Louise M Gouge (2 page)

As Beatrice rose, the bodice of her borrowed and overlarge gown twisted to the side. She hurried to straighten it, but nothing could be done about the excess fabric. “I should not dance in this—” She wanted to say “rag,” but that would be an insult to Mrs. Parton’s daughter, for whom it had been made last year. But while the dark bronze gown might have complemented the young matron’s auburn hair, Beatrice knew it washed out her own lighter features. “I fear I will trip.”

“I’m sure you can manage, Miss Gregory.” Although a twinkle lit Mrs. Parton’s eyes, her tone and choice of address reminded Beatrice of her place.

Mortification brought a warm flush to her face. She was the daughter of an earl, the sister of his heir. She held precedence over Mrs. Parton, who was the daughter of a mere baron, the widow of a middle-class, albeit wealthy gentleman. But gratitude overcame shame, and Beatrice smiled at her benefactress. At one and twenty she was at last enjoying her first—and no doubt only—London Season. She must not expect to find a husband, even if Mrs. Parton should become agreeable to such a search. No, she was here to be the lady’s companion and nothing more.

On the other hand this nonsense of calling her Miss Gregory instead of Lady Beatrice would be revealed for what it was: a fraud. Then no reputable person would have anything to do with her. But if only for one evening she could escape the pain caused by Melton’s irresponsible behavior, she planned to make the most of it. A spirited quadrille might be just the cure she needed to heal her wounded pride.

The bright third-floor ballroom, though not terribly large, was exquisite, not unlike the ballroom at Melton Gardens in County Durham. Tall windows on the south side revealed the last dim glow of daylight over the rooftops on the opposite side of Hanover Square. But one would hardly know evening had arrived. The brilliant candlelight from numerous girandoles was magnified by their mirrors, while sparkling crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling carved with a swirling leafy pattern. Beneath their feet, the polished oak floor had been dusted with chalk to keep dancers from slipping, and a sizeable orchestra sat on a dais at the east end. The scents of countless perfumes and pomades hung heavy in the air, making it difficult to breathe one moment and delightfully pleasant the next.

Beatrice stood next to her employer with growing hopes she would soon put to use the skills her dance master had praised in her youth. Several men were seeking partners, and one or two looked her way, then at Mrs. Parton, as if considering a request for an introduction. But against her will and all good reason, her eyes sought a certain tall viscount and soon found him.

Halfway across the room Lord Greystone stood beside a gray-haired matron of medium height wearing a scarlet gown and a glittering ruby necklace. From his close attention Beatrice guessed the lady was his mother, even though the severe expression on her thin face did not in the least resemble Lord Greystone’s warmer countenance. Beatrice admired the solicitous way he leaned toward the lady, wishing she could be the recipient of such kind gazes. She released a quiet sigh and forced her attention back to the dancers forming groups for the quadrille.

Beside her Mrs. Parton suddenly gasped. “We must go.” She gripped Beatrice’s forearm and tugged her toward the door.

“But—”

“
Tst.
Come with me.” Mrs. Parton jerked her head toward two gentlemen who were making their way through the crowd toward her.

Melton!
Her prodigal brother. And he had the nerve to give her their secret wave, running a hand over one ear, then touching his chest over his heart. As they were growing up, they often played with the village children and had devised several signals to win games. This one was a promise always to listen to each other, always to care for one another. But after he destroyed his own reputation and her possibilities for marriage, she had long ago decided he had forever shattered that promise. Now only horror filled her, and she willingly permitted herself to be led away.

Count on Melton to destroy her chances for even one night of happiness. Well, now he could count on her to refuse to acknowledge him in public.

* * *

Coward.
Greystone had berated himself from the moment he had so boorishly left the two ladies at their table. Lady Beatrice had quickly hidden her mortification, but not before he had seen the hurt in her eyes. Lovely eyes, blue as sapphires. Golden hair, ivory complexion—but he must stop thinking about her. Brooding over an unacceptable lady would do no good at all. Instead he would ask Mother’s opinion on whom he should approach for this next dance.

“Have you met Mrs. Parton’s companion?” Not the question he had intended to ask.

