What a Spinster Wants Page 5

This was not the direction this conversation should have gone, yet there was no escaping it. Not with that glint in Charlotte’s eye and the mixture of interest and concern she saw on the other faces in the room.

  She met Charlotte’s eyes briefly. “I had lovely things. Once. I still have those lovely things, but it has been a few years since I’ve worn them, and they are out of fashion now. You have seen me wear what is appropriate for small gatherings and evenings with friends, no’ the finery and elegance expected in Society.”

  “Can you not afford new things?” Grace asked as she set her teacup down, her eyes widening. “Your gown the other evening…”

  Edith swallowed and shook her head without saying a word.

  “What about updating the things you have?” Kitty suggested. “I know that Mrs. Forrester down on Bond Street can do some lovely things to old gowns.”

  Again, Edith shook her head, her cheeks beginning to warm. “I canna afford that, either.”

  All the ladies looked at each other, then back at her.

  “Edith, how bad are things?” Georgie asked softly.

  So long as the topic of discussion remained on her finances, and did not venture into other distantly related parts, she could bear the explanations she must give.

  If things turned, however…

  Edith bit her lip and felt tears start to rise as the strain of burden began to weigh more heavily on her. “I told you all from the beginning that I was in diminished circumstances. But the truth of the matter is that I have almost nothing, and it will only get worse. If I don’t succeed this Season, I will be ruined beyond any hope of saving.”

  The silence in the room was complete, and somehow, her next swallow was the only thing to break the moment.

  “Succeed how?” Izzy whispered.

  “Ruined?” Prue repeated.

  “Edith, I think you had better tell us everything,” Grace said sharply, coming to sit beside her and take her hand. “All of it. From the beginning.”

  Edith nodded, though her mind spun as she quickly separated the complicated matters of her life into what she would share and what she would not.

  Slowly, she told them about the loss of fortune with Archie’s sudden death, the loss of Haidh Park, the sharply reduced number of servants, the condition of her house in London, her current finances, and Sir Reginald, but only insofar as to his forcing her out of York and now descending upon her in London. His offers, behaviors, and threats would remain unspoken, her secret shame, and were it not for her need to gain security in some manner, she would have left him out entirely.

  Even so, shame filled her with every admission, until she was nearly ill with it.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Charlotte cried, looking a little shaken. “We could have done something!”

  “There’s nothing to be done,” Edith assured her softly. “I’ve tried, both in York and discreetly since my arrival here. I cannot refuse Sir Reginald’s coming to call; he could make so much more trouble. But he wields such power over my living.”

  “I can spare some additional servants,” Grace said firmly. “And Aubrey will find you a bodyguard.”

  “Tony will be your bodyguard,” Georgie ground out, looking murderous as she set her son on the rug to play. “Or call in his old company. Henshaw and Sebastian…”

  “Sebastian will go,” Kitty and Izzy said in almost an identical tone.

  Edith laughed a watery laugh, shaking her head. “I have a servant that will do very well for that. You all know Owen, he has been with me for ages, and he is from home. He takes care of me as well as he can.”

  Grace nodded. “Good. But I will still send some servants.”

  “I cannot pay them,” Edith reminded her.

  She smiled with genuine warmth. “That’s all right. I can.”

  Prue sat forward as much as she was able. “Cam might be able to help your situation, Edith. His brother-in-law, Mr. Chadwick, has some high connections and works closely with Mr. Andrews. They are very familiar with the law and have a great many connections. Will you permit me to ask them?”

  Edith nodded, feeling as though she might cry. “But discreetly. I cannot have Sir Reginald suspecting that I am working against him. He has all the power now, and I have none.”

  Prue grinned a bit mischievously. “Oh, you have plenty of power, my dear. Between us and our husbands, who, by the way, are already quite protective of you, you will be quite powerful, indeed. Cam has already very passionately quashed some rumors and declared his loyalty and support of you, and I am delighted by it.”

  Edith grinned at her sudden energy, as well as her complete lack of stammer. She was most touched by Prue’s words. “I hoped your husband might think of something, Prue.”

  “He will,” she vowed, smiling at the mention of him. “He has a very intriguing view of the world and is quite brilliant. I think many would be shocked at how much he holds back. He will stand by you, Edith. He may even sleep on your doorstep to assure himself of your safety.”

  Edith laughed at the image of the tall and rascally Camden Vale sleeping outside her door.

  What nonsense!

  “I shall be grateful for his help, however he may apply it,” Edith told Prue, taking her hand. She looked around at her friends, her heart tightening in her chest. “From any of you, and any of them.” She exhaled a short breath, then ventured to admit one thing more. “The fact of the matter is that I must find some protection this Season. If that means marriage again, so be it. If I may only find protection by the law, that will suit, as well. But the more my circumstances are made known, the more dangerous the path will be.”

  A shudder rippled down her spine at the image of Sir Reginald from the morning before.

  Charlotte and Grace looked at each other; then Charlotte smiled almost deviously at Edith. “Then, we have our mission.”

  “Do you?” Edith queried, more wary than worried.

