Chapter 12

Lowlynesse is young Ambitions Ladder, Whereto the Climber upward turnes his Face.

—Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, II.i.23(1599)

"What do you mean he has decided not to purchase the five hundred shares?" demanded Clayton. "I thought the matter settled and the funds secured."

With a rusty sigh, Alan Braham, formerly Donald Brand's lawyer and man of business and now John Clayton's lawyer and man of business, held out a letter. "His lawyer Keele says, in so many words, that Lord Stanley hasn't time to read through all the shareholder information we sent. Moreover, he has a daughter to marry off and is therefore of a mind at present to reduce unnecessary expenditures and avoid speculation altogether."

His eye running down the page, Clayton confirmed the accuracy of Braham's summary, and he sank into the chair opposite the lawyer's desk. "Stanley was the chief investor, by heaven. With his permission I've been using his name to persuade others to buy shares. Do you know what this means, Braham? If the man withdraws his support, it might well create a panic."

With a nod the lawyer took the sheet back from his client's numb fingers, folding it carefully and hooking it once more on the file. "I know it. But it happens Keele is an old university friend of mine, and our cousins are married, so he told me confidentially that all may not be lost."

"Indeed? How good of a friend is this Keele?" asked Clayton with grim humor. "Does he offer to filch the money himself from the earl's account?"

Braham gave the dry cough which served him as a laugh. "Nothing so risky, Mr. Clayton. But he tells me it will be no use sending Lord Stanley pleading letters about the matter. The man will simply ignore them and leave Keele to write the placating replies. Keele says the trick is to find the earl in person and drive him into a corner. It seems Lord Stanley is far more susceptible to persuasion when it is done face to face. Furthermore, if he gives his word in person, he will find it impossible thereafter to wriggle out from it. A matter of pride, you see."

Groaning, Clayton ran a hand through his hair. "So I'm to go wait upon the earl wherever he lives, hat in hand? What's to stop the man from saying he is not at home?"

"No, you're right. He can't be caught at home. Keele agrees that won't work. You'll have to spring yourself upon him, or he'll dodge you like a creditor."

"What? I'm to chase Lord Stanley around London, then? Perhaps I should simply kidnap the marriageable daughter and hold her for ransom. What exactly does Keele advise?"

Another dry cough, and this time the lawyer's parchment face cracked in a smile. "He advises—and I second it—a two-pronged approach: seek Stanley where he may be found, while simultaneously working to widen your investment base, so that the construction of the Cumberland Arm is not entirely dependent on ‘this bruised reed,…on which if a man lean, it will go into his hand, and pierce it.'"

This drew a grin from his client. "Stanley has proven a bruised reed all right. Very well, then. But how do you two recommend I implement this plan? Shall I spring from the hedges beside Rotten Row and hang from the harness of Lord Stanley's mount until the man yields? Then once he has yielded (or failed to yield), I could beg the entree to Watier's to entrap the capital's most daring or foolhardy venturers to make up the balance. Come to think of it, if Lord Stanley himself is a member of Watier's, I might omit altogether the highwayman act in Hyde Park."

"I am quite serious, Mr. Clayton," said Braham, with a hint of reproach. When Clayton only eyed him skeptically, the lawyer slid across the desk an engraved card.

"What is this?"

"It is an invitation."

"I see it is an invitation, but I don't know this person, so it can't have been sent to me."

"I know for a fact it was sent to half of Mayfair and the better portion of Marylebone. But this particular card was sent to a Mr. Dodson. Another client of Keele's with connections of his own."

"Won't Dodson miss it?"

Braham shrugged. "Dodson will be welcome on his own merits, so his presence would never be questioned. The point is, Lady Aurora Robillard intends for every name in London to be at her rout, and to secure the outcome, she has managed to pin down the attendance of the latest mushroom millionaire, a certain St. John Rotherwood. Trust me: your Lord Stanley will be there, as will every man worth canvassing in town, including Rotherwood himself."

"All right, Braham. They will be there," conceded Clayton, "but you still haven't explained how I would be."

"You will be there because, in that crowd, the presence of one more man, give or take, will entirely escape notice."

Clayton stared. "But—even if I had to audacity to force myself upon them, there would be no one to perform the introductions. I cannot simply plant myself in front of every rich man and ask him if he would please purchase five hundred shares."

"You have met Lord Stanley, at any rate," returned the lawyer, "and if you cling to him, he will have motive enough to perform any and all introductions. Because not only will he wish to extricate himself from a ticklish tête-à-tête, but he will recognize that the more wealthy investors he can bring into your orbit, the fewer shares he will end in having to purchase. If you can't get close enough to Stanley, look for Dodson. He won't stand on ceremony and has his own reasons for wanting to appear a man of influence."