“No. Is she here?” Mother glanced beyond him. “Humph. Pretty enough, if one cares for the pallid sort.” She stared up at him, her eyes widening in alarm. “Now, Greystone, you must not give consequence to this
gel.
’Twas bad enough for your brother to steal
my
companion. You must not steal Julia’s. In any event, you are Lord Greystone, and none will suit for your bride but the daughter of a duke—or at least an earl.”

“Ah, we’ve moved up the ladder with our expectations, have we?” Greystone stifled a laugh. Mother’s ambitions were not unlike every Society parent’s, each and all seeking some sort of advancement. He would tell her the truth about
Miss
Gregory, except that he was still trying very hard not to notice the young lady, much less give her any attention. Once again his eyes betrayed him just as his words had. But when he looked in her direction, he saw to his vexation that Mrs. Parton was dragging her from the room. Just as well. He could have no future with the young lady, but not for the reasons Mother stated.

In the corner of his eye he noticed two gentlemen following the ladies. What was Melton doing here? And that scoundrel Rumbold? Neither had been invited to this fete. Furthermore, Mrs. Parton seemed in a rush to elude them. Offering a quick apology to Mother, Greystone strode across the room to intercept the interlopers so the ladies might make their escape.

* * *

Lord Melton could hardly believe his eyes. Beatrice had looked directly at him, had seen him give her their secret wave and was actually giving him the cut. His own sister, the one whose presence had gained him access to this ball. He could only stand in shock.

“Come along, Melton.” Frank Rumbold gripped Melton’s arm in the same manner that Mrs. Parton had taken charge of Beatrice. “This will turn out even better if we catch them on the ground floor. Then we can walk them home.”

“If you think that is best.” Melton had permitted his older friend to guide him for three years, but they’d had a few setbacks socially. Actually more than a few. As if by some tacit agreement, members of the
ton
now refused to admit Rumbold into their drawing rooms. After Beatrice’s debut in Society, he and Rumbold hoped to amend the situation. With wealthy Mrs. Parton as her sponsor, his sister would meet only the best of Society and could draw them into her growing circles. He often felt stabs of conscience that he lacked the funds to sponsor her debut, much less a dowry to bestow upon any gentleman fortunate enough to win her hand. But Rumbold had expressed interest in her. Now that he had seen her, it should take very little to complete the marriage agreement. That is, if he could manage to arrange the introduction.

“Good evening, Melton.” Lord Greystone approached them, a tight smile on his arrogant face. “I fear there has been some mistake. This ball is only for invited guests.” He waved a hand toward the door. “Perhaps you will permit me to escort you out.” He nodded toward two footmen, one of them the fellow Rumbold had paid to let them into the affair, claiming Beatrice had their invitation. Now the man acted as if he had never seen them.

“We were just leaving.” A sudden thirst struck Melton. He needed some brandy from that drink table in the corner. “But first may I introduce—”

“No.” Not even looking at Rumbold, Greystone spoke politely, but there was a hint of anger in his tone. The two oversize servants who flanked him made his intentions clear as he again gestured toward the door. “If you please.”

“Come along, Melton.” Rumbold chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder as if it were all a fine joke. “We have four more invitations for the evening. Let’s not waste time here.”

They soon found themselves on the street amidst the carriages belonging to those attending the ball. To make matters worse, one or two of the awaiting drivers were imbibing freely, yet Melton had to endure his thirst.

“I am Lord Melton,” he muttered to his companion. “An earl of the realm. How dare a mere viscount cast me out of his house?” He glanced down the street toward the town house next door, Mrs. Parton’s abode. Somehow the old bat and his sister had already managed to disappear behind the massive front door.

Rumbold followed the direction of Melton’s gaze. “That will change once Lady Beatrice and I—” The idea seemed to encourage him, for he once again clapped Melton on the shoulder. “But really, my boy, you will have to bring her under control. What kind of sister gives her titled brother the cut?”

Melton snorted out his agreement. “Indeed. What kind of sister?” But that nagging conscience once again jabbed at his mind. She had always been the best and sweetest of sisters. Somehow that Parton woman, with no title at all, had turned Beatrice against him. To forget their secret signal was not unlike forgetting the whole of their childhood friendship. It was all entirely too much. He would need more than one drink to get over the pain her cut had caused.

