A Wedding in Springtime (20 page)

Pen stopped and took another slow sip of tea.

“Your sister refused him?” asked Genie, impatient to hear the end of the story.

“His proposal was for her to become his mistress, not his wife.”

“Oh.” Genie sat back in her chair, deflated. “I see.”

“He is quite charming, but I thought you should know.”

“Thank you,” murmured Genie. She knew the warning was for the best, but Pen had poured freezing water all over her nice, warm dream.

“This story is not widely known,” said Pen.

“You can be assured of my discretion,” said Genie. She really did not wish to talk about it. The dream of Mr. Grant was best forgotten.

“Mr. Blakely,” announced the butler at the door of the drawing room.

Mr. Blakely entered the room in a double-breasted coat of dark blue, light trousers, and tan kid gloves. He might not be as showy as Grant, but he was not an unattractive man. He bowed his apology for being late to the dowager, with an excuse of a prior engagement. His manners were polished and pleasing, Genie decided.

Penelope vacated the chair next to Genie and Mr. Blakely was drawn to it.

“I will make my apologies to you too, Miss Talbot,” said Mr. Blakely, taking her hand in his gloved one and giving her a slight bow.

“Not at all,” said Genie. “I am pleased you were able to come.”

Mr. Blakely’s mouth twitched upward, in what Genie guessed was a smile. “I must thank you, Miss Talbot. On your advice I visited the British Museum. I can see now why you recommended it. I found the visit most educational.”

“Was it? I am pleased. The guidebook said it was not to be missed.”

“Have you not visited yourself?”

“No, not yet.” Genie’s aunt laughed at the idea of visiting the museum. It was apparently not how young ladies spent their time.

“Perhaps I could be your escort sometime,” suggested Blakely. “I should like to visit the museum again soon, and I could not ask for more pleasant company.”

Genie smiled and noted with pleasure that Mr. Blakely looked her in the eye, not down the front of her gown. “I should like that very much. My guidebook lists many sights in London that should not be missed.”

“A guidebook sounds sensible. Perhaps I could avail myself of it?”

“By all means! I am glad to hear you say it. You cannot imagine the grief I have endured for that guidebook. My aunt threatened to burn it if she ever saw it again. I have learned it is not considered fashionable.”

“I should not like to think the opinion of others should prevent me from enjoying the history or architecture of this city.”

“Exactly what I think! Thank you, Mr. Blakely. I am so glad to know I am not the only one who thinks this way.”

“I should go find the gentlemen and pay my respects to my host,” said Mr. Blakely. “I expect to return soon.” He gave her a warmer smile and bowed his exit from the room.

In his absence, Genie was the object of four knowing smiles from the ladies in the drawing room.

“That was promising,” commented the dowager with a cunning grin.

“I do hope something definitive can be arranged quickly,” worried Lady Bremerton. “If Genie could at least be betrothed respectably, her value would increase and perhaps we could start receiving more invitations. I do not dare ask for a voucher to Almack’s for her, not with that Jersey gel as a patroness.”

“An invitation to Almack’s would be just the thing,” said Penelope. “If the patronesses of Almack’s endorse her, she must be accepted by society at large.”

“But how could this miracle be made to occur?” asked Lady Bremerton. “Surely you have been in London long enough to know Almack’s is the most exclusive club in London. With Genie’s reputation, how could it be made to come to pass?”

“I have seen the most atrocious behavior be tolerated and even celebrated by society. The only hope is to show her as an original,” said Penelope.

“Quite right!” said the dowager, rapping the floor with her cane. “Never show fear in society. The gossips will eat you alive. Confidence is what you need, gel.”

“I shall certainly try,” said Genie with a smile. “If only to please you.”

“No need to try to win my favor,” said the dowager, but she nodded in approval. “What you need is a good man.”

“And here I am,” stated Mr. Grant, entering the room with an air of style and grace only he could muster. “I do not know of what you are speaking, but it is a conversation in which I must have a share. Or perhaps,” he said with a wicked wink to the dowager duchess, “you would prefer my absence so you can talk about me at your leisure.”

“Mr. Grant, you are incorrigible as usual,” said the dowager, and Genie could almost swear she winked in return.

