Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

T he book might have been made of lead for the apparent weight of it in Patience's bag. She was certain that everyone in the shop knew that she carried the scandalous volume and that even passersby in the street could sense that it was in her possession.

She wanted to read it from cover to cover.

She wanted to know how it had come to be in the shop at all.

She knew that the only person who could unravel the mystery was Catherine. This, in itself, defied belief as Catherine was the oldest and the most responsible of all three Carruthers sisters—but Catherine had been the one to proclaim her copy of Childe Harold to be missing when the Beckham's order was packed. Perhaps it belonged to her husband.

Either way, Catherine knew the truth. The book had to be returned to her, and Patience only hoped she might gain some details in exchange.

When she left the shop, Patience did not go home. It was simplicity itself to ask Quinn, the family driver, to take her to Trevelaine House to visit her sister instead. Catherine was expecting her first child in December and now that her pregnancy was evident, she spent less time in the bookstore. It was completely reasonable that Patience would visit her. She even chose some books for her sister and bought some sweets from the confectioner shop next door to the bookstore.

She had never been able to read in carriages, unlike her sister Prudence who could read anywhere, but for once that did not vex her. She was thinking of Arthur Beckham and considering herself fortunate that her family did not mingle overmuch in society. She had found herself almost overwhelmed by the attentions of such a handsome young man, particularly one so inclined to make mischief. Had she encountered a number of such men in succession, each determined to charm, tease or provoke her, there is no telling what she might have done.

Actually, there was no uncertainty. Patience would have done what was right and proper—most likely, nothing at all but return home with her chaperone—there was a family jest, after all, that Patience suited her name while Prudence did not.

"I suppose that you have a very proper betrothal arrangement, to a very proper clerk who is very properly a suitable match for the proper daughter of a bookseller and publisher, and is not a man to make such improperly bold suggestions."

She heard Mr. Beckham's words again, and saw him, leaning over the counter, the light glinting in his dark hair. His confidence was alluring, to be sure, and his conviction that he was right as irksome as his surety that he was irresistible. Patience wished heartily that she might have been the one to prove his charm less than he believed it to be, but to herself, she could admit that she had been beguiled.

She had always imagined that an older brother might tease a sister thus, but there was something in Mr. Beckham's manner that had not been brotherly.

No, there had been an admiration and an awareness, an interest that had been the reason she could not simply turn away from him. She was surprised to realize how much she had enjoyed his attention. She had not been certain what he would say, and that had intrigued her.

Had he been flirting with her?

If so, he had been teasing her, of course. Such a man, a handsome rakehell with every asset at his fingertips, would court the favors of a lady who was his social equal. An heiress, perhaps, the cherished daughter of an aristocrat, a beauty so indulged that she never had to mend her petticoats or lengthen the hems of her older sister's discarded dresses. The Carruthers were comfortable, but their father was frugal.

The fact was that Patience had never concerned herself with marriage or her prospects. Books were her companions, and they were far more reliable than most people. When she was younger, the family conviction had been that Catherine would wed first, but her older sister had not succumbed to a nuptial vow early. It had only been three years since the Duke of Haynesdale had arranged Catherine's match to Rhys Bettencourt.

Why had he done as much? Patience had never considered the choice, though now she wondered. Catherine had been old for marriage even then—to be wed the first time at twenty-three years of age was somewhat astonishing, to wed so well might be a miracle. At any rate, the duke was unlikely to arrange a match for Patience—there had been no suggestion of that eventuality.

Contrary to Mr. Beckham's convictions, there was no clerk paying his attentions, proper or otherwise. If there had not been one thus far, Patience doubted one would appear when she was so long in the tooth as to be one-and-twenty.

How curious that the situation had not troubled her before Arthur Beckham teased her.

It was the nature of having sisters, she decided, to dislike any sense that she was missing something. Was she missing something by not entering the matrimonial state? This book suggested she might be—but Mr. Beckham's provocation made a more compelling case.

Patience wanted to know.