Chapter Two

“T
he very idea.” Mother snapped the pages of the
Times
over her breakfast plate, barely missing her sausages. “It even made the papers. How dare Melton attend your ball uninvited?” She sniffed with indignation. “And bring a guest whom no decent member of Society will receive.”

Greystone well understood she expected no response, and he was in no humor to give one. His mood was as gray as the London weather outside the tall, narrow windows of the town house’s breakfast room. Since the early hours of last evening’s ball, he had pondered the situation with the young earl and his beautiful sister. Mrs. Parton was of course above suspicion, but he could not be so certain “Miss Gregory” was innocent in the matter. His inner turmoil had kept him awake for hours.

Before sleep had at last claimed him, he’d come to the conclusion that Frank Rumbold had devised the whole plan. That culprit was nothing less than a sharper, an ill-born scoundrel who had ensnared more than one young aristocrat new to London’s gaming dens. And a newly raised peer of two and twenty years, one with a known penchant for gambling, was a prime target for an older man intent upon forcing his way into Society. Rumbold was reputed to be a peer’s illegitimate son with ambitions to advance to the nobility, an utter impossibility. Had he accepted his fate, he might have found some acceptance and a reasonable position in life. But because of the path he had chosen, misusing naive nobles and their heirs, he could scheme all he wanted, but the best he could hope for was to slink around the dark edges of Society. No one of significance would ever grant him consequence, unless forced to. Fortunately it had taken very little convincing to send the two men packing last evening.

“Did Melton not have a sister?” Mother’s question cut into Greystone’s thoughts, and his hand stilled with a bite of jam-covered bread halfway to his mouth. “I seem to recall the late Lord Melton had two children.” She folded her paper and set it on the table. “Surely she is out by now. Poor
gel.
Surely no one of breeding will associate with her.”

Just as Mother spoke, he made the mistake of taking the bite and was rewarded by almost choking on it. If only she knew.

“Really, Greystone, do chew your food.”

“I beg your pardon.” He gulped his entirely too-hot coffee, which brought forth another bout of coughing.

Mother stared at him, her eyebrows bent into a scolding frown. Even the footman behind her watched him with alarm.

“Never mind.” He held up a hand to prevent the man from coming to his aid. “I am well.”

Another sip of coffee ensured his physical recovery, but not his mental improvement. Now was the time for him to tell Mother about Lady Beatrice.
Now.

No, not now. Maybe he would leave it up to Mrs. Parton. She was to blame, after all. Had she not brought the girl to London, had she not brought her to last night’s ball, Melton would never have had the nerve to seek entrance. Yet had she not brought the young lady, Greystone never would have been introduced to the most enchanting creature he had met this Season. Or during any of the previous six Seasons since he had taken his seat in the House of Lords.

As often before, the accusation resounded in his mind:
coward!
At eight and twenty years, why did he still try so hard to avoid stirring his mother’s anger? This situation was not of his making, but rather, the result of her best friend’s machinations. Let Mrs. Parton sort it out for her.

Yet shame, or some emotion he could not name, would not let him go. Last week he had waxed eloquent in Parliament in support of Wilberforce’s proposal to abolish slavery in all British colonies. He was even now working with Lord Blakemore on a bill to grant pensions to soldiers and sailors wounded in the recent wars with France and America. Soon he would find his own cause to champion and had every confidence he would achieve success with it. Why, then, could he not speak up to his mother about a matter of minimal social significance?

“Her name is Lady Beatrice, but I do not know whether she is
out.
” He bent over his plate, cutting into his sausage as if it were a beefsteak. “She is the mysterious companion Mrs. Parton has been raving about for weeks.” Awaiting the explosion, he risked a glance at his parent.

Her lined but still lovely face paled, and her jaw dropped ever so slightly. “And exactly
when
did you plan to tell me this?” Now her eyes blazed. She stood so abruptly that her chair tipped, caught by the able footman. She slapped her serviette onto the white damask tablecloth and strode toward the door, muttering words he could not decipher.

Greystone forced away the familiar childish guilt and anxiety that tried to claim him. He had done it. Had faced Mother’s ire. And yet he survived.

