Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

London—September 1817

M iss Patience Carruthers liked to collect facts as much as she liked to collect books. She found pleasure in knowing things, the more things the better. In fact, it was her considered opinion that the vast majority of people did not know nearly enough—or read enough—to be relied upon to function well.

The rakehell Arthur Beckham was a good example. Despite his charm, his remarkable good looks, and his determination to win her approval, he was incapable of shaking her convictions. After all, the man's reading habits were woefully inadequate. If he would just pause for breath, Patience would tell him so.

"Clearly, the book," Arthur said with an engaging smile "is wrong." He pushed a volume across the counter that he was returning along with the other volumes his mother had borrowed earlier in the year.

Patience bristled, confident that she was unaffected by that smile. "Books, sir, are not wrong simply because an individual does not care for their content. Books provide an infinite variety of entertainment value as well as a wealth of factual information. Those books that appeal to one person may not appeal to another, which explains the inventory of libraries and bookstores…"

She could have continued at some length in this vein, but the well-attired gentleman on the other side of the lending counter at Carruthers others believed the entire merit of their lives would be measured by their husband's rank; yet others saw the marriage mart as a competition and one in which they were determined to triumph. There was one lady in particular whom Arthur found scheming and unattractive, but he avoided Miss Felicia Grosvenor like the proverbial plague. With any luck, she had forgotten about him while he was in Venice. He dared to hope she might even be married by the time their paths crossed again.

But Miss Patience Carruthers did not fit into either category. (Neither was she a relation, which he supposed was a third category of female but one only slightly more interesting than eligible young ladies.) She was unwed, yet she declared herself to have no interest in matrimony. She was not to be found in those establishments where he sought entertainment in the evening, nor was she painted or dressed to display her virtues. Her gown had been a simple and serviceable one of navy blue with white trim. Her fair hair had been drawn back in a style that was almost austere, given its lack of dangling curls and fetching little ribbons, but her prettiness could not be disguised.

She had magnificent eyes of silvery grey, thickly lashed pools that could be serene in one moment and flashing like a storm at sea in the next.

Best of all, she possessed no guile. Her thoughts had been easily read, her reactions immediate—a sign of cleverness, to be sure—and her company a delight. She amused and provoked him, a most welcome combination. He could not anticipate her, which was even more enticing. Was she kind? Arthur suspected she might be. Her family was respectable, to be sure, her father and uncle running the largest publisher and bookseller in London. Arthur liked that Miss Carruthers was both polite and well-read, that she was opinionated and expressed herself well. He had not been joking about her blushes. She flushed more perfectly than any lady he had ever seen, the rosy hue lighting in the midst of her fair cheeks and spreading slowly to suffuse her face. It was as if this concession to mortal flesh surprised even her.

He already enjoyed both teasing her and challenging her, simply for the pleasure of watching her reactions. Better yet, he had no doubt she would take satisfaction in chastising him for a view she found inadequate.

He smiled at the prospect, resolving that he would have need of many more books in the near future. Anything to enjoy the company of Miss Carruthers at regular intervals.

He also fancied she might be one of the few people of his acquaintance who would tell him the truth. Not only did she appear to have no ability to deceive, but she also seemed enamored of honesty itself. Arthur found himself drawn to such candor, and for more than its refreshing novelty.

All in all, he was content to be back in London again, particularly as Miss Carruthers was unlikely to leave town soon.

His excellent mood did not last long. His sister Amelia, an imp all of ten summers of age, hissed at him when he was removing his hat in the foyer. She was hidden in the side corridor, one of her favorite places to eavesdrop. Arthur looked left and right as if to ascertain he was not watched. This amused Amelia mightily, so he habitually performed the rite. He was well aware that the door to the drawing room was closed and their butler, Stevens, had already vanished. He then crept into the side corridor, as if meeting a fellow spy, and flattened his back against the wall.