As the carriage made its way through the streets, she considered her own eventual fate. Remaining unwed did not trouble her, unless she considered the likelihood of her father departing this world before her. What then?

Childbirth did increase the possibilities of a woman's death at a comparatively young age, but without a husband, Patience was unlikely to bear a child. Given her robust good health, she would likely survive her father.

It was easy to anticipate the rest. The bookselling and publishing firm would pass to her uncle, her father's younger brother and the other Carruthers of the firm's name, and thence to his sons, now thirteen and eleven years of age. Even if Uncle Richard was survived by his brother and Patience's father, her cousins, Michael and Thomas, would still ultimately inherit the business.

And that would mean that an unwed Patience would be beholden to either or both of those hoydens for the rest of her days. She closed her eyes briefly at the prospect. Catherine would ensure her comfort, she was certain, if her sister did not succumb to the risk of childbirth herself. If she did, heaven forfend, and her husband remarried, there might not be a welcome for Patience at Trevelaine House.

Patience gripped her bag, thinking somewhat more favorably about the prospects of marriage than she had to date, and purely on the basis of its financial repercussions. She looked out the window at the numerous people going about their business.

Where did one find an eligible partner, preferably one with sufficient finances to support her desire for books? How she wished one could place an advertisement, as Wentworth did when they had need of a new housemaid.

Perhaps Catherine could help.

* * *

The earl's tale was surrendered in fits and starts, as was characteristic of his reluctant confessions. Lady Beckham had to order a second pot of tea to sustain them while he wound his way to the heart of the issue, and Arthur thought the sun might set upon another day before they heard the damning details.

Of course, his uncle was lacking in funds. That was the defining situation of the man's existence.

Of course, he had exhausted all potential sources of loans. (Arthur knew this meant his uncle did not like the offered terms.)

And yet, and yet , the earl could not resist the tables—this was followed by an eloquent soliloquy about the siren's call of the dice, etc. which need not be recounted again—and so he had gambled. He had lost so many times that he knew his luck was due to turn—by his telling, the change in his fortunes was a virtual certainty.

Arthur rolled his eyes and turned to face the window, wondering whether the earl would ever learn that there were no certainties in gambling—save perhaps, for the older man's inevitable losses. It was all mathematics, but the earl had never troubled to learn as much. Worse, he failed to have the ability to walk away from a game, even when he was losing disastrously.

The only time to remain at the tables was when one was winning, to Arthur's thinking.

Of course, the earl had taken a most uncommon wager, one he was convinced he would win handily. He presented this detail with conviction, as if they could only agree with him.

Lady Beckham and Arthur again exchanged a look.

The earl paused for breath and mopped his brow with his handkerchief, his manner revealing the truth of the situation.

"But you lost," Arthur guessed, needing no foresight to know the result of the tale.

The earl hung his head in apparent shame, a regret that must have nearly reached its limit. Arthur had to assume the game had ended some twelve hours ago or more. "I did."

"I will not lend you any more money," Lady Beckham said. "And I will not give you any outright, either. Drink your tea, Reynaud, and if you are that broke, put a biscuit in your pocket for your dinner. That is all you will have of me."

"I did not bet mere money, Yvonne. I told you it was a most unusual wager."

The glance exchanged by his companions this time was wary.

"What were the stakes, Uncle?" Arthur asked, his uneasiness growing.

The earl looked between them, smiled as if that would make a difference in their reactions, then blurted out the truth. "You."

"Me?" Lady Beckham demanded, her voice rising in outrage.

"No, no, Yvonne. Arthur here. Does he not need a wife? Is his marriage not past due?" The earl chortled as if he had contrived a merry solution, but no one shared his amusement. "I have done all of us a favor, in fact, by seeing that question resolved!"

When his laughter faded, a deadly silence claimed the drawing room. Lady Beckham set aside her tea, the cup rattling precariously in the saucer as she put it down.

"Reynaud," Lady Beckham said, a torrent of fury in that single word, then pinched the bridge of her nose. She visibly struggled for mastery of her emotions.