  Charlotte nodded once. “We have to find you some gowns. Mine are upstairs, and I feel sure the others have some they will donate to the cause, as well. We’ll make a tour of our homes for the afternoon. Come with me now, and we’ll get them fixed up so you may come to the theatre tomorrow and outshine us all.”

  Chapter Four

  Proper attire is important in making the intended impression. It should be taken most seriously.

  -The Spinster Chronicles, 24 September 1817

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “That’s a terrible answer.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m your valet, my lord, not your chambermaid. I do believe I know what I am doing.”

  Graham scowled at the almost painfully thin man currently tying his cravat.

  Morgan had been with him for years, and apart from the fact that it involved the death of Graham’s brother, having this master inherit the title had been the greatest day of his valet’s life. Ages of trying to get his master to dress with more style and finery rather than the country simplicity he doted upon, and now, finally, he could have his way.

  He had not stopped being superior yet, and it was getting rather tiresome.

  If he didn’t trust Morgan to keep him from embarrassing himself in matters that Graham was completely ignorant of, he’d probably have thrown him out by now. His valet was also one of the few people in the world who hadn’t shifted his treatment of Graham because of the change in his position. One could always count on Morgan to be steady, honest, and resoundingly himself.

  “Fair enough,” Graham grunted. “Just don’t make me into a peacock, I beg you.”

  Morgan gave him a harsh look. “When have I ever done that to you, my lord?”

  Graham tugged at the green waistcoat he was currently wearing. “It is entirely possible this will be the first time.”

  There was a quick flick of linen as the last fold in the cravat was made, then Morgan pinned it safely together. “A waistcoat
of a distinct color beyond that of a neutral palette is not a feather in the cap of a dandy, my lord. The higher circles of Society have all manner of finery in their attire, and in varying shades, I might add. The cut of waistcoats most fashionable at present is far more daring and closely fitted. I am even told, my lord, that brocade and silks have started to become more prominent. I have no doubt you will barely be noticed.”

  “Where in the world did you hear all that?” Graham asked, craning his neck in discomfort against the noose of linen he now wore. “I don’t take you out and about to various events, and I can’t imagine you attending in disguise.”

  One corner of Morgan’s mouth quirked as he brushed the coat Graham had worn earlier. “I read it in the Spinster Chronicles, sir. They wrote about it just last week.”

  Graham groaned and ran a hand through his once carefully combed hair. “You aren’t serious.”

  “As the day is long, my lord.” Morgan shrugged and returned the coat to the bureau.

  “You dress me according to the opinions of spinsters?” He scoffed and moved to examine his appearance in the looking glass, grunting softly at the practical dandy he saw. “Who are they to have made their mark on the fashionable decisions of Society?”

  Morgan barked a laugh. “You still haven’t read them, have you, sir?”

  No, he hadn’t, and to be perfectly frank with himself, he really didn’t see a need to. From what he understood, it was nothing more than a commentary on what was occurring in Society, and opinions on several topics by individuals who would otherwise have no bearing on anything of significance. He’d heard the articles were well written, even articulate, and that there was wit aplenty, which spoke well of the writers themselves. He had no reason to doubt they were ladies of the highest quality, but why should that render the reading of their column a requirement?

  “My lord, you move in the same circles as the writers, and not all of them are spinsters now, you know.”

  “How fortunate,” Graham commented blandly, trying to adjust his cravat just enough so he didn’t feel so constricted by it. “This damned thing…”

  “Don’t touch it, my lord.”

  “It’s fine. See?” He patted the fabric once and turned for his valet to see.

  Morgan frowned with a sigh. “Yes, my lord, it appears you have not done too much damage.”

  “More’s the pity,” Graham grumbled. “What I wouldn’t give for Merrifield and no schedule.”

  A knock at the door prevented whatever answer Morgan was going to give.

  “Come,” Graham called, turning in anticipation.

  His tall and stately butler appeared, somber expression fixed on his thin face. “My lord, you have a guest in the drawing room. Mr. Tyrone Demaris. He has agreed to wait upon your convenience.”

  Graham nodded once. “Excellent.” He turned to Morgan. “Have you trussed me up sufficiently?”

  Morgan grinned unreservedly and shrugged. “Well enough, my lord. You shall not be found wanting.”

  “Oh, good.” He tugged at his ridiculously colored waistcoat and nodded at himself in the looking glass one more time. “Thank you, Wilson, I will see him directly.”

  Wilson nodded and turned from the room without waiting for Graham to follow, despite the fact that he did so. Graham smiled to himself at that. Wilson had served a proud line of Lord Radcliffes in his time, and Graham was never supposed to become one of them. Oh, he would serve Graham well, there was no question there, but he made no secret of the fact that Graham was not, and likely would never be, his favorite, or even his preferred Lord Radcliffe.

  Graham didn’t particularly care about such things, so it made no difference.

  Most of the time.

  Silently, they made their way down the corridor of family rooms, then down the moderately grand staircase, which was, thankfully, nearly adjacent to the drawing room in which Tyrone had been installed.

  Wilson left them as soon as he’d announced Graham.

  Graham shook his head and stepped forward to shake hands with his friend. “Sorry about that.”

