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“Nothing is wrong with me,” the American asserted.
Beatrice supposed the man could be telling the truth. After all, she and her sisters had been to very few dances by choice.
“Well,” she mused, “you seem a little awkward and ill-mannered. I thought perhaps that was the reason New York’s polite society kept you out of its ballrooms.”
She was pleased to see him pause and his jaw tighten. Then he shook his head.
“You are calling me ill-mannered?” And he chuckled again, which annoyed her.
“You are not allowed to be back here.” She was about to yell the word three when she realized she wanted to know his purpose. “What do you want anyway?”
He smiled. “May we first exchange names?”
“You already know mine,” she reminded him. “You may call me Miss Rare-Foure. You may call my younger sister Miss Charlotte. That is, if you have any need to address either of us again.”
“Would you care to know my name?” he asked frankly, tilting his handsome face slightly.
“Not particularly. I cannot imagine that I will ever see you again once you leave the shop.”
“And if I return, or if you pass me on the street?”
In her mind, Beatrice would think of him as the American. “A polite greeting is a nod of the head. I would hardly shout your name by way of greeting. However, if it makes you happy, you may tell me your name.” Because now, she was devilishly curious.
He stuck out his hand. “I am Greer Carson.”
He wasn’t wearing gloves for some incredible reason, and naturally, since she was working, neither was she. However, there was nothing for it but to take his outstretched hand.
He pumped her arm up and down a few times in a friendly, somewhat exuberant manner — entirely unnecessary Beatrice felt, since they were standing right there addressing one another.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Rare-Foure.”
She knew she should return the quaint sentiment, but it was nearly as false as the upper echelon’s insistent declaration of being enchanted with one another whenever they met.
As he released her hand, she said, “We are properly introduced now, Mr. Carson. State your business, and then you must leave. Quite obviously, I have another tray of toffee to make.”
“I am looking for a titled lady to be my wife.”
She couldn’t help the snicker of laughter that escaped her, nor the flush of irritation at such shallowness as his words invoked. “Well, you won’t find one here at Rare Confectionery. Although it does sometimes work the other way around.”
He stared at her, but she didn’t elaborate. It wasn’t his business to know how a duke had swept in and married her older sister.
Mr. Carson slipped his hands into his pockets, looking relaxed. “You probably know everyone who is anyone in London,” he insisted.
Beatrice shook her head. The man was deranged. “Why would you think that?”
“The aristocrats come in here, don’t they? I saw those two ladies the other day, the ones you chased off with your courteous shop-girl manner.” He coughed as if laughing at her. “This is the best confectionery in Mayfair. I was told that by another shopkeeper. And this is the most exclusive shopping street. Where else would the upper class go for their sweets?”
“True, but the nobility usually send in their servants. And when they do come in, I’m not very nice to them because they’re not very nice to me. Or to anybody.”
“Those two ladies seemed pleasant enough,” he said.
Beatrice tossed up her hands. He didn’t understand how dismissive the nobility could be, how some wouldn’t even speak to her but insisted she and her sisters speak to their servants. It was galling, and she, for one, pushed back against such class rudeness.
“Mr. Carson, even if I knew how to get you into the company of the nobility, you would be disappointed. Titled ladies want titled men — or at the very least, extraordinarily wealthy ones. I don’t suppose you are one of those.”
“I am, as it happens.” He stated it plainly, without boasting or lifting his chin.
She ought to have known. He was probably the equivalent of a rich American heiress, except for being a rather attractive, devilish man.
“Hence the inappropriate tossing around of your gold half-sovereigns?”
“Precisely,” he agreed.
“Then you are probably destined to succeed. I’m sure there are any number of titled young ladies whose parents do not have as much as they could wish, not enough for massive dowries, and thus, their prospects are hampered. It is quite expensive to keep a London townhouse as well as run a country home.”
“I intend to do both,” Mr. Carson said assuredly.
Beatrice considered the earnest man before her. “So you stepped off the boat a few days ago with one goal in mind, to marry an English lady?”
“Or Scottish,” he added.
