Scandal in the Regency Ballroom

Chapter Eight

‘A lady’s companion would be how much a year?’ Bree demanded, even though she knew she had heard correctly the first time. It was not as though she could not afford the rates the Misses Thoroughgood’s Exclusive Employment Exchange demanded, but they seemed extreme for something she did not want in the first place. However, common sense told her she should, so, the Monday morning after the ball, here she was.

Miss Emeline Thoroughgood looked down the length of her thin nose. ‘If one desires a lady companion of breeding and refinement, and one who can undertake the delicate and sensitive duties of a chaperon with discretion yet firmness of purpose, I am afraid one must expect to pay premium rates, Miss Mallory.’

‘I simply require the look of the thing, Miss Thoroughgood.’ Even as she said it, she realised that the lady would leap to entirely the wrong conclusion. ‘I live with my brother,’ she said hastily. ‘He is most rigorous in his care of me. However, a respectable female to accompany me when he cannot would be desirable.’

Miss Emeline’s expression softened slightly at the reassurance that she was not dealing with some kept woman who needed to cloak her activities in a veil of respectability. Actually, she is not so far wrong, Bree thought with hidden amusement. Only my activities are not quite what she imagines.

‘I may be able to suggest a solution,’ Miss Emeline said pensively. She rang the hand bell on her desk. ‘Smithers, has the client with Miss Clara departed?’

‘No, Miss Emeline.’ The clerk consulted the clock on the mantel. ‘I would expect her to come out at any moment.’

‘Ask her to come in here when she is free, would you?’ He bowed himself out. ‘I make no claims for this suggestion, Miss Mallory, however, Miss Thorpe may answer your purposes at a most reasonable cost.’

A tap at the office door heralded the entrance of a woman in her late thirties. Her dress, from bonnet to half-boots, proclaimed the governess in its drab anonymity, and her hair, dark brown, threaded with grey, was drawn back tightly under her bonnet. But her eyes looked out steadily from under rather thick brows and met Bree’s with an assessing intelligence that instantly appealed to her.

‘Miss Mallory, this is Miss Thorpe. Miss Thorpe is an experienced governess with admirable qualifications. However, we understand that she no longer wishes for that form of employment. It occurs to me that possibly she may suit your requirements.’

‘Miss Thorpe.’ Bree got to her feet and offered her hand. ‘I am looking for a companion. Why do we not have tea together in Gunther’s and see how we suit each other?’

This unconventional approach appeared to startle Miss Thoroughgood, but Miss Thorpe’s eyebrows merely lifted slightly and she smiled. ‘Thank you, Miss Mallory, I would be pleased to.’

‘That’s settled, then. Thank you, Miss Thoroughgood. I will let you know how we get on.’ Bree shook hands briskly and ushered Miss Thorpe out in front of her. ‘Now, we just need to find a hackney carriage.’

‘There’s one.’ Miss Thorpe hailed the cab authoritatively, securing it under the nose of a soberly dressed City type clutching a bundle of papers tied in red tape. Bree was impressed.

‘Well …’ she settled back and regarded the other woman ‘… I will be frank, Miss Thorpe. I have never had a female companion before, nor a chaperon, and I suddenly find myself in a situation where that has become, if not essential, at least highly desirable. But—and here is where the frankness comes in—I have no intention of losing my freedoms and suddenly becoming a sheltered society miss. I run a stagecoach company.’ That did provoke a reaction from the self-controlled Miss Thorpe. Her lips pursed in a soundless whistle, then she smiled.

‘Unconventional indeed, Miss Mallory. Would I be required to assist with this enterprise?’

That had never occurred to Bree. ‘Would you be interested to?’

‘Why, yes, I believe I might. I am a competent book-keeper and I used to run a school—quite a large one, in Bath—until the proprietor decided to sell up, and I did not have the resources to buy her out. Then I found myself having to work as a governess, but I do miss having the variety of managing the school. You will be wanting to take up references, Miss Mallory, and to have a trial period, I imagine.’

‘I hire and fire staff for the company on a regular basis, Miss Thorpe. Few of them come with references, so I have come to trust my judgment on first impressions. I would be very happy if you would join us on the basis that you assist with the running of the office, accompany me in the evenings and act as my chaperon whenever I have company. We will give it a month and see how we feel at the end of it. What do you think? You may find us unacceptably unconventional.’ There was something about the governess that appealed to Bree. It was not so much what she said, but the calm confidence with which she said it.

‘It sounds fascinating, Miss Mallory.’ Miss Thorpe looked out of the window as the hackney drew up to the pavement. ‘I have never been interviewed for a position at Gunther’s. I think that bodes very well!’

‘Excellent.’ Bree led the way into the tea shop, glanced around and found a table in a quiet corner. ‘This will do. Now, what shall we have? Hot chocolate? I suppose it is really rather cool for ices, and perhaps too early in the day,’ she added reluctantly.