Arthur said something markedly more pithy, a single word which made his uncle's eyes widen. "Who?" he demanded then, his voice like a bark.

"Miss Felicia Grosvenor."

This time, Arthur swore with a fluidity that left his uncle visibly astonished. "I do apologize, Mother," he said tersely, but she waved away the offense.

"I think you are entitled to such a view, frankly. Reynaud should never have acted so rashly."

Arthur put down his cup and marched to the window to glare at the passing traffic. There was very little of it, but he had to contrive a scheme for his own escape. He would do a great deal for Lady Beckham—he had done a great deal for her, and he had personally benefitted from the arrangement—but this, this was out of the question.

"She is the very ideal of femininity," Reynaud insisted, a plea in his voice.

The very suggestion of that young lady being considered to have merit, never mind the prospect of her becoming his wife, set Arthur's teeth on edge.

"According to her father," he said crisply. "Whose view is not without bias."

"Who must resort to a wager to find her a spouse," Lady Beckham said with a click of her tongue. "What does that tell you of her eligibility, Reynaud?"

"You are harsh, Yvonne…"

"You should wed her yourself then," Arthur retorted but his uncle only laughed.

"Me? I will wed a lady of lineage or no other."

"Who are these people?" Lady Beckham snapped, putting out a hand. "Bring me the Burke's, Arthur."

Arthur shook his head and did not move. "You will not find them there." He felt his mother's horror.

"Thomas Grosvenor," the earl said, the surname making Arthur turn to face him. "And his daughter, Felicia."

"Is he in trade?" Lady Beckham's perspective was unmistakable.

"Worse, Mother. The lady in question is ambitious, grasping, conniving, untrustworthy, unattractive and gauche," Arthur supplied. "She could not possibly be rich enough to induce me to take her hand, and I gather my view is shared by the vast majority of eligible men in London, perhaps in all of England." He took a sandwich that he did not want and bit it in half savagely, taking the opportunity to glare at his uncle. "I would not have put it past her to have contrived this scheme with her father, or her father—for she must have come by her dishonest nature honestly—to have fixed the cards and cheated to ensure his victory."

"Oh!" Lady Beckham gasped.

"But my honor…" the earl protested.

"Your honor is of no relevance to me, sir." Arthur spoke with a vehemence that he knew surprised his companions. "I could never wed Miss Grosvenor, for I would be driven to madness in less than five minutes in her company."

He met Lady Beckham's horrified gaze, and knew their thoughts were as one.

"Oh, that girl," she said softly. "I remember her now."

"There is nothing for it," the earl said, striving to sound hearty. In truth, he was perspiring mightily. "The wager has been made and lost, and you must keep the bargain, Arthur. Perhaps she will become more attractive to you in time."

"Impossible," Arthur said and finished his sandwich with an emphatic bite.

"Reynaud, you cannot expect Arthur to bind his life to that of a woman based upon your feckless wager."

"Barnaby Grosvenor will ruin me, Yvonne, and enjoy the doing of it."

"You have been ruined before, Reynaud." She shook her head at the tedium of it all and lifted the tea pot. Arthur shook his head, the earl ignored her, so she refilled her own cup.

"But he is devious, Yvonne." The earl leaned closer to make his appeal to his sister—who appeared unmoved. "He has bought enough of my debts that he can take Fairhaven from me, unless Arthur weds his daughter." He sighed. "By the terms of the agreement, I am to declare Arthur my heir after the wedding."

Lady Beckham set the tea pot down hard at that.

"The last thing I wish to inherit are your debts, Uncle," Arthur said, even as his thoughts flew.

"But you must . You must wed her. I entreat you!"

But Arthur straightened, his resolve set. There was no honorable way out of this unacceptable obligation, so he would do what he had to do.

He would lie.

He did not like it, but the solution had worked in the past—and of all people, Lady Beckham could not find fault with the choice.