“May I ask why?” She was almost surprised at herself that she even asked, but she couldn’t deny experiencing a mild interest. “I assume it’s for the novelty of taking one home to New York, like going to Africa and returning with a tiger.”
He smiled, and it made him even more handsome.
“Not exactly like that, and I don’t intend to take her anywhere. I intend to live here in Britain.”
“You still haven’t told me why,” Beatrice persisted.
“I had a peculiar great-grandfather, who owned a country estate near Canonbie, Scotland. As it turns out, I’m the direct descendant, although there is a cousin who could have laid claim. Stupidly, he made the mistake of marrying for love.”
That got her attention. She blinked. “How was that a mistake?”
“His wife isn’t titled, and the estate can only go to a nobleman or a noblewoman.”
“That’s absurd,” she exclaimed. “What happens if neither of you marry a titled woman?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, nor does it matter since I will do so. Naturally, my great-grandfather on my father’s side never dreamed the last of his sons would die with no living male issue. There was supposed to be a Baron Carson always. However, if I have a Lady Such-and-Such as my wife, apparently that will satisfy.”
“Absurd,” Beatrice couldn’t help muttering again.
He heard her. “That may be true, and I may have to reach too high for my nut.” Then he smiled. “Will you help me?”
“I cannot.” How could she?
“Or will not? I have no friends here, Miss Rare-Foure. But perhaps we can make it a business arrangement. Perhaps I can help you in return.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You are not married,” he said, knowing her to be a miss.
The cheekiness of the man, pointing out such a thing! “No.”
“Engaged?” he asked.
She felt her cheeks grow warm. “It would have been unseemly to do so before my older sister. And she has very recently married.”
“You are a lovely young woman, who is stuck in this shop hour after hour, day after day. We have large dances in the city where young people from New York’s high society can show themselves to one another. It’s called a debutante ball. You should have one of those in London so the young ladies can meet the eligible men.”
Beatrice burst out laughing. “Yes, we have that. In fact, I believe we invented it, as it has been going on since the seventeenth century when your newborn country was a wilderness. Have you ever read Balzac?”
“I confess I haven’t,” he said, not looking the least bothered by his own ignorance.
“There’s a passage in it perfectly describing what goes on here. The character Madame de la Baudraye says, ‘London is the capital of trade and speculation and the center of government. The aristocracy hold a mote there for sixty days only; it gives and takes the passwords of the day, looks in on the legislative cookery, reviews the girls to marry, the carriages to be sold, exchanges greetings, and is away again; and is so far from amusing, that it cannot bear itself for more than the few days known as ‘the Season.’”
The American’s mouth was open when she finished. “That’s extraordinarily impressive. To quote like that.”
Beatrice lifted a shoulder in a shrug, but inside, she was pleased at his praise.
“I read a lot,” she confessed. “In any case, we call it the Season. It occurs, as Balzac said, so the men can examine the women who are hoping to catch a husband. But he was wrong about its duration. Instead of a few days, it lasts for months.”
“Perfect. We shall go together,” he offered. “I will escort you and, thus, by having a man seemingly to be already at your beck and call, you will look even more desirable. I know how a man’s mind works, believe me.”
It was her turn to look astonished. She was starting to recall all she’d heard of brash Americans. “If I were going to do it, I would have done it last year or the year before. I’m too old.”
“Ridiculous!” His expression was all-over shocked. “You can’t be more than seventeen, maybe eighteen.” He started to peer more closely at her, making her skin prickle.
“It’s not polite to wonder about a woman’s age, but I’m twenty, too old for any of this nonsense. Besides having a Season is expensive. I have already told my parents I do not want them to bear the burden.”
“Then I shall bear it for the both of us. When can we start?”
Beatrice was starting to think Mr. Carson to be a most determined individual or — and this was quite possible — a halfwit.
“It’s not that simple. I would need new gowns for balls and dinner parties. You would need new suits. We have to purchase tickets for some events. For others, we must be lucky enough to receive invitations or know someone who is already invited. And still, it would do you no good.”
“Why not?” he demanded, looking as if he were ready to go shopping for his new clothes immediately.