‘I never think it is too anything for ices,’ Miss Thorpe declared robustly.

Bree found herself laughing. ‘I really think we will suit, Miss Thorpe! Now, let me tell you all about ourselves. The household consists of my brother Piers and myself …

‘ … and so you see, what with Lord Farleigh’s engagement and the interest the members of the Nonesuch Whips are taking in the company, things cannot go on as they are.’ That account had skimmed lightly over some of her feelings on the stage, and censored completely that kiss the other night. Bree stopped talking at last and peered into the depths of the chocolate jug. ‘Shall we have some more?’

‘Yes, please, Miss Mallory.’

‘Bree, please. What is your name?’

‘Rosamund. My father was a Shakespeare enthusiast.’ Miss Thorpe smiled. ‘I answer very well to Rosa.’

‘Rosa it is, then.’ Bree gestured to the waiter. ‘Another jug of chocolate, and a plate of macaroons, please. So, what do you think? And when can you start?’

‘I think that it sounds fascinating, and I could start immediately, if that is what you would like. But I am afraid my wardrobe is singularly unfitted for the role as your companion, especially if you intend to accept any evening engagements.’

‘Goodness, we have not discussed salary, have we?’ Bree thought rapidly. She had not yet investigated the wages a business manager might expect, but now she might well not have to. The Yard Master, Railton, and his men were more than capable of supervising the operation in the evenings and at night as they did now, provided there was someone taking the major decisions and doing the bookwork. She named the amount Miss Thoroughgood had asked for a top-flight lady’s companion. ‘How would that be? And a suitable wardrobe as well? And you can move in today.’

Rosa gasped. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Why, yes. It will be hard work filling two roles. Now that I have been forced into society, I suppose I had better enjoy it, so we will be out and about a good deal.’ She poured the fresh chocolate. ‘Have a macaroon.’

‘I will need a new wardrobe if I am to eat many of these,’ Rosa commented, biting into one of the confectioner’s famous biscuits.

‘Well, any excuse for shopping is welcome,’ Bree said seriously, earning a chuckle from across the table. ‘Let’s make a list.’

Max reined in his team to a walk as they entered Gower Street. The road was relatively quiet and it did not require much concentration to negotiate it to the point halfway down where the Mallorys’ home was.

Which left far too much mental capacity for indecision. The Earl of Penrith was not given to indecision. Max Dysart, the man, was discovering just how uncomfortable it could be. The choices before him were clear-cut enough, but none of them were easy.

One, Max tried rehearsing them again, I can make no effort to see her again and treat her as a mere acquaintance whenever we meet. Two, I can attempt to act simply as a friend and an acquaintance and, thirdly, I can endeavour to attach her.

He pulled up in front of Bree’s house and sat there, the reins still in his hand. Gregg, the groom who was sitting up behind him, arms folded, jumped down from his perch behind and ran to the horses’ heads.

They are all dangerous. Max stared ahead unseeingly between the ears of one of the dapple greys, causing an approaching gentleman to wonder anxiously if there was something amiss with the cut of his clothes, given that the swell in the fancy rig was frowning at him so ferociously. Number one almost ensures that she will find herself courted by any number of other men before I am in a position to make my move.

Two—he reflexively steadied the offside horse which was taking exception to a passing dog—risks her thinking my interest in her is purely platonic and we are back to the numerous other suitors again. Three, I am risking everything on the chance I am no longer married. If I am wrong, then I am embroiling Bree in a scandal that will be plastered all over the papers in every ghastly detail. And all of this assumes I really do want to risk courting another woman and offering her marriage.

‘My lord?’ Gregg was regarding him anxiously.

‘Get back up,’ Max ordered.

‘I thought we were calling here, my lord. I could walk the greys if you are worried about leaving them standing in this wind.’

‘I’ll shake the fidgets out of them in the park,’ Max declared as the groom walked back.

With the licence of long service, the man let his feelings show on his face: the pair were as calm as high-blooded driving horses could ever be, and his lordship had just driven past the park on his way here.

Max gave a mental shrug. If he was going to become indecisive, he might as well get on with it. Once round the park, then I’ll make up my mind, he bargained with himself, lifting the hand that held the reins and sending the greys off down the street at a brisk trot.

‘Oh.’ Bree stood staring down Gower Street at the unmistakable back and shoulders of the driver of the retreating phaeton.

‘Is something wrong?’ Rosa climbed down from the hackney and joined her on the pavement.

‘That was Lord Penrith, the gentleman I told you about. The one who drove the stage for me.’

‘The one who advised you to employ a chaperon and a business manager.’ Rosa nodded, obviously ticking off a mental list from her morning’s briefing.

‘He must have been calling,’ Bree said, lamely stating the obvious. She gave herself a little shake and called up to the driver, ‘Wait a moment, will you? Someone will be out to pay you and collect our baggage.’

