A Gentleman Never Tells (4 page)

 

Chapter Six

The following afternoon

“A
RE WE ALONE
for tea?” Lizzie asked. Not that she was interested in Mr. Berwick's whereabouts, because she wasn't. Not at all.

“Joshua took the girls and Mr. Berwick off to see the tour of Madame Tussauds' waxworks that's two villages over. I thought it might make you more melancholy, since most of the exhibit is made up of guillotined members of the French royal family.” Cat shuddered.

“I'm not melancholy,” Lizzie protested. “I'm quiet. By nature.”

Cat handed her a cup of tea. “I'll never forgive Adrian for turning you into a sad, silent ghost. He's the one who's dead, Lizzie, not you.”

She hadn't become ghostlike, surely? Lizzie nibbled on a scone. Sometimes she did feel as if she were drifting along, invisible to most ­people.

“We missed you last night at dinner.”

“I enjoyed myself reading,” Lizzie said stubbornly. “Besides, I know what you really mean: Mr. Berwick has been invited to audition for the part of my husband.”

“No,” Cat said baldly. “He only came because young Hattie forced him to.”

“Oh,” Lizzie said, rather disconcerted. “Well, my point is that the mere idea of handing myself over to another male makes me dizzy. I won't do it.”

Cat gave her a hard look over her teacup. “Is this really the life that you want, Lizzie? No babies of your own?”

“Children are so repetitive, aren't they?” Lizzie said apologetically. “It's not that I don't have masses of love for your children, because I do. But I truly don't think I could do it myself. I can't bear the way your nanny speaks to you, let alone them. It's as if she considers you another child.”

“That's just Nanny's manner,” Cat said philosophically. “She's used to training ­people and she forgets that Joshua and I are adults. Just think, if you never have a husband or children, someday you'll be all alone. I'm older than you, so I'll die first.”

“I might take a lover,” Lizzie said. “When I'm an octogenarian, I mean.”

Her sister clearly knew how preposterous that suggestion was, since she ignored it all together. “You'll be sitting around in your eighties all in black, and everyone will pity you, because you are still mourning a man who treated you like the dirt under his boot.”

“I am wearing violet today,” Lizzie pointed out.

Her sister snorted. “Half-­mourning. A dress that doesn't show even a hint of
décolletage
. No lace. No flounces. I expect you haven't had a new bonnet since . . . since the funeral!”

Over the years of her marriage, Lizzie had lost interest in clothing. Fashion existed to tempt men, after all. What most ladies didn't understand was that an opera dancer was enticing without wearing a shred of clothing. A proper lady didn't have a hope of keeping a man to herself.

Her brother-­in-­law Joshua seemed thoroughly smitten with Cat, but she counted him an exception.

“I suppose I could acquire some new clothes,” she said, unenthusiastically.

“Does that mean you will give up your blacks
and
your half-­mourning?”

“If you insist. Is there a seamstress in the village? I haven't seen the singing butcher, so I might go after tea.”

“The butcher has disappeared! Everyone thinks that his wife may have accidentally shot him one night, believing he was a burglar, you understand. And no one feels that a fuss should be made, so that's that.”

“I admire her,” Lizzie said. “If I was a more forthright person, I could have taken after Adrian with a dueling pistol.”

“Only if you cared about him. One doesn't shoot ­people whom one hardly knows. At any rate, we have no need for the village seamstress. I've been waiting for the right moment to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Well, when Sarah and I went to Paris in November, I acquired a gown or two for you.”

“You didn't!”

“Yes, I most certainly did. It was easy enough; you're just Sarah's height, if a bit slimmer, and she needed an entirely new wardrobe, appropriate for a young lady who is no longer in school.”

“I wish you hadn't,” Lizzie said. “I won't be able to repay you.”

Her sister's brow darkened. “Don't ever say something like that to me again.”

“Well, but—­”

“No buts. Joshua has made heaps of money with his steamship. In fact, I've invited one of his partners, Mr. Jagger, to the house party.” Cat busied herself by dripping honey on a scone, rather obviously not looking at Lizzie. “You can wear one of the dresses I bought you to dinner with him, and that will be thanks enough.”

“You know, in all your matchmaking fervor, you've forgotten the fact that Adrian's death made me notorious,” Lizzie pointed out. “Men don't like that sort of thing in a wife.”

