“Is all well?” Patience asked, even though she knew she was not supposed to do as much.
Catherine nodded and smiled. “Do not start to fret like Rhys! All is well, but babies demand attention. I am tired and must ensure I do not exert myself overmuch.” Her smile broadened. “And once there is one child in the house, there might well be another. I wager my attention is claimed for the next decade.”
“Then Mrs. Oliver…”
“Has no interest in becoming a publisher herself, or in financing the production and distribution of the book. The other two ladies who are aware of the work similarly cannot provide the means for its publication. It annoys me to no end that such a volume will not find its way into the world and the hands of women in need of its advice, but I see no other eventualities.”
“We must find a husband for me then,” Patience said with heat. “One with sufficient resources that he can become a publisher and I can ensure the volume’s success.”
Catherine laughed aloud. “Oh, I have fed your enthusiasm,” she teased. “For you to consider matrimony is a marvel, but then no one would be surprised that you would do as much for a book.” They laughed together, as if it was a great jest, but Patience wondered whether there was any possibility of such a success.
It was unfortunate that she had not had a debut season, much less that she knew so few eligible men. She knew fewer rich bachelors. Even if they had allowed women into the gambling hells, it would have served little as she was notoriously unlucky at all games of chance.
She had time to think she should take that as a warning, when she heard Baron Trevelaine himself being greeted by his butler. Another man’s voice could be heard as well and the sisters exchanged a glance before the door to the library was flung open.
Catherine’s husband took one look at them seated together before the fire and laughed with genuine pleasure. Patience found herself smiling at his manner, for she had always liked him. “How fitting is this?” he asked heartily. “I am asked to contrive an introduction to your sister, Catherine, and come home to seek your advice, only to find the lady in question is here. Hello, Patience.” He came forward to greet her. “What a pleasure to find you here.” He seized her hands, his enthusiasm making her smile, then turned to gesture to his companion. “I believe you are already acquainted with Mr. Arthur Beckham?”
Patience stared as the man in question doffed his hat and bowed to her. His eyes were dancing with merriment when he straightened and his presence made her heart leap. The man had a scheme, for Patience could smell it, though she had no notion what it might be. Had there ever been a man who could look so wicked and so refined at the same time?
“Miss Carruthers,” he said, bending over her hand in his turn. He looked up, his gaze locking with hers with a surety that made her heart jump. “I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you again.” This he murmured, his voice low and dark, his eyes filled with a promise that made her cheeks heat.
Truly?
Why? Patience watched his satisfied smile dawn as he surveyed her rising blush and could only wonder. What did Arthur Beckham want with her?
CHAPTER3
It was clear to Arthur Beckham that Fortune smiled upon him and his quest. He was not a man to ignore such favor. Indeed, he was inclined to act upon it, with enthusiasm. A run of luck never lasted so opportunity must be seized.
Not only was Bettencourt in town, but he had been leaving White’s at the very moment Arthur arrived there. The two had re-entered the club and retired to a private room at Arthur’s request, where he confided his need to speak with the sister of his companion’s wife.
Of course, Bettencourt wished to know why, and the story had tumbled out inelegantly, halfway making Arthur think he shared some common traits with the earl.
Bettencourt, for his part, had been highly amused by Arthur’s predicament. His laughter had made other members of the club turn to peek into the room.
“Ah, you could do worse,” Bettencourt said finally, finishing his brandy and rising to his feet with purpose. “Come along and see if you can persuade Catherine to take your side. She knows her sisters far better than I.”
Thus possessed of an ally, Arthur left the club with Bettencourt, daring to hope for success. Lo and behold, the lady herself was visiting her sister. He could not deny a sense that the stars aligned in favor of his scheme, though the assessment in Miss Carruthers’ steady gaze could have destroyed the confidence of a man less convinced of his own inevitable success.
Good to his word, Bettencourt declared that his wife looked tired, and asked Arthur to escort Miss Carruthers home. The baroness might have protested the impropriety of this, but a hot glance from her husband silenced whatever she might have said. Miss Carruthers herself did not object, another encouraging sign, and Arthur shortly found himself opposite the lady he sought, in his own carriage.
Truth be told, he was surprised she had been amenable to the plan of him escorting her home. Was she unaware that she should have a chaperone? He could not imagine that she did not know, and wondered at her choice.
Perhaps she underestimated her own appeal.
There might be a great deal he did not know about Miss Patience Carruthers, which was not the most reassuring realization he might have had in that moment.
Arthur cleared his throat, uncertain where to begin. “Your sister looks well,” he said.
The lady opposite him spoke crisply. “I gather you would speak to me upon a private matter, and not about my sister’s good health,” she said. “I recommend you commence, Mr. Beckham. Carruthers House is not that close but at this time of day, a carriage may make rapid progress.”
Indeed, they had already left Portman Square behind and were travelling quickly along Oxford Street, in the opposite direction than he had journeyed just moments before. Carruthers House, he had already ascertained, was in Golden Square, not quite as far as Carruthers & Carruthers on Piccadilly, but not in Scotland either.
“I find myself, Miss Carruthers, in a predicament, one that you may be able to resolve.”
Her brows rose. “Me? I thought you came to speak to me about the book.”
The book? It took him a moment to realize which book she meant, then he was struck by how very long ago their last conversation seemed to have been. “What would I say to you about the book?”
