Part One
For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the seasons of snows and sins;
But for the grace of God and an untied shoelace, she would have died with the others that day. She walked into the bank at precisely two forty-five in the afternoon to close her account, deliberately leaving the task until the last possible minute because it made everything so final in her mind. There would be no going back. All of her possessions had been packed, and very soon now she would be leaving Rockford Falls, Montana, forever.
Sherman MacCorcle, the bank president, would lock the doors in fifteen minutes. The lobby was filled with other procrastinators like herself, yet for all the customers, there were only two tellers working the windows instead of the usual three. Emmeline MacCorkle, Sherman’s daughter, was apparently still at home recovering from the influenza that has swept through the peaceful little town two weeks before.
Malcom Watterson’s line was shorter by three heads. He was a notorious gossip, though, and would surely ask her questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.
Fortunately Franklin Carroll was working today, and she immediately took her place in the back of his line. He was quick, methodical, and never intruded into anyone’s personal affairs. He was also a friend. She had already told him good-bye after services last Sunday, but she had the sudden inclination to do so again.
She hated waiting. Tapping her foot softly against the warped floorboards, she took her gloves off, then put them on again. Each time she fidgeted, her purse, secured by a satin ribbon around her wrist, swung back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum keeping perfect time to the ticktock of the clock hanging on the wall behind the tellers’ window.
The man in front of her took a step forward, but she stayed where she was, hoping to put some distance between them so that she wouldn’t have to smell the sour sweet mixed with the pungent odor of fried sausage emanating from his filthy clothes.
The man to her left in Malcom’s line smiled at her, letting her see the two missing teeth in the center of his grin. To discourage conversation, she gave him a quick nod and turned her gaze upward to the water stains on the ceiling.
It was dank, musty, and horribly hot. She could feel the perspiration gathering at the nape of her neck and tugged on the collar of her starched blouse. Giving Franklin a sympathetic glance, she wondered how any of the employees could work all day in such a dark, gloomy, stifling tomb. She turned to the right and stared longingly at the three closed windows. Sunlight streaked through the finger-smudged glass, casting jagged splotches on the worn floorboards, and fragments of the dust particles hung suspended in the stagnant air. If she had to wait much longer, she would incite Sherman MacCorkle’s anger by marching over to the windows and throwing all of them open. She gave up the idea as soon as it entered her mind because the president would only close them again and give her a stern lecture about bank security. Besides, she would lose her place in line.
Continue Reading ~ Excerpt for Come the Spring
Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Come The Spring
Description
Cole Clayborne had always walked a dark path and flirted with a life of crime. While his three brothers chose to settle into married life, Cole rebelliously refused to be tied down. Now, and elusive stranger draws him into a shadowy chase that will bring unexpected turns to his uncertain future–and may determine which side of the law the restless Cole favors.
A tragic, heartbreaking loss drives U.S. Marshal Daniel Ryan on a quest for vengeance–and leads him to a beautiful young woman, who may be the sole witness to a terrible crime. But the lawman finds that love is the greatest trial of all as he unwittingly draws her into the line of fire. The power and drama of their blossoming passion, entwined with the surprising destiny of the wayward Cole, make COME THE SPRING a superbly entertaining adventure inside the heart of a “family whose love and loyalty will truly inspire” (Romantic Times).
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Viscount Who Loved Me ~ Excerpt
Excerpt
Chapter 1
The topic of rakes has, of course, been previously discussed in this column, and This Author has come to the conclusion that there are rakes, and there are Rakes.
Anthony Bridgerton is a Rake.
A rake (lower-class) is youthful and immature. He flaunts his exploits, behaves with utmost idiocy, and thinks himself dangerous to women.
He doesn’t flaunt his exploits because he doesn’t need to. He knows he will be whispered about by men and women alike, and in fact, he’s rather they didn’t whisper about him at all. He knows who he is and what he has done; further recountings are, to him, redundant.
He doesn’t behave like an idiot for the simple reason that he isn’t an idiot (moreso than must be expected among all members of the male gender). He has little patience for the foibles of society, and quite frankly, most of the time This Author cannot say she blames him.
And if that doesn’t describe Viscount Bridgeton – surely this season’s most eligible bachelor – to perfection, This Author shall retire Her quill immediately. The only questions is : Will 1814 be the season he finally succumbs to the exquisite bliss of matrimony?
This Author Thinks …..
Not.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 APRIL 1814
“Please don’t tell me,” Kate Sheffield said to the room at large, “that she is writing about Viscount Bridgerton again.”
Her half-sister Edwina, younger by almost four years, looked up from behind the single-sheet newspaper. “How could you tell?”
“You’re giggling like a madwoman.”
Edwina giggled, shaking the blue damask sofa on which they both sat.
“See?” Kate said, giving her a little poke in the arm. “You always giggle when she writes about some reprehensible rogue.” But Kate grinned. There was little she liked better than teasing her sister. In a good-natured manner, of course.
Mary Sheffield, Edwina’s mother, and Kate’s stepmother for nearly eighteen years, glanced up from her embroidery and pushed her spectacles farther up the bridge of her nose. “What are you two laughing about?”
“Kate’s in a snit because Lady Whistledown is writing about that rakish viscount again,” Edwina explained.
“I’m not in a snit,” Kate said, even though no one was listening.
Continue Reading ~ Excerpt for The Viscount Who Loved Me
Chapter 1
The topic of rakes has, of course, been previously discussed in this column, and This Author has come to the conclusion that there are rakes, and there are Rakes.
Anthony Bridgerton is a Rake.
A rake (lower-class) is youthful and immature. He flaunts his exploits, behaves with utmost idiocy, and thinks himself dangerous to women.
He doesn’t flaunt his exploits because he doesn’t need to. He knows he will be whispered about by men and women alike, and in fact, he’s rather they didn’t whisper about him at all. He knows who he is and what he has done; further recountings are, to him, redundant.
He doesn’t behave like an idiot for the simple reason that he isn’t an idiot (moreso than must be expected among all members of the male gender). He has little patience for the foibles of society, and quite frankly, most of the time This Author cannot say she blames him.
And if that doesn’t describe Viscount Bridgeton – surely this season’s most eligible bachelor – to perfection, This Author shall retire Her quill immediately. The only questions is : Will 1814 be the season he finally succumbs to the exquisite bliss of matrimony?
This Author Thinks …..
Not.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 APRIL 1814
“Please don’t tell me,” Kate Sheffield said to the room at large, “that she is writing about Viscount Bridgerton again.”
Her half-sister Edwina, younger by almost four years, looked up from behind the single-sheet newspaper. “How could you tell?”
“You’re giggling like a madwoman.”
Edwina giggled, shaking the blue damask sofa on which they both sat.
“See?” Kate said, giving her a little poke in the arm. “You always giggle when she writes about some reprehensible rogue.” But Kate grinned. There was little she liked better than teasing her sister. In a good-natured manner, of course.
Mary Sheffield, Edwina’s mother, and Kate’s stepmother for nearly eighteen years, glanced up from her embroidery and pushed her spectacles farther up the bridge of her nose. “What are you two laughing about?”
“Kate’s in a snit because Lady Whistledown is writing about that rakish viscount again,” Edwina explained.
“I’m not in a snit,” Kate said, even though no one was listening.
Continue Reading ~ Excerpt for The Viscount Who Loved Me
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Viscount Who Loved Me
The season has opened for the year of 1814, and there is little reason to hope that we will see any noticeable change from 1813. The ranks of society are once again filled with Ambitious Mamas, whose only aim is to see their Darling Daughters married off to Determined Bachelors. Discussion amongst the Mama fingers Viscount Bridgerton as this year’s most eligible catch, and indeed, if the poor man’s hair looks ruffled and windblown, it is because he cannot go anywhere without some young miss batting her eyelashes with such vigor and speed as to create a breeze of hurricane force. Perhaps the only young lady not interested in Bridgerton is Miss Kathrine Sheffield, and in fact, her demeanor toward the viscount occasionally borders on the hostile.And that is why, Dear Reader, This Author feels that a match between Bridgeton and Miss Sheffield would be just the things to enliven an otherwise ordinary season.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 13 APRIL 1814
**************************************
Anthony Bridgerton, a rake and confirmed bachelor, has decided it's time to marry and produce an heir, like his father and seven other generations of fathers before him. The woman must be intelligent, beautiful, calm, easy to live with, and no one with whom he would ever fall in love. Edwina Sheffield fits the bill on all accounts, only he must win the approval of her older sister Kate to win the match.
Kate is not beautiful but is pretty, intelligent but opinionated, and not easy though not difficult on purpose - in short, not the woman he is looking for. But in the course of trying to woo Edwina and persuade Kate to the match, his affections begin to sway. When he and Kate are caught in an unfortunate yet innocent compromising position, they are forced to marry despite his suit of her sister. There they are stuck in an acceptable life, she worried that he would always think of her sister first; he, terrified he is falling in love with his own wife.
Contrary to popular belief, Kate is quite sure that reformed rakes to not make the best husbands--and Anthony Bridgerton is the most wicked rogue of them all. Kate's determined to protect her sister--but she fears her own heart is vulnerable. And when Anthony's lips touch hers, she's suddenly afraid she might not be able to resist the reprehensible rake herself.
Kate is not beautiful but is pretty, intelligent but opinionated, and not easy though not difficult on purpose - in short, not the woman he is looking for. But in the course of trying to woo Edwina and persuade Kate to the match, his affections begin to sway. When he and Kate are caught in an unfortunate yet innocent compromising position, they are forced to marry despite his suit of her sister. There they are stuck in an acceptable life, she worried that he would always think of her sister first; he, terrified he is falling in love with his own wife.
Contrary to popular belief, Kate is quite sure that reformed rakes to not make the best husbands--and Anthony Bridgerton is the most wicked rogue of them all. Kate's determined to protect her sister--but she fears her own heart is vulnerable. And when Anthony's lips touch hers, she's suddenly afraid she might not be able to resist the reprehensible rake herself.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Affair ~ Excerpt
Excerpt
Chapter One
London, three years later
“You leave me no opinion but to be blunt, Mr. St Ives. Unfortunately, the truth is the matter is that you are not what I had in mind in the way of a man-of affairs.” Charlotte Arkendale clasped her hands together on top of the wide mahogany desk and regarded Baxter with a critical eye. “I am sorry for the waste of your time.”
The interview was not going well. Baxter adjusted the gold-framed eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and silently vowed that he would not give in to the impulse to grind his back teeth.
“Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I was under the impression that you wished to employ a person who appeared completely innocuous and uninteresting.”
“Quite true.”
“I believe year exact description of the ideal candidate for the position was, and I quote, a person who is a bland as a potato pudding.”
Continue Reading ~ Excerpt for Affair
Chapter One
London, three years later
“You leave me no opinion but to be blunt, Mr. St Ives. Unfortunately, the truth is the matter is that you are not what I had in mind in the way of a man-of affairs.” Charlotte Arkendale clasped her hands together on top of the wide mahogany desk and regarded Baxter with a critical eye. “I am sorry for the waste of your time.”
The interview was not going well. Baxter adjusted the gold-framed eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and silently vowed that he would not give in to the impulse to grind his back teeth.
“Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I was under the impression that you wished to employ a person who appeared completely innocuous and uninteresting.”
“Quite true.”
“I believe year exact description of the ideal candidate for the position was, and I quote, a person who is a bland as a potato pudding.”
Continue Reading ~ Excerpt for Affair
Friday, August 8, 2008
Affair
DescriptionCharlotte Arkendale has found a unique way to earn a living: she investigates suitors for women who want to be sure they're being married for themselves and not their money. When her man of affairs retires, she must hire a new secretary-someone who would not be noticed, someone as bland as pudding. To Charlotte's eyes, that someone cannot be Baxter St. Ives. He appears too dangerous and passionate.
Most people, including Charlotte's sister, find Baxter rather plain. His passion for chemistry has kept Baxter working on his own until his aunt asks him to help investigate her friend's recent murder-a woman who once visited Charlotte for help. Working as her servant will enable Baxter to ferret out her true nature.
Though a man of science, Baxter finds himself strangely intrigued by the bright and independent Miss Arkendale. When she asks him to get involved in the murder investigation, he finds that they make their own chemistry very well.
To Charlotte, it is as if Baxter is an alchemist of love. When they masquerade as a betrothed couple and get involved in an affair, they have no idea that a malicious killer is scheming to tear them apart...or see them dead.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Whitney My Love
Whitney, My Love was the first romance novel from Judith Mc Naught I read…and I fell in love instantly. Whitney, My Love lives on as "the ultimate love story, one you can dream about forever" (Romantic Times).It’s a wonderful love story….fast-paced and exciting - a novel rich with laughter, tears, and the power of dreams that I would read to it again and again to savor its beauty and majesty.
Description
Under the dark, languorous eyes of Clayton Westmoreland, the Duke of Claymore, Whitney Stone grew from a saucy hoyden into a ravishingly sensual woman. Fresh from her triumphs in Paris society, she returned to England to win the heart of Paul, her childhood love . . . only to be bargained away by her bankrupt father to the handsome, arrogant duke. Outraged, she defies her new lord. But even as his smoldering passion seduces her into a gathering storm of desire, Whitney cannot -- and will not -- relinquish her dream of perfect love.
Excerpt
Chapter One
Lord Edward Gilbert cast a skeptical glance at his wife. "Sweet disposition?" he echoed in amused disbelief. "That isn't what her father said in his letter."
As a diplomat attached to the British Consulate in Paris, Lord Gilbert was a master of hints, evasions, innuendoes, and intrigues. But in his personal life, he preferred the refreshing alternative of blunt truth. "Allow me to refresh your memory," he said, groping in his pockets and retrieving the letter from Whitney's father. He perched his spectacles upon his nose, and ignoring his wife's grimace, he began to read:
"'Whitney's manners are an outrage, her conduct is reprehensible. She is a willful hoyden who is the despair of everyone she knows and an embarrassment to me. I implore you to take her back to Paris with you, in the hope that you may have more success with the stubborn chit than I have had.'"
Edward chuckled. "Show me where it says she's 'sweet-tempered.'"
Continue Reading ~ Excerpt for Whitney, My Love
Monday, July 21, 2008
Romantically speaking....
I love romance novels! I especially love historical romances. Maybe because the historical romance novel are based on the romances of the past. They are either true or myths … but none is matter when you have been romantically spellbound by it!!
Here’s a peek of historical romance novel magic and fascination:
Historical romance is set before World War II. Most of my historical romance novels are medieval romances. These romances are typically set between 938-1485.
Women in the medieval time periods were often considered as no more than property who were forced to live at the mercy of their father, guardian or the king. Always a lady, the heroin must use her wits and will and find a husband who will accept her need to be independent, yet still protect her from the dangers of the time.
Then come the hero….the hero is almost a knight who first learns to dominant, and the heroine, despite the gains she made, is usually still in a subordinate position. However, that position is her choice, made ‘the sake of and with protection from an adoring lover, whose main purpose in life is to fulfill his beloved’s wishes”
I couldn’t agree more with Wikipedia....it’s precisely why I adore historical romance, the muscular knight of shining amour and the ever headstrong yet charming lady.
Here’s a peek of historical romance novel magic and fascination:
Historical romance is set before World War II. Most of my historical romance novels are medieval romances. These romances are typically set between 938-1485.
Women in the medieval time periods were often considered as no more than property who were forced to live at the mercy of their father, guardian or the king. Always a lady, the heroin must use her wits and will and find a husband who will accept her need to be independent, yet still protect her from the dangers of the time.
Then come the hero….the hero is almost a knight who first learns to dominant, and the heroine, despite the gains she made, is usually still in a subordinate position. However, that position is her choice, made ‘the sake of and with protection from an adoring lover, whose main purpose in life is to fulfill his beloved’s wishes”
I couldn’t agree more with Wikipedia....it’s precisely why I adore historical romance, the muscular knight of shining amour and the ever headstrong yet charming lady.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Whitney My Love by Judith Mc Naught
Whitney My Love
Excerpt
Chapter One
As their elegant travelling chaise rocked and swayed along the rutted country road, Lady Anne Gilbert leaned her cheek against her husband's shoulder and heaved a long, impatient sigh. "Another whole hour until we arrive, and already the suspense is positively gnawing at me. I keep wondering what Whitney will be like now that she's grown up.
She lapsed into silence and gazed absently out the coach window at the lush, rolling English countryside covered with wild pink Foxglove and yellow Buttercups, trying to envision the niece she hadn't seen in almost eleven years.
"She'll be pretty, just as her mother was. And she'll have her mother's smile, her gentleness, her sweet disposition..."
Lord Edward Gilbert cast a skeptical glance at his wife. "Sweet disposition?" he echoed in amused disbelief. "That isn't what her father said in his letter."
As a diplomat attached to the British Consulate in Paris, Lord Gilbert was a master of hints, evasions, innuendoes, and intrigues. But in his personal life, he preferred the refreshing alternative of blunt truth. "Allow me to refresh your memory," he said, groping in his pockets and retrieving the letter from Whitney's father. He perched his spectacles upon his nose, and ignoring his wife's grimace, he began to read:
"'Whitney's manners are an outrage, her conduct is reprehensible. She is a willful hoyden who is the despair of everyone she knows and an embarrassment to me. I implore you to take her back to Paris with you, in the hope that you may have more success with the stubborn chit than I have had.'"
Edward chuckled. "Show me where it says she's 'sweet-tempered.'"
His wife shot him a peevish glance. "Martin Stone is a cold, unfeeling man who wouldn't recognize gentleness and goodness if Whitney were made of nothing else! Only think of the way he shouted at her and sent her to her room right after my sister's funeral."
Edward recognized the mutinous set of his wife's chin and put his arm around her shoulders in a gesture of conciliation. "I'm no fonder of the man than you are, but you must admit that, just having lost his young wife to an early grave, to have his daughter accuse him, in front of fifty people, of locking her mama in a box so she couldn't escape had to be rather disconcerting."
"But Whitney was scarcely five years old!" Anne protested heatedly.
"Agreed. But Martin was grieving. Besides, as I recall, it was not for that offense she was banished to her room. It was later, when everyone had gathered in the drawing room -- when she stamped her foot and threatened to report us all to God if we didn't release her mama at once."
Anne smiled. "What spirit she had, Edward. I thought for a moment her little freckles were going to pop right off her nose. Admit it -- she was marvelous, and you thought so too!"
"Well, yes," Edward agreed sheepishly. "I rather thought she was."
As the Gilbert chaise bore inexorably down on the Stone estate, a small knot of young people were waiting on the south lawn, impatiently looking toward the stable one hundred yards away. A petite blonde smoothed her pink ruffled skirts and sighed in a way that displayed a very fetching dimple. "Whatever do you suppose Whitney is planning to do?" she inquired of the handsome light-haired man beside her.
Glancing down into Elizabeth Ashton's wide blue eyes, Paul Sevarin smiled a smile that Whitney would have forfeited both her feet to see focused on herself "Try to be patient, Elizabeth," he said.
"I'm sure none of us have the faintest idea what she is up to, Elizabeth," Margaret Merryton said tartly. "But you can be perfectly certain it will be something foolish and outrageous."
"Margaret, we're all Whitney's guests today," Paul chided.
"I don't know why you should defend her, Paul," Margaret argued spitefully. "Whitney is creating a horrid scandal chasing after you, and you know it!"
"Margaret!" Paul snapped. "I said that was enough." Drawing a long, irritated breath, Paul Sevarin frowned darkly at his gleaming boots. Whitney had been making a spectacle of herself chasing after him, and damned near everyone for fifteen miles was talking about it.
At first he had been mildly amused to find himself the object of a fifteen-year-old's languishing looks and adoring smiles, but lately Whitney had begun pursuing him with the determination and tactical brilliance of a female Napoleon Bonaparte.
If he rode off the grounds of his estate, he could almost depend on meeting her en route to his destination. It was as if she had some lookout point from which she watched his every move, and Paul no longer found her childish infatuation with him either harmless or amusing.
Three weeks ago, she had followed him to a local inn. While he was pleasantly contemplating accepting the innkeeper's daughter's whispered invitation to meet her later in the hayloft, he'd glanced up and seen a familiar pair of bright green eyes peeping at him through the window. Slamming his tankard of ale on the table, he'd marched outside, grabbed Whitney by the elbow, and unceremoniously deposited her on her horse, tersely reminding her that her father would be searching for her if she wasn't home by nightfall.
He'd stalked back inside and ordered another tankard, but when the innkeeper's daughter brushed her breasts suggestively against his arm while refilling his ale and Paul had a sudden vision of himself lying entangled with her voluptuous naked body, a pair of green eyes peered in through yet another window. He'd tossed enough coins on the planked wooden table to mollify the startled girl's wounded sensibilities and left -- only to encounter Miss Stone again on his way home.
He was beginning to feel like a hunted man whose every move was under surveillance, and his temper was strained to the breaking point. And yet, Paul thought irritably, here he was standing in the April sun, trying for some obscure reason to protect Whitney from the criticism she richly deserved.
A pretty girl, several years younger than the others in the group, glanced at Paul. "I think I'll go and see what's keeping Whitney," said Emily Williams. She hurried across the lawn and along the whitewashed fence adjoining the stable. Shoving open the big double doors, Emily looked down the wide gloomy corridor lined with stalls on both sides. "Where is Miss Whitney?" she asked the stableboy who was currying a sorrel gelding.
"In there, Miss." Even in the muted light, Emily saw his face suffuse with color as he nodded toward a door adjacent to the tack room.
With a puzzled glance at the flushing stableboy, Emily tapped lightly on the designated door and stepped inside, then froze at the sight that greeted her: Whitney Allison Stone's long legs were encased in coarse brown britches that clung startlingly to her slender hips and were held in place at her narrow waist with a length of rope. Above the riding britches she wore a thin chemise.
"You surely aren't going out there dressed like that?" Emily gasped.
Whitney fired an amused glance over her shoulder at her scandalized friend. "Of course not. I'm going to wear a shirt, too."
"B-but why?" Emily persisted desperately.
"Because I don't think it would be very proper to appear in my chemise, silly," Whitney cheerfully replied, snatching the stableboy's clean shirt off a peg and plunging her arms into the sleeves.
"P-proper? Proper?" Emily sputtered. "It's completely improper for you to be wearing men's britches, and you know it!"
"True. But I can't very well ride that horse without a saddle and risk having my skirts blow up around my neck, now can I?" Whitney breezily argued while she twisted her long unruly hair into a knot and pinned it at her nape.
"Ride without a saddle? You can't mean you're going to ride astride -- your father will disown you if you do that again."
"I am not going to ride astride. Although," Whitney giggled, "I can't understand why men are allowed to straddle a horse, while we -- who are supposed to be the weaker sex -- must hang off the side, praying for our lives."
Emily refused to be diverted. "Then what are you going to do?"
