Sheri Cobb South (6 page)

To Lady Randall’s surprise, Mr. Brundy’s face turned crimson. “You’re too kind, me lady—”

“A ball?” gushed the spinster Miss Maplethorpe, oblivious to her host’s discomfort. “Why, Lady Randall, what a splendid idea!”

“Splendid, indeed,” agreed a new voice. “I beg you, Lady Randall, do not forget me when you make out your guest list.”

Lady Helen’s heart leaped into her throat as Lord Waverly entered the room with feline grace. She had been dreading his discovery of her unequal marriage more than any other. How he would mock her for marrying such a man, when she might have been his countess! And what could she say to his jibes, when he would be quite correct in his assessment?

“Lord Waverly,” she said with admirable calm, holding out her hand to him.

“Mrs. Brundy,” he replied with a faintly mocking smile, raising her ungloved hand to his lips. “You behold me devastated.”

Her answering smile was a brittle one. “Devastated you must be, my lord, if you have forgotten how to address me. Though I am wed, I am still ‘Lady Helen’ to you.”

“If you might lower your chin, Lady Helen,” begged the artist, hard at work behind his easel.

“But of course you are still Lady Helen. How very gauche of me.” Lord Waverly’s gaze fell to the diamonds glittering against her
décolletage.
“You told me once you had a fancy to be gilded. It would appear you have achieved your ambition with a vengeance. I congratulate you.”

Mr. Brundy, observing this exchange, conceived a violent dislike for the gentleman whose bold gaze raked his wife’s bosom with detached interest. Although he vaguely recalled seeing the man in Lady Helen’s box that night at Covent Garden, he could not remember having been introduced. Then again, he might have been introduced to the Prince Regent himself and not remembered; he’d had eyes only for Lady Helen Radney.

“ ‘Oo’s ‘e?” asked Mr. Brundy, leaning over to address the viscount in an undervoice.

“The Earl of Waverly. The fellow used to be one of Nell’s suitors.”

Mr. Brundy had not supposed that Lady Helen Radney would have been completely without admirers, but until now these gentlemen had been an anonymous lot, without names or faces to cause him undue concern. Now the bridegroom weighed his vanquished rival’s elegant figure in form-fitting coat and tight pantaloons, and found him wanting. “Why, ‘e’s naught but a bloomin’ fashion plate! I’ll not believe ‘elen could care for such a man-milliner!”

“As to that, I couldn’t say, but before Papa lost his—that is, before you offered for her, ‘twas on the books at White’s that she would have Lord Waverly.”

While Mr. Brundy digested this information, Lord Waverly exchanged pleasantries with Lady Randall and Miss Maplethorpe, then bethought himself of an appointment with his tailor and rose to take leave of his host.

“Weston, in Old Bond Street, you know,” he added by way of explanation, then raised his quizzing glass to examine Mr. Brundy’s poorly cut morning coat. “Then again, perhaps you don’t.” He shook hands with the weaver, then wiped his hand on the tail of his coat in a gesture that was not quite surreptitious enough to go unnoticed by the bridegroom. “I congratulate you on your recent nuptials, Mr. Brundy. Your wealth has purchased you quite a prize. Your servant, sir. Lady Helen—” He took her hand and pressed an ardent kiss into her palm. “—your slave.”

* * * *

Over the next few days, the newly married Brundys’ lives settled into a routine. While Lady Helen posed for her portrait or paid and received morning calls, her husband spent his days attending to his business interests and occasionally visiting Brooks’s as a guest of Lord David Markham (who fully intended to stand his friend and benefactor for membership as soon as the
ton
had sufficient time to grow accustomed to him) or White’s under the auspices of his noble father-in-law.

His initial invasion of that bastion of Tory politics was not an altogether felicitous one. The duke, leading the way, handed his hat and gloves to the porter and started up the stairs, but when Mr. Brundy tried to follow, he found his way blocked by that selfsame porter.

“Oh, no you don’t,” said this worthy, positioning his considerable girth between the invader and the open doorway. “Members only. Now, move along!”

Mr. Brundy drew himself up to his full height. “I’m the guest of ‘is Grace, the Dook,” he informed the porter in lofty tones.

“And I’m the Czar of all the Russias,” scoffed the doorman, unimpressed.

“You don’t understand—”

“No, ‘tis
you
who don’t understand. Let me enlighten you.”

