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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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Patience’s eyes fluttered. “Thank heaven you are safe,” she breathed. “I was so worried. I told the nurse I wouldn’t drink my barley water until I saw you with my own eyes. I kept imagining you in the carriage all by yourself. I should never have left you alone.”
Pru was instantly nettled. “For heaven’s sake! I’m not completely helpless without you, you know. Did you really think I’d still be sitting in the carriage waiting for you to come and get me?”
Patience smiled faintly. “I just wanted to see for myself that you’re all right.”
“You’re the one who’s sick, not me.”
“Sick?” Patience’s voice rose an octave or two. “I’m not sick! I nearly drowned.”
“Drowned? Pay, what are you talking about?”
Now quite agitated, Patience tried to sit up. “The devil was here—a big red devil. He threw me over the balcony. He tried to drown me. I could have died.”
“That’s quite a nightmare you had!” Pru said sympathetically.
“It was not a nightmare,” Patience insisted. “The devil tried to drown me, I tell you! He was here in this house.”
“I think you might be delirious, Pay,” Pru said, patting her hand.
Patience threw off the coverlet and started to climb out of bed. “I know what happened, Pru. I’ll prove it to you. Help me!”
“You should not leave your bed,” Pru replied, “but, if you promise to remain calm, I will take you over the house myself and prove to you that it was only a dream.”
“I shall be very calm,” Patience promised, and Pru helped her down the stairs to the ballroom. Tiled in white marble, it was surrounded on three sides by a wide balcony, from which spectators could watch the dancers below. Patience tottered down the steps of the grand staircase, utterly confused.
“This was all flooded,” she whispered. “There were mermaids in the water.”
“Mermaids?” Pru echoed in disbelief. “Patience, you sound like a madwoman! Let me get you back to bed.”
“No!” said Patience, clinging to the marble banister. “I was here last night. I walked up to the devil. He was with two mermaids on a couch, right over there. He exposed himself to me. Then he picked me up and threw me over the railing.”
Pru stared at the marble floor of the ballroom. “Dearest,” she said gently, “you’re not making any sense. If the devil threw you over that balcony, you would be dead. You would have broken your neck. You must have been dreaming.”
“Good heavens!” Mrs. Drabble called from behind them. She was running as fast as she could on her short legs, her plain, kindly face red from exertion. “You should not be out of bed, Lady Waverly!” Bustling up to her patient, she firmly led her from the room.
“I wasn’t dreaming,” Patience insisted. “It really happened.”
“Of course it did, my dear,” Mrs. Drabble said soothingly as she helped Patience up the stairs. “And Mr. Purefoy, is very sorry for it, too. I wanted to box his ears when I heard what he had done. But he gave me that little boy look, and my heart melted as it always does.” She clucked her tongue.
“Purefoy! That’s the devil’s name,” said Patience, growing agitated again. “I couldn’t remember it before. I knew it was peculiar. He was the devil! And those were
his
mermaids!”
“Please don’t distress yourself, Lady Waverly,” Mrs. Drabble crooned.
“I don’t know how he did it, but he flooded the ballroom. He did!”
“Of course he did,” Pru said, adopting the nurse’s soothing tone. “But he’s gone now, Pay. Please don’t get upset again! You must rest and get better. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Drabble?”
Together, they ushered Patience back to bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Pru went back to the drawing room wringing her hands.
“What is the matter, dear?” Lady Jemima cried.
“Patience has gone mad!” said Pru. “She thinks Mr. Purefoy is the devil, and that he tried to drown her in the ballroom! She is out of her head.”
“Oh, dear,” Lady Jemima murmured. “How distressing for you!”
“It is,” said Pru, glad that someone, at least, cared about her feelings. “It’s very distressing for me. She became so agitated! A vein was pulsing in her neck. And I could not even defend poor Mr. Purefoy from her outrageous assertions! Mrs. Drabble seems to think we must humor the patient. And, I suppose, we must,” she added. “At least until she is stronger. Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t see Mr. Purefoy again.”
Lady Jemima gasped. “What, child? And ruin your chance of becoming a duchess? Go for your drive tomorrow. Make of it what you can. Your sister need not know.”
