Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

"Y ou ask for proof of my intention, Patience, but I might ask for your trust."

She flung out her hands. "But you cannot continue to live without a care for anything beyond your own entertainment! A man of enterprise needs to be sober and prudent. He cannot gamble. He cannot cavort all the night long when there is a business to be run in the morning!"

"I do not cavort ," Arthur said tightly, but she dismissed this argument with a wave of one hand.

"You gamble, sir. You dance and you drink and you wager and you duel, and –" she made the most alluring sound of frustration, distracting Arthur from the argument at hand "– and I do not even know half the pastimes you undertake. I know only that you should abandon them all."

That he was found lacking when she had no notion of his plans, annoyed Arthur as little else could have done. He had long understood the risk in divulging a secret to others, and the fact that Patience judged him and found him guilty before she asked after an explanation did not encourage him to change. "You should have wed a bookkeeper," he said tightly.

"I thought you were a man of good sense. I thought you would strive to better understand the business you mean to enter."

Arthur's temper, though seldom roused, flared.

"Why?" he demanded of her, hearing his voice rise. "When I order the roofs to be rethatched on the tenants' houses on my mother's estate, I do not have to know how to thatch a roof myself. I do not have to judge the thatch or its thickness or compare the price of labor from this town to that. I decree that it shall be done and people who know how to ensure that a good job is done see the task completed, then I pay the cost on her behalf. Why should this venture be any different?"

Patience, to her credit, did not retreat but folded her arms across her chest, looking as stubborn as Arthur felt.

To his dismay, tears gathered in her beautiful eyes. He took a step toward her, but she abruptly turned away.

She took a breath. "I warn you, sir, that I cannot remain with a man whose word cannot be trusted."

There was a moment of complete silence. If ever Arthur had wished to lay the truth bare to another, this was that moment. He would have liked nothing better than to have surrendered the entirety of his truth to Patience, but he feared that the revelation would only make matters worse.

First, it would prove that he had deceived not only her, but all of London.

And second, it would prove that he did not have the funds for her venture.

"Do you mean to leave?" he asked in a whisper, hearing his own fear in his tone.

She tossed her hair and met his gaze, her own eyes filled with tears so that he felt like a cur. "A secret, Arthur. Just one."

He stared at her, wanting honesty between them, wanting her to desire him for his own sake. But no one had ever desired Arthur for his own sake, and he could not believe that this sensible and pragmatic woman would either.

His characteristic charm abandoned him, just as he feared his new wife might do.

There was an irony, to be sure, in the fact that one woman in all of England found him lacking, and she was the sole one he desired. Worst of all, there was nothing he could say to change her view.

Save surrender a secret that would drive her away.

There was only silence between them, a silence that yawned with a thousand unwelcome prospects to Arthur, a silence interrupted by the patter of rain against the windows. He found it a chilling sound.

He turned and went to the window, purportedly looking into the street, wondering how he might gain her good view again. He feared there was no victory to be had in this chamber on this night.

If he left, he might make some progress on her goal and thus regain her favor. It was a slim chance, but the sole one he had.

"I will leave you then, to the unpacking of your books," Arthur said, his voice more terse than he would have preferred. "I will put my time to better use than engaging in an argument that cannot be won."

"Doubtless there is a game of cards awaiting your attendance," she said, her tone tart.

Little did she know that such a venture might aid their own.

"Perhaps I will find one." He turned and strode to the door to his own chamber, wondering if his own trust was misplaced. His winnings were hidden in her chamber, but he could not retrieve them now without making matters worse

"I have placed some of my own books on your shelf," he said on the threshold to his chamber, as if that might keep her from looking within them. "Perhaps that will not inconvenience you overmuch." He glanced back to find her lips set and her eyes full of tears. He might have returned to her side, but she abruptly turned her back to him.

"Good night, sir," she said tightly, dismissing him, her very manner sparking his ire anew.

Sir . He was sir again. The very sound of that word sent fury through his veins. Arthur marched through his chamber, seizing his hat and gloves, claiming his greatcoat. He shouted for the carriage to be brought around and slammed the door as he headed to the stairs. He was frustrated and angry as he seldom was, his mood black, and he knew that at least half of the blame was his alone.

Why had he not confided in Patience?

How did she not realize how much she asked of him?

