1
You have a caller, madam,” Godfrey said, in a tone of voice that implied Diana was at fault for this circumstance.
Diana looked up from her needlework in surprise, as it was past visiting hours and so close to dinner that it could only be assumed whoever was calling was angling for an invitation. She turned to look at her companion in confusion and inquiry, but “companion” was an exaggerated description of Mildred, her late husband’s sister, who was asleep on the sofa. Mildred was the one thing Diana’s wealthy husband had left to her upon his death that she could have happily done without.
“Mildred!” Diana said loudly.
Mildred’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon, but I slept poorly last night. The moon was waxing. Or waning. I always get the terms confused.” She blinked a few times, before shaking her head. “Whichever it was, it had quite an effect on the river, and it was roaring ferociously. But I’m sure you heard it yourself . . .”
“I enjoy the sound of the river,” Diana said.
“Yes, I know,” Mildred said. “Your constitution is unnaturally robust for a widow.” She looked reproachfully at Diana, as she often did, as if she knew Diana didn’t mourn Mr. Boyle’s death sufficiently. Diana found herself almost pleased at the news of an intrusion that she’d previously found annoying, as it gave her an excuse to change the subject.
“We have a caller, Mildred.”
“A caller? At this late hour?” Mildred turned to Godfrey, who had stood watching this byplay and was now directing his disgruntled look at her. “Who is it, Godfrey?”
Ignoring Mildred, Godfrey walked over to his mistress, presenting her with the card he held. “Mr. Raymond Pryce,” Diana read aloud.
“Never heard of him. Send him away,” Mildred said.
Diana had considered doing exactly that, as she had grown so unused to going about in society since her husband’s death (not that she had been what one would call gregarious before that), and she was anxious at the thought of entertaining a perfect stranger. Still, she was the mistress of Whitley House, little though Mildred might like it, and she had very few opportunities to exert her authority. So she nervously patted her hair and her dress, took a deep breath, and told Godfrey, “I am at home.”
Mildred looked at her as if she had gone mad but said nothing in reply, though she made a clicking sound that signified her disapproval and caused Diana to feel even more pleased with her small act of rebellion.
Godfrey sighed, as if wondering how he’d sunk to serving such a troublesome pair of females, but left to do Diana’s bidding. She spent the time while he was gone considering whether it was worth her while to look for a new butler, or if she should continue to employ her late husband’s choice. It seemed cruel to reward Godfrey for his many years of service by giving him the sack, but neither did she think that the lady of the house should be intimidated by her own staff, and Diana had always been made to feel as if Godfrey were doing her a favor when he performed even the simplest of his duties.
Her musings were cut short by the entrance into the drawing room of their mysterious caller.
Even though Diana had been married for five very long years and widowed for more than one, she had just recently turned five-and-twenty. However, Mr. Pryce looked even younger than she was, though Diana might have been misled by the fact that his ears were slightly oversized and gave him the appearance of a child who had not yet grown into them. Or it could have been that she had grown so accustomed to Mr. Boyle, who had been fifty-eight years old when he died, that a man of her own age appeared infantile in comparison. But it was not only Mr. Pryce’s appearance but also his demeanor that gave the impression of a shy young boy, as he entered the room as if he was afraid of them, darting a quick nervous glance at Mildred before performing a jerky bow.
Diana and Mildred rose at his entrance and bobbed their heads in response to his bow, before Diana gave him permission to sit. His reaction to her command was also very bizarre, as he looked at Diana in surprise, which quickly transformed into delight.
“You are Mrs. Boyle?” he asked, smiling tentatively at Diana and looking her up and down—a little too obviously, Diana felt. Mildred must have shared Diana’s opinion, as she cleared her throat angrily.
“I am,” Diana replied. “Allow me to present you to my sister-in-law, Miss Boyle.”
Mr. Pryce looked as if he’d just been informed he’d won a lottery. “Miss Boyle, a pleasure,” he said, and he smiled so happily at her that Mildred’s own expression lightened reflexively.
They all sat in silence while Mr. Pryce stared at Diana, a grin on his face, and Diana wondered if she was not as socially inept as she had heretofore thought herself because she could never imagine behaving as awkwardly as he was. And while she believed she presented a neat and pleasant appearance, she did not think her charms so great as to cause him to be stricken mute at the sight of her. Diana knew he was most likely comparing her to her older, formidably plain sister-in-law, and so the comparison would inevitably be in her favor.
