Godmama had a point. The peace following Waterloo was creating violent upheaval in Merry Olde England, for the reasons she’d alluded to. Napoleon had claimed to rule by conquest, and the British economy had thrived on war as well. Without the French threatening our southern coast, the great military appetite for everything—from canvas to cooking pots, wool to weapons, chickens to chaplains—had dried up in the course of a year.
Britain had emerged victorious from two decades of war appended to a century of war, only to find herself fantastically in debt and ruled by a buffoon. The populace that had made endless sacrifices in the name of patriotism was now deeply discontent for many of the same reasons that had fueled revolution in France.
The rich had grown very rich, while the poor had grown very numerous. The government’s response was to counter potential upheaval with real oppression, which, of course, contributed to greater unrest.
The Corsican was doubtless enjoying a good laugh over the whole business, while I… I did not bother my pretty head with national affairs, though I did bear an inconvenient fondness for my godmother.
“I shall see you safely to Makepeace,” I said, “then take my leave of you. You can travel back to Town in company with some of the other guests who will doubtless return this direction.”
She pushed aside a curtain to let in a shaft of morning sun. Had she taken a knife to my eyes, the result would have been less painful.
“Your staff is remiss, Julian. These windows require a thorough scrubbing. If your windows are this filthy as summer approaches, I shudder to contemplate their condition in winter.”
I rooted about in my desk drawer for my blue-tinted spectacles while all manner of profanity begged for expression.
“I shall pass your insult along to my housekeeper. She will delight to know that you, she, Harris, Sterling, and my neighbors on all sides are in agreement.”
“The light hurts your eyes,” Lady Ophelia said. “That’s why you lurk like a prisoner in an oubliette, isn’t it? Your mother hasn’t said anything about you having vision problems.”
Because Mama did not know my eyesight was in any way impaired. Only my older brother knew, and as the ducal heir, Arthur had been consuming discretion before he’d first thrust a spoon into runny porridge. Arthur was the family strategist, also our patriarch, though he was barely six years my senior.
“The physicians assure me the impairment to my eyes is temporary. I see well enough. Bright light is painful, though, hence the tinted spectacles.”
She bustled toward me, and I steeled myself to endure a hug, but her ladyship merely patted my cheek with a gloved hand.
“Your secrets have always been safe with me, Julian. That hasn’t changed, and it never will. We leave on Thursday, and I will hope for cloudy weather. We can keep the shades down, though you shall not smoke in my traveling coach.”
“I don’t smoke anywhere.”
She collected her reticule, scowled at my window, and scowled at me. “You used to smoke. All young men do.”
“I used to do a lot of things. I’ll be on your doorstep by eight of the clock.”
Thus did I embark on a journey that would involve far more than a jaunt to the Kentish countryside and test much besides my ability to endure bright sunshine.
* * *
Order your copy of A Gentleman Fallen on Hard Times, and read on for an excerpt from Worth More Than Rubies!
Worth More than Rubies—Excerpt
“Must you be so gracious to every dowager, beldame, and debutante we pass?” Tertius Dundee, eleventh Duke of Dunfallon, kept his voice down. A peer did not shout on a public walkway, particularly when he was determined to elude the notice of the ladies.
“Yes, I must,” Nicholas Haddonfield, Earl of Bellefonte, replied. “My governess pounded gentlemanly deportment into my hard little head before I graced the schoolroom, and the ladies enjoy my overtures. Besides, Yuletide approaches, and the season enhances my already-abundant good cheer.”
“You can afford good cheer,” Dunfallon retorted. “You’re married.”
“And happily so, thank the Deity and my darling countess.” Bellefonte tipped his hat again and beamed his signature smile at a pair of widows swaddled in fur muffs and wool scarves. Because his lordship stood over six and a half feet tall and sported a head of shining blond curls, his gallantry was like a beacon across Mayfair, summoning the admiring glances of any female with eyes to behold him.
“Remind me,” Dunfallon said, “that the next time we meet for breakfast at the club, we arrive separately.”
“Nonsense. A brisk stroll works up the appetite.”
“Blast ye, Bellefonte, don’t ye dare even think—”
This time, the earl made a sweeping gesture out of removing his hat before a roving band of well-dressed young ladies.
“Enjoy your shopping!” he called. “Remember that I have been a very good boy this year!”
A chorus of tittering and simpering followed from the young women, their chaperones, and the maids trailing after them. Across the street, a petite female attired in a white velvet cloak gawked at the spectacle Bellefonte created. Her older companion, sensibly attired in blue, smiled indulgently.
“What sort of fool wears a white cloak in London?” Bellefonte asked, settling his hat onto his head, then taking it off again and tipping it to the pair across the street. “The fabric will be gray before she’s bought her first pair of dancing slippers.”
The day was brisk but sunny. A shiver nonetheless passed over Dunfallon’s nape. “That wee princess is Miss Minerva Peasegill, accompanied by her mama. Miss Peasegill turned down three proposals during the Season and two during the Little Season, to hear her mama tell it. Stop lollygagging and get on wi’ ye.”
“She’s quite pretty,” Bellefonte said, budging not one inch, “if you like the delicate porcelain look. Still, white isn’t very practical. I like a practical woman. My countess, for example—”
“Move your lordly arse, Bellefonte, or s’help me, I’ll… God hae mercy, they’re coming this way.”
Dunfallon’s best hope lay in the fact that Bellefonte, being as tall as a lighthouse, would hold the ladies’ attention. Dunfallon himself could steal away unseen if he moved with the purpose and stealth of a border reiver beneath a quarter moon.
The chronic congestion of London’s fashionable streets prevented Miss Peasegill and her mama from charging across the thoroughfare. Dunfallon took half a moment to assess the surrounds. If he ducked into a shop, the ladies might follow. If he simply loped off down the walkway, they would also give chase, hallooing and you-hooing like hounds on the scent.
Where was a gentlemen’s club when a duke needed safety from the matrimonial press-gang?
His gaze lit on a modest two-story building tucked between a coffee shop and a milliner’s. The windows displayed neither gloves, nor boots, nor fans. No porters loitered outside prepared to bear purchases home for any shoppers.
A solicitor’s establishment, perhaps, or… The sign on the lamppost swung in the chilly breeze: W. Bart. St. Lending Library. All are welcome.
“Excuse me,” Dunfallon said. “Find another companion for breakfast, Bellefonte. Please delay the ladies as long as you can.”