He was striding toward the waiting carriage, seeking a destination, when a thought occurred to him. Had Patience deliberately provoked their disagreement? She had responded to his kiss in a most promising way, then had become fearful.

Why?

Arthur looked up at her window, sensing that she had seized upon a point of dissent—and that any item of disagreement would do. It was a sobering notion to have a wife afraid of one's touch.

He must proceed with care. The first task before him was to bring proof of his good intentions. How did one establish a publishing firm? He would ask his solicitor, a competent man of business, for advice. The hour was not so late as that and that man would yet be in his offices. Arthur gave the direction to Morris, then settled back, discontent with his own progress.

Perhaps he would discover a secret to surrender on the way, or choose from his collection.

Perhaps Dame Fortune could be tempted to smile upon him once more.

Arthur could only hope.

* * *

As soon as Arthur was gone, Patience feared she had not been fair. What had she done?

She heard his boots on the stairs, his haste to be gone more than clear, then the sound of the front door opening and closing.

The house was silent then, as if all within it held their breath and Patience realized she was holding her own. She released hers slowly, hating that she had been such a coward. Arthur had been gentle with her and patient, but she had let her fears claim command. She had challenged him and provoked him, and now she was alone.

It was her own fault.

To be sure, she was concerned about his wasteful habits, but if he did not even speak to her, she could not effect a change. If she was a demanding shrew, he might have cause to abandon their agreement. She eyed the page and read it again. What was her secret? If Arthur had asked her for such a confession, what would she have admitted?

That she feared he would tire of her once his conquest was gained.

That she found him intriguing beyond all other men.

That she feared she might come to love him.

Patience sighed at the resonance of truth. What then? She feared she was a means to an end for Arthur, that she had surrendered all and might end up with naught. On this night, her solitude was her own fault. In this moment, it seemed all was lost. The rain slanted against the windows with renewed vigor, as seemingly even the elements echoed her new husband's displeasure.

She had provoked him for no good cause, creating trouble for its own sake, and as she rested her forehead against the cold window pane, Patience knew why.

Fear.

In her heart, she believed Arthur would keep their agreement. She had been unreasonable, which was not like her, because of her fear. She had started a fight to avoid the obligation of her wedding night.

But how could anyone trust that tide of sensation, let alone abandon themselves to it? To abandon one's restraint and be carried away by desire was so seductive that it had to be dangerous. She feared to lose command of herself not only in that moment, but forever, to cede all to Arthur for all time. The very fact that such yearning rose in a torrent, as if to overwhelm any objections, meant it had to be untrustworthy.

Did it not?

She recalled Arthur's kiss and that heat filled her once again. His touch made her yearn to surrender everything to him, perhaps in exchange for nothing, and abandon her practicality for his satisfaction—however fleeting it might prove to be. How could one man, however handsome and charming he might be, have gained such power over her in such a short time?

How could he not have even tried to change his ways, just a little?

Patience watched the rain, and decided the issue was not Arthur, per se . She was simply overcome by a new experience. By the descriptions in novels, this was not an uncommon occurrence. Others had lost themselves in a haze of pleasure before. Was it possible that she might become accustomed to it?

So many experiences were wondrous the first time and less so the second. Would Arthur's kiss ever become routine? Patience could not imagine as much.

All the same, she would welcome the opportunity to know for certain.

In fact, she felt a measure of dissatisfaction, as if something had been left unfinished. She did desire more of whatever Arthur offered, and she knew in her heart, that it was not simply knowledge she craved.

Yet she feared to err again. One detail was for certain, she had need of that book. If ever there had been a woman in need of intimate advice, it was Patience, for she had dissuaded the most notorious rake in London from consummating his nuptials.

She smoothed out the page that she had been granted and read it again, wishing for more of that volume's advice as well as her husband's sweet caress. On this night, she would be without both, but Patience would collect the book from Catherine in the morning.

* * *

Arthur found his solicitor on the verge of locking up his office. Mr. Sommerset welcomed him inside with a gesture and Arthur was quick to state his business.

"I have only a query for you, Mr. Sommerset," he said. "I do not mean to delay you."

"It is no matter." That man smiled. "I am always prepared to be of service to the Beckham family. Please, sit down."

"My wife has raised a question and I find I do not know the answer."

