Chapter 16

I was at Almack"s last night, and such sort of doings [to] which you will say pish, was I to give you account.

—Mary Cornwallis, Letter to Admiral Cornwallis(1763)

Until the moment his Stranger's Ticket was accepted by Mr. Willis, Clayton feared he would be turned from the doors of Almack's. To be sure, Lady Jersey's lip curled and her nod to him was infinitesimal, but she could not refuse him entry, arriving as he did on the heels of Earl Stanley's party and dressed in the required costume of knee breeches, snowy white cravat, and chapeau bras. Nor could fault be found with his manner, though Lord Stanley's beautiful daughter Lady Sylvia merely curtseyed wordlessly in response to his bow and thereafter paid him little heed.

In truth, John Clayton's entrance at the exclusive assembly room was the second obstacle overcome, the first having been informing Priscilla. "Crestfallen" would not have been too strong a word, though she struggled to repress her complaints. "Almack's! Oh, Cissy, to think of it—! Almack's! How—how kind of the earl to secure you a ticket, John."

"I go to woo potential investors, Priscilla," he repeated, to which she nodded, but he feared she might begin to weep.

"I know. It's just—you don't even like dancing, John."

It wasn't true, but he doubted arguing the point would mend matters. Instead he answered, "Even if that were the case, I don't go in order to dance."

She nodded again, her lips disappearing into a line, and he soon took his leave. But the door had barely shut behind him before he heard her muffled wail: "Oh, Cissy! It isn't fair! Mr. Saint-Cloud said I would grace the ballroom of a duchess, but what is the use? I will never, never be seen by anyone anywhere!"

Clayton sighed, avoiding the footman's eyes. There would be other occasions for Priscilla to shine, if he could arrange them, but he suspected this supposed snub on his part would not be soon forgotten.

As he stood on the edge of the earl's party, he gradually became aware of a crowd of gentlemen growing around them. Young, old, tall, short, handsome, nondescript. Those sporting rumpled locks à la Titus and those entirely bald. But all of them come to pay homage to the earl's daughter and to beg a dance from her. Lady Sylvia received them calmly enough, granting the boon with signs of neither eagerness nor dread, and to the earl's credit, Lord Stanley made convenient use of the men's proximity to introduce them to John.

"Fascinating fellow," pronounced the earl repeatedly. "I look on him as quite a rising man. Chief engineer and secretary of the Cumberland Arm, Regent's Canal, don't you know."

Being eager to win the earl's approval and to improve their chances with his daughter, most of the new acquaintances feigned some degree of interest, and Clayton's presence and credentials were allowed to pass unquestioned, if they were not outright embraced. A few of the would-be suitors even loitered to make desultory conversation while their gaze followed Lady Sylvia and partner.

"Stanley's pet, are you?" said one of them with a note of belligerence (middling age, middling height, middling looks, middling amount of hair—his name might even have been Middleton).

"Nothing of the sort," he returned, vexed to feel himself coloring. "More of a—business acquaintance." He would have called Stanley a partner, had the man honored his original pledge of five hundred shares, but such a description seemed a stretch under the current circumstances.

Middleton, or whoever he was, made a humphing sound. "Too bad you don't appear to be a pet of Lady Sylvia. She hardly noticed you."

Nor I her,Clayton wanted to reply waspishly, but he swallowed the retort.

"I suppose she'll be snatched up by Rotherwood. We ordinary mortals haven't a chance against him," Middleton continued, his sigh breaking off mid-breath when he added, "Talk of the devil—there he is."

There he was indeed. And Clayton's heart sped, along with the hearts of every marriageable young lady in the room. If he could succeed—and if Rotherwood and his mother were a fraction as wealthy as rumored, the needed four hundred shares would be as a drop of a bucket to them! But whom should he try first, the son or the mother? For on Rotherwood's arm was the elegant woman, clad in blue-black like a raven. Both Rotherwoods surveyed the gathering, the son's countenance unreadable but the mother's brightening when she caught sight of the Stanleys. A tug on her son's arm and a word in his ear and they were in motion.