Genie’s heartbeat quickened at the unexpected arrival of Mr. Grant. He was dressed impeccably in a sage green coat of glistening superfine, a mustard waistcoat with exquisite detailing, and matching breeches so skin tight it was positively indecent. Genie could not help but drink him in with her eyes. He was a dreadful rogue to be sure, but when he entered a room, she could not look away.

“I would not dare to contradict you, Your Grace.” Mr. Grant gave a bow that put every other man on the planet to shame. At least, that is how Genie saw it.

“I have come to return to you Mr. Blakely, who found me lounging in the study,” continued Grant, and only now did Genie notice that Mr. Blakely stood behind him. The rest of the men chose that moment to enter the room and the dowager gave instructions for tables to be set for cards.

“We were speaking of Almack’s, Mr. Grant,” said Pen. “Have you been this season?”

“Ah, Almack’s. I have not graced their halls this season.”

“I should say not,” said Marchford.

“You do not care for Almack’s?” asked Penelope.

“Almack’s is fine, but the matchmaking interference I could do without,” said the duke. “The last time we entered those hallowed halls, Mr. Grant was accosted by a flurry of females. His arrival seemed to spark hope in the breasts of matchmaking mamas who decided his very presence in the ballroom was a sign he was searching for a wife. It was actually quite amusing.”

“I found it less amusing,” said Grant.

“Was it so bad they no longer issue you vouchers?” asked the dowager.

“Obtaining a voucher is not the difficult part,” said Grant.

“Those vouchers are quite exclusive,” said Pen. “I doubt they would issue one to Miss Talbot.”

“Is it a voucher you need?” asked Grant. “I confess when you said you needed a man, I was hoping for something a little more exciting.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” said Genie.

“Not at all! Which day should you like to attend? I shall promise that your vouchers will be delivered to you. And in payment, you can offer me the first dance.”

“I promise,” said Genie, warming to the idea. Dancing again with Mr. Grant, being held in his arms… her ardor was cooled by a pointed glare from her aunt.

“Can you do this?” asked the dowager. “Lady Jersey will surely object.”

“But I am on friendly terms with Lady Jersey and close with the princess. Leave the worries to me.”

Despite Genie’s interest in sitting next to Mr. Grant, she was firmly placed in the center of a group of men, while Grant was corralled into making up a fourth for whist with Lord and Lady Bremerton and the duchess. Genie felt sorry for the man, but he accepted his fate with equanimity and even made staunch, old Lord Bremerton break forth into laughter.

Genie survived a dull game of lottery tickets. Her only consolation was in Mr. Blakely’s confidence that he also was not an enthusiast of the game and would have preferred a more challenging pastime or even reading a good book, to which Genie could only agree. The game was so simple for Mr. Blakely, he did not even have to remove his gloves during the play.

After cards, Genie noted that the dowager gave the duke several pointed looks and a glare so intense she would not have been surprised to see Marchford suddenly burst into flames. With a stifled sigh, Marchford stood and asked for the attention of his family and friends. “Lady Louisa, we have long had an understanding between us. I would like now to make this betrothal official by making a formal announcement and celebrating it with a ball.”

Louisa’s eyes widened and her lips were pressed into a straight line.

“Oh yes!” shrieked Lady Bremerton, her excitement getting the best of her. “That would be lovely! A grand ball, how delightful!” It was a vindication to Lady Bremerton, whose friends were beginning to talk that the duke would never come up to scratch.

Lady Bremerton began to talk of dates with the dowager, with the promise they would get together soon. Marchford took Lady Louisa’s hand and bestowed upon her a chaste kiss. Genie could have sworn she saw Louisa snatch her hand back.

The party began to break up and some of the men took their leave. The coats were requested, and Genie followed her aunt and uncle into the entryway of the grand Marchford house. The rest of the potential husbands prepared to leave, with Mr. Blakely bowing over her hand.

“Perhaps we can meet again soon and you can show me this contraband guidebook,” said Blakely in an undertone.

“I’d like that,” she whispered back. “I shall have to smuggle it out of my room somehow.”

“Perhaps a secret rendezvous?” he suggested.

“Yes, let’s!” Genie agreed.

