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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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BOOK: The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness
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Lord Milford favored Patience with only the briefest of greetings, which surprised her very much since, according to Max, he had wagered a good deal on winning her affections. Perhaps he has given up, she thought happily.
For her part, Isabella chatted away with Pru for several moments before deigning to take any notice of Patience whatsoever.
“My dear Lady Waverly!” she said suddenly, cutting Pru off as the latter was sneering about the lace on Lady Torcaster’s gown. “I did not see you there at your little desk! You are always so quiet. But, tell me, how
are
you bearing up?”
Patience found Isabella’s concern wholly unconvincing. “I don’t know what you mean, Lady Isabella.”
“I am talking of Mr. Purefoy, of course,” Isabella said, shaking her head sadly. “Mr. Fusilli, I should say, or whatever his name is. I don’t speak dago.”
Patience turned in her chair and skewered the other woman with her green eyes. “Farnese,” she said coldly.
Isabella lifted her finely plucked brows. “Is
that
what his name is? I was sure
you
would know, Lady Waverly. He was
interested
in you at one time, was he not?”
“The duke should have annulled his brother’s unfortunate marriage long ago,” declared Lady Jemima. “It was an affront to all decent women—the younger son of a duke marrying a girl out of the opera house!”
“I suppose they loved each other.”
“Nonsense! Lord Richard only did it to stick his thumb in his father’s eye,” Lady Jemima scoffed. “And ended up dying of pneumonia in some garret in the city or Cheap-side or whatever. The mother went back to her ragtag gypsy people. I, for one, never believed the child was actually Lord Richard’s.”
“You go too far, madam,” Patience said.
“One has only to look at him to see he is not of the blood,” Lord Milford declared. “His features are too coarse. It’s fairly obvious his father must have been a blackamoor. But who can say for certain, when the mother is an actress?”
“Ivor!” Isabella admonished him.
“His hands, Bella!” her brother pursued. “They are the hands of a blacksmith! They are not the hands of a gentleman. Surely you noticed.”
“I cannot say that I did,” his sister replied, laughing lightly. “I could scarcely be bothered to notice the man’s hands.”
“You seemed to like him well enough when you were driving with him in the park,” Patience said softly. “He was quite a favorite of yours at one time, I believe. Now you laugh at him.”
“A favorite of mine?” Isabella looked bewildered. “Whatever can Your Ladyship mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” Patience snapped. “When he was heir to a dukedom, it was your ambition to marry him!”
Isabella stared. “I? Marry with that—that
mongrel
? But I am engaged to Sir Charles Stanhope,” she added haughtily. “Here is my engagement ring.”
Thrusting her hand under Patience’s nose, she showed a ruby the size of a man’s thumb.
“Sir Charles Stanhope?” Pru echoed, wrinkling her nose at the man while giving his ruby its due. “That old fossil?”
“Sir Charles is a worldly man of wisdom and experience,” said Isabella. “His father was the fourth baronet, and his mother was perfectly unexceptional.”
“And, best of all, he is rich,” said Lord Milford.
Patience laughed shortly. “Yes, I
do
think you have been hardest hit, Lady Isabella.”
Isabella smiled coldly. “My dear Lady Waverly! I am very sorry for you, I’m sure, but one cannot rewrite history! Don’t forget that my brother and I saw you with Mr. Faradiddle in Grosvenor Square—” Isabella’s eyes fell demurely. “But I shall remain silent on that score.”
“Indeed you will!” her brother said furiously. “No good can come of speaking of that regrettable incident.”
“Why?” Pru cried. “What happened in Grosvenor Square? I demand to know!”
“Your sister did not tell you?” Isabella said, wide eyed. “Ivor, I think it is time we go.”
Pru could hardly wait for them to leave. “What happened in Grosvenor Square?” she demanded, as the door closed.
Patience sighed. “You already know I saw Mr. Purefoy at Mr. Adams’s house on the night of your ball. Pru, how can you bear the company of such poisonous hypocrites? I should have left the room, except I shudder to think what they might say if I were not here to check them. And you, madam!” she went on, turning to Lady Jemima. “It is my understanding that Mr. Purefoy brought you to this house. Your patron has fallen on hard times; take care you do not meet with the same fate.”
Lady Jemima’s mouth worked helplessly, but Pru came to her defense. “It is important that we blacken his name, Pay! Before he blackens ours! Who knows what the man may be saying about us right now? It could be anything. He is Italian, after all.”
“Whatever he is saying,” Patience replied, “I’m sure it’s no more than we deserve.”
And, as Briggs came in to announce the next round of callers, she made her escape.
 
 
Two weeks passed without Patience hearing anything from the man she had married, though she did manage to hear a good deal
about
him, mainly from Lady Jemima. The shocking misdeeds of his past, now seemingly newly discovered, were the talk of the town. Tales of drunken routs, lewd balls, and scandalous escapades swept through London like wildfire.
“But, considering his descent, one could not expect better,” was Lady Jemima’s constant refrain.
That he owed money all over London did not surprise Patience in the least. But no one, including his creditors, seemed to know where or how he was living. “If the bailiffs catch him, he’ll never see the outside of Fleet Street Prison,” Lady Jemima said gleefully. “That’s how much he owes.”
Another week passed without any fresh news. Made uneasy by all the rumors swirling around, Patience drove to Wimpole Street to see Mrs. Drabble. She had not seen Max’s former nurse since her wedding at St. Bride’s Church, and she dreaded having to face the other woman. Jane opened the door to her, but said, her face full of disapproval, that she would see if her mistress was at home. Patience was left waiting in the little hall so long that she nearly went away again. Finally, Mrs. Drabble herself appeared, and invited her up to the parlor for tea.