"I cannot wed the lady in question," he said crisply, his decision made. He examined the sweets with apparent leisure, as if indifferent to his uncle's fuming, and chose a savory sausage roll instead, one that was no more than a bite. It was probably delicious, though it might have been dust on his tongue. He indicated them to Lady Beckham with favor, but she shook her head slightly, watching him with interest all the while.

"But there is no cause for defiance…"

"It is not defiance, sir, but a pre-existing situation, one of which you evidently are unaware."

"I do not understand." The earl looked between his sister and his nephew, his rising alarm undisguised.

"If you had consulted with me before embarking on such a foolish wager, you would have known that I am already betrothed."

"What?!" the earl roared.

Lady Beckham straightened. She could destroy this scheme before it began but Arthur saw her smile ever so slightly and was relieved.

She was entertained, and that alone might save him.

"A man, as you know, cannot wed two women, at least not in this country." Arthur swept an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. "And I cannot possibly sever a bond promised with such a respectable family, made in good faith and entered with the approval of all parties. It would be unseemly, Uncle, dishonorable and a disgrace." He placed a hand upon his own chest. "My own honor is at stake, after all." He smiled at the outraged earl. "I know you would not ask such a foul deed of me, even for your own convenience."

"But I had no notion you were affianced," the earl said, sinking back down to the settee. "Why was I not informed?"

"The alliance is but recently formed," Lady Beckham said, as if she knew all about it. Her gaze flew to Arthur.

"And who is the lady in question?" the earl demanded. "What is her name?"

The only one lady Arthur found to be of interest.

He would have to throw himself at her mercy, and could only hope she possessed some increment of compassion. He had no doubt she would offer him a challenge in gaining her agreement, and in a way, he looked forward to the encounter.

"Miss Patience Carruthers, of course." He offered his cup for more tea and his mother poured it with a triumphant flourish. "I am surprised you have not heard. All the ton is talking about it. There is no doubt about it. You will have to wed Miss Grosvenor yourself." The earl began to shout, his mother scolded her brother for his poor manners, and Arthur sipped his tea, wondering how in damnation he was going to manage to convince Miss Carruthers to accept his lie.

The fact was that he would do anything to avoid a lifetime with Felicia Grosvenor.

If he told Miss Carruthers as much, would she take pity on him? Arthur doubted that, but there might be something she desired, something he could give her, something he could provide to make this most convenient agreement. Bloody hell, he had every asset at his fingertips. She must desire something .

He might have need of divine intervention to see success in this matter.

Perhaps he should learn to pray.

Surely, such dire action was not necessary as yet. Arthur still had his charm, though the lady in question might be immune to it. Either way, he could not regret having a logical reason to seek out Miss Patience Carruthers again.

Indeed, he was already looking forward to the encounter.

How to best prepare? He knew little of her affections and dislikes. He did know Rhys Bettencourt, who had married her older sister some years before. Perhaps Bettencourt could be persuaded to take Arthur's cause.

It could not hurt to ask.

Arthur only hoped that the baron was in town. They did belong to the same club. He would stop at White's and see what he could learn. He excused himself, left Lady Beckham and her brother arguing, and made his escape.

* * *

Patience had not been in close proximity to a lady in the family way before, and could not keep her gaze from straying to her sister's ripening belly. She found her sister's dimensions surprising, even hidden beneath the graceful folds of a new dress. The babe was not due until December, thus it was clear that Catherine would become considerably larger before the happy day. The sisters sat together in the library of Trevelaine House, a comfortable room with a considerable store of books. Patience approved of it mightily.

Even better, there was a fire on the hearth and three broad windows admitting the afternoon sunlight.

"If I possessed such a room, I might never leave it," Patience said, not hiding her admiration in the least.

Catherine smiled. "I seldom do. Thank you for this unexpected visit, Patience. It is a delight to have company. If it was Prudence, I would believe there was a reason for your appearance, but not so with you."

"But there is a reason, Catherine. I came to return your book."

"My book?"

Patience offered the copy of Childe Harold and watched Catherine's eyes widen in recognition of the volume.

"My book!" she said and reached to take it from Patience.