"I never realized what an inquisitive young lady you are, Miss Williams," Whitney teased. "But to answer your question, I am going to ride standing on the horse's back. I saw it done at the fair, and I've been practicing every since. Then, when Paul sees how well I do, he'll -- "
"He'll think you have lost your mind, Whitney Stone! He'll think that you haven't a grain of sense or propriety, and that you're only trying something else to gain his attention." Seeing the stubborn set of her friend's chin, Emily switched her tactics. "Whitney, please -- think of your father. What will he say if he finds out?"
Whitney hesitated, feeling the force of her father's unwaveringly cold stare as if it were this minute focused upon her. She drew a long breath, then expelled it slowly as she glanced out the small window at the group waiting on the lawn. Wearily, she said, "Father will say that, as usual, I have disappointed him, that I am a disgrace to him and to my mother's memory, that he is happy she didn't live to see what I have become. Then he will spend half an hour telling me what a perfect lady Elizabeth Ashton is, and that I ought to be like her."
"Well, if you really wanted to impress Paul, you could try..."
Whitney clenched her hands in frustration. "I have tried to be like Elizabeth. I wear those disgusting ruffled dresses that make me feel like a pastel mountain, I've practiced going for hours without saying a word, and I've fluttered my eyelashes until my eyelids go limp."
Emily bit her lip to hide her smile at Whitney's unflattering description of Elizabeth Ashton's demure mannerisms, then she sighed. "I'll go and tell the others that you'll be right out."
Gasps of outrage and derisive sniggers greeted Whitney's appearance on the lawn when she led the horse toward the spectators. "She'll fall off," one of the girls predicted, "if God doesn't strike her dead first for wearing those britches."
Ignoring the impulse to snap out a biting retort, Whitney raised her head in a gesture of haughty disdain, then stole a look at Paul. His handsome face was taut with disapproval as his gaze moved from her bare feet, up her trousered legs, to her face. Inwardly, Whitney faltered at his obvious displeasure, but she swung resolutely onto the back of the waiting horse.
The gelding moved into its practiced canter, and Whitney worked herself upward, first crouching with arms outstretched for balance, then slowly easing herself into a standing position. Around and around they went and, although Whitney was in constant terror of falling off and looking like a fool, she managed to appear competent and grateful.
As she completed the fourth circle, she let her eyes slant to the faces passing on her left, registering their looks of shock and derision, while she searched for the only face that mattered. Paul was partially in the tree's shadow, and Elizabeth Ashton was clinging to his arm, but as Whitney passed, she saw the slow, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and triumph unfurled like a banner in her heart. By the time she came around again, Paul was grinning broadly at her. Whitney's spirits soared, and suddenly all the weeks of practice, the sore muscles and bruises, seemed worthwhile.
At the window of the second floor drawing room overlooking the south lawn, Martin Stone stared down at his performing daughter. Behind him, the butler announced that Lord and Lady Gilbert had arrived, Too enraged at his daughter to speak, Martin greeted his sisterin-law and her husband with a clenched jaw and curt nod.
"How -- how nice to see you again after so many years, Martin," Lady Anne lied graciously. When he remained icily silent, she said, "Where is Whitney? We're so anxious to see her."
Martin finally recovered his voice. "See her?" he snapped savagely. "Madam, you have only to look out this window."
Bewildered, Anne did as he said. Below on the lawn there stood a group of young people watching a slender boy balancing beautifully on a cantering horse. "What a clever young man," she said, smiling.
Her simple remark seemed to drive Martin Stone from frozen rage to frenzied action as he swung on his heel and marched toward the door. "If you wish to meet your niece, come with me. Or, I can spare you the humiliation, and bring her here to you."
With an exasperated look at Martin's back, Anne tucked her hand in her husband's arm and together they followed Martin downstairs and outside.
As they approached the group of young people, Anne heard murmurings and laughter, and she was vaguely aware that there was something malicious in the tone, but she was too busy scanning the young ladies' faces, looking for Whitney, to pay much heed to the fleeting impression. She mentally discarded two blondes and a redhead, quizzically studied a petite, blue-eyed brunette, then glanced helplessly at the young man beside her. "Pardon me, I am Lady Gilbert, Whitney's aunt. Could you tell me where she is?"
Paul Sevarin grinned at her, half in sympathy and half in amusement. "Your niece is on the horse, Lady Gilbert," he said.
"On the -- " Lord Gilbert choked.
From her delicate perch atop the horse, Whitney's eyes followed her father's progress as he bore down on her with long, rapid strides. "Please don't make a scene, Father," she implored when he was within earshot.
"I make a scene?" he roared furiously. Snatching the halter, he brought the cantering horse around so sharply that he jerked it from beneath her. Whitney hit the ground on her feet, lost her balance, and ended up half-sprawling. As she scampered up, her father caught her arm in a ruthless grip and hauled her over toward the spectators. "This -- this thing," he said, thrusting her forward toward her aunt and uncle, I am mortified to tell you is your niece."
Whitney heard the smattering of giggles as the group quickly disbanded, and she felt her face grow hot with shame. "How do you do, Aunt Gilbert? Uncle Gilbert?" With one eye on Paul's broadshouldered, retreating form, Whitney reached mechanically for her nonexistent skirt, realized it was missing, and executed a comical curtsy without it. She saw the frown on her aunt's face and put her chin up defensively. "You may be sure that for the week you are here, I shall endeavor not to make a freak of myself again, Aunt."
"For the week that we are here?" her aunt gasped, but Whitney was preoccupied watching Paul help Elizabeth into his curricle and didn't notice the surprise in her aunt's voice.
"Good-bye, Paul," she called, waving madly. He turned and raised his arm in silent farewell.
Laughter drifted back as the curricles bowled down the drive, carrying their occupants off to a picnic or some other gay and wonderful activity, to which Whitney was never invited because she was too young.
Following Whitney toward the house, Anne was a mass of conflicting emotions. She was embarrassed for Whitney, furious with Martin Stone for humiliating the girl in front of the other young people, somewhat dazed by the sight of her own niece cavorting on the back of a horse, wearing men's britches...and utterly astonished to discover that Whitney, whose mother had been only passably pretty, showed promise of becoming a genuine beauty.
She was too thin right now, but even in disgrace Whitney's shoulders were straight, her walk naturally graceful and faintly provocative. Anne smiled to herself at the gently rounded hips displayed to almost immoral advantage by the coarse brown trousers, the slender waist that would require no subterfuge to make it appear smaller, eyes that seemed to change from sea-green to deep jade beneath their fringe of long, sooty lashes. And that hair -- piles and piles of rich mahogany brown! All it needed was a good trimming and brushing until it shone; Anne's fingers positively itched to go to work on it. Mentally she was already styling it in ways to highlight Whitney's striking eyes and high cheekbones. Off her face, Anne decided, piled at the crown with tendrils at the ears, or pulled straight back off the forehead to fall in gentle waves down her back.
As soon as they entered the house, Whitney mumbled an excuse and fled to her room where she flopped dejectedly into a chair and morosely contemplated the humiliating scene Paul had just witnessed, with her father jerking her ignominiously off her horse and then shouting at her. No doubt her aunt and uncle were as horrified and revolted by her behavior as her father had been, and her cheeks burned with shame just thinking of how they must despise her already.
"Whitney?" Emily whispered, creeping into the bedroom and cautiously closing the door behind her. "I came up the back way. Is your father angry?"
"Cross as crabs," Whitney confirmed, staring down at her trousered legs. "I suppose I ruined everything today, didn't I? Everyone was laughing at me, and Paul heard them. Now that Elizabeth is seventeen, he's bound to offer for her before he ever has a chance to realize that he loves me."
"You?" Emily repeated dazedly. "Whitney Stone, Paul avoids you like the plague, and well you know it! And who could blame him, after the mishaps you've treated him to in the last year?"
"There haven't been so many as all that," Whitney protested, but she squirmed in her chair.
"No? What about that trick you played on him on All Soul's -- darting out in front of his carriage, shrieking like a banshee, and pretending to be a ghost, terrifying his horses."
Whitney flushed. "He wasn't so very angry. And it isn't as if the carriage was destroyed. It only broke a shaft when it overturned."
"And Paul's leg," Emily pointed out.
"But that mended perfectly," Whitney persisted, her mind already leaping from past debacles to future possibilities. She surged to her feet and began to pace slowly back and forth. "There has to be a way -- but short of abducting him, I -- " A mischievous smile lit up her dust-streaked face as she swung around so quickly that Emily pressed back into her chair. "Emily, one thing is infinitely clear: Paul does not yet know that he cares for me. Correct?"
"He doesn't care a snap for you is more like it," Emily replied warily.
"Therefore, it would be safe to say that he is unlikely to offer for me without some sort of added incentive. Correct?"
"You couldn't make him offer for you at the point of a gun, and you know it. Besides, you aren't old enough to be betrothed, even if -- "
"Under what circumstances," Whitney interrupted triumphantly, "is a gentleman obliged to offer for a lady?"
"I can't think of any. Except of course, if he has compromised her -- absolutely not! Whitney, whatever you're planning now, I won't help."
Sighing, Whitney flopped back into her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her. An irreverent giggle escaped her as she considered the sheer audacity of her last idea. "If only I could have pulled it off...you know, loosened the wheel on Paul's carriage so that it would fall off later, and then asked him to drive me somewhere. Then, by the time we walked back, or help arrived, it would be late at night, and he would have to offer for me." Oblivious to Emily's scandalized expression, Whitney continued, "Just think what a wonderful turnabout that would have been on a tired old theme: Young Lady abducts Gentleman and ruins his reputation so that she is forced to marry him to set things aright! What a novel that could have made," she added, rather impressed with her own ingenuity.
"I'm leaving," Emily said. She marched to the door, then she hesitated and turned back to Whitney. "Your aunt and uncle saw everything. What are you going to say to them about those trousers and the horse?"
Whitney's face clouded. "I'm not going to say anything, it wouldn't help -- but for the rest of the time they are here, I'm going to be the most demure, refined, delicate female you've ever seen." She saw Emily's dubious look and added, "Also I intend to stay out of sight except at mealtimes. I think I'll be able to act like Elizabeth for three hours a day."
Whitney kept her promise. At dinner that night, after her uncle's hair-raising tale of their life in Beirut where he was attached to the British Consulate, she murmured only, "How very informative, Uncle," even though she was positively burning to ply him with questions. At the end of her aunt's description of Paris and the thrill of its gay social life, Whitney murmured, "How very informative, Aunt." The moment the meal was finished, she excused herself and vanished.
After three days, Whitney's efforts to be either demure or absent had, in fact, been so successful that Anne was beginning to wonder whether she had only imagined the spark of fire she'd glimpsed the day of their arrival, or if the girl had some aversion to Edward and herself.
On the fourth day, when Whitney breakfasted before the rest of the household was up, and then vanished, Anne set out to discover the truth. She searched the house, but Whitney was not indoors. She was not in the garden, nor had she taken a horse from the stable, Anne was informed by a groom. Squinting into the sunlight, Anne looked around her, trying to imagine where a fifteen-year-old would go to spend all day.
Off on the crest of a hill overlooking the estate, she spied a patch of bright yellow. "There you are!" she breathed, opening her parasol and striking out across the lawn.
Whitney didn't see her aunt coming until it was too late to escape. Wishing she had found a better place to hide, she tried to think of some innocuous subject on which she could converse without appearing ignorant. Clothes? Personally, she knew nothing of fashions and cared even less; she looked hopeless no matter what she wore. After all, what could clothes do to improve the looks of a female who had cat's eyes, mud-colored hair, and freckles on the bridge of her nose? Besides that, she was too tall, too thin, and if the good Lord intended for her ever to have a bosom, it was very late in making its appearance.
Weak-kneed, her chest heaving with each labored breath, Anne topped the steep rise and collapsed unceremoniously onto the blanket beside Whitney. "I-I thought I'd take...a nice stroll," Anne lied. When she caught her breath, she noticed the leather-bound book lying face down on the blanket and, seizing on books as a topic of conversation, she said, "Is that a romantic novel?"
"No, Aunt," Whitney demurely uttered, carefully placing her hand over the tide of the book to conceal it from her aunt's eyes.
"I'm told most young ladies adore romantic novels," Anne tried again.
"Yes," Aunt Whitney agreed politely.
"I read one once but I didn't like it," Anne remarked, her mind groping for some other topic that might draw Whitney into conversation. "I cannot abide a heroine who is too perfect, nor one who is forever swooning."
Whitney was so astonished to discover that she wasn't the only female in all of England who didn't devour the insipid things, that she instantly forgot her resolution to speak only in monosyllables. "And when the heroines aren't swooning," she added, her entire face lighting up with laughter, "they are lying about with hartshorn bottles up their nostrils, moping and pining away for some faint-hearted gentleman who hasn't the gumption to offer for them, or else has already offered for some other, unworthy female. I could never just lie there doing nothing, knowing the man I loved was falling in love with a horrid person." Whitney darted a glance at her aunt to see if she was shocked, but her aunt was regarding her with an unexplainable smile lurking at the comers of her eyes. "Aunt Anne, could you actually care for a man who dropped to his knees and said, 'Oh, Clarabel, your lips are the petals of a red rose and your eyes are two stars from the heavens'?" With a derisive snort, Whitney finished, "That is where I would have leapt for the hartshorn!"
"And so would I." Anne said, laughing. "What do you read then, if not atrocious romantic novels?" She pried the book from beneath Whitney's flattened hand and stared at the gold-embossed title. "The Iliad?" she asked in astonished disbelief. The breeze ruffled the pages, and Anne's amazed gaze ricocheted from the print to Whitney's tense face. "But this is in Greek! Surely you don't read Greek?"
Whitney nodded, her face flushed with mortification. Now her aunt would think her a bluestocking -- another black mark against her. "Also Latin, Italian, French, and even some German," she confessed.
"Good God," Anne breathed. "How did you ever learn all that?"
"Despite what Father thinks, Aunt Anne, I am only foolish, not stupid, and I plagued him to death until he allowed me tutors in languages and history." Whitney fell silent, remembering how she'd once believed that if she applied herself to her studies, if she could become more like a son, her father might love her.
"You sound ashamed of your accomplishments, when you should be proud."
Whitney gazed out at her home, nestled in the valley below. "I'm sure you know everyone thinks it's a waste of time to educate a female in these things. And anyway, I haven't a feminine accomplishment to my name. I can't sew a stitch that doesn't look as if it were done blindfolded, and when I sing, the dogs down at the stable begin to howl. Mr. Twittsworthy, our local music instructor, told my father that my playing of the pianoforte gives him hives. I can't do a thing that girls ought to do, and what's more, I particularly detest doing them."
Whitney knew her aunt would now take her in complete dislike, just as everyone else always did, but it was better this way because at least she could stop dreading the inevitable. She looked at Lady Anne, her green eyes wide and vulnerable. "I'm certain Papa has told you all about me. I'm a terrible disappointment to him. He wants me to be dainty and demure and quiet, like Elizabeth Ashton. I try to be, but I can't seem to do it."
Anne's heart melted for the lovely, spirited, bewildered child her sister had borne. Laying her hand against Whitney's cheek, she said tenderly, "Your father wants a daughter who is like a cameo -- delicate, pale, and easily shaped. Instead, he has a daughter who is a diamond, full of sparkle and life, and he doesn't know what to do with her. Instead of appreciating the value and rarity of his jewel -- instead of polishing her a bit and then letting her shine -- he persists in trying to shape her into a common cameo."
Whitney was more inclined to think of herself as a chunk of coal, but rather than disillusion her aunt, she kept silent. After her aunt left, Whitney picked up her book, but soon her mind wandered from the printed page to dreamy thoughts of Paul.
That night when she came down to the dining room, the atmosphere in the room was strangely charged, and no one noticed her sauntering toward the table. "When do you plan to tell her she's coming back to France with us, Martin?" her uncle demanded angrily. "Or is it your intention to wait until the day we leave and then just toss the child into the coach with us?"
The world tilted crazily, and for one horrible moment, Whitney thought she was going to be sick. She stopped, trying to steady her shaking limbs, and swallowed back the aching lump in her throat. "Am I going somewhere, Father?" she asked, trying to sound calm and indifferent.
They all turned and stared, and her father's face tightened into lines of impatience and annoyance. "To France," he replied abruptly. "To live with your aunt and uncle, who are going to try to make a lady out of you."
Carefully avoiding meeting anyone's eyes, lest she break down then and there, Whitney slid into her chair at the table. "Have you informed my aunt and uncle of the risk they are taking?" she asked, concentrating all her strength on preventing her father from seeing what he had just done to her heart. She looked coldly at her aunt and uncle's guilty, embarrassed faces. "Father may have neglected to mention you're risking disgrace by welcoming me into your home. As he will tell you, I've a hideous disposition, I'm rag-mannered, and I haven't a trace of polite conversation."
Her aunt was watching her with naked pity, but her father's expression was stony. "Oh Papa," she whispered brokenly, "do you really despise me this much? Do you hate me so much that you have to send me out of your sight?" Her eyes swimming with unshed tears, Whitney stood up. "If you...will excuse me...I'm not very hungry this evening."
"How could you!" Anne cried when she left, rising from her own chair and glaring furiously at Martin Stone. "You are the most heartless, unfeeling -- it will be a pleasure to remove that child from your clutches. How she has survived this long is a testimony to her strength. I'm sure I could never have done so well."
"You refine too much upon her words, Madam," Martin said icily. "I assure you that what has her looking so distraught is not the prospect of being parted from me. I have merely put a premature end to her plans to continue making a fool of herself over Paul Sevarin."
Copyright © 1985, 1999 by Judith McNaught
Excerpt
Chapter One
As their elegant travelling chaise rocked and swayed along the rutted country road, Lady Anne Gilbert leaned her cheek against her husband's shoulder and heaved a long, impatient sigh. "Another whole hour until we arrive, and already the suspense is positively gnawing at me. I keep wondering what Whitney will be like now that she's grown up.
She lapsed into silence and gazed absently out the coach window at the lush, rolling English countryside covered with wild pink Foxglove and yellow Buttercups, trying to envision the niece she hadn't seen in almost eleven years.
"She'll be pretty, just as her mother was. And she'll have her mother's smile, her gentleness, her sweet disposition..."
Lord Edward Gilbert cast a skeptical glance at his wife. "Sweet disposition?" he echoed in amused disbelief. "That isn't what her father said in his letter."
As a diplomat attached to the British Consulate in Paris, Lord Gilbert was a master of hints, evasions, innuendoes, and intrigues. But in his personal life, he preferred the refreshing alternative of blunt truth. "Allow me to refresh your memory," he said, groping in his pockets and retrieving the letter from Whitney's father. He perched his spectacles upon his nose, and ignoring his wife's grimace, he began to read:
"'Whitney's manners are an outrage, her conduct is reprehensible. She is a willful hoyden who is the despair of everyone she knows and an embarrassment to me. I implore you to take her back to Paris with you, in the hope that you may have more success with the stubborn chit than I have had.'"
Edward chuckled. "Show me where it says she's 'sweet-tempered.'"
His wife shot him a peevish glance. "Martin Stone is a cold, unfeeling man who wouldn't recognize gentleness and goodness if Whitney were made of nothing else! Only think of the way he shouted at her and sent her to her room right after my sister's funeral."
Edward recognized the mutinous set of his wife's chin and put his arm around her shoulders in a gesture of conciliation. "I'm no fonder of the man than you are, but you must admit that, just having lost his young wife to an early grave, to have his daughter accuse him, in front of fifty people, of locking her mama in a box so she couldn't escape had to be rather disconcerting."
"But Whitney was scarcely five years old!" Anne protested heatedly.
"Agreed. But Martin was grieving. Besides, as I recall, it was not for that offense she was banished to her room. It was later, when everyone had gathered in the drawing room -- when she stamped her foot and threatened to report us all to God if we didn't release her mama at once."
Anne smiled. "What spirit she had, Edward. I thought for a moment her little freckles were going to pop right off her nose. Admit it -- she was marvelous, and you thought so too!"
"Well, yes," Edward agreed sheepishly. "I rather thought she was."
As the Gilbert chaise bore inexorably down on the Stone estate, a small knot of young people were waiting on the south lawn, impatiently looking toward the stable one hundred yards away. A petite blonde smoothed her pink ruffled skirts and sighed in a way that displayed a very fetching dimple. "Whatever do you suppose Whitney is planning to do?" she inquired of the handsome light-haired man beside her.
Glancing down into Elizabeth Ashton's wide blue eyes, Paul Sevarin smiled a smile that Whitney would have forfeited both her feet to see focused on herself "Try to be patient, Elizabeth," he said.
"I'm sure none of us have the faintest idea what she is up to, Elizabeth," Margaret Merryton said tartly. "But you can be perfectly certain it will be something foolish and outrageous."
"Margaret, we're all Whitney's guests today," Paul chided.
"I don't know why you should defend her, Paul," Margaret argued spitefully. "Whitney is creating a horrid scandal chasing after you, and you know it!"
"Margaret!" Paul snapped. "I said that was enough." Drawing a long, irritated breath, Paul Sevarin frowned darkly at his gleaming boots. Whitney had been making a spectacle of herself chasing after him, and damned near everyone for fifteen miles was talking about it.
At first he had been mildly amused to find himself the object of a fifteen-year-old's languishing looks and adoring smiles, but lately Whitney had begun pursuing him with the determination and tactical brilliance of a female Napoleon Bonaparte.
If he rode off the grounds of his estate, he could almost depend on meeting her en route to his destination. It was as if she had some lookout point from which she watched his every move, and Paul no longer found her childish infatuation with him either harmless or amusing.
Three weeks ago, she had followed him to a local inn. While he was pleasantly contemplating accepting the innkeeper's daughter's whispered invitation to meet her later in the hayloft, he'd glanced up and seen a familiar pair of bright green eyes peeping at him through the window. Slamming his tankard of ale on the table, he'd marched outside, grabbed Whitney by the elbow, and unceremoniously deposited her on her horse, tersely reminding her that her father would be searching for her if she wasn't home by nightfall.
He'd stalked back inside and ordered another tankard, but when the innkeeper's daughter brushed her breasts suggestively against his arm while refilling his ale and Paul had a sudden vision of himself lying entangled with her voluptuous naked body, a pair of green eyes peered in through yet another window. He'd tossed enough coins on the planked wooden table to mollify the startled girl's wounded sensibilities and left -- only to encounter Miss Stone again on his way home.
He was beginning to feel like a hunted man whose every move was under surveillance, and his temper was strained to the breaking point. And yet, Paul thought irritably, here he was standing in the April sun, trying for some obscure reason to protect Whitney from the criticism she richly deserved.
