Amanda McCabe (7 page)

Among them was Allen Lucas.

“Morley!” Lucas cried upon seeing Michael. He handed his cloak and hat to the footman, and staggered across the room to collapse in the chair next to Michael’s. He paid no attention to Michael’s obvious solitude, gesturing for a port of his own.

“How are you this evening, Lucas?” Michael asked, and put his half-empty glass down on the nearest table. Apparently, alcohol was going to be of no use to him this evening.

“Very well indeed. Haven’t seen you since that day at m’sister’s school.” Lucas tossed off his first drink, and poured out another from the decanter. He loosened his elaborately fashioned cravat. “I didn’t know your sister attended the Seminary.”

“Oh, yes. Lady Violet enjoys it there very much.”

Lucas snorted. “I daresay she does. All the girls just
worship
Rosie.”

“Hm,” Michael murmured noncommittally. He really did not want to think about Mrs. Chase this night. Lately, every time he closed his eyes he saw her disapproving face, her blue eyes watching him with disappointment. He did not know why that should be; he had only met the woman twice in his life. And neither encounter had been what could be called auspicious. But there it was—he
had
been thinking of her, and he wanted to escape it.

And now here was the woman’s very own brother, sitting down right across from him.
I need a distraction
, he thought.

Fortunately, he was saved from hearing any more about “Rosie” by the arrival of two of Lucas’s cronies, Lord Carteret and Mr. Gilmore.

“Good evening, Morley!” Gilmore said, helping himself to the port. “Damn shame you didn’t come out with us earlier.”

“Oh, yes? Where did you go?” Michael replied, not deeply interested in the answer. But as long as the silly puppies were here, they might as well keep him entertained.

“We were at Lady Lovelace’s rout,” Carteret said, with a small hiccup. “And she threw us out!”

Now, that
was
a bit interesting, Michael thought. Lady Lovelace was not a woman generally known for being a high stickler, so this trio must have done something rather naughty indeed. “She threw you out?”

“Tossed us right out on our ears,” Lucas said, laughing into his port.

“Why?” Michael asked. “What did you do?”

Carteret leaned his elbow lazily on the edge of the mantel. “She said we were breaking the rules.”

The rules!
Of course. Michael gave a bitter little laugh. Only something as ridiculous as “the rules” could get three such harmless pups expelled from the Lovelace rout. They were spreading like a virulent weed over Society, choking out any trace of individuality, any spark that could possibly enliven dull
ton
events.

“She said that the rules forbid a gentleman from being intoxicated in front of a lady,” Lucas said indignantly. “We were hardly
foxed
! How could one be, on that weak stuff Lady Lovelace serves?”

“And when I tried to tell a simple joke to Lady Lovelace’s daughter, the silly gel squealed like an affronted mouse, and ran off to tell her mama,” added Gilmore. “It was just the one about the opera dancer and the clock at St. Sebastian’s…”

“Lady Lovelace pulled out a copy of
A Lady’s Rules
and spouted off something about tasteless anecdotes,” said Lucas.

“Tasteless!” Gilmore cried. “That was my very best joke. It always gets a laugh.

“Hm.” Michael studied the flames leaping in the grate, as the three young men went on muttering about their “shabby” treatment at the hands of Lady Lovelace.

It was true that their behavior had not been all that it should have been, Michael admitted. Drinking too much and telling questionable stories to young ladies was
not
the done thing. But they were harmless young men, and had meant nothing by it. Their behavior had surely warranted their being taken outside by Lord Lovelace into the fresh air to sober up, but
not
being tossed publicly out of the soiree.

“It is those blasted rules,” Gilmore said, echoing Michael’s own thoughts. “Ever since Lady Jersey and the other patronesses started touting them all over the place, everyone is wild to follow them to the exact letter.”

“It’s dashed hard,” Lucas complained. “I can never remember all of them at once, so I’m always bound to break at least one.”

“But one
has
to follow them,” said Carteret gloomily. “If one wants to be accepted. As dull as all those routs and balls are, I want to be able to attend them. That is where all the pretty girls are, and my father would cut off my allowance if I didn’t do my duty there.”

