Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

A rthur could not fathom why he had been invited to the private box of the Duke of Haynesdale at the theatre that evening. He hadn't been planning on attending himself: the play was Molière's Le Bourgeois gentilhomme and he was escorting Amelia and her governess to the performance the following evening. On this night, he had been intent upon visiting a certain hell where the stakes were higher. While his luck was good, he would make the most of it.

Still, a duke was not to be denied.

He entered the box at intermission, only to find it vacant—except for a lady sipping a beverage. Her dark hair was elegantly dressed and studded with diamond pins that sparkled in the lights of the theatre. Her dress was of deepest sapphire, lavishly embroidered with silver. She wore long gloves and glittering bracelets on each wrist, as well as a necklace awash in diamonds. A tear-drop faceted sapphire of considerable size hung from the necklace and when she turned to survey him, Arthur saw that she wore earrings to match.

"You might be a goddess of the heavens, Miss Ballantyne, so adorned with stars," he said, bowing to the famous courtesan.

Her lips curved in a smile and she set aside her glass. "Mr. Beckham. I had heard that you were returned from Venice. How was the weather?"

"Perfect in every way, although I find myself with two new cats."

She laughed lightly. "I can imagine that they might have been desolated by the prospect of your departure."

"On the contrary, I was the one who could not leave them behind, although there were moments on our return journey that I doubted the wisdom of my impulse."

She looked to be truly amused. "Cats, in my experience, suffer worse from the discomforts of travel than most people."

"These do, indeed."

"How fortunate then that you have arrived and they can push such memories aside."

"Our cook has proven to be adept at finding them morsels of fish. I believe they would follow her anywhere."

They laughed together and Arthur was offered a glass of orgeat lemonade. As this was not a favorite choice of his, he declined, but Miss Ballantyne raised a brow. "You would prefer a brandy or a glass of Madeira, I suppose?" She clicked her tongue. "Best to abandon such indulgences until after your wedding night, unless it is your intention to disappoint."

Arthur blinked at this blunt advice. He knew that brandy could dampen his ardor, so to speak, but had not considered a greater effect. The famed courtesan held his gaze as if in challenge and he had to cede that she would know.

"I did not realize my suit was common knowledge," he said, accepting a glass of orgeat lemonade. He braced himself against the first taste even as he saluted Miss Ballantyne. "You are well informed."

"It is a habit that is difficult to abandon," she ceded and they sipped.

He did not mind the almond flavor and was pleased to find that Miss Ballantyne's concoction was less sweet than the one he recalled.

"I confess myself surprised at the news you intended to wed," she said.

"By my mother's accounting, I should have done as much already," he admitted, seeing no reason to disguise the truth. "But yes, I have formed an alliance and will wed shortly."

She looked into the depths of her glass, choosing her words with a care that Arthur could not explain. "And you are in search of his grace on this evening for a reason?"

"I was summoned by him."

"Summoned? That is a strong choice of word, Mr. Beckham. Surely the duke was more gracious than that."

"He has a talent, Miss Ballantyne, for sheathing an iron fist in a velvet glove. I had no doubt that my attendance was mandatory, nor was I so foolish as to be late."

She smiled again, but her gaze was thoughtful. "Do you know why he sought your presence here tonight?"

"No. I wonder, though, if it has to do with my pending engagement."

Her dark brows rose and she watched him closely.

"The lady's father did say he would consult with the duke on the matter."

Miss Ballantyne's confusion was clear. "But why?"

"I cannot say. Perhaps they are good friends. Perhaps he respects his grace's counsel." Arthur shrugged.

"How curious. I did not realize that Mr. Grosvenor and his grace were acquainted."

Suddenly, her reactions made sense. "Oh, you mistake my intention, Miss Ballantyne. It is not Miss Grosvenor I would marry, but Miss Patience Carruthers."

Did he imagine that his companion was startled? Arthur would have denied it but Miss Ballantyne's expression became inscrutable and her attention fixed upon the glass she held. "What a curious match," she said softly, then raised her gaze to his. Her expression reminded him of one of those Venetian cats newly arrived in his chambers.

