Anna Jacobs (3 page)

A little later, Eleanor banged on the door again. “Are you ready for dinner, Bea?”

“Oh, sorry! I’m not changed yet. You go down without me.”

With a shock Bea realized that she had allowed the fire to burn down low and was feeling thoroughly chilled. She put on more wood, then lit the candles with a taper, before changing her clothes and tidying her hair in time for the dinner gong. She didn’t bother to summon the housemaid whose duty it was to wait on her if required. She’d never grown used to servants hovering over her while she performed her intimate tasks.

“I’ll have to do it,” she told her reflection in the mirror, “but the choice of husband will be mine, not my aunt’s!” If anyone wanted her. Two clear hazel eyes stared back at her in a face anyone else would have considered remarkably pretty, but which Beatrice rather despised, for the full redness of her lips and the brilliance of her eyes were, to a mind schooled by long years with the Dowager, rather theatrical in appearance.

She smoothed the creamy skin of her cheek with one fingertip and turned to study herself from the side, then shrugged her shoulders. She supposed she’d have no trouble in finding some sort of husband if she had a generous dowry, but oh dear, she didn’t want things to change. She had come to terms with her role in life and was quietly happy at Satherby, enjoying the beauties of the changing seasons in the country and the power she had to improve the lot of the poorer tenants on the estate. That meant a lot to her.

But when the Dowager died, everything would change. Her aunt was right. Beatrice needed to face that fact and prepare for it. She smoothed her full silken skirts, shaking the pale blue frills around her feet into place, then picking up a warm shawl to counter the draughts that abounded in this ancient house. No use worrying about the future now, when she hadn’t even sealed her bargain with the Dowager. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

I can do it, she told herself firmly, as she walked down the stairs. Of course I can. My aunt would never expect me to marry someone I despised.

Chapter 2

It was dark and threatening rain when the old-fashioned Graceover carriage reached London, but the house before which the carriage stopped was glittering with lights and had attracted a small crowd of onlookers. The Satherby coachman had to wait for two ladies and a gentleman, all very lightly clad considering the inclement weather, to descend from another carriage before he could even pull up to the door.

Beatrice drew in a slow, painful breath at the sight of the other visitors’ elegant appearance and confident demeanour, and pulled her travelling cloak more closely around her, feeling dowdy and countrified.

As the elderly footman, who had journeyed with them and who had served the Graceovers all his life, handed her down, he said quietly, as if he understood how she felt, “She always did like company, Miss Johanna did. Her ladyship, I should say.”

It was an ordeal for Beatrice to climb the steps to the front door and face a house full of strangers, but the butler greeted her with a bow and a friendly smile, and that heartened her a little. As he took her cloak, she murmured that she wasn’t dressed to meet company, and he nodded instant understanding, showing her straight into a small parlour away from the noise.

“I’ll inform her ladyship of your arrival.”

Servants were always so kind, Beatrice thought. With a sigh of relief, she sank into a chair. Then she realized that a gentleman was already occupying the high-backed armchair on the other side of the fireplace and started up again with a gasp of shock.

He rose and bowed with a flourish, elegance personified. Boredom personified, too, from his weary expression. His black pantaloons displayed shapely but muscular legs, and his coat, black also, was stretched across shoulders that needed no padding to give them a fashionable broadness. The coat’s raised collar and reveres framed shirt collars which were gleaming white, but only moderately high, and which were embellished with a cravat tied in a neat Irish knot and fastened by one small gold pin.

Even the Dowager, Beatrice decided, could not have objected to his appearance, as she did to that of most of the younger gentlemen she met. They appeared, she was wont to declare and often to their faces, to have bandaged their throats or to be wearing horse blinkers, so high were their collars and so bulky their cravats.

“I must apologize for startling you, Ma’am. Permit me to introduce myself. Justin Serle at your service. Are you also seeking refuge from the merrymaking?”

Beatrice was quite tall, for a woman, but he was much taller, which made her feel at an unusual disadvantage. She had to look up at a face framed by dark hair and neat side-whiskers, and dominated by a long aristocratic nose. He had strong features, not exactly handsome, but forming an attractive whole, or would have done, she decided, if the expression in his grey-blue eyes had not been so chill and aloof.