“You think
you'
re
notorious?” Cat snorted. “Don't you remember what happened to me in my first season?”

Lizzie frowned. “I was away at school. All I remember is that Joshua took one look at you and fell in love.”

“That was my second season; my first was a disaster. I was labeled the ‘Woolly Breeder,' thanks to Papa's sheep farms. I had to be taken back to the country to rusticate in disgrace.”

She popped a bite of scone into her mouth, looking completely unperturbed.

Lizzie's understanding was that polite society was made up of ­people treating each other in astonishingly impolite ways, so she wasn't terribly surprised.

“How horrid that must have been,” she said. “Do you think that our hair had something to do with the nickname?” They both had white-­blonde corkscrew ringlets that curled so thickly they were hard to pin up. “I have sometimes thought that I resemble a Scottish sheep, the really wooly kind. Perhaps I should shear it off.”

“Don't,” Cat advised. “My husband adores my hair. My point is that Joshua didn't give a damn what ­people were calling me. We danced and then he showed up the next morning and asked Papa for my hand.”

“Joshua is a prince among men,” Lizzie said, letting her tone reveal her suspicion that her brother-­in-­law was the only man of his ilk.

“I was not the only young woman in the marriage mart bequeathed with an ugly nickname,” Cat said, catching a drop of honey on her finger.

Lizzie took another bite of her scone, but it tasted like sawdust and regret, so she put it down. “Oh, yes?”

“Josie was given a horrible label in her first season as well, which gave us an instant bond. Yet now she is happily married to the Earl of Mayne. Public humiliation didn't stop him from marrying her.”

Presumably Josie was so beautiful that the earl took one look and fell at her feet, just as Joshua had at Cat's. Unfortunately, no man had ever shown an inclination to sprawl on the ground in front of Lizzie.

“So what was Josie's sobriquet?” she asked.

“Sobriquet? Darling, you really must stop reading so much. It makes you sound like a bluestocking.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes.

“The Scottish Sausage,” Cat said. “Isn't that dreadful? Between us, I'd rather be a Wooly Breeder. Do you want the last scone, or shall I have it?”

“You have it.”

“I'm so hungry that I'm beginning to wonder whether I might be
enceinte
again,” Cat confided.

“That would be wonderful!” Lizzie said, meaning it. She didn't want children herself, but she was very fond of her little nephews.

“Odd, though. It's been four years.”

“I hope you have a girl next,” Lizzie said. “I must say, I think the real oddity is that you and the countess became good friends on the basis of your wretched experiences.”

“No, here is the
truly
odd thing. Mr. Berwick—­Oliver—­is a member of the group who gave me the label Wooly Breeder. He didn't make it up, though. That was Darlington.”

Lizzie's mouth fell open. “And you invited him to the house?”

“Well, of course I did,” Cat said. “I've never seen the point of holding grudges. That grudge you're holding against your husband is only hurting you.”

Lizzie chose to ignore the fiftieth piece of sisterly advice to come her direction in the last day or so. “Do you suppose that Mr. Berwick will grace me with a nickname?”

“The Woeful Widow?” Cat asked. “I doubt it. He apologized in the most magnificent way for his youthful foolishness.”

Adrian had never even considered apologizing. Why should he? To his mind, he was practically doing charity work when he married her.

“But now you have a title,” he would say, when Lizzie complained. “You were a mere sheepherder's daughter, or as near as makes no difference, and I'm a member of the peerage. If anything,
you
owe
me
.”

Her father owned hundreds of sheep and acres of land, not to mention the wool mills, but there had been no point in explaining the distinction to Adrian. He didn't care.

Cat hopped up. “There's the last scone gone. Come along, Lizzie. I have a trunk's worth of clothing to show you.”

“A
trunk
! I thought you said a gown or two.”

“Perhaps a few more,” her sister said unrepentantly. “What's more, I brought back a French seamstress to make adjustments. You really ought to take her as a lady's maid. I can't imagine how you have survived without one.”

Lizzie got up reluctantly. “The upstairs maid is good with buttons,” she said, glancing down at her lavender morning gown, which was embellished with a long row of pearl buttons.

“Your gown was designed to be worn by a widow who lives with seven cats in a cottage in the country,” Cat announced. “She is the vicar's right hand, reads novels from the Minerva Press in private and her prayer book in public, and carts around extra vegetable marrows from her garden, so everyone's heart sinks as soon as they see her.”

