CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The door opened and Mr. Chawner, a man of around fifty years, still fit, with steel-gray hair, stepped out. “My lord, how many times have I told you I’d be happy to wait on you in Grosvenor Square? Ain’t proper you comin’ to me.” He bowed, then took the hand Rupert offered. “Don’t know what the peerage is coming to.”
Nick had managed to close his mouth, but he continued to stare around him, much like one is tempted to when visiting Prinny’s Pavilion at Brighton.
Rupert called him to order. “Lord Beresford, may I introduce you to Mr. Chawner?”
Beresford stuck his hand out and shook Chawner’s before the older man could protest. “My pleasure, sir.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.” A speculative glimmer entered his eyes. “What kind of lord are you?”
Although the corners of Beresford’s mouth twitched, he didn’t smile. “An earl, sir.”
“Come in, come in, we’re breaking our fast. I’ll introduce you to my daughter, Maggie.”
“Thank you, we would be pleased to join you.” Rupert followed Chawner up curved marble and gilt stairs, leaving Beresford to bring up the rear. “It is Miss Chawner we have come to talk with you about. Not on Lord Beresford’s account, his affections are already engaged and we hope to have an announcement soon.”
“Who do you have in mind, my lord?”
Miss Chawner, a tall young lady with shiny brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her upturned nose, came forward. “Welcome, my lord. From upstairs I could hear Papa tell our butler to open the door, but I see he beat poor Bagley to it.” Even though her tone was a slightly severe, the loving look she gave her father more than made up for her chastisement. “Please join us. Papa is having coffee, but I know you prefer tea.” She glanced at Beresford. “And you, sir.”
“He’s not a sir, poppet, he’s an earl. This here is Lord Beresford.”
She sank into a graceful curtsey. “Welcome, my lord.”
Her father showed them into a breakfast room painted a bright yellow. Gas lamps were affixed to the walls, and gilt edged the white trim. Curtains with a cream background and a riot of brightly-colored flowers framed the long windows.
“She seems too nice for Lord Oliver,” Nick whispered.
“She is extremely nice, with a will of steel. I don’t like seeing people go to waste, and that is exactly what is happening with Lord Oliver.” Rupert took the seat Miss Chawner indicated. Beresford sat next to him.
They feasted on rare beef, ham, eggs, toast, tea, and coffee as they discussed commerce, tariffs, and the state of England’s economy. After several minutes, Miss Chawner set her cup down. “What brings you here, my lord?”
“There is a gentleman who must marry well. His name is Lord Oliver Loveridge, the third son of the Duke of Stafford. He is not himself a peer, but his family is influential, if not abundantly wealthy. The duke will settle a small estate on Lord Oliver when he weds, as well as raise his allowance to support a family.”
Creasing her forehead slightly, she glanced at her father. “I have heard of him. He is not perfect husband material, but I believe I can make something of him.”
“He has gambling debts,” Nick added.
She shrugged lightly. “What man in search of a wealthy wife does not? His gambling will have to cease, as will his late nights.” Once again she looked over at her father. “What do you think, Papa? I’m not growing any younger.”
“If you decide you want him, poppet, you shall have him. I’ll wrap him up all right and tight, Bristol fashion.”
“Very well.” She turned to Rupert. “Please make whatever arrangements you must for me to meet with him.”
Nick, who’d been watching her with something akin to fascination, set his coffee cup down. “You don’t have to accept him.”
Miss Chawner’s eyes widened. “What an idea. Of course I do not. I shall meet with him and make my decision.” A wicked grin appeared on her lips. “If we agree to wed, he will dance to my tune, or he will not dance at all.”
Beresford swallowed. “I understand.”
Deeming it time to take their leave, Rupert stood. “Thank you. I’ll be in contact soon.”
She and her father rose, and Mr. Chawner accompanied Nick and Rupert to the door. “Thank you, my lord. I’m glad you came by.”
Once on their horses and headed back to Mayfair, Nick said, “I don’t understand why she wants to marry into the ton. Wouldn’t she have a more pleasant life with a man of her own status?”
“It was her mother’s dream, and she intends to honor her memory.” They rode on in silence for a few moments. “Make no mistake, Miss Chawner is the type who makes her own happiness. Like a cat, she’ll land on her feet.”
Apparently accepting how the matter with Miss Chawner stood, Nick turned to the business at hand. “How do we approach Lord Oliver?”
