The Bachelor List (11 page)

“I doubt Pammy has the concentration span to take in anything so complex,” Max said. “Like most—” He broke off.

“Like most women,” she finished for him. “Was that what you were about to say?”

He sighed. “Must you put words into my mouth?”

“You've made your views quite clear.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I do not understand why women should need the vote. They wield a powerful influence on their menfolk at home. Why, I know more powerful women than men, I can tell you. Their husbands and brothers do exactly what they're told.”

Constance stared at him. “I can't believe you'd trot out that old saw,” she said in disgust. “
Women are the power behind the throne.
And even if I concede that some lucky women do have influence over the men who make decisions for them, what about all the women who have no such power? Who's going to make decisions that would improve their lives? Who's even interested in them?” She shook her head, her eyes glittering with angry conviction, her cheeks flushed.

Max toyed with the idea of commenting that she looked beautiful when she was angry but decided that he'd provoked her enough for one evening. He was fairly certain now that she was a card-carrying member of the WSPU and would serve his purposes very well. It was time to retreat, offer a sop, and plan the next step. If he played his cards right she would spill all the information he needed.

“Maybe the WSPU has some merit,” he said calmly. “But these women need to consider the far-reaching effects of such a social change. It must be considered from every angle.”

Constance's angry flush died down. She couldn't argue that point. When she spoke, it was as calmly as he. “But we need some assurances from the government that they would consider the issue.” The candle on the table flared in the breeze created by a waiter's coattails as he hurried past and Max saw golden light flash against the intent dark green of her eyes. He also heard the inadvertent
we.
She was showing her true colors.

“As I understand it, the issue is on the table in Cabinet,” he replied.

Constance examined his countenance and could read no dissembling there. Presumably he would know if he lunched regularly with the Prime Minister and the Cabinet. “That's something,” she said neutrally.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment and firmly closed the subject. “Would you like a cognac?”

“No, thank you. I need a clear head for tomorrow. But don't let me stop you.”

“I too need a clear head.” He caught the hovering waiter's eye and when he brought the bill asked him to summon a hackney. “Perhaps next time, if you'll do me the honor of dining with me again, we can take a drive in the motor. I could pick you up out of sight of Manchester Square and we could drive out along the river. There's a very pleasant spot near Windsor, good food,
pretty view . . . ?”

“It sounds delightful,” Constance said in the same neutral tone. She gathered up her evening bag. “If you'll excuse me . . .”

Max rose to his feet as the waiter pulled back her chair and she extricated herself with a graceful twitch of her skirts. Max watched her as she moved through the dining room towards the ladies' retiring room, pausing at a number of tables en route. He couldn't decide whether the evening had been a success or not. He'd discovered what he wanted to know, but he didn't think he'd succeeded too well in disarming the lady. She showed no inclination to respond to either flattery or overt seduction. And for his part, while she was a lovely woman and a stimulating companion, he found her passionate wrongheadedness and her constant sparring utterly exasperating. But perhaps it was a way to hold him at bay. If it was, it succeeded all too well.

And now his interest was truly piqued. He would topple the castle one way or another. There had to be a woman beneath the intellectual shell. It was all very well to be possessed by the passions of the mind, and he was more than happy to pay all due respect to her mental prowess, but there were other passions that even such a single-minded woman could learn to respect and enjoy.

Constance emerged from the retiring room, having discreetly left a copy of
The Mayfair Lady
in the basket of linen towels, out of sight of the attendant. She wasn't sure what she'd accomplished this evening. A few details about Miss Westcott, but nothing significant, and the possibility that the government was at least examining the women's suffrage issue. It wasn't much to take away. And she didn't think she'd made a dent in Max Ensor's Neanderthal views on a woman's place.
Power behind the throne, indeed.
But she had an entire weekend ahead of her. A weekend under her own roof. If she couldn't make some headway with the man, she wasn't the woman she believed herself to be.

Max was on his feet as she approached the table. She wore a little half smile, a secretive and rather complacent Mona Lisa smile, and a certain gleam in her eye that fascinated him even as it put him on his guard.
What had she been up to in the ordinarily innocuous confines of the ladies' retiring room?
He said only, “The cab's waiting.”