"And how would I know this Dodson?"

Braham waved a hand. "Young man with dandyish leanings. Waving brown hair. A goodly amount of money which he will likely run through in a shockingly short time because Keele says he's acquired a taste for gambling. You might solicit Dodson himself for a few shares—only tell me at once, so I may secure the funds from Keele while they yet belong to his client."

Braham knew he had carried the day when Clayton didn't answer, falling instead into a brown study. The lawyer let him think while he quietly arranged unanswered correspondence in order of urgency. At last Clayton said, "Very well. I will go, though I doubt I can strike any bargains in such an environment."

"It will be a beginning. Will you take Miss Brand with you? I daresay she would enjoy it, and her presence would give you someone to speak with while you wait for Stanley."

While Clayton could see the advantage of this, his heart sank. For he could also see the disadvantages. Supposing he did manage to attach himself to the earl? How could he then discuss business with the childish Priscilla at his side? Could he ask her beforehand to hold her tongue if he found those he sought? Taking everything into consideration, he probably could make such a request—she was ever anxious to please him, and she would be dazzled to attend a rout alongside such guests—but the realization did not lift his spirits. Rather it only added to the guilt which had niggled at him, mounting steadily as the days passed without him calling at Marlboro Street. For pity's sake—what a boor he was. It wasn't Priscilla's fault he had agreed to marry her. He had done it to himself. Nor was it her fault she was who she was and was not who she was not.

Don't think of who she is not.

Matters stood where they stood, and ignoring them would not make them disappear.

Stifling a sigh, he rose and took up his hat, giving Braham a nod. "It's a good idea. I will ask her."

Across from him in the Brands' landau, Priscilla fairly trembled with excitement. She had taken Clayton's instructions to an extreme, however, and seemed to think she should address him as little as possible the entire evening. Therefore she whispered constantly to Miss Croy beside her. A whisper just loud enough to affect Clayton like the buzzing of an insect but not quite loud enough to be intelligible. Therefore he was left to deduce her remarks from Miss Croy's responses.

"Indeed, your pins are still in place." "I do hope we recognize someone as well." "No, I am not sitting upon your skirts. Pull them free—see?" "I daresay you had better bring your shawl. If it is very warm within, you might let it hang down, but you will want it when it is time to leave."

The rout had begun a half hour earlier, but Clayton having no desire to be among the first arrivals had only made his way to Marlboro Street by then. Now he found the crush of carriages surrounding the approach to Portman Square would likely delay them at least another half hour. Perspiration prickled, despite the November chill. If Lord Stanley put in only a passing appearance and was gone before they arrived, Clayton would be left with no acquaintances at all, in which case he might as well turn right around and leave, however Priscilla might protest.

But it was Priscilla who carried the day, for the moment the footman unfolded the steps and assisted her to alight, she gasped and turned back to the descending Miss Croy, crying, "Cissie! Look there! I declare it's my schoolmate Audrey's cousin—what was her name…?—I have it! Miss Kempshott! It's Miss Kempshott!"

The tall young lady, hearing her name spoken, turned, her narrow countenance lighting with pleasure. "Ah! It's you, is it? Audrey's little friend. Miss—Miss—Burnside?"

"Miss Brand," corrected Priscilla eagerly. In her excitement her curtsey was little more than a jerk. "How lovely to see you again—to see any familiar face. I am so delighted you remember me."

"Of course I remember you," said Miss Kempshott. "When I visited Audrey, the three of us spent that pleasant afternoon in Kentish Town. May I introduce you to my aunt Mrs. Dodson?" She gestured to the imposing older woman behind her with a bust like a ship's figurehead, but one encrusted with diamonds. At the name, Clayton drew a sharp breath, his eyes darting behind them, but he saw no dandyish young man with waving brown hair.

Priscilla gave a more graceful curtsey this time, beginning to remember herself and the injunctions given by her intended. "Er—Mrs. Dodson, Miss Kempshott, may I present my cousin Miss Croy and my intended Mr. Clayton? Cissie and John, this is the Honorable Miss Kempshott, whose cousin attended school in Hampstead with me."

Mrs. Dodson's initially frosty demeanor thawed considerably when she heard this eager and winsome little creature was already engaged, and she became quite affable. "What a crush we have here! Lady Aurora will be triumphant, but I do not know how Kitty and I will find my son Edgar who promised to meet us."