"I do not find Miss Carruthers that unlikely of a spouse," he said heartily. "She is clever and pretty, not so young as some other eligible ladies, to be sure, but I would have a wife closer to my own age."

His companion smiled. "I meant Miss Carruthers' choice of you as a spouse," she said, her eyes dancing at the surprise Arthur failed to hide.

"Me?"

Miss Ballantyne refilled her glass. "You are handsome, to be sure, young and no doubt virile, and I understand that you have wealth, as well, but the Carruthers sisters are daughters of a publisher. They have been raised to know their own minds, to think and discuss and read widely. Indeed, they are most uncommon young ladies, and thus I would expect their marital choices to be somewhat uncommon."

"But the eldest is wed to Baron Trevelaine."

His companion saluted him with her glass. "A match made by his grace, and thus a conventional one. Also a happy one, I believe." She sipped. "But the second daughter, Miss Patience, is said to be the cleverest of them all and practical beyond compare. I might believe that she had chosen you for your income, but beyond that –" she tilted her head to consider him, then shook her head minutely "– I cannot see why you would appeal to her. You have a charm, Mr. Beckham, but such a lady would require more substance than I would expect you to offer."

Arthur did not know what to say. He fancied he had been insulted, though he was not entirely certain what detail he would cite if he took umbrage.

Worse, it had never occurred to him that he might be deemed deficient in any way, particularly for the office of marriage. Debutantes and widows and ambitious mothers pursued him constantly, and his own mother was always making introductions to young ladies she deemed suitable. He was always hunted, it seemed, which surely implied that he was desirable prey.

Rather than lacking in substance.

The question of course was whether he truly was so superficial or whether it was only his disguise as Arthur Beckham that would not be of interest to his intended bride.

Miss Ballantyne set her glass aside. "I see that I have caused offense, though that was not my intention, Mr. Beckham. I simply do not see you as a philosopher or a man of ideas, though there may be more to you than anticipated." She leaned a little closer and dropped her voice. "Or is there, perhaps, more to this match than meets the eye?"

In a way, Arthur was relieved that she had guessed the truth. "The lady has a quest, which I have sworn to assist. We deemed it best to formalize our partnership with marriage as it will be a lengthy venture."

"Now I am intrigued," the courtesan murmured, and Arthur wondered whether he might have found a patroness for Miss Carruthers' project. More financial contributions than his own could only help—and given the topic of the volume in question, Miss Ballantyne might be a powerful ally.

He moved closer and lowered his voice. "There is a book, you see, or the manuscript of a book. It is not yet published, and Mr. Carruthers declines to publish it, despite the endorsement of his eldest daughter. The baroness confided in her sister, who is determined to publish the book." He straightened. "We intend to establish a publishing firm to do precisely that."

"For one book." Miss Ballantyne considered him. "It must be a work of tremendous interest to your intended."

"It is. She says it will change the lives of women everywhere."

Had something flashed in the courtesan's eyes? "Indeed?" she murmured, dropping her gaze as if to hide that reaction. "Do you know more of this volume?"

"Only that it is a work of intimate advice for women, intended to aid married women in maintaining the amorous attention of their spouses."

This time, he could not mistake it. Miss Ballantyne caught her breath. "And Mr. Carruthers has declined to publish such a work?"

"Evidently, he thinks the content inappropriate."

Miss Ballantyne took a deep breath of indignation, and Arthur could only imagine the matter was close to her heart. Would she prefer that women had the information to beguile their own husbands? Or would that interfere too much with her own trade? He could not guess.

"How laudable that you would undertake such an endeavor," she said.

"Miss Carruthers is very certain of its importance."

"I find I must agree with her."

"Then perhaps you might?—"

Before Arthur could make a request for her patronage, Miss Ballantyne sat forward, her manner intent. "You must not tell the duke of this venture," she said, her voice low and hot, her gaze boring into his own.

"But…"

"No. He will consider such an agreement unacceptable as a basis for your match. An arranged marriage is one thing, and a love match another, but I am convinced that you will never persuade the duke of the merit of this negotiation." She smiled. "I, however, find myself reassured of your prospects for a happy union."