“If she sends for me, and I am not here—” Pru began.
“I will make her some excuse,” Lady Jemima promised. “I am on your side, Miss Prudence. I want you to succeed. I will do anything I can to help you.”
Pru smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Lady Jemima! I’m glad there’s someone here who cares about
me
and what
I
want. Patience loves me, of course, but she doesn’t understand that I’m not like her. I don’t want to be independent. I want to be taken care of.”
Impulsively, she hugged the Englishwoman. Lady Jemima felt an odd warmth in her chest. She opened her mouth to explain to the American girl that English people did not hug, but somehow the words did not come. It felt rather wonderful to be hugged.
Perhaps we
should
hug, she thought, trying to imagine hugging her stern father, or perhaps her cold mother. The warm feeling in her chest vanished.
Perhaps not, she decided.
Chapter 3
 
For the next three weeks, while Patience slowly regained her strength, Max devoted himself to Pru’s amusement. He liked Pru. He enjoyed her company. She wasn’t like English girls, who so carefully preserved an air of cool detachment, even boredom. Nothing ever bored Pru. With shining eyes and parted lips, she threw herself wholeheartedly into every new experience. As Max showed her the sights of London, he was charmed to see the city through her eyes.
Every day brought something new and wonderful to Pru. Max could not have bestowed his generosity on a more grateful recipient, and her obvious delight spurred him to greater and greater generosity.
Besides long drives in London’s many beautiful parks, there were shopping excursions to Bond Street, and trips to Gunter’s for pastry and flavored ice. He took her to the museums, to Astley’s Amphitheatre, and together they rode Mr. Trevithick’s engine in Euston Square. On one memorable, rainy day, he treated her to a tour of Sunderland House, his uncle’s vast London mansion. The servants were quite surprised; Max had never brought a young lady to his uncle’s house before.
There were no evening entertainments, however; these would have to wait, he explained, until after her presentation. Then there would be balls at Almack’s, concerts at Covent Garden, countless plays and private assemblies, weekends in the country, midnight suppers, and Venetian breakfasts.
“But, Max, who will invite me anywhere?” Pru fretted, as these delights were dangled before her on one of their morning drives through Hyde Park. “I don’t know anyone in London!”
His answer was as simple as it was arrogant. “You know me.”
Without prompting of any kind, he pledged to give her every assistance in society. He would introduce both Pru and her sister to all the most important people in London, thus ensuring that the Waverly sisters would be deluged with invitations. He even promised to give a ball at Sunderland House, specifically to launch Pru and her sister into society;
that,
in and of itself, surely would be enough to make any young lady’s Season a runaway success. By doing so, he hoped to ease the guilt he felt for nearly drowning Lady Waverly, though he certainly did not reveal to Pru the true motivation for his extraordinary generosity.
November gave way to December, and Max, engaged to spend Christmas at Breckinridge, the Duke of Sunderland’s country estate, was obliged to leave London. He would stay if he could, as he explained to Pru, but, while he could very easily dispense with anyone else’s claim on his time, he had a firm duty to his uncle. He would have invited the Waverlys to Breckinridge (he said), had Lady Waverly not been in such poor health. Giving Pru a pretty gold case for her visiting cards as an early Christmas present, he took his leave and drove off in his curricle, with no plans to return to London until after the first of the new year. Immensely pleased with his own kindness to the little American, Max arrived at Breckinridge with a conscience almost totally clear.
Pru did not miss Max very much at first. The preparations for her presentation at court and the social Season that was to follow so occupied her in the days after his departure that she hardly had time to think of anything else. Besides numerous dress fittings, there were dance lessons—which Pru adored—and French lessons, lessons in deportment, lessons in penmanship and etiquette—all of which she despised. Very soon, the routine of lessons, lessons, lessons began to wear on her, and, as the weeks passed and no other young man with plenty of money and a fast curricle came to take Max’s place, she began to miss her old playmate very much indeed. She even thought it possible, as she turned over the little gold card case in her hands, that she had fallen in love with him, even though he was not as handsome as she would have liked him to be.
