Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

L ady Plume rustled into the dining room wearing her favorite morning dress, a loose muslin gown draped with lace and pink ribbons, with a lace chemisette swathing her bosom and a delicate lace cap pinned to her silver curls. She draped herself in a chair across the polished wooden table from Leda and gave a small yawn.

"Anything interesting?"

"In the Chronicle this morning?" Leda sipped her coffee and flipped a page. "An armistice has been proposed with France. There's a new treaty of alliance with the Emperor of Russia. The royal family is returning to Windsor and Lord Nelson is at his estate near Ipswich. And word has it that the property the new Chinese emperor confiscated from his father's minister, Ho-Ching, is worth 300 million pounds sterling."

"Imagine. Thank you, Gibbs." Lady Plume accepted her hot chocolate from the butler, who tenderly tucked in her chair, then went to the sideboard to assemble his lady's breakfast.

"Such a fortune would not go as far here as it once did, I'm afraid," her ladyship remarked.

"The mayor has been asked to organize a meeting of Bath citizens to petition the king to convene Parliament and address the high price of provisions." Leda scanned the page. "Mrs. Smith has returned from London with an assortment of new furs and laces."

"She's opposite King's Bath, is she not? We could visit today."

"Reverend Warner is taking subscriptions for his history of Bath. One volume, royal quarto, with engravings. Shall I put us down for one?"

"Put us down for two, and we'll give one away as a gift for Yuletide."

"And there is a brew house for let on the quay."

Her ladyship smiled. "You already have enough to do, dearling. You know I depend on you." She raised her cup to her lips. "Anything of interest transpire at the ball?"

"Nothing beyond what I told you already on our long journey home." The Upper Assembly Rooms lay one short street away from the Crescent, where Lady Plume had her house, and in her brief walk alongside her ladyship's chair Leda had communicated the events she felt of interest.

She had not, curiously, said a word about the strange man who danced the minuet with her and set her hackles up in the most unexpected ways. For one thing, against every rule of politeness, she had not learned his name. For another, she did not intend to assist him on his hunt for a wife.

Never mind that she regularly participated in pursuits of wives for friends and strangers alike. She was not going to recommend a wife for him .

Rude, offensively handsome, and possibly mad. His wit would no doubt prove aggravating upon prolonged exposure and his beauty and charm would come to constitute an offense. She could not in good conscience subject any woman to that.

"Hmm." Lady Plume smiled as Gibbs set a loaded plate before her. She tucked in as a knock sounded at the front door. "You do not mind taking callers, my dear?"

Leda tugged the mob cap covering the tresses she'd efficiently brushed and pinned up. "I am half-dressed, at least."

She and her ladyship were accustomed to callers at hours in and outside fashionable times. The needs of supplicants did not adhere to the forms of ton . Thus Leda had donned a morning walking dress of sprigged muslin and was prepared for exercise either in or out of doors.

"Mrs. Limpet, your ladyship," Gibbs announced, conducting a petite, nervous-looking matron into the room.

"At your breakfast, you are! Indeed, I hate to disturb you. But you suggested, your ladyship, and I confess I hoped?—"

"Sit," her ladyship said in welcome. "Gibbs will fix you a plate. I know you are eager to hear what Mrs. Wroth has discovered."

Leda rolled her paper to the side. "I wish I had better news."

Mrs. Limpet's expression fell into lines of dismay. "I knew it."

Very often they did, Leda thought. A woman knew when a man was false, when a man was lying, when she was being bamboozled with fanciful words or gifts while a man she relied on, a husband or brother or guardian or son, took from her with the other hand what should have been hers.

Leda did not hate men as a class, nor did she detest the sex. Women were just as capable of perfidy. But it was women who sought out Leda, again and again, wanting confirmation of something they suspected but hoped was not true. Needing another set of eyes to peer around a corner or see into the dark.

Leda was never surprised by what she found there. After all, she herself had escaped the worst demons. It was her privilege and her duty to keep other women from falling into the same maw that had once swallowed her and which she had eluded by no others means than the grace of God and her own determination.

Gibbs placed a plate of buttered toast near her elbow with a sympathetic gaze, and Leda recalled herself. Gibbs tended to her ladyship with complete devotion, but he never made kind gestures toward Leda. He still, after six years of her employment, had never given Leda one sign of approval.

"Thank you, Gibbs. I regret to say, Mrs. Limpet, that his friends confirm that Mr. Crutch regularly lives beyond the means of his quarterly allowance. A great many of his acquaintances hold his vowels, and he has not paid his tailor in two years."

Mrs. Limpet clenched her jaw. "Doubtless he sees my chemist shop as a way to line his pockets."

"Your cordial Balm of Gilead is selling very well, is it not?"

Their guest nodded. "That and the True Scots' pills. I've found a formula that reduces the griping other Scots' pills can cause." She added a large lump of sugar to her tea and stirred, frowning.