"Oh, yes, you wed today, did you not? May I offer my congratulations, Mr. Beckham?"

Arthur smiled. "I thank you."

"And the lady's question?"

"Do you have any knowledge of printers and publishers, Mr. Sommerset?"

That man's brows rose. "Strange that you should ask, sir. Are you seeking an investment?"

"I am. My wife would like to learn more of the possibility of establishing a publishing firm catering to the tastes of ladies."

"Carruthers," Mr. Sommerset mused, clearly recalling Patience's name. "Of course. But would that not compete with the trade of her father and uncle?"

"She feels strongly about the appeal of several titles, but her father and uncle disagree. They have declined to publish the works in question, but I trust her judgement and would see the endeavor launched."

The solicitor smiled. "She is reputed to be a clever lady."

"And she is one indeed." Arthur smiled. "I sense that you have a solution to share."

Mr. Sommerset chuckled, then sobered. "You read my thoughts, as ever, Mr. Beckham. I am currently resolving the estate of Henry Parke."

"Of Fanshawe & Parke?" Arthur guessed, recognizing the name of one partner of that publishing firm.

"The very same. He has no son or relation interested in entering his trade. His partner, John Fanshawe, wishes very much to continue the business, but has need of additional funds if not an active partner. We have been discussing the prospect of selling half of the business, if a suitable buyer could be found."

"I should like very much to discuss this possibility with Mr. Fanshawe." And with Patience. She would know the reputation of the firm.

Mr. Sommerset shook his head. "I must warn you that it would be a cash transaction, sir, for the assets of the company are heavily mortgaged. They had recently acquired new equipment and the investment is not yet paid. I would not dissuade you, but you should understand the magnitude of the expectation for a new partner." The solicitor named a sum that would take the majority of the funds Arthur had hidden in the box in Patience's room.

He did not reveal his surprise but nodded his interest.

"I should also warn you that Mr. Fanshawe has the notion of a silent partner," Mr. Sommerset continued. "I cannot ensure that he will be more welcoming of your wife's notion than that lady's father and uncle have been."

"I should like to have the opportunity to find out," Arthur said. "Perhaps it might be possible to arrange a meeting with Mr. Fanshawe in the near future."

"I can offer you better than that, Mr. Beckham. I am to dine with Mr. Fanshawe this very evening, and I am certain he would be delighted to learn of your interest. Do accompany me and be introduced, at the very least."

Arthur sensed the turn of the wheel and the return of his good fortune. Given the stakes, he could not possibly decline this opportunity.

* * *

Avoiding the memory of Arthur's seductive touch, Patience opened the first box of her books. She smiled as if she greeted old friends and lifted out the first volume with real pleasure. The task of unpacking the books soothed her and she peeked within several of them, reading a few lines of familiar prose, and feeling her usual calm manner return.

Soon she realized that she was no longer alone. An enormous grey cat had somehow found its way into her room. It sat between her and the fire, its long fur a thousand shades of silver and grey, its gaze fixed upon her. As she watched, it flicked its tail, wrapping it elegantly around its own paws. Those green eyes glowed as it considered her and Patience smiled.

"Good afternoon," she said and curtsied, for the creature's manners were so regal that such a gesture seemed deserved. "Though I do not as yet know your name, you are welcome to stay."

The cat yawned mightily, displaying a collection of sharp teeth and a very pink tongue. Then it bounded onto the armchair before the fire, trod down the cushion with its paws and curled up to sleep with one last flick of its tail.

Patience watched, then returned to her beloved books. The space inside the bookcase was much bigger with the doors open than she had realized.

He was routinely thoughtful and instead of appreciating his generous nature, she had demanded more. She owed him an apology, to be sure.

As Arthur had warned, the bookcase was not entirely empty. She had not seen his books with the doors closed. There were a dozen or so books already on the bottom shelf. Curious about his tastes, she lifted them out. Plato's Republic , a book she suspected he had read at a tutor's behest. Ovid's Metamorphoses , a curious choice but one that reminded her of his sister's favorite work. Perhaps the siblings shared an interest in beings who could change shape—or in tales of romance.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Waverley, The Canterbury Tales . She smiled, guessing these might have been her father's recommendations. There was a bookmark in the first, a sign that he had tried to follow her father's injunction and one that made her heart squeeze.

