Chapter Nine

“A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.”

—JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

“Jane tells me you’re planning to go to Bath soon. You’re not leaving me, are you, Abby?” Lady Beatrice demanded later that afternoon. Abby had brought her a cup of tea and some fresh-baked ratafia biscuits, and when she’d entered the room, Jane had hurried out with a slightly guilty expression. Now Abby knew why.

“That’s not quite true,” Abby began. “Jane is just—”

“Frightful place, Bath. Went there once. People claim the waters are good for you. Pack of nonsense. Nothing that tastes so foul can possibly be good for you,” the old lady declared. “Give me good red claret every time. In my youth Bath used to be all the rage—the influence of Beau Nash, you know, even though he was dead by then—but these days I hear they let anybody in.”

Abby smiled. “Actually, that’s why we thought of going there in the first place.” Lady Beatrice raised her lorgnette. “To mingle with riff-raff?”

Abby had to laugh at her outraged expression. “Not quite. But we did think we’d have a better chance there. Bath society is limited enough that Jane can meet eligible gentlemen.” The highest Bath sticklers probably would consider Abby and her sisters, if not precisely riffraff, certainly representative of the “anyone” they let in these days.

“Make a splash, you mean? Get the gel a husband?”

Abby nodded. “But we don’t plan to go to Bath for a good while yet.”

The old lady snorted. “Don’t need to go to Bath for a beautiful gel like that to meet gentlemen.”

“No, but I’d prefer her to have respectable offers,” Abby said dryly.

Lady Beatrice considered that thoughtfully. After a moment she said, “Don’t blame the gel for getting restless, then. Natural for a young gel to want a bit more excitement than sitting with old ladies, reading novels and ladies’ papers and sewing.”

“Jane enjoys your company—”

“Oh, I know that, my dear, and she’s a dear, sweet gel. But it shouldn’t be all she does. Not right for pretty young gels to be cooped up all day; they should be out meeting other young things—young men, in particular—going dancing, attending the theater, having fun. I can’t bring her out myself, of course, but—”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking it of you,” Abby assured her. She knew it was out of the question. People sponsored only close relatives into society, and by doing so they vouched not only for the character and virtue of the girl, but the quality and lineage of her family.

They did not sponsor girls they met when they climbed in a window, or girls who used false names, let alone girls with shady pasts and brothel connections.

Lady Beatrice patted her hand. “I know, m’dear, I know. You’re a good gel. But I don’t see why you need to go to Bath to find the gel a husband—unless you want one with one foot in the grave.” She tilted her head in inquiry. “Is that what she wants, a rich old man who’ll quickly pop his clogs and leave her a wealthy widow?”

“No, ma’am, not at all.” Abby laughed. “Jane’s a romantic.”

“And what about you, Miss Burglar, are you a romantic like your sister? Do you not dream of a husband and family of your own?”

Abby felt her cheeks warming. “Well, of course I do, but I’m also practical. Poor, plain and past my first youth—I’m hardly anyone’s ideal bride,” she said lightly. “Jane, on the other hand—”

“Yes, yes, but I’m not talking about her. She’ll do very well for herself. It’s you I’m concerned about—I want to see you happy, my dear.”

Sudden tears pricked at the back of Abby’s eyes. She blinked them away and hugged the old lady. “There’s no need to worry about me, dear Lady Beatrice. Once Jane is safely married, I shall be free to look around for some worthy man, a widower, perhaps, with a tribe of children desperately in need of a mother.”

“Pfft! We can do better than that for you, I hope. You’re not the least bit plain when you smile, you know, and your eyes are quite beautiful. And in those dresses young Daisy has made, you look both elegant and desirable. No, don’t screw up your nose like that, Miss Burglar—you’re a dear, sweet girl and you have a heart that any man would be lucky to win.”

Abby’s eyes misted over again. She tamped down on the surge of unexpected emotion, saying, “Oh, you flatterer,” as she straightened the old lady’s cushions.

There were other reasons, though she’d never told a soul. Laurence had destroyed more than just her dreams.

Why would I marry you?

The old lady’s shrewd gaze was on her and Abby managed a laugh. “Very well, once Jane is married, I shall look around me, I promise.”