However, Diana was doing herself an injustice. Having been married at eighteen to a man thirty-five years her senior, she had never had a suitor and so did not realize how attractive she was. Her silky black hair had fallen out of its confines and was in wisps around her face, framing a countenance that was sweet rather than striking. Shy by nature, she frequently cast her eyes downward, so that when she did meet a person’s gaze one was struck by the beauty of her large amber-colored eyes with their long dark eyelashes. Certainly, Mr. Pryce had noticed that his hostess was a very lovely young woman.
The silence was growing more and more awkward, their guest apparently having forgotten that he should offer a reason for his call, and so Mildred finally prodded him to do so. “I do not believe we’ve previously made your acquaintance,” she said, her expression having hardened again into its usual rigid lines.
“No, not exactly,” Mr. Pryce said. As Diana and Mildred continued staring at him in silent inquiry, he must have finally become conscious of the strained atmosphere, because he stopped grinning and said to Diana: “That is, I am acquainted with a distant relation of your late husband’s, and since I was in the vicinity—”
“A relation of mine? Who, pray tell?” Mildred interrupted him to ask.
Mr. Pryce turned to her, a disconcerted expression on his face, as if it had just occurred to him that a relation of Mr. Boyle’s would also be related to Mr. Boyle’s sister. “Mr. Cartwright,” he finally said, before correcting himself. “That is, Mr. Carter. Or perhaps it was Carnes? Started with a ‘Cah’ sound, at any rate. It was a brief acquaintance,” he mumbled sheepishly, before looking again at Diana, fear writ large in his brown eyes.
Mildred took a deep breath, her bosom expanding impressively, and Diana closed her eyes, as she had begun to pity poor Mr. Pryce, perhaps because of his youthful appearance and his obvious inability to lie. Before the volcano could erupt, however, they were again interrupted by Godfrey.
“Lord Jerome Vincent,” he announced, and Mr. Pryce, who had at first seemed to view the butler’s appearance in the nature of a deus ex machina, saw who was with him and frowned.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Boyle,” Lord Jerome said, approaching Mildred with a charming smile, though it faltered just a bit when he saw her.
“I am Mrs. Boyle,” Diana said, wondering what in the world was happening.
Lord Jerome turned to Diana, and though his countenance gave little away, Diana thought she detected a hint of relief in his sardonic gaze. “I see,” he said, and somehow the way he drew out those two words, along with the look that accompanied them, made them seem very suggestive, indeed.
Mr. Pryce pokered up even more at this interchange and said to Lord Jerome, “I might have expected to find you here.”
“And why was that?” Lord Jerome asked. Diana and Mildred looked at Mr. Pryce inquiringly as well.
Mr. Pryce flushed a dark red. “No reason,” he finally said, and Mildred rolled her eyes and said something under her breath, though the words “half-wit” could be faintly heard.
Somehow the two gentlemen ended up staying for dinner, though Diana wasn’t sure how they accomplished it. She felt that she could have overcome Mr. Pryce’s feeble attempts to wrangle an invitation, but even Mildred had proved no match for Lord Jerome. He looked to be in his thirties and was neither handsome nor ugly, but had such an air of sophistication that he gave the impression of being much better looking than he actually was.
He was also a very different species of gentleman than Diana had ever before met. Her husband had not been a fixture of London society and had ignored it as determinedly as it ignored him. Even though Whitley House was on the outskirts of town and only a short drive from its myriad entertainments, Diana could count on one hand the number of times she’d been there. Her husband was a quiet, serious, unsociable man, and thus Diana had been forced to live that way as well.
Mr. Boyle had certainly never flirted with her, as Lord Jerome was attempting to do, though Diana responded to many of Lord Jerome’s overtures with blank stares and silence. It didn’t help that his most outrageous compliments were punctuated by snorts of derision from Mr. Pryce, who spent much of the meal shooting murderous glances at Lord Jerome, interspersed with admiring ones directed at both Diana and her home.
Diana was totally at a loss as to how she’d come to the notice of two of London society’s fashionable fribbles. For even though Mr. Pryce was far less sophisticated than Lord Jerome, it was obvious by their familiarity with each other and from Mr. Pryce’s clothing, as rumpled as it was, that he was also an inhabitant of that elite sphere.