Before the hapless Mr. Brundy knew what he was about, the porter had seized him by the collar and would have thrown him bodily into the street, had the duke not become aware of the fracas behind him and turned on the stairs.

“For God’s sake, man, the fellow is my son-in-law! Let him go!”

“Y-Yes, your Grace! At once, your Grace!”

Thus chastised, the porter not only unhanded Mr. Brundy, but went so far as to try to repair the damage to his coat and cravat. Mr. Brundy, unable to resist the temptation, cast a pitying smile on the groveling doorman before climbing the stairs in the duke’s wake.

“Now, remember,” the duke instructed his son-in-law, “all the gentlemen you are about to meet are staunch Tories.”

“I’ll try not to ‘old it against them, your Grace,” promised Mr. Brundy.

This earned him a glare from his papa-in-law. “On no account are you to argue politics with any of them! Just nod your head and keep your mouth shut. And do try not to look so common!”

Perhaps Mr. Brundy was trying so hard to determine how he might carry out this last command that he quite forgot the other two. At any rate, when he heard three of his new acquaintances discussing a speech made the day before in the House of Lords, Mr. Brundy moved his chair nearer so that he might catch every word.

“—Poundstone is exactly right when he says it would mean economic disaster,” Lord Chester was saying. “A tradesman can acquire an apprentice from the workhouse for a fraction of what it would cost him to hire a grown man to do the same job.”

Lord Hewett nodded. “Besides driving up prices, think of all the children who would be thrown onto the parish, contributing nothing to their own upkeep, but costing more than ever to feed and clothe—”

“And once they’re grown, the brats will breed like rabbits, and then there will be even more of them,” put in Lord Ravenwood.

Mr. Brundy tensed, but said nothing.

“All eating their heads off and requiring even higher taxes to support them,” seconded Chester. “No, the workhouse system may not be perfect, but it is surely the best alternative.”

Mr. Brundy had sincerely tried to obey his father-in-law’s behests, but at last he could hold his tongue no longer. “I wonder if the ‘brats’ would agree,” he remarked, and although he had not raised his voice, he instantly had the three men’s undivided attention.

“In all likelihood they would not,” conceded Hewett. “But when did children ever know what was best for them?”

“That is why we, as men, must decide these things,” agreed Lord Chester. Seeing his primary audience was unconvinced, he added, “No one likes to see young children put to work, Mr. Brundy, but ‘tis a necessary evil.”

“Tell me, gentlemen, ‘ave you any children of your own?”

The childless lords Hewett and Ravenwood looked mildly annoyed at the abrupt change of subject, but Lord Chester fairly beamed with paternal pride. “Indeed, I have, sir. Three fine sons and two lovely daughters.”

“And would you, for any reason, think it in their best interests to be chained to a piece of machinery for upwards of twelve hours a day?”

The duke had wandered to the far side of the room to speak to his cronies, and had been involved in lively debate over the merits of Sir Arnold Longacre’s thoroughbred racehorse when his son-in-law’s unrefined accents caught his attention—along, it seemed, with that of every other gentleman in the room. Following the sound, he discovered Mr. Brundy waxing eloquent on the subject of labor reform to an enthralled audience, while Lord Chester, his face quite purple, looked on the verge of an apoplexy.

“ ‘Chained,’ Mr. Brundy?” scoffed Lord Ravenwood. “Surely not!”

Mr. Brundy shrugged. “And ‘ow else would you keep a ‘ealthy young lad at ‘is post for that length of time?”

“If I may say so, sir, you seem remarkably well-informed—to say nothing of passionate—on the subject,” put in a new voice.

“Indeed I am, on both counts. I was one of those brats, you see,” Mr. Brundy informed the newcomer, a man whose pleasant countenance was framed by bushy blond sidewhiskers just beginning to show traces of silver. Although only in his mid-forties, he walked with a pronounced limp, yet his bearing still bespoke the soldier in spite of his disability.

“Well, then,” blustered Lord Chester, recovering his poise. “You came through the current system, and you seem to have done quite well for yourself. A wealthy man, married to one of the most fêted women in England—”

“Aye, that I am,” agreed Mr. Brundy, his expression softening at the thought of his beautiful bride. “I guess I’m luckier than most.”

“Speaking of luck, let us see if yours extends to whist,” barked his Grace, seizing the opportunity to remove his errant son-in-law to the card room.

