Chapter 17

We ought to be very careful not to charge what we are unable to prove.

—Edmund Burke, Letter (1785)

With Miss Kempshott's and Mr. Dodson's departure, only Beatrice, Marjorie and Mr. Clayton remained. Knowing Mr. Clayton's limited dancing experience, Beatrice did not expect him to ask either of them, even had he been his usual friendly self, but Marjorie fixed inquiring eyes on him.

The awkwardness mounted as more couples formed up for the cotillion, and Beatrice felt anxious for his sake. But just when she was on the point of speaking, Mr. Clayton said, "Miss Hufton, I pray you will pardon me for—"

"For asking Beatrice to dance?" Marjorie broke in. "Say nothing of it, sir, for I know you have a prior acquaintance. I will rejoin my mother."

He colored. "No—I was going to—that is, I do apologize for not asking you to dance, Miss Hufton, but I was not going to ask Miss Ellsworth either."

"Oh?" Marjorie favored Beatrice with wide eyes, as if to say, There's rudeness for you!

Hastily, Beatrice intervened. "I know you only began to learn in Bognor, Mr. Clayton."

"Really? But he just danced with Miss Kempshott without mishap," observed Marjorie, as if the man weren't standing right beside them.

"Did you?" Beatrice turned wondering eyes on him. "Well done, for that was a complicated one. Figure eights and heys and such."

"More complicated than La Strasburgoise, at any rate," Marjorie sniffed.

"You will force a full confession from me," Mr. Clayton said. "Priscilla and I have been taking lessons. And while I felt bold enough to attempt a longways dance, we have not yet mastered any cotillions."

Of course such an announcement met with questions—from Miss Hufton, at least. Beatrice was battling a feeling of lowness. Her happy memories of dancing with Mr. Clayton in Number Four, Spencer Terrace, all spoiled—for now lucky Miss Brand was the one dancing and learning and practicing with him!

It is wrong to feel toward him as you feel, she reminded herself ruthlessly, taking hold of her own elbows. It is wrong to covet him. And if you cannot help him purely from motives of friendship, you ought not to help him at all.

She tightened her grasp. I can help him as a friend. Of course I can. I will. Mr. Rotherwood says I may write to him about my commercial proposal, and I will!

Clayton was inwardly making his own vows about Rotherwood. What had the blasted man been saying to Miss Ellsworth as he leaned over her? And why should Miss Ellsworth say she would write to him? What need had they for writing to each other? Clayton was no society man, but even he knew an unengaged young lady should not be writing to an unengaged man.

He shot her a furtive glance, hating to suspect ill of her. But if he was not to suspect ill of her, would he rather imagine her correspondence did fall within the bounds of propriety—that she wrote to Rotherwood because they were, or would soon be, engaged?

Impossible.

They could not be.

They had only met the other day at the rout, hadn't they? Even Dodson who minded the betting books at the clubs had not heard whispers of Miss Ellsworth before this evening.

What, then? Could it be something to do with her offer to help him raise funds? But if it was, why did she now avoid his gaze and stand clutching her elbows as if to keep herself from flying apart? She, who had been so open, so eager, when she spoke to him at Lady Aurora's.

He remembered again the way she looked at Rotherwood a few minutes earlier—the little glow, with sparkling eyes lifted. He remembered Rotherwood reaching for her as if, like Clayton did, he just wanted to feel her vivid self under his hand.

Stop it.

This must stop.

"—The master?" asked Miss Hufton.

Clayton had not heard the question. He gave himself a mental shake. "Pardon me, Miss Hufton. Could you repeat that?"

"I asked," she frowned, "the name of the dancing master."

"Saint-Cloud," he replied promptly. "Hubert Saint-Cloud. Though the academy itself belongs to a Mr. Wilson, of whom Priscilla and I have seen neither hide nor hair. At every lesson, it has been Mr. Saint-Cloud instructing us."

"At every lesson"? Beatrice hung on to herself for her life. How many lessons had there already been?

"Well," said Miss Hufton, "I hope this Saint-Cloud teaches you and Miss Brand your cotillions soon."

He bowed. "In the meantime, Miss Hufton, perhaps you might favor me for the next longways dance?"

"Thank you, sir. Except for the one I have promised Mr. Rotherwood, I am unengaged."

They might have stood there meanwhile till world's end, except Mr. Dodson's prophecy proved as true for Beatrice as it would for his cousin Miss Kempshott: Rotherwood's notice drew the notice of other gentlemen, and some young puppy shortly dashed up to beg her to join a new foursome.

