The Golden Season (2 page)

Thus their deaths had left Lady Lydia at fourteen the heir to one of England’s largest unentailed estates, meaning the property was hers alone to do with as she wished and did not need to be preserved to be passed on to another generation. Having no kin, she’d become a ward of the crown and the Prince Regent had named as her guardian one of his own cousins, an elderly, fiscally responsible but physically unavailable cousin of the old king, a Sir Grimley. Poor lass had gone from being the pet of a dozen European courts to being the only child in Sir Grimley’s Sussex house with only paid caretakers for companions.

Then, when Lydia had turned sixteen, her godmother and mother’s childhood friend, Eleanor, the widowed Duchess of Grenville, had taken the budding beauty under her wing and presented her at court. To this day the two women remained fast friends, despite the fact that as soon as Lydia reached her majority and inherited her wealth, she’d flown free of what few constraints the duchess had imposed upon her and become reliant only on her own whim. That surely was the only counsel she’d ever seen her parents heed. Still, as a sop to convention, she had engaged a Mrs. Cod as her companion.

Terwilliger glanced at the woman who was seated even now at Lady Lydia’s side, a small dumpling of a female with frizzy rufous hair and a habit of popping her chin in and out that gave her an uncanny resemblance to a spruce grouse.

Soon after reaching her twenty- first birthday, Lydia had begun introducing Emily Cod as her chaperone and companion, claiming the older woman was a widowed second cousin. Rumor had it Lady Lydia had plucked Mrs. Cod out of the madhouse to fulfill the position rather than submit to a more suitable—and less lenient—chaperone.

Certainly, Emily Cod was suspiciously well suited to play doyenne to a high-spirited and independent girl. She was amiable, uncritical, and had the laudable (at least, from a debutante’s viewpoint) ability to fall comfortably asleep while sitting upright. She also had an unnerving propensity for “collecting” things from the homes they visited, an open secret amongst the
ton
that had given rise to the Bedlam rumor.

“What exactly are all these numbers to tell me, Mr. Terwilliger?” Lady Lydia abruptly asked, looking up from the papers on her lap.

“Ah, well . . .”

She noted the direction of his gaze and gave an elegant wave of her gloved hand. “There is nothing you can say to me that you cannot say in front of Emily, Mr. Terwilliger. She owns far more of my secrets than you.”

“Very well, then, Lady Lydia.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “You are bankrupt.”

She gave a start, then broke into charming laughter. “I just
knew
you had a sense of humor, Terwilliger. I confess, I had about given up hope of ever seeing it, but I
knew
it was there.”

He stared at her, confounded. “But . . . I
have
no comedic bent, Lady Lydia,” he stammered. “I am quite serious. You
are
bankrupt.”

Rather than reply, Lady Lydia blithely reached over and plucked a paperweight from Emily Cod’s lap. Terwilliger hadn’t even noted when the older woman had picked it up. Mrs. Cod smiled apologetically.

“And this is why you insisted I cancel my luncheon appointment to meet here at your offices? Could this not have waited?” Lady Lydia asked.

He peered at her closely, trying to gauge whether she understood the full meaning of his words. She had never had a head for numbers, but she was no fool, either. Should she have wished, he had no doubt she could have understood her finances. So he could only surmise she had no wish to do so. And why should she? It had always seemed her funds would be inexhaustible.

He remembered their original meeting three years ago, when she’d come into her seemingly limitless inheritance and he’d been assigned her accounts. She had been twenty-one, a pretty, immensely wealthy orphan. From a banking perspective it had
not
been a successful union. He knew he had mismanaged her wealth. But so, too, had most bankers and stockbrokers mismanaged everything during the wretched economy of the time. No, he was not entirely to blame himself. The stock markets had been abysmal, land prices were falling and food costs rising; it was three years of inflation and recession. And she
was
profligate. Ridiculously, ruinously so.

“Let me try to explain another way, my lady. Your assets are gone. You are poor.”

“Poor?” Lady Lydia repeated, tasting the word as though it were some exotic, and not altogether pleasant, flavor. “What do you mean by ‘poor’?”

