Charles fetched the decanter and topped up Jason’s glass. “I hope she was gentle with you.”
He shook his head with a wry grin. “Not very.”
When he left his brother to his correspondence, Jason struggled to get his head around what had just happened. Charles had given him free rein to sort out this business with Beverly. And by God, he would!
Chapter Seven
Mr. Anthony Perlew joined Beverly and her mother for tea in the ladies’ parlor at the Lyon’s Den. Beverly didn’t expect either a handsome or a dashing suitor, and he was not. Of average height with regular features, his quiet mode of dress and neatly arranged light-brown hair lacked any devotion to fashion. He appeared a modest man, as he’d quietly demurred at Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s attempt to sing his praises.
While he talked to her mother, Beverly began to suspect his actions were due more to a natural reserve, for she was yet to see him smile.
“My son, John, is five years old,” he explained. “He is in need of a mother since my dear wife died as a result of a carriage accident a year ago.”
“Poor boy. To lose his mother so young.” Mama tutted sympathetically.
“I imagine your son gets up to all sorts of mischief,” Beverly said. “My sister writes that her son, Henry, who is the same age, is a naughty imp.”
He frowned. “John knows full well such behavior would not be tolerated.”
Was there no humor in him? No lightness of spirit? She accepted that this interview was awkward for them, but she relied on first impressions, which often proved accurate. Of course, this gentleman suffered from an unfair comparison with Jason, whose handsome mouth quirked up and whose eyes danced as he talked with her about silly, nonsensical things. She could lose herself in his company, and for a moment, forget they did not have a future together.
Mr. Perlew’s hazel eyes observed her face as he drank his tea. She glanced down and stirred sugar into her cup, not wishing him to see the disappointment she struggled to hide. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had said Mr. Perlew received a handsome yearly annuity and was well-connected. Beverly could not fault his manners. But when she forced herself to meet his eyes, something she saw there unsettled her. A lack of rapport. Was she being unkind? She carefully replaced her teacup, fearing her trembling fingers would cause it to rattle on the saucer. His measuring glance seemed veiled as if he judged her, and his thin-lipped mouth added to that impression. Or was she just searching for reasons to dislike him?
“Not every young woman wishes to take on a child who is not their own,” he said, those hazel eyes as hard as one of her nephew’s marbles, still studying her.
Beverly nodded sympathetically. She would devote herself to any child in her care, whether or not she loved his father. But knew she could never love this man.
Her mother smiled at him as he spoke warmly of his cousin, Sir Abel Richards. It seemed a distant connection to Beverly when the extent of their relationship was made clear. Was Mama so cast down she would agree to such a match?
At last, the painful interview was over. On the way home in the carriage, her mother remarked on the good connections Mr. Perlew enjoyed. “He is able to offer you a secure life, my dear.”
Beverly’s continued silence about Mr. Perlew’s good points had become obvious. While she wanted to reassure her mother, she found herself unable to do so.
A letter from her father awaited them at home. Mama’s hand shook when she picked it up from the tray on the hall table.
Concerned, Beverly joined her in the small parlor. She sat on the linen sofa beside her mother while she read the letter. Papa’s elegant writing covered both sides of the page. “What does he say, Mama?”
“I’m afraid it is not the news we hoped for.” Mama’s voice sounded faint. “Here, read it. It’s very upsetting.”
Beverly took it from her and scanned it quickly, her pulse thudding. The accusation of graft which had forced her father to resign from the bench had not been withdrawn, despite him having been confident that nothing further would come of it.
‘Frederick Perkins, the Parish constable,’ her father wrote in his flowing cursive, ‘has sworn I freed people from serious charges for a handsome fee. It is not true, of course, but they mean to bring me down, and for Lord Paine to become magistrate in my place, despite his connection to a powerful criminal enterprise. I struggle to believe such a thing can happen. But dear Lord, they will have me in prison before you can say, Jack Robinson!’
“Oh, no! Poor Papa,” Beverly cried. “How can he prove his innocence?”