Lizzie felt a little nauseated. She had been thinking of buying a cottage; she couldn't live in Adrian's house forever. But she didn't want to dwindle into a marrow-­loving widow.

“Come along,” Cat said coaxingly. “That partner of Joshua's, the one I told you about, hasn't married because he went to India and came back with a fortune from tea.”

“I like a man who made his own fortune,” Lizzie said cautiously. “Perhaps if he's been in India, and not in society, he won't know about Adrian.”

“Of course, he's in society,” her sister said, pulling her toward the door. “Do you think that I would match my sister with a merchant?”

“Papa was a merchant,” Lizzie pointed out.

“Do you want your daughter labeled a ‘Woolly Breeder'?”

“You'd prefer a ‘Tempting Tealeaf'?” Lizzie said, smiling.

“That's more like you,” Cat said, starting up the stairs. “You won't believe how lovely these gowns are, darling. Do come along!”

 

Chapter Seven

L
IZZIE SPENT THE
afternoon being poked and prodded by a French seamstress, which left plenty of time to think.

Bitterness was like a poison. Cat was right: She had to get rid of it. For the first time since Adrian died, she tried to imagine a future that included more than a blue bedroom and an endless supply of novels.

The problem was that every possible future she could think of included a man. She didn't want a man. But perhaps she wanted more than a stack of books.

When it was time to dress for dinner, she had two choices: she could wear her much-­worn blue evening dress, or one of the Parisian gowns that her sister had bought for her.

The blue evening dress had been made years ago from excellent cloth. In the first year of her marriage, she had tried to take revenge by spending Adrian's money. But his estate had been entailed to a distant cousin, and it turned out that he didn't give a damn if she chalked up debts against the estate. He and Sadie were living on Lizzy's dowry.

It wasn't until she'd ordered an entire wardrobe suited to a lady that she discovered her husband had no plans to take her into society. He was ashamed of his marriage, ashamed of her.

“Why didn't you simply take a paid position, if you found the prospect of marrying a merchant's daughter so humiliating?” she had asked him.

“What?”

“Take a position as an estate manager or some such?”

Adrian had sighed. “Gentlemen don't
work
, Lizzie.”

That was that.

In the end, she put on the old blue dress because she didn't want Mr. Berwick to think she was trying to entice him. Normally she wouldn't care, because she found it easy to ignore men.

Even in the few moments she'd talked to Mr. Berwick, she had found him impossible to ignore.

He was so big, for one thing. Tall, with broad shoulders, but that wasn't really it. He was beautiful, the way some Greek statues are beautiful, in an otherworldly type of way.

When she looked in the mirror, though, and saw the gown's unfashionably high waist, and the way it made her look as if she was trying to be girlish, she tore it off and donned one of the Parisian gowns.

The tiny bodice was boned to form its own corset and rather to Lizzie's surprise, it gave her a bosom whereas her old dresses made her look flat.

She wasn't dressing for Mr. Berwick, precisely. She was . . . she didn't know what she was doing.

The moment she walked into the drawing room, his eyes lit up and he began walking toward her. It gave her a distinct thrill to see that he was . . . well . . . interested. In her. She could see that in his eyes.

He moved toward her with the kind of whip-­smooth movement that told her he was a rider, and probably a good one. His hair wasn't pomaded or arranged in any particular fashion; it tumbled around in thick curls.

She was late because of changing her dress, so Cat ushered everyone directly into the dining room. The girls were with them, and for some reason Cat launched into a lecture about how to manage suitors. True, both girls would debut the following spring, but Lizzie hated to think about it.

What if they didn't have any suitors? What if they found themselves at the side of the ballroom? All that instruction would go to waste.

She adored Cat, but her elder sister spent 80 percent of her time instructing someone about the right way to do things. Joshua was chiming in now, lending a gentlemen's perspective.

Mr. Berwick seemed to have as little to contribute on the subject as she did. It had been so long since Lizzie had conversed with someone other than a family member that she couldn't think of anything to say.

For his part, Mr. Berwick looked completely unperturbed at the silence between them. He had accepted an outrageous amount of beef pie and was eating it.

She hadn't the slightest inclination to eat supper, let alone something as heavy as that pie.

