A Friend in Paris Page 25

  March, 1812

  Stratford Tunstall, former major of the 94th Regiment of Foot and newly appointed Fifth Earl of Worthing, trudged down Oxford Street in a uniform stiff with dirt. One glance down New Bond revealed a street already thinned of the bustling crowds. All the better. It would not do to appear in such attire in fashionable London, but he had no choice if he were going to reach the counting house before it closed. Picking up his pace, he headed toward the stone building housing the bank, its spring flowers poking through the wrought iron gate.

  He passed three women at a storefront, inspecting a purchase of embroidered silk, when one broke away from the group with a startled cry. He perceived Miss Broadmore, the woman who had jilted him before he left for Spain and the last person he wished to see upon his return.

  “Stratford! You are returned. When did you arrive in England?” She seemed to check herself upon observing his appearance more closely, but in the end she extended a slender hand encased in calfskin. The touch was infinitesimal as he bowed over her hand.

  “Only just.” Stratford’s voice was gruff, and he cleared it. “I’ve left my effects at the King’s Arms and set out immediately. I must transact some business before the counting house is closed.”

  “The King’s Arms?” Miss Broadmore’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I don’t know it. Why are you not staying in your house on Upper Seymour Street? Of course, as Lord Worthing, you will have a new house now—”

  He gave a curt nod. “Our house has been rented for the upcoming Season, and I did not wish to impose upon the staff at Cavendish Square without having presented myself at the estate first. I leave tomorrow at first light.”

  “Of course.” Miss Broadmore seemed at a loss for words but made no move to end the conversation.

  He caught a whiff of her jasmine soap. It had been too long since he’d smelled a woman of gentle breeding, rather than the blowsy laundresses who followed the troops and reeked of lye soap. It had been too long since he’d seen this woman.

  She peered at him from under her poke bonnet, bringing to mind another day when those same eyes held his as she released him from their engagement. Pain closed about him like a vice, and, as if in sympathy, the tentative late-afternoon sun hid once again behind the clouds.

  “I hear congratulations are in order.” Stratford forced the words out of his constricted throat. “You are engaged to be wed.” Again, he thought. This time it was a baron, and she must regret her haste all those years ago. Had Judith gone on to wed him, she would have been a countess. She'd made her mercenary views abundantly clear on the day she jilted him.

  Miss Broadmore looked at her feet. “I fear you are under a misapprehension. Sir Garrett sent the announcement after speaking with my father. But he did not address himself to me, and I’m afraid I do not return his regard.” Stratford considered her silently, and she continued in a resigned tone. “These weeks have been uncomfortable for me. In public, I’m labeled a jilt by all but my closest friends.” Miss Broadmore glanced at her two companions, who had by now examined every inch of the silk in their attempt to appear disinterested. “At home, I must face my father’s wrath.” Her eyes pooled with tears. “I suppose I deserve it.”

  Stratford could not remain impervious to this pitiable declaration, though he felt she did. “We must be glad our understanding was never made public.” It cost him to say as much, but it would be churlish to continue to punish her.

  A silence ensued, and Stratford was unable to bring the conversation to a close. He wanted to pull out his pocket watch to see if there was time, but his arms hung heavy at his sides, and the words remained stuck in his chest. Finally, Miss Broadmore broke the silence. “Please accept my condolences for the loss of your father. I had thought you might, perhaps, have had leave to attend his funeral.”

  “I had it. But we were laying siege to Ciudad Rodrigo in Spain, and officers were in short supply. My father would have preferred me to remain and see the thing through.” His throat worked while he chose his next words. “My uncle was not reconciled to my choice to remain, but I felt I must follow where honor led.”

  “Your father was always proud of you,” she assured him. “I'm told he was following every movement in the Peninsula. And then, to miss acceding to the title by only five days…”

  There was another silence as Stratford clenched his teeth. The title! Who cares about the title. He shifted as if to leave, and Miss Broadmore caught the subtle movement. “Will you be in London this Season?”