"We've missed a few minutes, Miss Ellsworth, but you know how it repeats over and over," he panted.

She did know and went obediently with him. How strange and painful it could be to discover that, much as she had wished herself free of the discomfiture of Mr. Clayton's presence a moment earlier, she no sooner joined the dance than she wished herself still beside him.

As the night wore on and partner after partner followed, Beatrice began to fear they might not have another chance to speak. Why, oh why, did he not ask her to stand up with him? He danced with Marjorie and even older Mrs. Rotherwood and a couple of other young ladies Beatrice didn't know, but then the rest of the time she saw him holding conversation with various gentlemen. Beatrice didn't mind the gentlemen—surely he was talking about the canal with them—but she did mind that he never came near her. Marjorie was right—it was rude! Downright discourteous. He ought to ask her to dance. If it had been Aggie here instead of herself, she could not imagine Mr. Clayton failing to do so.

Neither did Mr. Rotherwood speak to her, dance with her, or even come near again, but Beatrice hardly noticed. Mr. Rotherwood was a challenge to be faced later, when she had pen in hand and no Mr. Clayton destroying her peace.

Round followed longways set. Reel followed quadrille. When the puppy came to beg a second dance, Beatrice demurred. "Thank you, but I would like to rest a while." Rest and perhaps covertly watch Mr. Clayton. But once she was seated on a bench beside her step-aunt, she found her view frequently blocked by the other dancers and chaperones and passersby. Lady Hufton herself paced back and forth before her, scrutinizing her daughter's movements.

"She is dancing again with that young man, to whom I have yet to be introduced, the dandyish one with the waving brown hair," she said, tapping her fan against her palm. She glanced down at Beatrice on the bench. "Do you know him, dear?"

Beatrice leaned to peer through a gap in the throng. "It is a Mr. Dodson, madam. The son of the Mrs. Dodson we met at Lady Aurora's rout and thus a cousin of Miss Kempshott."

"Hmm." Lady Hufton frowned as she watched her daughter duck her head and titter at something Mr. Dodson said. "If you would excuse me, Beatrice. You will be just fine waiting here for me, while I step over to have a word with Mrs. Dodson and Miss Kempshott…"

Beatrice suspected it would be the what-manner-of-young-man-is-Mr.-Dodson-and-what-are-his-prospects sort of word, but surely Lady Hufton would deem Mr. Dodson an improvement on the drunken groom Sam Hughes at Stourwood Park.

With her aunt gone, however, the urge to discover the whereabouts of Mr. Clayton proved too strong to resist, and she rose to look about. But scarcely had she hopped up before the buzz of conversation grew louder. Necks craned, and those nearest her crowded together to form a solid wall. Clicking her tongue indignantly, Beatrice bounced on her toes to peep over those in front of her and immediately spied the problem: the Rotherwoods were making their departure. Heavens—it must have been like this along the streets of the capital when the Allied sovereigns visited earlier in the year, for here everyone was, lining the route, standing tiptoe in hopes that a mere pair of rich people would notice them.

The rich person of chief interest to the young ladies somehow detected Beatrice in the press as he passed. No great feat from his height, she supposed, or maybe he had been looking for her. In any event, pausing mid-stride, he nodded his marble jaw half a degree, and then lifted a gloved hand in quick pantomime. Thumb, forefinger and middle finger together and a curving motion. Beatrice interpreted it at once: write to me. Heads swiveled to identify the fortunate recipient of this particular communication, and, to hide her confusion, Beatrice swiftly imitated them, looking back and forth, an inquiring expression pinned on her rosy face.

The danger passed and the Rotherwoods moved on, leaving her to sink again onto her bench, too shy now to go hunting for Mr. Clayton.

But there was no need.

"You have been a busy young lady," said the man himself.

She jumped, having no idea how long he had been there or even how he had come to be beside her.

Her mouth worked a moment, but then she managed, "Do you mean dancing?"

He made a gesture—it seemed to be a night for gestures. Mr. Clayton's was a careless ripple of his fingers. "You know. Dancing, enlarging your acquaintance…drinking lemonade."

She looked sharply at him. She had only had the one cup of lemonade all evening, the one given her by Mr. Rotherwood.

But Mr. Clayton's countenance was smooth, unreadable.

"You have been busy yourself," she returned. "Would you say it was a successful evening? Or, at least, a promising one?"

"Do you mean, did I succeed in climbing to new heights?"

Again her head snapped up. Was he tryingto quarrel with her?

