Authors: Beth Pattillo
Lucy sighed. Small wonder, then, that the duchess had sent Esmie with a peace offering. “It must be from someone quite important if the duchess is willing to humble herself by including me in the party.”
Esmie looked distressed. “It is only
the
event of the season, and at Carlton House, no less.” Her obvious dismay at the prospect almost made Lucy smile, except that Lucy shared her stepsister’s dismay, if for entirely different reasons.
“Carlton House?” The home of the Prince Regent was as legendary as the lavish entertainments held there, and neither she nor her stepmother had ever been included in its circle of guests.
Esmie’s frown deepened. “A bride-finding ball, no less, given by Prinny and King Leopold of Santadorra, for his son, the Crown Prince. Mama says if you will cooperate, you may attend. But she makes two conditions.” Esmie ticked them off on her fingers. “One, you must not put yourself forward to any gentlemen, and two, on no account may you dance with anyone but Mr. Whippet.”
Lucy almost laughed. Did her stepmother really know her so little? She had no use for the spectacles of the
beau monde,
but the despair that had settled upon her lifted at the intriguing idea that rose in her mind. What the reformers truly needed were allies—well-placed, influential allies who could introduce the necessary bills for suffrage into Parliament, men such as
her father had been. And where were such allies to be found, if not at Carlton House? Perhaps it was time to make use of her family name and parentage. Perhaps—she hardly even dared think the thought—perhaps with her father gone, she might speak to the Regent in his stead.
Lucy’s heart pounded, but she refused to reveal her agitation. Deliberately, she made her face fall. “So I am to play the wallflower.”
Esmie looked truly puzzled. “You are to be included in the party. Surely that is sufficient?”
Lucy ignored her comment and tried to brush by her stepsister toward the breakfast tray. Esmie scooted back and grabbed the china teapot from among the dishes. She lifted a cup and saucer and poured. Lucy felt her knees weaken as the rich scent of chocolate assailed her nostrils.
“Have we a bargain?” Esmie held out the cup. The duchess must have promised her an entire new library, for rarely was her stepsister willing to stand her ground so firmly.
Lucy hesitated for effect, and then, finally, with a nod, accepted the cup from her stepsister.
“Are you sure we are agreed?” Esmie’s impatience betrayed her anxiety.
Lucy hesitated, drawing out her response. Even those with very little power liked to exercise it when they could. “Very well.”
Her stepsister nodded. “For once, Mama will be pleased,” she called over her shoulder as she left the room, off to claim whatever prize the duchess had promised.
Lucy sat down on the cot with her chocolate and began to plan. She was feeling rather pleased herself.
ONE O’CLOCK found Nick waiting patiently amid the mahogany splendor of the dining room at White’s. He’d regained his aplomb during the course of a vigorous scrubbing in the bath, and he was now prepared to mount a counterattack against his father. The king might believe he had devised a foolproof scheme to trap his son into marriage, but Nick was far more determined to avoid the parson’s mousetrap than his father realized. Crispin arrived a quarter of an hour past the appointed time, looking quite sheepish.
“Hello, Nick.” His friend stood awkwardly before him for a long moment and then sank down in the chair opposite. “Sorry to be late. I got caught in a throng that sighted Prinny’s carriage and pelted it with vegetables.”
Nick concealed his shudder at the thought of the mob and its potential to turn violent at the drop of a handkerchief. “I see that you escaped. Did the prince?”
Crispin shrugged. “I confess I did not wait to find out. I am sympathetic to the plight of the poor, but I doubt they would be as sympathetic toward me.”
“Yes, indeed.” Nick knew he must turn the conversation quickly, for the mere topic was enough to unsettle his stomach. “Shall we order our meal?”
Despite the familiar solace of beef and ale, neither man seemed quite comfortable. Crispin looked anywhere but at Nick, and Nick, for his part, chewed vigorously to keep his thoughts at bay. Finally, Nick pushed back his chair and threw down his napkin. A waiter immediately appeared to remove his plate.
“Give over, Crispin. Fortunately for you, I’ve decided not to hold your behavior against you, since you did manage to rid London of those thugs. But I must warn you I’m at my limit. There are intrigues afoot, and I am weary of surprises.” Since Lucy had knocked him on the head with Lady Belmont’s garden door, his life had been spinning steadily out of control. The effect was not to his liking.
Crispin tossed back half a glass of ale in one long swallow, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and looked Nick in the eye.
“I have a confession to make, Nick.”
“Spare me from confessions and reformers,” Nick muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. I suppose you’d better get on with it, before this extremely heavy nuncheon has me slumbering in my chair. What deep, dark secret must you divulge?”
Crispin’s hand nervously smoothed his cravat, which had the unfortunate effect of demolishing its smartly tied perfection.
“Yes, yes. Right. Of course. Get on with it, certainly.” He drew a deep breath. “You above all people know, Nick, that I am something of an inveterate matchmaker.”
Nick snorted. “Happily for you, you have never turned your talents toward me. What poor fellow’s life have you gone and ruined now, Crispin? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess.” Nick settled back in his chair, ready for the first time since the previous morning to enjoy himself. The prospect of some other fellow’s misery always did wonders for lightening one’s own.
