My Grandson Alexander,
I was reading one of Lord Chesterfield’s letters today and found this extraordinary quote from him. Read this with interest: “He who flatters women most, pleases them best; and they are most in love with him, who they think is the most in love with them. No adulation is too strong for them, no assiduity too great, no simulation of passion too gross; as, on the other hand, the least word or action that can possibly be construed into a slight or contempt is unpardonable and never forgotten.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
Susannah and Mrs. Princeton walked through the front door, laughing.
“I really can’t believe the judgment of that French dressmaker we talked to earlier today,” Susannah said as she took off her black cape. “It did not take me very long to decide that she will not be designing anything for me.”
Mrs. Princeton set her packages on the floor beside her and began taking off her outdoor clothing. “Some ladies go for the more extreme styles of diaphanous fabrics for evening and wide stripes for day.”
“Hmm, and very vivid colors, too, but they are not for me. I prefer simple lines, pastel shades, and basic fabrics. Thankfully, I didn’t have to choose a dressmaker today. I can interview more modistes later in the week. However, I am very pleased about my purchase of the pianoforte,” Susannah said with a smile, untying the ribbons on her straw bonnet. “I can hardly wait for it to be delivered tomorrow.”
“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the shopkeeper, but what will you do with it when we leave? Do you plan to have someone take it to Chapel Gate for you?”
Susannah laid her gloves and reticule on the side table. “Of course not. Why would I, when I have one there? I will leave it here for the owners of this house so others can enjoy it, or,” she added thoughtfully, “perhaps I can find a small church here in London that is in need of a used pianoforte and donate it to them. That might be a nice thing to do, don’t you think?”
“Very nice,” Mrs. Princeton agreed, brushing her wiry gray hair away from her eyes.
“What is important to me right now is that it will give me comfort and pleasure to play in the afternoons. And since the owner of this house has not seen fit to keep a gardener employed on a regular schedule, I think I will look into the possibility of hiring someone.”
“I would be happy to see to that for you.”
“Thank you. It appears I’m going to be staying in London longer than I originally thought,” she said more to herself than to her companion. “So I might as well make this house as pleasing and comfortable as possible.”
“Oh, my, look at this,” Mrs. Princeton said, thumbing through the calling cards that lay on a silver plate on the vestibule table. She looked up at Susannah with a sparkle in her eyes. “You have become popular since we left the house today. You had several callers while we were out. And look, more invitations have arrived. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Susannah pursed her lips and frowned. “I don’t consider that wonderful. You know I was hoping to stay out of the public eye while here.”
Mrs. Princeton chuckled lightly. “How could you do that when you have now been seen in Hyde Park with one of the most popular, most handsome, and most eligible gentlemen in all of London? The marquis was the perfect gentleman for you to be seen with. He is not seen as a gambler or a fortune hunter.”
“What did I tell you about trying to be a matchmaker?” Susannah said with more merriment than she was feeling.
“Not to.”
“That’s right. The eligibility of a gentleman does not matter to me. I am not here to find a husband.”
Mrs. Princeton sighed. “More’s the pity,” she mumbled under her breath and then quickly added, “I see the Times has been delivered, too. It’s been two days since you were with the marquis. Do you think perhaps you should look at it and see if you are mentioned in Lord Truefitt’s Society’s Daily Column today?” Mrs. Princeton held out the newsprint for her.
“Do I really want to know the answer to that?”
“Up to you, of course,” Mrs. Princeton said, the twinkle returning to her eyes.
Susannah took the Times, folded it, and tucked it under her arm without answering her companion. She would decide later if she would read it.
“You have four calling cards, all from ladies, it seems. Obviously someone recognized you when you were in the park a couple of days ago.”
“Perhaps. Also, the marquis or Sir Randolph could have mentioned to someone that I am in Town. And you were right when you said it would be almost impossible not to have been noticed after what happened with Sir Randolph in the park. That in itself was enough to set tongues to wagging for months.”
“From what you told me about it, I wish I had been there. It all sounded so bizarre.”
