The Bachelor List (9 page)

“Miss Prue!” he protested in dignified indignation.

“I jest, Jenkins.” She gave him a quick kiss that produced a dull flush and a hasty exit.

Max Ensor inserted diamond studs into the high wing collar of his evening shirt. They matched his glittering cuff links. His valet hovered near the door with his crimson-lined opera cloak and black silk hat.

“That will do, I believe.” Max gave a quick tug to the tails of his coat and held up one black-shod foot to the light. It gleamed with Marcel's champagne polish. “Another triumph, Marcel.” Max was willing to admit to himself and his valet that he possessed a streak of vanity but he was also capable of making mock of both himself and Marcel's obsessive regard for the niceties of dress.

“Yes, sir.” The man bowed, admiring as only a valet could the set of the coat across his master's broad shoulders. Reverently, he draped the cloak over the shoulders, smoothing the line with a fussy little pat. “Should I summon a hackney cab, sir?”

“No, it's a lovely evening. I'll walk to Manchester Square and hail a cab there.” He took up his white gloves. “I doubt I'll be later than one o'clock.”

“Very good, sir.” The valet bowed his master from the bedchamber.

Max strode down the broad hallway of the Graham mansion towards the main staircase. As he passed the foot of the narrower flight of stairs that led to the nursery floor above, the sound of a large crash followed by a high-pitched wail of fury gave him pause. A tired voice said, “If you don't want it, Pamela, I'll take it away. There's nothing to cry about.”

The wailing continued unabated, then ceased abruptly. The silence in its wake had a curious suspended quality. Then again the wearily patient voice. “Please, Pammy, don't do that.”

Max had never really noticed Miss Westcott. He supposed he'd passed her several times a day, and certainly run into her when she brought her charge to the drawing room to visit with Lady Graham every afternoon, but he was hard-pressed to picture her features. That weary resignation in her voice, however, caught his attention. After what he'd heard this afternoon about Letitia's treatment of the governess, and from what he knew of his sister's indulgent attitude towards her child, he could guess at the hell that was the life of the governess in this house.

It was no wonder, he thought as he climbed the stairs to the nursery floor, that educated women like Miss Westcott should find appealing the agenda of the Women's Social and Political Union. Downtrodden as they were, powerless to change their lives in any meaningful fashion, the idea of a vote could offer a smidgeon of hope, some possibility of influencing their working conditions. It was a novel thought, and one that until this afternoon in the Duncan sisters' drawing room had never disturbed the peaceful surface of his view of the social structures of his world. A wry little smile touched his mouth as he thought that Constance Duncan was entirely responsible for his present trek up the nursery stairs.

The door to the day nursery stood open, giving him a perfect view of its inhabitants. A small girl, with pigtails sticking out from either side of her head, stood beside an upturned chair in the middle of the brightly painted room, her face purple to the point of apoplexy, her eyes bulging. She was clearly holding her breath. A slightly worn woman in her early thirties stood regarding the child with an air of resigned exasperation. The young nursemaid who assisted the elderly Nanny Baxter, the grande dame of the nursery who had cared for both Max and his sister and was now past the age for the more active aspects of child care, stood wringing her hands, murmuring, “Oh, do breathe, Miss Pammy, do!”

Max lifted the child off the floor and held her high between his hands. In surprise, she took a gasping sob of a breath and her eyes returned to their sockets. He noticed that she didn't seem to have shed a single tear. He held her until her face had taken on a more normal hue and then set her down again.

“It seems something's not right with your world, Pammy,” he observed amiably. His niece remained for the moment bereft of speech. She gazed up at him, her thumb finding its way into her mouth.

“I'm so sorry if you were disturbed, Mr. Ensor,” the governess apologized. She brushed a limp strand of hair from her forehead where it had escaped the pins. “There was no need for the tantrum. She didn't want her buttered toast so I took it away immediately, but she still . . .” She shrugged, expressing a world of helpless frustration in the gesture.

Max regarded the child. “It must be so unsatisfying when opposition just crumbles at the first objection,” he observed. “There's nothing like a well-justified tantrum for testing limits, but in the absence of limits, what's a small person to do?”

A glimmer of appreciation appeared in Amelia Westcott's gray eyes. “Lady Graham, sir, does not encourage limits.”