“We don’t. I know his father and will make the suggestion. In the meantime, it’s your job to keep Miss Corbet safe.”
“Bloody hell!” He urged his horse to a trot. “I’m supposed to meet with her this morning. She’ll have my head if I’m late.”
“Do you know your way back?”
“I’ll find it.” Nick saluted as he cantered off.
For a man who swore with such fluency and had led troops into battle, he was interestingly afraid of Miss Corbet.
Rupert considered changing, then going to Mount Street, but he decided against it. He would send the flowers he’d ordered from his estate instead. He must also apply his mind to finding a way to get Vivian out of that Cleopatra costume. Obviously, she was afraid to be naked; therefore, it behove him to find something more comfortable for her to wear. Preferably with less starch.
An hour later, he dashed off a missive to Madame Lisette, a well-known and extremely expensive modiste his mother and most of his female friends patronized. How soon she could do what he wanted, Rupert had no idea. Still, even if it took a day or two, at least he’d have achieved his goal.
He’d just finished changing when Harlock notified him Madame had arrived. “Bring tea. I’ll be down directly.”
Madame Lisette was perched upon one of his large, comfortable leather chairs, sipping a cup of tea, when he entered the room. Fashionably but simply gowned, she gave an impression of competence.
She rose when he entered the room, and he greeted her with a grin. “Madame, thank you for attending me here.”
Rupert motioned for Madame to be seated, and he took the chair opposite her.
She inclined her head. “I am well acquainted with your lady mother and your cousin, Lady Beaumont, milord. I think I must tell you that I do not dress ladybirds.” She gave a one-shoulder-Gallic shrug. “My clientèle is exclusive and would not approve. However, with anything else I am happy to aid you.”
That put him in his place. “There is a lady, but not of the demimonde. She is the woman I hope to wed.” Hmm, how should he put this without giving too much away? “She had an unfortunate experience with her late husband.” Rupert felt his neck growing warm. He hadn’t expected to embarrass himself. This might not have been such a good idea after all. “Perhaps I should not have asked you to come.”
“I think I understand, milord. Moi, I was in France at the time of the Revolution. Many women were treated badly. You wish to help your lady in an unusual way. Am I correct?”
Rupert had the strange urge to tug at his cravat. “Yes.”
She nodded encouragingly. “Continuez.”
This conversation called for brandy rather than tea. “I’d like to have you design a nightgown, a modest nightgown that shows nothing.”
Madame Lisette’s lips formed a moue. “Oui?”
“Yes.” This may not be so bad after all. “That is the first one. The next one should be a little less modest.”
“How long do you plan to continue with these nightgowns?”
“I have no earthly idea.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “As long as it takes.”
An interested sparkle entered Madame’s eyes. “Tell me more about this lady.”
Rupert froze. He could not reveal Vivian’s identity to this woman.
“Come, come. How am I to dress her if I do not know her size?”
“Oh yes, of course.” Why hadn’t he thought of that? “She is quite slender and very fair. Of moderate height.” He stood, placing his hand on his collar bone. “Her head comes to here.”
Madame had pulled out a notebook and was writing. “Eh bien. I understand you. I have something that might work. Another customer ordered it. An older lady who loved beautiful things.” Madame crossed herself. “Unfortunately, she recently passed away. The gown is white, with blue flowers the color of a summer sky embroidered on it.”
“Perfect. Her favorite color is light blue.” Thank the Deity. His scheme was going to work after all.
She slipped the notebook and pencil back into her reticule. “Where shall I send the garment?”
“Send it here. I’ll have it delivered to her.”
Rising, she curtseyed. “It will be my pleasure to assist you and the lady to a happy occasion. I am always pleased to see a woman wed to the right gentleman.”
Rupert would be as well. Pleased to have Vivian married to him, and in fairly short order if he could manage it.
Sooner than he had expected, the package from Madame Lisette arrived. Perfect; now all he had to do was figure out how to get it to Vivian. It would not do to simply arrive and ask her to change. It was clear she took a great deal of effort with her disguise. Somehow he had to get the nightgown to her lady’s maid, yet the whole house would know the second he asked for the woman.
Stuie slipped into Rupert’s study through the French windows. “I’m to ask if you got anything for me to do, my lord.”