A pretty girl, several years younger than the others in the group, glanced at Paul. "I think I'll go and see what's keeping Whitney," said Emily Williams. She hurried across the lawn and along the whitewashed fence adjoining the stable. Shoving open the big double doors, Emily looked down the wide gloomy corridor lined with stalls on both sides. "Where is Miss Whitney?" she asked the stableboy who was currying a sorrel gelding.
"In there, Miss." Even in the muted light, Emily saw his face suffuse with color as he nodded toward a door adjacent to the tack room.
With a puzzled glance at the flushing stableboy, Emily tapped lightly on the designated door and stepped inside, then froze at the sight that greeted her: Whitney Allison Stone's long legs were encased in coarse brown britches that clung startlingly to her slender hips and were held in place at her narrow waist with a length of rope. Above the riding britches she wore a thin chemise.
"You surely aren't going out there dressed like that?" Emily gasped.
Whitney fired an amused glance over her shoulder at her scandalized friend. "Of course not. I'm going to wear a shirt, too."
"B-but why?" Emily persisted desperately.
"Because I don't think it would be very proper to appear in my chemise, silly," Whitney cheerfully replied, snatching the stableboy's clean shirt off a peg and plunging her arms into the sleeves.
"P-proper? Proper?" Emily sputtered. "It's completely improper for you to be wearing men's britches, and you know it!"
"True. But I can't very well ride that horse without a saddle and risk having my skirts blow up around my neck, now can I?" Whitney breezily argued while she twisted her long unruly hair into a knot and pinned it at her nape.
"Ride without a saddle? You can't mean you're going to ride astride -- your father will disown you if you do that again."
"I am not going to ride astride. Although," Whitney giggled, "I can't understand why men are allowed to straddle a horse, while we -- who are supposed to be the weaker sex -- must hang off the side, praying for our lives."
Emily refused to be diverted. "Then what are you going to do?"
"I never realized what an inquisitive young lady you are, Miss Williams," Whitney teased. "But to answer your question, I am going to ride standing on the horse's back. I saw it done at the fair, and I've been practicing every since. Then, when Paul sees how well I do, he'll -- "
"He'll think you have lost your mind, Whitney Stone! He'll think that you haven't a grain of sense or propriety, and that you're only trying something else to gain his attention." Seeing the stubborn set of her friend's chin, Emily switched her tactics. "Whitney, please -- think of your father. What will he say if he finds out?"
Whitney hesitated, feeling the force of her father's unwaveringly cold stare as if it were this minute focused upon her. She drew a long breath, then expelled it slowly as she glanced out the small window at the group waiting on the lawn. Wearily, she said, "Father will say that, as usual, I have disappointed him, that I am a disgrace to him and to my mother's memory, that he is happy she didn't live to see what I have become. Then he will spend half an hour telling me what a perfect lady Elizabeth Ashton is, and that I ought to be like her."
"Well, if you really wanted to impress Paul, you could try..."
Whitney clenched her hands in frustration. "I have tried to be like Elizabeth. I wear those disgusting ruffled dresses that make me feel like a pastel mountain, I've practiced going for hours without saying a word, and I've fluttered my eyelashes until my eyelids go limp."
Emily bit her lip to hide her smile at Whitney's unflattering description of Elizabeth Ashton's demure mannerisms, then she sighed. "I'll go and tell the others that you'll be right out."
Gasps of outrage and derisive sniggers greeted Whitney's appearance on the lawn when she led the horse toward the spectators. "She'll fall off," one of the girls predicted, "if God doesn't strike her dead first for wearing those britches."
Ignoring the impulse to snap out a biting retort, Whitney raised her head in a gesture of haughty disdain, then stole a look at Paul. His handsome face was taut with disapproval as his gaze moved from her bare feet, up her trousered legs, to her face. Inwardly, Whitney faltered at his obvious displeasure, but she swung resolutely onto the back of the waiting horse.
The gelding moved into its practiced canter, and Whitney worked herself upward, first crouching with arms outstretched for balance, then slowly easing herself into a standing position. Around and around they went and, although Whitney was in constant terror of falling off and looking like a fool, she managed to appear competent and grateful.
As she completed the fourth circle, she let her eyes slant to the faces passing on her left, registering their looks of shock and derision, while she searched for the only face that mattered. Paul was partially in the tree's shadow, and Elizabeth Ashton was clinging to his arm, but as Whitney passed, she saw the slow, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and triumph unfurled like a banner in her heart. By the time she came around again, Paul was grinning broadly at her. Whitney's spirits soared, and suddenly all the weeks of practice, the sore muscles and bruises, seemed worthwhile.
At the window of the second floor drawing room overlooking the south lawn, Martin Stone stared down at his performing daughter. Behind him, the butler announced that Lord and Lady Gilbert had arrived, Too enraged at his daughter to speak, Martin greeted his sisterin-law and her husband with a clenched jaw and curt nod.
"How -- how nice to see you again after so many years, Martin," Lady Anne lied graciously. When he remained icily silent, she said, "Where is Whitney? We're so anxious to see her."
Martin finally recovered his voice. "See her?" he snapped savagely. "Madam, you have only to look out this window."
Bewildered, Anne did as he said. Below on the lawn there stood a group of young people watching a slender boy balancing beautifully on a cantering horse. "What a clever young man," she said, smiling.
Her simple remark seemed to drive Martin Stone from frozen rage to frenzied action as he swung on his heel and marched toward the door. "If you wish to meet your niece, come with me. Or, I can spare you the humiliation, and bring her here to you."
With an exasperated look at Martin's back, Anne tucked her hand in her husband's arm and together they followed Martin downstairs and outside.
As they approached the group of young people, Anne heard murmurings and laughter, and she was vaguely aware that there was something malicious in the tone, but she was too busy scanning the young ladies' faces, looking for Whitney, to pay much heed to the fleeting impression. She mentally discarded two blondes and a redhead, quizzically studied a petite, blue-eyed brunette, then glanced helplessly at the young man beside her. "Pardon me, I am Lady Gilbert, Whitney's aunt. Could you tell me where she is?"
Paul Sevarin grinned at her, half in sympathy and half in amusement. "Your niece is on the horse, Lady Gilbert," he said.
"On the -- " Lord Gilbert choked.
From her delicate perch atop the horse, Whitney's eyes followed her father's progress as he bore down on her with long, rapid strides. "Please don't make a scene, Father," she implored when he was within earshot.
"I make a scene?" he roared furiously. Snatching the halter, he brought the cantering horse around so sharply that he jerked it from beneath her. Whitney hit the ground on her feet, lost her balance, and ended up half-sprawling. As she scampered up, her father caught her arm in a ruthless grip and hauled her over toward the spectators. "This -- this thing," he said, thrusting her forward toward her aunt and uncle, I am mortified to tell you is your niece."
Whitney heard the smattering of giggles as the group quickly disbanded, and she felt her face grow hot with shame. "How do you do, Aunt Gilbert? Uncle Gilbert?" With one eye on Paul's broadshouldered, retreating form, Whitney reached mechanically for her nonexistent skirt, realized it was missing, and executed a comical curtsy without it. She saw the frown on her aunt's face and put her chin up defensively. "You may be sure that for the week you are here, I shall endeavor not to make a freak of myself again, Aunt."
"For the week that we are here?" her aunt gasped, but Whitney was preoccupied watching Paul help Elizabeth into his curricle and didn't notice the surprise in her aunt's voice.
"Good-bye, Paul," she called, waving madly. He turned and raised his arm in silent farewell.
Laughter drifted back as the curricles bowled down the drive, carrying their occupants off to a picnic or some other gay and wonderful activity, to which Whitney was never invited because she was too young.
Following Whitney toward the house, Anne was a mass of conflicting emotions. She was embarrassed for Whitney, furious with Martin Stone for humiliating the girl in front of the other young people, somewhat dazed by the sight of her own niece cavorting on the back of a horse, wearing men's britches...and utterly astonished to discover that Whitney, whose mother had been only passably pretty, showed promise of becoming a genuine beauty.
She was too thin right now, but even in disgrace Whitney's shoulders were straight, her walk naturally graceful and faintly provocative. Anne smiled to herself at the gently rounded hips displayed to almost immoral advantage by the coarse brown trousers, the slender waist that would require no subterfuge to make it appear smaller, eyes that seemed to change from sea-green to deep jade beneath their fringe of long, sooty lashes. And that hair -- piles and piles of rich mahogany brown! All it needed was a good trimming and brushing until it shone; Anne's fingers positively itched to go to work on it. Mentally she was already styling it in ways to highlight Whitney's striking eyes and high cheekbones. Off her face, Anne decided, piled at the crown with tendrils at the ears, or pulled straight back off the forehead to fall in gentle waves down her back.
As soon as they entered the house, Whitney mumbled an excuse and fled to her room where she flopped dejectedly into a chair and morosely contemplated the humiliating scene Paul had just witnessed, with her father jerking her ignominiously off her horse and then shouting at her. No doubt her aunt and uncle were as horrified and revolted by her behavior as her father had been, and her cheeks burned with shame just thinking of how they must despise her already.
"Whitney?" Emily whispered, creeping into the bedroom and cautiously closing the door behind her. "I came up the back way. Is your father angry?"
"Cross as crabs," Whitney confirmed, staring down at her trousered legs. "I suppose I ruined everything today, didn't I? Everyone was laughing at me, and Paul heard them. Now that Elizabeth is seventeen, he's bound to offer for her before he ever has a chance to realize that he loves me."
"You?" Emily repeated dazedly. "Whitney Stone, Paul avoids you like the plague, and well you know it! And who could blame him, after the mishaps you've treated him to in the last year?"
"There haven't been so many as all that," Whitney protested, but she squirmed in her chair.
"No? What about that trick you played on him on All Soul's -- darting out in front of his carriage, shrieking like a banshee, and pretending to be a ghost, terrifying his horses."
Whitney flushed. "He wasn't so very angry. And it isn't as if the carriage was destroyed. It only broke a shaft when it overturned."
"And Paul's leg," Emily pointed out.
"But that mended perfectly," Whitney persisted, her mind already leaping from past debacles to future possibilities. She surged to her feet and began to pace slowly back and forth. "There has to be a way -- but short of abducting him, I -- " A mischievous smile lit up her dust-streaked face as she swung around so quickly that Emily pressed back into her chair. "Emily, one thing is infinitely clear: Paul does not yet know that he cares for me. Correct?"
"He doesn't care a snap for you is more like it," Emily replied warily.
"Therefore, it would be safe to say that he is unlikely to offer for me without some sort of added incentive. Correct?"
"You couldn't make him offer for you at the point of a gun, and you know it. Besides, you aren't old enough to be betrothed, even if -- "
"Under what circumstances," Whitney interrupted triumphantly, "is a gentleman obliged to offer for a lady?"
"I can't think of any. Except of course, if he has compromised her -- absolutely not! Whitney, whatever you're planning now, I won't help."
Sighing, Whitney flopped back into her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her. An irreverent giggle escaped her as she considered the sheer audacity of her last idea. "If only I could have pulled it off...you know, loosened the wheel on Paul's carriage so that it would fall off later, and then asked him to drive me somewhere. Then, by the time we walked back, or help arrived, it would be late at night, and he would have to offer for me." Oblivious to Emily's scandalized expression, Whitney continued, "Just think what a wonderful turnabout that would have been on a tired old theme: Young Lady abducts Gentleman and ruins his reputation so that she is forced to marry him to set things aright! What a novel that could have made," she added, rather impressed with her own ingenuity.
"I'm leaving," Emily said. She marched to the door, then she hesitated and turned back to Whitney. "Your aunt and uncle saw everything. What are you going to say to them about those trousers and the horse?"
Whitney's face clouded. "I'm not going to say anything, it wouldn't help -- but for the rest of the time they are here, I'm going to be the most demure, refined, delicate female you've ever seen." She saw Emily's dubious look and added, "Also I intend to stay out of sight except at mealtimes. I think I'll be able to act like Elizabeth for three hours a day."
Whitney kept her promise. At dinner that night, after her uncle's hair-raising tale of their life in Beirut where he was attached to the British Consulate, she murmured only, "How very informative, Uncle," even though she was positively burning to ply him with questions. At the end of her aunt's description of Paris and the thrill of its gay social life, Whitney murmured, "How very informative, Aunt." The moment the meal was finished, she excused herself and vanished.
After three days, Whitney's efforts to be either demure or absent had, in fact, been so successful that Anne was beginning to wonder whether she had only imagined the spark of fire she'd glimpsed the day of their arrival, or if the girl had some aversion to Edward and herself.
On the fourth day, when Whitney breakfasted before the rest of the household was up, and then vanished, Anne set out to discover the truth. She searched the house, but Whitney was not indoors. She was not in the garden, nor had she taken a horse from the stable, Anne was informed by a groom. Squinting into the sunlight, Anne looked around her, trying to imagine where a fifteen-year-old would go to spend all day.
Off on the crest of a hill overlooking the estate, she spied a patch of bright yellow. "There you are!" she breathed, opening her parasol and striking out across the lawn.
Whitney didn't see her aunt coming until it was too late to escape. Wishing she had found a better place to hide, she tried to think of some innocuous subject on which she could converse without appearing ignorant. Clothes? Personally, she knew nothing of fashions and cared even less; she looked hopeless no matter what she wore. After all, what could clothes do to improve the looks of a female who had cat's eyes, mud-colored hair, and freckles on the bridge of her nose? Besides that, she was too tall, too thin, and if the good Lord intended for her ever to have a bosom, it was very late in making its appearance.
Weak-kneed, her chest heaving with each labored breath, Anne topped the steep rise and collapsed unceremoniously onto the blanket beside Whitney. "I-I thought I'd take...a nice stroll," Anne lied. When she caught her breath, she noticed the leather-bound book lying face down on the blanket and, seizing on books as a topic of conversation, she said, "Is that a romantic novel?"
"No, Aunt," Whitney demurely uttered, carefully placing her hand over the tide of the book to conceal it from her aunt's eyes.
"I'm told most young ladies adore romantic novels," Anne tried again.
"Yes," Aunt Whitney agreed politely.
"I read one once but I didn't like it," Anne remarked, her mind groping for some other topic that might draw Whitney into conversation. "I cannot abide a heroine who is too perfect, nor one who is forever swooning."
Whitney was so astonished to discover that she wasn't the only female in all of England who didn't devour the insipid things, that she instantly forgot her resolution to speak only in monosyllables. "And when the heroines aren't swooning," she added, her entire face lighting up with laughter, "they are lying about with hartshorn bottles up their nostrils, moping and pining away for some faint-hearted gentleman who hasn't the gumption to offer for them, or else has already offered for some other, unworthy female. I could never just lie there doing nothing, knowing the man I loved was falling in love with a horrid person." Whitney darted a glance at her aunt to see if she was shocked, but her aunt was regarding her with an unexplainable smile lurking at the comers of her eyes. "Aunt Anne, could you actually care for a man who dropped to his knees and said, 'Oh, Clarabel, your lips are the petals of a red rose and your eyes are two stars from the heavens'?" With a derisive snort, Whitney finished, "That is where I would have leapt for the hartshorn!"
"And so would I." Anne said, laughing. "What do you read then, if not atrocious romantic novels?" She pried the book from beneath Whitney's flattened hand and stared at the gold-embossed title. "The Iliad?" she asked in astonished disbelief. The breeze ruffled the pages, and Anne's amazed gaze ricocheted from the print to Whitney's tense face. "But this is in Greek! Surely you don't read Greek?"
Whitney nodded, her face flushed with mortification. Now her aunt would think her a bluestocking -- another black mark against her. "Also Latin, Italian, French, and even some German," she confessed.
"Good God," Anne breathed. "How did you ever learn all that?"
"Despite what Father thinks, Aunt Anne, I am only foolish, not stupid, and I plagued him to death until he allowed me tutors in languages and history." Whitney fell silent, remembering how she'd once believed that if she applied herself to her studies, if she could become more like a son, her father might love her.
"You sound ashamed of your accomplishments, when you should be proud."
Whitney gazed out at her home, nestled in the valley below. "I'm sure you know everyone thinks it's a waste of time to educate a female in these things. And anyway, I haven't a feminine accomplishment to my name. I can't sew a stitch that doesn't look as if it were done blindfolded, and when I sing, the dogs down at the stable begin to howl. Mr. Twittsworthy, our local music instructor, told my father that my playing of the pianoforte gives him hives. I can't do a thing that girls ought to do, and what's more, I particularly detest doing them."
Whitney knew her aunt would now take her in complete dislike, just as everyone else always did, but it was better this way because at least she could stop dreading the inevitable. She looked at Lady Anne, her green eyes wide and vulnerable. "I'm certain Papa has told you all about me. I'm a terrible disappointment to him. He wants me to be dainty and demure and quiet, like Elizabeth Ashton. I try to be, but I can't seem to do it."
Anne's heart melted for the lovely, spirited, bewildered child her sister had borne. Laying her hand against Whitney's cheek, she said tenderly, "Your father wants a daughter who is like a cameo -- delicate, pale, and easily shaped. Instead, he has a daughter who is a diamond, full of sparkle and life, and he doesn't know what to do with her. Instead of appreciating the value and rarity of his jewel -- instead of polishing her a bit and then letting her shine -- he persists in trying to shape her into a common cameo."
Whitney was more inclined to think of herself as a chunk of coal, but rather than disillusion her aunt, she kept silent. After her aunt left, Whitney picked up her book, but soon her mind wandered from the printed page to dreamy thoughts of Paul.
That night when she came down to the dining room, the atmosphere in the room was strangely charged, and no one noticed her sauntering toward the table. "When do you plan to tell her she's coming back to France with us, Martin?" her uncle demanded angrily. "Or is it your intention to wait until the day we leave and then just toss the child into the coach with us?"
The world tilted crazily, and for one horrible moment, Whitney thought she was going to be sick. She stopped, trying to steady her shaking limbs, and swallowed back the aching lump in her throat. "Am I going somewhere, Father?" she asked, trying to sound calm and indifferent.
They all turned and stared, and her father's face tightened into lines of impatience and annoyance. "To France," he replied abruptly. "To live with your aunt and uncle, who are going to try to make a lady out of you."
Carefully avoiding meeting anyone's eyes, lest she break down then and there, Whitney slid into her chair at the table. "Have you informed my aunt and uncle of the risk they are taking?" she asked, concentrating all her strength on preventing her father from seeing what he had just done to her heart. She looked coldly at her aunt and uncle's guilty, embarrassed faces. "Father may have neglected to mention you're risking disgrace by welcoming me into your home. As he will tell you, I've a hideous disposition, I'm rag-mannered, and I haven't a trace of polite conversation."
Her aunt was watching her with naked pity, but her father's expression was stony. "Oh Papa," she whispered brokenly, "do you really despise me this much? Do you hate me so much that you have to send me out of your sight?" Her eyes swimming with unshed tears, Whitney stood up. "If you...will excuse me...I'm not very hungry this evening."
"How could you!" Anne cried when she left, rising from her own chair and glaring furiously at Martin Stone. "You are the most heartless, unfeeling -- it will be a pleasure to remove that child from your clutches. How she has survived this long is a testimony to her strength. I'm sure I could never have done so well."
"You refine too much upon her words, Madam," Martin said icily. "I assure you that what has her looking so distraught is not the prospect of being parted from me. I have merely put a premature end to her plans to continue making a fool of herself over Paul Sevarin."
Copyright © 1985, 1999 by Judith McNaught
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Come the Spring ~ Excerpt
Excerpt
Part One
For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the seasons of snows and sins;
But for the grace of God and an untied shoelace, she would have died with the others that day. She walked into the bank at precisely two forty-five in the afternoon to close her account, deliberately leaving the task until the last possible minute because it made everything so final in her mind. There would be no going back. All of her possessions had been packed, and very soon now she would be leaving Rockford Falls, Montana, forever.
Sherman MacCorcle, the bank president, would lock the doors in fifteen minutes. The lobby was filled with other procrastinators like herself, yet for all the customers, there were only two tellers working the windows instead of the usual three. Emmeline MacCorkle, Sherman’s daughter, was apparently still at home recovering from the influenza that has swept through the peaceful little town two weeks before.
Malcom Watterson’s line was shorter by three heads. He was a notorious gossip, though, and would surely ask her questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.
Fortunately Franklin Carroll was working today, and she immediately took her place in the back of his line. He was quick, methodical, and never intruded into anyone’s personal affairs. He was also a friend. She had already told him good-bye after services last Sunday, but she had the sudden inclination to do so again.
She hated waiting. Tapping her foot softly against the warped floorboards, she took her gloves off, then put them on again. Each time she fidgeted, her purse, secured by a satin ribbon around her wrist, swung back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum keeping perfect time to the ticktock of the clock hanging on the wall behind the tellers’ window.
The man in front of her took a step forward, but she stayed where she was, hoping to put some distance between them so that she wouldn’t have to smell the sour sweet mixed with the pungent odor of fried sausage emanating from his filthy clothes.
The man to her left in Malcom’s line smiled at her, letting her see the two missing teeth in the center of his grin. To discourage conversation, she gave him a quick nod and turned her gaze upward to the water stains on the ceiling.
It was dank, musty, and horribly hot. She could feel the perspiration gathering at the nape of her neck and tugged on the collar of her starched blouse. Giving Franklin a sympathetic glance, she wondered how any of the employees could work all day in such a dark, gloomy, stifling tomb. She turned to the right and stared longingly at the three closed windows. Sunlight streaked through the finger-smudged glass, casting jagged splotches on the worn floorboards, and fragments of the dust particles hung suspended in the stagnant air. If she had to wait much longer, she would incite Sherman MacCorkle’s anger by marching over to the windows and throwing all of them open. She gave up the idea as soon as it entered her mind because the president would only close them again and give her a stern lecture about bank security. Besides, she would lose her place in line.
It was finally her turn. Hurrying forward, she stumbled and bumped her head against the glass of the teller’s window. Her shoe had come off. She shoved her foot back inside and felt the tongue coil under her toes. Behind the tellers, door-faced Sherman MacCorkle’s door was open. He heard the commotion and looked up at her form his desk behind a glass partition. She gave him a weak smile before turning her attention to Franklin.
“My shoelace came untied,” she said in an attempt to explain her clumsiness.
He nodded sympathetically. “Are you all ready to leave?”
“Just about,” she whispered so that Malcolm, the busybody, wouldn’t poke his nose into the conversation. He was already leaning toward Frank, and she knew he was itching to hear the particulars.
“I’ll miss you,” Franklin blurted out.
The confession brought a blush that stained his neck and cheeks. Franklin’s shyness was an endearing quality, and when the tall, deathly thin man swallowed, his oversized Adam’s apple bobbed noticeably. He was at least twenty years her senior, yet he acted like a young boy whenever he was near her.
“I’m going to miss you too, Franklin.”
“Are you going to close your account now?”
She nodded as she pushed the folded papers through the arched, fist-sized opening. “I hope everything’s in order.”