“Because only the titled young lords and ladies are presented to the queen at court, as well as daughters and sons of the clergy and military officers. Also, physicians and barristers’ children, I believe. But most definitely not daughters of merchants, nor sons from New York, not even those with Scottish great-grandfathers who were barons.”
He looked unimpressed by this impediment. “Then we won’t go to court. Can’t we attend the Season without doing so?”
“We would not be at the same events as those who officially came out before the queen and are, therefore, considered acceptable to be on the marriage market in polite society. In other words, you would be in with the likes of me and not with the titled ladies you desire.”
Beatrice couldn’t believe she was still talking about this, but he intrigued her. Helping him was something to do with her free time besides reading. Moreover, in truth, as she’d told her sisters, she would like a husband of her own, as well as children. She was not a revolutionary who wanted to throw the order of society upon its head. If she had to remain a spinster, so be it. But if she didn’t have to...
“On the other hand, my older sister is now a duchess,” she mused.
His eyes widened with renewed interest, and then he smiled. “You are having me on. Pulling my leg and making fun of me because I am an American. I was born at night, but not last night. Even I know a duke doesn’t walk into a sweet shop and marry a shopkeeper’s daughter.”
Beatrice would take offense if what he said wasn’t normally the truth. Who could believe it?
“You are correct,” she agreed, “Marrying a duke is nearly impossible. It is like catching a shooting star in your pickle jar. And to do so when not a member of the nobility is next to impossible.”
“And yet your sister did it.” His tone was suitably awestruck as he realized she was telling the truth. “How?”
“For one thing, the duke came to us looking for the best chocolate. For another, my sister is lovely and sweet-tempered. Nevertheless, seeing as he was the only duke in the country at the time under forty and looking for a wife, it was quite a feat.”
“I can imagine London’s elite are still talking about it.”
“They are. Or, at least, my younger sister who reads the society pages tells me they are.” Beatrice considered the man before her and her own situation. “My sister, the duchess, will be back from her wedding trip any day. Her new status certainly opens up new avenues of social engagement. While you and I still cannot be presented at court, we could attend the events of the titled if we do so with my sister and her husband, as their guests. No one would gainsay a duke and duchess.”
Mr. Carson was grinning from ear to ear. “I knew I came to the right place. I had a feeling, Miss Rare-Foure, that you and I would be a good match.”
“Indeed,” came her mother’s voice. “And who in blue blazes might you be?”
Felicity Rare-Foure had stepped through the curtain, wafting rose-scented toilet water with her, and stopped at the sight of her daughter and a man, secluded in the back room, chatting seriously.
Beatrice didn’t mind her mother’s bluster, but she could appear quite formidable if one didn’t know her reasonable, unflappable, if somewhat forceful nature.
“Mother, this is Mr. Carson from America.”
Felicity looked him up and down, then at her daughter, before glancing again at the American.
“Are you healthy?” she demanded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Mother,” Beatrice interrupted, knowing where this was going.
“Hm, and you are neither engaged nor married? With no abandoned wife back in the United States?”
“Mother!” Beatrice tried again.
“No, ma’am. I came to England to find a wife.”
“I see.” Felicity looked thoughtfully at her middle daughter.
Beatrice rolled her eyes about to explain the situation, but Mr. Carson dove in.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Rare-Foure,” he said, sticking out his hand in his forthright manner. “I am sorry if my being here is inappropriate, but I assure you I did not see her ankle.”
Beatrice snickered at his preposterous words while her mother gave him another long look. However, Felicity did shake his hand before turning to her.
“He’s a handsome young man. Good manners, too, except for being alone with you, which is most assuredly unacceptable.”
As if she’d ever given her mother cause to worry! “I was just telling Mr. Carson about the Season and—”
Felicity glanced at the American. “Well, you might as well resign yourself to marrying my daughter,” she warned him. “That’s what happened the last time a man came into the back room — where he should not be. It’s probably inevitable.”
“Oh, no,” Beatrice said, hearing Mr. Carson say the same words.
“We are not — that is—” she stopped talking. It was pointless. Her mother would learn soon enough that she was ineligible for this particular man.
“The last man to come back here was a duke,” Felicity added with relish, “and now my eldest daughter is a duchess.”