Unconsciously he straightened, smoothing his cuffs and trying in vain to remember the opening lines of his speech.

"Lord Stanley, Lady Stanley," murmured Mrs. Rotherwood as the group saluted each other. "And I see our dear Lady Sylvia is already in great demand. I do hope St. John has not arrived too late to partner her." She smiled up at her son, who looked (in Clayton's opinion) as if it were all one whether Lady Sylvia danced with him next or never at all. And as for the young lady? She performed an admirable series of rights and lefts in her foursome, not betraying by so much as a flare of her nostrils that she even noticed Mr. Rotherwood's arrival.

Well, thought Clayton, if that was the fashionable world's idea of love, they were welcome to it.

Lady Stanley was shaking her head ruefully. "My Sylvia is so popular! But I am certain she will have kept at least one dance free, if only in hopes of resting or having some refreshment. Here she comes—that was the last time through the figures. Sylvia, my dear girl, only see who has come!"

"Lady Stanley tells me I am likely too late to have the honor of a dance," said Rotherwood blandly.

His mother looked pained by his manner, and the faintest twitch of displeasure flickered over Lady Sylvia's glorious features.

"No," she said. "There is La Strasburgoise."

He bowed; she curtseyed and was carried off by another partner. Rotherwood stalked away.

His mother turned to the earl and countess with an apologetic expression. "How disappointed he must be, to wait!"

"I'm certain Sylvia would have given him two dances, if she were able," returned Lady Stanley.

With Rotherwood gone, that left his mother, and Clayton was both relieved and discomposed when the earl said, "Madam, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to Mr. John Clayton here, chief engineer and secretary of the Cumberland Arm, Regent's Canal. Quite a rising man."

Mrs. Rotherwood curtsied, and for a minute or two Clayton made fumbling attempts to engage her in conversation, to which she replied with flawless but cool courtesy. Too soon, however, she herself was surrounded by her own group of hopeful swains and carried away just as Lady Sylvia had been.

He repressed a grimace. Now what?

It was tempting to scorn the Marriage Mart proceedings in which he played no part—nothing on anyone's minds but who might bring what, to which partnership! But no sooner did he have the thought than chagrin filled him. In what way were his aims different from, much less superior to, anything happening here? Was he not after money as well? Money, money, money. Indeed, the matchmaking efforts could at least claim a second goal, that of finding love.

If I'd had any sense, I would have asked Mrs. Rotherwood to dance.

Well, it was what it was, and there was nothing to be gained by standing blockishly beside the earl and countess all evening, upbraiding himself. He must cast the widest net possible by cultivating not only the Rotherwoods, but all the gentlemen of means. Nor should the young ladies be overlooked, for they could lead to conversations with fathers and brothers and cousins and uncles. Giving himself a mental prod, he redoubled his efforts. He bowed when introduced. He murmured his good evenings and honoreds and delivered whichever length of speech about the canal—a few words, a few sentences, a few paragraphs—would be tolerated.

He was in the middle of one of these speeches when his auditor interrupted, "Oh, I say. There's my cousin Kitty. See here, Clayton—may I introduce you? If you get her to dance with you, I'll buy ten of your shares. What do you say?"

Perplexed by this unexpected turn of events, he sputtered. "But—what? Why?"

"Because it will be a prime joke," answered the young man promptly. "Kitty tells me she never wants to marry, so she is trying to thwart my aunt's matchmaking efforts. But I bet her she would dance at least five dances at Almack's because she wouldn't be able to avoid it. If I win, Kitty must buy me a new cart whip."

"And if you lose?"

"Then I must accompany her and my mother to Macbeth at Drury Lane and sit in their box with them, when Lord knows no fun will be found that way. Come on, then. Ten shares for a quarter-hour of your time."

For heaven's sake. If this stripling could speak so easily of spending a hundred pounds to win a bet—?