However, she was not so ignorant as to why they were there. While Lord Jerome was much more subtle and did not glance around the room with covetous eyes, instead saving such looks entirely for her person, he had betrayed himself when he had first arrived and directed an appraising look at Mildred, before realizing his mistake.
Both gentlemen were obviously fortune hunters, there on purpose to court a wealthy widow. But how had they even learned of her existence?
Lord Jerome had also claimed, as Mr. Pryce did, to be acquainted with a relative of Mr. Boyle’s, but he had had the good sense to say this person’s surname was Boyle as well. There were many branches of the Boyle family, as Diana had good reason to know, as she also had been a Boyle before her marriage to her distant cousin. It could even be that Lord Jerome was acquainted with a relation of theirs, but Diana found it entirely too coincidental that a chance meeting with a distant relative would spark within both Mr. Pryce and Lord Jerome a desire to call upon her, and on the very same day.
She noticed that Godfrey also appeared perplexed and was watching both men with a furrowed brow, although he directed the serving of dinner in his usual manner, as if it were a chore that was beneath him. Toward the end of the meal, however, while he was removing Diana’s plate, he said in a lowered tone, “I have taken the liberty of bringing a bottle of port up from the cellar, ma’am, in anticipation of your wishes.”
Diana could only conclude from this statement that he intended to serve after-dinner drinks to her unwelcome guests and wondered why he wished to prolong their visit. But since she knew her butler to be far more au courant than she was, she was not in the least affronted that he’d dropped a hint as to what behavior was expected of her. After all the plates had been removed, she stood up from the table and said: “Miss Boyle and I will retire to the drawing room, but Mr. Pryce and Lord Jerome, do not feel you must join us immediately. We will leave you gentlemen to your port.”
Before the men could think of protesting, though it was unlikely that they would have, Godfrey was serving them their drinks and the ladies had left the room.
“You dastard!” Mr. Pryce said indignantly to Lord Jerome as soon as the door had shut behind Diana.
“Exactly what dastardly behavior on my part are you complaining of?” Lord Jerome asked, though he seemed more interested in watching his port as he swirled it around in his glass than in anything his companion had to say.
“You know perfectly well! You’ve come to court Mrs. Boyle merely because she’s a rich widow.”
“Mister Pot, meet Lord Kettle,” Lord Jerome said, nodding his head at Mr. Pryce in a mock bow.
Mr. Pryce looked flummoxed for a moment, and then his brow cleared in comprehension. “It’s just—I thought everyone else would begin with the A’s, and if I skipped to the B’s that I’d have the field all to myself. And she’s in Twickenham, not in London proper. Didn’t expect anyone would want to come all this way.”
“Twickenham isn’t exactly Timbuktu. That was actually a point in her favor, in my opinion; she has a country house that isn’t actually in the country.”
“A rather nice house, too,” Mr. Pryce said, looking around the dining room appreciatively. But then he seemed to realize he shouldn’t be making Mrs. Boyle look even more desirable a prize and hurried to add: “Still, she didn’t seem to take to you, so you’d be better off casting your line where the fish are biting.”
“Are you likening the beauteous Mrs. Boyle to a fish? Not a very romantic simile, dear chap. Especially when you’re a bit of a gudgeon yourself. She wasn’t exactly bowled over by your charms,” Lord Jerome said, placing an ironic emphasis on the word “charms” as he looked over Pryce in a way that drew attention to all of his sartorial and anatomical deficiencies, and which would have caused a more sensitive man to retire from polite society for a week at least.
Mr. Pryce, however, was unfazed by his dinner companion’s supercilious behavior, though it did cause him to notice he’d somehow spilled a bit of gravy on his waistcoat. He rubbed ineffectually at it as he considered why his courting had proven unsuccessful thus far. “Tell you what; I think she’s whiddled our scrap.”
Lord Jerome wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Must you speak as if you’re a denizen of a London rookery? But I concede your point. We may have inadvertently shown our hand.”
“ ’Xactly! Maybe you should cast your peepers over some of the C’s.”
Godfrey, who was hanging on their every word as surreptitiously as possible and had found this repeated mention of the alphabet very confusing indeed, noticed at this point that Mr. Pryce had pulled a slim booklet out of his waistcoat pocket and was perusing it, before waving it triumphantly in front of Lord Jerome’s face. “Here you are: There’s a Miss Cavendish with thirty thousand and she lives more convenient to town. Never been married, either, unlike this ace of spades,” Pryce said, ignoring Lord Jerome’s earlier complaint and using a slang term for a widow.