“Poor, as in one who has no money. As in, you
owe
more than you
own
.” He tapped the thick stack of bills on the desk before him.

The celebrated violet eyes abruptly lit with amused comprehension. “Ah, I see. This is about the barouche.”

Again, the heart- stopping smile appeared and Terwilliger steeled himself against her charms, knowing his will alone was an inadequate defense. His duty here was clear. She must leave his offices with no doubt about the direness of her situation. He had allowed her to sally about in blissful ignorance too long.

“I swear I could not help myself,” she pouted prettily. “It has yellow wheels, Mr. Terwilliger.
Jonquil
yellow.”

“It is not simply the barouche, Lady Lydia,” he said. “Your funds have been completely exhausted.”

She frowned, looking a bit perplexed that her pout had not achieved the desired effect of having him recant his words. “Just how exhausted?”

“Aside from the new yacht and barouche, in the last three months you purchased six paintings and a pianoforte for some musician—”

“He’s a talented composer and he needed a pianoforte.”

“There is always a composer or an artist or furniture maker or someone who needs something that you are always too ready to give,” Terwilliger said in ex asperation.

It was one of the reasons one cared so much whether Lady Lydia’s spendthrift ways led to her ruin; though madly profligate, wildly impulsive, and supremely spoiled, she was also ruinously generous and marvelously appreciative. She was the consummate bon vivant. Her delight in the most negligible flower was as great as it was for the grandest of academy paintings and just as sincere. One lived more in the company of Lady Lydia. Saw more. Felt more.

He pressed on. “In the last three years, you landscaped the Devon property, all eight hundred acres of it, made sizable contributions to various soldiers’ aid societies, widows’ and orphans’ societies, and”—he consulted a piece of paper set apart from the others—“single-handedly funded an exploration to North Africa by the Royal Society of Atlantis.” He looked up, hoping she would deny this last allegation. She didn’t.

“They showed me some extremely convincing evidence that points to the site of the fabled lost continent,” she said primly. “Pray, continue.”

“And need I mention the full staffs kept at three separate houses, the horses, gowns, bonnets, jewelry, the weekly salon you host, the parties and balls—”

“No,” Lady Lydia cut in smoothly. “You needn’t. But you misunderstand me, Terwilliger. I do not want to know how I exhausted my funds, as you so picturesquely put it, but how exhausted my funds are.”

At this, Terwilliger made an exasperated sound. “They have expired.”

She scrutinized him closely and seeing no wavering said, “I will sell the Derbyshire farm.”

“It’s already been sold.”

She frowned. “It has? When?”

“Three months ago. I wrote you and asked you how you intended to fund the Atlantis expedition and you wrote back saying I should sell whatever was necessary. I did so. I sent you the contracts by messenger and you signed them.”

“Oh. Yes. I recall. But surely there’s something left from that sale?”

He shook his head.

“Sell one of the houses.”

“They are all on the market and no one has made an offer and I doubt anyone will. There are few people these days looking to purchase properties without acreage.”

“The coal mine, then,” she said decisively. “I have never liked owning—”

“It is no longer producing.”

“All right,” she said in the tone of one capitulating to an unreasonable request. “Sell some stocks.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Since the war ended, the stock market has collapsed. I have tried to be prudent, but I have failed you here. Your stocks currently have no appreciable value.”

Now, finally, he’d breached the wall that wealth and entitlement had built around her. Her smile wavered.

“Tell Honeycutt to sell my shares of Indian Trade fleet,” she said, naming the man who oversaw the shipping venture that to the greatest part had financed the Eastlake empire.

Terwilliger stared at her.

“Well?”

“But . . .” he stammered, flummoxed. “There is no fleet.”

She frowned. “Of course there’s a fleet. At last word, they were preparing to return from India fully laden.”

“Two weeks ago, all five ships were captured by pirates off the east coast of Africa.”

“What?”

“I wrote you about this. Twice. I sent word seeking an interview, but you—”

“The crews!” she interrupted, blanching.

