TuesdayNights (3 page)

Chapter 3

Momma’s Boy on a Wednesday

April 25, 1810

After two days of business meetings with Harold Waterford, Michael Cunningham paused just outside the front door of Waterford Park and took a deep breath. He recalled the comment Sir Richard had made before Michael traveled to Horsham. “Waterford will have a counter for every point you make. Be prepared with your own counter to his, and you’ll do fine.”

Obviously, Sir Richard had been through the same kinds of meetings with the venerable Harold A. Waterford as Michael had just endured. The two had met four times in those two days, their meetings ending only when Louisa insisted they join the family for a meal at the dining table. Even the time the two men spent enjoying port and cheroots after supper was productive. Michael pitched his ideas and Harold played devil’s advocate until the older man was satisfied that Michael had considered all the possible pitfalls of their venture.

If additional financing was ever required during the next two years, Michael had a verbal assurance from his banker, Arthur Huntington III, that monies would be made available. Michael had sparred with the older man at Gentleman Jackson’s salon only the week before, using the bare knuckle mill as a means of bouncing his ideas – as well as his fists – off his friend. He would have preferred to have the conversation over drinks at White’s, but Arthur rarely attended the men’s club. Besotted with his wife of ten years, the banker preferred to spend his evenings in her company. “If you ever marry a woman you love Cunningham, you’ll understand,” Arthur said as they left the boxing salon.

As Michael said his farewells to the Waterford family, he gave Olivia a nod and a wink, causing a blush to appear on the younger daughter’s face. “If that Blaylock boy ...”

“He won’t,” Olivia interrupted with a shake of her head. “You provided a rather convincing deterrent, I should think,” she added with her own wink.

Michael nearly colored up when he noticed Olivia’s wink, but he was forced to turn his attention to Olivia’s older sister when Eloisa suddenly appeared from inside and bounced down the stairs. “Do have a good trip, Mr. Cunningham,” she said with half a curtsy. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.”

Nodding, Michael gave a leg and lifted his beaver to his head. “Thank you, Miss Waterford,” he replied, not realizing the older girl expected him to take her hand.

Olivia elbowed her sister, controlling the urge she had to roll her eyes at that moment. “As would I, if I were allowed to attend,” Olivia said with another wink, her hands held behind her back.

Michael failed at suppressing a grin at the sight of Olivia’s wink.
What the hell?
he thought suddenly. She was too young for him. And he wasn’t in the market for a wife. Not for a long time.
Maybe not ever if this venture doesn’t prove profitable for Harold Waterford.
After all, the only way he would make money was if Waterford made it first. They were using the older man’s capital for the initial investment; Michael had little to offer other than his ideas and a thoroughly researched business plan.

As he made his way back to Cunningham Park, Michael wondered at Olivia’s intention with her wink. Eloisa’s had been pure flirtation. She had done nothing but flirt with him whenever they were in the same room, even with her parents present! But Olivia didn’t seem the type to flirt, and until those winks, he didn’t think her capable. She was level-headed and well-read, her conversation during dinner about practical matters, while Eloisa’s tended toward gossip and fashion and questions about London’s entertainments.

His thoughts about the Waterford girls were soon replaced with those of business. He intended to spend the next few weeks working on the business venture he had convinced Harold Waterford to underwrite. They already had the land and a nearby pond, thanks to the Cunningham viscountcy. An experienced foreman had agreed to oversee the operation should Michael succeed in securing the financing. Given Sir Richard’s additional backing, and the clout the man brought to any of his ventures, their iron smelting business could be in operation in just a few months.

Michael reached Cunningham Park later that afternoon to discover his mother, Lady Violet Cunningham, in residence. She had been on the Continent for at least six weeks and had just returned the day before with trunks full of new gowns and slippers and all manner of frippery. But her homecoming had not gone well.

Her husband, Mark Cunningham, a viscount, had gone off to London without a word as to when he would return to the Horsham District. And the butler informed her Michael was off to Shipley on a business venture. She had half a mind to head to Bath to visit her best friend. At least Temperance Seward, Countess of Eversham, would be in residence and happy to offer her accommodations until it was time to go to London for the Season.

“There you are!” Violet called from her salon on the second floor when she spotted Michael on the way to his bedchamber. “It’s been an age since I’ve seen you, darling. Do let me have a look,” she said as she stepped back from having given her younger son a peck on the cheek.

Michael obliged his mother after returning her kiss. “You’ve been gone a bit longer than usual,” he accused with a raised brow. “Father was ready to send a Bow Street Runner to look for you.” Violet Cunningham’s visits to the Continent rarely last longer than a few weeks, so her absence after a month was a source of worry for her husband.