"Of course, many women might be glad to share their worldly goods with a husband." Lady Plume regarded Leda over her chocolate. "In return for the protection and—other advantages a man may provide."

Gibbs, at the sideboard loading a plate with sausage links and coddled eggs, raised his eyebrows.

Leda crunched her toast, relishing the sweet, creamy butter. All these years later, she had not learned to take for granted the luxury of good food and regular mealtimes. The price of provisions might be dreadfully high, but Lady Plume's kitchens had so far not suffered. Sir Dunlap Plume, though departing the world perhaps too soon for his own liking, had, through the many wise and well-managed investments he left behind, ensured a long and comfortable widowhood for his lady.

One argument for marriage. Perhaps the only one Leda could think of.

The most exalted status a woman could have , her partner with the gray eyes had said. So confident that his attentions would send a woman into transports.

With that very symmetrically pleasing face of his, that solid physique, that strange effect of his regard, as if one had imbibed a liquor that sent warm, languid effects to every part of one's body—perhaps a woman subject to his attentions would enjoy transports.

Leda had never been transported. She tamped down the oddly weakening memory of his hands holding hers.

"What would the advantages be, in Mrs. Limpet's case?" Leda asked.

"I fail to see any." Mrs. Limpet's eyes widened as Gibbs set a loaded plate before her. "Smoked salmon? Lady Plume, you do set a fine table."

"Leda and I enjoy feeding people," her ladyship said serenely. "And providing assistance wherever we might to our friends."

There was a broad hint there, but Leda could not follow. She would be the first to admit what she owed Lady Plume. Her employer did not know Leda's full history in Bath, how she'd arrived in a stained gown with her borrowed slippers worn through and nothing but a ragged shawl holding all her worldly goods. How she'd fallen by luck and grace into the hands of a schoolteacher who asked few questions but guessed much.

Leda had come quite by chance to the attention of Lady Plume, who was searching for a young and amusing companion, and in her ladyship's employ Leda had come into the full extent of her powers to manage other peoples' affairs. She had through many quiet but steady successes built her reputation as a sensible, well-mannered woman who knew everything, heard everything, and could be trusted with a secret.

A formidable, enviable status, to be sure.

An unmatchmaker. Just what her beguiling and quite exasperating dance partner had called her.

That way lay reflections in which Leda did not wish to indulge, and from which she was fortuitously saved by another knock at the door. Lady Plume cocked her head and smiled into her chocolate.

Mrs. Limpet attacked her eggs, as if determined to polish off her plate before she must concede the table to another guest. "I daresay I look a fine catch to a man with pockets to let. I own my shop and the rooms above. I have a respectable trade." She sniffed. "I'm not hideous to look upon, nor so long in the tooth I might not catch a man's eye yet. Were I willing to trade the advantages of widowhood for a yoke."

"The freedom to set your own schedule, go where you wish, and keep what company you please," Leda offered.

"To wear what I like." Mrs. Limpet patted her black lace cap, trimmed with beads.

"Take your meals when you feel disposed, and enjoy a menu designed to your tastes."

Mrs. Limpet's eyes glowed with a fierce light. "Attend the theatre whenever the fancy takes me."

"But to have no companion at bed and board," Lady Plume said. "No children to brighten one's days and years."

This seemed an unnecessary intrusion of sentiment, since Lady Plume did not, to Leda's knowledge, have children.

"No fears for a child's health or future," Leda said. "No worries they will not take a trade, or will make a poor marriage, or will shame their parents."

"No man to warm your bed on a cold eve," said Lady Plume.

"Or pushing you out of bed on a cold morn to fix his breakfast."

"No bedsport," Lady Plume pointed out.

Mrs. Limpet sighed. "I do miss the bedsport."

Both women looked at Leda. She scowled.

"No man importuning you with his needs and reading you sermons on the marital debt."

Lady Plume shook her head. "You had the most abominable husband, my dear. That is not the general condition."

Mrs. Limpet regarded her plate. "I am too old to catch a babe did I marry again," she said. "But you, Mrs. Wroth—if you will forgive me? Did you never wish for children?"

Toast choked Leda's throat, as if she had swallowed glass. Lady Plume watched her curiously.

Did she lie now, or later? To reveal the truth would invite questions she was not prepared to answer. "Do I appear the type to have a secret child tucked away?" Leda finally managed.

"But you could marry again," Lady Plume said.

Leda pulled her mouth into some semblance of a smile. "But then I should be obliged to leave your ladyship, and you are a far more genial companion than a husband."

Gibbs coughed from the door. "Your ladyship. John Burnham, Baron Brancaster of Holme Hall."

Leda looked up. It was him .

The strangest sensation overtook her body. As if she were a flint that had been struck, and sparks flew from her.

Lady Plume smiled widely. "Brancaster."