  Tyrone Demaris, tall, dark, and tanned, only raised a brow. “Something off with your butler’s supper, or does he always look so pleased to see you?”

  “That is, unfortunately, his usual expression.” Graham sighed and shook his head. “I’m not the Lord Radcliffe he wants.”

  “Ah.” Tyrone clasped his hands behind his back with a wince. “None too pleased with the spare on the throne, is he?”

  Graham smirked at his friend, raising a sardonic brow. “I’m none too pleased to be here, myself. I rather enjoyed being the second son. The relatively unfortunate one. But there is nothing for it, is there? No matter how much any of us wishes Matthew alive and well and fully in possession of the title, it cannot be.”

  “True enough,” Tyrone grunted, rocking on his heels. “Only glad my brother James is engrossed in his role as Lord Eden and already has his heir. I find myself content to be relegated to the background and ignored. I shall endeavor to make the most of it for us both.”

  “Thank you,” Graham replied dryly. “Most kind. Really.” He exhaled and fidgeted with his cravat once more. “Shall we go? The sooner we get there, the sooner it can all be over.”

  Tyrone chuckled in his deep, low way and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Hastings, you sound like a cantankerous hermit of seventy rather than a strapping man of nearly thirty. Shall I warn your valet that your cravat may double as a noose in the hallowed halls of the theatre?”

  Graham scowled as they turned from the room and headed out to the carriage. “Don’t tempt me. And I don’t think you can call me Hastings now.”

  “Someone has to remind you who you are beneath the title. Might as well be me.”

  Fair enough.

  They loaded into the coach and were soon rattling off towards Covent Garden, and Tyrone distracted Graham from his foreboding thoughts, stupid though they were. It was only a night at the theatre, and he was not exactly being swarmed by desperate misses and their more desperate mamas to be matched up. He wasn’t surrounded by fools and peacocks vying to appear part of his circle either.

  Additionally, he wouldn’t have to converse at all once the play began. He could safely admit that the theatre was a good deal better than a ball. If he could survive the more social aspects of the evening, the rest of it would be simple. Perhaps even enjoyable.

  Not likely, but perhaps.

  It wasn’t far to the theatre itself, but the line of carriages once they were there was abysmal. Yet another reason Graham rarely ventured there, or to any great Society gathering.

  Rather, why he’d previously rarely ventured.

  The title needed to be taken seriously now that the mourning was over, and the self-imposed tutoring of his responsibilities was at an end. Part of honoring and upholding the title was sustaining worthy connections and crafting new ones, none of which were things with which Graham could say he was comfortable.

  Why shouldn’t he have become a hermit of sorts? Stayed away from London and Society as a whole? He could write letters and missives to all who might need them, acquaintances and connections, matters of business, as well as those of a more social nature. He was excellent at letter composition and would do the job creditably.

  Was his presence really necessary when he was not inclined towards engagement?

  “You can’t run away,” Tyrone murmured. “They have rules for that.”

  “Did Eden tell you that?” Graham asked with as much mildness as a man strangled by his own cravat can.

  “He might have mentioned it. Once or twice. Every family gathering.”

  Graham sniffed a laugh as their carriage finally reached the entrance to the theatre. “You enjoy giving him grief over it, then?”

  Tyrone flashed a rare grin in his direction. “Thrive on it, mate. I pride myself on preparing the best barbs in advance and seeing just what I can raise in him.”

  It was astonishing that the pa
ir of them were friends at times, though they both shared a reserved, more serious nature. Graham would never have poked and prodded at Matthew over his title, though he had played a trick or two on him over the years. Graham was more droll than witty, while Tyrone possessed an abundance of wit, even if he also possessed reluctance to share it.

  “So, this is why your father wishes you to find an occupation,” Graham mused aloud as he followed Tyrone out of the coach.

  His friend gave him a dark look. “That will be the end of your opinion on the subject, thank you very much.”

  Graham held up his hands in surrender. “Understood.” He looked up at the theatre with a reluctant sigh. “Gads. Why are we doing this?”

  “Because we’re gentlemen,” his friend replied without any enthusiasm or pride, “and someone at some time decided that gentlemen go to the theatre.”

  “Not well done, there.”

  “Not at all.”

  Nearly as one, they strode forward and moved into the theatre itself, their hats and cloaks being taken by the staff as they were directed to the elaborately furnished corridors where every other patron was currently milling about.

  Graham fought to ignore the rise of perspiration forming on his brow the further within the bowels of Society’s cradle he ventured.

  It was fine. This was fine. People were fine.

  Fine. Fine. Fine.

  “I am well aware that you are just as reticent as I, Hastings,” Tyrone said quietly, his mouth quirking as though he would smile, “but is it necessary to look so murderous? People will start to comment.”

  “Smiling is unnatural under such circumstances,” Graham grunted by way of reply.

  Tyrone made a low sound of amusement. “Did I say smile? If you will see, I neither smile nor frown. I simply exist. Yet, no one would fear me.”

  “Congratulations.” Graham almost shook his head. His friend was not only just as reserved as he was, but he was oftentimes less prone to attending social events than Graham. How could he possibly have any commentary on Graham’s expression, activity, or behavior in public?