He busied himself with the paperwork, checking signatures and numbers and then opened his cash drawer and began to count out the money.
“Four hundred and two dollars in an awful lot of money to be carrying around.”
“Yes, I know it is,” she agreed. “I’ll keep a close eye on it. Don’t worry.”
She removed her gloves while he staked the bills, and when he pushed the money through the opening, she stuffed it into her cloth purse and pulled the strings tight.
Franklin cast his employer a furtive glance before leaning forward and pressing his forehead against the glass.” Church won’t be the same without you sitting in the pew in front of Mother and me. I wish you weren’t leaving. Mother would eventually warm up to you. I’m sure of it.”
She reached through the opening and impulsively squeezed his hand. “In the short while that I have lived here, you have become such a good friend. I won’t ever forget your kindness to me.”
“Will you write?”
“Yes, of course I will.”
“Send your letters to the bank so Mother won’t see them.”
She smiled. “Yes, I’ll do that.”
A discreet cough told her she’d lingered too long. She picked up her gloves and purse and turned around, searching for a spot out of the traffic where she could retie her shoelace. There was an empty desk in the alcove beyond the swinging gate that separated the customers from the employees. Lemont Morgan-staff usually sat there, but like Emmeline MacCorkle, he too was still recovering from the epidemic.
She dragged her foot so she wouldn’t step out of her shoe again as she made her way across the lobby to the decrepit, scarred desk in front of the windows. Franklin had confided that MacCorkle had purchased all the furniture thirdhand from a printer’s shop. His thrifty nature had obviously compelled him to overlook the ink stains blotting the wood and the protruding splinters laying in wait for an incautious finger.
It was sinful the way MacCorkle treated his employees. She knew for a fact that he didn’t pay any of his loyal staff a fair wage, because poor Franklin lived a very modest life and could barely afford to keep his mother in the medicinal tonic she seemed to thrive on.
She had a notion to go into MacCorkle’s brand spanking-new office, with its shiny mahogany desk and matching file cabinets, and tell him what a cheapskate he was in hopes of chaming him into doing something about the deplorable conditions he forced his staff to endure, and she surely would have done just that if it hadn’t been for the possibility that MacCorkle would think Franklin had put her up to it. The president knew they were friends. No, she didn’t dare say a word, and so she settled on giving MacCorkle a look a pure disgust instead.
It was a wasted effort; he was looking the other way. She promptly turned her back to him and pulled put the desk chair. Dropping her things down on the seat, she genuflected in as a ladylike a fashion as she could and pushed her petticoats out of her way. She adjusted the tongue of her shoe, slipped her foot back inside, and quickly retied the stiff shoelace.
The core completed, she tried to stand up but stepped on her skirt instead and was jerked back to the floor, landing with a thud. Her purse and gloves spilled into her lap as the chair she’d bumped went flying backward on its rollers. It slammed into the wall, rolled back, and struck her shoulder. Embarrassed by her awkwardness, she peered over the top of the desk to see if anyone had noticed.
There were three customers left at the tellers’ windows, all of them gaping in her direction. Franklin had only just finished filing her documents in the file cabinet behind him when she fell. He slammed the file drawer closer and started toward her with a worried frown on his face, but she smiled and waved him back. She was just about to tell him she was quite all right when the front door burst open with a bang.
The clock chimed three o’clock. Seven men stormed inside and fanned out across the lobby. No one could mistake their intentions. Dark bandannas concealed the lower part of their eyes. As each man moved forward, he drew his gun. The last one to enter spun around to pull the shades and bolt the door.
Everyone in the bank froze except for Sherman MacCorkle, who rose up in his chair, a startled cry alarm issuing through his pinched lips. Then Franklin screamed in a high-pitched soprano shriek that reverberated through the eerie silence.
Like the others, she was too stunned to move. A wave of panic washed through her, constricting every muscle. She desperately tried to grasp control of her thought. Don’t panic….don’t panic….They can’t shoot us….They wouldn’t dare to shoot us…..The noise of gunfire…..They want money, that’s all….If everyone cooperates, they won’t hurt us….
Her logic didn’t help calm her racing heartbeat. They would take her four hundred dollars. And that was unacceptable. She couldn’t let them have the money….wouldn’t. But how could she stop them? She took the wad of bills out of her purse and frantically searched for place to hide it. Think…..think…..She leaned to the side and looked up at Franklin. He was staring at the robbers, but he must have felt her watching him for he tilted his head downward ever so slightly. It dawned on her then that the gunmen didn’t know she was there. She hesitated for the barest of seconds, her gaze intent on Franklin’s pale face, and then silently squeezed herself into the kneehole of the ancient desk. Quickly unbuttoning her blouse, she shoved the money under her chemise and flattened her hands against her chest.
Oh, God, oh, God...... One of them was walking toward the desk. She could hear his footsteps getting closer and closer. Her petticoats! There were spread out like a white flag of surrender. She frantically grabbed them and shoved them under her knees. Her heart pounded like a drum now, and she terrified that all of them could hear the noise. If they didn’t spot her, they would leave her money alone.
A blur of snakeskin boots, spurs rattling, passed within inches. The smell of peppermint trailed behind. The scent shocked her – children smelled like peppermint, not criminals. Don’t let them see me, she prayed. Please, God, don’t let him see me. She wanted to squeezed her eyes shut and disappear. She heard the shades being pilled down, sucking out the sunlight, and she was suddenly assaulted with the claustrophobic feeling that she was in a casket and the man was pushing the lid on top of her.
Bare seconds had passed since they’d entered the bank. It would be over soon, she told herself. Soon. They wanted only the money, nothing more, and they would surely hurry to get out as quickly as possible. Yes, of course they would. With every second that they lingered, they increased the odds of being captured.
Could they see her through the cracks in the desk? The possibility was too frightening. There was a half inch split in the seam of the wood all the way down the center panel, and she slowly shifted her position until her knees were rubbing against the drawer above her head. The air was thick, heavy. It made her want to gag. She took a shallow breath through her mouth and tilted her head to the side so she could see through the slit.
Across the room the three gray-faced customers stood motionless, their backs pressed against the counter. One of the robbers stepped forward. He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt, similar to the clothing the bank president wore. Had he not been wearing a mask and holding a gun, he would have looked like any other businessman.
He was terribly polite and soft-spoken.
“Gentlemen, there isn’t any need to be frightened,” he began in a voice that reeked with southern hospitality. “As long as you do as I say, no one will get hurt. We happened to hear from a friend of ours about large government deposit for the army boys, and we thought we might help ourselves to their pay. I’ll grant you we aren’t being very gentlemanly, and I’m sure you’re feeling mighty inconvenienced. I’m real sorry about that. Mr. Bell, please put the Closed sign in the window behind the shades.”
The leader gave the order to the man on his right, who quickly did as he was told.
“That’s fine, just fine,” the leader said. “Now, all gentlemen, I would like all of you to stack you hands on top of your heads and come on out here into the lobby so I won’t have to worry that one of you is going to do anything foolish. Don’t be shy, Mr. President. Come on out of your office and join your friends and neighbors.”
She heard the shuffle of feet as the men moved forward. The gate squeaked as it opened.
“That was nice and orderly.” The leader oozed the praise when his command was promptly followed. “You did just fine, but I have one more request to make. Will all of you please kneel down? Now, now keep your hands on your heads. You don’t want me to worry, do you? Mr. Bell would like to lay you out on the floor and tie you up, but I don’t think that will be necessary. No need to get your nice clothes dirty. Just squeeze yourselves together in a tight little circle. That’s fine, just fine,” he praised once again.
“The safe’s open, sir,” one of the others called out.
“Go to it, son,” he called back.
The man in charge turned to the desk, and she saw his eyes clearly. They were brown with golden streaks through them, like marbles, cold, unfeeling. The man named Bell was coughing, and the leader turned away from her to look at his accomplice.
“Why don’t you lean against the railing and let the others take care of filling up the bags. My friend’s feeling poorly today,” he told the captives.
“Maybe he’s got the influenza,” Malcolm suggested in an eager-to-please voice.
“I’m afraid you might be right,” the leader agreed. “It’s a pity because he so enjoys his work, but today he isn’t up to entertaining himself. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bell?”
“Yes, sir,” he cohort said.
“Are you about finished, Mr. Robertson?”
“We got it all, sir.”
“Don’t forget the cash in the drawers,” he reminded him.
“We’ve got that too, sir.”
“Looks like our business is almost finished here. Mr. Johnson, will you please make sure the back door isn’t going to give us any trouble?”
“I’ve already seen to it, sir.”
“It’s time to finish up, then.”
She heard the others moving back into the lobby, their heels clicking against the floorboards with the precision of telegraph equipment. One of them was snickering.
The man in charge had turned away from her, but she could see the others clearly now. All of them stood behind the circle of captives. While she watched, they removed their bandannas and tucked them into their pockets. The leader took a step forward, then put his gun away so he could carefully fold his bandanna and put it in his vest pocket. He stood close enough for her to see his long fingers and his carefully manicured nails.
Why had they removed their masks? Didn’t they realize that Franklin and the others would give the authorities their descriptions….Oh, Go, no….no….no……
“Is the back door open, Mr. Johnson?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“well, then I expect it’s time to leave. Whose turn is it?” he asked.
“Mr. Bell hasn’t taken a turn since the little girl. Remember, sir?
“I remember. Are you up to it today, Mr. Bell?”
“Yes, sir, I believe I am.”
“Then get on with it,” he ordered as he drew his gun and cocked it.
“What are you going to do?” the president asked in a near shout.
“Hush now. I told you no one would get hurt, didn’t I?”
His voice was horrifically soothing. MrCorkle was nodding when the man names Bell fired his shot. The front of the president’s head exploded.
The leader killed the man in front of him, jumping back when the blood from the wound he’d inflicted spewed out.
Franklin cried, “But you promised…..”
The leader whirled toward him and shot him in the back of the head. Franklin’s neck snapped.
“I lied.”
Part One
For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the seasons of snows and sins;
But for the grace of God and an untied shoelace, she would have died with the others that day. She walked into the bank at precisely two forty-five in the afternoon to close her account, deliberately leaving the task until the last possible minute because it made everything so final in her mind. There would be no going back. All of her possessions had been packed, and very soon now she would be leaving Rockford Falls, Montana, forever.
Sherman MacCorcle, the bank president, would lock the doors in fifteen minutes. The lobby was filled with other procrastinators like herself, yet for all the customers, there were only two tellers working the windows instead of the usual three. Emmeline MacCorkle, Sherman’s daughter, was apparently still at home recovering from the influenza that has swept through the peaceful little town two weeks before.
Malcom Watterson’s line was shorter by three heads. He was a notorious gossip, though, and would surely ask her questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.
Fortunately Franklin Carroll was working today, and she immediately took her place in the back of his line. He was quick, methodical, and never intruded into anyone’s personal affairs. He was also a friend. She had already told him good-bye after services last Sunday, but she had the sudden inclination to do so again.
She hated waiting. Tapping her foot softly against the warped floorboards, she took her gloves off, then put them on again. Each time she fidgeted, her purse, secured by a satin ribbon around her wrist, swung back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum keeping perfect time to the ticktock of the clock hanging on the wall behind the tellers’ window.
The man in front of her took a step forward, but she stayed where she was, hoping to put some distance between them so that she wouldn’t have to smell the sour sweet mixed with the pungent odor of fried sausage emanating from his filthy clothes.
The man to her left in Malcom’s line smiled at her, letting her see the two missing teeth in the center of his grin. To discourage conversation, she gave him a quick nod and turned her gaze upward to the water stains on the ceiling.
It was dank, musty, and horribly hot. She could feel the perspiration gathering at the nape of her neck and tugged on the collar of her starched blouse. Giving Franklin a sympathetic glance, she wondered how any of the employees could work all day in such a dark, gloomy, stifling tomb. She turned to the right and stared longingly at the three closed windows. Sunlight streaked through the finger-smudged glass, casting jagged splotches on the worn floorboards, and fragments of the dust particles hung suspended in the stagnant air. If she had to wait much longer, she would incite Sherman MacCorkle’s anger by marching over to the windows and throwing all of them open. She gave up the idea as soon as it entered her mind because the president would only close them again and give her a stern lecture about bank security. Besides, she would lose her place in line.
It was finally her turn. Hurrying forward, she stumbled and bumped her head against the glass of the teller’s window. Her shoe had come off. She shoved her foot back inside and felt the tongue coil under her toes. Behind the tellers, door-faced Sherman MacCorkle’s door was open. He heard the commotion and looked up at her form his desk behind a glass partition. She gave him a weak smile before turning her attention to Franklin.
“My shoelace came untied,” she said in an attempt to explain her clumsiness.
He nodded sympathetically. “Are you all ready to leave?”
“Just about,” she whispered so that Malcolm, the busybody, wouldn’t poke his nose into the conversation. He was already leaning toward Frank, and she knew he was itching to hear the particulars.
“I’ll miss you,” Franklin blurted out.
The confession brought a blush that stained his neck and cheeks. Franklin’s shyness was an endearing quality, and when the tall, deathly thin man swallowed, his oversized Adam’s apple bobbed noticeably. He was at least twenty years her senior, yet he acted like a young boy whenever he was near her.
“I’m going to miss you too, Franklin.”
“Are you going to close your account now?”
She nodded as she pushed the folded papers through the arched, fist-sized opening. “I hope everything’s in order.”
He busied himself with the paperwork, checking signatures and numbers and then opened his cash drawer and began to count out the money.
“Four hundred and two dollars in an awful lot of money to be carrying around.”
“Yes, I know it is,” she agreed. “I’ll keep a close eye on it. Don’t worry.”
She removed her gloves while he staked the bills, and when he pushed the money through the opening, she stuffed it into her cloth purse and pulled the strings tight.
Franklin cast his employer a furtive glance before leaning forward and pressing his forehead against the glass.” Church won’t be the same without you sitting in the pew in front of Mother and me. I wish you weren’t leaving. Mother would eventually warm up to you. I’m sure of it.”
She reached through the opening and impulsively squeezed his hand. “In the short while that I have lived here, you have become such a good friend. I won’t ever forget your kindness to me.”
“Will you write?”
“Yes, of course I will.”
“Send your letters to the bank so Mother won’t see them.”
She smiled. “Yes, I’ll do that.”
A discreet cough told her she’d lingered too long. She picked up her gloves and purse and turned around, searching for a spot out of the traffic where she could retie her shoelace. There was an empty desk in the alcove beyond the swinging gate that separated the customers from the employees. Lemont Morgan-staff usually sat there, but like Emmeline MacCorkle, he too was still recovering from the epidemic.
She dragged her foot so she wouldn’t step out of her shoe again as she made her way across the lobby to the decrepit, scarred desk in front of the windows. Franklin had confided that MacCorkle had purchased all the furniture thirdhand from a printer’s shop. His thrifty nature had obviously compelled him to overlook the ink stains blotting the wood and the protruding splinters laying in wait for an incautious finger.
It was sinful the way MacCorkle treated his employees. She knew for a fact that he didn’t pay any of his loyal staff a fair wage, because poor Franklin lived a very modest life and could barely afford to keep his mother in the medicinal tonic she seemed to thrive on.
She had a notion to go into MacCorkle’s brand spanking-new office, with its shiny mahogany desk and matching file cabinets, and tell him what a cheapskate he was in hopes of chaming him into doing something about the deplorable conditions he forced his staff to endure, and she surely would have done just that if it hadn’t been for the possibility that MacCorkle would think Franklin had put her up to it. The president knew they were friends. No, she didn’t dare say a word, and so she settled on giving MacCorkle a look a pure disgust instead.
It was a wasted effort; he was looking the other way. She promptly turned her back to him and pulled put the desk chair. Dropping her things down on the seat, she genuflected in as a ladylike a fashion as she could and pushed her petticoats out of her way. She adjusted the tongue of her shoe, slipped her foot back inside, and quickly retied the stiff shoelace.
The core completed, she tried to stand up but stepped on her skirt instead and was jerked back to the floor, landing with a thud. Her purse and gloves spilled into her lap as the chair she’d bumped went flying backward on its rollers. It slammed into the wall, rolled back, and struck her shoulder. Embarrassed by her awkwardness, she peered over the top of the desk to see if anyone had noticed.
There were three customers left at the tellers’ windows, all of them gaping in her direction. Franklin had only just finished filing her documents in the file cabinet behind him when she fell. He slammed the file drawer closer and started toward her with a worried frown on his face, but she smiled and waved him back. She was just about to tell him she was quite all right when the front door burst open with a bang.
The clock chimed three o’clock. Seven men stormed inside and fanned out across the lobby. No one could mistake their intentions. Dark bandannas concealed the lower part of their eyes. As each man moved forward, he drew his gun. The last one to enter spun around to pull the shades and bolt the door.
Everyone in the bank froze except for Sherman MacCorkle, who rose up in his chair, a startled cry alarm issuing through his pinched lips. Then Franklin screamed in a high-pitched soprano shriek that reverberated through the eerie silence.
Like the others, she was too stunned to move. A wave of panic washed through her, constricting every muscle. She desperately tried to grasp control of her thought. Don’t panic….don’t panic….They can’t shoot us….They wouldn’t dare to shoot us…..The noise of gunfire…..They want money, that’s all….If everyone cooperates, they won’t hurt us….
Her logic didn’t help calm her racing heartbeat. They would take her four hundred dollars. And that was unacceptable. She couldn’t let them have the money….wouldn’t. But how could she stop them? She took the wad of bills out of her purse and frantically searched for place to hide it. Think…..think…..She leaned to the side and looked up at Franklin. He was staring at the robbers, but he must have felt her watching him for he tilted his head downward ever so slightly. It dawned on her then that the gunmen didn’t know she was there. She hesitated for the barest of seconds, her gaze intent on Franklin’s pale face, and then silently squeezed herself into the kneehole of the ancient desk. Quickly unbuttoning her blouse, she shoved the money under her chemise and flattened her hands against her chest.
Oh, God, oh, God...... One of them was walking toward the desk. She could hear his footsteps getting closer and closer. Her petticoats! There were spread out like a white flag of surrender. She frantically grabbed them and shoved them under her knees. Her heart pounded like a drum now, and she terrified that all of them could hear the noise. If they didn’t spot her, they would leave her money alone.
A blur of snakeskin boots, spurs rattling, passed within inches. The smell of peppermint trailed behind. The scent shocked her – children smelled like peppermint, not criminals. Don’t let them see me, she prayed. Please, God, don’t let him see me. She wanted to squeezed her eyes shut and disappear. She heard the shades being pilled down, sucking out the sunlight, and she was suddenly assaulted with the claustrophobic feeling that she was in a casket and the man was pushing the lid on top of her.
Bare seconds had passed since they’d entered the bank. It would be over soon, she told herself. Soon. They wanted only the money, nothing more, and they would surely hurry to get out as quickly as possible. Yes, of course they would. With every second that they lingered, they increased the odds of being captured.
Could they see her through the cracks in the desk? The possibility was too frightening. There was a half inch split in the seam of the wood all the way down the center panel, and she slowly shifted her position until her knees were rubbing against the drawer above her head. The air was thick, heavy. It made her want to gag. She took a shallow breath through her mouth and tilted her head to the side so she could see through the slit.
Across the room the three gray-faced customers stood motionless, their backs pressed against the counter. One of the robbers stepped forward. He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt, similar to the clothing the bank president wore. Had he not been wearing a mask and holding a gun, he would have looked like any other businessman.
He was terribly polite and soft-spoken.
“Gentlemen, there isn’t any need to be frightened,” he began in a voice that reeked with southern hospitality. “As long as you do as I say, no one will get hurt. We happened to hear from a friend of ours about large government deposit for the army boys, and we thought we might help ourselves to their pay. I’ll grant you we aren’t being very gentlemanly, and I’m sure you’re feeling mighty inconvenienced. I’m real sorry about that. Mr. Bell, please put the Closed sign in the window behind the shades.”
The leader gave the order to the man on his right, who quickly did as he was told.
“That’s fine, just fine,” the leader said. “Now, all gentlemen, I would like all of you to stack you hands on top of your heads and come on out here into the lobby so I won’t have to worry that one of you is going to do anything foolish. Don’t be shy, Mr. President. Come on out of your office and join your friends and neighbors.”
She heard the shuffle of feet as the men moved forward. The gate squeaked as it opened.
“That was nice and orderly.” The leader oozed the praise when his command was promptly followed. “You did just fine, but I have one more request to make. Will all of you please kneel down? Now, now keep your hands on your heads. You don’t want me to worry, do you? Mr. Bell would like to lay you out on the floor and tie you up, but I don’t think that will be necessary. No need to get your nice clothes dirty. Just squeeze yourselves together in a tight little circle. That’s fine, just fine,” he praised once again.
“The safe’s open, sir,” one of the others called out.
“Go to it, son,” he called back.
The man in charge turned to the desk, and she saw his eyes clearly. They were brown with golden streaks through them, like marbles, cold, unfeeling. The man named Bell was coughing, and the leader turned away from her to look at his accomplice.
“Why don’t you lean against the railing and let the others take care of filling up the bags. My friend’s feeling poorly today,” he told the captives.
“Maybe he’s got the influenza,” Malcolm suggested in an eager-to-please voice.
“I’m afraid you might be right,” the leader agreed. “It’s a pity because he so enjoys his work, but today he isn’t up to entertaining himself. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bell?”
“Yes, sir,” he cohort said.
“Are you about finished, Mr. Robertson?”
“We got it all, sir.”
“Don’t forget the cash in the drawers,” he reminded him.
“We’ve got that too, sir.”
“Looks like our business is almost finished here. Mr. Johnson, will you please make sure the back door isn’t going to give us any trouble?”
“I’ve already seen to it, sir.”
“It’s time to finish up, then.”
She heard the others moving back into the lobby, their heels clicking against the floorboards with the precision of telegraph equipment. One of them was snickering.
The man in charge had turned away from her, but she could see the others clearly now. All of them stood behind the circle of captives. While she watched, they removed their bandannas and tucked them into their pockets. The leader took a step forward, then put his gun away so he could carefully fold his bandanna and put it in his vest pocket. He stood close enough for her to see his long fingers and his carefully manicured nails.
Why had they removed their masks? Didn’t they realize that Franklin and the others would give the authorities their descriptions….Oh, Go, no….no….no……
“Is the back door open, Mr. Johnson?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“well, then I expect it’s time to leave. Whose turn is it?” he asked.
“Mr. Bell hasn’t taken a turn since the little girl. Remember, sir?
“I remember. Are you up to it today, Mr. Bell?”
“Yes, sir, I believe I am.”
“Then get on with it,” he ordered as he drew his gun and cocked it.
“What are you going to do?” the president asked in a near shout.
“Hush now. I told you no one would get hurt, didn’t I?”