Susannah headed toward the drawing room with Mrs. Princeton following her. “In a way, it was. The marquis is certain of Sir Randolph’s innocence and I don’t doubt him, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Miss Prattle. Her brother truly did her a disservice in confronting Sir Randolph in public.”
“I’m sure she hopes she will never have to show her face in public again.”
“That would be my guess, too,” Susannah said thoughtfully, having some knowledge of what the woman must be going through.
“It looks as though you also had two notes delivered while we were out. They are probably invitations. Should I open them for you?”
“Let me see.” Susannah stepped closer to Mrs. Princeton.
“Look here, one is obviously from an ill-mannered boor. It is addressed simply to Susannah. That is shameful. Who would dare be so informal to a duchess?”
Race?
“Should we just throw it away without opening it?”
Susannah’s chest tightened. “No, of course not. I will see who it’s from.”
Mrs. Princeton gave her the letters. The first one was properly addressed to her as the Dowager Duchess of Blooming, as her title demanded, and the second a bold, black script that simply said Susannah.
It had to be from the marquis.
Not wanting Mrs. Princeton to think she was eager, Susannah slowly opened the formal invitation first and scanned the words. “It’s from the Duchess of Blakewell. She’s inviting me for tea tomorrow afternoon.”
Mrs. Princeton smiled. “The wife of Lord Raceworth’s cousin, how very nice of her.”
“And expected. No doubt Lord Raceworth told his cousin, the duke, and his duchess that I am in London, and now she feels obliged to invite me for tea.”
“And well she should. Would you like me to put this on your calendar and send her a message that you will be delighted to attend?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Princeton, I won’t be going.”
Mrs. Princeton’s bushy gray eyebrows rose. “Oh. I don’t understand. A duchess has asked you for tea. It’s only polite to accept.”
Susannah felt no regrets about declining. She hadn’t come to London to once again become embroiled in Society with its strict rules. “She will understand that since I’ve so recently arrived in Town, I’m not accepting many invitations right now. Make the decline very nice, and be sure to thank her for her kind offer.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Clearly her companion was disappointed by Susannah’s answer, but she said nothing else. Susannah stepped away from Mrs. Princeton and willed her fingers not to tremble with expectancy as she carefully unfolded the second note. It read:
I want to see you.
Race
That was all? He was incredibly presumptuous and brazen, and for some reason she couldn’t fathom, it thrilled her.
I want to see you. Not when, not how, not where, not what for. But he wanted to see her. For some silly reason, her hopes soared.
Suddenly Susannah smiled and then laughed softly.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Mrs. Princeton asked anxiously, taking a step closer to her. “Is it anything you can share?”
Susannah stepped back and folded the paper. She recognized the gleam in the woman’s eyes. Mrs. Princeton wanted it to be from a gentleman.
“Only that this is not an invitation, and you do not need to write an answer for me. I think I will go up to my room and rest before dinner is served.” She took in a deep, satisfying breath.
Mrs. Princeton’s soft brown eyes twinkled, and Susannah knew she hadn’t fooled the woman for an instant. Susannah was sure her companion assumed the note was from Race.
“Would you have Cook bring me up a cup of tea?”
“Right away, Your Grace.”
Susannah climbed the stairs with a spring to her steps. She held up the hem of her dress with one hand and the note from Lord Raceworth to her chest with the other. She hurried into her room and closed the door behind her. She walked over to the window, dropping the newsprint on her bedside table as she passed, and looked out at the marquis’s grounds and the back of his house. She didn’t understand it but she felt close to him when she looked at his home. Getting that note from him made her feel like a young, carefree miss again, and that was a heavenly feeling.
The window was open, and Susannah inhaled deeply and took in the fresh scent of the late afternoon. It had rained earlier in the day, but now it was gloriously beautiful. The sky was clear and bright, littered with patches of wispy white clouds that appeared as thin as gossamer, slowly sailing across the blue. The gentle breeze that wafted across her cheeks was almost warm. Sunshine had already dried the rain off the grass, shrubs, and flowers in Lord Raceworth’s magnificent garden, leaving them washed clean to show their vibrant spring colors.
Susannah closed her eyes and remembered Race’s kiss for the hundredth time. The touch of his lips against hers had been firm, possessive, and inviting, but oh so brief. She had tingled on the top of her head, low in her stomach, and even in her toes. An eager wanting for more sizzled deep inside her.
