The Courteous Cad (9 page)

As was the custom since William’s return to the Thorne-Chatham estate, he had joined his brother at tea that afternoon. Olivia sat with the men when she was at home, and quite often visitors came to the table as well.

William had learned to take pleasure in the congenial assembly of family and friends. True, it was not as hearty or raucous a gathering as some he had enjoyed, but he found the conversation stimulating, the advice sound, and the affection genuine.

Following the morning’s incident at the mill, the mists had faded and the day had grown warm. An open window ushered in the sweet scents of early spring—fields newly turned by the plow, flowers unfurling petals one by one, a hint of rain in the breeze.

The table in the sitting room at Thorne Lodge fairly groaned beneath the load of delectable treats carried up from the kitchen. Fresh currant buns, a bowl of sugared strawberries, a plate piled with thinly sliced ham and savory cheeses, and a large pot of hot strong tea crowded the round tabletop. Unpleasant news had no place in such an amiable family scene, but William could not rest until he had disclosed the debacle that now occupied all his thoughts.

Randolph received the information and fell silent, but his wife appeared scandalized.

“Had I known Miss Watson’s true character, I should never have invited her to dinner again.” Olivia’s warm eyes met William’s. “But she must be all deceit. Her beauty and charm hide her defects. By outward appearance, she is witty, clever, and accomplished, and her family connections are more than satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory? Have you forgotten that her father traded in opium?” William asked. “You informed us of his iniquities not ten minutes ago.”

“I have not forgotten what I said about Mr. Gerald Watson. I do not repeat gossip, William, and you must know that every shred of information I have reported was either taken from Miss Pickworth’s society news in
The Tattler
or given to me by our minister’s wife.”

“Making the information, of course, utterly and irrefutably true.”

“Yes, indeed. Miss Pickworth rarely errs in her accounts, and Harriet is never wrong.”

William could not resist teasing Olivia. He knew she enjoyed reading the society gossip in the London newspaper. He also knew she treasured her friendship with the Reverend Nigel Berridge’s wife, Harriet. The young minister’s growing family, now residing in the parsonage beside the church at Otley, brought a welcome warmth to the small town. As a boy, William had dreaded his family’s Sunday obligation to attend church services, but of late he found them more palatable.

“Mr. Watson’s superior connections in society were purchased,” Olivia continued. “Trenton House, the family’s home in London, belonged to a peer of the realm before Mr. Watson bought it. He procured his eldest daughter’s first husband, the late Lord Delacroix, in the same way.”

“He purchased a husband for his daughter?” William asked. “That is singular.”

“Lord Delacroix had a title but no money,” she explained. “The arrangement was easily made. Attachment to the Delacroix name gave Mr. Watson influence and prestige, yet I am told the marriage he made for his poor daughter was a disaster from first to last. Upon the husband’s death, she was finally free of him. But I fear our Miss Watson’s sister cannot be a sensible woman. She has taken a new husband who has no name at all and is a tea merchant in Cheapside—Charles Locke, I believe his name is.”

“Dearest wife,” Randolph said gently, “Mrs. Locke cannot help that her first husband died. Nor can we abuse her for choosing a more common man to replace him. We must grant the woman some kindness.”

“You are quite right, my dear,” Olivia agreed. “Mrs. Locke suffered a good deal before she met her new husband. Yet I wonder how much real pain she could have endured in such a case? Her father’s demise left her wealthy, and her husband’s left her titled.”

“Ah, the joys of a convenient death,” William observed. “All things considered, Miss Watson’s sister has not done badly.”

“Oh, William.” Olivia shook her head at him. “You do not take these things seriously, but you should. Miss Watson benefits greatly from her elder sister’s position in society.”

“Does that give her the right to march into my mill and incite my laborers to revolt?”

“Of course not. What can she have been thinking?”

“She was thinking of her lost love—our very own blacksmith.”

“Are you quite sure of this information, brother?” Randolph asked, leaning forward. “Has Miss Watson formed an attachment to a native of America? Is the man not twice her age at least?”