His voice was horrifically soothing. MrCorkle was nodding when the man names Bell fired his shot. The front of the president’s head exploded.
The leader killed the man in front of him, jumping back when the blood from the wound he’d inflicted spewed out.
Franklin cried, “But you promised…..”
The leader whirled toward him and shot him in the back of the head. Franklin’s neck snapped.
“I lied.”
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Viscount Who Loved Me ~ Excerpt
Excerpt
Chapter One
The topic of rakes has, of course, been previously discussed in this column, and This Author has come to the conclusion that there are rakes, and there are Rakes.
Anthony Bridgerton is a Rake.
A rake (lower-class) is youthful and immature. He flaunts his exploits, behaves with utmost idiocy, and thinks himself dangerous to women.
He doesn’t flaunt his exploits because he doesn’t need to. He knows he will be whispered about by men and women alike, and in fact, he’s rather they didn’t whisper about him at all. He knows who he is and what he has done; further recountings are, to him, redundant.
He doesn’t behave like an idiot for the simple reason that he isn’t an idiot (moreso than must be expected among all members of the male gender). He has little patience for the foibles of society, and quite frankly, most of the time This Author cannot say she blames him.
And if that doesn’t describe Viscount Bridgeton – surely this season’s most eligible bachelor – to perfection, This Author shall retire Her quill immediately. The only questions is : Will 1814 be the season he finally succumbs to the exquisite bliss of matrimony?
This Author Thinks …..
Not.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 APRIL 1814
“Please don’t tell me,” Kate Sheffield said to the room at large, “that she is writing about Viscount Bridgerton again.”
Her half-sister Edwina, younger by almost four years, looked up from behind the single-sheet newspaper. “How could you tell?”
“You’re giggling like a madwoman.”
Edwina giggled, shaking the blue damask sofa on which they both sat.
“See?” Kate said, giving her a little poke in the arm. “You always giggle when she writes about some reprehensible rogue.” But Kate grinned. There was little she liked better than teasing her sister. In a good-natured manner, of course.
Mary Sheffield, Edwina’s mother, and Kate’s stepmother for nearly eighteen years, glanced up from her embroidery and pushed her spectacles farther up the bridge of her nose. “What are you two laughing about?”
“Kate’s in a snit because Lady Whistledown is writing about that rakish viscount again,” Edwina explained.
“I’m not in a snit,” Kate said, even though no one was listening.
“Bridgerton?” Mary asked absently.
Edwina nodded.”Yes”
“She always writes about him.”
“I think she just likes writing about rakes,” Edwina commented.
“Of course she likes writing about rakes,” Kate retorted. “If she wrote about boring people, no one would buy her newspaper.”
“That’s not true,” Edwina replies. “Just last week she wrote about us, and heaven knows we’re not the most interesting people in London.”
Kate smiled at her sister’s naïveté. Kate and Mary might not be the most interesting people in London, but Edwina, with her buttery-colored hair and startlingly pale blue eyes, had already been names the Incomparable of 1814. Kate, on the other hand, with her plain brown hair and eyes, was unusually referred to as “the Incomparable’s older sister.”
She supposed there were worse monikers. At least no one had yet begun to call her “the Incomparable’s spinster sister.” Which was a great closer to the truth than any of the Sheffields cared to admit. At twenty (nearly twenty-one, if one was going to be scrupulously honest about it), Kate was a bit long in the tooth to be enjoying her first season in London.
But there hadn't really been any other choice. The Sheffields hadn't been wealthy even when Kate's father had been alive, and since he'd passed on five years earlier, they'd been forced to economize even further. They certainly weren't ready for the poorhouse, but they had to mind every penny and watch every pound.
With their straitened finances, the Sheffields could manage the funds for only one trip to London. Renting a house --and a carriage-- and hiring the bare minimum of servants for the season cost money. More money than they could afford to spend twice. As it was, they'd had to save for five solid years to be able to afford this trip to London. And if the girls weren't successful on the Marriage Mart... Well, no one was going to clap them into debtor's prison, but they would have to look forward to a quiet life of genteel poverty at some charmingly small cottage in Somerset.
And so the two girls were forced to make their debuts in the same year. It had been decided that the most logical time would be when Edwina was just seventeen and Kate almost twenty-one. Mary would have liked to have waited until Edwina was eighteen, and a bit more mature, but that would have made Kate nearly twenty-two, and heavens, but who would have married her then?
Kate smiled wryly. She hadn't even wanted a season. She'd known from the outset that she wasn't the sort who would capture the attention of the ton. She wasn't pretty enough to overcome her lack of dowry, and she'd never learned to simper and mince and walk delicately, and do all those things other girls seemed to know how to do in the cradle. Even Edwina, who didn't have a devious bone in her body, somehow knew how to stand and walk and sigh so that men came to blows just for the honor of helping her cross the street.
Kate, on the other hand, always stood with her shoulders straight and tall, couldn't sit still if her life depended upon it, and walked as if she were in a race--and why not, she always wondered, if one was going somewhere, what could possibly be the point in not getting there quickly?
As for her current season in London, she didn't even like the city very much. Oh, she was having a good enough time, and she'd met quite a few nice people, but a London season seemed a horrible waste of money to a girl who would have been perfectly content to remain in the country and find some sensible man to marry there.
But Mary would have none of that. "When I married your father," she'd said, "I vowed to love you and bring you up with all the care and affection I'd give to a child of my own blood."
Kate had managed to get in a single, "But--" before Mary carried on with, "I have a responsibility to your poor mother, God rest her soul, and part of that responsibility is to see you married off happily and securely."
"I could be happy and secure in the country," Kate had replied.
Mary had countered, "There are more men from which to choose in London."
After which Edwina had joined in, insisting that she would be utterly miserable without her, and since Kate never could bear to see her sister unhappy, her fate had been sealed.
And so here she was -- sitting in a somewhat faded drawing room in a rented house in a section of London that was almost fashionable, and...
She looked about mischievously.
...and she was about to snatch a newspaper from her sister's grasp.
"Kate!" Edwina squealed, her eyes bugging out at the tiny triangle of newsprint that remained between her right thumb and forefinger. "I wasn't done yet!"
"You've been reading it forever," Kate said with a cheeky grin. "Besides, I want to see what she has to say about Viscount Bridgerton today."
Edwina's eyes, which were usually compared to peaceful Scottish lochs, glinted devilishly. "You're awfully interested in the viscount, Kate. Is there something you're not telling us?"
"Don't be silly. I don't even know the man. And if I did, I would probably run in the opposite direction. He is exactly the sort of man the two of us should avoid at all costs. He could probably seduce an iceberg."
"Kate!" Mary exclaimed.
Kate grimaced. She'd forgotten her stepmother was listening. "Well, it's true," she added. "I've heard he's had more mistresses than I've had birthdays."
Mary looked at her for a few seconds, as if trying to decide whether or not she wanted to respond, and then finally she said, "Not that this is an appropriate topic for your ears, but many men have."
"Oh." Kate flushed. There was little less appealing than being decisively contradicted while one was trying to make a grand point. "Well, then, he's had twice as many. Whatever the case, he's far more promiscuous than most men, and not the sort Edwina ought to allow to court her."
"You are enjoying a season as well," Mary reminded her.
Kate shot Mary the most sarcastic of glances. They all knew that if the viscount chose to court a Sheffield, it would not be Kate.
"I don't think there is anything in there that's going to alter your opinion," Edwina said with a shrug as she leaned toward Kate to get a better view of the newspaper. "She doesn't say very much about him, actually. It's more of a treatise on the topic of rakes."
Kate's eyes swept over the typeset words. "Hmmph," she said, her favorite expression of disdain. "I'll wager she's correct. He probably won't come up to scratch this year."
"You always think Lady Whistledown is correct," Mary murmured with a smile.
"She usually is," Kate replied. "You must admit, for a gossip columnist, she displays remarkable good sense. She has certainly been correct in her assessment of all the people I have met thus far in London."
"You should make your own judgments, Kate," Mary said lightly. "It is beneath you to base your opinions upon a gossip column."
Kate knew her stepmother was right, but she didn't want to admit it, and so she just let out another "hmmph," and turned back to the paper in her hands.
Whistledown was, without a doubt, the most interesting reading material in all London. Kate wasn't entirely certain when the gossip column had begun --sometime the previous year, she'd heard-- but one thing was certain. Whoever Lady Whistledown was (and no one really knew who she was) she was a well-connected member of the ton. She had to be. No interloper could ever uncover all the gossip she printed in her columns every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
Lady Whistledown always had all the latest on-dits, and unlike other columnists, she wasn't hesitant about using people's full names. Having decided last week, for example, that Kate didn't look good in yellow, she wrote, clear as day: "The color yellow makes the dark-haired Miss Katharine Sheffield look like a singed daffodil."
Kate hadn't minded the insult. She'd heard it said on more than one occasion that one could not consider oneself "arrived" until one had been insulted by Lady Whistledown. Even Edwina, who was a huge social success by anyone's measure, had been jealous that Kate had been singled out for an insult.
And even though Kate didn't particularly want to be in London for a season, she figured that if she had to participate in the social whirl, she might as well not be a complete and utter failure. If getting insulted in a gossip column was to be her only sign of success, well, then, so be it. Kate would take her triumphs where she may.
Now when Penelope Featherington bragged about being likened to an overripe citrus fruit in her tangerine satin, Kate could wave her arm and sigh with great drama, "Yes, well, I am a singed daffodil."
"Someday," Mary announced out of the blue, giving her spectacles yet another push with her index finger, "someone is going to discover that woman's true identity, and then she's going to be in trouble."
Edwina looked at her mother with interest. "Do you really think someone will ferret her out? She has managed to keep her secret for over a year now."
"Nothing that big can stay a secret forever," Mary replied. She jabbed her embroidery with her needle, pulling a long strand of yellow thread through the fabric. "Mark my words. It's all going to come out sooner or later, and when it does, a scandal the likes of which you have never seen is going to erupt all over town."
"Well, if I knew who she was," Kate announced, flipping the single-sheet newspaper over to page two, "I'd probably make her my best friend. She's fiendishly entertaining. And no matter what anyone says, she's almost always right."
Just then, Newton, Kate's somewhat overweight corgi, trotted into the room.
"Isn't that dog supposed to stay outside?" Mary asked. Then she yelped, "Kate!" as the dog angled over to her feet and panted as if waiting for a kiss.
"Newton, come here this minute," Kate ordered.
The dog gazed longingly at Mary, then waddled over to Kate, hopped up onto the sofa, and laid his front paws across her lap.
"He's covering you with fur," Edwina said.
Kate shrugged as she stroked his thick, caramel-colored coat. "I don't mind."
Edwina sighed, but she reached out and gave Newton a quick pat, anyway. "What else does she say?" she asked, leaning forward with interest. "I never did get to see page two."
Kate smiled at her sister's sarcasm. "Not much. A little something about the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, who apparently arrived in town earlier this week, a list of the food at Lady Danbury's ball, which she proclaimed 'surprisingly delicious,' and a rather unfortunate description of Mrs. Featherington's gown Monday last."
Edwina frowned. "She does seem to pick on the Featheringtons quite a bit."
"And no wonder," Mary said, setting down her embroidery as she stood up. "That woman wouldn't know how to pick out a dress color for her girls if a rainbow wrapped itself right around her neck."
"Mother!" Edwina exclaimed.
Kate clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. Mary rarely made such opinionated pronouncements, but when she did, they were always marvelous.
"Well, it's true. She keeps dressing her youngest in tangerine. Anyone can see that poor girl needs a blue or a mint green."
"You dressed me in yellow," Kate reminded her.
"And I'm sorry I did. That will teach me to listen to a shopgirl. I should never have doubted my own judgment. We'll simply have to have that one cut down for Edwina."
Since Edwina was a full head shorter than Kate, and several shades more delicate, this would not be a problem.
"When you do," Kate said, turning to her sister, "make sure you eliminate the ruffle on the sleeve. It's dreadfully distracting. And it itches. I had half a mind to rip it off right there at the Ashbourne ball."
Mary rolled her eyes. "I am both surprised and thankful that you saw fit to restrain yourself."
"I am surprised but not thankful," Edwina said with a mischievous smile. "Just think of the fun Lady Whistledown would have had with that."
"Ah yes," Kate said, returning her grin. "I can see it now. 'The singed daffodil rips off her petals. More details to follow.' "
"I am going upstairs," Mary announced, shaking her head at her daughters' antics. "Do try not to forget that we have a party to attend this evening. You girls may want to get a bit of rest before we go out. It's sure to be another late night for us."
Kate and Edwina nodded and murmured promises to that effect as Mary gathered her embroidery and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Edwina turned to Kate and asked, "Have you decided what you're going to wear tonight?"
"The green gauze, I think. I should wear white, I know, but I fear it does not suit me."
"If you don't wear white," Edwina said loyally, "then neither shall I. I shall wear my blue muslin."
Kate nodded her approval as she glanced back at the newspaper in her hand, trying to balance Newton, who had flipped over onto his back and was angling to have his belly rubbed. "Just last week Mr. Berbrooke said you are an angel in blue. On account of it matching your eyes so well."
Edwina blinked in surprise. "Mr. Berbrooke said that? To you?"
Kate looked back up. "Of course. All of your swain try to pass on their compliments through me."
"They do? Whyever?"
Kate smiled slowly and indulgently. "Well, now, Edwina, it might have something to do with the time you announced to the entire audience at the Smythe-Smith musicale that you could never marry without your sister's approval."
Edwina's cheeks turned just the slightest bit pink. "It wasn't the entire audience," she mumbled.
"It might as well have been. The news traveled faster than fire on rooftops. I wasn't even in the room at the time and it only took two minutes for me to hear about it."
Edwina crossed her arms and let out a "hmmph" that made her sound rather like her older sister. "Well, it's true, and I don't care who knows it. I know I'm expected to make a grand and brilliant match, but I don't have to marry someone who will ill-treat me. Anyone with the fortitude to actually impress you would have to be up to snuff."
"Am I so difficult to impress, then?"
The two sisters looked at each other, then answered in unison, "Yes."
But as Kate laughed along with Edwina, a niggling sense of guilt rose within her. All three Sheffields knew that it would be Edwina who would snag a nobleman or marry into a fortune. It would be Edwina who would ensure that her family would not have to live out their lives in genteel poverty. Edwina was a beauty, while Kate was...
Kate was Kate.
Kate didn't mind. Edwina's beauty was simply a fact of life. There were certain truths Kate had long since come to accept. Kate would never learn to waltz without trying to take the lead; she'd always be afraid of electrical storms, no matter how often she told herself she was being silly; and no matter what she wore, no matter how she dressed her hair or pinched her cheeks, she'd never be as pretty as Edwina.
Besides, Kate wasn't certain that she'd like all the attention Edwina received. Nor, she was coming to realize, would she relish the responsibility of having to marry well to provide for her mother and sister.
"Edwina," Kate said softly, her eyes growing serious, "you don't have to marry anyone you don't like. You know that."
Edwina nodded, suddenly looking as if she might cry.
"If you decide there isn't a single gentleman in London who is good enough for you, then so be it. We shall simply go back to Somerset and enjoy our own company. There's no one I like better, anyway."
"Nor I," Edwina whispered.
"And if you do find a man who sweeps you off your feet, then Mary and I shall be delighted. You should not worry about leaving us, either. We shall get on fine with each other for company."
"You might find someone to marry as well," Edwina pointed out.
Kate felt her lips twist into a small smile. "I might," she allowed, knowing that it probably wasn't true. She didn't want to remain a spinster her entire life, but she doubted she would find a husband here in London. "Perhaps one of your lovesick suitors will turn to me once he realizes you are unattainable," she teased.
Edwina swatted her with a pillow. "Don't be silly."
"But I'm not!" Kate protested. And she wasn't. Quite frankly, this seemed to her the most likely avenue by which she might actually find a husband in town.
"Do you know what sort of man I'd like to marry?" Edwina asked, her eyes turning dreamy.
Kate shook her head.
"A scholar."
"A scholar?"
"A scholar," Edwina said firmly.
Kate cleared her throat. "I'm not certain you'll find many of those in town for the season."
"I know." Edwina let out a little sigh. "But the truth is --and you know this even if I am not supposed to let on in public-- I'm really rather bookish. I'd much rather spend my day in a library than gadding about in Hyde Park. I think I should enjoy life with man who enjoyed scholarly pursuits as well."
"Right. Hmmm..." Kate's mind worked frantically. Edwina wasn't likely to find a scholar back in Somerset either. "You know, Edwina, it might be difficult to find you a true scholar outside the university towns. You might have to settle for a man who likes to read and learn as you do."
"That would be all right," Edwina said happily. "I'd be quite content with an amateur scholar."
Kate breathed a sigh of relief. Surely they could find someone in London who liked to read.
"And do you know what," Edwina added. "You truly cannot tell a book by its cover. All sorts of people are amateur scholars. Why even that Viscount Bridgerton Lady Whistledown keeps talking about might be a scholar at heart."
"Bite your tongue, Edwina. You are not to have anything to do with Viscount Bridgerton. Everyone knows he is the worst sort of rake. In fact, he's the worst rake, period. In all London. In the entire country!"
"I know, I was just using him as an example. Besides, he's not likely to choose a bride this year, anyway. Lady Whistledown said so, and you yourself said that she is almost always right."
Kate patted her sister on the arm. "Don't worry. We will find you a suitable husband. But not-- not not not not not Viscount Bridgerton!"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
At that very moment, the subject of their discussion was relaxing at White's with two of his three younger brothers, enjoying a late afternoon drink.
Anthony Bridgerton leaned back in his leather chair, regarded his scotch with a thoughtful expression as he swirled it about, and then announced, "I'm thinking about getting married."
Benedict Bridgerton, who had been indulging in a habit his mother detested --tipping his chair drunkenly on the back two legs-- fell over.
Colin Bridgerton started to choke.
Luckily for Colin, Benedict regained his seat with enough time to smack him soundly on the back, sending a green olive sailing across the table.
It narrowly missed Anthony's ear.
Anthony let the indignity pass without comment. He was all too aware that his sudden declaration had come as a bit of a surprise.
Well, perhaps more than a bit. "Complete," "total," and "utter" were words that came to mind.
Anthony knew that he did not fit the image of a man who had settling down on his mind. He'd spent the last decade as the worst sort of rake, taking pleasure where he may. For as he well knew, life was short and certainly meant to be enjoyed. Oh, he'd had a certain code of honor. He never dallied with well-bred young women. Anyone who might have any right to demand marriage was strictly off-limits.
With four younger sisters of his own, Anthony had a healthy degree of respect for the good reputations of gently-bred women. He'd already nearly fought a duel for one of his sisters, all over a slight to her honor. And as for the other three... He freely admitted that he broke out in a cold sweat at the mere thought of their getting involved with a man who bore a reputation like his.
No, he certainly wasn't about to despoil some other gentleman's younger sister.
But as for the other sort of women-- the widows and actresses who knew what they wanted and what they were getting into-- he'd enjoyed their company and enjoyed it well. Since the day he left Oxford and headed west to London, he'd not been without a mistress.
Sometimes, he thought wryly, he'd not been without two.
He'd ridden in nearly every horse race society had to offer, he'd boxed at Gentleman Jackson's, and he'd won more card games than he could count. (He'd lost a few, too, but he disregarded those.) He'd spent the decade of his twenties in a mindful pursuit of pleasure, tempered only by his overwhelming sense of responsibility to his family.
Edmund Bridgerton's death had been both sudden and unexpected; he'd not had a chance to make any final requests of his eldest son before he perished. But if he had, Anthony was certain that he would have asked him to care for his mother and siblings with same diligence and affection Edmund had displayed.
And so in between Anthony's rounds of parties and horseraces, he'd sent his brothers to Eton and Oxford, gone to a mind-numbing number of piano recitals given by his sisters (no easy feat; three out of four of them were tone deaf), and kept a close and watchful eye on the family finances. With seven brothers and sisters, he saw it as his duty to make sure there was enough money to secure all of their futures.
As he grew closer to thirty, he'd realized that he was spending more and more time tending to his heritage and family and less and less in his old pursuit of decadence and pleasure. And he'd realized that he liked it that way. He still kept a mistress, but never more than one at a time, and he discovered that he no longer felt the need to enter every horse race or stay late at a party, just to win that last hand of cards.
His reputation, of course, stayed with him. He didn't mind that, actually. There were certain benefits to being thought England's most reprehensible rake. He was nearly universally feared, for example.
That was always a good thing.
But now it was time for marriage. He ought to settle down, have a son. He had a title to pass on, after all. He did feel a rather sharp twinge of regret --and perhaps a touch of guilt as well-- over the fact that it was unlikely that he'd live to see his son into adulthood. But what could he do? He was the firstborn Bridgerton of a firstborn Bridgerton of a firstborn Bridgerton eight times over. He had a dynastic responsibility to be fruitful and multiply.
Besides, he took some comfort in knowing that he'd leave three able and caring brothers behind. They'd see to it that his son was brought up with the love and honor that every Bridgerton enjoyed. His sisters would coddle the boy, and his mother might spoil him...
Anthony actually smiled a bit as he thought of his large and often boisterous family. His son would not need a father to be well-loved. And whatever children he sired-- well, they probably wouldn't remember him after he was gone. They'd be young, unformed. It had not escaped Anthony's notice that of all the Bridgerton children, he, the eldest, was the one most deeply affected by their father's death.
Anthony downed another sip of his scotch and straightened his shoulders, pushing such unpleasant ruminations from his mind. He needed to focus on the matter at hand, namely, the pursuit of a wife.
Being a discerning and somewhat organized man, he'd made a mental list of requirements for the position. First, she ought to be reasonably attractive. She needn't be a raving beauty (although that would be nice), but if he was going to have to bed her, he figured a bit of attraction ought to make the job more pleasant.
Second, she couldn't be stupid. This, Anthony mused, might be the most difficult of his requirements to fill. He was not universally impressed by the mental prowess of London debutantes. The last time he'd made the mistake of engaging a young chit fresh out of the schoolroom in conversation, she'd been unable to discuss anything other than food (she'd had a plate of strawberries in her hand at the time) and the weather (and she hadn't even gotten that right; when Anthony had asked if she thought the weather was going to turn inclement, she'd replied, "I'm sure I don't know. I've never been to Clement.")
He might be able to avoid conversation with a wife who was less than brilliant, but he did not want stupid children.
Third--and this was the most important--she couldn't be anyone with whom he might actually fall in love.
Under no circumstances would this rule be broken.
He wasn't a complete cynic; he knew that true love existed. Anyone who'd ever been in the same room with his parents knew that true love existed.
But love was a complication he wished to avoid. He had no desire for his life to be visited by that particular miracle.