  The street had grown unnaturally quiet, and he noticed that not only were there no other ladies visible, apart from Miss Broadmore and her friends, but also not even the usual bustle of gentleman gave the street any life. Stratford managed a tight smile. “As little as I can help it. I’ve a great deal to do at Worthing and must learn where affairs stand.”

  “I believe your sisters will have their second season?” she inquired. Her friend signaled to a waiting footman to open the door to the carriage, and Miss Broadmore took a step toward it.

  “My aunt is arranging that, yes.” Stratford stood, rooted to the spot with the realization that he must indeed return to London and would likely meet her everywhere. He must do what he could to avoid that. “Good day, Miss Broadmore.”

  Her head dipped at his formal use of her name, but she replied in kind. “Good day, my lord. Our paths will undoubtedly cross when you return to London.”

  Miss Broadmore’s red-haired companion called out, “Judith, my mother will be most unhappy if I’m late to dress for dinner. As it is, we won’t have time for Hyde Park.”

  Miss Broadmore nodded, then faced Stratford. “Be sure to give my regards to your sisters.” She curtsied and turned toward the waiting footman, leaving Stratford alone on the street. The driver snapped the reins, and the carriage clattered over the cobblestone pavement.

  Now Stratford did pull out his pocket watch as he marched toward his destination, afraid he might be too late. So, she jilted someone else, did she? But this time the man had a title, and she refused his hand in marriage, even against her father’s will. Why? Had she learned that happiness does not belong to the highest peer in the realm? Does she regret refusing me? He remembered her downcast eyes and was tempted to think she missed him.

  No. She only regretted his recent acquisition of the title and her precipitous retreat before obtaining the prize. Now she’ll have to jockey with the other eligible damsels who’ll be after my coronet. He’d have to choose one of them in the end, he reminded himself, but on this matter he would remain firm. It won’t be Judith. She must cut her losses and look elsewhere.

  At the broad, wooden door of the bank, young Mr. Brooks had his back to the street as he wrestled with a skeleton key in the unyielding lock.

  Stratford called out as he rounded the path from the gate. “Hold there.”

  “The bank is closed. Oh—!” Stratford knew from experience that Mr. Brooks did not like to be caught by surprise, be it an unexplained downturn on the ‘Change or a client rushing at him like an unbridled colt. However, one glance at the visitor removed the peevishness from his tone.

  “My lord. I had despaired of seeing you today.” Mr. Brooks turned the key in the lock, a simple matter, it seemed, now he was not trying to escape to a warm meal. “Won’t you come in, sir? I’ve readied the papers, and it’s just a matter of pulling them out of the safe.” He ushered Stratford into the building and closed the door behind them.

  “I apologize for keeping you. I’ve only just arrived in London and leave for the estate first thing in the morning.” Stratford followed Mr. Brooks through the narrow corridors into his small, dark office.

  “Kindly have a seat while I fetch all that is necessary.” Mr. Brooks went into a side-room where he was heard to turn a key in a lock and rummage through papers and objects. He returned carrying a stack of papers, a little velvet box, and a leather envelope. The velvet box he held out. “Here is your signet ring, as requested. I must say it went ag
ainst the grain with me to hold on to this for you when you might have needed it at any instant. A peer should not be separated from his ring.”

  “I had no use for it on the Peninsula. It was in much safer hands with you.” Stratford slipped the ring on his finger and felt its unfamiliar weight. My cousin John, or even Nicholas, should be wearing this—not me. They had been brought up for this role. “Thank you for sizing it up.”

  “Not at all. Here is the sum you asked for in notes and coins. Of course, you can draw on the bank at any time, and we await your instructions on the other transactions you wrote about regarding your father’s holdings.” Mr. Brooks folded his hands on the desk. “Where are you staying? Upper Seymour has been let.”

  “The King’s Arms,” Stratford returned with a sheepish grin.

  “The King’s Arms…” Mr. Brooks sat back, stunned. “But why not Cavendish? My lord, may I remind you we have men who will take care of these details for you. You may entrust them to me.”