“Thereabouts, and he is to wed one of our weavers before the year’s end. But I understand he first knew Miss Watson in quite a different circumstance. I questioned him today after the incident at the mill. He told me that the Marquess of Blackthorne has been his particular friend from childhood. It was through this connection that the acquaintance with Miss Watson was made and the attachment between them formed. He knew their mutual regard could never result in marriage, and so he ended the friendship, moved far away from the woman, and began anew.”

Randolph shook his head. “William, do you really believe Miss Watson went to the mill this morning with the express purpose of drawing the attention of our blacksmith?”

“A heart awash in love can lead a person to do many curious things,” Olivia said. “As you, my darling husband, can attest.”

Randolph smiled tenderly at his wife, yet he was not satisfied to drop the matter. “William, you report that Miss Watson actually shouted at the piecers’ overlooker? And you say she vowed to rescue the mill’s youngest laborers from their purported
slavery
? She seemed a sensible enough young lady yesterday. Why would she employ such extraordinary measures to draw the blacksmith’s notice? No, indeed, I begin to think Miss Watson’s true purpose was exactly as she stated.”

“You believe she fancies herself a crusader and revolutionary?” William lifted his teacup. “Have you looked at her, brother? She is too pale and pretty, too well-bred, too . . . well, she is simply too
curly
to lead an uprising.”

“Too curly?” Olivia laughed.

“The woman is nothing but curls and curves everywhere. She smells divine. Even when she is shouting, her voice is like honey. No, indeed, Miss Prudence Watson was created for one thing: love. It is her purpose, her design, her entire function in life.”

“You are smitten with her, William!” Olivia exclaimed. “Now I see the truth.”

“I am not smitten. I merely make my case: her actions result from a forbidden love and not from any righteous zeal to save children.”

“I suppose we cannot argue,” Randolph said. “You know the woman more intimately than we. You observed her behavior, and you interviewed the blacksmith. Now we have only to think of a way to revoke her invitation to dinner.”

“We shall do no such thing,” Olivia declared. “Miss Watson and Mrs. Heathhill are welcome to visit us upon any occasion. But as we speak with the younger of the sisters tonight, we shall bear in mind her unsettled temperament and her tendency toward hysteria. While in our home, she will be treated with kindness. But we shall bear with fortitude her eventual return to London and the solace and protection of her family.”

Randolph gave a snort. “I shall find it difficult not to envision her shouting at our overlooker in a preposterous attempt to draw the attention of our blacksmith. It will be impossible to give credit to anything she says.”

With that pronouncement from his brother, William took another sip of tea and studied a patch of daffodils blooming just outside the open window. He had convinced his family of Miss Watson’s romantic purposes. They now thought her childish and a little mad. Their general pity would be felt by the young lady, and she would leave Yorkshire on the first coach tomorrow.

Once again, William had succeeded in accomplishing the task at hand. But as he sipped his tea, he could not deny his own great doubt. It was entirely possible, he had to admit, that his overlookers were cruel to the mill labor. It might be true, in fact, that the children suffered daily abuse and lived in a state of fear.

It might even be likely that Miss Watson had wished to aid those children this morning. That her attachment to the blacksmith might be entirely innocent. That her presence at dinner this evening would unsettle and disarm William.

He had made her an object of scorn and condolence to his family. But he was the one who deserved their scorn and not Miss Watson at all, curly though she was.

Five

“France is lovely in the spring,” Prudence informed those gathered at the dinner table. She had gone to Thorne Lodge determined to capture the attention and admiration of everyone there, restore her good reputation, and squash William Sherbourne all in one evening. Thus far, she had succeeded admirably.

“Calais, you must understand,” she continued her discourse, “is the very essence of all things beautiful and refined. But I cannot pronounce the former emperor of that nation to be as intriguing as most of my countrymen assert. I observed Napoleon’s actions firsthand at Waterloo, and he was too cleverly outwitted by our forces.”

“You were at Waterloo?” Randolph Sherbourne, Lord Thorne, all but gaped at her across the table. “You witnessed the battle itself?”

“Did I not, Mary?” Prudence turned to her sister. “You can attest to the truth of my account.”