His kiss earlier in the week had surprised her, thrilled her, and troubled her. What was she to do? She didn’t want to be enamored of him, which was not in her plans, but she was. He seemed to make it easy for her to like him, enjoy him. He had been so handsome when he came to her house a couple of days ago in such a cavalier fashion. He’d told her he would prove to her just how attracted he was to her, and he had by giving her that quick kiss on the street where anyone who happened to be passing by could have seen him.
That kiss and now this unconventional and quite scandalous note proved he cared nothing for her title and not much about Society’s rules, either. That fascinated her.
All he had written was that he wanted to see her. Just the thought of that made her tremble with expectancy, and she didn’t want to lose that feeling.
Foolish as it was, she wanted to see him again, too.
Desperately.
But why?
The last time she had felt this way about a handsome young man, he had broken her heart. Race had already made it clear she was going to have to fight him every step of the way for her grandmother’s necklace. How could she afford to get any more entranced with him than she already was?
Susannah was a widow, not an innocent. She knew what a man’s touch felt like—one man she had thought she loved and one she hadn’t.
It pained her to admit, even to herself, that she hadn’t loved her husband. She would have liked to. She had respected him immensely. He was good to her and had never said a sharp word to her. But there was never any passion between them.
Now after twelve years, there was once again a man who had caught her eye, a man who created yearnings inside her too powerful to deny. Was she strong enough to enjoy the marquis’s unconventional attention and fight him for the pearls at the same time?
Susannah pored over his note again. She felt the stirrings of desire low in her abdomen. He was a clever man. He purposely wanted to leave her questioning what his note really meant. Did he want her to respond to him in some way? It hardly mattered if he did. She wouldn’t. Race was obviously a master at seduction, because he had made progress where no other man had in a dozen years.
Should she deny herself his attention and go back to her celibate life in Chapel Gate? Live with the memory that she had wanted to spend time with him, laugh with him, kiss him, touch him, but didn’t? Or would she go back home and live with the memories that she had wanted all those things, and the marquis had fulfilled her every desire and more?
Susannah looked at his house again and remembered the reason she was in London. The Talbot pearls. She had to come up with another plan to get them, since it was obvious he had no interest in or intention of looking at the records from her family that detailed the purchase of the pearls and their theft.
She’d had some hope of his looking at the documents as long as he didn’t know her name. As she continued to stare at the back of his house, she laughed to herself. But no, she ruined that chance. One little kiss, and she had blabbed her name as quickly as if she’d been a school girl hoping to get praises for learning her lesson.
Susannah believed the marquis to be a good man, an honest man, and loyal to a fault, as evidenced by how he stood up for Sir Randolph in the park. If she could just get him to look at the documents, she was sure he would see they were not falsified. She had to believe he wouldn’t want to keep the pearls once he was convinced they had been stolen from her family.
A thought struck her. Maybe that was why he wouldn’t look at her evidence. If he did, and he believed it to be true, his honor would demand that he must turn them over to her. She could go only on the way she would feel if their roles were reversed. She would never want to keep anything that had been stolen from another person, no matter the monetary or sentimental value of the item.
Perhaps now was the time for her to contact a solicitor and have him contact Race or his solicitor about the documents. That was an idea that had merit, but her mother had been convinced Susannah could handle it by herself. Susannah was beginning to doubt that. If Race’s solicitor was convinced of their authenticity, perhaps he could assure Race of the validity of her family’s ownership.
She half laughed again and turned away from the window. It was amazing how easily and quickly she’d come to think of him as Race. Why had his note simply said “I want to see you” with no specific time or date? No doubt his only motive was to keep her guessing about his interest in her. And if that’s what he’d wanted, it had worked.
With a smile on her lips, she walked over to her dressing table and opened her jewelry case and carefully tucked the note from Race under one of the velvet folds.
He probably wouldn’t be happy if she had someone contact his solicitor, but she wouldn’t spend any time worrying about that. As desirable as he was, she wanted him to know that when it came to the pearls, she meant business and she wasn’t about to give up.
