Chapter Four

The sun had not yet risen in the sky when Eliza quietly entered the high-walled garden. The autumn chill bit through her woolen pelisse, but she paid it little notice. The same cold wind played with the hem of her night rail, and goose bumps formed on her bare calves. Gravel crunched beneath her boots as she walked, and from somewhere close by came the sweet trill of a bird. All else was silence.

Eliza made a small hum of contentment. There was no greater luxury than this, to be mistress of one’s own time. To rise when one wished, to walk in one’s own garden wearing nothing but a night rail and pelisse if one wished, stockings and propriety be damned. And she did wish. She enjoyed balls and theater and dinners, but she also craved this stillness.

Since the Season had ended and her brother had departed, she’d spent many mornings thusly. Aunt Mabel never rose before ten of the clock, and Riya was a creature of the night—perhaps she, too, enjoyed being mistress of her own time and prowled the garden while Eliza slumbered. Therefore she was free to rise as early as she wished, to be alone with her thoughts. Some mornings the words sprang easily from her pen, but other times—like today—she paced the garden path, muttering to herself.

Eliza suspected that was why she and Riya got on so well, and lived together so easily. They spent a great deal of their days in each other’s company, but never imposed on each other’s privacy. Eliza suspected a great many marriages would be vastly improved if they functioned along the same principles. But alas, marriage was one-sided in that regard, and it was all to the husband’s benefit. Men had lives and private interests; women merely waited.

Eliza paused at a rosebush, frowning. The once-glossy green leaves were now a mottled red and yellow. What if…what if…and then… Ah, yes, she had it now!

She spun on her toes and rushed back to her study—John’s study, really, but as he had no current need for it, being absent, she had commandeered it for her own. The room was chilly, as the fire had not yet been lit, but a fresh pot of hot tea was waiting for her.

She settled into the flocked velvet chair and dipped her pen in ink. The words came readily, how wonderful!

And then came a scratch at the door.

“Not now,” Eliza said through gritted teeth.

“But, my lady,” Marie said anxiously. She hovered in the doorway.

“Yes, then, what is it?” Eliza hated to sound peevish when the girl was clearly distressed, but she couldn’t help it. The servants knew not to interrupt her work.

“Sir John sent word last night, after you were already abed. He will arrive this morning.”

Eliza stared at the maid in horror. “Today? My brother is coming today?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Eliza threw down her pen. “Help me,” she pleaded.

“Of course, my lady.”

When Eliza greeted her brother some two hours later, she was every inch the respectable maiden. Her morning dress was a pretty pale blue, her hair was neat and tidy, and doeskin gloves hid her ink-stained fingers. Her favorite pair was still missing a button, but these would suffice until the maid did the mending.

“John! I have missed you.” Which was true. Her brother was the stodgiest man in all London, but he was a dear, and she loved him. She was happy to see him again…so long as he did not stay too long. “But you left London not even a month ago. Why have you returned so soon?”

“Matters of business, nothing for you to worry about. Fortunately, the drive is only two hours, and I can return to Lady Benton tomorrow.” His gaze fell on the novel that sat on the tea table between two wingback chairs. “Lady Anonymous! Eliza, never say you are reading that drivel.”

Eliza opened her mouth, but Riya spoke first. “It’s mine, Sir John. Please do not think ill of me. It is very wicked, but I find it helps me better understand the customs of your land.”

“Ah.” Sir John rocked on his heels, and his frown cleared. “Well, then. That’s all right, I suppose. I must say, for a book of pure lies, it is very real. Why, Lady Anonymous could be writing about any one of us! I can’t point to any man or woman in particular as an exact copy, but the lives and flirtations all seem very familiar somehow. The feelings of it, I mean.”

Eliza twisted her gloved fingers together.

“I like the book for that,” Riya admitted. “Albert and Beatrice seem very real to me, as though they are truly my friends.”

“But that is what makes Lady Anonymous so unseemly,” John said. “She must attend the same balls, the same parties and dinners as we do. She is one of us. She is a lady, and a lady ought to spend her time seeing to her home and family and her husband’s interests, not writing for money.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “If her identity is ever discovered, her family will be shamed.”