“Thanks, but I’m not a betting man,” replied Mr. Brundy. “If you’ve no objection, I’ll wait ‘ere and ‘ave a look at the
Times
until you’ve finished.”

The duke regarded his son-in-law with a darkening brow. “Tell me, Mr. Brundy, are you a Methodist?”

“That I’m not, your Grace, but I’ve no wish to toss away me ‘ard earned money at cards.”

Muttering imprecations against the moral posturings of the middling classes, the duke betook himself to the card room. The others drifted off in his wake, sensing that the afternoon’s entertainment was at an end. Mr. Brundy, left to his own devices, asked a passing waiter if he might have a look at the famous betting book, and upon its being delivered to him, leafed through its pages with interest. Just as the viscount had said, a Lord Scarsdale had wagered £200 against a Captain Sir Charles Fortescue’s chestnut gelding that Lady Helen Radney would marry Lord Waverly, while numerous side bets speculated as to the date of the union. He did not know any Lord Scarsdale, nor could he recall meeting a Captain Sir Charles Fortescue, but he noted with satisfaction that his lordship had paid the debt in full on Friday, 25 April 1816—the date the announcement of his own marriage to Lady Helen had appeared in
The Morning Post.

He closed the book with a much lighter heart, then made his way to the card room to follow the duke’s progress at whist.

* * * *

While her husband debated politics at White’s, Lady Helen weighed the merits of curtains versus cornices, and reupholstering the existing furnishings as opposed to purchasing new ones. Indeed, she took so much pleasure in this housewifely exercise that she was very nearly able to forget the husband whose largesse made it all possible. True to his word, Mr. Brundy had arranged for a clerk to call on his wife with a book of fabric samples.

“I do like this polished cotton for the drawing room windows,” she said, fingering a sample of blue and coral birds of paradise on a cream background. “The pattern is quite unique, and the workmanship obviously superior.”

“Some say the finest in England, ma’am,” said the little man, fairly puffing out his chest with pride.

“The yellow floral would look well enough in my bedchamber,” Lady Helen continued, “but on the whole I think I prefer the striped rose pattern.”

“If I may say so, your ladyship has an unerring eye,” applauded the clerk, jotting down her selections in a small notepad. “And what do you favor for the gentleman’s suite? Might I suggest this green jacquard?”

In almost a week of marriage, Lady Helen had never set foot inside her husband’s bedroom, and she felt the heat rise to her face at the mention of that forbidding and mysterious territory. “Yes, well, as to that, I—I think I have spent quite enough for one day,” she stammered, seizing upon the excuse provided by the ever-lengthening list. “You may present the bill to my husband, Mr. Wetherstone.”

The look he gave her was a puzzled blank. “The bill, my lady?”

“For the fabrics. Or would you prefer payment upon delivery?”

Enlightenment dawned, and Mr. Wetherstone permitted himself a smile at her innocent question. “There is no charge, my lady. I will simply have the necessary lengths sent over from your husband’s warehouses.”

Now it was Lady Helen’s turn to be confused. “From my husband’s—? Mr. Wetherstone, are you saying that
Mr. Brundy’s mill
produced all these fabrics?”

“All these and more, my lady.”

“Well—well, why did you not say so?” she demanded, feeling incredibly foolish.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I thought you knew,” said the clerk apologetically.

Lady Helen had no intention of turning her home, purchased as it was with her freedom, into an advertisement for her husband’s business. For a moment she considered punishing him by cancelling the order and purchasing textiles imported from the Continent at exorbitant expense. Then she thought of the bird of paradise print she had chosen for the drawing room. It truly was lovely, and she would never find anything like it, at any price. It would be foolish, she decided, to cut off her nose merely to spite her face. With some misgivings, she let the order stand.

Her husband, however, she had no intention of letting off so lightly. Upon his return, she greeted him with honeyed sweetness (a circumstance which in itself warned him that all was not well within the Brundy domicile) and asked him if he had passed a pleasant afternoon at White’s.

“I don’t know as ‘ow I’d call it pleasant,” Mr. Brundy answered with great deliberation, “but they won’t be forgetting me any time soon. I’m in the suds with your papa, me dear, and no mistake.”

“What did you do?” asked Lady Helen with a growing sense of unease.

The look he gave her was all innocence. “Why, I only expressed me honest opinion,” he insisted.

“If we are to speak of honesty,” Lady Helen said tartly, seeing her opening, “you might have told me that those were your own samples you sent for!”