“I heard about that. And congratulations to them both,” Mr. Carson said. “I myself am in need of a wife, and your daughter has agreed to help me.”
“That’s exactly what the duke said, too. Do you have means to support a wife?”
“Yes, ma’am. And more.”
Beatrice let them continue. It was all stuff and nonsense anyway.
“Then good luck to you, Mr. Carson,” Felicity concluded. “As long as you are kind and loyal, I am sure you will make me an excellent son-in-law.”
“But ma’am, I’m afraid I’m not—”
“Good day to you. Beatrice, he must leave the back room at once, even if he is your betrothed.” And with that, her mother strode out.
They looked at one another. Before either could speak, Felicity reappeared.
“You really should speak to her father next, Mr. Carson. Why don’t you come to dinner tonight? Shall we say seven o’clock? My daughter will give you the address if she hasn’t already.” And she disappeared again.
The silence grew thicker. He offered her a grimace of a smile. “That went off the rails rather quickly.”
“Do not worry, Mr. Carson. I will explain it to her later. In any case, there is little we can do until my sister returns and opens up the doors of the privileged to us.”
“We can prepare our attire. Shall we start this afternoon?”
“Are we truly doing this?” Beatrice asked out loud, speaking more to herself than to the stranger in front of her. It would certainly alleviate the boredom she’d felt recently, not to mention her dissatisfaction with a life stretched out before her with nothing more exciting than making the next batch of treacle toffee.
A Season amidst the nobility would undoubtedly be exciting, even if she ended up with nothing more to show for it than tired feet from dancing. Mr. Carson was silently waiting for her decision. She hardly knew the man except for his obvious good humor, a distinct sense of earnestness, and a pocketful of sovereigns. If he could pay for her wardrobe, then he must be wealthy and, therefore, not a charlatan.
Perhaps seeing her wavering, he said, “I promise, I’m not here to wake snakes.”
What was he on about now? At her puzzled expression, he said, “I won’t cause any trouble.”
That remained to be seen, but she’d made up her mind.
“I can give you the name of a reputable tailor always mentioned in the papers as clothing the finest gentlemen. Obviously, there are some here on Bond Street, but you’ll find equal quality and a better price on Savile Row.”
“What about your wardrobe?”
Hardly able to believe she was going along with this, she said, “I’ll ask my mother about a modiste and whether it is too late.”
“Come out of there, Mr. Carson,” came Felicity’s voice at that moment. “No respectable fiancé would do such a thing.”
“Fiancé!” she heard Charlotte exclaim, followed by her ear-piercing whistle of happiness.
“Please go. As soon as she learns we are not engaged, my mother will be pleased I am to attend a Season.”
The American smiled again, and his gray-blue eyes seemed to deepen in intensity. “Then you are really going to help me?”
“If you are truly willing to pay for my wardrobe, and if my sister deems it acceptable to let us partake in the amusements of the nobility, then yes, why not?”
***
GREER HADN’T EXPECTED the toffee-maker to acquiesce as easily as she had. However, discovering her sister was a duchess proved his luck was holding.
He left the shop, past the watchful eye of the girl’s mother and the curious gaze of her sister, and headed directly to Savile Row and the recommended tailor. As it turned out, the same establishment had clothed the infamous Beau Brummel himself, and Greer knew Miss Rare-Foure had sent him to the best place.
Within a few hours, he had paid for a splendid new wardrobe, with the first suit being ready in a week. Upon returning to his hotel, the luxurious Langham at Portland Place, so pleased was he by the day’s accomplishments, Greer didn’t even mind taking Miss Sylvia for a walk. His mother’s cat tried to bite him in the elevator on their way to the closest greenery, but he was used to that. In his cabin on the journey across the Atlantic, he’d found himself the object of her feline ire on more than one occasion. He supposed since their arrival in England, he had been neglecting the cat somewhat.
“Stop fussing,” he ordered, dashing across Mortimer Street, and making sure her collar and leash were secure, before he set her down at the base of a tree in Cavendish Square. Strange to think she was the last connection to his deceased mother and his life in America. His next thought was how he would like to introduce Miss Rare-Foure to Miss Sylvia and hoped she liked cats.