“But I’ve rather taken a fancy to Mrs. Boyle. Especially now that I’ve seen her in the, ahem, flesh, so to speak. Why don’t you make a call on Miss Cavendish?”
The two men proceeded to argue for some time over who should relinquish the field, and Godfrey very generously refilled their glasses as they did so. Much later, he informed the inebriated gentlemen that their hostess had retired for the evening and was sorry she hadn’t been able to bid them a good night. Godfrey then saw them both out, putting a helpful arm around Mr. Pryce to steer him toward the door and pocketing the booklet as he did so.
A few minutes later, he handed it to Diana, who had completely changed her mind about terminating her butler’s employment and was now considering increasing his salary. She had gone upstairs with Mildred earlier but had returned belowstairs once the men left as she assumed Godfrey would have some information for her. However, she had never expected this.
Diana took the booklet from him, reading aloud as she did so: “ ‘The Rich Ladies Registry or the Batchelor’s Directory.’ ” She paused for a moment, looking up at Godfrey in shock and dismay, before continuing to read: “ ‘Containing an alphabetical list of the Widows and Spinsters of Great Britain with an account of their places of abode and reputed fortunes.’ ”
“You might want to turn over to the ‘Widows’ section, under the letter B, ma’am,” Godfrey suggested, and Diana obediently flipped a few pages forward, only to see her name and direction very clearly printed in black and white. A Madam Bechford of Bond Street was listed ahead of Diana, but she had a measly twenty thousand, whereas Madam Boyle of Twickenham was reputed to have a fortune of at least thirty thousand pounds with a few thousand “in the stocks.” Diana had no idea if this figure was accurate or not. Her man of affairs had apprised her of her financial standing upon Mr. Boyle’s death and she was content to know that her quarterly allowance, which she’d found more than adequate, was to continue, and that if she had need of any more funds, she could apply to him at any time. She had intended to take a more active role in the supervision of the accounts, as she realized ignorance in such matters could lead to disaster, but she also knew appearing too interested in her late husband’s wealth would provoke spiteful comments from her sister-in-law, and so she’d resolved to wait a little longer before requesting to examine the situation for herself.
However, it looked as if whoever compiled this directory had done extensive research, so the amount was most likely correct. There were dozens of names, addresses, and figures; the listings for noble widows even stating what their rank and title was, and Diana was dumbfounded at the time and labor the author must have put into compiling such a list. Although it did not appear that alphabetizing was his forte. “He’s listed a Madam Baker after me. She should come before,” Diana complained, before realizing this was the least of her concerns. “I cannot believe someone would be so encroaching, so intrusive, so . . . despicable! Exposing all the private details of these ladies, without so much as a by-your-leave! Why, it should be against the law to do such a thing! Who is responsible for this?”
That question Godfrey could not answer, so turning back to the title page she read aloud: “ ‘By a Younger Son.’ That certainly is specific,” she told Godfrey sarcastically. She stared at the front of the booklet in frustration, before flipping another page and realizing there was a dedication addressed “To all Widowers and Batchelors.” She resolved to read the dedication carefully when she was alone, but for the moment she merely skipped to the end, and found that the author had signed it: “Your Most Obedient Unknown, M. D—n.”
Diana couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so angry. Perhaps she never had; she couldn’t recall ever having this much provocation. “So, he has no problem publishing all the ladies’ names but he’s too shy to publish his own. A little hypocritical of our mysterious Mr. D, wouldn’t you say, Godfrey?”
“Indeed. Quite the cad, if I might be permitted to offer an opinion.”
“You may, as it corresponds with mine perfectly,” Diana said, smiling slightly at Godfrey, who inclined his head in response. He didn’t smile back, but she hadn’t expected him to. She was beginning to understand him better and now realized that much of her discomfort in his presence was due to the fact that she had been a shy and awkward teen when she’d first met him, not at all the sort of mistress who would inspire respect in a proper butler of three score years. He had also been an eyewitness to her sorry history with Mr. Boyle, something that she was cognizant of whenever she interacted with him. But she was now a mature widow, and it was up to her to set the terms of their relationship. Besides, Godfrey had demonstrated this evening that he could be of assistance to her, and she had need of him.
Because she was going to discover exactly who this dastardly Mr. D was and expose him as publicly as he’d exposed her.