In love or not, the idea of being in love was sufficient to relieve an afternoon of boredom. Hurrying to the desk in the drawing room, she sat down to write Mr. Purefoy a letter of blazing passion. She had just snipped off a lock of her glossy black hair with her penknife when the door opened, and Patience trudged into the room on weak legs. Mrs. Drabble followed her as though fearful that her charge might collapse at any moment.
Patience had only recently felt well enough to leave her room. For weeks her only exercise had been walking the floor of her room, from her bed to the fireplace, from the fireplace to the window, and back again in a dreary circuit. In the evenings, she would sit up in bed while Pru read to her. The drawing room, with its big windows overlooking Clarges Street, was a refreshing change of scene for her. For a moment, she stood blinking in the strong sunlight streaming through the windows.
Hastily, Pru tucked the lock of hair into the envelope and sealed it. “I was just coming to sit with you,” she lied, jumping to her feet as Patience crept over to the sofa and sat down. Though she was still pale and thin, and obviously weak, her head was clear and her green eyes were bright. Mrs. Drabble wrapped the shawl she carried around Patience’s shoulders, then began stirring up the fire with the poker.
“I think it’s time I wrote another letter to Mr. Broome,” Patience said, her voice clear and strong. “He has not replied to my first.”
“Mr. Broome?” Pru repeated innocently, hiding her own letter behind her back. “Oh, the landlord. Has he not answered your letter?”
Patience’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. For weeks, she had been prone to a fatigue and foggy-headedness that were quite unlike her. She had been obliged to dictate her letters to Pru. “You know he hasn’t,” she said. “Pru! You did send the letter, did you not?”
“Of course I did,” Pru assured her. “Though I do not see how the riot could have been Mr. Broome’s fault.”
Patience rubbed her temples. “For the last time,” she said petulantly, “it was no riot! It was a bacchanal—in our house! Whether Mr. Broome permitted Mr. Purefoy to use this house for his disgusting orgy or not, I do not know. Either way, I must protest. Respectable people should not be subjected to such lurid sights. And I certainly won’t be held accountable for any damages caused by that man and his nasty friends!”
Pru flinched to hear her sister hurl insults at her friend, but did not quite know how to defend him without exposing her secret. For Patience knew nothing at all about Mr. Purefoy’s attentions to Pru, and Pru was glad to keep her in ignorance. It was not lying, exactly. Indeed, it was for Patience’s own good that she remain in ignorance, for had not the doctor said that nothing should be done to upset or excite the patient? Luckily, she had been confined to her bed for the most part while Max remained in town, or she would have been very upset indeed. She would have made a horrible stink, in fact. As it was, Patience knew nothing of the outside world but what she was told. In the house, Mr. Purefoy’s name was never mentioned, and, even if she had glanced at the society columns in the newspapers Pru sometimes brought her, the doings of Mr. P——and Miss W——would not have interested her in the least.
“You must be careful, Pay,” she warned. “Mr. Purefoy comes from a very powerful family. We can’t afford to offend him if we are to get on in society.”
“I am not afraid of this man,” Patience declared. “I’m not going to kowtow to a villain just because his uncle is some big lord. We fought a war so we wouldn’t have to, remember? We are not servants. We are free people. And if the man doesn’t like criticism, then he should behave himself!”
“His uncle is a duke, not a lord,” Pru corrected her.
The tinge of awe in her tone only served to irritate Patience further. “His uncle may be a
king,
for all I care! In any case,
he’s
nothing but a knave. I
will
write my complaint to the landlord,” she went on stubbornly, pulling herself up from the sofa, “if you are quite finished at the desk?”
“Oh, yes,” Pru said quickly, yielding her place. “I was only scribbling.”
“Scribbling? Scribbling what?”
Pru shrugged innocently. “Must you interrogate me? I’m just practicing my handwriting. Lady Jemima says I shall be quite busy writing thank-you notes and that sort of thing once the Season begins. A lady’s handwriting must be perfect.”
Patience settled into the chair. “Lady Jemima,” she repeated. “Oh, yes! The chaperone. We must talk about that. Now that I am feeling better, we really should give her notice.”
“What?” cried Pru. “But, Patience, we
must
have a chaperone. If you dismiss Lady Jemima, who will sponsor us at court? We have to be presented. We can’t just show up. The guards would never let us in.”