A look of surprise crossed Violet’s face but was quickly masked. “I hardly know why. When I left he seemed quite at home with that ... that trollop,” she spat out before lifting her fan from where it hung on her wrist to beat it through the air in front of her.

A bit stunned at her outburst, Michael set his valise on the threshold and followed his mother to where she usually held court with a bevy of visiting matrons. “What ... or rather, who are you talking about?” he wondered, not aware that his father had any liaisons with prostitutes. Or had taken a mistress. And if he had, he certainly didn’t entertain them at Cunningham Park.

Violet’s eyes shot daggers at him. “There’s no need for you to make excuses for your father,” she countered, continuing to wave the fan below her chin. Had she been twenty years younger, she would have looked like a nervous chit at her first ball. “I saw her. She arrived just as my coach was leaving for the coast,” she claimed. “She ran right into Cunningham’s open arms,” Violet added with a shake of her head. “You would think she could have waited until I was gone!”

Michael rolled his eyes and took the seat across from the viscountess. “Mother, the woman you saw wasn’t Father’s mistress. He doesn’t have one, as far I know. The woman was Cousin Colette,” he said quietly, realizing just then that the young woman had arrived at a rather awkward time. “His first cousin, come to stay at Cunningham Park. Her fiancé threw her over for another,” he explained with a deep sigh. Michael shook his head as he realized his mother had been harboring her distrust of her husband for the entire time she’d been away.

The fan stopped moving and Violet stared at her son. “Truly?” she whispered, the hurt and dread she’d felt every day for over a month suddenly lifting.
Oh, how could I have thought he’d taken a lover
? she wondered then, thinking suddenly of Antony, the Italian count who had made it quite clear he was available for a liaison should she wish to have an affaire with him on her terms. He had even offered jewelry.

But Violet had blushed like a girl still in the schoolroom and thanked him for his attentions, taking her leave of him before he could even kiss the back of her hand. She would never have the courage to take a lover, even if she discovered Mark’s visitor was his mistress. She had no intention of cuckolding the man she had loved for over twenty-five years.

“Mother, all you would have had to do was simply ask Father,” Michael said quietly, noting how his mother had turned quite pale with his news.

Violet, no longer near tears, finally looked up to regard him. “I don’t know if I would have
believed
him,” she replied with a shake of her head and a wan smile. “At least, not that day,” she added with a sigh. After another moment of shared silence, she sighed. “So, where is your father now?” she wondered, taking in a breath and holding it, apparently to keep herself sitting up straight on the settee.

Michael reminded his mother that Parliament was in session and that she shouldn’t expect Mark Cunningham to return anytime soon. “I can escort you to the house in Mayfair,” he offered, thinking she would quickly grow bored if she were to stay in Horsham. “I’m sure Father is in residence there. Or, you’re welcome to use the blue room in my townhouse for the Season if you don’t mind a lack of servants,” he added, thinking she would attend enough Society events that she would rarely be in his home. And given the lack of servants, she probably wouldn’t take him up on his offer. “But I must warn you that I will be quite occupied with a business venture and will be unable to escort you to many soirées,” he added, deciding just then he would probably stay at Cunningham Park for the duration of this first venture, at least until it was up and operating under the foreman.

The reminder of soirées had Violet’s eyes widening. “I’ll go to the house in Mayfair, of course,” she answered quickly. “But before I leave for London, do you suppose you could escort me to the Fitzsimmons’ ball in Crawley tomorrow evening?” she wondered, her grief apparently forgotten as she remembered she had sent her response to the invitation the day before.

Most of the invitations Violet found on the salver upon her return were for events that had already happened. The early Season ball in Crawley was intended for those in Sussex who hadn’t yet moved back to London, and the annual event was worth attending if only to see the new crop of debutantes from the area. “We could spend the night at Iron Creek. I haven’t been there in an age,” she murmured, thinking of the twenty-room ‘cottage’ that her husband would give to Michael when he reached his majority.

“I suppose,” Michael said reluctantly, not because he objected to spending time at Iron Creek – the twenty-room house was his favorite Cunningham property – but because he remembered that one particular girl would be in attendance at the Crawley ball.

And the other would not.

Just before he’d left Waterford Hall, Eloisa had made a point of mentioning that her come-out would be at this ball. Should I save a dance for you? she wondered, her lashes batting as if she had something in one or both of her eyes. At the very moment Eloisa was addressing him, he was aware of Olivia, a hoop of needlework in her lap, rolling her eyes at her sister’s boldness. Eloisa was certainly an accomplished flirt, although Michael couldn’t begin to imagine on whom she practiced besides him.