He made a small, correct bow. "Your ladyship. Jack, please."

"And you must call me Aunt Plume. Do join us."

Leda's thoughts piled atop one another like squealing piglets. His name was Jack. He was a baron . Lady Plume was his aunt ?

"Brancaster," Leda repeated. " Lord Brancaster."

His gaze met hers. "Of Holme Hall, Norfolk."

"Gracious me, I've a shop to open." Mrs. Limpet half-rose and, when no one stopped her, reluctantly completed the motion. " Lord Brancaster." She fluttered her eyelashes. "A chemist shop on Paternoster Row. I've a botanical syrup you must try for bathing, and a nervous cordial should you have need."

"Would it aid one contemplating matrimony?" Leda asked, prodded by a contrary impulse. She was all afire now.

Mrs. Limpet nodded with a touch of surprise. "It does, though I recommend the botanical syrup for those approaching the altar of Hymen. My syrup lays to rest the slightest apprehension and leaves the system entirely sound."

"Then I daresay Mrs. Wroth would appreciate a dose," Brancaster said.

She glared at him and thus could not miss the shape of his thighs outlined in cashmere breeches, his calves in leather top boots and small spurs. His riding coat of dark green everlasting sported a tall collar, his one concession to fashion, for otherwise his waistcoat was a muted velveret and his cravat simply knotted beneath his chin. Neither a dandy nor a peacock, and he seemed a man who would pay his tailor in full.

"I marvel that I somehow missed your telling me you have a nephew in town, mum," Leda said to her ladyship, watching Brancaster as he dropped easily into one of the painted Maltese chairs. He seemed bigger in the dainty dining room than he had in the ballroom last evening, his chest broader. Perhaps the coat was padded.

"I told him to find you last night and make you dance, for I was engaged at cards with Lady Oxmantown," her ladyship said. "Did he not locate you? It was rather a crush."

"He found me," Leda said.

"Coffee, tea, or chocolate?" Lady Plume inquired. "If there is anything you might want, Gibbs can produce it. Leda, do hand over the paper. Are your rooms in order, Jack? I wish you would put up here while you are in town. It seems so poor to let family take lodgings."

"Coffee, please." He met Leda's gaze as she pushed the Chronicle toward him. "I did not want to intrude on any arrangement you have here, aunt."

Leda raised her brows. "You refer to me? I am the arrangement?" The thought of him staying in the house, looming in their quiet and orderly space, made her wish a dose of Mrs. Limpet's nervous cordial was at hand.

His hair was combed back in the latest style, slightly wavy. She wondered if he used curling papers. A woman of lesser fortitude might be taken in by that sensual charm and easy grace, the impression that he walked calm and confident in his own skin.

"I suppose lodging with an unmarried woman might handicap your search for a bride," Leda said.

He scowled. "I am in search of a governess. I was told you could help me locate suitable prospects."

She scowled back. "You told me you wanted a wife."

" I told him he wants a wife," Lady Plume said serenely. "I thought you might help with that, Leda."

"I am not in the business of making matches."

"No, rather unmaking them, from what I detect."

"Choosing the wrong partner can be ruinous to a woman's entire future," Leda snapped.

He tasted the coffee Lady Plume passed his way. "The same might be said for a man."

"At least here you can escape the silly rumors that follow you all about Norfolk," Lady Plume said.

His lordship stared at his plate, his brows pulling together. "If only that were true."

The brooding aspect suited him exceedingly well. Leda groped for her wits. "The Mad Baron? The Earl of Howth called you that at the ball last night."

"So my fame has spread all the way to Ireland," Brancaster growled.

"His eldest daughter, Lady Sydney, is widowed," Leda said. Lady Sydney was also older than his lordship by at least a score of years. "And his youngest daughter, Lady Frances, is I hear in search of a husband. She is likely past child-bearing age, if that is a concern, but unlikely to listen to gossip."

"Leda," Lady Plume said reproachfully.

"I am endeavoring to be helpful," Leda said. "To that end, perhaps I ought to know why they call you the Mad Baron, milord."

"It is not Jack," Lady Plume said softly. "He had a mad wife."

"Independence in women is often mistaken for madness," Leda said, speaking from her own experience.

"Leda!"

"That is your name?" Brancaster forked up a slice of smoked salmon. "The queen seduced by a swan."

"My given name is Caledonia," she said, throwing him an arch look. "No reference to despoiled women."

"It gives me a fanciful impression of Mr. Wroth." Brancaster chewed. "The much lamented, dearly departed Mr. Wroth, buried in?—"

Leda set her jaw at a mulish angle.

"Cheltenham," Lady Plume supplied, repeating Leda's lie.

"The seat of your marital bliss as well?"

"I have never detected," Lady Plume said, "that Leda was acquainted with marital bliss."