Patience chuckled. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”
“Yes! It would!” Pru said angrily. “
I
want to go to balls and parties, even if you don’t, Patience Waverly! And we won’t be invited anywhere unless we have been presented at court.”
Patience rolled her eyes, but said, almost tolerantly, “If it means so much to you, I will write to the American embassy. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Adams would be glad to present us to the English court.”
Pru’s eyes widened in horror. The very last thing she wanted was to be presented at court alongside a host of American bumpkins dressed, no doubt, in their hideous homespun fashions. “But we can’t send Lady Jemima away,” she quickly protested. “She gave up her place with another family to come to us. We are very lucky to have her. Her father was the Earl of Shrewsbury. What is
Mrs. Adams
compared to that?”
Patience’s eyes flashed. “What, indeed? Her father-in-law was our second president, may I remind you. I happen to think that is far grander than a mere earl.”
“Not at the Court of St. James, it isn’t,” Pru argued sullenly.
Patience sniffed. “This tells me all I need to know about the Court of St. James!” she declared. “It is silly to
pay
Lady Jemima to present us at court when our ambassador will do it for free.”
Pru frowned. “
Pay
Lady Jemima? What are you talking about?”
“Yes, child,” Patience told her. “Her ladyship is charging us a hefty fee for her ... ahem! ... services. Not to mention the expense of feeding her. Didn’t you know?”
Pru tossed her head. “I don’t care! And don’t call me child!” she added petulantly. “I am keeping Lady Jemima.”
“If you do, you will bear the expense,” Patience warned her.
“You mean to say I
shall
bear the expense, I suppose,” Pru sniffed.
“Shall, will. What is the difference?” Patience said crossly.
“It’s no use explaining it to you,” Pru said loftily. “But I am keeping Lady Jemima. Some things are worth paying for, you know—even our old miser of a grandfather knew that. If Mr. Adams charges nothing for his assistance—well, then perhaps he knows best what his assistance is worth!”
“You may do as you like, of course. You always do! But so will I.”
“So
shall
I.”
“I shall and will go to the Court of St. James on the arm of my ambassador,” Patience said coldly. “Or I shan’t and won’t go at all! I shall and will keep my money in my purse. You can pay for the honor of being presented by Lady Jemima all by yourself.”
“I shall!” said Pru. Flouncing from the room, she banged the door shut.
Blowing out her breath, Patience snatched a fresh sheet of stationery from its pigeonhole and began to write an angry letter to Mr. Broome.
The following morning, Patience at last met Lady Jemima. With Mrs. Drabble hovering over her, she managed to walk down the stairs to the breakfast room. In this cheerful, sunlit, yellow room, Pru and Lady Jemima were gorging themselves on scones lathered in Devonshire clotted cream and topped with damson plum jam.
“Good morning,” she said clearly, as they looked at her in surprise.
“Patience!” Pru exclaimed. “Do come and have some of these scones. They are delicious.”
“Dear Lady Waverly! We meet at last,” Lady Jemima murmured as Mrs. Drabble helped Patience to a chair.
Patience eyed the middle-aged lady a little doubtfully. Pru’s chaperone looked an odd, almost freakish creature with her bright pink orange hair. Her morning gown of rust-colored silk trimmed with black and green ribbons was far and away the ugliest garment Patience had ever seen.
“Lady Jemima, I presume?” she said, drawing her napkin across her lap while Mrs. Drabble filled her a plate at the sideboard. “My sister tells me you are a necessary evil, though, I must say, I don’t think you are either.”
Lady Jemima hardly knew what to say to this, but, suddenly, she did not feel that her position in the household was as secure as she had believed.
“I never said any such thing,” Pru said crossly.
“I couldn’t possibly eat all this,” Patience said faintly, eyeing with dismay the mounds of sausages and bacon and eggs Mrs. Drabble had brought to her.
“My lady, you’ll never get your strength back if you don’t eat,” Mrs. Drabble told her firmly.
“You must have something, too, Mrs. Drabble,” said Patience, pushing her eggs with her fork. “You haven’t had your breakfast yet, have you? Why don’t you join us?”
BOOK: The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness
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