And since Anthony was used to getting what he wanted, he had no doubt that he would find an attractive, intelligent woman with whom he would never fall in love. And what was the problem with that? Chances were he wouldn't have found the love of his life even if he had been looking for her. Most men didn't.
"Good God, Anthony, what has you frowning so? Not that olive. I saw it clearly and it didn't even touch you."
Benedict's voice broke him out of his reverie, and Anthony blinked a few times before answering, "Nothing. Nothing at all."
He hadn't, of course, shared his thoughts about his own mortality with anyone else, even his brothers. It was not the sort of thing one wanted to advertise. Hell, if someone had come up to him and said the same thing, he probably would have laughed him right out the door.
But no one else could understand the depth of the bond he'd felt with his father. And no one could possibly understand the way Anthony felt it in his bones, how he simply knew that he could not live longer than his father had done. Edmund had been everything to him. He'd always aspired to be as great a man as his father, knowing that that was unlikely, yet trying all the same. To actually achieve more than Edmund had --in any way-- that was nothing short of impossible.
Anthony's father was, quite simply, the greatest man he'd ever known, possibly the greatest man who'd ever lived. To think that he might be more than that seemed conceited in the extreme.
Something had happened to him the night his father had died, when he'd remained in his parents' bedroom with the body, just sitting there for hours, watching his father and trying desperately to remember every moment they'd shared. It would be so easy to forget the little things-- how Edmund would squeeze Anthony's upper arm when he needed encouragement. Or how he could recite from memory Balthazar's entire "Sigh No More," song from Much Ado About Nothing, not because he thought it particularly meaningful but just because he liked it.
And when Anthony finally emerged from the room, the first streaks of dawn pinking the sky, he somehow knew that his days were numbered, and numbered in the same way Edmund's had been.
"Spit it out," Benedict said, breaking into his thoughts once again. "I won't offer you a penny for your thoughts, since I know they can't possibly be worth that much, but what are you thinking about?"
Anthony suddenly sat up straighter, determined to force his attention back to the matter at hand. After all, he had a bride to choose, and that was surely serious business. "Who is considered the diamond of this season?" he asked.
His brothers paused for a moment to think on this, and then Colin said, "Edwina Sheffield. Surely you've seen her. Rather petite, with blond hair and blue eyes. You can usually spot her by the sheeplike crowd of lovesick suitors following her about."
Anthony ignored his brother's attempts at sarcastic humor. "Has she a brain?"
Colin blinked, as if the question of a woman with a brain was one that had never occurred to him. "Yes, I rather think she does. I once heard her discussing mythology with Middlethorpe, and it sounded as if she had the right of it."
"Good," Anthony said, letting his glass of scotch hit the table with a thunk. "Then I'll marry her."
Copyright © 2000 by Julia Cotler Pottinger
Chapter One
The topic of rakes has, of course, been previously discussed in this column, and This Author has come to the conclusion that there are rakes, and there are Rakes.
Anthony Bridgerton is a Rake.
A rake (lower-class) is youthful and immature. He flaunts his exploits, behaves with utmost idiocy, and thinks himself dangerous to women.
He doesn’t flaunt his exploits because he doesn’t need to. He knows he will be whispered about by men and women alike, and in fact, he’s rather they didn’t whisper about him at all. He knows who he is and what he has done; further recountings are, to him, redundant.
He doesn’t behave like an idiot for the simple reason that he isn’t an idiot (moreso than must be expected among all members of the male gender). He has little patience for the foibles of society, and quite frankly, most of the time This Author cannot say she blames him.
And if that doesn’t describe Viscount Bridgeton – surely this season’s most eligible bachelor – to perfection, This Author shall retire Her quill immediately. The only questions is : Will 1814 be the season he finally succumbs to the exquisite bliss of matrimony?
This Author Thinks …..
Not.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 APRIL 1814
“Please don’t tell me,” Kate Sheffield said to the room at large, “that she is writing about Viscount Bridgerton again.”
Her half-sister Edwina, younger by almost four years, looked up from behind the single-sheet newspaper. “How could you tell?”
“You’re giggling like a madwoman.”
Edwina giggled, shaking the blue damask sofa on which they both sat.
“See?” Kate said, giving her a little poke in the arm. “You always giggle when she writes about some reprehensible rogue.” But Kate grinned. There was little she liked better than teasing her sister. In a good-natured manner, of course.
Mary Sheffield, Edwina’s mother, and Kate’s stepmother for nearly eighteen years, glanced up from her embroidery and pushed her spectacles farther up the bridge of her nose. “What are you two laughing about?”
“Kate’s in a snit because Lady Whistledown is writing about that rakish viscount again,” Edwina explained.
“I’m not in a snit,” Kate said, even though no one was listening.
“Bridgerton?” Mary asked absently.
Edwina nodded.”Yes”
“She always writes about him.”
“I think she just likes writing about rakes,” Edwina commented.
“Of course she likes writing about rakes,” Kate retorted. “If she wrote about boring people, no one would buy her newspaper.”
“That’s not true,” Edwina replies. “Just last week she wrote about us, and heaven knows we’re not the most interesting people in London.”
Kate smiled at her sister’s naïveté. Kate and Mary might not be the most interesting people in London, but Edwina, with her buttery-colored hair and startlingly pale blue eyes, had already been names the Incomparable of 1814. Kate, on the other hand, with her plain brown hair and eyes, was unusually referred to as “the Incomparable’s older sister.”
She supposed there were worse monikers. At least no one had yet begun to call her “the Incomparable’s spinster sister.” Which was a great closer to the truth than any of the Sheffields cared to admit. At twenty (nearly twenty-one, if one was going to be scrupulously honest about it), Kate was a bit long in the tooth to be enjoying her first season in London.
But there hadn't really been any other choice. The Sheffields hadn't been wealthy even when Kate's father had been alive, and since he'd passed on five years earlier, they'd been forced to economize even further. They certainly weren't ready for the poorhouse, but they had to mind every penny and watch every pound.
With their straitened finances, the Sheffields could manage the funds for only one trip to London. Renting a house --and a carriage-- and hiring the bare minimum of servants for the season cost money. More money than they could afford to spend twice. As it was, they'd had to save for five solid years to be able to afford this trip to London. And if the girls weren't successful on the Marriage Mart... Well, no one was going to clap them into debtor's prison, but they would have to look forward to a quiet life of genteel poverty at some charmingly small cottage in Somerset.
And so the two girls were forced to make their debuts in the same year. It had been decided that the most logical time would be when Edwina was just seventeen and Kate almost twenty-one. Mary would have liked to have waited until Edwina was eighteen, and a bit more mature, but that would have made Kate nearly twenty-two, and heavens, but who would have married her then?
Kate smiled wryly. She hadn't even wanted a season. She'd known from the outset that she wasn't the sort who would capture the attention of the ton. She wasn't pretty enough to overcome her lack of dowry, and she'd never learned to simper and mince and walk delicately, and do all those things other girls seemed to know how to do in the cradle. Even Edwina, who didn't have a devious bone in her body, somehow knew how to stand and walk and sigh so that men came to blows just for the honor of helping her cross the street.
Kate, on the other hand, always stood with her shoulders straight and tall, couldn't sit still if her life depended upon it, and walked as if she were in a race--and why not, she always wondered, if one was going somewhere, what could possibly be the point in not getting there quickly?
As for her current season in London, she didn't even like the city very much. Oh, she was having a good enough time, and she'd met quite a few nice people, but a London season seemed a horrible waste of money to a girl who would have been perfectly content to remain in the country and find some sensible man to marry there.
But Mary would have none of that. "When I married your father," she'd said, "I vowed to love you and bring you up with all the care and affection I'd give to a child of my own blood."
Kate had managed to get in a single, "But--" before Mary carried on with, "I have a responsibility to your poor mother, God rest her soul, and part of that responsibility is to see you married off happily and securely."
"I could be happy and secure in the country," Kate had replied.
Mary had countered, "There are more men from which to choose in London."
After which Edwina had joined in, insisting that she would be utterly miserable without her, and since Kate never could bear to see her sister unhappy, her fate had been sealed.
And so here she was -- sitting in a somewhat faded drawing room in a rented house in a section of London that was almost fashionable, and...
She looked about mischievously.
...and she was about to snatch a newspaper from her sister's grasp.
"Kate!" Edwina squealed, her eyes bugging out at the tiny triangle of newsprint that remained between her right thumb and forefinger. "I wasn't done yet!"
"You've been reading it forever," Kate said with a cheeky grin. "Besides, I want to see what she has to say about Viscount Bridgerton today."
Edwina's eyes, which were usually compared to peaceful Scottish lochs, glinted devilishly. "You're awfully interested in the viscount, Kate. Is there something you're not telling us?"
"Don't be silly. I don't even know the man. And if I did, I would probably run in the opposite direction. He is exactly the sort of man the two of us should avoid at all costs. He could probably seduce an iceberg."
"Kate!" Mary exclaimed.
Kate grimaced. She'd forgotten her stepmother was listening. "Well, it's true," she added. "I've heard he's had more mistresses than I've had birthdays."
Mary looked at her for a few seconds, as if trying to decide whether or not she wanted to respond, and then finally she said, "Not that this is an appropriate topic for your ears, but many men have."
"Oh." Kate flushed. There was little less appealing than being decisively contradicted while one was trying to make a grand point. "Well, then, he's had twice as many. Whatever the case, he's far more promiscuous than most men, and not the sort Edwina ought to allow to court her."
"You are enjoying a season as well," Mary reminded her.
Kate shot Mary the most sarcastic of glances. They all knew that if the viscount chose to court a Sheffield, it would not be Kate.
"I don't think there is anything in there that's going to alter your opinion," Edwina said with a shrug as she leaned toward Kate to get a better view of the newspaper. "She doesn't say very much about him, actually. It's more of a treatise on the topic of rakes."
Kate's eyes swept over the typeset words. "Hmmph," she said, her favorite expression of disdain. "I'll wager she's correct. He probably won't come up to scratch this year."
"You always think Lady Whistledown is correct," Mary murmured with a smile.
"She usually is," Kate replied. "You must admit, for a gossip columnist, she displays remarkable good sense. She has certainly been correct in her assessment of all the people I have met thus far in London."
"You should make your own judgments, Kate," Mary said lightly. "It is beneath you to base your opinions upon a gossip column."
Kate knew her stepmother was right, but she didn't want to admit it, and so she just let out another "hmmph," and turned back to the paper in her hands.
Whistledown was, without a doubt, the most interesting reading material in all London. Kate wasn't entirely certain when the gossip column had begun --sometime the previous year, she'd heard-- but one thing was certain. Whoever Lady Whistledown was (and no one really knew who she was) she was a well-connected member of the ton. She had to be. No interloper could ever uncover all the gossip she printed in her columns every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
Lady Whistledown always had all the latest on-dits, and unlike other columnists, she wasn't hesitant about using people's full names. Having decided last week, for example, that Kate didn't look good in yellow, she wrote, clear as day: "The color yellow makes the dark-haired Miss Katharine Sheffield look like a singed daffodil."
Kate hadn't minded the insult. She'd heard it said on more than one occasion that one could not consider oneself "arrived" until one had been insulted by Lady Whistledown. Even Edwina, who was a huge social success by anyone's measure, had been jealous that Kate had been singled out for an insult.
And even though Kate didn't particularly want to be in London for a season, she figured that if she had to participate in the social whirl, she might as well not be a complete and utter failure. If getting insulted in a gossip column was to be her only sign of success, well, then, so be it. Kate would take her triumphs where she may.
Now when Penelope Featherington bragged about being likened to an overripe citrus fruit in her tangerine satin, Kate could wave her arm and sigh with great drama, "Yes, well, I am a singed daffodil."
"Someday," Mary announced out of the blue, giving her spectacles yet another push with her index finger, "someone is going to discover that woman's true identity, and then she's going to be in trouble."
Edwina looked at her mother with interest. "Do you really think someone will ferret her out? She has managed to keep her secret for over a year now."
"Nothing that big can stay a secret forever," Mary replied. She jabbed her embroidery with her needle, pulling a long strand of yellow thread through the fabric. "Mark my words. It's all going to come out sooner or later, and when it does, a scandal the likes of which you have never seen is going to erupt all over town."
"Well, if I knew who she was," Kate announced, flipping the single-sheet newspaper over to page two, "I'd probably make her my best friend. She's fiendishly entertaining. And no matter what anyone says, she's almost always right."
Just then, Newton, Kate's somewhat overweight corgi, trotted into the room.
"Isn't that dog supposed to stay outside?" Mary asked. Then she yelped, "Kate!" as the dog angled over to her feet and panted as if waiting for a kiss.
"Newton, come here this minute," Kate ordered.
The dog gazed longingly at Mary, then waddled over to Kate, hopped up onto the sofa, and laid his front paws across her lap.
"He's covering you with fur," Edwina said.
Kate shrugged as she stroked his thick, caramel-colored coat. "I don't mind."
Edwina sighed, but she reached out and gave Newton a quick pat, anyway. "What else does she say?" she asked, leaning forward with interest. "I never did get to see page two."
Kate smiled at her sister's sarcasm. "Not much. A little something about the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, who apparently arrived in town earlier this week, a list of the food at Lady Danbury's ball, which she proclaimed 'surprisingly delicious,' and a rather unfortunate description of Mrs. Featherington's gown Monday last."
Edwina frowned. "She does seem to pick on the Featheringtons quite a bit."
"And no wonder," Mary said, setting down her embroidery as she stood up. "That woman wouldn't know how to pick out a dress color for her girls if a rainbow wrapped itself right around her neck."
"Mother!" Edwina exclaimed.
Kate clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. Mary rarely made such opinionated pronouncements, but when she did, they were always marvelous.
"Well, it's true. She keeps dressing her youngest in tangerine. Anyone can see that poor girl needs a blue or a mint green."
"You dressed me in yellow," Kate reminded her.
"And I'm sorry I did. That will teach me to listen to a shopgirl. I should never have doubted my own judgment. We'll simply have to have that one cut down for Edwina."
Since Edwina was a full head shorter than Kate, and several shades more delicate, this would not be a problem.
"When you do," Kate said, turning to her sister, "make sure you eliminate the ruffle on the sleeve. It's dreadfully distracting. And it itches. I had half a mind to rip it off right there at the Ashbourne ball."
Mary rolled her eyes. "I am both surprised and thankful that you saw fit to restrain yourself."
"I am surprised but not thankful," Edwina said with a mischievous smile. "Just think of the fun Lady Whistledown would have had with that."
"Ah yes," Kate said, returning her grin. "I can see it now. 'The singed daffodil rips off her petals. More details to follow.' "
"I am going upstairs," Mary announced, shaking her head at her daughters' antics. "Do try not to forget that we have a party to attend this evening. You girls may want to get a bit of rest before we go out. It's sure to be another late night for us."
Kate and Edwina nodded and murmured promises to that effect as Mary gathered her embroidery and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Edwina turned to Kate and asked, "Have you decided what you're going to wear tonight?"
"The green gauze, I think. I should wear white, I know, but I fear it does not suit me."
"If you don't wear white," Edwina said loyally, "then neither shall I. I shall wear my blue muslin."
Kate nodded her approval as she glanced back at the newspaper in her hand, trying to balance Newton, who had flipped over onto his back and was angling to have his belly rubbed. "Just last week Mr. Berbrooke said you are an angel in blue. On account of it matching your eyes so well."
Edwina blinked in surprise. "Mr. Berbrooke said that? To you?"
Kate looked back up. "Of course. All of your swain try to pass on their compliments through me."
"They do? Whyever?"
Kate smiled slowly and indulgently. "Well, now, Edwina, it might have something to do with the time you announced to the entire audience at the Smythe-Smith musicale that you could never marry without your sister's approval."
Edwina's cheeks turned just the slightest bit pink. "It wasn't the entire audience," she mumbled.
"It might as well have been. The news traveled faster than fire on rooftops. I wasn't even in the room at the time and it only took two minutes for me to hear about it."
Edwina crossed her arms and let out a "hmmph" that made her sound rather like her older sister. "Well, it's true, and I don't care who knows it. I know I'm expected to make a grand and brilliant match, but I don't have to marry someone who will ill-treat me. Anyone with the fortitude to actually impress you would have to be up to snuff."
"Am I so difficult to impress, then?"
The two sisters looked at each other, then answered in unison, "Yes."
But as Kate laughed along with Edwina, a niggling sense of guilt rose within her. All three Sheffields knew that it would be Edwina who would snag a nobleman or marry into a fortune. It would be Edwina who would ensure that her family would not have to live out their lives in genteel poverty. Edwina was a beauty, while Kate was...
Kate was Kate.
Kate didn't mind. Edwina's beauty was simply a fact of life. There were certain truths Kate had long since come to accept. Kate would never learn to waltz without trying to take the lead; she'd always be afraid of electrical storms, no matter how often she told herself she was being silly; and no matter what she wore, no matter how she dressed her hair or pinched her cheeks, she'd never be as pretty as Edwina.
Besides, Kate wasn't certain that she'd like all the attention Edwina received. Nor, she was coming to realize, would she relish the responsibility of having to marry well to provide for her mother and sister.
"Edwina," Kate said softly, her eyes growing serious, "you don't have to marry anyone you don't like. You know that."
Edwina nodded, suddenly looking as if she might cry.
"If you decide there isn't a single gentleman in London who is good enough for you, then so be it. We shall simply go back to Somerset and enjoy our own company. There's no one I like better, anyway."
"Nor I," Edwina whispered.
"And if you do find a man who sweeps you off your feet, then Mary and I shall be delighted. You should not worry about leaving us, either. We shall get on fine with each other for company."
"You might find someone to marry as well," Edwina pointed out.
Kate felt her lips twist into a small smile. "I might," she allowed, knowing that it probably wasn't true. She didn't want to remain a spinster her entire life, but she doubted she would find a husband here in London. "Perhaps one of your lovesick suitors will turn to me once he realizes you are unattainable," she teased.
Edwina swatted her with a pillow. "Don't be silly."
"But I'm not!" Kate protested. And she wasn't. Quite frankly, this seemed to her the most likely avenue by which she might actually find a husband in town.
"Do you know what sort of man I'd like to marry?" Edwina asked, her eyes turning dreamy.
Kate shook her head.
"A scholar."
"A scholar?"
"A scholar," Edwina said firmly.
Kate cleared her throat. "I'm not certain you'll find many of those in town for the season."
"I know." Edwina let out a little sigh. "But the truth is --and you know this even if I am not supposed to let on in public-- I'm really rather bookish. I'd much rather spend my day in a library than gadding about in Hyde Park. I think I should enjoy life with man who enjoyed scholarly pursuits as well."
"Right. Hmmm..." Kate's mind worked frantically. Edwina wasn't likely to find a scholar back in Somerset either. "You know, Edwina, it might be difficult to find you a true scholar outside the university towns. You might have to settle for a man who likes to read and learn as you do."
"That would be all right," Edwina said happily. "I'd be quite content with an amateur scholar."
Kate breathed a sigh of relief. Surely they could find someone in London who liked to read.
"And do you know what," Edwina added. "You truly cannot tell a book by its cover. All sorts of people are amateur scholars. Why even that Viscount Bridgerton Lady Whistledown keeps talking about might be a scholar at heart."
"Bite your tongue, Edwina. You are not to have anything to do with Viscount Bridgerton. Everyone knows he is the worst sort of rake. In fact, he's the worst rake, period. In all London. In the entire country!"
"I know, I was just using him as an example. Besides, he's not likely to choose a bride this year, anyway. Lady Whistledown said so, and you yourself said that she is almost always right."
Kate patted her sister on the arm. "Don't worry. We will find you a suitable husband. But not-- not not not not not Viscount Bridgerton!"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
At that very moment, the subject of their discussion was relaxing at White's with two of his three younger brothers, enjoying a late afternoon drink.
Anthony Bridgerton leaned back in his leather chair, regarded his scotch with a thoughtful expression as he swirled it about, and then announced, "I'm thinking about getting married."
Benedict Bridgerton, who had been indulging in a habit his mother detested --tipping his chair drunkenly on the back two legs-- fell over.
Colin Bridgerton started to choke.
Luckily for Colin, Benedict regained his seat with enough time to smack him soundly on the back, sending a green olive sailing across the table.
It narrowly missed Anthony's ear.
Anthony let the indignity pass without comment. He was all too aware that his sudden declaration had come as a bit of a surprise.
Well, perhaps more than a bit. "Complete," "total," and "utter" were words that came to mind.
Anthony knew that he did not fit the image of a man who had settling down on his mind. He'd spent the last decade as the worst sort of rake, taking pleasure where he may. For as he well knew, life was short and certainly meant to be enjoyed. Oh, he'd had a certain code of honor. He never dallied with well-bred young women. Anyone who might have any right to demand marriage was strictly off-limits.
With four younger sisters of his own, Anthony had a healthy degree of respect for the good reputations of gently-bred women. He'd already nearly fought a duel for one of his sisters, all over a slight to her honor. And as for the other three... He freely admitted that he broke out in a cold sweat at the mere thought of their getting involved with a man who bore a reputation like his.
No, he certainly wasn't about to despoil some other gentleman's younger sister.
But as for the other sort of women-- the widows and actresses who knew what they wanted and what they were getting into-- he'd enjoyed their company and enjoyed it well. Since the day he left Oxford and headed west to London, he'd not been without a mistress.
Sometimes, he thought wryly, he'd not been without two.
He'd ridden in nearly every horse race society had to offer, he'd boxed at Gentleman Jackson's, and he'd won more card games than he could count. (He'd lost a few, too, but he disregarded those.) He'd spent the decade of his twenties in a mindful pursuit of pleasure, tempered only by his overwhelming sense of responsibility to his family.
Edmund Bridgerton's death had been both sudden and unexpected; he'd not had a chance to make any final requests of his eldest son before he perished. But if he had, Anthony was certain that he would have asked him to care for his mother and siblings with same diligence and affection Edmund had displayed.
And so in between Anthony's rounds of parties and horseraces, he'd sent his brothers to Eton and Oxford, gone to a mind-numbing number of piano recitals given by his sisters (no easy feat; three out of four of them were tone deaf), and kept a close and watchful eye on the family finances. With seven brothers and sisters, he saw it as his duty to make sure there was enough money to secure all of their futures.
As he grew closer to thirty, he'd realized that he was spending more and more time tending to his heritage and family and less and less in his old pursuit of decadence and pleasure. And he'd realized that he liked it that way. He still kept a mistress, but never more than one at a time, and he discovered that he no longer felt the need to enter every horse race or stay late at a party, just to win that last hand of cards.
His reputation, of course, stayed with him. He didn't mind that, actually. There were certain benefits to being thought England's most reprehensible rake. He was nearly universally feared, for example.
That was always a good thing.