Susannah turned away from the window, and her gaze lighted on the newsprint. She picked it up and turned to the page with Lord Truefitt’s column. She scanned the article and found what she was looking for. Lord Truefitt was eager to learn the identity of the lovely lady who was seen in Hyde Park with the dashing Marquis of Raceworth.
Susannah smiled. London Society hadn’t changed one bit in the twelve years she’d been gone.
* * *
Race strode through the front door of the Harbor Lights Club, taking off his cloak. He handed off his hat and gloves to a servant and headed straight for the taproom, nodding to some gentlemen he knew along the way but not stopping to chat. Gibby had never shown up at Race’s house after the debacle in the park with Prattle, and now two days later, Race was still having a devil of a time finding the man.
Race had been to his house twice, the clubs, and searched several of the parties the past two nights, trying to locate him, but the whipster always seemed to be one step ahead of him. Race hadn’t made it home until almost dawn and had ended up sleeping longer than he’d intended.
Already this afternoon, Race had checked Gibby’s home, White’s, and the Rusty Nail. Now, here he was at Harbor Lights again at the end of the day. If Gib wasn’t inside, Race wouldn’t know where else to look. He stopped at the entrance of the taproom and saw the old fellow sitting at his favorite table by the window, an empty plate in front of him. A slice of late afternoon sunshine fell across his face, heightening his ruddy cheeks.
Just looking at him enjoying the sights outside the window curbed Race’s annoyance at having to search for him. Maybe Gibby didn’t try to get himself into one mishap after another, but it sure seemed that way sometimes, and it had especially seemed that way with Prattle and the pugilism match. This had to be the most outrageous of all the things with which he had become involved over the years.
Taking a deep breath, Race walked over and pulled out the chair opposite Gibby and sat down without bothering to speak.
“You don’t look so well, Race. Something wrong?”
Race harrumphed, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t act as if you are blameless in the reason behind my ill temper.”
“All right, I won’t,” he offered innocently, searching Race’s face as if he didn’t understand his attitude.
Race uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “I’m worried about you. Damnation, Gib, you had me dreaming that you were getting pummeled by a rotund, balding man named Prattle while his spinster sister stood by and laughed. So you’re damned right something is wrong with me.”
“Hell’s bells, Race.” Gibby laughed good-naturedly. “I didn’t know you were given to nightmares. You need something to put you in a better disposition. What are you drinking?”
“Something strong,” he muttered, trying to hold on to his annoyance, but with Gibby, that was a hard thing to do. He was just so damned likable.
Race looked down and saw a glass in front of Gibby that looked like it had milk in it. It must be some new concoction the club had come up with. “What are you drinking?”
“Milk.”
Race couldn’t think of any drink that would be good in milk except a very sweet, very strong liqueur. Given his bad humor, that would work for him.
“I’ll have whatever it is you are drinking.”
Gibby motioned to the server, pointed to his glass, and then held up two fingers.
“Now, tell me why you didn’t inform me the Duchess of Blooming was after your grandmother’s pearls? I thought you two were just out for an afternoon stroll.”
Race was taken aback by Gibby’s terse question. And was that anger he saw in Gib’s dark brown eyes?
“We were just out for a stroll until we met you, and I couldn’t very well introduce her to you as the duchess who wants my inheritance from Grandmother, now could I?”
“No, but you could have told me about her when you told Morgan and Blake. Why am I always the last one to know what goes on in this family?”
Race felt his own ire rise again. “What I’d like to know is why everyone in this family is suddenly feeling left out if they don’t know everything about my affairs before I know it?”
“Well, I do feel left out,” Gib said. “I don’t like being the last one to know what is going on with you three guardian fools.”
Something told Race this conversation was going the same route as when Blake found out he hadn’t been told about the duchess and her quest for Lady Elder’s pearls. Race hadn’t come to talk about that. He wanted to discuss Gibby’s outrageous stunt in Hyde Park.
“Listen, Gib,” Race said, trying to stay calm. “I’m not any more concerned about the duchess than I was about Prinny’s representative, the one-armed antiquities dealer, or that arrogant buccaneer who’s trying to worm his way into every titled man’s home in London. In fact, I’m probably not as worried about her as I should be about the other three.”