There was a volume of Greek plays by Euripides, along with Shakespeare's Comedy of Errors and Twelfth Night . She could not say who might have chosen those volumes. She looked at the Greek volume with interest. Her Greek was not as strong as it might have been, and this could offer good practice. Perhaps Arthur would advise her. She liked that idea very much.

Indeed, she could envision them together before the fire, each absorbed in his or her own choice, comparing impressions at intervals or sharing passages with each other. He would speak clearly when he read aloud and she smiled at the prospect of such an evening together.

Were they all plays about mistaken identities? Surely, she imagined that.

The Decameron in Italian. She knew that was a collection of tales told by wealthy friends who exiled themselves from Florence to avoid the plague. There was a work by Dante as well. It made sense that he read some Italian as they had been in Venice.

Faust: A Tragedy in a volume that included both German and English. Her father had spoken of Goethe's play, and about the character who made a bargain with a demon.

There was another book, one with a title that could not be easily read. A thick volume. Patience removed it, admired the tooled leather cover, then opened the volume in search of a title. To her surprise, it was not in fact a book, but a box constructed to look like a book.

And it was filled with banknotes.

They were neatly bundled and there was a tally on the top, the total sum making her eyes widen. Where had these funds come from? Why were they hidden? They had to belong to Arthur, but why would he have banknotes? She knew that the affluent relied upon credit and paid their bills later instead of immediately.

Perhaps they were his winnings from gambling. If so, he was luckier than she had imagined. She replaced the notes and the volume, nudging the other books more closely around it. Now that she knew the volume's contents, its hiding place no longer seemed ideal. Anyone might look at the books, realize the title of this one was difficult to read, and guess the truth.

She began to unpack her books, mixing them with Arthur's so that the book-that-was-not-a-book was less easily noticed. So much money!

Why had he left it in her room? Because she would have more books?

Because he trusted her? The possibility made her heart glow, then she frowned. She wished he returned home soon so she could apologize and they could reconcile.

She took note of the time and rang for Gellis, assuming the Beckhams dined at eight. The girl arrived promptly, her cheerful manner of earlier in the day somewhat diminished when Patience requested assistance in dressing for dinner.

"She did not send you word, then, ma'am?"

"Who might send me word of what, Gellis?"

"Her ladyship will not dine downstairs this night." The girl caught her breath. "She often has a tray in her rooms when there have been other events in the day."

Patience guessed that this was not entirely true by the girl's discomfiture. "And Amelia?"

"Dines in the nursery as yet, with her governess, ma'am."

"Then there will be no dinner laid?"

"There will be, ma'am, if you choose to dine downstairs, but if Mr. Beckham does not return, you would be dining alone."

Patience eyed the clock, disliking that prospect.

"When he means to dine at home, ma'am, he is always here by seven."

It was seven thirty.

She was to dine alone or have a tray in her room on her wedding night. Patience was not a demanding individual, but that seemed a little odd to her.

"You must not mind her, ma'am," Gellis said, clearly sharing her view. "Her ladyship does not like when Mr. Beckham dines at his club, though she never tells him as much. She changed her mind about dinner when he left." The maid smiled. "Shall I bring you a tray?"

"I suppose you had best do as much," Patience said, forcing a smile and Gellis left upon her errant. The situation was not the maid's fault and there was no cause to be unkind.

Patience refused to feel sorry for herself. She had her books and a fire on the hearth. There were plenty in this city with less advantage on any given night.

In that moment, when her spirits were low, Patience felt the weight of another gaze upon her. She knew without turning that it was not the sleeping cat, and glanced over her shoulder to find Arthur's younger sister peeking around the door to the corridor. How had the girl opened the door so silently? It was clear there were feats Patience had to learn in this house. She smiled a welcome and Amelia came into the room. Her hair was brushed out and in a long plait already, and she wore a plainer dress than she had worn at the wedding.

A black cat wound around Amelia's legs and slipped into the room at the same time. Its hair was as dark as midnight and shorter than that of the one that still slept by the fire, as well as glossy with good health. It had one white paw and its eyes were yellow when it turned to survey Patience.

It jumped onto the other chair before the fire and curled up to sleep, the mirror image of the first one.