"Oh!"

"Tell him that you are smitten," Miss Ballantyne said with urgency. "Tell him that Cupid's arrow has found its mark and you wish only to spend your life with Miss Carruthers. Convince him of your ardor and all will be well."

Arthur might have argued but there was the thump of a cane from outside the box, and the duke himself appeared. His expression was grim and his eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the two of them. He seemed more imposing than Arthur recalled, but perhaps that was because the future hung in the balance, based on his grace's conclusion.

"You look to be making mischief, Miss Ballantyne," the duke said in a low grumble then entered the box. He nodded at Arthur. "Beckham."

"I simply make a scheme to locate more orgeat lemonade, your grace," she said with a smile. "Alas, the heat has caused it to evaporate and there is none left for you."

"How disappointing," the duke said in a tone that made his lack of disappointment abundantly clear. He smiled a little, his eyes gleaming. "But your will must be done, Miss Ballantyne." He bent over her hand and kissed the back of it, then called for a servant to fetch more of the beverage, along with a brandy for himself.

He sat, putting aside his cane as he eased into the seat beside the courtesan, then turned an incisive gaze upon Arthur. "And so, you would wed Edward Carruthers' daughter, Patience," he said without preamble. "Why?" The last word snapped like a whip, a query demanding an immediate response, the duke's manner indicating that very few answers would suffice.

Arthur decided in that moment to take all of the courtesan's advice.

Who knew a man better than his lover, after all?

* * *

The previous day and evening had passed slowly for Patience, with no tidings, no hints from her father and no glimpses of Mr. Beckham. The arrangement might not have been, given the relentless routine of her day—or perhaps it would not be, depending upon the duke's reply.

Nothing was said at dinner, which Patience found most discouraging, though her father did grant her a wink when he retired to his library.

It was agonizing to wait so long.

It was impossible to sleep.

She rose and dressed early, leaving Prudence sleeping soundly, and made her way downstairs quietly. She entered the breakfast room, certain she would be alone, only to find her father in his place.

"It appears you have made a conquest," he said by way of greeting, his jovial conviction startling her.

He was reading his mail, glasses perched on the end of his nose, eggs getting cold as per usual. The man could forget the world completely when there was anything to read—which meant Patience had come by that trait honestly.

"Have I?" she asked, taking a seat and nodding at Wentworth. He dispatched a maid to get her usual breakfast of a poached egg and toast. "Anyone I know?"

Her father laughed, his good mood more than evident on this morning. "Why, Mr. Arthur Beckham, of course. You did not tell me that there were tender feelings involved. That would have made all the difference in my response. Surely you knew as much."

Patience looked down at her egg. What did tender feelings have to do with her agreement with Mr. Beckham? Rather than reveal that she was puzzled, she smiled. "I gather you have heard from the Duke of Haynesdale?"

"Indeed, indeed." Her father shook the missive in question at her, then set it aside to consider his breakfast. His nature was so amiable that he was never concerned to eat cool eggs. When he tucked into the meal with vigor, she wondered again if he even noticed. "He writes this very morning that he had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Beckham at the theatre last evening, where the man in question was fulsome in expressing his ardor." Her father's brows rose. "Not that I am surprised, of course. You are well deserving of a man's devotion, my dear." He chewed his toast, sparing her a glance of some concern. "Do not misunderstand me, Patience. If I am startled, it is that a man of his rumored inclinations was able to discern your merit. All in all, I am delighted. A perceptive man for my clever daughter. How can such a marriage go awry?"

It could go awry if it was formed upon a deception—and truly, this made two falsehoods in succession. Patience wondered whether Mr. Beckham possessed any affection for the truth that could rival his rumored adoration of herself.

"I must write to the duke immediately and express my gratitude to him. Truly, one could have no better ally and friend, than a man who puts all aside to ease one's concerns. He is of the very ilk of his father." Her father finished his meal and excused himself, gathering up his correspondence to hasten to his library. "I will go to the shop within the half hour, if you are inclined to join me there today, Patience."