“No,” he said. “So I understand. Poor child . . .” He smiled at Miss Westcott. “And poor governess. You have my sympathies, ma'am.”

“Thank you, sir.” Color touched her rather faded cheek. “I think it's over for this evening. In general, once a night is all she can manage.”

He shook his head. “I'll have a word with my brother-in-law.”

She took a sudden urgent step towards him. “Oh, no, Mr. Ensor. That's very kind of you, but I wouldn't like Lady Graham to think I'm complaining about Pammy.”

He slapped his gloves into the palm of one hand. Letitia might for the sake of convenience and her daughter's good humor put up with a governess with suspect political opinions, but she would never tolerate even the hint of disapproval about the child from anyone, let alone someone in her employ. Besides, privately he didn't think it would do any good to talk to Bertie. Lord Graham hated disharmony and kept his eyes firmly closed to anything that might cause it.

“Very well.” He nodded and turned to go.

“Uncle Max.” Pamela finally spoke. She tugged at the tail of his coat. “Where are you going? Can I come?”

“I'm going out to dinner,” he said. “With another lady. I don't think I should put her off at the last minute, do you? It would be most dreadfully rude.”

Pamela considered this. Her one protest of the evening over, she was perfectly prepared to be reasonable. “She might think I was . . . I was a rival for your affections,” she declared with a triumphant clap of her still-dimpled hands.

Max stared at the governess over the child's head. “Where on earth . . . ?”

“Nanny Baxter is very fond of romances, Mr. Ensor,” she said, her face as straight as a die.

“Oh, I see.”

“Lady Graham and Nanny Baxter are in the habit of discussing the love stories when her ladyship visits the nursery.”

“Oh,” Max said again. “Oh, I see.” He gave his niece's pigtails a gentle tug, said, “I bid you good night, Miss Westcott,” and left the now peaceful domestic scene with a swift step.

He encountered his brother-in-law in the hall. “Ah, Max, going to the House?” Bertie asked jovially, the words wafting on a whisky breeze. “Just came from the Lords . . . some cursed boring discussion about agriculture. Can't be bothered with it m'self. As long as the tenant farmers pay their tithes, let 'em alone, say I. What?”

“I represent a rather more urban constituency, Bertie,” Max said. “As it happens, nothing that affects my constituents is on the agenda this evening. I'm taking Miss Duncan to dinner.”

“Oh?” Lord Graham's bleary eyes struggled to focus. “The oldest one. Deuced attractive girl, reminds me of her mother, but she'll soon be on the shelf if she don't take some man . . . plenty after her. Shame about that chappie she was engaged to, can't remember his name now . . . killed in the war. Mafeking . . . or some other godforsaken part of the veldt. In the dragoons, I believe.”

“That was what, five or six years ago?” Max mused. Constance Duncan would not have struck him as a tragic figure pining for a lost love.

“Something like that.” Bertie waved a dismissive hand. “Caused the devil of an upset in the family. Mother took the girls to Italy for six months, hoping Constance would get over it. Expect she has by now. Girl that age . . . can't weep forever.”

Max absorbed this in silence, then headed once more for the door. “Well, have a good evening, Bertie.”

“Oh, meant to ask you . . .” Lord Graham laid a hand on his brother-in-law's sleeve. “You think there's a cabinet post for you in the Prime Minister's reshuffle? Heard you were very tight with Campbell-Bannerman.”

“No,” Max said with a laugh. “I'm too new at the business for such an honor, Bertie.”

“Pity.” Bertie sighed. “Cabinet Minister in the family could be useful.”

Max shook his head and left his brother-in-law to the whisky decanter and his reflections. It was a beautiful evening and he walked briskly through the Mayfair streets towards Manchester Square. His brother-in-law's question had not come totally out of the blue, although he had laughed it off. He was very much in the Prime Minister's confidence, but he was still too new a member of the House of Commons to achieve such a promotion. If he played his cards right it would come at some point sooner rather than later during the Liberal Party's reign. And he had every intention of playing his cards right. He had found the issue that would keep him in the forefront of the Prime Minister's mind. Campbell-Bannerman and his Cabinet were not in favor of women's suffrage but they could not afford to alienate those members of the Liberal Party who were. Finding a suitable compromise was going to be Max Ensor's route to the Cabinet. There were many covert ways to draw the teeth of the Women's Social and Political Union without angering its more influential supporters. And what better way to start than by cultivating the acquaintance of an active and passionate member of the Union.