Patience pulled it back a little. "Is it your book? For if it is, Catherine, I should like to know why such a volume is in your possession at all."

"You looked within it," Catherine guessed, then grimaced.

"Mr. Beckham told me there was something wrong with the book. I opened it to prove him wrong."

"Oh," Catherine said.

"Oh," Patience echoed. Their gazes met and Catherine was the first to smile. Her sister looked positively wicked.

"It isn't actually my book," Catherine admitted.

"Perhaps it belongs to your husband?"

"No." Catherine looked across the room, just the way she always did when she was deciding how much of a tale to share. Patience waited, knowing that nothing would veer her sister from her course, whatever she decided it would be. Her curiosity would not be readily dismissed though. If Catherine refused to tell, she would have to find another way to learn the truth.

She was considering how that might be achieved when Catherine met her gaze again. "The book belongs to an acquaintance of mine. You need not know her name, but she has composed a volume of her own, called The Ladies' Essential Guide to the Art of Seduction ."

Patience repeated the title, incredulous that she had heard it correctly.

Catherine nodded. "It is filled with amorous advice and details of a most intimate nature. The author's intention is to see ladies better informed for the realities of the wedding night, for example, and for subsequent intimate encounters with their husbands. Her conviction is that men turn to other sources of satisfaction because wives tend to know so little of…expectations, and her book would address that deficit."

"A book?" Patience asked.

"A book," Catherine agreed. "Fully composed and edited. I was uncertain that Father would consider it for publication, given the content, but the author insisted that much more salacious volumes already exist for men. She brought this volume from her own collection to show me."

They looked at the book as one.

"Then it is hers."

"And hidden inside the case of another book to disguise it. I tell you, Patience, I am most relieved to be able to return it to her. It was only to be a loan."

"Then her book will be published?"

Catherine frowned. "I had hoped as much, but I fear not. Father is adamant that he will not consider it. In fact, he is a little vexed with me at this juncture, for even daring to make the suggestion."

"You did not have this volume to show him, though, to better make your case."

"But he knew of it already." Catherine rose to her feet and walked the length of the room. "It is so frustrating to realize, Patience, how much of the world is hidden from us, how many truths are secured behind locked doors so that we, mere women, cannot partake of this knowledge." She flung out a hand. "This lady's book helped me and Rhys, and I am not ashamed to admit it. I knew nothing of what to expect, until I read its pages."

"Our mother died too young to give us such advice."

"But she might not have done as much, even if she had lived. All matters of the marital bed are treated as great secrets, never to be surrendered to respectable women, even before their nuptial nights." Catherine's voice rose in vexation. "How could we be prepared? How are we to know what to do?" She exhaled mightily. "And so, I did not know, and so we could not speak of it. I had no notion how to begin. I should never have dared to approach Rhys as I did without such counsel, to initiate encounters that gave us both great satisfaction, and now we are so happy together. I could not have borne if our earlier situation had continued…"

"You were not happy with your husband?"

Catherine considered Patience, choosing her words. "Men have expectations of marriage, Patience, and particularly of the marital bed. They have more experience in such matters, as a rule, while we are left—" she flung out her hands "—blind in the darkness, yet needing to resolve the situation. Rhys had concerns for my welfare, which I was able to overcome." She took a deep breath and Patience realized she would not surrender more detail. "I am convinced that many, many marriages would be happier unions if ladies had access to this lady's advice."

Patience had only one question, one that should have been obvious to anyone of her acquaintance. "May I read it?"

"No! You are unwed."

"I might be able to argue your cause with Father."

"If I let you read it now, he is more likely to disown me. He heartily disapproves of this book, Patience, probably because he believes ladies should only learn such details from their husbands." She heaved a sigh. "But all husbands are not as eloquent as Father must have been."

Patience could only consider how much she wanted to read this volume, given that it was going to repair marriages far and wide if read, given that its contents were forbidden to her.

Against every expectation, here was another cause to take a husband.

