A Wedding in Springtime (16 page)

“Your excursion to see your betrothed has cost me my coat,” accused Grant, swirling his whiskey.

“Your coat?” asked Marchford, sitting across from him in their accustomed club.

“Was left on a damp Miss Talbot. Had twelve flaps, made by Brooks. I have a mind to ask for it back.”

“You wish to see Miss Talbot again?”

“I’d like to see my coat again.”

“She is a fine article, Grant.”

“Yes, but what is she going to do with a man’s coat? Can’t wear it. Look demmed silly on a girl.”

Marchford shook his head and went back to his newspaper. “You avoid a topic better than any man I know. Go see your Miss Talbot if you like.”

“By Jove, you’re right. Must get it back before the next storm hits.” With that dubious justification, Grant left Marchford in the club and took his phaeton to the Bremerton town house.

The Bremerton house was a fine one as houses go. Its placement, grandeur, and distinguished marks of age all heralded an established lineage. The Earl of Bremerton boasted the bluest blood in the neighborhood.

Mr. Grant, who came from his own long line of established gentry, accepted the trappings of wealth and prestige with equanimity. He was quite at home in these surroundings, everything in order, everything managed in adherence to a strict code of conduct. It was comfortable, predictable, maybe even mundane at times, but he did not fail to recognize he had a very comfortable life.

When Grant was admitted into the drawing room, raised voices were a clear sign that something in the ordered life of the respectable Bremerton household had gone seriously awry.

“Absolutely out of the question,” declared Lord Bremerton in a voice that defied response. He was an older gentleman of few words, so he expected people to heed those words once he troubled himself to utter them.

“But we cannot turn our backs on him. Why, he is only a child!” cried Miss Talbot.

Lord Bremerton was so unaccustomed to having anyone talk back to him, he opened and closed his mouth several times without saying a word.

“Yes, dear, I see that he is only a child, and these things are much too bad, but Lord Bremerton is right. We cannot allow such a creature to live in our house.” Lady Bremerton fluttered a handkerchief in front of her as if to ward away such a noxious thought.

The object of such consternation was a small, scrawny boy, with a thick crop of red hair that stuck out from his head at odd angles like a flashy porcupine. Far from being disconcerted by the conversation in which he appeared to be the primary subject, the child wandered toward the tea tray and made short work of the cakes and biscuits, eating with two hands at an alarming pace, as if he was trying to stuff as much as possible into his mouth before someone shooed him away from the food.

“This child is being used by an unscrupulous man to conduct crimes. Jem says if he cannot steal enough each day, he is beaten. Surely you cannot ask me to return this boy to such a situation,” said an impassioned Miss Talbot.

“If the boy is a thief, he should be locked in Newgate,” growled Lord Bremerton.

“But it is not his fault. Surely we must show this child Christian charity, as we are commanded in the Bible.”

At the mention of the Holy Book, Lady Bremerton put her handkerchief to her forehead and sank majestically to her couch. “Oh, Mr. Grant!” Lady Bremerton started with the sudden realization of his presence in the room. “I fear you catch us at an inopportune moment.”

“I do apologize for trespassing on your privacy, Lady Bremerton. I have come merely for the return of my coat which I neglectfully left here yesterday.”

“Mr. Grant!” Genie walked up to him flush and steady. If she were a prizefighter stepping into a mill, he would have laid his bets on her. “Do you not feel it is criminal to return a child to a life of unspeakable horror and misery?”

“Well, that does sound a trifle flat,” conceded Grant, only to be faced with a glowering Lord Bremerton.

“Flat? Why it would be unconscionable! This innocent child must be protected,” demanded Genie.

The innocent child in question was at that moment lifting the silver spoons from the tea tray and pocketing them.

“He does seem to have a tendency to steal, dear,” said Lady Bremerton with a wave of her handkerchief. “We cannot allow it in the house.”

“But only because he has never been instructed in the proper way. Now put those spoons back on the tea tray, Jemmy, there’s a good lad.” Genie beamed down at her grimy little protégé.

“He is fortunate we do not call the magistrate immediately,” said Lord Bremerton.