Still.

Conscience prompted Clayton to say, "Er—I probably should tell you, Dodson, that I'm already an engaged man."

Dodson brightened further. "Are you? She'll like you the better for it—no risk to her whatsoever, you see."

"And if she refuses to stand up with me?" he asked.

"She can't. She won't. It wouldn't be polite. Follow me, Clayton."

Ten shares being nothing to sniff at, he obeyed readily enough, trailing after the young man. They skirted the fireplace to reach the enormous doors opposite the musicians' gallery, only to have Clayton's companion halt suddenly and fling up an arm to stop him.

"Good Lord! Kitty's talking to Rotherwood!"

Peering over Dodson's shoulder, Clayton spied the same tall, cheerful, narrow-faced young lady introduced to him at Lady Aurora's rout as Miss Kempshott, and she was indeed speaking with Rotherwood. But it was not only those two whom he recognized, for on the far side of Miss Kempshott was the little creature with shrewish features whose name he'd forgotten, and on the near side—none other than Miss Ellsworth. Miss Ellsworth, pretty as a picture in snowy muslin, face alight as she gazed up at Rotherwood. The man had his back to them almost completely, so that Clayton could not tell how he received such a look, but he heard him say, "I rejoice to see you suffered no lasting injury from your mishap."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, flushing, her voice just carrying to Clayton's ears over the hum of the gathering. "You are very kind."

"Shall we, then?" He held out an arm, upon which Miss Ellsworth laid her gloved fingertips, and led her away to join the set.

Dodson gave a low whistle. "I say! How do you like that? All the odds in the books heavily favor Lady Sylvia Stanley, but if we were at Newmarket, some at the betting post would be calling that pretty one there an outside." When his companion only frowned, Dodson added, "Not a racing man, Clayton? An ‘outside' is an unknown horse with unknown abilities. But never mind. Come."

Tearing his gaze from the departing couple, Clayton found himself at once very keen to dance with Miss Kempshott. Or the other one, if Miss Kempshott wouldn't have him. Anything to position himself where he might observe Miss Ellsworth and Rotherwood. Through the blood rushing in his ears he was dimly aware of Dodson speaking, and he bowed when the ladies curtseyed, managing to say, "Miss Kempshott, if I might have the honor of standing up with you…?"

She gave a chuckle. "Let me guess—Doddy put you up to this."

Her cousin made a show of pretending not to hear, saying loudly, "Miss Hufton, what about you? Shall we ‘trip it as we go on the light fantastick toe'?"

Marjorie might not know her Milton, but Mr. Dodson could have invited her to a gin house and found her willing, for unbeknownst to anyone in the room but her mother (who was too far away to note), with his waving brown hair and blue eyes, Mr. Dodson bore a remarkable resemblance to a certain family groom, far off in Kent.

"That's torn it," said Miss Kempshott as they sailed away. "I commend you, Doddy, you wily creature. This will make One." To Clayton she made an exaggerated curtsey and took hold of his arm, that he might lead her out.

So intent was Beatrice on her self-appointed mission that Mr. Clayton's approach altogether escaped her notice. She was too busy girding herself. Don't trip over your own feet, Beatrice Ellsworth! Engage him in conversation and somehow lead it around to the wonders of London and how he might contribute to them.

She did succeed in the staying-upright part of her task, but if only he were not so unapproachably marble! He moved through the figures automatically and correctly, but his eyes were more often fixed over Beatrice's head. Was he looking for Lady Sylvia? But, no. When Beatrice craned her neck as unobtrusively as she could to peek around, she saw that Mr. Rotherwood's gaze did not linger on the beautiful earl's daughter either.

But he is certainly looking for someone,she decided. Someone who isn't here. Well, that person, whoever she was, would likely absorb the man's attention whenever she did arrive, so it would behoove Beatrice to make use of the time she had.

"How do you like town, Mr. Rotherwood?" she ventured, when the figures brought them together. "Are you much for balls and dancing?"