She realized she’d been staring at him like an idiot at a fair and first blushed, then took an involuntary step backwards as the name sank in. Oh, good heavens! Serle! He was at the very top of the Dowager’s list and was one of the few individuals specified by first name as well as by family. “I - I beg your pardon? What did you say, Sir?” she stammered, feeling stupid.

“I merely wondered whether you too were seeking refuge from the merrymaking, Ma’am.”

He didn’t really sound interested in her answer and that made her feel worse. She sought desperately for a suitable response, but could think of nothing to say.

Justin stared back at her openly, somewhat annoyed at the way she had been scrutinizing him. Who was she to stare so? Quite pretty, if you liked rosy-cheeked brunettes, which he did not particularly, but she had country manners and a wardrobe to match. She wasn’t at all like one of Lady Johanna Ostdene’s usual guests, in fact. Who was she? Some poor relative?

Beatrice found her voice and tried to answer his question. “Er - no. I’m not escaping anything. I’ve only just arrived. From - from the country.” She could hear how flustered she sounded and saw a look of impatience flicker across his face. That made her feel worse, but it also made her feel angry. How dared he behave so arrogantly toward a complete stranger? Who did he think he was? Lord of all he surveyed?

Before either of them could say anything more, a voice interrupted them unceremoniously. “Serle! Are you in hiding already? I vow I’ll not invite you to one of my parties again. Go back at once and talk to Mary.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh and flourished a bow. “Must I, Lady Ostdene? She has the most foolish laugh it’s ever been my misfortune to hear!”

Beatrice couldn’t help staring. What an ill-mannered way to speak about a fellow guest! She did not, she decided, like the looks of this man, even if he did come from an ancient and respected line! She listened to the rest of her companions’ banter with growing disgust.

“No, no! You’re quite wrong there, Serle,” Johanna retorted with a smile. “It’s Isabella Mardsley who has the silliest laugh of anyone in town.”

They both chuckled at that, then Johanna smiled at Beatrice and nodded to the gentleman, “I don’t think you’ve met my cousin before, have you, Serle?”

“No, indeed. We were just about to introduce ourselves.”

“Let me do it for you. Beatrice Dencey - Justin Serle.”

They nodded to each other, neither making the effort to shake hands. Beatrice could only hope that her dislike for this type of supercilious gentleman did not show.

Johanna turned back and shook one finger playfully at him. “Well, Serle, we had an agreement about tonight, did we not?”

He threw up his hands in a gesture of mock defeat and gave an exaggerated sigh. “To my great dismay, yes! I shall keep my word, at whatever cost to myself. Miss Dencey, delighted to have met you.”

He bowed languidly to them both and turned to leave.

Johanna chuckled as she watched him saunter out. “What a wretch he is! I knew poor Mary - she’s my goddaughter, you know – wouldn’t take his fancy, but he absolutely promised to give her a little attention tonight, for my sake, and I’ll hold him to that. Where Justin Serle shows an interest, other men do not disdain to follow, especially when a girl is well-dowered.”

Beatrice flushed scarlet. She, too, was well-dowered, now. Would her cousin have to bribe people to speak to her?

Johanna came to present a perfumed cheek for a kiss, then held her guest at arm’s length to study her face. “So you’re here to find yourself a husband at last, are you? Not to mention one for Eleanor as well! Mama wrote me a long letter explaining all her plans.” She grimaced. “Typical of Mama! Full of contradictory orders. But I couldn’t be more delighted to give you a Season, Bea! Truly, I couldn’t! I’ve been offering to do it for years. It was such fun getting my girls married off that I wished I had a few more daughters to bring out. And now I have my wish granted.”

Beatrice dredged up a smile. “It’s very kind of you to say that, Johanna.” She wished she could share her cousin’s enthusiasm. Or her confident elegance. Plump as she was, Johanna always made her much younger cousin feel ill-groomed. Her curls might be greying now, but they were dressed in an elaborate style which flattered her still-pretty face. Her smooth white throat and soft hands sparkled with jewels and her gowns were miracles of the modiste’s art. But most attractive of all was her lively personality, which made her such fun to be with. As Beatrice knew she herself was not. She was far too serious and had little small talk.