Constance became aware of her smile as she caught his slightly speculative look. She realized that she had been smiling for the entire walk across the dining room and now hastily composed her features and murmured the correct pleasantries.

They sat in silence in the darkened interior of the hackney, but it was a suspenseful silence. Constance wondered if he would make a move, and wondered how, if he did, she should respond. It wouldn't be unusual at the end of such an evening for her escort to offer a discreet if not hesitant kiss. She waited, but not for long. Max laid a hand gently on her knee. She did not react. She let the warm pressure soak through the thin silk. He turned on the leather bench and with his other hand cupped her chin, turning her face towards his. She could see his eyes in the gloom, glowing and yet dark, the shape of his nose, the full sensual curve of his mouth. She remained still and silent, still unsure as to how she wanted to react.

Max ran a finger over her lips, wondering how to interpret her silence, her immobility that was neither rejection nor resistance. Then she parted her lips and lightly touched his finger with the tip of her tongue. The bold assurance of her gesture surprised him even as he realized that it was time he ceased to be surprised by Constance Duncan. He bent his head and kissed her. Her response told him clearly that she was no tyro in these matters. So much the better, he thought. Her mouth opened beneath his, her hands moved to encircle his neck, and as his tongue moved deep within her mouth she met him thrust for thrust. He had thought to offer nothing more than a chaste peck, but she had taken matters into her own hands. Perversely, he wasn't entirely sure that it pleased him.

The coach drew to a halt. “Manchester Square, guv.” The cabby's lilting call broke the silence and they drew apart. Constance brushed her lips with her fingertips, smoothed her hair. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Max.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Constance.” His teeth gleamed white as he returned her formal farewell and the very polite smile. He stepped out to the pavement and gave her his hand to help her alight. He walked her to the top of the steps, pulled the bell rope, and raised her hand to his lips.
“À bientôt.”

“Friday, Waterloo, at noon,” Constance responded.

“I look forward to it.”

Constance raised a hand in a gesture of farewell and turned away as Jenkins opened the door for her. “You had a pleasant dinner, miss?” he inquired.

“I'm not entirely sure,” she responded. “Are my sisters in bed?”

“I hardly think so, Miss Con,” Jenkins said with a knowing smile. “I believe you'll find them in the parlor upstairs.”

“Then I'll bid you good night.” Constance gave him a wave and hurried up the stairs, holding her skirts clear of her feet. She couldn't avoid this tête-à-tête with her sisters, who would be eagerly awaiting her return, and she wouldn't want to anyway, but she wasn't sure how much she was prepared to reveal about the carriage ride home. She had intended to offer a light and playful good night kiss that would merely tease him. Somehow that was not what had happened. Not at all what had happened. She opened the parlor door.

Prue and Chastity were playing backgammon but they jumped up as she came in. “So, tell us all,” Chastity demanded. “Did you squabble all evening, or did it become wonderfully romantic?”

“Oh, you are impossible, Chas.” Constance drew off her gloves. “As it happens we squabbled almost nonstop and the only romantic moment was when he kissed me good night in the cab.”

“A good kiss?” Prudence asked with raised eyebrows.

“I'm still trying to decide.” She flung herself inelegantly into the depths of the chesterfield and kicked off her shoes. Her sisters were gazing at her with all the fixed attention of lions waiting to be thrown their food.

“On a scale of one to ten,” Prudence demanded.

Constance pretended to consider the matter. She stretched out her hands and examined her nails. “Bold,” she said thoughtfully. “Strong . . . warm . . . lips and tongue well plied . . . Since I don't think it's possible to give a ten because you never know what else you might experience, I'll say an eight.”

“Pretty high praise,” Prudence judged.

“Sounds a little forward for a first kiss,” Chastity observed, beginning to gather up the backgammon pieces.

“I suppose it was,” Constance agreed. “But it wasn't entirely his fault.”

“Oh, really?” Her sisters regarded her intently. Then Chastity asked simply, “Was it at all like with Douglas?”

Constance didn't immediately reply. “I don't know,” she said after a minute. “It's awful, but I can't really remember anymore what it was like with Douglas. It's hard enough to see his features clearly in my mind. But when I think of him buried under some South African kopje I want to tear my hair out, scream and hiss and spit at the whole damned injustice of it all.” She stared down at the carpet, but her eyes were unfocused. “I'm over it, of course I am, but I'm in no hurry to bury his memory in some new passion.”