He blinked, as if a beetle on the floor had addressed him, before bending his stern countenance to regard her. "Not particularly."

"Oh?" Beatrice hoped it wasn't her company or dancing which he found a chore, but so what if it was? She must press on in any case. "But—how about London then? How do you like London? Apart from the balls and dancing, I mean."

Something flitted across his sculpted features which softened them for a moment. "I visited the Tower. I liked the Tower."

Here was progress! She glowed up at him. (He didn't notice.) "I would dearly like to see the Tower myself," she said. "My brother loves everything of that nature: history, art, books, pageantry, and the like, and he told me I must go, but I don't know if my cousin Miss Hufton would be interested."

"Ah."

When this was all the response she received, Beatrice blew out a breath. Thank heavens she only wanted money from the man and not love!—trying to penetrate his aloofness was uphill work. Nevertheless, she once more applied her metaphorical shoulder to the wheel: "I wonder if, when they were building the Tower, they knew how long it would stand."

"It's been more than nine hundred years," he replied. "It would be as if those now building the Regent's Park tried to imagine its existence in the year of our Lord 2764."

Regent's Park? Building? All on his own Mr. Rotherwood had opened a door for her to step through! In her surprise, Beatrice froze. Then, late for the back-to-back step, she darted forward, narrowly missing a collision with him.

"Miss Ellsworth!" His hand flew out, either to fend her off or to haul her up if she fell, and though he did not touch her, Beatrice went scarlet all the same as every dancer's head turned their way.

"Pardon me," she uttered. "I was—astonished how quickly you performed that calculation."

To her amazement, his marble features cracked in a grin. "I am a former mathematics tutor, you know. Or perhaps you didn't know. But I must ask, Miss Ellsworth, is this stumbling about a habit of yours?"

For the thousandth time the memory flashed through her brain: her bathing gown pinned; no air to be had; murky waters; hands gripping her to wrench her back to life.

"N-no," she answered, swaying slightly. "At least, I hope not."

He leaned toward her with some concern, and she wished he wouldn't, for she knew by the prickle along her neck that they were still being observed. Come now! You must shake this off and buckle to, girl!

Lifting her head, renewed resolve in her eye, she took his hands to go in circle. "If those building the Regent's Park do not do so with an eye to the future, they ought to. Just as the city has grown and grown since the Tower was built, so it will continue to do."

His brows rose at both the unusual topic and the unusually firm grip. "Are you greatly interested in building and planning, Miss Ellsworth?"

"Greatly," she lied stoutly.

"How…curious."

"Are you not?"

"I confess I have not thought about it much. Until recently I lived in two rooms and hadn't the means to build or plan anything."

"Yes, well. But here you are now." But she could see him already retreating into indifference, and panic flooded her. What should she do? Baldly ask for money? If he and his mother were as rich as everyone said they were, were they already dunned on all sides by those wanting to share their wealth?

Beatrice closed her eyes one fleeting moment to gather her courage. What was the worst that could happen? She could ask; he could say no; they could avoid each other ever after.

The tempo of the music slowed. Oh, heavens! The dance was about to end—was ending!

Mr. Rotherwood bowed, his lips forming the words to thank her, when Beatrice rushed at him, fingers fluttering. "Please, sir," she hissed from the side of her mouth, "might I have a word with you…apart?"

For a terrible moment she thought he would refuse. Then he gave the barest nod and extended an arm to escort her from the floor. It would not be an exaggeration to say most eyes in the room followed them; nor could Beatrice stop her ears when a wave of murmurs rose, composed of indignant, buzzing voices pitched just loud enough to be overheard. "Who is she?" "Some country girl of medium fortune and connections." "Did you see how clumsily she danced?" "Did you see how she pretended faintness?" "How dare she seek to monopolize him!"

It seemed too much to hope the murmuring escaped Mr. Rotherwood, but he gave no sign either way, merely stopping at the refreshment table to hand her a cup of lemonade.

