The Bachelor List (23 page)

Finally he came down to the floor with her, kneeling in front of her, kissing her mouth, where he could taste his own arousal that mingled on his lips with the taste of Constance. He eased her to the floor, their mouths still joined, then he drew her beneath him, her thighs opening for him, the tender, now acutely sensitive entrance to her body closing around him as he thrust within. He pressed deep inside her. She held her breath as the spiral of pleasure tightened and she could sense the moment of explosive joy coming closer and closer. She tightened her inner muscles around him the instant before the coil flew apart and she screamed in the deserted house as the climactic finale ripped through her so that for a moment the only reality was sensation. She felt his body jarring, shuddering, the clenched, corded muscles in his upper arms as he held himself above her, then he too shouted out with the same wild abandon and then collapsed on her.

They lay together, breathing fast, their sweat-slick skin sticking together, until at last some sense of time and place returned to them. Constance weakly stroked his back and shifted her body in mute appeal. He rolled off her and lay on his back, his hand resting on her stomach.

“God's good grace,” he said.

“God's good grace,” she said. This was a man who knew how to keep his promises.

Chapter 15

T
he doorbell rang early on Sunday evening. The sisters were gathered in the drawing room, where they'd been all afternoon, trying to distract themselves from the agony of expectation. There was no guarantee that he would come, indeed even Chastity had begun to be plagued by doubts.

At the sound of the bell they looked at one another in silence. Chastity put her steepled hands to her mouth and they waited. Jenkins opened the door. “Mr. Henry Franklin, ladies.”

Henry stepped hesitantly into the room. He carried a small valise and looked as harried and worn as he had done in the Copper Kettle. He set down his valise by the door and solemnly shook their hands.

“Jenkins, could you bring the sherry?” Constance asked. “I think Mr. Franklin looks as if he could do with something heartening.”

“Certainly, Miss Con.” Jenkins left the drawing room.

“I just walked away,” Henry said, sounding bemused. “I wrote a letter and left it on the mantelpiece and I walked away. I caught the afternoon train.” He shook his head in some kind of wonder. “He'll never forgive me.”

“Don't be too sure of that,” Prudence said, drawing him to the sofa. “We'll follow through with our plan and I'm sure he'll come round in the end.”

Henry sat on the sofa, turning his hat between his hands. “How is Amelia?”

“Desperate to see you,” Constance said. “Oh, thank you, Jenkins. I'll pour.” She nodded to the butler as he set the tray with decanter and glasses on a side table. “Lord Duncan isn't dining in tonight, is he?”

“No, Miss Con. He's dining with Lord Barclay as I understand it.”

“Then we'll dine with Mr. Franklin at eight as usual.”

“Very well, miss. I'll take the gentleman's valise to the blue room.”

Constance poured sherry and gave Henry a glass. He sipped it cautiously then with an air of sudden abandon gulped it down. Constance refilled his glass.

“Dutch courage,” he said with an embarrassed smile.

“You don't need it now,” Chastity said warmly. “You're here and it's done. Tomorrow afternoon I'll walk with you in the park when Amelia is walking her charge. We've arranged to meet, accidentally of course, in the rose garden. The child won't think anything of it if you and Amelia talk for a few minutes while I walk a little way with Pamela.”

“And you have an interview with the Right Honorable Max Ensor tomorrow morning,” Constance told him. “He's looking for a secretary. I told him you would make an excellent one. The work might even interest you. It's got to be more challenging than slaving in the office of a construction company.”

Henry downed his second sherry. “I can't take it all in,” he said.

“You don't have to all at once,” Chastity told him. “The wedding is arranged for Thursday afternoon at Caxton Hall. It'll be a very simple ceremony and you and Amelia can have an hour to yourselves afterwards before she has to return to the Grahams.”

“And as soon as you have employment and can find suitable lodgings, then Amelia can leave her employers and you'll set up house together,” Prudence stated.

Henry looked dazed. “I don't know anything about London. I've never been here before. It's so noisy, even on a Sunday. I think I feel a headache coming on.”

“I'll show you to your room and you can rest a little.” Chastity rose from her chair. “Poor Henry,” she said sympathetically. “We must seem such a managing group of females.”

“You are,” he said frankly.