"Yes, Papa. That was my plan." Though she had little interest in gossip and rumor, it might be time for Patience to change that inclination. She had to learn more of Mr. Beckham than she had thus far—marriage was forever, and she did not wish to err in her choice of spouse. Had Mr. Beckham simply told her what she wished to hear, with no plan to fulfil his pledge? Patience felt a momentary chill. She could end up wed to a wastrel for no good cause.

No, she had to learn more about him, and with all haste.

She would ask Prudence to assist her in the quest.

* * *

Miss Felicia Grosvenor was displeased, and when Felicia was displeased, everyone in her vicinity shared in that discontent. Two days before, there had been a definite prospect of her pending marriage to Mr. Arthur Beckham. Yesterday, all the gossip about Mr. Beckham included tales of an alliance, not with her but with Miss Patience Carruthers. Felicia had not even been certain who that was at breakfast, much less why Mr. Beckham should offer for her hand.

Learning that her supposed rival was the middle daughter of a publisher and bookseller—albeit the best publisher and bookseller in Felicia's view—had done precisely nothing to mitigate her disappointment.

This Miss Carruthers was not even rumored to be a beauty.

She was not possessed of a wealthy income, a rich dowry or due for a fat inheritance.

Felicia's dressmaker had never heard of her, neither had her milliner or her bootmaker. It was clear this Miss Carruthers did not frequent the best shops and had no taste at all. She was not even present at her father's bookshop when Felicia visited, intending to view her. Felicia had retired, hoping that the rumor was a lie.

Perhaps Mr. Beckham chose to tease her. He was known to be frivolous and often said to mock others. It was an encouraging possibility in this case, but if so, such a tendency in the man would have to be ended with all haste.

But, on this morning, she heard from her own mother that Mr. Beckham's alliance with Miss Carruthers was official and would be announced shortly in the papers. How dare this chit steal the man meant to be Felicia's own?

One thing was for certain—their wedding had to be stopped and soon. Her mother insisted that Mr. Beckham was seeking a special license. There would not be much time.

Felicia snarled at her lady's maid. She kicked her mother's yapping little lapdog on her way down the hall. She told the footman that he had not opened the door quickly enough, complained to her father that he had failed her again, and stood before the house with a sour expression as she awaited the coach and four.

"The brass is not polished," she informed her father. "And the horses' manes are not braided the same way."

"You were in such a rush, my dear," that man protested, but earned a glacial stare from his daughter that silenced him utterly.

"You should never have allowed the earl to rescind his wager, Papa."

"The pledge was not truly his to make, my dear. You must understand as much. It was a question of honor, and truly, if your Mr. Beckham possessed an increment of honor himself…"

"He is not my Mr. Beckham," she said through her teeth, the words no less hostile for all their low volume. "That is the point ."

"He should have risen to the occasion of defending his uncle's honor. After all, he might see a fine inheritance and early by so doing. That he did not, my dear, suggests that he is not worthy of you."

"But I have chosen him," Felicia said as the door was opened for her. "And I will wed him, or I will ruin him, one way or the other."

"But my dear," her father protested as he climbed into the coach himself. "You must see reason…"

Two footmen exchanged a glance and the driver's brows rose in silent commentary. They all knew that the daughter of the house cared nothing for reason. Her desire was the only thing of import to her, and often to her father as a result.

Not a one of the three men would have traded places with Arthur Beckham that morning, not for any price.

* * *

Prudence warned Patience that as soon as the news was known, people would come to look at her. Curiosity would bring them to the bookseller to view Mr. Beckham's unexpected choice of bride. Patience was glad of the warning, but had not believed it, not truly. Even if she had, she would not have expected so very many people to be curious about her.

There was a positive crush of customers outside the shop when the doors were unlocked, more than had been waiting when the third volume of the most recently published popular novel had been published. Patience might have thought it a coincidence, but the vast majority of people were women and they were disinterested in books. Several peered at her, one asked outright about her dowry—another laughed and said Mr. Beckham had no need of it. Patience was looked up and down, and her cheeks burned at half-overheard comments about her clothing. Others speculated upon her choice of assisting in her father's business and whether that would continue after her wedding vows were exchanged. There was even whispered consideration of how long it might take her to conceive of a son.