“Prudence was indeed at the battle,” Mary confirmed. “It was a most unhappy accident, of course. Along with her traveling companions, my sister hid in a barn very near the center of combat. She had accompanied her dearest friend Anne, Lady Blackthorne, on a mission to transport lace into France.”

“A lace
machine
,” Prudence clarified. “As you all must know by now, I am never reluctant to fight for the greater good.”

Lest anyone should mention her ill-advised visit to the worsted mill that morning, she drew in a deep breath and continued. “I believe that God expects us to spend our time on earth in worthy labors. A clear division exists between good and evil. The world is either black or white. There can be no gray.”

“No gray?” William asked. “Madam, I see nothing
but
gray.”

“Then you do not see clearly, sir. Honor, beauty, truth, justice—all these are good and right. When evil is discerned, it must be rooted out and destroyed.”

“So, this lace machine of yours,” he said. “Was it an evil contraption? Or was it good? I am mystified.”

Prudence favored him with the most condescending smile she could summon. “A machine, sir, is neither good nor bad. What must be judged is its effect on mankind.”

“You refer, by extension, to my worsted looms.”

“Dear Mr. Sherbourne, let us not quarrel this evening. Lady Thorne’s table is hardly the place for bickering and disagreement.”

“You find the floor of my mill a more suitable arena?”

She opened her mouth with a retort at the ready, but Olivia spoke up quickly.

“At the mention of lace, Miss Watson, I must say I am entranced by the lace on your gown. Is it French?”

“This is Nottingham lace, madam. In fact, it was made by the friend I mentioned before. Anne gave it to me not long after her wedding.”

“It is delicate and exquisite,” Olivia murmured. “This lady’s skill is greatly to be admired. Such workmanship is of great value.”

“Indeed, and such a friendship is even more valuable.” Prudence touched the scrap of bobbin lace at her throat and was gratified to discover William’s attention already fixed there. She absently brushed at a curl that had escaped her chignon to dangle against her neck. His focus traveled to it and lingered.

Good,
she thought.
If you cannot be tormented by the evils of your mill, Mr. Sherbourne, you shall be tormented by me instead.
Though Prudence feared she was not much of a crusader, she had no such doubts about her ability to conquer a man’s heart.

“Dear friends are such a joy,” she purred. “A warm fire, a delicious meal, a lively conversation . . . what could be more delightful?”

“Perhaps a turn at the pianoforte,” William said. “We are beside ourselves with joy at the prospect of yet another of your performances.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sherbourne. You are all politeness this evening. How very happy we are to be treated to this uncommon display of your good humor and wit.”

“Oh yes,” Mary spoke up at once, rising from the table and nearly upsetting her chair. “It is many a month since we have enjoyed such fine food and such congenial company. Come, Prudence. We must choose a song for our kind hosts.”

As everyone made to stand, the footmen hurried to remove chairs and clear the table. Prudence regretted the hasty end to the dinner, but it seemed that William was quite determined to spar with her at every opportunity.

She did not mind. In fact, the man intrigued her to the extent that she had thought about little else all day. Her gown, her hair, even her scent were chosen with him in mind. She told herself that she intended to beguile and then discard him. He must become nothing more than another suitor to add to the growing list of men she had captivated and then abandoned to their misery.

“You must speak to Mr. Sherbourne with respect, Prudence!” Mary hissed as she took her sister’s arm and hurried her down the corridor toward the drawing room. “After your demonstration this morning, the family easily might have withdrawn our invitation to dinner. But they have welcomed us, and you must be polite.”

“I am as polite as he deserves,” Prudence whispered back. “I hate him.”

“Ah, Mr. Sherbourne!” Mary said as the man himself joined them. “I was just saying to my sister how much we have enjoyed the evening. Your family is all kindness. Indeed, sir, I should be happy to play a jig or two if you wish to dance.”

“Dance? But partners are too few, I fear.” He paused a moment. “However, I do recall that you praised your sister’s skills on the dance floor. Perhaps you might teach me a step or two, Miss Watson.”

“Dance? With you?” Prudence was about to reject him in no uncertain terms, but Mary elbowed her in the side.