  Stratford gave a weak smile and shook his head. “I am much too accustomed to handling my own affairs.”

  “You must think of your position,” the banker pleaded.

  “I can hardly avoid it,” Stratford murmured. Here he had completed one taxing journey that had not purged his thoughts from the horrors of that last battle. Tomorrow he would embark on a shorter one, but one which would end in no repose. Family members who had not cared to know him before now would descend upon him at Worthing, and his uncle’s ward would arrive the day before the reading of the will. She must be eager to learn of her expectations, Stratford thought bitterly. This was followed by another reflection: I am in no mood for entertaining strangers.

  Stratford took a deep breath. “I expect to proceed with joining the two estates once I ascertain where affairs stand at Worthing. The reading of the testament will occur in a week’s time. Meanwhile,” Stratford stood, bumping the sconce at his right shoulder, “I thank you for your attention to these matters.”

  Mr. Brooks gestured forward, allowing the earl to precede him. “May I express, on behalf of Brooks and Sons, our pleasure at having you back on English soil.”

  Stratford nodded and exited through the front door, pulling his cloak about him as he descended the stairs into the evening shadows. Another three steps and he had turned out the gate and down the near-deserted street. A mid-March gale clanged the wooden shutters on the building next door, and he thought of the hot bath and meal awaiting him at the inn. If only this were the end of his journey and nothing further were required of him.

  Chapter Two

  Eleanor Daventry's posture was still perfectly erect when at last the carriage turned on the winding road that led to Worthing Estate. “Aunt, we’re here.”

  The older lady gasped and sat up with a start, as Eleanor opened the window and leaned out. “There’s a rider in the distance headed toward the estate. A gentleman. Perhaps it’s the earl come back from the Peninsula early.” She pulled her head in and bestowed a mischievous smile upon her aunt. “To find out if he is, indeed, as rich as a nabob.”

  “Don’t be vulgar, Eleanor.” Mrs. Daventry tightened her lips, but the admonishment had little effect on her niece. Her next words did. “The former earl was good to you at a time when no one else took up your cause. I wonder that you can speak so flippantly of him or his legacy.”

  Eleanor studied her hands clasped on her lap. There was no point in trying humor with her aunt. “I should not, I know. It’s just that I did not know my guardian as I could’ve wished. I’m sensible of his every attention, yet I cannot help but feel I would have preferred his company over his benevolence.”

  Mrs. Daventry’s face paled from another jolt in the carriage. “What he did for you is no small thing. He provided for your welfare and your schooling, and he ensured you would have everything you need for your first Season, including an introduction. Under his patronage, you needed not fear being shunned.” Her aunt shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat. “Considering your family history…”

  Eleanor ignored the unspoken words, which she knew very well. Now the fourth earl was dead, there were no such guarantees. She shot her aunt a narrowed glance. “You’re unwell. I wish we’d stopped at the inn. The journey would not have been so tedious if we had traveled in easier stages.”

  Mrs. Daventry closed her eyes and shook her head. “We would have arrived too late, and it would not do to stop in a public inn without a gentleman escort. I don’t mind for my own sake. But for you, I will do my duty, though I suffer as a result.”

  “Aunt.” Eleanor’s voice contained only a trace of exasperation. “I can survive the taint of a public inn. And rest would have done you good. Never mind. We can ask that you’re shown straight to your room and that supper is brought to you.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. As your guardian, I’ll remain with you throughout supper.” Her aunt sniffed and tugged at the folds of her purple wrap. “Even if I doubt I can eat a thing.”

  Eleanor hid a smile and stared over the meadow at the copse of trees in the distance, which were starting to show hints of green. “I have the barest recollection of this place. I suppose I should be grateful Lord Worthing invited me even once. I had forgotten how…” Her voice trailed away as the carriage turned and sped toward the manor, whose rows of windows were filled with the golden iridescence of the late afternoon sun. The beige stones framing them shimmered under the rays, and the effect was breathtaking.