“What of the lady who wrote Emma?” Eliza asked. “You liked that one, didn’t you?”

“Ah, but the author did not sign her true name, either,” John said darkly. “And her work is far more genteel.”

Eliza bristled. She took a calming breath, but her stays felt uncomfortably tight. “Then one must consider the likelihood that Lady Anonymous is really a man,” she suggested.

“All would be forgiven, in that case.”

Her brother looked at her expectantly. Ever the gentleman, he would not sit until she sat. Eliza rang for tea and then claimed one of the wingback chairs. Riya claimed the other, and John sat facing them on the sofa.

“How have you been, dear sister? Lady Benton sends her good wishes but hopes you will be persuaded to return with me.”

Eliza laughed. “I am afraid that is impossible, although I miss her company. But Duke Wessex has invited me to his house party in a fortnight’s time.”

“A house party? You know I don’t approve of house parties, Eliza.” John frowned. “Nor do I approve of Duke Wessex. Lord Whistall had some things to say about the duke’s behavior. Quite untoward, believe me.”

“Hmm,” Eliza murmured as she poured the tea. “I think it unsporting of Lord Whistall to speak so of Wessex when all of London knows he keeps Mrs. Worthier in an apartment near Hyde Park.”

“Eliza.”

She ignored the sharp rebuke in his tone. “It’s the pot calling the kettle black, you must admit.”

John admitted nothing, but he glowered as he accepted his dish of tea.

“Such an apt expression. I like it. I gather that Lord Whistall is the pot and the duke is the kettle?” Riya asked.

“Just so. It is especially apt in this case, because Wessex is so very much a kettle in all ways. Excessively loud and obnoxious when ignored.”

“Eliza,” John said again, his tone pained this time. “He might be a rake, but he is a duke, and second cousin to the Prince Regent. Show proper respect, if you please.”

Eliza sighed. “Then may I attend his house party, please? As you say yourself, he is a duke, and a powerful one at that. Aunt Mabel will be our chaperone.”

“You can be sure that I won’t let anything untoward happen to my niece,” Aunt Mabel piped up from her usual corner.

John startled badly. “Ah, Aunt Mabel. I did not see you there.”

“And yet, here I am. As always.” Aunt Mabel smiled calmly. “Do let her go, John. London is so dreary in winter.”

John made a sound that might have been agreement. He was very nearly there.

“Lord Abingdon will be there, and he will keep Wessex in line. You like Lord Abingdon,” Eliza added cajolingly.

“He is a good man.” John stirred a lump of sugar into his tea. “Will Colonel Kent be there, as well?”

Eliza furrowed her brow. The colonel had once asked her dear friend Alice—now Lady Abingdon—to marry him. Despite the tension this caused between Abingdon and Colonel Kent, Wessex continued to bring him around. Very likely he would be at the house party. Although, why should her brother care? “Yes, I believe so.”

“Good.” He gave a satisfied nod. “I like him. If he shows any sign of interest, you ought to encourage him.”

Eliza blinked. Any sign of interest? What did he mean— Oh! She burst into laughter. “Colonel Kent has never looked twice at me.”

“A man would have to be dead not to look at you. Even I know that, though I am your brother. You are a beautiful girl, Eliza. How you have managed to remain unmarried after two London Seasons is a mystery.”

Eliza studied her tea rather than disappoint her brother with the truth. For it had not been easy to remain unmarried when it seemed all of London was determined to match her with this gentleman or that. It was, in fact, hard work to convince a man that she had no interest in becoming his wife. So often they believed she was mistaken, or that her feelings didn’t matter anyway.

It helped that her brother held high standards for her future husband—a great many would-be suitors were known to gamble on occasion or drink to even the smallest excess, and thus deemed ineligible. It also helped that John loved her. He would not force her into a marriage she did not want.

But no matter. Let her brother hope how he wished, so long as he allowed her to attend Wessex’s house party.

Where she would most certainly not find a husband.