Lady Beatrice gave a brisk nod. “Very well, if that’s what you want. We can do better than Bath for her here. Don’t need a come-out to meet eligible gentlemen. Dear Max should be able to round up one or two for a start. They generally run in packs, bachelors. I’ll mention it to him.”

Abby thought of the last exchange she’d had with the old lady’s nephew. “Dear Max” was more likely to throw Jane and her sisters in Bridewell Prison than help her to marry one of his friends.

“Your nephew has changed quite a bit since that painting was done.” She indicated the watercolor portrait that had hung on the wall of Lady Beatrice’s bedchamber ever since Abby had known her.

“Oh, that.” Lady Beatrice glanced at it. “It never was much good in the first place. I had that done just before he went away. I would have preferred something in oils and from a better artist, but he was in a rush to leave, so it was the best I could manage in the time available. The artist made a few sketches and Max left the next day. The fellow had to finish it from memory.” She sniffed. “As you can see, the chin isn’t right. And the eyes are blue, whereas Max has the most beautiful gray eyes.”

Beautiful wasn’t the word Abby would have used. Chilling, flinty, even hard would suit, but beautiful? Hardly. But she didn’t say so. Lady Beatrice obviously doted on him. “He looks quite young there.”

“Just eighteen. Still a boy, though he wouldn’t have admitted it at the time. Too young to go off adventuring.” She sighed. “And far too young to become betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” For some reason the news came as a shock.

Lady Beatrice shook her head. “Never officially announced—not yet—but Max told me before he left that he had an understanding with the gel and her father.” She wrinkled her nose. “He was very scant with the details. He only told me about her at the last minute, I think in case something happened to him.”

“I see,” Abby said. Eighteen did seem rather young for a man to become betrothed. “But he still went away?”

Lady Beatrice nodded. “You’re thinking it’s hardly the act of a young man in love, but personally I was delighted to see him putting an ocean between them. And, of course, having a few adventures and sowing a few wild oats. It almost reconciled me to his going away. . . . Almost.”

“You didn’t approve?” She’d meant about his leaving, but Lady Beatrice misunderstood.

“Max was a schoolboy when the harpy got her hooks into him. As I understand it, her father introduced Max to her when he was just sixteen.”

“You don’t like her.”

“I know nothing about her. I’ve never met the gel or her father,” Lady Beatrice said in a fair-minded manner that deceived Abby not at all. “Max made me promise not to contact either of them while he was away—unless, of course, the worst happened, which thank God it didn’t. I kept that promise, though I confess I’ve prayed almost daily for news of her. Fatal news. Complete waste of time—apparently the wretched gel continues to thrive.” She sighed. “I suppose we’ll meet her soon enough now he’s returned.”

She brooded in silence a moment. “Miss Henrietta Parsley.” She pronounced the name as if it put a sour taste in her mouth.

“An unusual name.”

The old lady sniffed. “We don’t know them.”

Abby wondered whether she was speaking for herself or for the entire upper ten thousand of the ton.

“A northern family, I’m told. Parsley is some kind of cit—a merchant or manufacturer or coal heaver or some such person. Max met him in a manufactory!” she said, as if it were some den of iniquity.

“How unusual. Was it something to do with school?” It was an odd place for a sixteen-year-old gently reared boy to be.

Lady Beatrice shrugged. “It was some kind of exhibition, I believe—steam power or some such nonsense. As a boy, Max was always mad for machinery, which is why I was so surprised when he told me he was going away to sea. I never realized he’d harbored a secret passion for travel and adventure until the day he came to tell me he was leaving. So sudden. But far more acceptable than smelly, noisy engines.” She shook her head reminiscently. “He used always to be going to this foundry and that, down mines and all sorts of frightful places. He used to talk incessantly about it, saying steam was the future.” She shrugged. “Instead he went to sea. But then, a boy’s passion never lasts long, does it? Pity he didn’t forget about La Parsley as well.”

“It seems his interest in the sea stuck,” Abby observed.

“Yes, for nine years, can you believe it?”

“Miss Parsley presumably didn’t mind him being away so long?”