"I referred to your attempts to find investors," she said carefully.

He took a slow breath, as if trying to master himself. "I did. Make progress. I made some beginnings, that is. Thank you." But then he added in a rush, "What of you? Did you make progress in your own goals?"

"My goals?" She echoed. Goals, in the plural? Had they not agreed she was not in London to pursue the typical young lady's goals? Well—perhaps he phrased it thus because it would be too coarse to ask if she had raised any money for him yet. Delightful as it would be to tell him that Mr. Rotherwood gave her permission to write to him, it might all come to nothing, and Beatrice did not want to raise Mr. Clayton's hopes prematurely.

"I hope so," she answered therefore.

A little silence fell, and Beatrice cast about for a fresh topic. How easily they had once spoken to each other! But Bognor felt a lifetime ago. They might once have laughed together and challenged each other to swim races, but now— Why, it was difficult even to picture Mr. Clayton in bathing costume, his dark hair wet and his smile easy. The Almack's version of Mr. Clayton, with his formal tailoring and formal manners, was a horse of another color. Beatrice would not presume to call the Almack's Mr. Clayton a friend, he was so cool and forbidding. And people thought Mr. Rotherwood unapproachable! At least Mr. Rotherwood danced with her. Mr. Clayton still had not asked her; nor did it appear he was going to.

"How have you enjoyed your dancing lessons?" she ventured next. "You seem to have fared very well with your partners." The next second she could have bitten off her tongue, for it made it sound as if she had been watching him the entire time. "Your new lessons must not be held in a private drawing room with only a couple or two, if you learned the longways dances."

For the first time, there was a hint of a smile in his voice. "No. Wilson's Academy in Wells Street has many pupils. And the lessons take place three times per week."

"Then I praise Mr. Wilson's efforts. Not that you weren"t an apt pupil," said Beatrice, a little downcast at his smile. Three times per week? To tear himself from his desk so often? He must like these lessons better than those received from the Ellsworths. Or else he liked to be with Miss Brand as much as possible. Who knew—maybe he was not tearing himself from his desk but was walking to Wells Street arm in arm with his intended, a whistle on his lips, having already spent the morning with her.

"Thank you. But I remind you it isn"t the vaunted Mr. Wilson who deserves your praise," Clayton answered, "for I begin to think he does not exist. Our instructor has always been the Hubert Saint-Cloud fellow, an elegant young man who, in my more fanciful moments, I imagine to be descended from a French vicomte."

"A vicomte! Wouldn't that be something?" She repressed an urge to sigh. "He must indeed secretly be one though, to give you that idea, for you don't strike me as a fanciful person, Mr. Clayton."

This provoked a wry grimace. "Don't I? I suspect several of the gentlemen I approached this evening would call me precisely that—fanciful. With my talk of canals extending into the heart of London. I daresay they thought me a dreamer. A speculator."

"That's different," Beatrice insisted, defending him. "To build something—anything—one must have the idea for it first and convince others of its rightness. What would the world do, without such men? That is not what I meant by ‘fanciful.'" Then the sigh did escape her. "To my mind, a fanciful person is someone with unlikely, sentimental ideas about people, imagining stories for them, as you do for your dancing master. I meant I did not suppose you were that sort of fanciful."

"Who is not, on occasion?" he replied tersely, almost coldly. "Do we all not sometimes dwell on what might be, if not for…"

"If not for…?"

"If not for what in fact is," he finished. He made an impatient movement. "I have done all I can here. All I should. To stay longer would be—"

But what staying longer would be was left to Beatrice's own fancy, for Mr. Clayton gave an abrupt bow and disappeared into the crowd before she could even think of rising, and she found herself blinking back the sudden threat of tears. "But staying longer would be a waste of time," she finished for him under her breath. "That's what you were about to say, was it not? That staying longer would serve no purpose."

And was he not right? Beatrice might help him in attracting investors to the Cumberland Arm project, but there was nothing to be gained by continuing to cultivate her friendship. Friendship between an unmarried man and young lady was unconventional and rare in their world. And as for anything beyond unconventional friendship—well, that was altogether impossible.

He would probably be set upon by footpads, Clayton thought as he crossed Jermyn Street. Not in St. James, most likely, nor even in Marylebone after crossing Oxford Street, if he kept to the well-lit Portland Street, but perhaps when he was within shouting distance of his lodgings in darker, narrower, less-frequented Warren Street.

But he could not bring himself to be concerned about it, much less to seek refuge in a hackney coach. Other matters pressed on him, and he must walk in the cold air to clear his mind. At least, he hoped it would clear his mind.