  The doors to the manor swung inward before the carriage came to a halt. Two liveried men marched down the steps, and one opened the carriage door; the other stood at attention as Eleanor extended her gloved hand to alight. Her legs were stiff from the journey, and she turned back to lend her aunt a hand, relieved at the reception they’d received.

  The happy feeling was short-lived. Eleanor crossed the threshold to where a housekeeper stood, the woman’s face set in rigid contours and her voice lending no warmth. “I am Mrs. Bilks. If you’ll both come with me, I’ll show you to your rooms. We keep country hours here and serve dinner at six o’clock.”

  Her aunt looked affronted at the curt tone but chose not to heed it as they trailed the housekeeper. “I am glad,” Mrs. Daventry said, huffing as they climbed the winding staircase. “I prefer country hours, but this leaves us only an hour to dress. Is there a maid who can assist us, as we’ve brought none. I mentioned in my letter that our mode of travel would not permit it.”

  “I’ve hired a girl from the village,” Mrs. Bilks replied. “She will see to your needs.”

  A girl from the village. They would save their trained staff for the more important guests. Eleanor hated that she must give a civil reply. “Thank you. Her help will be most welcome.”

  At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Bilks led them along the mahogany railing toward the wing that held their accommodations, and Eleanor gave a final glance at the expressionless footmen, rooted in place like statues by the door. She had a flash of sympathy for them. How boring their days must be and with little choice to do something different. Not—she reflected—unlike my life.

  A movement drew her gaze, and she turned to see a gentleman entering the foyer in a black cape that opened to reveal mud-splattered pantaloons. Nearly the height of the tall footmen, his thick blond hair was tied back, revealing heavy brows, an angular nose, and a downturned mouth like a slash across his face. He caught her gaze and froze. When her steps faltered under his scrutiny, his mouth twisted in acknowledgement, and he swiveled back through the door. Eleanor faced forward again to catch Mrs. Bilks words.

  “…in adjoining rooms. I’ll have the scullery maid stoke the fire as soon as she can be spared.”

  “Would you be so kind as to send tea for my aunt?” Eleanor said. Mrs. Daventry frowned and said nothing. Her silence spoke volumes about how poorly she must be feeling.

  “The girl from the village is expected at any moment. When she arrives, I’ll have her bring some.”

  Eleanor entered the bed
room assigned to her, having promised she would return straight away to see to her aunt’s comfort. The room was likely meant for a nursemaid, with just enough space on either side of the bed to walk around it, and a spindle-backed chair in front of the cold hearth. When the knock came moments later, she opened the door and let the footmen figure out where to stow her trunk. It would just be a tighter squeeze at the foot of her bed.

  It was fine, really. Hadn’t she already decided she would seek employment once she left her dear Lydia’s household? The conditions at her employer’s would be no better than this. Eleanor sat on the white patchwork quilt and took a moment to breathe quietly and deeply, appreciating the play of light through the uneven panes of glass.

  What would she do for money if she received nothing from the settlement? Her guardian had looked after her in the past, but he had been an indifferent guardian at best. Who’s to say he had thought of her at all? She supposed the request for her presence must mean something. But Mrs. Bilks had been unwelcoming. Was it just that she and her aunt fell on the wrong side of poverty? Or did the new earl know of Eleanor’s past and disapprove?

  Though the answers to these hypothetical questions were elusive, Eleanor was determined to hope. Perhaps the meeting with the solicitor the next day would bring news of independence. She might have a portion that allowed her to set up a small establishment. If not, I will look for a position at a school where I will not be a drudge. Despite her aunt’s hopes she might make a match, and her obvious endeavors to that end, Eleanor had put aside her own dreams of matrimony for the more achievable goal of independence. She had seen firsthand how seldom such a thing came through marriage.

  When Eleanor was in better command of her humor, she knocked at her aunt’s door. Upon entering, a quick glance told her everything. “Aunt, you really cannot go down,” she protested. “You’re too ill.”