“Surely you would not do that,” gasped Genie.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance.” Grant stepped forward. He was the master of any difficult social situation, though this was a scene quite unknown to him. All eyes were now on him, but the only ones he saw were Genie’s bright blue ones, alive with fire and looking up at him like a hero of old.

“Perhaps I can take the lad home, find a suitable home for him.” No one was more surprised by this suggestion than Grant himself.

“Demmed fool,” muttered Lord Bremerton, but it was not him whose opinion mattered to Mr. Grant.

Genie walked up to Grant and put her hand on his sleeve. “Would you?” Her eyes were wide with hope, and a smile graced her full, rose lips. He would have said yes to anything.

“Certainly. Christian duty and all, as you said.”

“Christian duty?” said Lord Bremerton with a guffaw. “I never knew you to be one of those do-gooders, Grant.”

“Yes, but if you are inclined to take the boy, we would be most grateful.” Here, the lady of the house gave her husband a silencing glance, and his lordship caught her meaning and said no more.

“This is most kind of you,” said Genie. “Most kind.” Her eyes were a kind of liquid fire that would no doubt be the death of him.

“Yes, yes, most kind,” said Lady Bremerton with a furtive glance at the door as if calculating how quickly she could return her sitting room to rights without the unwanted presence of a street urchin.

“Now, Jemmy,” said Genie, kneeling down to speak with him eye to eye, “would you like to go with this kind gentleman? He will help take care of you.”

“He does look a flash cove, miss. Is ’e the bloke wi’ the racing phaeton I saw out the window there?”

“I believe I am that ‘bloke,’” replied Grant.

“Can I drive them bays ye’ got, guv’nor?” Jem’s eyes grew large with anticipation.

“Certainly not,” said Grant with a shudder. A child drive his bays? It was too hideous even to consider. Genie looked up at him with pleading eyes, and he fell into some alternate state of existence where he wooed debutantes, cared for the needy, and let a young thief hold the reins to his new matched bays.

“Thems fine steppers,” said Jem.

The sound of the boy’s voice broke the spell and Grant returned to his senses. “They are at that and you’re not to touch them. You may, if you are a good lad and do not squirm, sit beside me on the box.”

That was enough incentive for any young thief, and he readily agreed to follow Grant wherever he might lead. Genie deftly fished the silver butter knife and a china tea plate out of Jem’s pocket, and they were ready to go.

“Thank you again, Mr. Grant, for your kindness,” said Genie. “I suspect you and Jem will become the best of friends.”

Grant suspected that was far from the truth but smiled and said nothing. Within a few minutes, Grant was seated on his high-perch racing phaeton, a dirty child by his side. He had come for his greatcoat and to talk with a pretty girl but, through circumstances that yet eluded him, had ended up with an urchin.

Sixteen

“George!” Genie flung her arms around a well-built young man and gave him a good squeeze. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Took a break from school and thought I’d come see you.” The young man was tall, well-proportioned, and if his coat was not cut with the exacting precision of the latest mode, he at least filled it out better than most young gentlemen of the
ton
. His hair was dark and short, a contrast to his sea blue eyes.

“Do you mean you have a break from university or you are taking a break?”

George gave a guilty smile. “I needed a break. Too many books, makes me batty.”

“So of course you decided to meet me at the lending library,” laughed Genie. She had responded to George’s note by agreeing to meet him the next day at Hookham’s Lending Library.

“I suppose that was poor planning on my part.”

“Does Father know you are here, Brother dear?”

“No, course not!” He took her hand and pulled her gently into a secluded corner of the room and lowered his voice to speak privately. “What’s this I hear of your debut? What happened?”

“Oh, please tell me the news has not traveled all the way to Oxford.”

“Aunt Cora wrote to Mum and she wrote me concerned.”

Genie sighed. She was tired of telling this story. It was good to see her brother, but she was not pleased at how her failure was becoming well known even outside of London. Had people nothing better to do? “I laughed in front of the queen.”

“And?” prompted George.

“And nothing. I laughed. She did not find it amusing, and that made me laugh harder.”

“You are in trouble for laughing? What an odd lot these town folk are.”

Genie shrugged. “I did not make a positive impression with the queen and that is apparently enough to become a social pariah.”

“So go back home. You’re in no need of anyone’s good opinion.”