"Does anyone here wish a book?" she demanded in vexation. There was a twitter of murmured responses, all in the negative, then a familiar male voice called from the very doors.

"Me!" Mr. Beckham cried. There was a gasp, then the crowd parted like the Red Sea to let him pass. Patience had never seen the like of it, but her betrothed was unsurprised.

He strode directly to her where she stood behind the counter, looking as confident and impeccably attired as ever. He wore a navy jacket on this day and buff trousers, his black boots polished to a mirrorlike gleam. His waistcoat was striped silk and his cravat was ornamented with a large sapphire. There was a pink rose in his buttonhole and a celebratory smile upon his lips, and Patience found her heart taking a skip when he doffed his hat and bowed before her. "Miss Carruthers," he said in a low purr. "I am delighted to have found you so early today."

"I was unlikely to be elsewhere, sir." She noted when she studied him closely that he looked a little tired, though he strove to hide it. "While I might have expected you to still be in a gaming hell."

"I was for much of the night," he ceded easily.

Prudence knew her disapproval showed. "How much did you lose? Or is it impertinent to ask?"

"It would be impertinent in any other than my betrothed." He leaned closer and whispered. "I won," he confided, eyes shining at his triumph.

"Oh!"

"When the cards favor me, I do not insult them by turning away early. It was the others who called a halt at dawn." He stifled a yawn, which she thought might have been contrived.

She was itching to ask how much he had won and she realized he knew it. For that alone, she would bite her tongue. "Then I am surprised you are not taking your leisure this morning, perhaps sleeping."

"When I could savor your company? No, no, Miss Carruthers." He fixed her with a look that was all mischief. "I did call at Golden Square."

"Already?"

"Already. The entire day awaits us, for we must celebrate the occasion of our betrothal. There are plans, my lady, to be made and details to be determined." His eyes widened as if he made a jest and she could not tell how serious he was. Was he drunk? Still drunk from the revels of the night before?

He leaned closer. "I never imbibe when I gamble," he whispered and she was startled that he read her thoughts so clearly.

Patience eyed him, well aware that everyone in the shop listened avidly. She could not suppress her sense that he teased her. "I thought you wished for a book."

"I do." His eyes were sparkling so that they seemed to be brimming with stars. His enjoyment was a sign of their opposing natures. Clearly, Mr. Beckham savored being the focus of attention, while Patience preferred to work quietly and unobserved. She supposed she would have to become accustomed to his flamboyant ways. "Your father has given me a list," he confessed, displaying the document in question. Patience glimpsed only a few of the titles there in her father's bold hand. "On this day, choose me a book, Miss Carruthers," he invited, his words carrying to the most distant corners of the shop. "Perhaps a volume of love poems, that I might read aloud to you as we ride in the park."

Ladies on all sides sighed.

Patience felt her eyes narrow as she considered the man before her. "I should not ride alone in the park with you, sir, not without a chaperone."

His eyes glinted and she thought he would note that she had already done as much. She flushed, watched his eyes twinkle, then glared at him.

"Even though we are betrothed?" he asked, instead of reminding her of her earlier concession.

"I am uncertain of the propriety of it." How curious that when she strove to be firm with this man, Patience found herself sounding dull.

Mr. Beckham held up a gloved finger, but she could not avert her gaze from those sparkling eyes. His merriment was ridiculously infectious. Did he always jest thus? Was he ever serious?

She frowned a little more sternly to hide her susceptibility to him.

"I anticipated that you might protest as much," he said, then turned to beckon toward the door. A young girl in a fine blue-green coat stepped forward and Patience could not fail to note the expense of the garment. Was it silk? It was lovely, to be sure. The girl's chestnut hair was artfully curled beneath her fashionable bonnet, and a peacock feather was tucked into the ribbon roses on her bonnet. Her eyes were a clear blue, and though their coloring was similar, Patience did not discern a strong resemblance with Mr. Beckham. This was not so curious as she did not resemble Catherine overmuch, but when the three sisters were together, the family connection was often noted. This girl might have been ten or eleven summers of age.

Patience guessed her identity before he spoke.