But would Mother’s friendship with her lifelong friend survive, as well?

* * *

“Now, now, my dear, you really must eat your breakfast.” Mrs. Parton nibbled daintily at her own food, three gravy-covered Scotch eggs and a pretty French pastry filled with vanilla crème, the aromas of which failed to excite Beatrice’s appetite. “You must maintain your health if you are to keep pace with me.” Seated at the small round table in the brightly decorated breakfast room, she chuckled at her own wit, a habit which Beatrice had, until last evening, found agreeable.

One ball—that was all she had prayed for, a harmless enough request for an earl’s daughter. She had resigned herself to Divine Will for the rest of her life, but could she not enjoy one evening worthy of someone of her station? Even wearing another lady’s cast-off gown, which she’d not had time to alter, she had found herself eager to dance once she’d heard the music. But she had not even been able to so much as observe the elegant Lord Greystone gracing the ballroom floor, much less dance herself. And all because of Melton’s horrid intrusion. While she did have some curiosity about the handsome older gentleman with her brother, he could in no way match up to the nonpareil Lord Greystone.

Beatrice sighed. The Lord had spoken. She must bear the burden of shame cast over every wastrel’s family, as though their lack of restraint tainted all of their relatives. No one would ever give her a chance to prove her own character. No one would ever wish to attach himself to the sister of such a man. Still, she could never despise Melly. Had he not defended her from a pack of wandering dogs when they were but children? Had he not taught her to ride her pony? Had they not grieved together when Mama died? But such brotherly devotion would not recommend him to Lord Greystone, whose disapproval of her brother had been obvious when he cut off Melly’s attempt to follow her from the ballroom. What had the viscount said to him? She found herself hoping it was a scathing setdown, for surely someone of Lord Greystone’s character could turn her foolish brother from his imprudent ways.

“Eat, child.” Mrs. Parton tapped her fork on the edge of Beatrice’s plate. “You must have energy for our outing this morning.”

“Outing?” Beatrice shook off her sullen musing, for sullen was the only proper name for her mood. She had never been one to pout, but these days she could hardly cease to do so.

“Why, yes.” Mrs. Parton laughed in her merry way, and both her plump jowls and her rusty curls bounced. “If you are to accompany me out into Society, you must have proper clothing. We must shop on Bond Street before it is too late.”

“Too late?” Beatrice’s face heated. Her absurd questions made her sound like a ninny.

“Why, yes.” More chuckles. “Ladies generally shop in the morning before the gentlemen and the lower classes take over the shopping district.”

“Ah. I see. How interesting.” In the village near Melton Gardens, Beatrice shopped whenever the mood struck her. Or rather, whenever she managed to set aside a few coins for her own needs. “But surely you know I am without resources.”

“Why, my dear girl, you are my employee. Have you noticed my servants’ fine purple livery? Do you think I brought you to London to follow me about wearing tatters?” She took a sip of tea and another bite of her French pastry. “Indeed not. I shall provide a wardrobe for you to suit every occasion.”

Beatrice avoided looking down at her gown, a faded, much-mended orange chintz. Should Lord Greystone happen to see her dressed so meanly, she would never live down the shame. But why should she care what he thought when he clearly held her in no regard? Still, her eyes stung with unshed tears over her miserable situation. “I thank you, madam. You are too kind. But what of your children? Will they not resent your spending their inheritance on me?”

“Ha. They have more than enough.” She leaned toward Beatrice and winked. “More than enough and to spare. Furthermore there is no entail on my property, so I can spend as I please. And this afternoon I shall show you one place where I am very pleased to spend it.”

Beatrice’s heart leaped. “St. Ann’s?”

The lady beamed. “St. Ann’s.”

“Oh, how wonderful. I have longed for this day.”

“More than for a ball?” Mrs. Parton’s eyes twinkled with kindness.

“Well,” Beatrice drawled, “at least as much as for a ball.” Indeed she had always looked forward to being involved with St. Ann’s, Mama’s favorite charity. She would concentrate on that worthy cause, not on some unreasonable peer who happened to live in the town house next door. Besides, she had no doubt such a gentleman would prove as distant and neglectful a husband and father as Papa had been. Despite his obvious admiration last night, she could expect nothing more from him.