"Now you've met both of Arthur's cats," Amelia said, coming to stand beside Patience. She angled her head to read the titles on the books, such a sure sign of an avid reader that Patience smiled.

She also found herself taking a step to be between Amelia and the bookcase, the better that she might not glimpse the book with a secret.

"Are they the pair brought home from Venice?" she asked, diverting the girl's attention.

Amelia nodded. "Tar and Feathers."

"Maybe we should translate their names to Italian, given that they came from Venice," Patience suggested and her companion's eyes lit at the very idea.

" Catrame e Piume ," she mused.

Patience nodded. "Much better."

"I agree. We will call them that and confound Arthur." The younger girl smiled at the prospect, then eyed the bookcase. "I told Arthur you could not possibly have enough books to fill it, but it looks as if you might."

"There will be a little space left, I believe."

"You said I might borrow that second volume from you," the girl reminded her shyly. "I have finished the first but Carruthers & Carruthers will not be open until Monday."

If there was one thing Patience could understand, it was the need to finish a story once begun. She retrieved the volume and handed it to Amelia, who smiled and retreated, leaving Patience alone with the two dozing cats. She placed the last of her books upon the shelves, then impulsively chose the third volume of the novel she had just loaned to Amelia.

* * *

Arthur might have thought his errand done for the night after his discussion with Mr. Fanshawe, which had concluded well for the moment. He felt there was promise in an association there, but the funds might provide the difficulty. He considered his choices and went to his club rather than returning home. He had already missed dinner, for Lady Beckham was utterly inflexible about her schedule and he knew she would not have waited the meal for him. He would dine at his club, then return to the house.

Once at the club, he was invited to a game. He declined, but learned that the Earl of Queenston had arrived in town and would be playing. That man lost more routinely than Arthur's uncle, so he sensed that once again, opportunity knocked.

And he was right.

The cards could not have been more in Arthur's favor. Indeed, he had only to think of what card he needed to win, and it came to his hand. He knew better than to ignore such a flight of luck. He played all evening and into the night, then into the following morning, his purse becoming fatter by the moment. Others left the table, their funds exhausted for the moment, until the last game was played, just before the dawn. He had just picked up his cards when he smelled a lady's sweet perfume in close proximity.

He did not so much as glance her way. He fixed his attention on the cards, on his opponent, on what had appeared and what had not. The lady did not speak, but watched the play in silence. Arthur took a calculated risk, won, and gathered his winnings before he saw that it was Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne who stood by his side. She wore a gown the color of claret wine, which seemed to make her eyes appear more vibrantly green.

"I do not mean to interrupt your pleasure, Mr. Beckham," she said softly when he turned from the table to bow to her.

"And you do not, Miss Ballantyne. It was my intention to leave the table now."

"You depart triumphant, by appearances."

"I do." He smiled. "I find the acquaintance of my lady wife has brought me good fortune."

Her gaze became assessing. "And yet, I had understood that yesterday was your wedding day. How is it fortuitous to fail to share your bride's companionship on your nuptial night?"

Arthur felt the back of his neck heat and he was keenly aware of the courtesan's scrutiny. He should have been home and he knew it, but his absence would bring about the endeavor Patience desired. Was there a right answer?

Miss Ballantyne chuckled as if she understood his plight. She averted her gaze, surveying the other occupants of the club with a smile. "It is an honor to have the opportunity to introduce someone to intimate pleasures," she purred and Arthur felt his discomfiture grow.

"If you say as much. I would not know." Arthur strove to change the subject. "Would you care for a glass of wine, Miss Ballantyne?" he asked, indicating a servant who carried a tray.

"No, I thank you. I did not come for entertainment or sustenance."

"Why else does one come to a gaming hell, Miss Ballantyne?"

She smiled. "I seek a man who shares a common trait with you, Mr. Beckham. He also seems unaware of where he should be on this night." Her tone hardened a little at that confession but before Arthur could decide how to reply, he heard her quick intake of breath.

The Duke of Haynesdale appeared from another room, leaning on his cane far less than Arthur recalled was his custom. Indeed, he looked as formidable as he had in years past, though something clearly had annoyed him. His dark brows were drawn together and he cast a glare across the room. He froze when his gaze fell upon Arthur and Miss Ballantyne, and Arthur feared there might be repercussions from this short conversation. Miss Ballantyne held the duke's gaze proudly, as if she would challenge him to speak his mind. Truly, lightning might have crackled between the pair, so avidly were they aware of each other, and whatever annoyance had been in the duke's expression melted away.