But now it was time for marriage. He ought to settle down, have a son. He had a title to pass on, after all. He did feel a rather sharp twinge of regret --and perhaps a touch of guilt as well-- over the fact that it was unlikely that he'd live to see his son into adulthood. But what could he do? He was the firstborn Bridgerton of a firstborn Bridgerton of a firstborn Bridgerton eight times over. He had a dynastic responsibility to be fruitful and multiply.
Besides, he took some comfort in knowing that he'd leave three able and caring brothers behind. They'd see to it that his son was brought up with the love and honor that every Bridgerton enjoyed. His sisters would coddle the boy, and his mother might spoil him...
Anthony actually smiled a bit as he thought of his large and often boisterous family. His son would not need a father to be well-loved. And whatever children he sired-- well, they probably wouldn't remember him after he was gone. They'd be young, unformed. It had not escaped Anthony's notice that of all the Bridgerton children, he, the eldest, was the one most deeply affected by their father's death.
Anthony downed another sip of his scotch and straightened his shoulders, pushing such unpleasant ruminations from his mind. He needed to focus on the matter at hand, namely, the pursuit of a wife.
Being a discerning and somewhat organized man, he'd made a mental list of requirements for the position. First, she ought to be reasonably attractive. She needn't be a raving beauty (although that would be nice), but if he was going to have to bed her, he figured a bit of attraction ought to make the job more pleasant.
Second, she couldn't be stupid. This, Anthony mused, might be the most difficult of his requirements to fill. He was not universally impressed by the mental prowess of London debutantes. The last time he'd made the mistake of engaging a young chit fresh out of the schoolroom in conversation, she'd been unable to discuss anything other than food (she'd had a plate of strawberries in her hand at the time) and the weather (and she hadn't even gotten that right; when Anthony had asked if she thought the weather was going to turn inclement, she'd replied, "I'm sure I don't know. I've never been to Clement.")
He might be able to avoid conversation with a wife who was less than brilliant, but he did not want stupid children.
Third--and this was the most important--she couldn't be anyone with whom he might actually fall in love.
Under no circumstances would this rule be broken.
He wasn't a complete cynic; he knew that true love existed. Anyone who'd ever been in the same room with his parents knew that true love existed.
But love was a complication he wished to avoid. He had no desire for his life to be visited by that particular miracle.
And since Anthony was used to getting what he wanted, he had no doubt that he would find an attractive, intelligent woman with whom he would never fall in love. And what was the problem with that? Chances were he wouldn't have found the love of his life even if he had been looking for her. Most men didn't.
"Good God, Anthony, what has you frowning so? Not that olive. I saw it clearly and it didn't even touch you."
Benedict's voice broke him out of his reverie, and Anthony blinked a few times before answering, "Nothing. Nothing at all."
He hadn't, of course, shared his thoughts about his own mortality with anyone else, even his brothers. It was not the sort of thing one wanted to advertise. Hell, if someone had come up to him and said the same thing, he probably would have laughed him right out the door.
But no one else could understand the depth of the bond he'd felt with his father. And no one could possibly understand the way Anthony felt it in his bones, how he simply knew that he could not live longer than his father had done. Edmund had been everything to him. He'd always aspired to be as great a man as his father, knowing that that was unlikely, yet trying all the same. To actually achieve more than Edmund had --in any way-- that was nothing short of impossible.
Anthony's father was, quite simply, the greatest man he'd ever known, possibly the greatest man who'd ever lived. To think that he might be more than that seemed conceited in the extreme.
Something had happened to him the night his father had died, when he'd remained in his parents' bedroom with the body, just sitting there for hours, watching his father and trying desperately to remember every moment they'd shared. It would be so easy to forget the little things-- how Edmund would squeeze Anthony's upper arm when he needed encouragement. Or how he could recite from memory Balthazar's entire "Sigh No More," song from Much Ado About Nothing, not because he thought it particularly meaningful but just because he liked it.
And when Anthony finally emerged from the room, the first streaks of dawn pinking the sky, he somehow knew that his days were numbered, and numbered in the same way Edmund's had been.
"Spit it out," Benedict said, breaking into his thoughts once again. "I won't offer you a penny for your thoughts, since I know they can't possibly be worth that much, but what are you thinking about?"
Anthony suddenly sat up straighter, determined to force his attention back to the matter at hand. After all, he had a bride to choose, and that was surely serious business. "Who is considered the diamond of this season?" he asked.
His brothers paused for a moment to think on this, and then Colin said, "Edwina Sheffield. Surely you've seen her. Rather petite, with blond hair and blue eyes. You can usually spot her by the sheeplike crowd of lovesick suitors following her about."
Anthony ignored his brother's attempts at sarcastic humor. "Has she a brain?"
Colin blinked, as if the question of a woman with a brain was one that had never occurred to him. "Yes, I rather think she does. I once heard her discussing mythology with Middlethorpe, and it sounded as if she had the right of it."
"Good," Anthony said, letting his glass of scotch hit the table with a thunk. "Then I'll marry her."
Copyright © 2000 by Julia Cotler Pottinger
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Affair by Amanda Quick
Excerpt
Chapter One
London, three years later
“You leave me no opinion but to be blunt, Mr. St Ives. Unfortunately, the truth is the matter is that you are not what I had in mind in the way of a man-of affairs.” Charlotte Arkendale clasped her hands together on top of the wide mahogany desk and regarded Baxter with a critical eye. “I am sorry for the waste of your time.”
The interview was not going well. Baxter adjusted the gold-framed eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and silently vowed that he would not give in to the impulse to grind his back teeth.
“Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I was under the impression that you wished to employ a person who appeared completely innocuous and uninteresting.”
“Quite true.”
“I believe year exact description of the ideal candidate for the position was, and I quote, a person who is a bland as a potato pudding.”
Charlotte blinked wide, disconcertingly intelligent, green eyes. “ You do not comprehend me properly, sir.”
“I rarely make mistakes, Miss Arkendale. I am nothing if not precise, methodical, and deliberately in my ways. Mistakes are made by those who are impulsive or inclined toward excessive passion. I assure you, I am not of that temperament.”
“I could not agree with you more on the risks of passionate nature,” she said quickly. “Indeed, that is one of the problems –“
“Allow me to read to you precisely what you wrote in your letter to your recently retired man-of-affairs.”
“There is no need. I am perfectly aware of what I wrote to Mr. Marcle.”
Baxter ignored her. He reached into the inside pocket of his slightly rumpled coat and removed the letter he had stored there. He had read the damn thing so many times that he almost had memorized, but he made a show of glancing down at the flamboyant handwriting.
“ ‘As you know, Mr. Marcle, I require a man-of-affairs to take your place. He must be a person who presents an ordinary, unassuming appearance. I want a man who can go about his business unnoticed; a gentleman with whom I can meet frequently without attracting undue attention or comment.
“ ‘In addition to the customary duties of a man-of-affairs, duties which you have fulfilled, so very admirably during the past five years, sir, I must ask that the gentleman whom you recommend possess certain other skills.
“ ‘ I shall not trouble you with the details of situation in which I find myself. Suffice it to say that due to recent events I am in need of a stout, keenly alerted individual who can be depended upon to protect my person. In short, I wish to employ a bodyguard as well as man-of-affairs.
“ ‘Expense, as always, must be a consideration. Therefore, rather than undertake the cost of engaging two men to fill two posts, I have concluded that it will prove more economical to employ one man who can carry the responsibilities of both positions-‘ “
“Yes, yes, I recall my own words quite clearly,” Charlotte interrupted testily. “But that is not the point.”
Baxter doggedly continued :
“ ‘I therefore request that you send me a respectable gentleman who meets the above requirements and who presents an appearance that is as bland as a potato pudding.’”
“I fail to see why you must repeat aloud everything on the page, Mr. St Ives.”
Baxter pressed on :
“ ‘ He must be endowed with a high degree of intelligence as I shall require him to make the usual delicate inquiries for me. But in his capacity as a bodyguard, he must also be skilled in the use of a pistol in case events take a nasty turn. Above all, Mr. Marcle, as you well know, he must be discreet.’ “
“ Enough, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte picked up a small volume bound in red leather and slapped in smartly against the desktop to get his attention.
Baxter glanced up from the letter. “I believe I meet most of your requirements, Miss Arkendale.”
“I am certain that you do meet a few of them.” She favored him with a frosty smile. “Mr. Marcle would never have recommended you to me if that were not the case. Unfortunately, there is one very important qualification that you lack.”
Baxter deliberately refolded the letter and slipped it back inside his coat. “Time is of the essence, according to Marcle.”
“Quite correct.” An anxious expression came and went in her brilliant eyes. “I need someone to fill the post immediately.”
“Then perhaps you should not be too choosy, Miss Arkendale.”
She flushed. “But the thing is, Mr. St. Ives, I wish to employ a man who meets all of my requirements, not just some of them.”
“I must insist that I do meet all of them, Miss Arkendale.” He paused. “Or very nearly all. I am intelligent, alert, and amazingly discreet. I confess that I have little interest in pistols. I find them to be generally inaccurate and unreliable.”
“Ah-ha.” She brightened at that news. “There you are. Another requirement that you do not meet, sir.”
“But I have some skill in chemistry.”
“Chemistry?” She frowned. “What good will that do?”
“One never knows, Miss Arkendale. Occasionally I find it quite useful.”
“I see. Well, that is all very interesting, of course. Unfortunately, I have no need of a chemist.’
“You insisted upon a man who would draw little attention. A staid, unremarkable man-of-affairs.”
“Yes. But-“
“Allow me to tell you that I am often described in those very terms. Bland as a potato pudding in every way.”
Irritation begin to simmer in Charlotte’s eyes. She leaped to her feet and stalked around the corner of her desk. “I find that extremely difficult to believe, sir.”
“I cannot imagine why.” Baxter removed his spectacles as he began to pace the small study. “Even my own aunt informs me that I am capable of inducing a state of acute boredom in anyone within a radius of twenty paces in less than ten minutes. Miss Arkendale, I can assure you that I not look dull, I am dull.”
“Perhaps weak eyesight runs in your family, sir. I recommend that your aunt obtain a pair of eyeglasses such as those that you wear.”
“My aunt would not be dead if a pair of spectacles.” Baxter reflected briefly on the outrageously stylish Rosalind, Lady Trengloss, as he polished the lenses of his eyeglasses. “She wears hers only when she knows herself to be entirely alone. I doubt that her maid has seen her in them.”
“Which only confirms my suspicion that she has not taken a close look at you in some time, sir. Perhaps not since you were a babe in arms.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Charlotte spun around to face him. “Mr. St. Ives, the matter of eyesight bears very much on the point I am attempting to make here.”
Baxter replaced his spectacles with cautious deliberation. He definitely losing the thread of the conversation. Not a good sign. He forced himself to study Charlotte with his customary analytical detachment.
She bore little resemblance to most of the ladies of his acquaintance. In truth, the longer he was in her presence, the more Baxter was convinced that she was entirely unique.
To his amazement, he found himself reluctantly fascinated in spite of what he knew about her. She was somewhat older that he had expected. Five-and-twenty, he had learned in passing.
Expression came and went across her face with the rapidity of a chemical reaction in a flask positioned over an intense flame. Strong brows and long lashes framed her eyes. An assertive nose, high cheekbones, and an eloquent mount conveyed spirited determination and an indomitable will.
In other words, Baxter thought, this is one bloody-minded female.
Her glossy auburn hair was parted in the centre above a high, intelligent forehead. The tresses were drawn up in a neat knot and arranged so that a few corkscrew curls bounced around her temples.
In the midst of a Season that featured a plethora of low-cut bodices and gossamer fabrics designed to reveal a maximum amount of the female form, Charlotte wore a surprisingly modest gown. It was fashioned of yellow muslin, high-waisted and trimmed with long sleeves and a white ruff. A pair of yellow kid slippers peeked out from beneath the severely restrained flounce that decorated the hem. He could not help but notice that she had very pretty feet. Nicely shaped with dainty ankles.
Appalled at the direction of his thoughts, Baxter looked away. “Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I seem to have missed your point.”
“You will simply not do as my man-of-affairs.”
“Because I wear spectacles?” He frowned. “I would have thought that they rather enhanced the impression of potato-pudding blandness.”
“Your spectacles are not the problem.” She sounded thoroughly exasperated now.
“I thought you just said they were the problem.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” I begin to believe that you are deliberately misunderstanding me, sir. I repeat, you are not qualified for the post.”
“I am perfectly suited to it. May I remind you that your own man-of-affairs has recommended me for this position?”
Charlotte dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Mr. Marcle is no longer my man-of-affairs. He is even now on his way to a cottage in Devon.”
“I believe he did say something to the effect that he felt he had earned a long and peaceful retirement. I gained the impression that you were a somewhat demanding employer. Miss Arkendale.”
She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Marcle’s retirement is not the issue. What is of importance here is that you called upon him one last time and gave him instructions to find his replacement. He has selected me to take over his responsibilities.”
“I make the final decision in this matter and I say that you will not do, sir.”
“I assure you that Marcle thought me eminently qualified for the post. He was pleased to write the letter of recommendation that I showed to you.”
The silver-haired, dapper John Marcle had been in the midst of packing up his household when he had received his last instructions from his soon-to-be former employer. Baxter’s timing had been perfect. Or so he had thought until he tried to persuade the dubious Marcle that he wished to apply for the position.
Rather than relief at the prospect of solving his last “Arkendale problem,” as he termed it, the conscientious Marcle had felt compelled to discourage Baxter from the outset.
“Miss Arkendale is, ah, somewhat unusual,” Marcle said as he toyed with his pen. “Are you quite certain you wish to apply for the post?”
“Quite certain,” Baxter said.
Marcle peered at him from beneath a solid line of thick, white brows. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not comprehend precisely why you wish to engage yourself to Miss Arkendale in this capacity.”
“The usual reasons. I’m in need of employment.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. But there must be other positions available.”
Baxter decided to embroider his story a bit. He assumed what he hoped was a confidential air. “We both know how mundane most such posts are. Instructions to solicitors and various agents. Arrangements for the buying and selling properties. Banking matters. All very uninspiring.”
“After five years as Miss Arkendale’s man-of-affairs, I can assure you that there is much to be said for the routine and the uninspiring.”
“I am eager for something a bit different,” Baxter said earnestly. “This post sounds as if it will be somewhat out of the ordinary. Indeed, I sense that it will offer me a certain challenge.”
“Challenge?” Marcle closed his eyes. “I doubt that you know the meaning of the word yet, sir.”
“I have been told that I am in a rut. It has been suggested that I add an element of excitement to my life, sir. I am hoping that this post will afford me the opportunity to do that.”
Marcle’s eyes snapped open in alarm. “You say you seek excitement?”
“ Indeed, sir. A man of my nature gets very little of that commodity in the normal course of events.” Baxter hoped he was not overdoing it. “I have always lived a quiet life.”
And what was more, he much preferred his peaceful existence, he thought glumly. This damnable mission that his aunt had begged him to undertake was an unwelcome interruption in his placid routine.
The only reason he had allowed himself to be talked into it was because he knew Rosalind well. She has a flair for the dramatic – her greatest regret was that she had never gone on the stage – but she was not given to foolish fancies and feverish imaginings.
Rosalind was genuinely concerned about the circumstances surrounding the murder of her friend, Drusilla Heskett. The authorities had declared that the woman had been shot by a housebreaker. Rosalind suspected that the killer was none other than Charlotte Arkendale.
Baxter had agreed to look into situation on his aunt’s behalf.
A discreet inquiry had turned up the information that the mysterious Miss Arkendale happened to be in need of a new man-of-affairs. Baxter had seized the opportunity to apply for the post.
He reasoned that if he could talk his way into the position he would ideally situated to conduct his investigation. With any luck he would resolve the matter in short order and be able to return to the calm refuge of his laboratory.
Marcle exhaled heavily. “It’s true that working for Miss Arkendale can sometimes produce an element of excitement, but I am not altogether certain it is the type of adventure you would enjoy, Mr. St. Ives.”
“I shall be the judge of that.”
“Believe me, sir, if it’s excitement you crave, you would do better to take yourself off to a gaming hell.”
“I don’t enjoy games for chance.”
Marcle grimaced. “ assure you, a lively hell would be infinitely less maddening than embroiling yourself in Miss Arkendale’s affairs.”
Baxter had not considered the possibility that Charlotte Arkendale was a candidate for Bedlam. “You believe her to be mad?”
“How many ladies of your acquaintance require a man-of-affairs who can also undertake the duties of a bodyguard, sir?”
An excellent question, Baxter thought ruefully. The entire matter sounded more bizarre by the moment. “Nevertheless, I wish to apply for the post. It is obvious why she needs a new man-of-affairs. You are retiring, after all, she must replace you. But perhaps you would be good enough to explain why Miss Arkendale is in need of a bodyguard?”
“How the devil should I know the answer to that?” Marcle tossed aside his pen. “Miss Arkendale is a most peculiar female. I have served as her man-of-affairs since the death of her stepfather, Lord Winterbourne. I can assure you, these past five years have been the longer years of my life.
Baxter eyed him curiously. “If you disliked your post, why did you continue in it?”
Marcle sighed. “She pays extraordinarily well.”
“I see.”
“But I must confess that whatever I received a letter of instruction from her, I trembled in my shoes. I never knew what strange demand she would make next. And that was before he took a notion to add the duties of a bodyguard to the post.”
“What sort of demands does she make in the normal course of affairs”
“Marcle groaned. “She has send me to make inquiries of the oddest people. I have gone haring off to the North in order to obtain information on a certain gentleman. I and brothels on her behalf. I have inquired into the financial affairs of any number of men who would be shocked to learn of her interest.”
“Odd, indeed.”
“And most unladylike. Upon my oath, sir if she did not pay so handsomely, I would have quit my position after the first month of service. But at least I was never required to act as a bodyguard. I am grateful for that much.”
“You have no notion of why she feels herself to be in danger?”
“None whatsoever.” Marcle’s chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. “Miss Arkendale has not seen fit to confide in me on that score. In truth, there is a great deal Miss Arkendale has never seen fit to confide in me. I am extremely vague about the actual source of her income, for example.”
Baxter was very good at controlling his expressions. A bastard, even one who was the by-blow of a wealthy earl, learned the skill early on it life. The talent served him well at that moment. He managed to convey only casual interest in Marcle’s last statement.
“I was under the impression that Miss Arkendale’s mother, lady Winterbourne, had a substantial income from her first marriage,” Baxter said carefully. “I assumed the inheritance was passed on to Miss Arkendale and her sister.”
Marcle’s brows rose. “That is what Miss Charlotte would have you believe. But I can tell you that Winterbourne squandered nearly every penny of the Arkendale inheritance before he had the grace to get himself murdered by a footpad five years ago.”
Baxter removed his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief. “Just what do you suspect in the real source of Miss Arkendale’s money?”
Marcle examined his nails. “I will be truthful, sir. Although I have assisted in the investment and management of her income for five years, to this day I have no notion of where the money originates. I recommend that if you take this post, you follow my example. Sometimes it’s best not to know all of the facts.”
Baxter slowly replaced his eyeglasses. “Fascinating, I expect some distant relative died and left an inheritance that has made up for the one that Winterbourne frittered away.”
“I do not believe that to be the case,” Marcle said slowly. “I succumbed to curiousity a couple of years ago and made some discreet inquiries. There was no such wealthy Arkendale relative. I fear the source of her funds is simply one more peculiar mystery surrounding Miss Arkendale.”
It was no mystery at all if Rosalind was correct in her conclusions, Baxter thought. The lady was a blackmailer.
A distinct tapping sound brought his thoughts back to the present. He glanced at Charlotte, who had come to a halt near the fireplace. She was drumming her fingers on the marble mantel.
“I do not see how Marcle could possibly have imagined you to be qualified for this post,” she said.
Baxter had had enough of arguing the point. “It is not as if there are a great many men about who can meet your absurd requirements, Miss Arkendale.”
She glowered. “But surely Mr. Marcle can find me a gentleman who is more suited to the position that yourself.”
“Have you forgotten? Marcle is halfway to Devon. Would you mind telling me precisely what it is about me that is so suitable?”
“Other than your lack of skill with a pistol?” she asked much too sweetly.
“Yes, other than that failing.”
“You force me to be rude, sir. The problem is your appearance.”
“What the devil is wrong with my appearance?” No one could be more unprepossessing than myself.”
Charlotte scowled. “Do not feed me that Banbury tale. You most certainly are not a potato pudding. Just the opposite, in fact.”
He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You must know very well, sir, that your spectacles are a poor disguise.”
“Disguise?” He wondered if he had got the wrong address and the wrong Charlotte Arkendale. Perhaps he had got the wrong town. “What in the name of devil do you believe me to be concealing?”
“Surely you are not suffering from the illusion that those spectacles mask your true nature.”
“My true nature?”Baxter lost his grip on his patience. “Bloody hell, just what am I, if not innocuous and unprepossessing?”
She spread her hands wide. “You have to look of a man of strong passions who has mastered his temperament with even stronger powers of self-control.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Her eyes narrowed with grim determination. “Such a man cannot hope to go about unnoticed. You are bound to attract attention when you conduct business on my behalf. I cannot have that in my man-of-affairs. I require someone who can disappear into a crowd. Someone whose face no one recalls very clearly. Don’t you understand, sir? You give the appearance of being rather, well, to be quite blunt, dangerous.”
Baxter was bereft of words.
Charlotte clasped her hands behind her back and resumed her pacing. “It is quite obvious you will never be able to pass for a dull, ordinary man-of-affairs. Therefore, you must see that you would not do at all for my purposes.”
Baxter realized his mouth was hanging open. He managed to get it closed. He had been called many things, bastard, ill-mannered, and a great bore being among the more common epithets. But no one had ever labeled him a man of strong passion. No one had ever claimed that he looked dangerous.
He was a man of science. He prided himself on his detached, unemotional approach to problems, people, and situations. It was a trait he had honed to perfection years ago when he discovered that, as the bastard son of the Earl of Esherton and the notorious Emma, Lady Sultenham, he would be forever excluded from his rightful heritage.
He had been a subject of speculation and gossip since the day he was born. He had learned early to seek refuge amid his books and scientific apparatus.
Although some women initially found the notion of an affair with the bastard son of an earl somewhat exiting, especially when they learned that he was a very wealthy bastard son, the sentiment did not last long. The weak flames generated in the course of his infrequent liaisons burned for only a very short time before sputtering out.
His affairs had become even shorter in duration since his return from Italy three years ago. The acid burns on his back and shoulders had healed but he was marked for life.
Women reacted to the raw, ugly scars with shock and disgust. Baxter did not entirely blame them. He had never been handsome and the acid lacerations had done nothing to improve his looks. Fortunately, his face had been spared. He was, however, fed up with the inconvenience of having to make certain that the candles were snuffed and the fire banked before he for undressed and climbed into bed with a lady.