Perhaps Eloisa wasn’t really an accomplished flirt just yet.

“I have to pay a couple of calls and finish some paperwork tomorrow, but I’ll do my best to be ready around seven,” he offered, knowing the ride to the Fitzsimmons’ estate in Crawley would be at least an hour.

“I’ll be ready,” Violet promised before she excused herself and headed for the door. “And I’ll see to it we have a dinner this evening at seven,” she added before she disappeared.

Michael watched his mother leave the salon, wondering if she had done something she now regretted because she believed his father to have a mistress.
How could she have jumped to such a conclusion?
he wondered sadly. Had his father done something to make her believe he employed a mistress? Or was it just the unfortunate timing of Colette’s arrival that had her believing the worst in Mark Cunningham?

Not wishing to dwell on the topic any longer, Michael moved to the escritoire, moved a sheet of his stationery into place and took up a quill.
Dear Mr. Evans
, he wrote in an even script.
It is my sincerest pleasure to formerly offer you the position of foreman for the Shipley Iron Smelting Works ...

Chapter 4

Oh, the Joys of Champagne on a Thursday

April 26, 1810

“We’ll be back by midnight,” Louisa was saying to Olivia just as Eloisa waltzed into the parlor, the skirts of her white ball gown billowing around her legs. A seamstress in Petworth had finished the muslin and tulle gown earlier that day, apologizing for her lateness when Eloisa arrived for her last fitting. Apparently, every eighteen-year-old girl in Sussex was planning to attend the ball in Crawley.

And all those older than eighteen, as well.

“Midnight?” Eloisa repeated in disbelief, her dancing coming to a complete stop. “Don’t you mean two o’clock. Or three?” she whined, thinking that to get home at midnight meant they would have to take their leave of the ball by eleven.

“We’ll be home at one-thirty. Maybe later,” her father stated from where he stood in the threshold of the Waterford parlor. “I intend to enjoy the supper at midnight.”

All three Waterford women turned their gazes onto Harold Waterford, their collective gasp rather loud in the suddenly quiet room. Their gasps weren’t in response to his declaration, which was a rather welcome one, but rather to the sight of him dressed in his formal evening clothes. The man might have been in his forties, but dressed in satin breeches, a matching topcoat and silver waistcoat with his silvered hair pulled back into a queue, Harold could have passed for an aristocrat at any ball in Park Lane.

His wife straightened from where she stood next to Olivia. “You look rather dashing this evening,” she commented with a lifted brow.

“And you look more lovely than usual, my sweeting,” he replied, openly admiring Louisa’s low-cut gown of scarlet tapestry. Although it wasn’t of the latest fashion, it suited her figure better than the Grecian gowns the younger ladies were wearing these days.

Olivia could swear she saw her mother blush in response to her father’s comment and had to hide her grin behind a hand. When she caught her father’s suddenly stern expression, the grin disappeared completely.

“Why aren’t you dressed, young lady?” he asked, his bushy eyebrows furrowing so they nearly joined together on his forehead. “We’re due to leave in a few minutes.”

Her eyes widening in surprise, Olivia glanced from her father to her mother and then to Eloisa. “I ... I didn’t think I was ... invited,” she stammered, straightening in her chair.

Harold rolled his eyes. “I’m not leaving you behind,” he countered in a manner suggesting it was best his youngest daughter get dressed. “I know what the Blaylock boy is up to, and I’ll not give him an opportunity to finally get what he wants.”

Giving her mother a look of shock, Olivia took her leave of the parlor and quickly climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. Although she had a white gown, it wasn’t nearly as fancy as Eloisa’s. Her dance shoes were probably too small. And with only a few minutes, what would she do with her hair?

With the help of Caroline, the abigail she shared with her sister, she managed to get the gown on and fastened while her mother’s abigail, Mary, brushed her hair and twisted the mass of mahogany into a simple chignon. Olivia pulled a purple ribbon from her vanity drawer and was wrapping it around her midriff when she heard her father’s call from the bottom of the steps. Before she could respond, ear bobs were looped through the piercings in her ears and a string of pearls was secured around her neck. Once she had replaced her slippers with a pair of dance shoes, she stood up and regarded her reflection in the cheval mirror.

“There,” Mary said with a good deal of satisfaction. “Now, off with you before your father ...” Her mouth suddenly clamped shut at the sight of Harold Waterford standing in the open doorway.

Olivia followed Mary’s line of sight to where her father stood. “I’m ready,” she said as she gave her father a curtsy.

