Accidental Peers 03 - Compromising Willa (6 page)

Sir Heenan, a thin gentleman with premature gray at his temples, leaned forward. “You’ve been away, Hartwell.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there is a quiet understanding among gentlemen of a certain standing that Lady Wilhelmina is spoken for.”

“By whom?” To his surprise, Hart’s gut twisted. “I was not aware the lady is betrothed.”

“They say Bellingham has put his mark on her.” Garrick’s words tumbled out in one continuous slur.

Hart’s fingers tightened around his glass. “What the devil are you implying?”

“Shut up, Garrick,” Selwyn said tightly. “You really can be an arse sometimes.”

“There’s long been talk of her belonging to Augustus Manning. He’s finally come into the title. He’s Bellingham now,” Heenan said. “Surely you remember him from Cambridge.”

“Vaguely.”

Remembrance clicked in Heenan’s eyes. “Ah, yes, there was bad blood between the two of you.”

“I’ll say.” Garrick bottomed out his glass. “Hartwell gave Bellingham the thrashing of his life. They’d have sent him up if he hadn’t been the son of a duke.”

“You never did say what Bellingham did to deserve such harsh treatment,” Heenan said.

Hart concentrated on the swirling brandy in his glass. “No, I did not.”

Heenan added, “Brave of you to lick the heir to an earldom.”

Garrick motioned for more brandy. A club worker stepped forward with a full decanter. “Especially considering you were only a second son with no hope of a title.” He raised his refilled drink in salute. “Congratulations, by the way, on your reversal of fortune.”

Hart’s chest constricted at the indirect reference to his late brother. Michael’s kind and steady visage flashed in his mind. A good man’s untimely death was no cause for celebration. Looking to Heenan, he said, “I scarcely see how Lady Wilhelmina can belong to Bellingham if there is no betrothal.”

“There is certain talk no gentleman would ever repeat.” Heenan reached for his mother-of-pearl snuffbox. “Some say it is why the lady has kept herself away from Town for so long.”

“And this is commonly discussed in society?”

“It is not the kind of thing one hears in Mayfair’s drawing rooms,” Selwyn answered in halting tones.

“But most gentlemen about Town eventually hear the talk,” Garrick added with a lascivious smirk.

Heenan leaned over and inhaled snuff into his nose. “Not that anyone dares to cut her in public.” Leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, he used a handkerchief to wipe remnants of the powdery substance from his upper lip. “Impeccable family lines and all. The family carries on as though nothing has happened. She is under the protection of her cousin, the Marquess of Camryn, who is quite influential in the Lords. No one dares risk his wrath.”

“I don’t follow.”

Garrick leaned forward. “They say the chit is compromised. Utterly and completely, if you get my meaning.” He winked at Hart. “But she still acts the frigid princess, all high and mighty. Otherwise, who wouldn’t want to toss up those skirts and give her a good hard—”

Something in his head snapped loose, blinding him to anything but the desire to crush the drunken whoreson beneath his boot heel. He bolted to his feet and shoved the table back with a loud clatter. Towering over Garrick, he grabbed the man’s cravat with one hand and drew back his fist with the other. Garrick shrank back in his chair, wide-eyed, his face pinched with fear. Action at the other gaming tables screeched to a halt. Silence descended; all eyes were riveted on Hartwell.

Selwyn jumped up and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Now Hartwell,” he said, partially positioning himself between the two men. “This is just a friendly misunderstanding among gentlemen.”

His neck burned. It was a lie. It had to be. “It is hardly the act of a gentleman to insult a lady’s honor in the most grievous way possible.”

“My sincere apologies, H-Hartwell. I d-did not know the l-lady was of a-any import to you,” Garrick stuttered, still cowering in his seat.

“It seems I’ve arrived just in time for the real games to begin.”

The familiar jocular voice pierced the red fog enveloping Hartwell. He glanced over his shoulder to see Cam approaching their table.