She eyed her sister, who was rubbing her temple, vexed by the situation and clearly in no mood to do any matchmaking. She found her gaze roving the shelves of the library, as if she might spot the book in question, without even knowing what it looked like.

"May I borrow this one before you return it to your acquaintance?"

"Patience! How can you ask me such a thing?"

"You have read it."

"Not all of it. Some of the details are most salacious."

"Oh!" Patience eyed the book with even greater interest.

"I already have to give the author bad news. I must at least return her book along with her manuscript."

"And who is the author?" she asked, suddenly struck by the gap in her sister's accounting. "Who is she to possess such knowledge in abundance and advice to share?"

"Her name is Mrs. Oliver and she is a widow several times over. She has the most remarkable manner." Catherine frowned, and Patience had the sudden impression that her sister's next words would not be entirely truthful. How unfair she was! Catherine was always honest. "The book has been lauded by another lady of experience beyond my own, but her name is not to be mentioned."

How like Catherine to keep such a promise. Patience smiled at her. "But if the content is so reliable as that, then its publication could not help but be a highly profitable venture…"

"I believe so, but Father refuses and so does Uncle Richard. I spoke to them both but they were resolute. As much as I wish to see the book published, I cannot even think of taking it to another publisher."

"You would be giving them the profits."

"Exactly. It would feel disloyal."

Patience considered the conundrum for only a moment. "Could you not begin a publishing firm of your own? You know how to structure the business, and I would assist you…"

"And I am in no condition to undertake such a venture," Catherine said, cupping her hand around her rounding belly.

"Is all well?" Patience asked, even though she knew she was not supposed to do as much.

Catherine nodded and smiled. "Do not start to fret like Rhys! All is well, but babies demand attention. I am tired and must ensure I do not exert myself overmuch." Her smile broadened. "And once there is one child in the house, there might well be another. I wager my attention is claimed for the next decade."

"Then Mrs. Oliver…"

"Has no interest in becoming a publisher herself, or in financing the production and distribution of the book. The other two ladies who are aware of the work similarly cannot provide the means for its publication. It annoys me to no end that such a volume will not find its way into the world and the hands of women in need of its advice, but I see no other eventualities."

"We must find a husband for me then," Patience said with heat. "One with sufficient resources that he can become a publisher and I can ensure the volume's success."

Catherine laughed aloud. "Oh, I have fed your enthusiasm," she teased. "For you to consider matrimony is a marvel, but then no one would be surprised that you would do as much for a book." They laughed together, as if it was a great jest, but Patience wondered whether there was any possibility of such a success.

It was unfortunate that she had not had a debut season, much less that she knew so few eligible men. She knew fewer rich bachelors. Even if they had allowed women into the gambling hells, it would have served little as she was notoriously unlucky at all games of chance.

She had time to think she should take that as a warning, when she heard Baron Trevelaine himself being greeted by his butler. Another man's voice could be heard as well and the sisters exchanged a glance before the door to the library was flung open.

Catherine's husband took one look at them seated together before the fire and laughed with genuine pleasure. Patience found herself smiling at his manner, for she had always liked him. "How fitting is this?" he asked heartily. "I am asked to contrive an introduction to your sister, Catherine, and come home to seek your advice, only to find the lady in question is here. Hello, Patience." He came forward to greet her. "What a pleasure to find you here." He seized her hands, his enthusiasm making her smile, then turned to gesture to his companion. "I believe you are already acquainted with Mr. Arthur Beckham?"

Patience stared as the man in question doffed his hat and bowed to her. His eyes were dancing with merriment when he straightened and his presence made her heart leap. The man had a scheme, for Patience could smell it, though she had no notion what it might be. Had there ever been a man who could look so wicked and so refined at the same time?

"Miss Carruthers," he said, bending over her hand in his turn. He looked up, his gaze locking with hers with a surety that made her heart jump. "I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you again." This he murmured, his voice low and dark, his eyes filled with a promise that made her cheeks heat.

Truly?

Why? Patience watched his satisfied smile dawn as he surveyed her rising blush and could only wonder. What did Arthur Beckham want with her?