Lady Beatrice said indifferently, “I don’t suppose she had any choice, my dear. Men are a law unto themselves.”

“I’m surprised she was willing to wait all this time.”

Lady Beatrice raised her lorgnette. “A cit’s daughter? Not willing to wait for my nephew?”

“Of course, I’m sure she cares for him very much,” Abby said soothingly. She’d have to love him, to wait for nine years. Abby felt for poor Miss Parsley, spending her youth waiting.

Lady Beatrice made a rude noise. “Cares for his title more. Oh, I don’t know what the wretched gel thinks—nor do I care. For the last nine years I’ve been praying for her to drown or elope or fall down a mine hole or pit or whatever they call it in the north. But she hasn’t, or Max would have mentioned it. But enough of the wretched creature—I don’t even want to think about her, or about the fact that Max will no doubt want me to arrange his wedding now he’s back.”

Abby looked again at the portrait of Lord Davenham. She’d seen it a hundred times before, and wondered about Lady Beatrice’s nephew, but he was just a theoretical nephew to her then; now he was very real. Big, arrogant and insulting.

It wasn’t a particularly good portrait, she agreed, but there was something about it, some quality about the boy in the painting that wasn’t visible in the man. And it wasn’t to do with the shape of his chin or the color of his eyes. There was something very . . . alone . . . about the boy in the painting.

“Was he orphaned young?” she found herself asking. “Is that why you brought him up?”

“Oh, I didn’t bring him up, my dear. His mother ran off with another man when Max was just six—she died abroad a few years later giving birth to his bastard half brother. I would have taken him in straightaway, but his father would have none of it. Sent the boy off to boarding school, said he was too soft, that school would make a man of him.” She pulled a face. “Too soft! Natural for a little boy to miss his mother.”

She fell into a silent reverie for a moment, and Abby thought about a small six-year-old boy sent away to school all alone. To be made a man of.

It didn’t make her forgive the man for his insulting behavior toward her, but she did soften in her heart toward the little boy he had once been.

“He never stopped waiting for her to come back, you see, which angered his father no end.”

“Angered? Why anger?” It was only natural for a child that age to miss his mother. Abby still missed hers, and she’d been twelve when Mama died.

“You had to know Hector. Everything was about him; nobody else mattered. So when Max ran to the landing or the window every time a visitor arrived—thinking it would be his mama come back, as she’d promised him she would!—Hector took it as a personal criticism.”

Abby was appalled. “How could a little boy missing his mother be a criticism of the father?”

“Rubbing his nose in his cuckoldry—and no, of course a child of Max’s age would know nothing about such things. But the boy’s distress was a constant reminder of his humiliation—yes, humiliation is the word. Hector was a cold man and never loved his wife. Never loved anyone, come to think of it, not even his son. Only himself.”

“So his father sent a grieving little boy away to school,” Abby finished. “He came to you for the holidays, I suppose.”

“No, not until after his father died.”

Something about Lady Beatrice’s expression made Abby ask, “So where did he go for the holidays?”

“Nowhere.” Lady Beatrice shook her head sorrowfully. “His father made arrangements several times to have him collected at Christmas, but something always came up and he left the boy at school, waiting. . . .” She looked up. “I didn’t know at the time, of course, else I’d have driven up to Middlesex myself and brought him home.” She gave a gusty sigh. “He had his first family Christmas with me when he was a gangly young boy, after his father was dead. And of course he came then for every holiday, not just Christmas.”

Despite her current resentment of the man, Abby was horrified at the picture the old lady had painted. Poor, lonely little boy, left waiting for parents who never came for him. It was worse than having parents who died, she realized. There was something so cruel about hope endlessly delayed.

No wonder he loved his aunt. And yet, why had he left her for so many years?

“And, of course, all those years of broken promises,” Lady Beatrice continued. “It’s why he sets such store on keeping his word now. It’s one thing you can always depend on my nephew to do—keep his word. Which is why he’ll marry that little harpy, curse her!”

She grimaced. “Now, can you ring for that maid of mine, Abby, dear? I want a bath. And ask Daisy if she can spare me a moment. I’m going to go down for dinner this evening and I want to look my best for Max. The dear boy got a bit of a shock when he saw me today.”