“What is this?” The marquess handed his greatcoat to one of the club workers. “Causing trouble already, Hartwell?”

His head screamed with anger, consuming him with an overwhelming desire to break the lying bastard’s short neck with his bare hands. But he struggled to get a hold of his temper. Cam had appeared. Too many eyes were upon him. To allow this scene to play out would no doubt spark gossip about what had been said. He felt strangely protective and unwilling to subject Willa’s reputation to such potential ruin.

“Camryn, jolly good to see you,” said Selwyn, appearing hopeful that Cam’s appearance would put an end to the confrontation.

Hart reluctantly released Garrick with a small shove. Lowering his fist, he dragged his eyes from Garrick’s ashen face and turned to Cam, struggling to mask his fury. “No trouble. Just a misunderstanding among gentlemen.” He forced a cool tone despite the fire raging inside him. “Garrick here was just about to leave us. Won’t you take his seat?”

The little bastard sprang to his feet, eager to take his cue. “Absolutely. I must make haste and depart. Your servant, Camryn,” he uttered, gathering his things before scrambling out of the room.

Cam shook his head as he watched Garrick leave. “Lord, I see you still know how to clear a room, Hartwell.” He settled in to the departed man’s seat. “I haven’t seen Garrick move that quickly since Eton and perhaps not even then.”

“He’s a fool. Hardly worth my time.” A slow burn still oozed through his veins. “Enough talk.” He reached for the deck of cards. “Let’s get back to the real action, shall we?”

…

“I do believe this is the best tea I have ever tasted,” Octavia Gordon declared as she put her teacup down.

“Would you care for more?” Willa smiled when Octavia held out her teacup. Her first attempt at hosting a meeting of the Ladies’ Reading Society had turned out to be a success so far. She enjoyed the women in this group. Their thoughts might be shocking to some but Willa relished the discussions.

“Willa is the tea goddess.” Flor held out her cup for more as well. “People actually try to buy her special blends, but it would never do for a young lady to be involved in trade,” she said with mock horror.

“The judgment of society is meant to keep women from reaching their full potential,” said Pamela Grenfell, a pale sliver of a woman with a hand at her graceful, long white neck. “It’s just as Mary Wollstonecraft says.”

“Her thoughts are quite astounding in their directness,” Willa said.

“But true, nonetheless,” said Pamela. “Take your situation as an example. Just because you were seen at an inn in the company of the future Earl of Bellingham, your reputation is damaged.”

Willa sipped her tea to hide her discomfort. Yet the frankness of these discussions was what drew her to these women.

“And there is no stain on Bellingham,” said Octavia. “Now there’s a cad, if there ever was one. It’s completely unjust.”

“The Duke of Hartwell does not seem to mind her reputation,” Flor said with a naughty grin.

“Do tell.” Eyes wide, Pamela tilted her head toward Willa. “Is Hartwell courting you?”

“Of course not.” Her cheeks heated. “His Grace called once, but that is because he and Camryn are the oldest of friends.”

“They danced a waltz at Almack’s,” Flor said dreamily. “He is very appealing.”

“His Grace?” Octavia frowned. “He is a frightening sort if you ask me.”

Willa resisted an immediate urge to defend the duke. “Why do you say so?”

“Everyone knows he has an uncontrollable temper,” said Octavia. “He thrashed Bellingham almost to the death when they were at university.”

Pamela nodded. “My brother Freddie was a year behind them. He says Hartwell almost got sent up for it.”

“Why would he do such a thing?” Willa asked.

“According to my Freddie, Hartwell would never say what triggered the beating.” Pamela placed her cup in its saucer with a delicate clink. “Bellingham has always maintained Hartwell was jealous because he was only a second son while Bellingham stood to inherit an earldom.”

Flor shook her head. “I can’t imagine that man being jealous of anyone. He carries himself as though he owns the town.”

“According to Freddie, Hartwell was superior to Bellingham in every other way—in their studies and physical pursuits,” Pamela said.