“We just have to try harder to remember the rules,” said Lucas.

Here
was the distraction he sought, Michael realized.

They all fell into a maudlin silence, broken only when Michael said quietly, “Not necessarily, gentlemen.”

The three of them turned in concert to stare at him, three pairs of eyes wide.

“What do you mean, Morley?” asked Lucas.

“Well, you say that a person cannot be accepted in Society unless he follows all these rules,” Michael said, and tapped thoughtfully at his chin with his steepled
fingers. “Yet it seems to me that the people who have commanded the most attention, indeed the adulation, of the
ton
have been anything but rule followers.”

The trio brightened, leaning toward Michael avidly to hear what he might say next. “You mean like you, Morley?” Lucas asked.

Michael laughed. “I was thinking more of Byron, or perhaps Beau Brummell, who made his own rules and everyone followed
them.
These men, and others like them, would never have slavishly followed any rules in some book. Why, this lady will not even put her name on her own book! How much importance can her rules truly have, if she won’t even own up to them?”

Gilmore appeared most confused. “You mean we should write our own book of rules and get people to follow them?”

“I don’t think I could write a book. Not bright enough, y’know,” Carteret added doubtfully.

Michael almost groaned in exasperation. No wonder he was restless, if these bacon-brains were the only people he had to converse with! But somehow he felt he had to persuade them, to save at least three helpless souls from more mindless rule-following. “No, I do not mean write your own rules. I mean forget about rules entirely. If we follow common courtesy, and our own instincts, we will be fine. If you go a step beyond, and follow a different path, you will be admired.”

“Like you, Morley,” Lucas insisted again. “The ladies love it that you never do what is expected.”

“They
did
love it,” Gilmore said, his voice slurred from the great quantity of port he had consumed.

“But I haven’t seen you out much of late, Morley, and you weren’t at the Lovelace rout tonight.”

“That is because he did not
choose
to waste his time at such a dull place as Lady Lovelace’s rout!” Lucas cried. “She would have given her right arm to have him there, as would every Society hostess. Morley is right. Some people are above the rules.”

Michael had rarely had champions in his life, and never one as unlikely as Allen Lucas. But it was rather touching all the same.

“The lady who wrote the book says
no one
is above the rules,” Gilmore insisted.

“No one is above courtesy, perhaps,” said Michael. “But no one should slavishly follow someone else’s commands.”

“I would wager that not even
you
can flout the rules and still be accepted, Morley,” argued Gilmore. “They are too popular.”

Lucas leaped to his feet to face Gilmore, his face flushed a deep red. “And I would wager that Morley will
always
be accepted, no matter how many rules he breaks! I wager fifty pounds.”

“Done!” Gilmore answered.

Carteret glanced between them, laconically gleeful at the quarrel.

Michael studied the three of them in silence, tapping his fingertips on the arms of his chair. The wager was completely ridiculous, of course; Michael had outgrown betting on such silly matters years ago. But the rules had irked him, probably more than they should have. He hated seeing everyone, especially his sweet sister, behaving like such wooden soldiers, marching in the cause of rigid etiquette. It reminded him too much of his father.

Plus, this would give him a chance to get—and keep—his thoughts off of Mrs. Chase.

“Very well, gentlemen,” he said. “I will take that wager.”

“T
 here is a caller, ma’am.”

Rosalind glanced up from her embroidery to see Molly in the doorway of the sitting room. “A caller?” she said, puzzled. It was early on a quiet morning, and Rosalind had been enjoying the time to make some progress on her needlework while she pondered Allen and some new expenses at the school. She had not heard from her brother for several days, and it was beginning to worry her. Also, the roof had begun to leak in the east wing, and the funds would have to be found to repair it.

She always thought more clearly with a piece of embroidery in her hands. But today, no solutions were occurring to her. She was almost grateful to be interrupted, even if it was not the usual time for callers.

“Who is it, Molly?” she asked, and tucked her embroidery away into her workbasket.