“We only manage people for their own good,” Chastity reassured him, taking his hand in a warm clasp. “We won't do you any harm, I promise.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I don't suppose you would. Not intentionally.” He allowed himself to be led from the drawing room.

“Oh, dear,” Constance said when the door had closed behind them. “Do you really think he's what Amelia wants?”

“She said so,” Prudence stated, pouring more sherry. “I don't think it's our place to veto her choice.”

“No,” Constance agreed. “But I foresee a very tedious evening.”

“Do you think Max will try him out?”

Constance smiled involuntarily, reflecting that every time she thought of Max these days this fatuous smile came to her lips. She just couldn't help it. “I think he'll do his best to see promise in him,” she said.

Prudence was very aware of her sister's recurring smile. “I think you're in love,” she stated.

Constance shook her head vigorously. “No, of course I'm not. I'm just in lust.”

Prudence shook her own head as vigorously. “Don't fool yourself, Con. You certainly can't fool Chas and me. We've never seen you like this. Not even with Douglas.”

“It'll pass,” Constance declared.

“Do you want it to?”

Constance blew out her breath in a sound of pure frustration. “I don't know, Prue. I don't want to be in love with someone who's not in love with me.”

“And he's not?”

“I don't think so.”

“And would you know?” Prudence asked shrewdly.

“I would think so,” Constance said. “Wouldn't you?”

“I don't know. Sometimes the last person to know something is the person closest to it.” They turned as one to the door as Chastity returned.

“Is he all right?”

“He's just so befuddled, poor soul. I don't think he can believe what he's done.” She looked closely at her sisters. “What were you two talking about?”

“Max,” Prudence said. “Whether he's in love with Con. What do you think, Chas?”

“I think it's quite likely, but it's possible he doesn't know it,” Chastity said after a moment's consideration. “Just think how he's changed since he met you. And he helped with the motorcar. He would never have done anything so unconventional before.”

“And he went to a WSPU meeting with you,” Prudence reminded Constance.

As if she needed reminding, Constance thought. That evening was indelibly etched in her memory. “I'll agree he's more open-minded than I had originally thought,” she said cautiously. Then she shrugged. “Let's get back to Henry. If Max does employ him, then he'll need somewhere to live. I don't see him doing that alone, do you?”

“Maybe we should start up a housing rental agency,” Prudence suggested. “In addition to the Go-Between, Mabel, and the Agony Aunt and all the rest of it.”

“I trust you jest, sister,” Constance said. “Our plates are so full we can barely keep the balls we have in the air. Did anyone invite Millicent to the At Home yet?”

“Yes, I did. I called round yesterday, just for an informal visit. I pressed her a little and she said she would definitely be here.” Chastity took up her sherry glass again. “How are we going to put a white rose in her buttonhole?”

“We have to give different colored ones to every woman,” Prudence said. “It doesn't matter how many reds and pinks and yellows we have, we just make sure there's only one white. And white will go with whatever color she's wearing.”

“That'll serve,” Constance agreed. “I should take Henry to visit Max, don't you think? He might never get there on his own.”

“We should probably warn him to keep the name of his intended to himself,” Prudence pointed out. “Just in case it comes up in conversation and he lets it slip to Max.”

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave,” Constance muttered. “I shall be so glad when we've got these two lovebirds safely joined in legal matrimony.”

Henry was a quiet dinner companion, eating steadily, drinking very moderately, but he seemed to be a little less dazed by his present circumstances, and when the sisters rose from the table, suggesting he'd like to enjoy a glass of port, he said he never partook of anything stronger than wine or sherry and would accompany them to the drawing room, where, if they would like it, he would be delighted to play for them. He had noticed a particularly fine pianoforte in the room.

“How lovely,” Constance said. “Thank you.”

He smiled then and it was a very sweet smile and the sisters began to get some inkling as to what had appealed to Amelia. They understood completely when Henry began to play. It was as if he was transformed. The shy, weak bumbler was gone; in its place a man supremely confident in his talent. And it was a considerable talent. His execution was flawless, his interpretation both creative and sensitive.

They sat transfixed for close to two hours as he played tirelessly, and frequently from memory. Once or twice he paused between pieces to flex his long fingers, but they had the feeling that he wasn't really in the room with them. His expression was transfixed, abstracted. He was lost in the world of his music.