The front door opened to reveal the Mallorys’ one footman who doubled as Piers’s valet. ‘Peters, please pay the driver and fetch in the luggage. This is Miss Thorpe, who will be living here from now on. She will be having the blue bedroom.

‘We employ Peters, a cook, Mrs Harris—a general maid—and an upstairs maid who will be looking after both of us now.’ Bree urged Rosa in front of her into the hall and looked at the salver lying on the console table. It contained a number of calling cards and several envelopes. Bree flipped through the cards confidently. ‘Mr Latymer, Lord Lansdowne, Mr Trenchard. Trenchard? Oh, yes, third country dance. Lady Lucas.’ There was nothing with Max’s crest.

‘Peters?’

‘Yes, Miss Mallory?’

‘Did the gentleman who just called not leave a card?’

‘No gentleman has called since eleven o’clock, Miss Mallory. There was a regular flurry of callers this morning, but no one yet this afternoon.’

‘How very odd.’ And how very … Bree searched for the right word to describe her emotions. How very flattening. Max had obviously intended to call and then thought better of it on the very doorstep. But why? She led Rosa upstairs, talking brightly about the household and pointing out the various rooms as they went, her mind almost entirely on Max and his motives.

Had he taken her in disgust when he reviewed the events of last night in the cold light of day? It would be hypocritical of him if he did, but then, that was the way of the world. Men expected to take their pleasures and keep their respectability. The women involved immediately lost theirs.

Did he think her pert and forward, or completely wanton? Her stomach churned uncomfortably and suddenly she felt quite ill with mortification. Last night it had seemed natural to respond to his advances, natural to return his kisses with what small instinctive skill she had. Max had not treated her with disrespect; she had seen no cynical gleam in his eyes.

Which made it worse, in a way. Thinking back, recalling with a blush just how she had responded to him, he must have taken a disgust of her behaviour. Or she was wrong about him and he was actually a rake, bent on her seduction after all—but why, then, would he not call? No, she could not be that wrong about him. But what do I know about men? It was a mystery, and a very unsettling one.

‘Here is your room.’ She threw open the door to the third bedroom. ‘It looks out at the back, so it is very quiet.’ Bree sat down on the edge of the bed and bounced a little. ‘Yes, the bed seems to be all right. Now, what else can we do to make you more comfortable? There is an easy chair, and a dressing table and stool, and I think the wardrobe will be large enough.’

She got up and went to open the clothes press, trying to force her muddled brain to think of practical matters. ‘Good, I think that will do. Would you like a small table and chair for a desk? There isn’t much room in here, and, of course, we hope you will feel absolutely free to join us in the drawing room at any time, but you might like privacy for letter writing and so on.’

‘It looks—’ Rosa swallowed hard and blinked ‘—it is lovely. It is such a luxury to have a pretty, well-furnished room again. I became used to it when I was running the school, but as a governess one soon learns one’s place—which is in whatever spare room it is least inconvenient to put one.’

‘That’s horrid.’ Bree smiled with a warmth that came hard, given that she was feeling so queasy. ‘We both want you to feel at home here.’

‘Your brother has not met me yet,’ Rosa said cautiously.

‘Piers will like you,’ Bree said confidently. ‘He is living in dread that I am going to bring home a starched-up widow who will make him take his feet off the furniture, mind his tongue at all times and button his waistcoat in the house.’

Peters arrived at the door and dumped the first of Rosa’s bags on the floor. ‘I’ll fetch up the rest directly, Miss Mallory. What about the shopping?’

‘Bring that up here too, and send Lucy to help Miss Thorpe unpack.’ She turned to Rosa as the man clattered off down the stairs again. ‘If you sort out the bits and pieces I brought for myself, Lucy will bring them along. You must treat her as your maid as well as mine. She will fetch you hot water, light your fire and so forth.’

She broke off at the sound of the knocker. ‘I wonder who that is.’ Leaning over the banisters, she could hear Peters below.

‘I am sorry, my lord, I do not know if Miss Mallory is at home. Would you care to step into the drawing room whilst I ascertain if she is receiving?’

From her perch, hanging over the second-floor banisters, Bree had a bird’s eye view of the hall and the tops of Peters’s sandy head and the oval of a fashionable tall hat. The hat was doffed and handed to the footman along with gloves.

‘Who is it?’ Rosa came to her side.

The bared head below was unmistakably that of Max Dysart. Her complaining stomach performed another uncomfortable twist and Bree clutched the polished wood. ‘Lord Penrith.’ So why has he come back?

Peters was toiling up the stairs again, a silver salver in his hand. ‘Lord Penrith, Miss Mallory.’ He proffered the salver, the neat rectangle of pasteboard lying dead centre. ‘Are you at home?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bree said blankly. ‘I really do not know.’