Patience was so obviously filled with anxiety that her hostess took pity on her. “We have missed you at our meetings, my dear,” she said kindly.
Patience blushed at what must have been a fib. She could just imagine Miss Haines’s hurt and bewildered look when she realized there would be no bride at the wedding breakfast they had all worked so hard to prepare. Mrs. Bascombe would probably have strangled her. The others would have been less demonstrative, perhaps, in their disapproval. They would have clucked their tongues and shaken their heads, at least. “It’s very kind of you to say so, Mrs. Drabble,” she said. “But I’m sure you must have thought me very rude.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Drabble said simply. “But Max says we are not to be angry at you.”
“You have seen him?” Patience said eagerly. “Where is he? I—I must speak to him, Mrs. Drabble. ’Tis said his debts are so great that he will soon be arrested.”
“Would you care if he were?” Mrs. Drabble asked, her blue eyes suddenly alert.
“Of course I would care,” Patience said indignantly. “I don’t know what he has told you. I daresay you think me quite heartless, but I have no wish to see him condemned to debtor’s prison. I would not wish such a fate on my worst enemy. Will you not tell me where I can find him?”
“How do I know you wouldn’t lead the bailiffs straight to him?” Mrs. Drabble asked.
Patience gasped. “You think I would betray him?”
Stung, she rose to her feet. “If that is what you think of me, I will take up no more of your time, Mrs. Drabble. But ... if you should see him ... Tell him he must collect on his wager. Let not his foolish pride stand in the way. Nothing could be worse than the shame of going to prison!”
“Forgive me, Lady Waverly,” Mrs. Drabble said quickly. “I did not mean it. Of course, you would not betray him. Please stay.”
Patience resumed her seat, but said, frowning, “I would
not
betray him,” as if Mrs. Drabble had argued against her. “I wish him no harm. I
want
him to collect his money. But he won’t do it. He is stubborn.”
“But, my dear,” Mrs. Drabble said gently, “do you not realize that it is entirely within your power to take him out of danger, if he is too pigheaded to do it himself?”
“Is it?” Patience exclaimed. “How?”
“You have only to insert a notice in the newspapers that you have married him, and his creditors will be at
point non plus
. Honor will do the rest.”
Patience shook her head. “Honor? I don’t understand.”
“These gentlemen and their clubs! They do have their code of honor. The wager will be paid or that gentleman will be drummed out of all good society.”
“I’ll do it,” Patience said eagerly, jumping to her feet.
She was halfway to the door before she realized she was still carrying her teacup.
The following morning, she rose very early, making sure to collect all the newspapers in the house and disembarrass them of the society page before Pru saw them. She need not have worried. After another late night at some ball or other, Pru did not trudge into the breakfast room until half past nine.
“Why will the servants not serve me breakfast in my room?” she sullenly demanded as she slid into her chair.
“They have their pride, I suppose,” Patience answered.
Pru grunted. “Was I in the paper?” she asked Lady Jemima. “Everyone said I was the prettiest girl there, and the most graceful dancer.”
Lady Jemima looked askance. “My dear, it is a very curious thing. I have looked through all the papers, but they all seem to be missing the most critical part: the society pages.”
Pru scowled. “But there could be a sketch of me!”
Patience, who was, in fact, sitting on the missing pages, said quickly, “Never mind, dearest. We can send out for more newspapers. There is something I must tell you. Something rather important.”
Pru was instantly diverted. “You have discovered the secret of transforming lead into gold!” she guessed, her green eyes dancing with merriment. “I didn’t even know you were trying.”
“I’m quite serious, Pru,” Patience said quietly. “I meant to tell you yesterday, but by the time I returned to the house, you’d already gone out. I must have fallen asleep waiting for you.”
“I was home by four in the morning,” Pru said indignantly. “You can’t complain about
that
.”
“I’m not complaining at all,” Patience protested.
“If you would but
go
to one ball,” Pru went on heedlessly, “you would understand how impossible it is to leave early, even if you wanted to. It takes a full hour just to get to the top of the stairs, and another hour to get back down—unless of course, you take a
short cut,
like poor Mrs. Malahide!”
Lady Jemima laughed appreciatively, but Pru laughed even louder.
“Poor thing! She fell head over end down the staircase at Arundel House, and, Patience, she hadn’t any drawers on!” Pru collapsed into helpless giggling.
“For heaven’s sake, Pru!” Patience snapped, not at all interested in Mrs. Malahide’s tumble down the stairs.
Pru held her sides, where the seams of her gown were in danger of splitting. “But wait! I haven’t told you the very best part!” she wheezed. “I have since learned that her Christian name is—you will not credit it—indeed, you will not—Fanny!”
In spite of herself, Patience could not help laughing.
All three ladies were still laughing when the door opened. For a moment, they hardly noticed the tall, broad-shouldered man standing on the threshold; after all, servants were forever coming and going. But this man was not dressed as a servant. He was dressed as a gentleman, in a burgundy coat and buff-colored pantaloons. Lace cuffs and a wondrously intricate cravat completed the look. Patience gasped as he sat down at the table.
“Good morning, my lady,” he greeted her politely. Tapping the belly of the silver coffeepot on the table, he proceeded to ask, quite calmly, if there was any chance of a fresh pot.
Lady Jemima uttered a silly little shriek of dismay. Pru choked back her laughter, staring at him, round eyed.
“This one seems to have gone cold,” the gentleman went on in the same congenial tone. “Though to be fair, I
am
a trifle late for breakfast. I trust I am forgiven?”
Patience stared into his gray eyes. “What do you think you are doing?” she stammered, slowly rising from her chair. “Who let you in this house?”
BOOK: The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness
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