On the other hand, Mrs. Parton’s promise of a new wardrobe was far more than Beatrice had expected. She was, after all, the lady’s hired companion and now had no claim to pride or vanity of any sort. But in less than an hour she
found herself in a pretty little dressmaker’s shop on Bond Street, where the delicate scent of rosewater filled the air.

The modiste fluttered around Beatrice like a butterfly, not at all put off by her plain country clothing. “
Mais non,
mademoiselle. Ze orange is
not for you.” The brown-haired woman, perhaps in her mid-forties, cast a quick glance at Mrs. Parton. “For madam, of course, eet ees perfection. But mademoiselle must have ze blue, ze pink and perhaps even ze pale green to enhance her flawless complexion and beautiful eyes.”

Beatrice did not care for Giselle’s excessive flattery, but she did admire the woman’s skill, which was exhibited in lovely gowns draped over molded female forms. Beatrice longed to try on one of the exquisite dresses. Not since before Mama died had she worn such beautiful clothes, for Papa had never given her wardrobe the slightest consideration.

“Do you not think so, Miss Gregory?” Mrs. Parton’s question interrupted Beatrice’s dark musings.

“What? Oh, yes, I am certain—” She had no idea to what she was agreeing. “Forgive me. I was admiring this lovely gown.” She fingered the delicate lace edging on the low-cut green bodice of a dress on display. Without doubt, this style would demand a fichu. Her hand involuntarily went to her neckline. While her dress might be old and an unflattering color, at least it was modest.

“Then you must have one just like it, but in pink sprigged muslin. Giselle, write it down.” Mrs. Parton wagged a finger toward the modiste’s growing list. “But for now, for this afternoon, you must have something to wear. Giselle has this blue already made.” She took a walking gown from the modiste’s assistant and held it up in front of Beatrice. “What do you think?”

Beatrice embraced the Irish linen garment and stepped in front of the tall mirror. By its delicate finishing stitches she could see it had been skillfully completed, no doubt for another lady near her size, perhaps someone like her who in the end could not pay her bill. Or, more likely, some spoiled miss who thought the waistline too high for the latest style and had changed her mind, leaving Giselle with an expensive castoff no wellborn lady would have. If Mrs. Parton took Beatrice to all the promised events, she risked being seen by the lady who had ordered it. Perhaps this was a part of God’s journey for her, this stripping away of all her pride. But never mind. The people she would meet this afternoon would not judge her by her clothes.

“It is lovely. I thank you, Mrs. Parton.” After measurements were taken for her other gowns and fabrics chosen, Beatrice donned her hastily altered new dress and followed her employer out to the black phaeton.

Mrs. Parton insisted upon driving the small carriage herself, but at least a tiger and a footman sat behind them in the jump seat, which eased Beatrice’s mind. Melly once overturned his smaller phaeton while racing, and thereafter Papa had forbidden his sole heir to use the sporty conveyance. She prayed her brother had not taken up racing again, but she would not seek him out to ask him.

They wended their way through the busy streets, and Beatrice soon understood why upper-class ladies shopped before the crowds descended upon the area. The lower classes, even the women, shouted in the most colorful language she had ever heard, generating frowns from Mrs. Parton and heat in Beatrice’s cheeks. Even gentlemen in fine suits and top hats, riding excellent steeds, seemed to have left their proper manners at home, for they rode as if the streets belonged to them and berated anyone who stood in their way, again in language no one should hear, much less use.

“Well, my goodness.” Mrs. Parton waved her whip toward a wide boulevard where the crowds had thinned. “There’s Greystone. I suppose he is on his way to Parliament.”

Beatrice located the viscount among the few carriages and carts filling the street. He was the very picture of grace upon his black gelding. Her heart jolted, but she forced down her emotions. “Hmm. How interesting.” She managed to keep her tone calm as she sank back into her seat, wishing all the while the phaeton top were raised so she could hide from his view. To her horror, he spied them and turned his steed in their direction. They met at the edge of the street in front of Westminster Abbey.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” His expression appeared guarded, but he did tip his hat. Here was one gentleman who remembered his manners in the midst of all the rudeness and hubbub. “Did you complete your shopping before the crush?”