Harold cocked his head to one side as he took in the sight of his daughter in her simple gown.
Perhaps taking Olivia with us is a mistake
, he thought suddenly.
She is only sixteen. She really shouldn’t be out in Society until she is at least seventeen.
Any young buck would overlook her virginal white gown, see her mahogany hair and assume she was ripe for the plucking.

He would have to keep an eye on her the entire night.

Or maybe he could trust Michael Cunningham to do that for him.

“Yes, I suppose you are,” Harold said with a bit of sadness in his voice. After another moment, he turned and descended the stairs, Olivia following behind. “I’ll explain the rules in the coach,” he said as they joined her mother and Eloisa in the vestibule.

“Rules?” Eloisa repeated as she stared at her sister’s gown, apparently satisfied when she realized it wasn’t nearly as nicely embellished as the one she wore. But she couldn’t ignore its simple elegance, especially when paired with the smooth hairstyle and single ribbon. Her own upswept hair was coiffed with several curls and adorned with tiny white flowers, and she wore an ornate pendant on a gold chain. She decided Olivia wouldn’t be outshining her during her come-out. It was bad enough the girl’s hair was brighter than Eloisa’s auburn locks; she didn’t need the rest of Olivia’s ensemble to appear prettier than her own.

“Yes, rules,” their father said again as he took his wife’s arm and led them to the coach-and-four. “No flirting. No more than two dances with the same boy.” He paused and turned to give Eloisa a direct stare. “No kissing in dark corners. Or behind a potted palm.”

His oldest daughter gasped, one hand going to her chest. “I wouldn’t dare!” she countered as she stepped up into the coach and took a seat, stunned that her father would think she would.
Unless it was with Michael Cunningham
, she considered as an afterthought. He could kiss her in any dark corner. Or behind a potted palm. Or out in the open, for that matter.

“What are the other rules?” Olivia wondered, thinking the first few were obvious. She considered she would probably be spending most of her night sitting with the older ladies or standing in a line of other girls too young to enjoy the dancing. Although she knew a few of the girls from around Crawley, she couldn’t claim any of them as friends.

She took her place next to Eloisa in the coach, sitting so her back was in the direction of travel. Her father would expect to take the position, but she thought it better her parents sit side-by-side for the trip. And sitting across from him meant she had an advantageous view should he decide to tease her mother with a wandering finger. Or his whole hand.

She wondered for a moment if other couples of their age indulged in such naughty behavior, thinking that to do it in a dark carriage meant no one else could see.

If only they knew what she had seen!

“You can each have one glass of champagne. Just one,” her father replied as he took his place and closed the carriage door. Before Eloisa could sound a protest, he added, “Maybe two, if you behave.”

Olivia could feel her sister’s smile in the dim light. Eloisa would probably drink far more than two glasses of champagne.

“Sit up straight. You don’t want your gown wrinkling before you’ve even begun dancing,” her mother said from the other side of the carriage. Olivia turned to look at Eloisa, wondering which one of them her mother addressed.

“My back is as straight as a rod, mum,” Eloisa answered, her gloved hands folded in her lap.

Olivia straightened but dared not let go her grip on the bench seat for fear she would be sent sprawling into the small space between her and her father. The coach driver was quite adept at hitting every pothole.

The thought of her fingers reminded her she wore no gloves. Her only pair was still in her abigail’s possession; the poor girl was quite mortified when she took the wrinkled fabric gloves from Olivia the day before. The day she’d been saved by Michael Cunningham.

“Olivia, dear, do put on these, won’t you?” Louisa spoke as she held out a pair of white kid gloves in her youngest daughter’s direction.

Stunned her mother would have an extra pair of gloves, Olivia reached for them and slid one finger along their smooth surface. “But, aren’t you going to wear them?” she wondered, looking up to find her mother regarding her with a smile. And sporting two gloved hands.

“I keep an extra pair in my reticule, of course,” Louisa replied with a nod. Her statement was following by a hastily swallowed gasp and a quick jerk of one leg, hinting that her husband was already being mischievous.

“Thank you,” Olivia replied, wriggling her arm into one of the long gloves. The leather ended just beyond her elbow.
How elegant,
she thought as she held up one arm in the bit of light that shone from one of the carriage windows. If she was a wallflower at tonight’s ball, then at least she’d be an elegant wallflower.