Abby looked up. “He’s coming back tonight?”

“Of course. He said he’d be back before dinner. His first night home, and my first time dining downstairs, so I want to make sure everything’s as it should be. Ask Featherby and Cook to step up too, will you? No time to go to a lot of trouble, but I want to make sure we serve some of his favorite dishes.”

“I could make the arrangements for you,” Abby offered.

“I know, my dear, but this is something I want to do for him myself. For once, you and your sisters can stop fretting about me and this house, and go off and make yourself pretty. I’d like to make this a meal to remember.”

Abby went downstairs, a little troubled by what she’d learned. The image of a sad little boy waiting endlessly at the window clashed powerfully with her impression of the unshaven, long-haired Viking who’d stormed up the staircase and lifted Abby right off her feet, stealing the very breath from her body. And then there was the cold, cutting accuser who’d torn her character to shreds in the carriage, and offered to bribe her.

Which one would she see at dinner? If he even came.

“This is fun, isn’t it?” Jane commented. “My first proper dinner in company—outside of the Pill, that is.” She looked at the others and explained, “The Pillbury Home for the Daughters of Distressed Gentlewomen. It’s where Abby and I lived after Mama died.”

They were all seated in the drawing room, dressed in their best. Lady Beatrice looked frail but magnificent in a startling purple satin gown that Daisy and her maid, Sutton, had taken in for her.

Daisy sat beside her, clutching her sherry glass in a nervous fist. She’d never dined in formal company either, but unlike Jane, she wasn’t at all looking forward to it. Maidservants, let alone maidservants who’d grown up in brothels, were not usually taught the manners expected at the tables of the ton. “All you have to do is copy me,” Abby had assured her.

Featherby, resplendent in a fine new suit, handed around sherry. He’d been handing around sherry for the last twenty minutes. Abby caught his eye, glanced at Jane and shook her head slightly. Featherby looked at Jane, who was looking a little rosier than the fire warranted, removed her empty sherry glass and replaced it with a glass of lemonade.

The clock struck fifteen minutes past the dinner hour.

“Are you sure Lord Davenham was intending to dine here tonight?” Abby asked.

“Oh, yes, m’dear,” Lady Beatrice said serenely. “Max always does what he says he will.”

Abby had no such faith. Few men who’d spent nine years abroad, and the last few months on a ship would choose to spend their first evening in London with their elderly aunt. She’d yet to see this much-vaunted word of his kept.

She glanced at the clock for the fourteenth time in the last ten minutes and pressed her lips together. Jane wasn’t the only one keyed up. They’d all gone to a lot of trouble for this dinner—throughout the afternoon, Lady Beatrice had been issuing orders right, left and center, and they’d all been flying around trying to make everything perfect. But the one who’d be most disappointed if Lord Davenham didn’t show up was Lady Beatrice.

Damaris leaned across and murmured to Abby, “He’s not coming, is he?”

Another five minutes elapsed. Abby had had enough. She set down her sherry glass with something of a snap, and rose. “I think it’s time we went in. It seems as though Lord Davenham has been delayed—”

A voice, deep and masculine, sounded in the hall outside, followed by brisk, firm footsteps.

The sitting room door opened and there stood Lord Davenham. Abby couldn’t help but gasp. All trace of Viking was gone. The long dark hair tied back with a strip of leather had been replaced by a short, almost severe crop, with just a hint of curl surviving at the temples and forehead to soften the hard planes of his face. The haircut known as the Brutus.

That’d be right.

He hadn’t plastered it down with pomade, as a lot of men did. It looked clean and soft to the touch, the sort of haircut that made one want to run fingers through it—not that she did, of course.

The stubble was gone too, his chin freshly shaved and smooth, the strong line of his jaw etched cleanly. There was a slight dent in his chin, like a dimple, only not so frivolous.

His dark brown breeches fit snugly to his lithe and powerful form. His boots were high, black and polished to a high gleam. His coat was dark brown also, worn over a white shirt and a subtly striped gray silk waistcoat. His cravat was severely knotted.

