An Honest Heart (3 page)

“She called on you a week ago.”

“Yes—and a week is too long between visits for true friends.” A little color came back into Mother’s cheeks, Caddy was happy to see.

“You are correct, of course.” Caddy tucked her smile into a frown of concentration so Mother would not think she laughed at her.

“When I stood to leave, I . . . I am uncertain what happened. The next thing I knew, that very handsome, very tall young man was holding me in his arms and carrying me home.”

“You fainted, Mother. I knew you should not have walked so far. You’ve likely set yourself back with this ill-conceived exertion. I never should have let you go.”

Mother grabbed Caddy’s hand with more strength than Caddy knew she possessed. “Who is the mother and who the child here?” Her voice crackled with fire. “Do not forget that it was I who raised you, dear girl. I who taught you to walk, to talk, to run, to sew.”

Caddy rubbed her mother’s arm in what she hoped was a conciliatory manner. “Yes, Mother. I am sorry.” She swallowed back the other words of reproach piling up in the back of her throat. “So you heard Dr. Stradbroke’s offer to examine you and see if he can find a different diagnosis?”

“Yes. And I completely agree. Dr. Fieldstone is a very capable man, I am certain. However, he is . . . well, old. And set in his ways. Perhaps my cure lies with a younger man, a man schooled in new medical techniques and research.” She squeezed Caddy’s hand before pulling away and smoothing her hair back. “And he is very handsome, is he not?”

How had the blankets become so entangled when her mother hadn’t moved? Caddy set to straightening them. “I hadn’t noticed whether he is handsome or not.”

“Mmmm.”

“I shall be downstairs working.” Caddy moved the bell on the washstand closer to the edge so Mother could easily reach it. “If you need anything, ring for me. Do not attempt to get it for yourself. Unlike Dr. Stradbroke, I do not possess the strength to carry you back up the stairs.”

“So you did notice his muscles—”

“Mother!” Caddy would have whirled and stomped from the room, much as she had done in her early years whenever her mother teased her about meeting a handsome man. But the wardrobe behind her and the bed in front of her pressed her skirts so that she had to push her feet against the floor to be able to move at all. “That is enough. Rest now. And—”

“And ring if I need anything. I know, I know.”

Shaking her head in resignation, Caddy returned to the shop. The girls clamored to learn more about the handsome stranger who’d carried Mrs. Bainbridge home. Caddy staved off the most curious of the questions and picked up the bundle of gowns to take back into the workroom.

The jingling chimes on the door stopped her. She turned to greet the customer—and her breath caught in her throat.

Oliver paused just inside the door. As he suspected, the shop was nothing close to those on Oxford’s High Street. And comparing it to anything in London was laughable. But though he’d otherwise never deign to set foot in a women’s dress shop, much less allow himself to be seen in North Parade, he’d decided he needed a closer look at M’lady’s charity case.

The plain-looking woman who’d come to Chawley Abbey earlier today shifted the bundle of gowns in her arms to those of one of the young shop assistants. Miss Bainbridge smoothed her hands down the full skirt of her dress, a concoction that might get her noticed in this part of town, but that would get her laughed out of his mother’s drawing room.

“Mr. Carmichael, how may I assist you?” Miss Bainbridge’s wide blue eyes betrayed her surprise and trepidation at his presence.

“I have come on an errand from my lady mother. She has decided she will take the blue dress in addition to the green. She would like both delivered on Friday.” He sincerely doubted the rustic would be able to meet his mother’s demand—and perhaps that was M’lady’s plan, to avoid being seen in anything this backward shop would produce by giving unrealistic deadlines.

Miss Bainbridge reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair back into her plain hairstyle, and her hand trembled. Oliver kept his smile to himself—mostly.

“Please let Lady Carmichael know that I will be happy to have both gowns finished by Friday.” She clasped her hands together at her waist. After a long pause, she cleared her throat. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Carmichael?”

Oliver rubbed the tips of his thumb and middle finger of his left hand together. For the first time ever, a woman seemed eager to be rid of him. Every woman he’d ever met—with the exception of Edith Buchanan’s spinster American cousin. But who could countenance Americans anyway?

If one of his mother’s or sisters’ maids were to get hold of Miss Bainbridge, she might pass for one of their own. Certainly, with the correct hairstyle and a proper evening gown, she could fool anyone into believing she was one of the gentry, if not low aristocracy, rather than in trade.

“Miss Bainbridge, though I am certain you carry . . . many fine wares here, I do not believe there is anything I might find that would suit my personal needs.” He ducked his chin and glanced at her in a way that made most ladies’ fans start fluttering at twice the speed.

Red climbed into Miss Bainbridge’s cheeks and she looked down. “No, of course not.” She curtsied and looked up again. “Good day, then, Mr. Carmichael.”

Oliver forced his jaw not to fall open. He’d been dismissed. He, the Honorable Mr. Oliver Carmichael, future Baron Carmichael of Chawley Abbey. Dismissed by . . . by . . . a tradeswoman!

He bowed, keeping a smile on his face. “Good day, Miss Bainbridge. Until next time.” Settling his hat on his head so that it would not crush the curls his valet spent so long perfecting each morning, Oliver departed the shop, mentally shaking the dust of the place off his boots in the few steps between the door and his horse.

The long ride from North Parade to the heart of Oxford did nothing to dissipate his annoyance—in fact, each hoofbeat acted as a hammer, nailing the memory of the ignominious interview deeper into his mind.

He handed Caesar’s reins over to a groom and entered the club. The sweet, acrid scent of smoke greeted him a brief instant before the majordomo did the same, taking Oliver’s cloak. Behind him, a footman handed Oliver a snifter of brandy.