Lady Bremerton drifted closer, making the sharing of confidences impossible, so Blakely took his leave.

“Made a new friend?” asked Grant with a slight edge to his voice Genie was unaccustomed to hearing.

Genie chose to ignore the comment and replied in an undertone, “I am sorry you were stuck playing whist with my aunt.”

“It was my best game of whist in years,” declared Grant, but Genie was unsure it was a compliment. “Did you have a good evening?” Mr. Grant met her eye.

“I had a most respectable time,” said Genie, and then realized she had chosen the wrong word. She meant to say lovely or entertaining or pleasant, not “respectable.”

Grant laughed, and in the confusion brought by the arrival of their coats, he whispered, “How dreadful. You have my full sympathy.”

“I meant to say it was a pleasant evening,” Genie whispered back.

“Now I know what you truly mean if you ever use that word. I do hope you will never describe me as ‘pleasant.’” With a wicked wink, Grant escorted her to the door. She left but not without leaving a few slivers of her heart behind.

***

“How was it Mr. Blakely found you?” asked Marchford after all the guests had left.

“Entered the study saying he was looking for the dining room,” said Grant.

“A ruse?”

Grant shrugged. “You have a big house. He’s unfamiliar with it. Get lost myself sometimes.”

The men returned to the study where Lord Thornton was reading a book in a chair, his back to the wall and the entire study within view. A loaded revolver sat on an end table next to him. The broken window had been boarded up, giving the normally sophisticated study a shanty feel.

Thornton snapped the book closed when the men entered. “What’s the plan?”

“To catch a thief,” stated Marchford, producing a black bag and proceeding to pull out tools.

Grant picked up a handsaw and a gimlet. “Exactly what do you intend to do with this thief? Seems a bloody mess.”

“These are for some renovations,” said Marchford.

“What do ye plan to do?” asked Thornton.

“I intend to make some modifications, and I am hoping you both will prove to be able tradesmen to do it,” said Marchford.

“What?!” cried Grant. “Too far, my friend! Remind me why I am here standing guard over this thing?”

“Because there is no one else I trust,” said Marchford simply. He rolled out a scroll with some roughly drawn plans. “This is the plan. Do you think it possible?” he asked Thornton who was looking over his shoulder.

“Aye, ’tis possible, but it will ruin the paneling.”

“Grandma won’t like it,” stated Grant.

“That is nothing new,” muttered Marchford. “I will leave this project in your capable hands.”

“Leave? Where are you going?” demanded Grant.

“I have a date with an opera singer.”

Twenty

Jem crept through the dark alley, though the night was black as pitch. It was not his first time finding the door in the dark. He entered the cellar through a gap in a boarded window. A single candle burned on an old table, a small point of light that seemed to be swallowed whole by the dark surroundings.

“So you finally decided to join us,” said the man with the burned hands.

“Sorry. I had to wait till that housekeeper went to sleep. She’s a cunning one.”

“The lads had to wait for you to return to be fed,” said the Candyman with deceptive mildness. He gestured to a row of five-foot square cages along the wall. Locked inside were skinny children, their eyes reflecting the single flame of the candle. They were unnaturally silent.

“Tell me what you have learned, and I will tell you if they have earned any bread today,” said the man.

Jem told the man his adventures with Mr. Grant and Miss Talbot. He did not tell about the kiss.

“I told you to get inside the Marchford house, what do I care for Mr. Grant,” yelled the Candyman.

“But you said I should gain their trust and I did,” argued Jem.

The man stood in a flash and struck Jem across the mouth with a closed fist. Jem flew back and rolled into a ball. It was not the first time he had tasted blood.

“None of your back talk. Get in the cage,” demanded the man. Jem scrambled inside if only to protect himself from further abuse. The cage door locked shut with an echoing click. “No food today. If any of you are hungry, you can blame Jem, who did not do what I asked.” The man held up a small key. “Fortunately, I now have the key to the safe. All I need now is to get into the Marchford house, and you, boy, are going to help me do it.”

The man took the candle and went up the cellar stairs, leaving the dank basement in utter darkness. Jem began to pull scones and biscuits, ham, and lamb shank from his pockets, socks, and hat, and passed them through the bars to the boy next to him who took some and passed it along.