Mama dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Do you think you could learn to like Mr. Perlew, Beverly?”
Beverly’s stomach lurched. “Let’s not talk about him now, Mama. I’ll ring for tea. Or would you prefer a glass of Madeira?”
She sighed. “Madeira, thank you.”
She pulled the bell cord. By the time the maid answered, her mother, with a shuddering breath, had straightened up and tidied herself. “Your father needs me by his side,” she said briskly. “I must return home. I shall book a seat on the Brighton mail tomorrow.”
“Yes, we must go back. There is really nothing to keep us here.”
“You cannot come with me, Beverly. Mr. Perlew is to take you for a drive in the park tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, but we can send him a note. Without you…”
Mama shook her head. “Miss George shall accompany you. It is the reason I hired the woman. It is perfectly acceptable for you to travel with him in an open carriage. And I shall be back in London by Saturday.”
“I’ll stay if you wish me to.” It was clear her mother was not about to let Mr. Perlew slip through her fingers. With a sinking heart, Beverly tried to force her features into an encouraging expression. Her mother was determined to see her safely settled before the news of her father’s disgrace became common knowledge and spread beyond their town. Would she be forced to accept an offer she detested?
That night, she barely slept as she tried to find a way out of their troubles. If only Grandpapa hadn’t made the break so final. Beverly had met him once at a Brighton assembly, an upright gentleman, still strong and powerfully built and hardly in his dotage. His expression had softened when he gazed at her, although he pointedly refused to speak to her mother.
The following morning, Beverly assisted her mother into a hackney, which would take her to Blossoms Inn in Cheapside, where the coach would depart for Brighton. She then went in search of Miss George in her small bedchamber at the rear of the house.
She found the woman sewing a button on her spencer. “Mrs. Crabtree has gone?” she asked.
“She is returning on Saturday.”
Miss George nodded. She folded the garment and rose to place it in a drawer. “We’d best go down. I heard the luncheon gong.”
Whatever the woman thought, Beverly was not privy to. She left the room resigned that she could not confide in her. She didn’t seem to welcome intimacy. Nor was she forthcoming about her own circumstances. Beverly knew that Miss George had been well educated by her father, a vicar, whose living could not support her. The poor woman now needed to make her own way in the world. There were few options for gentlewomen like her. Beverly buried the urge to pity her, sensing she would not appreciate it. She was proud and had extremely strong opinions about a number of matters.
At four o’clock, Mr. Perlew arrived, dressed in a drab driving coat and curly brimmed beaver. His serious mien had not softened on second acquaintance. He assisted them into his black barouche. Beverly, seated beside Miss George, raised her parasol, while Mr. Perlew sat opposite them. The driver moved the carriage out into the traffic.
“I hope nothing serious caused Mrs. Crabtree to return home,” he said.
“My father had need of her.” Beverly hoped he would not question her further.
“How fortunate then to have your chaperone,” he said and nodded in Miss George’s direction.
“Yes. I would have gone with Mama had i
t not been for Miss George,” Beverly said, smiling at her to hide her unease. “And it’s such a lovely day to visit the park. I enjoy watching the handsome horses trot down Rotten Row with their beautifully dressed riders. Do you ride, sir?” She feared she was gushing.
“I am not a devotee of riding,” Mr. Perlew said stringently. “Are you, Miss George?”
“I am not entirely comfortable on horseback. I never feel in complete control. They are, for the most part, rather stupid animals.”
Mr. Perlew smiled. “Quite so. How very well put.”
Her chaperone agreed with a regal nod. Her hat of brown straw lacked embellishment, and beneath the brim, her expression was set, her mouth prim. Beverly noticed she had a strong jaw.
“Do you hail from London, Miss George?” he asked.
“No.” As the horses negotiated the streets leading to Hyde Park, at Mr. Perlew’s promptings, Miss George became unusually garrulous. She talked of the small Essex village where she grew up. Beverly learned how she’d been called upon to care for her brother’s child when he was small, but then decided to leave home and forge a life for herself. She was saving her money and hoped one day to run a school for homeless children. “Education frees a child from poverty,” she said.