"If you will excuse me, Mr. Beckham. I have spotted the man in question." Miss Ballantyne did not wait for a reply but crossed the room, cutting a direct path to the duke who only stood and awaited her. She might have said something to his grace—Arthur could not be certain as her back was to him—but the duke smiled, then swept her up with one arm and lifted her against his chest, bending to claim her mouth with a possessive kiss.

There was a gasp, then someone gave a low whistle. By the time the pair broke apart, the other men were cheering and stamping, more than one applauding the effort.

Arthur was amused that the duke seemed to have recalled where the lady believed he should be, for he caught her elbow and urged her toward the door, a path the lady followed quite willingly.

And Miss Ballantyne was right. Arthur should be home. He had welcome tidings to share, after all, and an apology to make. This could be the secret he shared, that of the fund for their venture. He did not doubt Patience would welcome news of his progress. He gathered his winnings, took his departure, and made for home. It was still raining steadily, the water pooled on the streets, but he dared to be optimistic.

He nigh whistled as he entered the house, Stevens having been awakened by his vigorous knocking. He took the stairs three at a time and entered his chamber, casting aside his hat and gloves as he headed for the adjoining door.

When there was no reply to his gentle knock, Arthur opened it the merest crack and peeked. The fire in Patience's room had burned down to embers, though still it cast a golden glow over the room. The drapes had not been drawn and in the pale morning light, he could see that she was in bed.

He eased into the room on silent feet, listening. Patience breathed softly and deeply. He crept closer to the bed and his bride, noting the empty boxes and the laden shelves in the small room beyond. He smiled that they were just as he had envisioned them. The shelves were nearly full and his most precious volume was precisely where he had left it.

Patience looked soft and delicate in her sleep, more vulnerable than she appeared to be when awake. Her lashes were surprisingly dark against her cheeks, which were gently flushed. Her lips were parted and Arthur was tempted to ease into bed beside her.

He checked his impulse, not wanting to startle or frighten her.

He bent and kissed her cheek, wishing she would awaken and welcome him, for he was prepared to set matters to rights between them.

But though she smiled at the touch of his lips upon her cheek, she nestled a little deeper into the warmth of the bed, sighed and slept on.

Had they consummated their match already, Arthur might have awakened her with a bold caress. But if their match was to be a happy one, then his first visit to her bed should be a deliberate and merry one.

He quietly added his newly acquired funds to those hidden on her bookcase, noting with satisfaction that the contents of the book box had not been disturbed. Of course, Patience could be trusted.

He eyed her, knowing he should tell her everything, fearing he would lose any admiration she had of him if he did. He had lied, for most of his life, not at his own behest, but he imagined Patience would decree a lie to be a lie.

He had to earn more of her admiration first.

He would begin that very day.

He turned with regret toward his own cold bed in the adjacent room, and realized that his comrades had abandoned him as well. Tar and Feathers slept in Patience's room, each on one chair before the fire, neither looking inclined to move. Faithless creatures. He smiled to himself, noting a book abandoned on the footstool. Had Patience been reading it, a cat in her lap?

He picked it up, curious as to her choice. Pride & Prejudice . It was the third volume of a novel and not one he knew. He fanned through it, noting that this edition had been read repeatedly. A favorite, then, which meant he might learn more of his wife by reading it himself. He scratched the ears of the cats, smiling as they purred, then retreated quietly to his own chamber. In moments, Arthur was wearing only his nightshirt and tucked into bed, opening what soon proved to be the finale of a beguiling book.

More importantly, this novel provided Arthur with a map. The gentleman depicted in the tale had been rebuffed by the lady in some earlier chapter, it was clear, his proposal declined. A sister then had embarked upon a scandalous path, but this gentleman made it his concern to see all put to rights.

He made the lady's interest his own, and thus earned her admiration and her hand.

Arthur closed the book as the clock in the hall rang six and others in the house stirred. Here was his directive, the very definition of Patience's expectations, and better yet, he had already embarked upon this path. He pinched the wick, much reassured, and fell into a deep sleep, content that all would come aright and soon.