When at last he stopped, after a spirited rendition of a group of Chopin waltzes, the sisters applauded spontaneously. “That was wonderful, Henry,” Chastity said. “No wonder you hate clerical work. If I had such a gift I wouldn't want to do anything else with my life.”

He beamed, flushing with pleasure. “That's so kind of you.”

“No,” Constance said. “Not kind, just utterly truthful. We'll have to find a way for you to use your gift, but I think we have to stick with the original plan for the moment.”

“As long as I have access to a piano I'm willing to do other work. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've had a very long day.” He offered a jerky little bow and left them.

“That was something of a revelation, although I don't suppose it should have been,” Prudence observed through a yawn. “But I feel happier about Amelia's choice now.”

Henry was visibly relieved to have an escort to Westminster. He nodded when Constance said he should not mention Amelia's name in the upcoming interview. “I wouldn't see the need,” he said. “My private life is no business of a prospective employer.”

They took the omnibus to Westminster and Constance rang the bell of the house on Canon Row. Max himself opened the door. “Good morning, Constance. I didn't expect to see you.” He shook her hand with solemn formality.

“Mr. Franklin is new to London and I thought it would be nice if I made the introduction personally,” Constance said. “Mr. Henry Franklin, the Right Honorable Max Ensor.”

The two men shook hands, Henry regarding the taller man rather warily. He exuded London sophistication in a morning coat that bore all the marks of impeccable and expensive tailoring. Henry felt distinctly provincial in his Ashford tailored frock coat.

“I'll leave you to it, then,” Constance said. “You can find your own way back, Henry?”

“I hardly think Mr. Ensor would consider employing me if I was that incompetent,” Henry said with a surprising touch of acerbity.

“No,” Constance responded swiftly. “I was just being a mother hen. Forgive me.”

Max's eyebrows crawled into his scalp at this description. He stared at her in open amusement. “Mother hen?”

“Good morning, Mr. Ensor,” Constance said, and turned away, hiding her own laughter.

She walked over Westminster Bridge then hailed a hackney to take her to Battersea. The driver gave her a curious look when she alighted outside the drab building that housed the Battersea Home for Fallen Women. “I think you'd better wait for me,” she said, looking around the mean streets. “There don't seem to be too many hackneys plying their trade around here.”

“Not much trade to be 'ad, miss,” he observed, unwinding his muffler. “'Ow long you'll be, then?”

“Not above a half hour,” she said. “I'll pay for the wait.”

He nodded, took out his newspaper, and began to study the racing pages.

Constance rang the bell of a door scarred and scuffed with peeling paint. It was opened by a rather fierce-looking woman in black with a stiffly starched apron. She looked like some kind of warder, Constance thought. Either that or a matron. And she was scrutinizing Constance in a less-than-friendly fashion.

“I wonder if I might talk to Gertrude Collins.” Constance tried to strike a happy medium between haughtiness and supplication, although she deeply resented the harsh stare.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“I might have some helpful information for her.” Somewhere in the cabbage- and disinfectant-smelling depths of the house came the wail of a baby. “I mean her no harm, I assure you.” She hesitated for a second then said boldly, “I am no friend to Lord Barclay.”

The woman stared at her even more closely but now Constance could detect a slight crack in the harsh demeanor. “Are you a relative?” the woman demanded.

“No. Just someone who wishes her well.”

“There's few enough of those around,” the woman said. She opened the door a little wider. “She's maybe no better than she ought to be, but to be taken advantage of when she had little enough choice in the matter and then abandoned is sheer cruelty. I'd shoot 'em all.”

Constance believed her. She accepted the implicit invitation to enter the house and followed a gesturing hand into a dank little sitting room with hard-backed chairs ranged along the walls and black and white oilcloth on the floor. A minute or so later a woman entered carrying a baby on her hip.

“What do you want with me?”

Constance left the dreary house half an hour later fired with righteous indignation and a soaring triumph. She had enough facts to make her story credible. The gutter press would pick it up with relish and Gertrude would reap the financial rewards while Lord Barclay was crucified on the cross of society's opinion. Such opinion would turn a blind eye to discreet peccadilloes with members of the underclasses, but it wouldn't turn a blind eye to scandal. And Constance in the pages of
The Mayfair Lady
was going to make a stink that would reek to the heavens. Barclay wouldn't be able to show his face in Town.