He didn't know that Constance Duncan was a member, but she made no secret of her strong views on women's equal rights. He didn't
know
that she had something to do with
The Mayfair Lady,
but he suspected it. Either she was actively involved or she knew who was. If that newspaper was going to cause trouble, then it would be very useful to know exactly who was behind it. So he was very happy to combine business with pleasure in the cultivation of Miss Duncan.

He had thought hard about issuing tonight's invitation, wondering if it was too soon to suggest an intimate evening, but he'd decided that a full-frontal attack could well surprise her into an acceptance that a more measured approach might not achieve. He would be charming, a little seductive, disarm her. And then, he thought, he would pull back, leave her alone for a few days, and let her wonder about his intentions. It was a tactic that had worked for him before.

But he had to admit that he wasn't totally confident of success in this instance. Constance puzzled him. She didn't seem to fit into any category of woman known to him. She had all the bristly attributes of the bluestocking, the sharpness of the shrew, the face and form of the beauty, the savoir faire and dress sense of the Society woman. And yet she defied all categorization. She and her sisters. And now there was a dead fiancé to throw into the mix. Some bright and heroic scion of a noble family, killed while fighting for his country. If she still carried a torch for him, a pedestrian politician would find it hard to match up in the hero stakes, he reflected as he mounted the steps to the house.

The door opened at the peal of the bell and the butler he remembered from the afternoon bowed him within. “Will you wait in the drawing room, sir? I'll inform Miss Duncan that you're here.”

“Thank you. And would you send someone to summon a hackney, please?” Max followed Jenkins into the drawing room and was taken aback when the butler announced him. “Mr. Ensor, my lord. He's waiting for Miss Con.”

Lord Duncan turned from the open doors to the terrace. “Ah, I didn't know my daughter was going out this evening.” He came towards his visitor, hand outstretched in greeting. “No one tells me anything in this house,” he said. “Sherry . . . or would you prefer whisky?”

“Sherry, thank you.”

“Daughters never tell you anything,” Lord Duncan reiterated. “Rather like wives.” He laughed and handed Max a glass. “So, where are you taking her? Don't mean to pry, nothing too paternal about the question . . . Con's more than capable of taking care of herself.” He sipped his sherry.

“The Café Royal, I thought,” Max replied.

“Oh, splendid choice. I took her mother there the night after our wedding . . . must be thirty years ago now.” A shadow passed across Lord Duncan's countenance and vanished as swiftly. “You're the political chappie, aren't you? One of Campbell-Bannerman's protégés?”

“Hardly a protégé, sir.”

“Up-and-coming . . . up-and-coming,” declared his lordship with a conspiratorial wink. “Cigarette?” He flipped the lid on an engraved silver box.

“Thank you, no.”

Lord Duncan lit his own and inhaled deeply. “So where did you meet my daughters? I assume that if you met one you met 'em all.”

“Yes, indeed, Lord Duncan.” Max looked restlessly towards the door. “I met them at Fortnum's, when I was having tea with Lady Armitage. She's a friend of my sister's, Lady Graham,” he added in case his host needed further enlightenment.

“Oh, yes, I know that, dear boy. Well, you must come down to the country this weekend. We're having a small house party. The girls want to play tennis . . . not a game I care for. Give me croquet any day, much more vicious . . . just when you think you've—”

“Oh, Father, you'll bore Mr. Ensor to death with your croquet obsession.” Constance made her entrance with a carefully executed swish of her black taffeta skirt. “Mr. Ensor, I hope I didn't keep you waiting long.”

“Not at all, ma'am.” He couldn't take his eyes off her. The black taffeta skirt had a bodice of a deep red that almost exactly matched the color of her hair. The neckline curved low to reveal just a hint of creamy breast, accentuated by the stunning jet collar that circled her neck. Her collarbone stood out in a way that lured his mouth and his tongue, so that he found himself curling his toes in his shoes. She was wearing heels that added at least an inch to her already noticeably tall and willowy frame. Her hair was piled high, dressed over pads, adorned with tiny jet black butterflies, and it begged to be loosened, each pin withdrawn, each lock and strand gently teased from restraint to fall to those perfect sloping shoulders.