"The lark sings at dawn," Amelia whispered, her typical confirmation of his identity—though she could see him clearly.

Arthur suppressed his smile for spying was solemn business. "The crow calls at sunset," he replied in an undertone, looking around the corner again.

"The sparrow chirps at noon," Amelia confided.

"And the bats fly at night," he whispered and Amelia flung herself at him. He caught her in an unexpected hug.

"Bats are not part of the code," she chided as he set her on her feet.

"But they should be."

"It should be the owl," she insisted.

"The owl flies at night?" Arthur shook his head. "The owl hoots at midnight," he proposed and his sister's delight in that suggestion was clear. They had a new code, then.

Then she looked around the corner, before reaching up to whisper in his ear. " He is here." Her eyes shone, undoubtedly because she was in possession of valuable information.

"Who?" Arthur mouthed.

She mimicked their uncle's manner, sticking her nose in the air and drawing down the corners of her mouth as if she were a bad-tempered fish. Arthur barely kept from chuckling at her antics. It was true that they shared a dislike for their mother's much younger brother, but they strove to hide as much in company, particularly his. Alone together, they mocked him mercilessly.

"Why?" he mouthed and she drilled a fingertip into his chest.

"You. He wants you ."

This made no sense at all and Arthur shook his head in confusion.

Amelia, though, nodded wisely. She drew a fingertip across her throat then feigned choking from a garrotte, her dramatic expectation making Arthur smile. She could not make him fear the earl.

"He just wants money. Again," he said, for that was undoubtedly true. Lady Beckham's brother was the biggest wastrel in London. Arthur pointed up the stairs. "Your French verbs are waiting."

"I have to listen!"

"You will be caught."

"Then you must promise to tell me."

"I will tell you what you deserve to know, no more and no less." For this offer, she stuck out her tongue at him." Go." Arthur leaned down to hold her gaze. "I promise I will tell you all. You know that I always do."

She smiled and rubbed her hands together. "You are powerless when faced with my relentless questions."

Arthur laughed, because it was true.

She crossed her heart with a fingertip, and only when Arthur had done the same did she dart away. He stood, amazed at how silently she could move through the house. She must have every creaking stair memorized.

Maybe she was a spy, or had a promising future as one. There could be no secrets wherever Amelia resided, though he wagered her governess was unaware of great swaths of her charge's life.

He checked the knot of his cravat in the large mirror in the foyer, giving Amelia time to retreat before he entered the drawing room. He caught a glimpse of her face at the top of the stairs and saluted her, marching toward the drawing room even as he heard her giggle.

What could Reynaud want?

"Mother," he said as he entered the room, bowing to Lady Beckham. He could not fail to note that she looked agitated, which was not her custom.

She had not invited her brother, then. What did Reynaud want from her? His frequent requests for funds did not typically trouble her. Arthur immediately felt the urge to defend the lady and did not take a seat, standing before her and almost between the siblings.

Reynaud Tattinger, Earl of Fairhaven, turned from his place at the window to nod a greeting. The product of an impulsive second marriage on the part of their father, he was more than twenty years younger than his older sister, and only a few years older than Arthur, her oldest son. The earldom had fallen to him, and their respective ages meant that Arthur had no expectations of inheriting the title. Reynaud had not married as yet, but he undoubtedly would and there would be a veritable army of sons between Arthur and the earldom. He had made his peace with the situation long before.

"I thought you had become lost in the foyer," Reynaud said tartly. "It is not so large as that, Arthur. Have you mislaid every last increment of intelligence?"

There was something about the earl that provoked a sensible man into hiding his assets, lest they be appropriated or put to the service of the Earl of Fairhaven. He was not an unattractive man, with his fair hair and chiseled features, but there was a pettiness about his uncle that Arthur disliked.

Arthur made an elaborate bow. "My cravat, sir, had to be tidied before I could face Mother," he said lightly. "I find it quite impossible to get the knot exactly right without my valet." He turned to Lady Beckham. "What do you think, Mother? Will it suffice?"