“So Max Ensor isn't getting under your skin,” Prudence stated.

“No,” Constance said definitely. “His opinions are. He's positively Neanderthal. But I very much like the idea of working on him.” She looked up, her expression once more relaxed, the shadows gone from her eyes. “I intend to give Max Ensor a radical education, and before I'm done with him he'll be wearing the colors of the WSPU.”

“And he's definitely coming to Romsey for the weekend?”

Constance nodded. “Yes. He'll meet us at Waterloo.”

“And you've already made some plans for him?”

“They're in embryo at present but they're coming together.” A grin flashed across her countenance. “I'll tell you when I've sorted them out properly. Oh, by the way, he wanted us to drive down but I managed to dissuade him. I told him father's eyesight was bad but he still wanted to get a motor and we didn't want to encourage him.”

“Nicely saved.” Prudence yawned involuntarily. “Anything useful about Miss Westcott?”

“Not really. She's not some ingenue, that much I did discover. Past the age of discretion is how Max put it. She's managed to stick it out at the Grahams for longer than any other governess, so the child likes her. That's about it.”

“Oh, well, it's something. I wonder what it is that's so delicate about her situation.” Chastity went to the door.

“No doubt we shall find out.” Constance extinguished the lights and followed her sisters up to bed.

Amelia Westcott hurried across Park Lane from Hyde Park, clutching the hand of her protesting charge, and entered the Park Lane Post Office just as a shower of rain gusted across the street.

“My hat is wet,” Pammy complained. “It's my new straw hat. Mama just bought it, and now it's wet and spoiled.”

“It will dry, Pammy,” Amelia said. “See, we're out of the rain now.” She let the door bang behind her. “Let's have a race with the raindrops on the window.” She encouraged the girl over to the glass and pointed out two drops trickling slowly from the top. “The one on the left is mine.” She indicated with her finger.

“I want that one.”

“Very well. Then I'll have the one on the right.” Suppressing a sigh, Amelia went to the counter, where the clerk gave her a sympathetic smile.

“Mornin', Miss Westcott. Got a letter for you . . . arrived in the morning post.” He turned to the wall of pigeonholes behind him and took out a long envelope.

“Mine won! Mine won!” Pamela danced over to the counter. “See, Miss Westcott. Mine won!” She grabbed her governess's hand, tugging her back to the window. Amelia pocketed her letter, smiled her thanks to the clerk, and allowed herself to be dragged to view the triumph of the anonymous raindrop.

“See!” Pamela jabbed at the bottom of the window. “That was mine. Let's do it again. I want to do it again.” Her voice rose slightly as if she was anticipating argument.

“Which one is yours?” Amelia said quickly.

“That one!” The child pointed. “And that one's yours.”

Amelia reconciled herself to a tedious quarter hour playing this game. The letter itched in her pocket but nothing would be gained by rousing the devil in Pamela. She thought wearily that she had always liked children. She had told herself that becoming a governess wasn't the worst fate to befall an educated woman without means. Now, regarding this spoiled and rather sad child, she thought that a life on the streets might be considerably more congenial.

Finally, however, Pamela tired of the game and the rain stopped. They walked back to Albermarle Street, the child in great good humor, having secured herself a win in every raindrop contest. She prattled nonstop, skipping through puddles, heedless of the splashes to her smocked pinafore and white stockings. Nanny Baxter would grumble from the comfort of her armchair all afternoon, Amelia reflected. But this afternoon it wouldn't trouble her. She had a few short hours of liberty and a letter in her pocket.

In the day nursery she installed her charge at the lunch table under the supervision of the nursery maid, and went to her own bedroom conveniently situated next to the night nursery, in case Miss Pammy awoke with a nightmare. She withdrew the envelope from her coat pocket and slit it with a fingernail. She took out the single sheet and sat slowly on the narrow bed. The handwriting was feminine and the core of the message made her heart leap.
Lyons Corner House. Marble Arch, at four o'clock this afternoon.
Whoever or whatever constituted the Go-Between, she or they were prepared to help if they could.