“I am surprised to hear that,” Mrs. Mountebank said coolly. “One so often hears your name attached to frivolity and idle pleasure.”
Apthorp cleared his throat. “It is no surprise to me, Mrs. Mountebank. Lady Constance’s accomplishments may be unconventional, but everything she does is designed to bring joy to others. Surely there is virtue in a heart as large as hers. I have no doubt that she would be an asset to any cause your congregation put her to.”
Constance glanced up at him in surprise.
He met her gaze head-on, for he meant what he’d said. Few people displayed more determination to spread happiness and good fortune to those around them than Constance, and it annoyed him to hear her rudely maligned by a room of supposed Christians.
He considered himself a man of faith, but he believed above all in the morality of conscience. Enough time on Charlotte Street, where bishops sinned as freely as the laity, had convinced him that the performance of public virtue did not always bear on private scruples.
“I have no doubt Lady Constance’s talents would benefit our cause,” Evesham said pleasantly. “Her persuasive skills are as legendary as her evening balls. I’ve long been an admirer.”
“Have you?” Apthorp asked, taken aback that they were acquainted.
“Mr. Evesham and I have had the pleasure of debating several times at Mrs. Tremaine’s quarterly salon,” Constance said. “Though never, regrettably, on the same side of any argument.”
“Nevertheless, each time, I find myself musing on Lady Constance’s thoughts long after the debate has concluded,” Evesham said.
The two of them exchanged a smile from across the room.
Apthorp didn’t like it.
Why had Constance neglected to mention, in their discussion of her poem mysteriously finding its way to Saints & Satyrs, that she was acquainted with its editor?
“We weren’t discussing intellect,” Mrs. Mountebank said tersely, interrupting his thoughts. “We were discussing character. There is a difference, Mr. Evesham, wouldn’t you agree?”
Constance nodded before Evesham had a chance to answer. “You are quite right, Mrs. Mountebank,” she said. “I have much to learn about fulfilling my Christian duty. And I intend to make a careful study of it.”
“I should hope so,” Lady Spence sniffed. “I have feared for your soul every since your brother sent you to those Papist nuns like a Jacobin. And I should hope Lord Apthorp will not stand in your way.”
Before he could react, Constance looked the woman directly in the eye and smiled so sweetly that the ice in her voice when she spoke came as a shock.
“Anything virtuous in my character I have learned from the example of my future husband. Lord Apthorp is the most solemn, earnest, and conscientious man I’ve ever had the honor to know. Devoted to his family and his tenants. Exceptionally committed to his duties in the Lords. And kind. Which is a quality many otherwise good souls lack, wouldn’t you agree?”
Lady Spence clamped her lips so tight they turned white at the corners.
“And,” Constance added, her tone resuming a mellifluous lightness, “you cannot deny he is handsome.”
Evesham leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “Lady Constance, you’ve made your poor intended blush. I see the rumor that yours is a love match must be true.”
Apthorp’s cheeks burned brighter at having been observed reacting to her compliment. He wished he could steel himself to the acute pleasure that gathered in his gut when she expressed appreciation for him. But the flare of pure emotion that rose when she came to his defense nearly obliterated his composure. He was, God help him, aflutter.
Reverend Keeper, seeming perturbed at the earthly turn to the conversation, attempted to reestablish a godly tone. “Lady Constance, I’m flattered to hear of your interest in our congregation. I imagine you will be able to do many good works as the Countess of Apthorp.”
Constance gave the man a blinding smile. “Oh, indeed. The people of Cheshire have suffered this last decade. We are fortunate that my dowry will assist in providing them some ease. Perhaps, if you are able, you might come to lead a service on the estate. For, beyond material comforts, it is my fervent wish to build a new church, where we can offer sustenance to our tenants’ souls.”
“I had no idea you were so pious, dear.” Lady Spence said with an air of pronounced skepticism. “Nor so charitable.”
Constance let out a self-deprecating laugh. “My lady, to my deep regret, you are correct. I have scarcely taken an interest in my own soul, let alone that of any other. But hearing Lord Apthorp speak with such emotion of his people’s plight has awakened in me a desire to help.” She paused and locked eyes with Lady Spence. “In that respect it’s a misfortune that the legislation Lord Apthorp was hoping for seems destined not to pass, as it would have improved their lot immensely, and freed my funds for more heavenly causes. But we shall try to do what we can for our tenants even without the waterway, as is our duty. A new church will have to wait, alas.”
Lady Spence and her goddaughter exchanged a look.
“Is that right?” the old woman drawled. “Well then, Lord Apthorp, how convenient you are here with us. Let’s sit down to luncheon, and you can tell me more.”
If Apthorp’s determined politeness had struck her as bland in the past, Constance began to see the wisdom of his methods over lunch.
While she preferred to procure favors using the blunt tools of flattery and innuendo, his were subtler means. He crisply laid out the virtues of his bill, responding to all of Lady Spence’s questions with sound reasoning and good humor. He did not fawn or pander, but he was self-assured, polite, respectful, and thorough. By the second course he had, without directly asking for it, received her pledge to discuss his bill with her husband.
He then engaged Reverend Keeper in a long, enervating discussion of the minister’s recent trip to a revival in Cornwall, nodding along as though it were as scintillating as one of Mr. Evesham’s accounts of the procuresses at Seven Dials.
And he did all of this under Evesham’s penetrating gaze, never once betraying any discomfort at his presence, nor awareness of Lady Spence’s aggression in inviting him.
It was a talent, his bland exterior. In all the years she had dismissed his dullness, she had failed to notice that his affability required as much calculated performance as her theatrics did.
By the end of the meal, if he had not quite gained the trust of Lady Spence, it was obvious that at the very least the rumors about him were fading in the presence of his respectful manner.
“You know, Constance,” Lady Spence said as they rose to leave, “when you smile, you are the very image of your mother. She was a beauty, the late duchess.”
Constance bit her lip. “So I’m told. It pains me not to have known her.”
“Well, I am sure it is a solace that you will now have the maternal guidance of Lady Apthorp,” Lady Spence said. “Such a lovely woman, the countess. Exquisite manners.”
Constance had not set eyes on Apthorp’s mother in years, and scarcely knew her, but she was not about to admit this.
“Oh yes. A tremendous comfort. I hope she will treat me as her own daughter.”