“How long have you been the guardian of your niece, Mr. Berwick?” she finally asked.

“Eleven months,” he said. And then, without hesitation, “Why on earth did you marry Adrian Troutt?”

She blinked at him. “Those two questions are hardly commensurate.”

“I don't see why not. You asked me about my family, and then I asked you about yours.”

“Polite conversation is not a question game,” she noted. “I do not consider Adrian a member of my family. He is my deceased spouse.”

His eyes turned out to be indigo blue. There was a faint smile in them that made her stomach curl. “Don't you think men and women always play some sort of game while conversing?”

“I wouldn't know,” Lizzie said, with perfect truth.

His brows drew together. “I wasn't in London when you debuted. So I truly don't know why you chose Adrian Troutt.”

“I didn't choose him; my father did. He wanted my sister and me to be titled, and he was prepared to pay handsomely. Adrian presented himself, and Adrian had a title.”

“Oh, right. Now I think of it, your sister said as much.”

“Do you have family, Mr. Berwick?”

“I have a sister, Hattie's mother. She's in Egypt, ardently hoping that she can save souls by handing out cups of tea and reading the Bible aloud in a language ­people there don't understand. If she's not already in Africa, doing the same thing.”

“Goodness,” Lizzie said, a bit taken aback. “Sarah told me that Hattie's mother lived abroad.”

“It sounds better that way, as if she might be taking waters in Switzerland, or on holiday in Portugal. Fortunately, Hattie and I have taken to each other, because her parents don't plan to return for years. You are not eating, Lady Troutt.”

Lizzie look down at her plate. “I don't care for beef pie.”

He glanced up and a footman instantly appeared at his side. “Take this away,” he said. “Bring Lady Troutt something made from vegetables.”

The footman bowed and departed.

“You needn't have done that,” Lizzie remarked. She picked up her wine glass and fiddled with it.

“Why stare at food if you don't wish to eat it?” Clearly he liked beef, given the rate he was putting away his pie.

“I was taught to try each dish.”

A footman slipped a plate in front of her. “Asparagus tart, my lady.” It looked fresh and green, and far more appetizing than the brown sludge on Mr. Berwick's plate.

He watched her eat a bite and then nodded, which could have been patronizing but somehow wasn't.

“So your father forced you into marriage, and as a result you refuse to see him?” he asked.

Lizzie froze with her fork half way to her mouth. Then she took the bite, carefully chewed, and swallowed. “It seems you and my sister have had remarkably candid and wide-­ranging conversations.”

“Yes.”

There was something intoxicating about the way Mr. Berwick's eyes focused on her face, the way he listened with complete concentration.

“I was not particularly angry about my father's choice of Lord Troutt,” Lizzie said, surprising herself with the confession. “I only became angry after I fled my husband and my father refused to take me in.”

Mr. Berwick made a grunting sign that somehow, improbably, Lizzie took as indicating support.

“If I ever have children,” she added, “my home would always be open to them.
Always
.”

“Lucky children,” he said.

Lizzie felt a flash of alarm. Mr. Berwick was dangerous, with his warm eyes and straightforward questions. He could make one believe that he had no secrets. That what you saw was . . . who he was. That he was honest in his dealings with the world.

What's more, the hint of desire in his eyes when he looked at her made her feel giddy, which was an absurd emotion.

“I don't mean to have any children, so it's a moot point,” she told him, straightening her backbone, because she was showing an alarming tendency to lean toward him.

“Oh? Why not?” He didn't look critical, merely interested.

She ignored the obvious fact that she had no husband. “They look like howling plums, round and purple.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “You're absolutely right. Howling plums wearing little white bonnets.”

“Worst of all is when the plum has a huge shock of hair,” she said, smiling despite herself. “What about you? Why aren't you married, with a fruit basket of your own, Mr. Berwick?” If he could be direct, so could she.

“I haven't fallen in love, and I see no point in marriage otherwise. I do not lack for company—­for all my niece is convinced that I will wither from loneliness after she grows up.”

Of course, he didn't lack for company. He likely had a Shady Sadie of his own, installed in a snug house, just as Adrian had.

That was the moment when she discovered that Mr. Berwick was able to anticipate her thoughts, as well as her love of vegetables.

“Not that sort of company,” he said bluntly. “That wouldn't be appropriate, given that I am guardian to an impressionable young girl.”