“Your shipping company had just enough available capital to pay the ransom demanded,” he hastily assured her, and she drew a relieved breath. “No lives were lost. But the ships and their cargo are gone. I wish you had read my letters,” he finished fretfully.

“So do I,” she murmured. “I would never have purchased that barouche.”

He watched her, miserable, and told himself he had done his best, that he could only offer advice, which Lady Lydia oft ignored, and while he was willing to admit that his advice had been bad of late, every one of the financiers and bankers and investors he knew had been just as culpable in their failure to predict the country’s current financial predicament.

In great part, her situation was of her own making. Then why did he feel terrible? He hadn’t captained the fleet, spent the money, or ruined the stock market.

He felt terrible because he sincerely liked Lady Lydia. She was a flame, a life force who burned brilliantly, fascinated, warmed and, yes, was possibly destructive, but still one would hate to see a fire such as hers extinguished.

“I see,” Lady Lydia finally murmured. “What can I do?”

No good would come of equivocating. “Your property, both real and intangible, is gone. When liquidated, your personal assets may pay off those debts you have incurred and leave you enough so that, if carefully managed, you might live adequately.”

“Adequately? That sounds encouraging,” she said, brightening. “What exactly does that mean?”

“I estimate two hundred fifty pounds a year. Enough for a small town house, a maid, and a cook. Perhaps a butler.”

“Dear God,” she breathed, collapsing back in her chair. “I am destitute.”

She meant it and he conceded that in her world, the only one she’d ever known, the uppermost strata of the
ton
, she might as well be. Her life as hitherto known was no more. Even in Sir Grimley’s house she’d lived like a small princess, surrounded by every conceivable comfort and luxury.

“And Emily, too?”

“I’m afraid not. Perhaps she can return to wherever you found her,” Terwilliger suggested, smiling apologetically at Emily Cod.

She blinked at him, her fingers twitching in her lap.

“Good Lord, Terwilliger, you make it sound as if I overturned a rock one day and there she was. I didn’t and she can’t.” There was finality in her voice, a hint of the iron will few would warrant as belonging to the laughing Society beauty. Beside her, Emily Cod relaxed, her fluttering fingers stilled.

“Then there will be no butler,” he said.

Lady Lydia considered this edict a moment before saying, “I do not think I can live like that.”

He didn’t, either. Still he said, “Many people make do without a butler.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t be poor. Too many people depend on me. Craftsmen and merchants, artisans and wine brokers, tradesmen and such other businesses.”

This was doing it a bit brown. “They
do
have other clients,” he said.

She frowned, more annoyed than offended. “I do not think you properly appreciate my position, Terwilliger. I am not just another member of the
ton
. I am”—she cast about for the appropriate word—“I am an industry.”

Was she twitting him? She’d always had an odd sense of humor.

“Terwilliger,” she said with a touch of exasperation, “I dine at an establishment and its reputation is made. I import a certain varietal wine for a dinner party and within a week the vintner has orders for the next five years and the vineyard where the wine comes from is secure for a decade. I wear a perfume and not only is that fragrance’s popularity guaranteed, but the perfumery’s, too. The same can be said of the mill that produces the silk for my gowns, the musician I hire for an afternoon salon, the composer I employ to write a new sonata, the cheese makers whose products appear on my sideboard, the milliner and horse breeder and the cabinetmaker and the carpet weavers . . .” She trailed off, studying him to gauge whether he understood.

He recognized in surprise that she was right and once again was visited by the uncomfortable notion that behind all her frivolity, Lady Lydia understood very well the world in which she lived. She
was
an industry. True, the
ton
was filled with fashion makers, but no one save Beau Brummell had captivated the public imagination like Lady Lydia Eastlake. She drew crowds wherever she went. People stood in line outside the shops she frequented and lined Rotten Row each afternoon hoping to get a glimpse of her riding past in her barouche.

It wasn’t just that she was pretty or witty; there were plenty of pretty, witty women in the
ton
. It wasn’t just her extravagant lifestyle. It was that she was all these things
and
independent. And happily, successfully so, for all appearances. Small wonder she fascinated Society both high and low. Her like was as exotic and rare as mermaids.