Louise M Gouge (8 page)

* * *

Greystone had never cared much for
Richard III.
His stomach turned at the idea that a prince could murder his own nephews so he could claim the Crown. Aware of the arguments contrary to Shakespeare’s premise, some who insisted that Edward IV’s younger brother Richard was blameless in the boys’ deaths, Greystone nonetheless was convinced Richard had arranged the foul deed. In over three hundred years, no evidence had been found in the Tower or any written records to support the man’s guilt or innocence. But a clever minion could cover any crime.

Yet as Greystone watched the performance, he could find no fault in the actors, especially the two youths—or were they young women?—who portrayed the princes. They reminded him of his little chimney sweeps, despite the disparity in their stations in life. Bearing the same names as their father and uncle, “Prince Edward” displayed the same protectiveness over little “Prince Richard” that Kit exhibited for little Ben—the same instinct to protect those under his care that Greystone had always felt for his own brothers. The younger boy, Richard, had the same spunk Ben possessed and seemed more prone to mild mischief than his brother. The idea that someone would have no qualms about harming two little boys, either by murder or misuse, transformed Greystone into a protective, avenging knight.

Or so he liked to think. There was still Mother to deal with in the matter. This afternoon he’d had to go to his club to escape her incessant disparaging remarks about his project to protect small climbing-boys. That is, he fled after he instructed Lucy to keep the boys in the nursery, whatever it took. Earlier in the day he had failed to find Bennington to discuss the matter.

Laughter broke into his thoughts as the audience no doubt responded to one of the few humorous moments in the play. Greystone glanced at Lady Beatrice, whose profile was as lovely as the front view of her face. She had covered her well-formed lips with a gloved hand, and her eyes were wide as if she were in shock, perhaps over the bawdy tone of the jests typical of Shakespeare. He should not have let his mind wander from the play. Perhaps he could have diverted her attention before the tasteless lines were spoken so she would not hear them. Someone had to shield the lady’s sensibilities, since her brother had abandoned his duty to do so.

A glance toward the upper balcony confirmed his dislike for Melton, and a familiar anger burned in his chest. The foolish young earl was laughing with the rest of his disreputable crowd, people Greystone would not permit even to address Lady Beatrice. The thought brought him up short. When had he decided it was
his
duty to shield her?

No, he must not give place to such sentiments. The only conclusion to his unwelcome feelings for Lady Beatrice would be disaster, for just looking at her wicked brother made him want to slap some good sense into the imbecile. Just the way Greystone’s father had done to him.

Chapter Eight

“O
h, do ride with us, Greystone.” Mrs. Parton tugged on the viscount’s sleeve as if he were an obstinate child, while the rest of the party leaving the theatre watched with amusement. “I shall feel much safer with a gentleman in the landau now that night has fallen.”

Seeing the chagrin on that particular gentleman’s face, Beatrice refused the blush that tried to fill her cheeks. After all, no one could claim she was responsible for this invitation. Her earlier clash, slight though it was, returned to her thoughts, and she did not wish for more unpleasantness with him. Still, she agreed with her employer that having a well-known peer in the carriage would likely discourage footpads who might not regard a driver, a tiger and a burly footman as sufficient protection for two ladies.

“Yes, yes, Greystone,” Lord Blakemore said. “Do go with these dear ladies to protect them. We can discuss our scheme over supper.”

“You most certainly will not.” Lady Blakemore gave her husband a playful nudge, shocking Beatrice. She had never seen her parents tease or behave with anything but the utmost formality toward one another. “I forbid you to ruin my supper with political discussions.”

“Of course, my dear.” The earl eyed Lord Greystone and shook his head. “Ah, well, another time, then. We must permit the ladies to rule, must we not?”

Lord Greystone winced ever so slightly, a response Beatrice found odd until she recalled observing a silent battle of wills between the viscount and his mother regarding Kit. Although the viscount had displayed only respect for Lady Greystone, he had also refused her order not to carry the little chimney sweep upstairs. Then when Beatrice and Mrs. Parton had joined the viscountess for tea, the lady had complained about the soot all over
her
house. But of course her son owned it all, just as Melly owned Melton Gardens. Although Beatrice had managed everything for her brother since Papa’s death, she had never claimed the property as her own. Indeed if Melly decided to marry—a frightening thought considering his current habits—Beatrice would gladly relinquish the management of it all to her new sister. She had no wish to rule anyone.

Perhaps Lady Greystone had been in control of her family for so long that she found it difficult to surrender the reins, despite Greystone’s obvious competence. A new respect for the viscountess blossomed in Beatrice’s mind. Raising three sons alone could not have been easy. And if the viscount’s reaction to the earl’s comment about ladies ruling was any indication, perhaps the battle for rule of Greystone Hall was not yet over.

Already in the landau with her back to the driver, Mrs. Parton instructed Lord Greystone to sit in the place of honor, the thickly upholstered bench facing front from whence he could see the passing scenery. But just as Beatrice started to take her place on the opposite seat, Mrs. Parton waved her to the spot beside the viscount.