“Is it Lord Warmouth? But I must tell you that he is head over heels for Dunley’s youngest chit.”
“No, not Warmouth,” Crispin answered, nervously tugging at his cuffs.
“Ah, then it must be my expatriate cousin, Prince Stephen. He has no prospects of a throne, ‘tis true, but there might be an impoverished earl somewhere willing to part with a daughter if the settlement is large enough.”
Crispin’s hands now moved to pluck at his napkin. “No, Nick, not Stephen.”
“The Earl of Ashforth perhaps? The paragon earl is said to be looking about for a bride.”
“Not Ashforth either. Besides, he has those five children, all still in the nursery. Even I cannot find any advantages for a young woman in such a match.”
“Well, then, who is it?” Nick found himself growing weary of this guessing game, impatient with his friend’s reluctance. They had often shared their amusement over Crispin’s unusual talent, for to date none of his “matches” had yet to turn unhappy, a fact in which his friend took excessive pride.
Crispin tossed the napkin into the middle of the table. “As you know, my methods are normally quite straightforward. An introduction here. A discreet meeting there. But I’m afraid this time I used a bit of concealment on the parties involved.”
Nick grinned, glad for a bit of amusement in the midst of the complications of his own life. “How very romantic of you, Cris. I hope the pair turn out happy.”
Crispin’s gaze flitted about the room. “I am sure they will—turn out happy, I mean—once they sort things through.”
So a happily ever after was not assured? Nick pitied the poor chap, whomever he was. “Well? Who is it? Don’t keep me in suspense, old man.”
Crispin flushed, and Nick felt a small twinge of anxiety.
“The thing of it is, Nick
. . .
what I mean to say is
. . .
”
“Yes?” Really, this was carrying the drama a bit far, if all they were going to do was laugh at the prospect of some poor chap acquiring a leg shackle. “Who is your latest victim, Cris?”
Crispin turned a dark red and looked as if he might strangle before he blurted out, “You.”
For a moment, the import of the word failed to sink into Nick’s brain. “Me?” he asked blankly, casting about for some explanation and then hitting upon one. “Oh, of course. The ball. But I have decided to forgive you that part in my father’s scheme. I know you meant well.” The stiff points of Nick’s shirt collar suddenly felt a bit tight, and he ran his finger around his neck to loosen his cravat.
“No, Nick. Not the ball. The girl.”
“The girl? What girl?” Nick waited, confused, and yet at the same moment aware of a sense of inevitability engulfing him.
“
The
girl.” Crispin paused, and Nick’s world teetered in the balance. Then Crispin said her name; two syllables that pronounced Nick’s doom.
“Lucy,” Crispin said.
“Lucy, the scullery maid?” Nick had spent last night tossing among the bedclothes, trying to escape unwanted memories of blond curls, bright blue eyes, and passion for reform.
“No, not Lucy the scullery maid,” Crispin answered slowly, as
if speaking to a very small child. “Lucy, the daughter of the Duke of Nottingham. Lady Lucinda Charming, actually, not to put too fine a point on it.”
Nick sat immobile, the beef and ale in his stomach turning to lead. “
Lady
Lucinda?” Time stood still, and then, with a rush, reason returned. And humor. Nick burst into laughter. “Oh, I say, Cris, well done. Clever enough to fool even me for a moment. Lady Lucinda. Yes, very funny.” He chuckled again and reached for his glass of ale, draining the last bit.
Crispin paled. “I’m not joking, Nick. Not about this.”
But Nick was not to be taken in. “It won’t wash, Cris. I saw her hands, as work-roughened as the lowest servant. And her dress, faded and patched everywhere.” Nick ran a hand through his hair in relief, and yet his insides felt strangely hollow. Despite his words, he was not quite ready to joke about Lucy, because he was not impervious to the temptation she represented.
Crispin leaned closer, lowering his voice. “On my honor, Nick. She is Nottingham’s daughter.”
But Nick was not a man to surrender without a fight. “Natural daughter, perhaps. I wondered about that myself.”
Crispin leaned forward. “No, his legitimate daughter, by the first duchess.”
But Nick would not give over. Not on something this important. “Then why have I never seen her? She is older than twenty, is she not? Why has she not made her come out?”
“She did, after a fashion. The season you were squirreled away at my hunting box with that bird of paradise, just to infuriate your father.”
Nick shifted in one of White’s usually comfortable dining chairs. “Then why does she never attend any of the
ton
affairs?”
“Her stepmother has put it about that she is not quite right in the head. Given the rumors about her father’s death, the duchess was readily believed.”
Nick barked with laughter. “Not right in the head? I will attest to her attics being to let, but only on the subject of reform. Otherwise she is as
sane as you or I.”
“Nick.” Crispin caught his eye, and in the green depths of his friend’s honest gaze, Nick read the truth he had been denying. “I’m sorry, Nick. It’s just that
. . .
well, you know my nature.”
Nick could see regret etched in the lines about his friend’s mouth. Crispin was contrite, and that very expression convinced Nick of the veracity of his words. Suddenly, he found it quite difficult to breathe. They sat in silence for a long moment, for both men knew the consequence of Crispin’s revelation.