He looked magnificent.

Abby thought of the vulnerable small boy in Lady Beatrice’s story. Not a hint of vulnerability remained in this man’s face or bearing.

She was still smarting from the insults he’d hurled at her. He glanced her way and stopped dead, his hard gray gaze holding hers captive for a long moment. She felt it like a touch, like a wave of heat sweeping over her body, so strong that she stepped back a pace, as if he’d reached for her and held her, instead of just staring.

Feeling suddenly hot and self-conscious, she dragged her gaze away and adjusted the new cream ruffled evening spencer Daisy had made her. Abby loved it. She’d never worn anything so pretty and feminine in her life.

Still Lord Davenham stared.

Why? Was he going to denounce her here and now? She hoped not. Lady Beatrice was so excited to have him home, and had gone to so much trouble to make the dinner special, Abby didn’t want anything to spoil it.

He cleared his throat and crossed the room to bow over Lady Beatrice’s hand. “Aunt Bea, you’re dressed and out of bed! And looking very elegant, may I say.”

His aunt beamed up at him. “Of course, dear boy, did you think I wouldn’t make the effort for your first dinner at home?”

He looked briefly disconcerted. “At home, but—”

She raised her lorgnette and scanned him with approval. “I see you’ve found your razor.”

He ran his hand absentmindedly across his freshly shaved chin. For the first time he seemed to take in the significance of the emptied sherry glasses, and that they were all dressed for dinner. “You’ve been waiting. I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you expected me.”

“You said you’d be back before dinner.”

“I know. I apologize for my lateness.” He glanced at the door. “I need to step outside—I’ll be back in a moment. Freddy Monkton-Coombes is outside in his curricle—”

So he’d made his own plans for dinner, Abby thought.

“Young Monkton-Coombes? I remember him,” Lady Beatrice said, giving Abby an arch glance. “Invite him in. Skinny young fellow, as I recall. Could do with a good feed. But eligible, very eligible.”

Lord Davenham frowned. “He’s already made arrangements to dine at his club—”

But his aunt had taken several glasses of sherry and was in no mind to be dissuaded. “Nonsense, he can go to his club later. We have plenty here. William, set another place. Max, go and bring Freddy in. I haven’t seen the boy for years, but I was always very fond of his mother and could do with a good catch-up. Besides, these gels have been pining for some young company, and a well-bred, elegant young fribble is just the ticket, isn’t it, gels?”

Lord Davenham looked anything but delighted by that suggestion, Abby thought. His reluctance to introduce his friend to them couldn’t be more obvious.

He shrugged. “I’ll convey your invitation, Aunt Bea, but I doubt he’ll come.”

Max went back outside to where Freddy was waiting in the curricle.

Freddy gathered up the reins. “That was quick.”

“Sorry, but my aunt is expecting me to dine with her this evening.”

“On a tray in her bedchamber?” Freddy pulled a face.

“No, she’s made an effort to dress and come downstairs for my first night home in England, and I won’t disappoint her. We’ll have to put off that dinner at the club for another time.” Max paused, then added, “She asked me to extend the invitation to you—”

“With the muffins?” Freddy inquired darkly.

Max repressed a smile. “With the young ladies, yes.”

Freddy shuddered. “Not on your life. You’re on your own there.”

“Coward.”

“To the bone,” Freddy agreed. “And if you end up walking down the aisle with one of them, leg-shackled for life to a muffin, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Stand back.” He snapped his reins and the curricle moved off.

Max watched him take the corner in a stylish fashion, and grinned. Freddy was going to kill him when he finally clapped eyes on the girls.

They were all looking particularly fetching tonight, dressed in their finery. The younger ones were set to dazzle, but Miss Chance . . . He swallowed.

Her dress was quite plain—elegance personified, the pale sage color bringing out the green in those extraordinary eyes of hers. But the way it clung subtly to her slender curves had caused his mouth to dry. . . .

As for that short, long-sleeved white thingummy that fastened just above her waist . . . a frothy concoction of ruffles that gently cupped her breasts like a dressing of whipped cream.

The sight wiped his mind blank for a full minute.