Mr. Perlew beamed. “An admirable ambition.”
Beverly had not seen that interested light in his eyes when he had looked at her. It was indeed a remarkable endeavor Miss George wished to accomplish, and she complimented her on it.
As the discussion continued between Mr. Perlew and her chaperone, Beverly struggled to dismiss a faint hope that he would not wish to marry her. She felt guilty and conflicted because Mama depended upon him coming up to scratch.
The following afternoon, Mr. Perlew called for tea. His conversation was again directed mostly to her chaperone. They found much to agree upon, the government’s failure to aid the poor and how they’d attended the frost fair when the freezing weather iced over the River Thames last month. The discussion then changed to Hazlitt’s review of Edmund Kean’s debut as Shylock at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. Kean was the new Garrick, the distinguished reviewer stated.
“How wonderful to have seen it,” Miss George said with a sigh.
“I shall obtain tickets to see Kean in Richard III for the following evening,” Mr. Perlew replied with enthusiasm. “It will not be a box, sadly.”
Miss George rushed to assure him it did not matter.
They turned to the latest news from the Peninsula in this morning’s Times, which expressed the view the war would soon be over. Ever the gentleman, Mr. Perlew sought Beverly’s opinion, and when she gave it, nodded thoughtfully.
Miss George’s cheeks were flushed after Mr. Perlew left. Her conversation at supper was animated, and her eyes still sparkled as they went up to bed. Beverly found it remarkable how much more attractive the woman was just because a man had showed some interest in her.
The next morning, two letters arrived, one from Cousin Granville addressed to her mother. Beverly thought she should see what he had to say. He mentioned his splendid journey through Greece and his planned return to London the following week, accompanied by his two traveling companions. His veiled message was one of hope that she and her mother would be preparing to return to the country.
Beverly anxiously slit open her mother’s letter with the paper knife, fearing its contents. Papa was in such a low mood, Mama wrote, that she’d decided to extend her stay. She trusted Mr. Perlew was attentive, and she was keen to hear all about it when she returned.
The letter screwed up in her hands, Beverly was quite sure she and Mr. Perlew were not right for each other. Alone in the parlor, she curled up against the sofa pillows. If only she could have gone home with Mama to add her support. Her father must be most dreadfully pulled down. What else could she do? She wished to ease her mother’s concerns by writing an encouraging letter, but she never excelled at fudging, and feared if she put pen to paper, the truth of her feelings would be plain for Mama to see.
That evening on the way to the theatre, and at interval, Miss George chatted gaily with Mr. Perlew. She even had him chuckling at some droll insight. Beverly struggled to join in; she was almost mute with distress thinking only of her parents.
The next afternoon, Mr. Perlew called to see her. She was alone, her chaperone having just left the parlor for her embroidery when he entered.
“Miss Crabtree.” He gripped his hat in his gloved fingers as if about to take flight.
“Please sit down, Mr. Perlew,” Beverly said. “Shall I send for tea?”
“No, thank you.” He perched on the edge of his chair and cleared his throat. “I should perhaps await Mrs. Crabtree’s return, but I thought it prudent to tell you this before your hopes rose too high. I’ve been forced to admit that we would not suit, Miss Crabtree. You are younger than I would have wished and most attractive. Pretty women, from my experience, do not want to live quietly at home. They yearn for excitement. And my son requires the care of a mature woman of sober attitude, you understand.” He glanced at her intently. “I trust I have not misled you, nor made you too distressed.”
“No, you have acted most appropriately, Mr. Perlew.” Beverly studied her hands in her lap, wishing to hide the relief which must show in her eyes. “I quite understand.”
He cleared his throat again. “I wonder if Miss George would care for a stroll in the park. I should like to continue the very interesting discussion of yesterday. That is if you do not require her services this afternoon?”