“At least that part of the story is easily believed.” Willa could not imagine Hartwell assaulting someone out of jealousy. If true, it did not speak well of his character.

Pamela held out her cup. “More tea, if you please. It is excellent.” Willa obliged somewhat absentmindedly—her thoughts busy with the animus between Hartwell and Augustus.

“This is heavenly,” Pamela said between sips of tea. “You truly could sell it. Willa’s talent at blending tea could be a way for her to support herself without depending upon a man. So why should she not be able to do it?”

Octavia leaned forward to put her empty tea cup on the table. “I’ll tell you why. Because society prefers to keep women helpless and under the control of men.”

Willa had never thought to sell her blends. “Oh, I just mix tea for the pure pleasure of it.”

“You could call it Heavenly Tea,” Flor said thoughtfully. “It would see a fine profit, to be sure.”

Willa smiled, a little uncomfortable with the thought of trade. “Camryn has put aside a most generous portion even if I never marry. I’ve no need of income if I live modestly.”

“But there are those who do.” Octavia gave Flor a meaningful look. “Are you thinking what I am thinking?”

Excitement shone in Flor’s eyes. “That’s an excellent idea. It could work.”

Willa glanced between the two women. “What could work?”

“You see,” said Flor, leaning in toward Willa, “there is a little coffee house that we sponsor.”

Willa glanced around at the expectant faces focused on her. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It’s sort of our little secret,” said Pamela. “Our families would not approve.”

Willa’s eyes rounded in shock. “Are you in trade?” she asked incredulously. Like her, these women had no need of funds. Not only was Flor’s father an earl, but Octavia’s was a viscount, while the death of Pamela’s husband had left her comfortably settled.

“Not exactly.” Flor patted her hand. “We help support the coffee shop to give work to women of the lower orders.”

“Wives whose husbands have died, or fallen women with children,” added Pamela.

“They work at the coffee house so they can earn an honest living without having to sell themselves,” said Octavia. “All women should be able to work to help keep their families.”

“Octavia rented out the shop and supplied it to begin with, but it isn’t making sufficient money to support itself,” Flor explained. “And the cost of both tea and sugar is rather high, which makes matters even more difficult.”

Octavia nodded. “I cannot continue to support it indefinitely. It must turn enough of a profit to pay the rent, wages, and supplies. And if we are made to relocate the shop, that would drive up costs considerably.”

“Why would you move the coffee house?” Willa asked.

“The landlord, Mr. Webb, has raised the rent twice. Now he informs us that someone intends to purchase the building,” Octavia said. “And that the buyer will wish to make use of the entire building for his own business concerns.”

“That’s where your tea comes in.” Excitement infused Flor’s words. “It would help considerably with expenses if we sell your special blends, both to partake of at the shop and to carry home. No one would ever have to know where it came from.”

Willa couldn’t help feeling flattered. The idea of sharing her blends with a wider circle of people held great appeal. Although the excitement in the room was contagious, she struggled to hold on to reason. “But what if we are discovered? It would be the scandal of the season.”

“We shall just see to it that we are never discovered,” said Flor, her voice resolute.

Willa pondered the possibility. “I could use my pin money for supplies so no one need know.”

Flor’s face lit up. “Then you will do it?”

“It is a worthwhile cause.”

Octavia clapped her hands together. “Excellent!”

The more she thought about it, the more she warmed to the idea. Her expertise with teas could be more than a hobby; it offered a way to do something of real purpose. Excitement bubbled up in her. “I will do it,” she said her tone growing more decisive, a sense of freedom billowing up inside of her. Here at last was one aspect of her life that she could take control of. “Where do we start?”

The talk turned to how much tea would be needed and how it would be packaged. They decided Pamela would arrange for a discreet member of her household staff to deliver the tea to the shop. As the hour grew late and her guests prepared to take their leave, it occurred to Willa that the reading group had not discussed a single book during their meeting.