“Go home after only a few weeks here? After the way Mama was forced to leave London? She was so hoping I could restore the family name by being accepted in society. How could I possibly face her?”

“Got a point there. Tell you what, I’ll think on it for you.”

Genie gave her younger brother another little hug. His presence was comforting, even if he could hardly do anything to repair the damage she had done.

“Shall we walk back to Bremerton house for tea?” asked Genie. “I should like to introduce you to our cousin Louisa whom you have never met.”

“No, no, and I’ll thank you not to let anyone know I am here. If Aunt Cora sees me, she’ll write Mother before the tea gets cold.”

“I suppose you are right,” conceded Genie. “But where are you going to stay? What are you going to do?”

“I came down with some friends from school. They know some places for amusement.”

“Please tell me you are not going to visit one of those filthy gaming”—Genie searched for a word that was not a synonym of Hades—“a gaming establishment.”

“Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m about.”

But Genie did worry. Particularly if her baby brother—he would always be that to her—was going into one of those gambling hells, known for preying on young men.

“I have heard horrible things that happen in those places,” said Genie.

“Yes, I’ve heard that too. Why else would I want to go?”

“George!”

George smiled, looking all the more endearing for being naughty. “I’ll be careful, but I must be allowed some fun. I’m going about as Mr. Smythe—isn’t it a famous scheme? No one will know I am here. I’ll get to have a lark and return to Oxford before anyone is the wiser.”

Genie sighed. “I miss the time when a rocking horse was all you needed for amusement.”

“Maybe if you made me a big one.” George smiled. “Maybe I can help you too.”

“How would you do that?”

“Don’t know. But I should think myself quite flat if I didn’t at least make an effort to help my favorite sister.”

“I am your only sister.”

“See? Your place in my heart is forever secure!”

Brother and sister talked for a while longer before George offered to hail Genie a hack to take her back home. When they left the library, the Comtesse de Marseille looked up from a particularly large volume with a particularly wicked smile.

***

“Must I be present?” asked the duke the next day over tea.

“Yes.” The dowager unlocked the tea caddy and carefully mixed a blend of teas to suit her.

“There is no option?”

“We have invited Lord and Lady Bremerton, Lady Louisa, and Miss Talbot. Of course you must be present.” The dowager poured hot water into the teapot to warm the vessel.

“And who else will be at the table?”

“A few gentlemen, no one for you to be concerned about.” As part of the plot to find Genie a husband, the dowager and Penelope had planned a dinner party of eligible men. The dowager had waited until teatime to let her grandson know his presence was required.

“Do I need to keep guessing or are you going to tell me what plot you are hatching?” Marchford glanced between the dowager and Penelope, but neither spoke. The dowager appeared consumed in her duties as hostess, sprinkling the tea into the teapot and pouring fresh hot water over the top.

“Grandmother…” ground out Marchford.

“Do not ‘Grandmother’ me with such a tone,” rebuked the Dowager Duchess of Marchford. “After all I am only trying to help the family of your betrothed. You know that Eugenia’s presentation was less than optimal.”

Marchford raised an eyebrow. “Less than optimal indeed.”

“You needn’t be cruel,” chastised the dowager. “We must do what we can to help the family. If she can form an attachment soon, her reputation can be salvaged.”

Marchford nodded his head in understanding. “How do you two pick these young men to the slaughter? I beg you would indulge my curiosity.”

“We try to find young men who showed an interest in Miss Talbot or at least spoke to her,” said Penelope. “We look for men who are respectable, appear to have the qualities of a good husband, and might appreciate the dowry she brings. Also, considering her debut, a gentleman who lived primarily in the country might be a good fit.”

“I should not have asked. It is quite a business for you, is it not?” asked Marchford.

It was more business than he realized, but Penelope said nothing more. She was generally honest to a fault, but several years in Town had taught her to keep her own counsel when the situation called for it.

Penelope had expected a large fight over the lapse in the dowager’s funds, but she was mistaken. In person, the dowager and her grandson were perfectly civil and polite. They certainly never gave the servants any material for gossip. After the unfortunate incident where her rant was overheard by Lady Bremerton, the dowager had not spoken about money again. She had, however, exchanged a series of written messages with her grandson that often resulted in her exclaiming “bah!” and throwing the missive in the fire.