Gibby’s eyes narrowed. “You know that all three of the men who want the pearls are still in London, don’t you? Four, if you count Her Grace.”
“I know Spyglass and Winston are inserting themselves into Society, and I know the antiquities dealer has a shop on the other side of Town,” Race said, refusing to acknowledge Gibby’s remark about Susannah.
“Spyglass is attending every party he gets invited to, and Winston is making his presence known at the parties and in all the clubs.”
“That’s not surprising about either one of them. With Prinny’s backing, Winston can go wherever he wants. And I’ve heard rumors Spyglass intends to host his own party before the Season ends.”
“I’ve heard that about Spyglass, too. Everyone wants to get in good with the prince, and every young lady wants to say she’s danced with a handsome buccaneer. Smith is another story. He doesn’t have the heritage to ease his way into Polite Society, but he’s been seen at a few places in the Hells recently.”
“That’s probably where he belongs.”
The men’s presence in London didn’t worry Race, but he was beginning to get tired of being pursued because of the necklace. It was true that the pearls would be worth a fortune in any market, but that’s not where their value lay as far as Race was concerned. The pearls were his grandmother’s most prized possession, and she had left them to him. He wasn’t about to give them up to anyone.
“Gib, do you know where or how our grandmother got the pearls?”
“Sure I do. I don’t think there was much about your grandmother’s life I didn’t know.”
Race waited, and when the old man didn’t say more, Race sighed and said, “Do you mind telling me where?”
“Not at all. Her second husband, Sir Walter Hennessey, gave them to her shortly after they married.”
Race thought on that a moment and frowned. “Are you sure it wasn’t Lord Elder?”
“Of course I’m sure. She already had them when she married the earl.”
“The pearls would have been very costly, even twenty-five years ago. Did she question how Sir Walter could have afforded such an extraordinary necklace for her?”
“Probably not,” Gibby said. “I don’t think she cared how he got them. I know of only one other thing that ever made your grandmother as happy as receiving those pearls.”
“What was that?”
Gibby leaned back in his chair and smiled. “When she became Lady Elder. She wanted to have a title attached to her name more than she wanted to live.”
Race smiled, too. “I do remember that. After she married the earl, she always signed her letters to us as ‘Your loving Grandmother, Lady Elder.’”
Gibby leaned back in his chair and laughed lightly as a faraway look glistened in his eyes. The man never changed. Gibby’s countenance always softened whenever he talked about Lady Elder.
“Yes, I remember. She didn’t even want me to call her by her name anymore. I had to call her Lady Elder.”
“She certainly was an unusual woman. What else can you tell me about the pearls?”
“Nothing, I suppose. Why?”
“When I was talking to Morgan and Blake, we couldn’t help but wonder about them. It just seems odd that four different people are suddenly after the necklace.”
Gibby tilted his chair on its two back legs and said, “My thoughts would be because not many people knew where the Talbot pearls were until it was written in Society’s Daily Column that they were left to you by your grandmother.”
Hearing Gibby confirm what he and his cousins had considered brought Race up short. Cautiously he asked, “Tell me, did you ever know of Grandmother wearing the necklace outside private dinner parties in her home?”
Gibby seemed to study on that. “Not that I can remember, but she might have. Keep in mind, the pearls were irreplaceable. I can’t say for sure, and it’s only a guess, but she must have worn them when she was married to the earl and they attended Court.” Gibby ran a hand through his thick silver hair. “It’s never a good thing to let everyone know what valuables you have in your possession.”
“True,” Race said, turning pensive.
“Are you sure you’re not worried about these people who want the pearls?”
Race shook his head as the server put two glasses on the table between them. “They are safe.”
Race picked up his glass and took a big swallow. He screwed up his face and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Blast it, Gib, what is this stuff?”
“Milk. I told you I was drinking milk.”
“I know, but I thought there must have been some kind of sweet liqueur in it.”
“It is plain milk,” he said with a cunning smile.
Race looked closely at Gibby. The old man looked fine, yet Race asked, “Are you sick?”