"May I introduce my sister, Miss Amelia Beckham? Amelia, this is my betrothed, Miss Patience Carruthers."

Patience curtsied as did Miss Beckham, and they murmured polite greetings as the occupants of the shop stood witness to this introduction. The whispers grew in volume.

"Amelia has a desire to see the Serpentine in the sunshine today," Mr. Beckham said. "As you might recall, Miss Carruthers, we are recently returned from Venice, so all of London's pleasures beckon anew."

"We returned with Arthur's new cats," the girl said with a roll of her eyes. She smiled a little, though, and looked toward her brother with a kind of amused tolerance that prompted Patience's own smile.

"Cats?"

"Two of them," Mr. Beckham supplied. "Fierce beasts that were in residence at our accommodations in the Serenissima. No one seemed to have a care for them. Though they are quite independent, convinced apparently that they have need of no human care, I could not bear to leave them behind."

"They are devoted to him," Miss Beckham whispered and Patience looked between them with surprise. "Perhaps it is because he saves fish for them."

"Does he?" Patience could readily imagine her betrothed ignoring any rules of the household or expectations of social conduct, but she would not have expected him to be indulgent of stray cats.

"They have no names," Miss Beckham confessed.

"You claim as much only because you called them all variety of names when they howled all the way home," her brother added.

"I had no notion it was quite so far from Venice to London." Her tone was one of dismay but her eyes sparkled, much like those of Mr. Beckham.

Patience found herself biting back a smile.

"They do have names!" her brother protested. "The black one is Tar and the grey one, Feathers." He winked at his sister. "And they did not complain as much as you did."

"Arthur!" Miss Beckham protested and he chuckled, uncontrite.

"Those are terrible names for cats," Patience said without thinking and he turned his merry grin upon her.

"I had no notion there were rules."

"Protocol, perhaps," Patience said. "Tradition and expectation. Cats do have a certain dignity that must be acknowledged in their names. The ancient Egyptians held cats in such regard that they had cemeteries for cats and mummified their remains. There are those who suggest that cats were venerated in their society, and certainly they were respected beyond other animals…"

Mr. Beckham eyed her so intently that she fell silent and flushed. "Fascinating. Might I prevail upon you, Miss Carruthers, to see the situation remedied?"

"I shall have to meet them first."

He laughed at that. "You will!"

"But first you owe me an explanation, Mr. Beckham."

"Do I?" His eyes gleamed as he leaned closer. "Do you dare to tell me here before so many witnesses, or shall we discuss whatever crime I have committed in the privacy of the carriage?"

Patience flicked a glance at their observers. "Not here."

His gaze locked with hers and she watched his eyes darken. His voice dropped and her heart leapt as it seemed trained to do in his presence. "A wise choice, but then, you are reputed to be a most clever young lady."

Patience found herself blushing, a situation that was not improved by Mr. Beckham's evident satisfaction in her response to his teasing. He watched her, eyes gleaming, with a contented smile and she could only stare back at him as she felt her cheeks heat even more.

Miss Beckham then appealed to Patience. "Then you will come? I should so like to become acquainted with you, but do not wish to interfere with your plans for the day. Arthur is inclined to see his own objectives alone."

"I am the heart and soul of consideration, as you, dear sister, know more than any other."

Miss Beckham chortled. Mr. Beckham grinned, then he offered his hand to Patience.

She wished to accompany them more than she had desired any outing in a while. She looked over her shoulder and caught her father's eye. He was watching the exchange from the threshold of his office and smiled when their gazes met. He nodded and made a shooing motion with his hand.

"I shall despise you forever if you ignore me now," Prudence threatened beneath her breath, suddenly appearing beside Patience. Her bright smile made her expectation clear and Patience was pleased to introduce her.

She then left them chatting while she fetched her bonnet, gloves, coat and bag.

Riding in the park in the morning. Taking responsibility for naming a pair of cats. Goodness. Next, she would be leaving cards and making calls. The very unlikelihood of such a change in her priorities made Patience smile.

No, it was the prospect of Mr. Beckham's companionship that made her smile. She hoped he did not know it, but looked back to find him watching her and guessed that he did.