“She’s a happy soul, my Johanna,” the Dowager had once said. “Married well, lives in comfort, has two perfectly satisfactory daughters - birthed them without the slightest trouble, of course - and didn’t long mourn that nonentity of a husband when he died young and left her a fortune. Can’t ask for much more in life, can you?”

Beatrice would have asked for far more. Love such as her parents had known might not come to many people, but to hope for affection between oneself and one’s spouse didn’t seem to her to be unreasonable.

Johanna hugged her again. “You poor lamb, you look exhausted!” She linked arms with Beatrice. “Let me show you to your room. You’d be welcome to join the party - it’ll go on for hours yet - but I can see that you’re nearly asleep on your feet. This way! I’ve given you Penelope’s old room. It’s got a fine view of the square and the most comfortable bed in the house. People always sleep well there, I don’t know why.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “And how’s Mama?”

“Oh - er - much as usual.” The Dowager had strictly forbidden her to divulge anything to Johanna about her declining state of health.

“And Eleanor? Is she still as pretty? It must be a year or more since I’ve seen her. I really must make the effort to visit Mama more often.”

“Oh, yes. Eleanor is very pretty. At least, I think so. And - and with very lively taking ways.” Though a little rash at times, she added mentally, already starting to worry about what Eleanor would be getting up to, now that she was left to her own devices.

“Then we should have no difficulty finding her a husband, should we?” Johanna escorted Beatrice up the stairs, waving to several people en route and promising to introduce her cousin to them another time.

Anyone less like her formidable mother would be hard to find, thought Beatrice. Johanna was always so affectionate and comfortable to be with!

Left alone at last, she sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. Noise and laughter floated up from below and she wondered how anyone could possibly expect her to sleep with a party going on. Within half an hour, however, she had allowed a young maid to unpack her travelling case, drunk a glass of hot milk sweetened with honey, eaten a piece of cake and settled down for the night.

She expected to have difficulty falling asleep, but instead, she proved her hostess’s point that it was, indeed, the most comfortable bed in the house.

* * * *

When she awoke the following morning, it took Beatrice a minute or two to remember where she was, then she sat bolt upright in the bed. She was in London already and rushing toward a fate she definitely did not relish. What sort of man would want to marry a woman as old as she was, and one, moreover, whose family connections were not all they should be? An older man, of course! A widower, probably.

Her imagination ran riot for a few minutes, picturing a series of elderly gentlemen creaking down onto their knees to propose to her, then she gave a shaky laugh and banished the images from her mind. She would take one step at a time. First, she must grow accustomed to London ways, for her Aunt Marguerite had never gone about much in society on their occasional brief visits to town, confining herself to receiving, in much state, the few people of her generation still alive whose ancestry she did not despise.

Beatrice stared across at her trunks, remembering the elegance of the people she had seen the previous evening. She must purchase some more stylish clothes. She smiled at the thought. That prospect, at least, was a pleasant one. Who would not enjoy buying a completely new wardrobe? She took a deep breath and told herself that not until all that was accomplished need she think of the other thing. Not for another week, anyway. This decision made her feel much better.

Her determined expression faded slowly, however, as she remembered the arrogant gentleman she’d met the previous evening. Oh dear! It had started already, without her wishing it to, for she’d met one of the Names within minutes of entering the house. Justin Serle, of Melbury Park, Hertfordshire, the list said, with a tick beside the name to indicate that he was a highly preferred candidate. She could still see his handsome, disdainful face looking down at her with controlled politeness, and she blushed again as she remembered how she’d stammered and stuttered in reply to his questions. How stupid she must have appeared to him!

And how arrogant he had appeared to her!

She gasped aloud and giggled suddenly, as it occurred to her that he exactly fitted the description of the villain in the novel her grandmother had burned. The Conte di Maggione! Oh, she definitely had to purchase another copy and find out how the tale ended, ridiculous as it was.