Gibby leaned back in his chair again and puffed out his chest. His lips tightened together for a moment. “No, I’m not sick. I’m in fine shape. Why?”
“Why do you think?” Race said, exasperated. “Bloody hell, you’re drinking milk, for mercy’s sake.”
“Of course I am. I’m in training.”
Race stuck a finger down his collar, trying to loosen it. The muscles in his neck and shoulder had begun to ache. Gibby could heat his blood to boiling. “In training? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m not drinking anything but water and milk. I’m not eating anything but fish, vegetables, and fruit. I’m not taking my carriage. I’m walking everywhere I go until after my fight with Prattle.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Not drinking ale or wine, and walking everywhere? That’s insane, Gib. You’ve lost your mind, and you’re taking this too far.”
Gibby placed both his hands on the table and leaned forward. “All the winning pugilists train, Race. I’m good-sized for a man my age, but did you notice that Prattle is built like a tree trunk?”
Race swore under his breath. “Yes, I did happen to notice that, Gib. Why do you think I’m trying to stop you from meeting him in Hyde Park a month from now?”
Gibby waved his hand as if brushing away Race’s comment. “It’s less than a month now. You just want to mind my business. That’s all you and your cousins ever do.”
“It’s full time employment, and somebody needs to. You aren’t doing a very good job of it.”
“Don’t worry about me, Race. I can beat Prattle once I get in shape. I’m sure of it. And I would like to hear that one of my favorite people in the whole world had some confidence in me about this.”
How could he let Gibby know he and his cousins were worried about him and didn’t want him to take the chance of getting hurt? The old man was just too stubborn to admit he had made a mistake in encouraging Prattle.
“Let me tell you what I do have for you—an answer. I discussed this with Blake and Morgan a couple of days ago. We want you to give us permission to offer Prattle and his sister money to end this farce.”
Gibby threw his shoulders back and bowed up his chest. His eyebrows wrinkled together, and his lips pursed into a sneer. “That’s an insult.”
“Not if money is what Prattle was after in the first place.”
“I’m not talking about Prattle,” Gibby exclaimed. “I don’t care what he wants or doesn’t want. It’s an insult to me. My honor is at stake here.”
“So is your life.”
“What kind of life would I have without my honor?”
Race softened. “Gib, we don’t believe for a moment you did anything to his sister, and I don’t want you fighting and possibly getting hurt over something that didn’t happen.”
“You don’t know what did or didn’t happen, because I’m not talking.”
“You don’t have to. We know you. We know you are an honorable man and would never push a lady into something she didn’t want.”
“It’s unforgivable what her brother did to her by his blathering in the park, but I can’t change that. I can only answer his challenge,” the old man said, shaking his head.
“We can do what Prattle didn’t do and settle this quietly.”
“No, I’ve given my word now. Besides, every gentleman, no matter his station in life, loves a good, fair fight.”
“Not when one of the bruisers is a member of Polite Society,” Race argued.
“Tell that to Figg, Broughton, Jackson, Mendoza, and all the other great pugilists who have been welcomed by the ton. Even that sap Lord Byron enjoys a good match and writes about them. He has been known to go a few practice rounds at one of the fight clubs in Town.”
“Most of us have, Gib, but it’s always been in private, not public,” Race emphasized. “Besides, we use gloves in practice. You’ll be expected to bare-knuckle it. Look, my job was to talk you into letting me offer them money. If they don’t take it, we’ll go from there.”
Gibby leaned forward. “Do you realize there are already hundreds of wagers at every club and gaming hell in London about this match, and I’ve heard betting has spread to outlying towns?”
“I’ve been to White’s and the Rusty Nail, looking for you. I know the furor this has caused.”
“And I can’t believe you want to take this away from me. You tell your weak-kneed cousins I’m going through with this, Race. And I’m going to win.”
Gibby picked up his glass and drained it. Race’s stomach tightened. Gibby’s hands were red and chafed. His knuckles were swollen, too. No doubt he was in the process of toughening his hands with some harsh concoction like all prize fighters used.
“I’ll finish this for you,” Gibby said and reached over and pulled Race’s glass toward him. “Now tell me, what can I get you to drink?”