“You will never learn your way around if you cannot see where you’re going, my dear.” She laughed at her own humor even as she waved over her shoulder to the driver. “To Lord Blakemore’s residence, Harold.” Satisfied that her orders would be obeyed, she turned back to the viscount, who appeared as uncomfortable as Beatrice felt. “Now, Greystone, you must tell us, what did you think of the play? Was it not completely enthralling? Was not Mr. Elliston exceptionally brilliant?”

He chuckled, a rich baritone laugh that sent a pleasant shiver down Beatrice’s spine. She shoved away the feeling, refusing to let her heart become attached to a gentleman who clearly did not wish to be in her company.

“My dear Mrs. Parton, I shall not permit you to bait me.”

“Why, how would I do that, dear boy?” Mrs. Parton reached across the wide space and tapped his knee with her folded fan. Even in the dim light of the carriage lanterns, Beatrice could see the twinkle in the lady’s eyes. What was she up to?

“Oh, quite easily.” He gave a careless wave of his hand. “Should I dare to proffer an opinion, perhaps Lady Beatrice will feel obliged to agree, as all young ladies are schooled to do.” He sent Beatrice a sidelong glance. “Is that not right, Lady Beatrice?”

So the gentleman wished to take a turn at challenging her. Beatrice would gladly play along, for she missed the lighthearted teasing she and Melly used to share. She tilted her head in a playful way. “Why of course, Lord Greystone. A young lady is not considered well-bred if she is too strident in her opinions.” She blinked her eyes several times to effect a naive expression such as she had observed in young ladies at his ball. “Therefore, I shall only be bold enough to say I agree with Mrs. Parton’s opinion about the play
and
Mr. Elliston. That is—” another blink or two “—only if you think so, as well.”

While Mrs. Parton laughed merrily, Lord Greystone took a turn at blinking. Then he seemed to comprehend the joke and laughed, too.

“You are an agreeable companion, Lady Beatrice.” One of those tiny frowns darted across his forehead, but he quickly recovered his smile. “I am certain you are a constant source of comfort to Mrs. Parton.”

What a clever way for him to distance himself from her. Disappointment crowded out the feelings of camaraderie that had tried to blossom within her heart. She had hoped he would give her a clever rejoinder, but he took the safe road and gave her a simple compliment. But what had she expected? She had begun to suspect that Mrs. Parton was pushing her toward the viscount, but with every push in his direction, Lord Greystone took a decisive step back.

Well, two could play that game. She had been hurt enough by her brother’s destructive ways. She would not let Lord Greystone add to her pain, no matter how much she came to admire him for his charitable endeavors and his social graces...toward anyone but her.

* * *

What Greystone meant for a compliment had somehow offended Lady Beatrice, but he could not imagine why. Ah, well. He would be the first to admit he was not wise in the ways of young ladies, other than their simpering insincerity that Lady Beatrice had mocked so delightfully just now. After his first two Seasons in London, when most of the women he had spent time with were not ladies, he had at last heeded the advice of his godly brother Richard, studied the book of Proverbs and fled his youthful inclinations. Since that time, he treated every young lady as one might a sister lest any mistake his intentions.

Yet for all of the wisdom of Scripture about what not to do in regard to women, not a word in the Bible advised a young man as to how to court a lady. No doubt in biblical times wives were chosen by one’s parents, just as Mother wanted to choose Greystone’s bride. But the more he thought of spending his life with someone of her choosing, the more he wanted to unravel the mysteries of courting himself and find his own bride. And while he was ever mindful of the danger of becoming like his father, he had no choice but to marry, and soon.

For the present he could see his compliment to Lady Beatrice had not been well received, but why? Not that he was courting Lady Beatrice. Indeed he was not. Would not, in fact. Even without Mother’s disapproval, even though the lady was kind and good and charitable, she nonetheless still had a brother with whom Greystone refused to be connected.

In the dim lantern light within the carriage he could see her uplifted chin, as if she were still displeased with him. A sheen over her eyes, not quite tears, seemed to denote some high feeling. He must appease her somehow, for he could not bear to see her unhappy.

“Goodness.” Mrs. Parton huffed so hard, Greystone feared a reprimand was forthcoming. “I neglected to ask you, dear boy. What report do you have for us about our little chimney sweeps?”

Relief swept through him. He should know that this sweet lady would not berate him.

“They are well, madam, and have begun to look forward to their daily baths, as much to torment the footmen as for their own enjoyment of all the splashing about.” He heard a muffled giggle beside him and decided Mrs. Parton’s interruption was better than anything he might have planned to brighten Lady Beatrice’s mood.

“Daily baths?” Mrs. Parton clicked her tongue in disapproval. “I knew they would need many washings, but daily? Surely that cannot be healthy.”

“I had thought so, too, but Dr. Horton assures me they will not be harmed because the weather is warm, and they will be better served if all traces of soot are removed from them. The nursery, or more precisely, the playroom now, is also warm, so I suppose that helps to ensure their health.”