Lizzie discovered that she was smiling. “I expect that heartlessness is a useful attribute for a bachelor.”

“Only if one wishes to remain unmarried.”

His eyes caught hers, and an uneasy thrill went through her, as if someone had struck a gong just behind her shoulder. “Heartless conduct is definitely required of rakes,” she said, striving for a careless tone. “I am a great reader of novels. In Lucibella Delicosa's books, rakish men are invariably ill-­mannered.”

Too late, she remembered the Wooly Breeder fiasco. “I didn't mean
that
!” she said. “You were very young.”

“But definitely ill-­mannered,” he said wryly. “It was kind of your sister to overlook my conduct and invite me to her house, given our past.”

“I suspect that you came all this way merely in order to apologize.”

He nodded. “I did. But your sister turned something I had dreaded into a pleasure—­and I would be glad I came even if that wasn't the case, because I've met you.”

She could feel her cheeks turning pink, so she said hastily, “More ­people will arrive for the house party tomorrow.”

“I'm not very good at small talk. Perhaps I will pretend to be your personal footman. I can make sure you are given something edible.”

Lizzie looked down and realized with surprise that she'd eaten an entire slice of tart. A footman bowed and offered a serving of cod drowned in white sauce. Her stomach lurched at the smell of heavy cream and fish.

Mr. Berwick shook his head. “Lady Troutt doesn't want it,” he told the footman. “Ask Bartleby to have the cook poach a small fillet and serve it with lemon.”

She loved simple fish dishes, but it was a bit unnerving to find that Mr. Berwick guessed as much.

Lizzie drank some more wine. She couldn't complain, though he was awfully high-­handed.

He didn't seem to feel the need to chatter, which was also nice.

“Did my sister inform you about who arrives tomorrow?” she asked.

“I gather Mr. Benjamin Jagger will join us.” His face was noncommittal, but she had a distinct impression that he didn't approve. It was like being in a carriage and glimpsing a lake iced over: one could see the effect of the chill but not feel it.

“Why don't you like him?” she asked.

“I do like him.” It seemed to be an honest answer. And yet . . .

She pursued her lips and was rather amused to see that his eyes followed the movement. He actually gave himself a little shake before he looked back at her eyes. Adrian had said her mouth was too large. In fact, he said several times that it was unfortunate, given his last name, that he married a woman with trout lips.

For some reason the memory didn't bother her this time.

“You do not like Mr. Jagger,” she said. “I can tell by your face.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Berwick said in a growly sort of voice. “Jagger is a solid fellow. I appreciate his good qualities. I just don't think he's appropriate company for ladies.”

He took a bite of his fish. “You needn't worry. I will keep him away from you.”

Lizzie liked his assumption that Mr. Jagger would pay her attention. “But has Cat told you all the guests who will arrive tomorrow?”

“No.”

He sounded supremely uninterested.

Oh dear. Cat really ought to have warned him. “My sister's closest friend is the Countess of Mayne,” Lizzie said. Then she waited.

His lips tightened. “That is a rather extraordinary coincidence,” he said, finally.

“I believe that the countess's sobriquet was the ‘Scottish Sausage,' ” Lizzie said, deciding that there was no point in obfuscating the subject.

He nodded silently.

“If it helps,” she said, impulsively touching his right hand. “My sister truly wasn't distressed by the nickname she was given. She is a tremendously happy person, as you can see.”

They both looked at Cat, shining at the top of the table, laughing at something her stepdaughter had said. “She's very good at being happy,” Lizzie added. “When we were growing up, she often made Papa laugh by doing something frightfully silly. She used to keep a dormouse in her pocket and bring it out at dinner.”

Mr. Berwick threw her a wary look. “Does she keep them around her person to this day? I have no particular fondness for rodents.”

Lizzie grinned at him. “My brother-­in-­law knows just how to handle her. When she first showed Joshua her dormouse—­who was named Sunflower—­he went on and on about how the ancient Romans used to dip dormice in honey and poppy seeds and eat them for dessert.”

When Mr. Berwick laughed, his eyes lightened to the color of an early morning sky. “Cooked or uncooked?” he inquired.

“I would assume cooked. According to Joshua, they also ate them at picnics. At any rate, when Cat married, she took the hint and gave Sunflower to our butler as a goodbye present.”