On the last such occasion, some six months ago, he had nearly brained himself on the bedpost when he had tripped over his own boot in the inky darkness of the widow’s unlit bedchamber. The incident had put a distinct damper on the reminder of the evening.
For the most part, he sought his satisfactions and pleasures in his laboratory. There, surrounded by his gleaming beakers, flasks, retorts, and blowpipes, he could avoid the empty conversations and frivolous pursuits of the Polite World. It was a world he had never enjoyed. A world that did not begin to comprehend him. A world that he found excruciatingly superficial and insipid. A world in which he had never felt at home.
Baxter schooled his thoughts and forced himself to reason swiftly. Charlotte had plainly dismissed him as a possible man-of-affairs. A new approach was required if he was convince her to employ him.
“Miss Arkendale, there seems to be some discrepancy between your view of my nature and the views of virtually everyone else in the world. May I suggest we resolve the matter by conducting an experiment?”
She went very still. “What sort of experiment?”
I recommend that you summon the members of your household and ask them for their opinions. If the consensus is that I can successfully go about my duties unnoticed and unremarked, you will employ me. If they concur with your views, I shall take my leave and look elsewhere for a post.”
She hesitated, clearly dubious. Then she gave a quick decisive nod. “Very well, sir. That seems quite logical. We shall conduct the experiment at once. I shall summon my sister and housekeeper. They are both extremely observant.”
She reached for the velvet bell pull that hung beside the fireplace and gave it a strong tug.
“You agree my word on it, sir.” She smiled with ill-concealed triumph. “We shall settle the matter at once.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Baxter adjusted his eyeglasses and sat back in his chair to await the outcome of the experiment.
He was certain that he could safely predict the results. He knew his strong points better than anyone else. No one could top him when it came to appearing as bland and uninteresting as a potato pudding.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Twenty minutes late, Baxter went down the steps of the Arkendale town house with a sense of quiet exultation. He noted that the crisp March breeze, which had been decided chilly an hour earlier, now felt fresh and invigorating.
There was nothing quite like a properly conducted scientific experiment to settle things, he thought as he hailed a passing hackney. It had not been easy but he had finally secured his new post. As he had anticipated, Charlotte Arkendale was the only person in the small household, indeed very likely the only person in the world of London, who would ever notice him in a crowd.
He was not sure what her peculiar notions concerning his nature said about her except that they definitely verified John Marcle’s opinion. Charlotte was a very unique sort of female.
Not at all what one would expect in the way of a blackmailer and murderess, Baxter thought.
Copyright © 1997 by Jane A. Krentz
Chapter One
London, three years later
“You leave me no opinion but to be blunt, Mr. St Ives. Unfortunately, the truth is the matter is that you are not what I had in mind in the way of a man-of affairs.” Charlotte Arkendale clasped her hands together on top of the wide mahogany desk and regarded Baxter with a critical eye. “I am sorry for the waste of your time.”
The interview was not going well. Baxter adjusted the gold-framed eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and silently vowed that he would not give in to the impulse to grind his back teeth.
“Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I was under the impression that you wished to employ a person who appeared completely innocuous and uninteresting.”
“Quite true.”
“I believe year exact description of the ideal candidate for the position was, and I quote, a person who is a bland as a potato pudding.”
Charlotte blinked wide, disconcertingly intelligent, green eyes. “ You do not comprehend me properly, sir.”
“I rarely make mistakes, Miss Arkendale. I am nothing if not precise, methodical, and deliberately in my ways. Mistakes are made by those who are impulsive or inclined toward excessive passion. I assure you, I am not of that temperament.”
“I could not agree with you more on the risks of passionate nature,” she said quickly. “Indeed, that is one of the problems –“
“Allow me to read to you precisely what you wrote in your letter to your recently retired man-of-affairs.”
“There is no need. I am perfectly aware of what I wrote to Mr. Marcle.”
Baxter ignored her. He reached into the inside pocket of his slightly rumpled coat and removed the letter he had stored there. He had read the damn thing so many times that he almost had memorized, but he made a show of glancing down at the flamboyant handwriting.
“ ‘As you know, Mr. Marcle, I require a man-of-affairs to take your place. He must be a person who presents an ordinary, unassuming appearance. I want a man who can go about his business unnoticed; a gentleman with whom I can meet frequently without attracting undue attention or comment.
“ ‘In addition to the customary duties of a man-of-affairs, duties which you have fulfilled, so very admirably during the past five years, sir, I must ask that the gentleman whom you recommend possess certain other skills.
“ ‘ I shall not trouble you with the details of situation in which I find myself. Suffice it to say that due to recent events I am in need of a stout, keenly alerted individual who can be depended upon to protect my person. In short, I wish to employ a bodyguard as well as man-of-affairs.
“ ‘Expense, as always, must be a consideration. Therefore, rather than undertake the cost of engaging two men to fill two posts, I have concluded that it will prove more economical to employ one man who can carry the responsibilities of both positions-‘ “
“Yes, yes, I recall my own words quite clearly,” Charlotte interrupted testily. “But that is not the point.”
Baxter doggedly continued :
“ ‘I therefore request that you send me a respectable gentleman who meets the above requirements and who presents an appearance that is as bland as a potato pudding.’”
“I fail to see why you must repeat aloud everything on the page, Mr. St Ives.”
Baxter pressed on :
“ ‘ He must be endowed with a high degree of intelligence as I shall require him to make the usual delicate inquiries for me. But in his capacity as a bodyguard, he must also be skilled in the use of a pistol in case events take a nasty turn. Above all, Mr. Marcle, as you well know, he must be discreet.’ “
“ Enough, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte picked up a small volume bound in red leather and slapped in smartly against the desktop to get his attention.
Baxter glanced up from the letter. “I believe I meet most of your requirements, Miss Arkendale.”
“I am certain that you do meet a few of them.” She favored him with a frosty smile. “Mr. Marcle would never have recommended you to me if that were not the case. Unfortunately, there is one very important qualification that you lack.”
Baxter deliberately refolded the letter and slipped it back inside his coat. “Time is of the essence, according to Marcle.”
“Quite correct.” An anxious expression came and went in her brilliant eyes. “I need someone to fill the post immediately.”
“Then perhaps you should not be too choosy, Miss Arkendale.”
She flushed. “But the thing is, Mr. St. Ives, I wish to employ a man who meets all of my requirements, not just some of them.”
“I must insist that I do meet all of them, Miss Arkendale.” He paused. “Or very nearly all. I am intelligent, alert, and amazingly discreet. I confess that I have little interest in pistols. I find them to be generally inaccurate and unreliable.”
“Ah-ha.” She brightened at that news. “There you are. Another requirement that you do not meet, sir.”
“But I have some skill in chemistry.”
“Chemistry?” She frowned. “What good will that do?”
“One never knows, Miss Arkendale. Occasionally I find it quite useful.”
“I see. Well, that is all very interesting, of course. Unfortunately, I have no need of a chemist.’
“You insisted upon a man who would draw little attention. A staid, unremarkable man-of-affairs.”
“Yes. But-“
“Allow me to tell you that I am often described in those very terms. Bland as a potato pudding in every way.”
Irritation begin to simmer in Charlotte’s eyes. She leaped to her feet and stalked around the corner of her desk. “I find that extremely difficult to believe, sir.”
“I cannot imagine why.” Baxter removed his spectacles as he began to pace the small study. “Even my own aunt informs me that I am capable of inducing a state of acute boredom in anyone within a radius of twenty paces in less than ten minutes. Miss Arkendale, I can assure you that I not look dull, I am dull.”
“Perhaps weak eyesight runs in your family, sir. I recommend that your aunt obtain a pair of eyeglasses such as those that you wear.”
“My aunt would not be dead if a pair of spectacles.” Baxter reflected briefly on the outrageously stylish Rosalind, Lady Trengloss, as he polished the lenses of his eyeglasses. “She wears hers only when she knows herself to be entirely alone. I doubt that her maid has seen her in them.”
“Which only confirms my suspicion that she has not taken a close look at you in some time, sir. Perhaps not since you were a babe in arms.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Charlotte spun around to face him. “Mr. St. Ives, the matter of eyesight bears very much on the point I am attempting to make here.”
Baxter replaced his spectacles with cautious deliberation. He definitely losing the thread of the conversation. Not a good sign. He forced himself to study Charlotte with his customary analytical detachment.
She bore little resemblance to most of the ladies of his acquaintance. In truth, the longer he was in her presence, the more Baxter was convinced that she was entirely unique.
To his amazement, he found himself reluctantly fascinated in spite of what he knew about her. She was somewhat older that he had expected. Five-and-twenty, he had learned in passing.
Expression came and went across her face with the rapidity of a chemical reaction in a flask positioned over an intense flame. Strong brows and long lashes framed her eyes. An assertive nose, high cheekbones, and an eloquent mount conveyed spirited determination and an indomitable will.
In other words, Baxter thought, this is one bloody-minded female.
Her glossy auburn hair was parted in the centre above a high, intelligent forehead. The tresses were drawn up in a neat knot and arranged so that a few corkscrew curls bounced around her temples.
In the midst of a Season that featured a plethora of low-cut bodices and gossamer fabrics designed to reveal a maximum amount of the female form, Charlotte wore a surprisingly modest gown. It was fashioned of yellow muslin, high-waisted and trimmed with long sleeves and a white ruff. A pair of yellow kid slippers peeked out from beneath the severely restrained flounce that decorated the hem. He could not help but notice that she had very pretty feet. Nicely shaped with dainty ankles.
Appalled at the direction of his thoughts, Baxter looked away. “Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I seem to have missed your point.”
“You will simply not do as my man-of-affairs.”
“Because I wear spectacles?” He frowned. “I would have thought that they rather enhanced the impression of potato-pudding blandness.”
“Your spectacles are not the problem.” She sounded thoroughly exasperated now.
“I thought you just said they were the problem.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” I begin to believe that you are deliberately misunderstanding me, sir. I repeat, you are not qualified for the post.”
“I am perfectly suited to it. May I remind you that your own man-of-affairs has recommended me for this position?”
Charlotte dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Mr. Marcle is no longer my man-of-affairs. He is even now on his way to a cottage in Devon.”
“I believe he did say something to the effect that he felt he had earned a long and peaceful retirement. I gained the impression that you were a somewhat demanding employer. Miss Arkendale.”
She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Marcle’s retirement is not the issue. What is of importance here is that you called upon him one last time and gave him instructions to find his replacement. He has selected me to take over his responsibilities.”
“I make the final decision in this matter and I say that you will not do, sir.”
“I assure you that Marcle thought me eminently qualified for the post. He was pleased to write the letter of recommendation that I showed to you.”
The silver-haired, dapper John Marcle had been in the midst of packing up his household when he had received his last instructions from his soon-to-be former employer. Baxter’s timing had been perfect. Or so he had thought until he tried to persuade the dubious Marcle that he wished to apply for the position.
Rather than relief at the prospect of solving his last “Arkendale problem,” as he termed it, the conscientious Marcle had felt compelled to discourage Baxter from the outset.
“Miss Arkendale is, ah, somewhat unusual,” Marcle said as he toyed with his pen. “Are you quite certain you wish to apply for the post?”
“Quite certain,” Baxter said.
Marcle peered at him from beneath a solid line of thick, white brows. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not comprehend precisely why you wish to engage yourself to Miss Arkendale in this capacity.”
“The usual reasons. I’m in need of employment.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. But there must be other positions available.”
Baxter decided to embroider his story a bit. He assumed what he hoped was a confidential air. “We both know how mundane most such posts are. Instructions to solicitors and various agents. Arrangements for the buying and selling properties. Banking matters. All very uninspiring.”
“After five years as Miss Arkendale’s man-of-affairs, I can assure you that there is much to be said for the routine and the uninspiring.”
“I am eager for something a bit different,” Baxter said earnestly. “This post sounds as if it will be somewhat out of the ordinary. Indeed, I sense that it will offer me a certain challenge.”
“Challenge?” Marcle closed his eyes. “I doubt that you know the meaning of the word yet, sir.”
“I have been told that I am in a rut. It has been suggested that I add an element of excitement to my life, sir. I am hoping that this post will afford me the opportunity to do that.”
Marcle’s eyes snapped open in alarm. “You say you seek excitement?”
“ Indeed, sir. A man of my nature gets very little of that commodity in the normal course of events.” Baxter hoped he was not overdoing it. “I have always lived a quiet life.”
And what was more, he much preferred his peaceful existence, he thought glumly. This damnable mission that his aunt had begged him to undertake was an unwelcome interruption in his placid routine.
The only reason he had allowed himself to be talked into it was because he knew Rosalind well. She has a flair for the dramatic – her greatest regret was that she had never gone on the stage – but she was not given to foolish fancies and feverish imaginings.
Rosalind was genuinely concerned about the circumstances surrounding the murder of her friend, Drusilla Heskett. The authorities had declared that the woman had been shot by a housebreaker. Rosalind suspected that the killer was none other than Charlotte Arkendale.
Baxter had agreed to look into situation on his aunt’s behalf.
A discreet inquiry had turned up the information that the mysterious Miss Arkendale happened to be in need of a new man-of-affairs. Baxter had seized the opportunity to apply for the post.
He reasoned that if he could talk his way into the position he would ideally situated to conduct his investigation. With any luck he would resolve the matter in short order and be able to return to the calm refuge of his laboratory.
Marcle exhaled heavily. “It’s true that working for Miss Arkendale can sometimes produce an element of excitement, but I am not altogether certain it is the type of adventure you would enjoy, Mr. St. Ives.”
“I shall be the judge of that.”
“Believe me, sir, if it’s excitement you crave, you would do better to take yourself off to a gaming hell.”
“I don’t enjoy games for chance.”
Marcle grimaced. “ assure you, a lively hell would be infinitely less maddening than embroiling yourself in Miss Arkendale’s affairs.”
Baxter had not considered the possibility that Charlotte Arkendale was a candidate for Bedlam. “You believe her to be mad?”
“How many ladies of your acquaintance require a man-of-affairs who can also undertake the duties of a bodyguard, sir?”
An excellent question, Baxter thought ruefully. The entire matter sounded more bizarre by the moment. “Nevertheless, I wish to apply for the post. It is obvious why she needs a new man-of-affairs. You are retiring, after all, she must replace you. But perhaps you would be good enough to explain why Miss Arkendale is in need of a bodyguard?”
“How the devil should I know the answer to that?” Marcle tossed aside his pen. “Miss Arkendale is a most peculiar female. I have served as her man-of-affairs since the death of her stepfather, Lord Winterbourne. I can assure you, these past five years have been the longer years of my life.
Baxter eyed him curiously. “If you disliked your post, why did you continue in it?”
Marcle sighed. “She pays extraordinarily well.”
“I see.”
“But I must confess that whatever I received a letter of instruction from her, I trembled in my shoes. I never knew what strange demand she would make next. And that was before he took a notion to add the duties of a bodyguard to the post.”
“What sort of demands does she make in the normal course of affairs”
“Marcle groaned. “She has send me to make inquiries of the oddest people. I have gone haring off to the North in order to obtain information on a certain gentleman. I and brothels on her behalf. I have inquired into the financial affairs of any number of men who would be shocked to learn of her interest.”
“Odd, indeed.”
“And most unladylike. Upon my oath, sir if she did not pay so handsomely, I would have quit my position after the first month of service. But at least I was never required to act as a bodyguard. I am grateful for that much.”
“You have no notion of why she feels herself to be in danger?”
“None whatsoever.” Marcle’s chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. “Miss Arkendale has not seen fit to confide in me on that score. In truth, there is a great deal Miss Arkendale has never seen fit to confide in me. I am extremely vague about the actual source of her income, for example.”
Baxter was very good at controlling his expressions. A bastard, even one who was the by-blow of a wealthy earl, learned the skill early on it life. The talent served him well at that moment. He managed to convey only casual interest in Marcle’s last statement.
“I was under the impression that Miss Arkendale’s mother, lady Winterbourne, had a substantial income from her first marriage,” Baxter said carefully. “I assumed the inheritance was passed on to Miss Arkendale and her sister.”
Marcle’s brows rose. “That is what Miss Charlotte would have you believe. But I can tell you that Winterbourne squandered nearly every penny of the Arkendale inheritance before he had the grace to get himself murdered by a footpad five years ago.”
Baxter removed his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief. “Just what do you suspect in the real source of Miss Arkendale’s money?”
Marcle examined his nails. “I will be truthful, sir. Although I have assisted in the investment and management of her income for five years, to this day I have no notion of where the money originates. I recommend that if you take this post, you follow my example. Sometimes it’s best not to know all of the facts.”
Baxter slowly replaced his eyeglasses. “Fascinating, I expect some distant relative died and left an inheritance that has made up for the one that Winterbourne frittered away.”
“I do not believe that to be the case,” Marcle said slowly. “I succumbed to curiousity a couple of years ago and made some discreet inquiries. There was no such wealthy Arkendale relative. I fear the source of her funds is simply one more peculiar mystery surrounding Miss Arkendale.”
It was no mystery at all if Rosalind was correct in her conclusions, Baxter thought. The lady was a blackmailer.
A distinct tapping sound brought his thoughts back to the present. He glanced at Charlotte, who had come to a halt near the fireplace. She was drumming her fingers on the marble mantel.
“I do not see how Marcle could possibly have imagined you to be qualified for this post,” she said.
Baxter had had enough of arguing the point. “It is not as if there are a great many men about who can meet your absurd requirements, Miss Arkendale.”
She glowered. “But surely Mr. Marcle can find me a gentleman who is more suited to the position that yourself.”
“Have you forgotten? Marcle is halfway to Devon. Would you mind telling me precisely what it is about me that is so suitable?”
“Other than your lack of skill with a pistol?” she asked much too sweetly.
“Yes, other than that failing.”
“You force me to be rude, sir. The problem is your appearance.”
“What the devil is wrong with my appearance?” No one could be more unprepossessing than myself.”
Charlotte scowled. “Do not feed me that Banbury tale. You most certainly are not a potato pudding. Just the opposite, in fact.”
He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You must know very well, sir, that your spectacles are a poor disguise.”
“Disguise?” He wondered if he had got the wrong address and the wrong Charlotte Arkendale. Perhaps he had got the wrong town. “What in the name of devil do you believe me to be concealing?”
“Surely you are not suffering from the illusion that those spectacles mask your true nature.”
“My true nature?”Baxter lost his grip on his patience. “Bloody hell, just what am I, if not innocuous and unprepossessing?”
She spread her hands wide. “You have to look of a man of strong passions who has mastered his temperament with even stronger powers of self-control.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Her eyes narrowed with grim determination. “Such a man cannot hope to go about unnoticed. You are bound to attract attention when you conduct business on my behalf. I cannot have that in my man-of-affairs. I require someone who can disappear into a crowd. Someone whose face no one recalls very clearly. Don’t you understand, sir? You give the appearance of being rather, well, to be quite blunt, dangerous.”
Baxter was bereft of words.
Charlotte clasped her hands behind her back and resumed her pacing. “It is quite obvious you will never be able to pass for a dull, ordinary man-of-affairs. Therefore, you must see that you would not do at all for my purposes.”
Baxter realized his mouth was hanging open. He managed to get it closed. He had been called many things, bastard, ill-mannered, and a great bore being among the more common epithets. But no one had ever labeled him a man of strong passion. No one had ever claimed that he looked dangerous.
He was a man of science. He prided himself on his detached, unemotional approach to problems, people, and situations. It was a trait he had honed to perfection years ago when he discovered that, as the bastard son of the Earl of Esherton and the notorious Emma, Lady Sultenham, he would be forever excluded from his rightful heritage.
He had been a subject of speculation and gossip since the day he was born. He had learned early to seek refuge amid his books and scientific apparatus.
Although some women initially found the notion of an affair with the bastard son of an earl somewhat exiting, especially when they learned that he was a very wealthy bastard son, the sentiment did not last long. The weak flames generated in the course of his infrequent liaisons burned for only a very short time before sputtering out.
His affairs had become even shorter in duration since his return from Italy three years ago. The acid burns on his back and shoulders had healed but he was marked for life.
Women reacted to the raw, ugly scars with shock and disgust. Baxter did not entirely blame them. He had never been handsome and the acid lacerations had done nothing to improve his looks. Fortunately, his face had been spared. He was, however, fed up with the inconvenience of having to make certain that the candles were snuffed and the fire banked before he for undressed and climbed into bed with a lady.
On the last such occasion, some six months ago, he had nearly brained himself on the bedpost when he had tripped over his own boot in the inky darkness of the widow’s unlit bedchamber. The incident had put a distinct damper on the reminder of the evening.
For the most part, he sought his satisfactions and pleasures in his laboratory. There, surrounded by his gleaming beakers, flasks, retorts, and blowpipes, he could avoid the empty conversations and frivolous pursuits of the Polite World. It was a world he had never enjoyed. A world that did not begin to comprehend him. A world that he found excruciatingly superficial and insipid. A world in which he had never felt at home.
Baxter schooled his thoughts and forced himself to reason swiftly. Charlotte had plainly dismissed him as a possible man-of-affairs. A new approach was required if he was convince her to employ him.
“Miss Arkendale, there seems to be some discrepancy between your view of my nature and the views of virtually everyone else in the world. May I suggest we resolve the matter by conducting an experiment?”
She went very still. “What sort of experiment?”
I recommend that you summon the members of your household and ask them for their opinions. If the consensus is that I can successfully go about my duties unnoticed and unremarked, you will employ me. If they concur with your views, I shall take my leave and look elsewhere for a post.”
She hesitated, clearly dubious. Then she gave a quick decisive nod. “Very well, sir. That seems quite logical. We shall conduct the experiment at once. I shall summon my sister and housekeeper. They are both extremely observant.”
She reached for the velvet bell pull that hung beside the fireplace and gave it a strong tug.
“You agree my word on it, sir.” She smiled with ill-concealed triumph. “We shall settle the matter at once.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Baxter adjusted his eyeglasses and sat back in his chair to await the outcome of the experiment.
He was certain that he could safely predict the results. He knew his strong points better than anyone else. No one could top him when it came to appearing as bland and uninteresting as a potato pudding.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Twenty minutes late, Baxter went down the steps of the Arkendale town house with a sense of quiet exultation. He noted that the crisp March breeze, which had been decided chilly an hour earlier, now felt fresh and invigorating.
There was nothing quite like a properly conducted scientific experiment to settle things, he thought as he hailed a passing hackney. It had not been easy but he had finally secured his new post. As he had anticipated, Charlotte Arkendale was the only person in the small household, indeed very likely the only person in the world of London, who would ever notice him in a crowd.
He was not sure what her peculiar notions concerning his nature said about her except that they definitely verified John Marcle’s opinion. Charlotte was a very unique sort of female.
Not at all what one would expect in the way of a blackmailer and murderess, Baxter thought.
Copyright © 1997 by Jane A. Krentz
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