Lady Beatrice tilted her head in that pretty way of hers. “But of course you open the windows to let in fresh air.”

Greystone withheld a laugh. Although Lady Beatrice had been in London only a few days, she surely had noticed the bad air in the city. But how could he contradict her without offending...again? “Actually, I had not thought to do that.”

She gazed at him with innocent intensity, and his heart took a leap to rival any his horse had made during a foxhunt. “I have noticed at certain times, especially in the morning, that a pleasant breeze stirs the air. I have opened my window and been quite refreshed, though of course not as much as if I were in the country.”

A wistful note accompanied her last words. Perhaps her Season in London was not measuring up to her hopes and dreams. Greystone found himself wanting to rectify that situation. He immediately quashed that impulse.

“I believe that fresh air will help the boys after their—” her voice faltered so slightly, he almost missed it “—unfortunate childhood.” She straightened and blew out a breath of impatience, as if annoyed with herself, then stared at him with more of that charming intensity. “Lord Greystone, I have nothing but admiration for your charitable endeavors.”

He gave her a crooked grin, feeling as he had when he was a student receiving praise from a professor at Oxford. “It is my duty, Lady Beatrice.” Now he sounded like Mother, who deflected all praise with claims of merely doing her duty. In tending to her obligations, his only parent excelled, but her heart never seemed to be engaged. When he married, he prayed his wife would have a true devotion to her charitable enterprises, just as Lady Beatrice exhibited.

He shifted in his seat and stared out the window of the landau, suddenly annoyed that thoughts of his marriage quest never left him when he was with Lady Beatrice.

* * *

Lord Greystone’s sudden reserve plunged the carriage into silence, and Mrs. Parton seemed to have run out of things to say, as well. After the gentleman’s earlier reaction to her teasing, Beatrice did not think it her place to entertain her companions, so she withheld any further comments. This time she had not been the cause of the viscount’s withdrawal, at least not in any way she could discern. Copying his behavior, she stared out the opposite window to watch the passing scenery.

Lord Blakemore’s home sat just beyond Grosvenor Square on a large plot of land with many trees, a small park and several ponds that reflected the light of the torches lining the circular drive to the house. The air smelled of roses and lilacs, but a tantalizing hint of roasting meat wafted into the carriage to remind Beatrice that it had been many hours since she last ate. She hoped Lady Blakemore’s midnight supper would not be delayed by formalities.

Along with other arriving carriages the landau stopped in front of the mansion’s columned portico, and footmen hurried from the house to assist the guests. The edifice possessed a stately grace that would surely impress even the Prince Regent. Beatrice imagined that the park and flower gardens would be a delight to visit in the daytime.

Once inside in the crush of guests, ladies handed their light wraps to servants, while gentlemen surrendered hats of varying descriptions. Beatrice followed Mrs. Parton up the two flights of stairs toward the second-floor drawing room, with Lord Greystone close behind them. She wished she could look behind to see if he objected to his role as escort to the two of them, but decided such a move would be ill-advised on a staircase, lest she lose her balance and he be forced to catch her.

Instead she cast admiring glances at the marble statuary on the landings and tall paintings of Blakemore ancestors high on the walls along the way. To her surprise a sweet sense of anticipation began to warm her heart. All her life she had looked forward to a London Season filled with balls and soirees and midnight suppers. Even though her dreams had been delayed, even though she was a mere companion rather than a lady making her rightful debut in Society, she would not be constrained by her circumstances. After all, Mrs. Parton did not advertise either Beatrice’s reduced circumstances or her own generosity in providing this opportunity, along with an elegant new wardrobe. Due to their decision not to hide Beatrice’s identity, none but the closest of Mrs. Parton’s friends knew she was being paid to be here. Thus she could abandon herself to the experience and enjoy it to the fullest.

Lord and Lady Blakemore had already arrived and awaited their guests at the door of the drawing room. When the butler announced each person’s name, other guests eyed the newcomer with curiosity, interest or admiration. Beatrice noticed a few gentlemen looking her way and, not being acquainted with any of them, averted her eyes. But she could not stop the warmth creeping up to her cheeks because of all this attention.

Hours ago when she had left Mrs. Parton’s town house, she had been satisfied with her appearance and especially her lovely pink gown. Others must have found her acceptable as well, for during the play’s intermission, several gentlemen had rushed to Lord Blakemore’s theatre box for an introduction. But at Mrs. Parton’s instruction, Lord Blakemore fended them all off. “Not our sort,” the lady had insisted, with the earl and countess adding their agreement. Indeed, from appearances alone, Beatrice had approved the decision without qualification and had even noticed Lord Greystone’s confirmation. Still, it was not an easy matter to reject such obvious admiration, even though she had no doubt each and every man would retreat upon learning that she had no dowry.

With that reminder the joy that had filled her as she ascended the staircase vanished. Only an exceptional gentleman would overlook that undesirable situation. And if it were not enough to ruin her prospects, there was always Melly and his wastrel ways.