"He won't miss it," Miss Kempshott assured her. She grinned at them. "Ridiculous, really, how all Mayfair is here, hoping to catch sight of the ‘Marble Millionaire' and secure an introduction."

Priscilla bit her lip and could not prevent a little hop, so eager was she to ask a dozen questions, but fortunately Clayton had his own reasons for wanting to learn more.

"Mrs. Dodson, I am afraid we are only recently come to town," he began, "and therefore know but few souls as yet and certainly not this millionaire person, though I might have heard him mentioned. How did he come by the nickname you gave him?"

With the glee of being the first to impart news and the satisfaction of boasting a more extensive acquaintance than the newcomers, the matron now beamed upon them. "If you are but recent arrivals, I will be pleased to perform any introductions you like this evening, Mr. Clayton. It will be no trouble at all, for I daresay Kitty and I have at least a bowing acquaintance with many we will meet. And as for the Marble Millionaire Mr. St. John Rotherwood…" With relish, Mrs. Dodson told them of his descent from the now-extinct Holt baronetage and his rapid rise to heir apparent of millions upon millions. "Can you imagine? After being raised in obscurity and having to work for his bread as an Oxford tutor, now to become the catch of the season!" she concluded breathlessly. "Oh, I do so hope he will be here tonight. And his mother Mrs. Rotherwood, of course. Perhaps if he cannot be got at, she can."

"How lucky you are to be already engaged," Miss Kempshott told Priscilla drolly. "You cannot imagine the pressure placed upon us single girls and how Mr. Rotherwood's name has been drummed in my ears. If the man and his fortune could only be cut into shares and doled out equally, then there would be plenty of him to go around!"

Clayton twitched at the word "shares," and he said, "In truth, this Rotherwood can hardly be called a millionaire, when he only has the expectation of great fortune. Rather, it is his mother Mrs. Rotherwood who is the millionaire-ess, if there is such a term." Could he possibly talk to the woman about purchasing canal shares?

"And don't think every fortune hunter in London is not aware of that," rejoined Mrs. Dodson with good humor. "My son Edgar was even telling me the latest odds in the club betting books, mischievous boy! But there are several good reasons to be confident the young man will eventually have the money for himself: the first is that he is unquestionably the apple of his mother's eye, leaving no room in her heart for love of any other kind; the second is that they are in town together, where the son may quash any amorous attempts to win the mother; and the third is that Sylvester Pinckney has the management of their fortune, and a sharper agent is not to be found in the entire capital."

This last titbit was discouraging from Clayton's perspective. Would there be any point in meeting or wooing either Rotherwood, if it was in fact the agent he must make up to?

By this point they had forced their way into the entrance of the Robillard home, though really it was more a matter of the numbers who arrived after them swelling and pushing them forward. Before them rose a grand staircase, packed cheek by jowl with every person in the capital with pretensions to wealth or fashion, and by the direction in which every head was turned it was clear that the Marble Millionaire had indeed graced the gathering with his presence.

But it was not the muted gasps and squeals and whisperings of his party which claimed Clayton's attention; nor the sight of Rotherwood himself at the top of the staircase, sculpted, aloof and handsome; nor even that of the much-sought Lord Stanley, riveted to Rotherwood's side, gazing up like a suppliant at his incense-shrouded idol. Indeed, Clayton's gaze did not reach the cynosure of all eyes, but instead snagged on the lovely head of a young lady halfway up the flight. Lustrous golden-brown hair, a sweet face in profile with lips slightly parted, bent a degree or two to catch the words of whoever stood next to her—

No—Clayton saw nothing and no one else. His heart pounded so suddenly and irregularly he thought for one terrible moment he would collapse.

Or combust.

Or cry out.

For what was she doing here?

He shut his eyes. Surely it was his imagination playing tricks. Miss Ellsworth crossed his mind so frequently, whether he willed it or not, that his mind must now be greedily seizing upon this young lady of similar coloring and proportions. There could be no other explanation. And he must breathe deeply, as if he were about to plunge his head beneath the waves at Bognor, so that, when he mastered himself again enough to rejoin the world, the apparition would have vanished, leaving behind some other young lady. A perfect stranger who, upon closer inspection, would prove to look not a thing like.

When he did open his eyes again, he forced them to remain on the head directly before him, one swathed in a magnificent silk turban pierced with a feather.

Gradually Mrs. Dodson's words penetrated his consciousness. "…That's him, to be sure. Oh, gracious, Kitty, we have been forestalled. For that vision before Mr. Rotherwood is Lady Sylvia, daughter of Lord Stanley."