"Thank you." Gulping down a sip to cool her heated face, she was disappointed to find the beverage lukewarm.

"You had better have your say, Miss Ellsworth," he returned, just audible, his lips scarcely moving. "For I can't spare much time. I'm afraid it's my duty to stand up with as many partners as possible, to keep the wolves at bay."

Then he had heard the unfortunate remarks. Beatrice went even redder. Choking down another tasteless sip, she replaced the cup on the table.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, trying to speak as quietly as he had. "But I promise I'm not trying to marry you."

Her own attempt to thwart eavesdroppers met with less success, the lemonade having made her hoarse, and Mr. Rotherwood politely inclined toward her. "I trust I heard you amiss, Miss Ellsworth. You can't have said you're trying to marry me."

"Marry you!" she squeaked. "No—I said just the opposite! This is not a marriage proposal—even if young ladies could offer such things—it's more of a…commercial proposal. About the development of London."

Whatever he imagined she might say, this was not it, and he looked both puzzled and mildly curious. "Intriguing. Although our man of business tells us he has been inundated with commercial proposals of stunning variety and levels of foolhardiness, I confess this is the first time I have been approached directly with one, and by a young lady, to boot."

"Yes, well…" Beatrice had no fitting response, so she held up her palms appealingly. "Will you hear me out?"

"Miss Ellsworth, I will do you the justice of not hurrying you," he answered. "Why do you not write to me of your proposal and send it around to North Audley Street? I assure you I will consider it, whatever it is, and respond in a timely manner."

"Write to you?" she gasped.

"It's unusual, I daresay," Mr. Rotherwood conceded, "but if you were to send it to our man Pinckney, I have no doubt you would hear nothing for months, if ever, and odds are, when you did, it would be a standard refusal."

"Very well, sir. I will write to you."

A loud throat clearing interrupted their tête-à-tête, causing Beatrice to spring backward guiltily. Mr. Rotherwood, on the other hand, only turned slowly to peer at the interlopers.

"Oh, good evening," said Beatrice, when it seemed her companion was not going to say anything at all. "Mr. Clayton! Miss Kempshott. Marjorie." Finding her voice embarrassingly squeaky, Beatrice gave herself a surreptitious thump on the sternum. She had never seen Mr. Clayton look as he did now: cool and distant, as if he had never met her before in his life and saw no need to curry acquaintance now.

"Yes, and this is Mr. Dodson," supplied Miss Hufton breathlessly, her beady eyes flicking from Beatrice to Mr. Rotherwood and back.

"My cousin Mr. Dodson," added Miss Kempshott. Of them all, she appeared the most at ease. Indeed, to judge by the twitching of her lips, she found it all very amusing.

A silence fell among them.

In such a situation it would have been proper then for the new acquaintances to exchange dance partners, if they were not going to stand around and talk, and Mr. Rotherwood did turn toward Miss Kempshott, but then a cotillion was announced, and he halted, like a deer at the crack of a shot.

"Did they say it was La Strasburgoise?" asked Marjorie.

Mr. Rotherwood was grim. "They did. You must excuse me, but I hope, Miss Kempshott, you might honor me with the following dance and Miss Hufton with the one after that?" They curtseyed their acceptance, and he was gone the next instant. Even if he were not so tall it would have been easy to follow his progress toward Lady Sylvia Stanley by the universal turning of heads to track him.

Miss Kempshott gave a chuckle and nudged Beatrice. "Don't despair, Miss Ellsworth. He might have promised Lady Sylvia that dance, but he didn't look too happy about it."

Her cousin Mr. Dodson gave a snort of his own. "And youneedn't look too happy either, Kitty, for dancing with Rotherwood will make two of five. I see a cart whip in my future, most definitely, for Rotherwood's mark of approval will bring others in his train."

She shrugged and huffed out a breath. "So it will, Doddy, so you may as well dance the cotillion with me now."