Oliver wandered through the ground-floor rooms and, as expected, saw no one of merit. He climbed to the first floor. The footman at the top of the stairs inclined his head upon recognizing Oliver. The club’s dedication to keeping the gentry separated from the men who truly deserved to be here was the only reason he and his father had kept their membership once the club opened to membership from wealthy but non-titled men.

“Carmichael—there you are. You should have been here above an hour past.” Doncroft waved him over to the table. “Join us. Radclyffe has no heart for cards today, which means I have not been able to take the entirety of his allowance yet. Perhaps I can take half of yours, and that will make up for it.”

Oliver turned one of the two empty chairs at the small round table to the side and sat. He slid down into a posture of repose and stretched his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankle. “I have no heart for cards myself.”

“I know why Radclyffe is disconsolate. His father informed him today he has started negotiating terms with Dr. Suggitt of Christ College for a possible marriage for Rad with the man’s horse-faced youngest daughter. If you have nothing to compare to that tragedy, then ante up.” Doncroft began shuffling the cards.

Oliver launched into his tale of woe about how Caddy Bainbridge snubbed him and practically ordered him from her shop.

“She should have realized the honor of my presence there. M’lady wanted to send a servant with the message, but as I was already coming into Oxford, I volunteered to carry it for her. How could that . . . that . . . peasant treat me thus?”

Doncroft and Radclyffe had the audacity to laugh. “Alas, poor Carmichael. Snubbed by a seamstress.”

“Is she pretty?” Radclyffe asked.

“Prettier than Suggitt’s daughter.”

“You are nigh on closing the deal with Miss Buchanan, are you not?” Doncroft started dealing cards.

Oliver nodded.

“Then why worry about some no-name tradeswoman from North Parade and whether or not she falls at your feet? You have your choice of women now—though Miss Buchanan’s fifty thousand pounds would be tempting even if she were not a beautiful specimen of womanhood.”

“I could
make
Cadence Bainbridge fall at my feet, as you put it.” Oliver pressed his palms to the arms of the chair and pushed himself upright.

Doncroft seemed to forget the cards. “You could try. Make her realize what an insult she paid you by wooing her, then walking away.”

Radclyffe leaned forward. “And I say you cannot. Women like her are not easily charmed. Filled with ice and iron, they are, those confirmed spinsters.”

Oliver weighed the opinions of his two friends. “I’ll place money on it. Fifty pounds says I can make Cadence Bainbridge fall in love with me before . . .” When? How quickly could he work his magic on her? “By the day the Great Exhibition opens—May 1.”

“Make it one hundred, and you have yourself a wager.” Doncroft extended his right hand across the table.

Oliver considered a moment, then took his friend’s hand. “One hundred pounds says I can make Miss Cadence Bainbridge fall desperately and completely in love with me.”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

E
nvy roiled in Edith Buchanan’s stomach. How could it possibly be right that the viscount would choose her old, plain cousin over her?

She returned the flirtatious attention of the earl’s son to her right, dragging her attention away from Lord Thynne and Katharine on the far side of the sitting room. It was bad enough that the embarrassment of penniless cousins had been forced upon her. But Katharine and Christopher Dearing’s rustic manners and nasal American accents were like a slap in the face each time they came into the same room as her.

Now Lord Thynne favored Katharine. Edith wanted to scratch the too-serious expression from her cousin’s face. Father had invited him here for the express purpose of having him fall prey to Edith’s charms and propose to Edith. Not the American nobody.

And Christopher Dearing! Loud and obnoxious with his observations and commentary on the differences between British and American lifestyles. His excitement over the Great Exhibition made him sound like one of the servants. His constant questions about the railway system in England made her ears ache.

She could just scream from the boredom and annoyance. However, she did not want to lower herself to being as uncivilized as they.

Oliver Carmichael returned with a fresh cup of coffee for Edith. She beamed up at him. While he was heir to only a barony, nowhere near as large an estate or prestigious a title as a viscount, marrying a future baron was a step up for the daughter of a baronet.

His two friends who usually followed him like trained hunting dogs had found their own amusement this evening—flirting with several of the other young ladies. With the house party in its third week, Edith had grown tired of these after-dinner sessions of talk and flirting before the evening’s entertainment began. And the “entertainment” usually consisted of each of the young ladies showing off her talent—or lack thereof—at the piano or spinet or harp, each trying to outdo the other in the quest to secure a proposal from one of the men of the party by playing or singing or both.

Edith never lowered herself to such an exhibition—she did not need to. Men came to her naturally, drawn by her beauty and elegance.

Her gaze drifted over to the far side of the room again. Lord Thynne leaned close to Katharine and whispered something in her ear.

Edith’s dinner soured in her stomach. “Charades,” she called, cutting off Mr. Carmichael’s anecdote of his visit with his mother this afternoon. “And I choose . . .” She looked around the room at the dozen and a half guests. Whom would she honor with going first? “I choose Mr. Oliver Carmichael to lead off the game.”

Carmichael pushed his languid form from the armchair, bowed, and kissed the back of Edith’s hand. “It would be my honor, Miss Buchanan.”

Edith ducked her chin and gazed up at him through her lashes, pursing her lips into a coquettish expression. As expected, Mr. Carmichael’s gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there a moment before he stepped away to help the other men rearrange the chairs and settees into rows.

To her great annoyance, Lord Thynne and her cousin did not join everyone else, but stayed in their corner, conversing as if joining the game were beneath them. With a sigh, she sank onto a spindle-legged settee in the center of the audience. Spreading the ruby satin silk of her skirt to cover most of the seat, she clapped her hands and enjoined Oliver to begin.

Just to prove to the viscount and her cousin that she did not care if they snubbed her, she laughed longer, shouted her guesses louder, and clapped more enthusiastically with each round of the game. And she invited Oliver Carmichael to sit with her, necessitating a pause as she rearranged her skirts to give him room.