That lady, to Arthur's relief, had a welcome gleam in her eye. He knew she was glad of his presence. "A little asymmetrical, dear boy. Do come here."

He bent and allowed her to adjust his cravat, winking at her when his uncle could not see his face. Her eyes twinkled as her smile was restored.

To be sure, Lady Beckham could be as demanding as her brother. The Tattingers were a fiercely stubborn lot. Arthur liked to think of himself as an exception.

Lord Fairhaven cleared his throat, then took a seat opposite his hostess. "I have no time for such fripperies and nonsense," he said sourly. Lady Beckham poured the tea and Arthur delivered a cup to his uncle before accepting his own. "I have come on an errand of importance, and I will not be put aside."

"I do not believe anyone has attempted to dissuade you from doing as much, Reynaud," Lady Beckham said, offering a plate of iced cakes.

"But you have delayed me. My time is of the greatest importance, as you would understand if you had any obligations at all, Yvonne."

Arthur watched his mother straighten. A lady of great activity and instigator of many initiatives for the welfare of others, she did not take well to any suggestion that she was idle.

The earl was living dangerously.

"I did not realize you had obligations, Reynaud," she said, her tone seemingly mild. Arthur heard the current of steel beneath her words though. "Have they taken to scheduling appointments in the gaming hells?"

The earl, astonishingly, sputtered, a dull red rising up the back of his neck.

"Oh, you have come to entreat me for funds again," Lady Beckham said with surety. "I regret, Reynaud, that I can no longer indulge you or your profligate habits. If you cannot pay your gambling debts, you should not incur them."

Arthur moved to stand by her side, bracing himself for a tirade from his uncle.

"Just because you married well, Yvonne, does not mean you are my superior," the earl said bitterly. "You were fortunate in your match, that is all, and you were fortunate because Father saw to it…"

"I was fortunate in my match because my husband was not a fool," Lady Beckham said crisply.

The earl's disdain was clear. "He was as inveterate a gambler as I."

"Yet he had the good sense to die before he had exhausted his inheritance. You might have taken a lesson there, Reynaud."

The pair glared at each other.

"And you have a son," the earl concluded, his gaze flicking to Arthur.

"You might take a wife if you desire offspring," Lady Beckham said before she sipped her tea. She looked wise and implacable, perhaps because the uncertainty of this encounter had been removed. The earl wanted money and she had already refused him. Arthur guessed that his uncle would leave shortly. "I do understand a successful result requires the participation of both parties."

"Save for the Madonna," Arthur noted.

"One event only in the history of the world," his mother said. "A miracle and a gust of wind. To my knowledge, no ladies since have endured such good fortune." She smiled at her brother, who glowered at her.

"I did not come for advice, Yvonne."

"Then why did you come, Reynaud? I assure you that we were quite content in your absence." Lady Beckham sipped her tea, her expression angelic. "I can also assure you that I have no funds to spare for your debts."

"That is not it."

"Then what is ?"

The earl sighed. He rose and paced the width of the drawing room and back, as Lady Beckham and her son exchanged a glance of confusion. The earl dropped onto the settee opposite Lady Beckham and fixed her with a look.

The look.

Arthur, and undoubtedly his mother, immediately understood that the earl had a problem, one that presumably only they could repair.

That was not the most reassuring realization, given past incidents when the earl had donned with the same pleading expression.

If it was not money he wanted, what else could it be?

Nothing good, in Arthur's view.

"There is a small situation," the earl confessed heavily. "Which requires a happy resolution, an occurrence you can assure."

"Me?" Lady Beckham asked.

"You," the earl said, looking at Arthur. "You have to wed anyway, and making this match will set everything to rights."

Arthur retreated a step, putting distance between himself and any suggestion of marriage. There were limits to his duty to the Tattinger family.

"Reynaud," Lady Beckham thundered. "What have you done?"