“She is free this afternoon.” Beverly rose to ring the bell. “I’m sure she will be grateful of an airing. The early rain shower seems to have left us.”
“Indeed. There seems no sign of impending rain.”
They waited in painful silence until her chaperone came into the room.
After the two left, Beverly suffered from a paroxysm of emotions. Relief warred with the heavy sense of failure. She had let her mother down. She could not help being what he accused her of, she supposed. But should she have tried harder to gain his regard? She knew it to be impossible. From first glance, he had never warmed to her. How surprising that Miss George had captured his interest. Despite disappointing her mother, she could not help but be pleased for her chaperone.
As she walked around the parlor, she fought a sense of helplessness and tried to discover if any options were open to her. Would her mother continue to seek Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s assistance? Surely when Cousin Granville and his guests returned, they would have to leave, as the house wasn’t large. There seemed no possible answers. Overwhelmed, tears flooded Beverly’s eyes. Gasping, she drew out the monogrammed handkerchief Jason had given her from her pocket.
The front doorbell rang, bringing the maid scurrying down the hall. Fearing it might be Mr. Perlew with a change of heart, Beverly ran to put her head out. “I am not at home, Daisy.”
She closed the door again.
The front door opened. Beverly heard Jason ask for her mother. She drew in a sob, wanting so much to see him, but in no fit state to receive him. And what could she say to him? She stood, hands clenched, and waited for Daisy to send him away.
She gasped when, a moment later, Jason opened the door and walked into the room. He calmly peeled off his gloves, removed his hat, and placed them on a table alongside his cane. “Miss Crabtree, how do you do? I must apologize for my disregard for proprieties, I am told your mother is away from Town, but I wished to see you.”
Beverly choked. “Yes, Mama has been called to…” A lump blocked her throat, and she couldn’t speak.
In two strides, he was at her side. Shockingly, he gathered her to him, his hands on her back. She stood with her arms trapped by his, gripping the damp handkerchief, while she breathed in the musky scent of his soap, limp with relief. She fought the temptation to rest her head against his broad shoulder and confess all, while her loyalty to her family made her stay silent. The shameful details would only send him away, and she wanted jus
t for one selfish moment to keep him here.
Finally, she gathered enough strength to ease out of his arms and gaze into his eyes.
“Come, Miss Crabtree, you must tell me what has troubled you.” He took both her hands and drew her down onto the sofa.
***
With a suppressed sigh, Jason watched Beverly tuck his monogrammed handkerchief into her pocket. He had made inquiries about Perlew, who proved to have no scandal attached to him. But Jason suspected he was a dull dog. The previous day while riding the park, he’d spied that gentleman driving Beverly and her chaperone down the South Carriage Drive. Jason had not liked how pale and alone Beverly appeared while the other two chatted.
When the maid had informed him Mrs. Crabtree was away from London and Miss Crabtree was not receiving callers, he’d turned to leave, aware he should obey the strictures of society and wait for her mother’s return. But then, he’d heard something through the closed parlor door, a soft moan of distress, and gave in to an impulse to see her.
“What is it, Miss Crabtree?” he asked, viewing her distress and deeply concerned for her.
Her large brown eyes filled again with tears. “I… I’m afraid I cannot tell you, sir.”
“You can rely on me to be discreet and keep any secrets close,” he said, aware that forcing his way in here sorely lacked discretion. “Where is your chaperone?”
“She is promenading in the park with Mr. Perlew.”
“Miss George and Mr. Perlew?” An extraordinary turn of events. “I see.” Although he didn’t see at all. Was the man mad?
She gave a bitter smile. “I’m sure you do not, my lord.”
Was she disappointed that the fool, Perlew, had chosen the other woman’s company over hers? He rather doubted it. The dreary fellow he’d seen at the Lyon’s Den would be hard-pressed to stir any romantic feelings in a young woman like Beverly, but he could be wrong, for she looked distraught. “And has that upset you?”
The Scandalous Lyon: The Lyon's Den Page 6