Molly came to her and held out the silver tray, where one stark white card reposed. “He says his name is Mr. Richards. From the bank.”

Rosalind’s hand froze as she reached for the card.
Mr. Richards.
The one who had been writing her letters about Allen’s stupid loan. Now he was here, in
person. He must be quite serious if he took all the trouble to come out here to the school.

She grasped the card, and folded it into her hand until it bit into her palm. “Tell him I will be down momentarily, Molly.”

Molly bobbed a curtsy, and left the room with her empty tray.

Safely alone now, Rosalind took a deep breath of air. She hated dealing with finances, except for paying bills with the local tradesmen at the end of the month. Those were simple, straightforward, necessary transactions. Her experiences with Allen’s creditors in the past had proved to be anything
but
simple.

And this was the first time she had had to face a banker from London.

Rosalind straightened her muslin cap and smoothed the skirt of her gray morning gown. He would not go away if she just kept hiding in here. She had to meet him, work out some sort of payment plan for Allen’s loans.

Oh, she was just going to
strangle
her brother when next she saw him!

She squared her shoulders and marched down the stairs to the drawing room.

Rosalind had never given much thought to what bankers should look like, but if she
had
, it would be much like this man. He was very tall, very thin, and very pale—pale skin, pale blond hair. He wore a plain dark blue coat, and a stiff white cravat tucked into the front of a black waistcoat. He stood across the room, examining a collection of small porcelain figurines and boxes arrayed on a tabletop.

“Mr. Richards?” she said, drawing herself up to her full, tall height and walking toward him, her hand outstretched. “I am Mrs. Rosalind Chase.”

Mr. Richards straightened from his examination of the bibelots, a monocle falling from his eye. “Mrs. Chase,” he said, and bowed briefly over her hand. “I was really hoping to speak with both you and Mr. Silas Lucas.”

“My uncle is quite elderly now, and not in the best of health.” He seldom leaves his home in the country. But I assure you that, as co-guardian of my brother, I have the authority to speak to you myself. Please, won’t you be seated?” She gestured toward a pair of chairs.

“Of course, Mrs. Chase,” Mr. Richards said, clearly still reluctant. He sat down, and placed a large black leather portfolio across his lap. From it he withdrew a stack of papers. At the bottom of the top sheet Rosalind saw, with a sinking of her heart, the bold slash of Allen’s signature.

“These are the documents pertaining to Mr. Lucas’s loan,” Mr. Richards began. “As you see here, Mrs. Chase…”

He went on in this vein for some time, spouting different legal terms and quoting figures.

A suspicious throbbing began above her left eye, until she had to say, “Please, Mr. Richards. Could you please just tell me what I must do to repay this loan?”

Two hours later, when she collapsed onto the settee in her office, Rosalind was very sorry she had asked that question. She had indeed worked out a repayment plan with Mr. Richards and his bank, but it was not going to be quick or simple. The school was prosperous, yes, but it could not long support such debts. The building and grounds of the Seminary also required upkeep, not to mention the wages of the teachers and servants.

Her head ached in earnest now, as it had so often of late. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples.

“Oh, Allen, Allen!” she groaned. “What were you thinking of? Where did I go wrong?”

But she knew in her heart that it was not her fault. She had tried hard to teach him the values of education and thrift. He had fallen in with a bad example of behavior in London.

He had fallen in with Lord Morley and his crowd.

At the thought of that name, her head pounded harder. She could
not
think of him now! She had to conserve her energy for what truly mattered—finding a solution to her financial dilemma.

She pushed herself up off the settee and went over to the desk to pull out her ledger books. One detailed the school’s finances, the other the profits from
A Lady’s Rules.

“I will just have to write more books,” she murmured, and reached for her pen and ink. “A Lady’s Rules for Fashion? A Lady’s Rules for Garden Design?”

As she sharpened the tip of the pen, her gaze fell on the new pile of letters on the edge of the desk. The morning post. Molly must have left it there when Rosalind was in the drawing room with Mr. Richards.