tens. That’s not the new gown, is it? I’m almost sure I’ve seen you in it before.” It was a dreary reddish thing that didn’t near emphasize her curves.

  “I assure you, Mr. Blackshear, when you do see that gown, you’ll know it. There’ll be no need to ask.” She punctuated this stylishly, with a little toss of her head that set the curls dancing while she meanwhile drew her glove off and dropped it in her lap.

  “I begin to do
ubt the existence of this gown altogether. Very soon I may begin to doubt your knowledge of vingt-et-un. Last week we spent the whole lesson looking for the ace of spades, and now you quiz me with division problems. Shall we ever actually play a hand?”

  “We’ll come to that in good time.” That voice of hers could make anything sound like a lascivious promise. She dispensed with her second glove and picked up the cards. “I’m going to deal out the deck, slowly. You keep count of tens and non-tens.” She turned over the seven of hearts, her thumb releasing it with a snap. Queen of spades followed, and three of clubs. “Count?” Her head tilted slightly toward the table, she looked up at him from under her lashes and her sternly arched brows.

  “Thirty-four; fifteen.”

  “Ratio?”

  Lord, he knew she was going to ask that. “Two with four left over. Two and a third, nearly.”

  “Two and four-fifteenths. Closer to a quarter than a third.” She dealt a knave. Nine. Ace. Four. Paused to shoot him that look again, wordless this time.

  “Thirty-one; fourteen. Meaning a ratio of …” Christ. This was beyond him.

  “I can see you thinking. I don’t want to see you thinking.”

  “Ha. There’s something I don’t suppose you often need to say to Square-jaw.” Barely under his breath those words emerged, as if of their own accord. “Two and …” three left over; three into fourteen … “A bit more than one fifth.”

  “Three-fourteenths. No need to round. And please confine your attention to the cards. Prince Square-jaw is my own concern.”

  Three. Seven. King. Eight. Twenty-eight; thirteen. He could see how the counting bit would get easier with practice. Perhaps the division bit might as well.

  She gave a sudden shake of her head, as if to relocate a curl that had fallen so forward as to encroach on her vision, and he glanced up at just the instant when her face was turned fully toward the candles.

  And now she might as well have been laying down the twelve of sickles and the princess of petunias, for all he could see of the cards. Pity any woman who didn’t have such a profile. Pity dainty noses, rosebud mouths, insipid brows, and delicate chins. By the side of Lydia Slaughter, a pretty girl must look like the work of a sculptor who hadn’t known when to stop, but had gone on chipping and nicking away until the forceful beauty of the marble was all smothered and subdued.