"That would make a pair of us." Brancaster regarded Leda. That level gaze of his was so very unnerving, and the gray bars in his iris seemed to shift, light to dark, depending on his mood. "You have no wish to repeat the experiment?"

"None."

"I feel the same." He looked to his aunt. "If my reputation has tagged me here like a hound at my heels, Aunt Plume, I hardly think it will speed my suit among the Bath beauties. Better to confine myself to seeking a governess."

"So long as you do not drive her mad also," Leda said.

That was a blow below the belt, as it were, and she knew it before the words left her mouth. Yet her jaw locked on the thought of apology. He'd dismissed his wife as mad. She knew how that felt.

She knew what that meant, to a woman.

But Lady Plume's astonished stare shamed her into a retraction. "That is unfair of me to presume," Leda admitted, "since I am unaware of what caused Lady Brancaster's demise." She waited.

Brancaster scooped into his dish of coddled egg. "A topic I've no wish to discuss, as it would turn me off my breakfast. Aunt Plume, you have a splendid chef."

"Only a plain cook from Dorset," his aunt returned, "but I am very happy with her. Gibbs, please tell Mrs. Skim that Brancaster enjoyed her cookery."

Gibbs gave his assent, and Leda refrained from shouting and hurling her china cup across the table. The unfeeling cad. The brute . He showed no more concern for his wife's troubled state than Leda's flint-hearted nephew had shown when damning her to the asylum.

Men drove women to madness, then punished them for it.

Best to remember that, and steel herself to the strange melting feeling that contemplating Lord Brancaster was wont to induce.

"To the question of a governess." Lady Plume offered her cup to Gibbs, who hastened to add more chocolate. "I intended for you to ask Leda."

"To recommend candidates, you mean? He may as well inquire directly at Miss Gregoire's, though I could introduce him, I suppose."

"My dear." Her ladyship's lips curled into a delighted smile. "I meant he should ask you ."

The sensations inside would suggest Leda's heart was clambering into her throat, a place it had no business being. "I am already employed."

"I would be willing to loan you to family, for a time. I have the highest faith in your intelligence as well as discretion. And we all know there isn't the least touch of madness about you."

Her ladyship didn't know. Leda intended for it to say that way.

"I'm afraid my skills aren't the least suited to governessing. I am incompatible with small children, as my time teaching at Miss Gregoire's Academy for Girls will attest. If you will excuse me. I have letters to write."

"You'll join us at the Pump Room, I hope? Brancaster has to take the waters and write his name in the book."

Good sense pressed her to say no. To avoid this man who unsettled her, though he sat doing nothing but methodically scooping eggs. He'd known madness in a woman; he might sense something in her. She already felt a bit daft, the way her thoughts cleared as she watched his jaw flexing as he chewed. Noting his hands, solid, strong, and as well-shaped as the rest of him.

"I have errands to attend." Like hiding from Lord Brancaster until he went away.

He met her gaze, and a strange thickness clung in her throat. It felt like despair.

Not his, certainly. What did a comely, well-heeled lord of the realm have to despair of?

Yet she could read his expression, the slight flattening of the lip, the twitch of one dark brow. He expected her to run from him. He was resigned to it. His reputation had taught him to expect nothing more.

He came to her for help, or at least came to his aunt, and Leda went skittering off like a bedbug seeking cover.

"You might at least give him some introductions. Your acquaintance is broader than mine," Lady Plume said.

That was true, for while Lady Plume had lived in Bath far longer, she tended to swim in the shallow pool of the upper class, while Leda, like a chameleon, had forged friendships across many ranks. And was that reproach in her employer's voice? Her ladyship had scooped Leda from the doorway in which she found her barely holding body and soul together and had set her upon the plump cushion of No. 14 Crescent Place like a favored house cat, where she was petted and well-fed and allowed to preen at her own cleverness. And she could not now turn around and help another in need?

Yet drawing near this man would be dangerous to her hard-won peace. Leda knew it by instinct. She would approach, thinking herself on solid ground, and fall through into a pit of—she knew not what. Something overwhelming, she was certain.

She reached for her remaining piece of toast, meaning to take it to her room while she wrote. Gibbs, his nose in the air, removed the plate and carried it to the sideboard.

Whatever small gain she had made in Gibbs' estimation, Leda had promptly lost by denying Lady Plume this simple request.

"Ring for me when you wish to leave. Of course I shall accompany you." Leda ignored the strange kick in her errant heart as it made its way back to the proper locale in her chest. She would spend more time with him. Long stretches.

For the purpose of turning his attention from herself and sending another woman home with him to Norfolk.

As it should be. She had known near a decade ago, when she stood in a stone church saying vows that banged as heavy as a bell clapper in her mouth, that a future of love and happiness was not for her. Yet, as Leda refilled her cup and removed herself to the library to complete her correspondence, she found the dregs of her coffee very bitter.