As Michael expected, it was nearly eight when he and his mother climbed into the Cunningham coach-and-four for the trip to Crawley. Despite the fair weather, the ball was not a crush. He hoped their hostess wouldn’t be too disappointed as he escorted his mother up the stairs to the ballroom entrance. The lack of a crowd meant a quieter ballroom in which to converse and more room for dancing. As he glanced around the room, looking for familiar faces, he remembered Olivia wouldn’t be in attendance. A sudden melancholy settled over him at the thought. Not wanting his mood to affect his mother, he excused himself and returned to the vestibule to wait for his new acquaintances to arrive.

“Will we be announced?” Eloisa wondered as she gave up her shawl to a footman just inside the vestibule of the Fitzsimmons’ manor house. She glanced about, hoping they weren’t earlier than most of the guests.

“No, dear,” her mother sighed from where she stood with her father. “We’re not in London. And we’re not at a
ton
ball,” she added as she allowed Harold to remove her wrap and give it to a waiting footman.

Disappointed, Eloisa glanced around, hoping she would recognize someone. “What about dance cards?” she asked, thinking that her come-out should include the opportunity for young men to sign their names next to the dances they wished to claim.

“No, thank the gods,” her father replied as he held out his arm to her. “Come along. The orchestra is nearly done warming up,” he stated. Eloisa put her arm on his and straightened so she was as tall as she could be. Placing a hand on his other arm, Louisa fell into step as they made their way up the stairs to the ballroom.

Following behind, her eyes darting about in an attempt to take in all of her surroundings at once, Olivia marveled at the decor. She wondered at the number of candles in the chandeliers hanging above the stairs. So taken with the thought of calculating just how many were mounted in the fixture above the stairs, she barely noticed her arm lifting onto the sleeve of a black satin topcoat.

“May I?” Michael Cunningham whispered from directly to her right.

Olivia smiled, sure her face was blooming with color. “Since you’re not breaking any of father’s rules, then by all means,” she whispered back, stealing only a quick glance in his direction. Given the level of noise in the vestibule and main hall, their whispers went unheard by any of the people around them, including her parents.

“From your comment yesterday, I thought you wouldn’t be in attendance,” Michael whispered back, his head leaning toward hers so he could be heard.

Olivia ducked her head. “Until an hour ago, I didn’t know I was,” she countered, finally turning so she could look at his profile. Her stomach did a little flip, and she found herself having to stifle the gasp she nearly let out. Michael Cunningham was a handsome man when dressed in his everyday attire; when dressed in black satin breeches, black satin topcoat and a red waistcoat, he was quite stunning. She barely noticed the ruby stick pin winking in the knot of his white cravat.

“You expect me to believe you were able to get dressed, travel from Shipley, and look as if you spent all day preparing for this ball in only an hour’s time?” he asked
sotto voce
.

Olivia smiled as she kept her attention straight ahead, wondering when either her mother or sister would deign to turn their heads enough to realize the identity of her escort. “Well, it did take two abigails. And hour horses,” she replied, daring a glance in his direction.

Michael kept his attention on Olivia for perhaps a moment too long.
Not a vain girl, this one,
he considered, admiring her simple chignon and elegant gown. And her sense of humor. With her cheeks still pink from blushing, Olivia looked like she was about to get married. The thought had Michael nearly stumbling on the stairs. “Be sure to give them my compliments,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“The abigails? Or the horses?” Olivia answered with a wink.

Michael pretended to ignore the wink. Lifting her hand from his arm, he bestowed a kiss on the back of her knuckles. “Do save me a dance,” he said before he bowed and stepped away. Before Olivia could respond, Michael quickly made his way back down the steps along one of the railings. The middle of the stairs were too crowded with other guests.

Surprised by his hasty departure, Olivia paused at the top of the stairs and dared a quick glance behind her. A sea of feathers and jewelry-adorned heads bobbed about as the other guests made their way up the stairs. She scanned the crowd again, convinced she would be able to identify her brief escort, but Michael’s head was lost at sea.

“Olivia dear, don’t gawk,” Louisa said as she leaned in Olivia’s direction.

Smiling, Olivia turned to face her mother. “I won’t, mum,” she replied with a brilliant smile.

Sure she wouldn’t be dancing much that evening, Olivia attempted to take her place among the young matrons and old ladies whose husbands were otherwise engaged in the card room. But a steady stream of young men saw to it she danced nearly every dance before eleven o’clock. It was during a quadrille when she spotted a smiling Eloisa paired with Michael. Even though Michael appeared bored to tears, the sight of her sister with their recent house guest left her with a sour feeling. He hadn’t yet claimed his dance with her, and it was already nearing midnight.
Perhaps the man doesn’t like dancing
, she thought, a sadness settling in to sullen her mood. So it was a bit of a surprise when Michael was suddenly at her elbow.