For while Mr. Hubert Saint-Cloud might have the carriage and deportment of a vicomte, Clayton himself seemed to be turning into a bear. Only a bear would treat Miss Ellsworth as he just had, not asking her to dance, growling at her, pulling faces, fleeing when he could no longer trust himself to meet even the bare requirements of courtesy.

And why had he disgraced himself thus? Because she danced with Rotherwood? She had danced with others. Because she and Rotherwood were somehow become correspondents?

Two inebriated dandies with their arms about each other's shoulders for support were singing and swaying their way along Piccadilly. They called to him, hurling mocking curses when he passed without a sign, but Clayton failed to notice, being too intent on turning over the question again of why Miss Ellsworth should write to Rotherwood. Even if he had not overheard Rotherwood's invitation to do so, he had seen the little motion made at her, prior to the man's departure from Almack's. But what on earth did Rotherwood expect Miss Ellsworth to write? If Clayton were a more confident man—or a more conceited one—he might persuade himself that Rotherwood meant, "That four hundred shares you asked me to buy? Consider it done! But be sure to write to me, so I will know where to send my draft." But if that were the case, wouldn't Miss Ellsworth have crowed to him in triumph? Wouldn't she have turned upon him the radiance she turned on Rotherwood, as she announced the solution to his problems?

She had been, on the contrary, reserved and uneasy.

Hope had flickered when she referred to Bognor. Bognor, which was never as far as it should be from his mind. If Miss Ellsworth referred to it and to their happy dancing lessons, did it not mean she too thought, and thought fondly, of those bygone times? And then to hear her spirited defense of builders and their work! He might have kissed her for it.

But the sweetness of those fleeting moments was its own torture, and he had not been able to prevent his bitterness showing. She did not think him a fanciful person? If she but knew the half of it! For he was not only fanciful, he was a fool—for letting fancy run away with him. Indulging in memories which could lead nowhere. Indulging in rose-colored visions of continued friendship between them. An utter fool. Did he think he could hold his hand to the flame and never suffer a burn?

They could not be friends.

Indeed, Clayton hardly knew if he could trust himself in her presence again, if he could not school his features and his words better than he had this evening.

It was the gravest misfortune that his business trials might continue to throw him into her path, and he must wrap up his dealings as soon as humanly possible.

"A hundred shares from Stanley. Ten from Dodson," he muttered, avoiding eye contact with a pair of women calling to him from under the lamp at Mortimer Street. "Skinner showed interest. I must follow up with him." Another grimace. Ten shares here and ten shares there! What he needed to do was to approach the wealthiest first, and the wealthiest by far was Rotherwood.

He saw again in his mind's eye Miss Ellsworth's eager glow as she spoke with the Marble Millionaire. He heard again Dodson saying, "Some at the betting post would be calling that pretty one there an outside." He remembered Rotherwood's tiny, telling gesture and Miss Ellsworth's blushing response.

"I can't do it," he declared aloud, his pace quickening. "I won't do it. I won't ask Rotherwood for a penny, not if he intends to rob me of her." He halted abruptly then, his fingers going to his forehead as he could not smother a groan.

What was this, if not being fanciful? Rotherwood could not "rob" him of someone who did not—and never could—belong to him.

St. John Rotherwood had his liberty, as did Miss Ellsworth. And if they chose each other—well, there was nothing Clayton could do about it. If Miss Ellsworth accepted Rotherwood, it would surprise no one in London. The only criticism her choice would provoke would be cries of protest that the season's most eligible bachelor could not then be captured by any of the hundred other young ladies vying for him. And as for Rotherwood choosing to love Miss Ellsworth…

How could Clayton blame him if he began to find Miss Ellsworth endearing? There might not be a more endearing creature alive.

No, it seemed all too obvious that he must brace himself for the realization of his worst fears. He must prepare to hear that she was lost to him forever. More lost than she already was.

Reaching the intersection with the New Road, Regent's Park spread before him, a vast, formless darkness.

Like my future.

But he had never been a man who wallowed overlong in self-pity, and—heaven help him—he had no intention of beginning now. He gave himself a shake. "That's enough of that, old fellow. It's time to set your steps toward home."

He did just that, and if any footpads had been lurking in Warren Street, the rain and cold drove them indoors, so that he arrived without mishap.

But as he took his candle and climbed the cramped staircase to his chamber, only the shadows were yet awake to hear him say, "But I still don't want a penny of his money, all the same."