Mr. Dermot, the tutor Rupert had hired to teach the staff, had probably sent his tiger to him. “Tell me you weren’t disrupting class.”
“Nothin’ like that.” The boy gave a cockapert grin. “Mr. Dermot said I could go as I already knew what he was teachin’.”
“Teaching.” Rupert couldn’t go to Mount Street, but Stuie could. “As a matter of fact, I do have something I need help with.”
“I’ll get the phaeton.”
“No, this time we’re walking.”
Stuie’s shoulders drooped, but he’d been too well trained to object. “Yes, my lord.”
Rupert picked up the package. “I’ll explain on the way.”
Not many minutes later, he stood, waiting impatiently at the entrance to Mount Street Gardens, when he spied his tiger and the maid he had met the night before coming from the park. Lady Telford’s house must have a gate leading out to the garden.
“This here is Lord Stanstead,” Stuie said by way of an introduction.
“Thank you, Stuie.” Rupert had taken one glance at the maid’s stern countenance and decided he did not need an audience. “I won’t be long, and I’ll need the carriage when I return.”
The boy all but bounced, but bowed instead. “I’ll see right to it, my lord.”
In a matter of moments, the lad was a blue streak running home. Rupert inclined his head. “Miss . . .”
“Punt.” The woman’s tone, if not hostile, left no doubt she wasn’t pleased.
“Let me first say that I wish to wed your mistress.”
Vivian buried her nose in the bouquet of delphiniums and clematis that had been delivered to her. Without even glancing at the card, she knew they were from Rupert. How lovely to think of him and call him by his Christian name. She tried to imagine what she would say to him if they ran into each other, and couldn’t think of a thing.
Last night he’d been so tender. No man had ever held her before. Even her father was more likely to pat her on her head or shoulder as if she were one of his hounds, than hug her. If only it was Vivian he was making love to and not Cleo.
The thought had dogged her mind all day. She had made her disguise too well. The makeup, wig, and lowering her voice had worked to perfection. The truly bad part was she had to stop lying to herself and admit she wanted him to love her. She was tired of never coming first in a gentleman’s life.
What a mess she’d made of it all. Yet, if Rupert was going to fall in love with her, he would not now be with Cleo. That was one fact she had learned the hard way: It was impossible to make a man fall in love with you if he loved another. Why did this have to happen to her? Twice!
Her chest constricted, and tears pricked her eyelids. She would not weep over a man again. It never helped. She would find a way to deal with Lord Stanstead during the day and Rupert at night.
A light knock came on the door and Silvia entered. “I have a favor to ask.”
Vivian hastily wiped her eyes. “Yes, of course. What do you need?”
“Are you all right?” The concern in Silvia’s voice made Vivian determined to show her friend all was well. “Have you been crying?”
“Not at all. I am merely having a reaction to something.” Fortunately, her nose didn’t become red when she wept. “What can I do for you?”
Her friend blushed. “Nick, Lord Beresford, is here to speak to me. I need someone to play gooseberry, but I don’t wish anyone to hear us.” She pulled a face. “It’s liable to become quite a heated discussion. I thought the back of the garden would be more appropriate.”
“And you would like me to remain on the terrace?”
Silvia rushed forward in a swish of muslin and took Vivian’s hands. “Yes, if you would. I know it is a great deal to ask . . .”
“Not at all.” It would be nice if one of them found love this Season. “Let us go. We should not keep him waiting.”
“Oh”—Silvia waved one hand airily—“that doesn’t bother me. As far as I’m concerned, he can wait a bit longer. I just want to get it over with.”
Then again, that did not sound promising. Vivian grimaced. “Try not to be too loud.”
Silvia led the way as if marching into battle, which she might indeed be. From what Vivian had seen in the past few weeks, Nicholas Beresford could be a formidable gentleman. On the other hand, he was the only man she’d seen who was up to her friend’s weight.
When they reached the main staircase, he was pacing like a caged lion. He glanced up, and it was clear he had eyes only for Silvia. “Well?” he barked. “Will you talk to me?”
“I told you I would.” Silvia’s tone was as belligerent as his.
“Barnes,” Vivian said. “Please fetch some tea and lemonade to the terrace. You may take your time; I believe his lordship and Miss Corbet would like to take the air.”
Vivian took Silvia by the arm. “My lord, this way, if you please.”
When they got to the morning room, Vivian released her friend. “Go outside. I can see you from here.”