"Dear me, she's beautiful," said Miss Kempshott, sounding not at all chagrined. "Looks like the game is up before it's fairly begun, Aunt Ruth."

"It may be, child, but if ever a game was worth the candle, this would be the one. Gracious, it's hot in here, and it may be an eternity before we reach Lady Aurora, much less the Rotherwoods." She plied her fan languorously, letting her gaze wander to lesser mortals.

Then it was Priscilla's turn to pipe up. "John!" A pluck at her betrothed's sleeve. "Look up there! Can that possibly, possibly be Miss Ellsworth? What do you think, Cissy?"

"Why—I do believe so," returned Miss Croy after careful scrutiny. "I wonder what she can be doing here."

Mercy, Clayton thought. Then she had not been an illusion?

Slowly, his breathing uneven, he raised his eyes and looked again beyond the turban in front of him, just as, some dozen steps above, the young lady in question turned to assist her companion with the clasp of her necklace.

"It is! It is, John!" insisted Priscilla, when her intended made no reply.

"Who is what?" demanded Mrs. Dodson.

"The young lady with the light brown hair is Miss Beatrice Ellsworth of the Winchester Ellsworths," answered Priscilla, hopping again. "We knew her in Bognor last month, didn't we, John?" She glanced at her still-silent companion, willing him to speak, but at the sight of his thundercloud brow she drooped, pressing her lips together. That was right. He had invited her to accompany him to this glittering event but warned her that it was for business purposes, and if she would be so kind as to follow his lead in conversation…? But surely he would not accuse her of letting her tongue run away with her, simply because she remarked on their mutual acquaintance?

"I do believe the older lady with her is Lady Hufton, wife of Sir John Hufton," Mrs. Dodson said thoughtfully. "We were introduced once. And the other young lady must be her daughter Miss Hufton for they're alike as two peas. Ah! See there? Lady Hufton has caught sight of me. Let us force our way to them."

Before the others could object, Mrs. Dodson thrust her magnificent bosom between the guests above them like the icebreaker on a bridge pier, and just like river ice, the crowd parted. Miss Kempshott followed in her wake, chuckling at her aunt's tactics, tugging Priscilla by the hand, who in turn tugged Miss Croy. It was left to Clayton in the rear to make appropriate apologetic mutterings, but he was so discomposed by the crisis of meeting Miss Ellsworth again that he later had no memory of what he said or how anyone responded.

But even this blurred blink of time gave Clayton the advantage over Beatrice, for she did not see Miss Brand or him until they were two steps below her, at which point her sharp breath was audible even over the buzz of the throng. "Mr. Clayton! Miss Brand. Miss Croy. What a—pleasure. I mean—what a surprise. That is, what a-a pleasurable surprise."

She shut her lips abruptly on this babbling, but Priscilla was still too abashed to do more than smile at her widely in answer and Clayton too perplexed. As the two varied parties were clustered on three different steps without enough space to bow and curtsey properly, introductions proved a challenge, but at last they were accomplished.

For her part, Beatrice was forcing down panic. It was one thing to be brave and to tell her stepmother she would risk a chance encounter with Mr. Clayton in the capital and quite another to meet him at the very first social affair. She had pictured it happening very differently: she would be driving with Lady Hufton and Miss Hufton in Regent's Park and glimpse the man standing beside a ditch, open plan in hand while he directed the workers. (Having never in her life seen the unfinished park or any canal, finished or unfinished, Beatrice must be pardoned for the vagueness of her fancies.) But this! Mr. Clayton at the rout of a fashionable viscountess? A beautifully tailored Mr. Clayton, no less, in black and buff, his dark hair dressed, flanked by not only the fetching Miss Brand but also an Honorable and a woman sparkling with diamonds! Beatrice was simply dumbfounded.

And Clayton—he was equal parts confusion and mortification. Confusion at the sight of her whom he had pictured a day's journey away, and mortification to be found in such a setting. What must she think of him? That he had posed in Bognor as the modest engineer to mask his social ambitions? Or that he had acquired a taste for such things after a fortnight in that place and the more exalted company he kept there? Even if she did not think such things yet, she certainly would, once she saw him pursue Earl Stanley or the embryo millionaire Mr. Rotherwood.

"There they go," hissed someone nearby. "The Stanleys are carrying him off!"

Every head on the staircase tilted upward, like so many sunflowers at midday, in time to see the triumphant earl and countess with their beautiful daughter march away beside the Marble Millionaire, trailing various hopefuls and hangers-on. A collective sigh issued from the staircase mass, but the departure of the Golden Ones had at least the positive effect of unstopping the plug and allowing a freer flow of traffic to greet the hostess.