“I will wear my blue gown.”
Prudence was visibly outraged. “You will not! This is your wedding, Patience, not just another day in town. You will only have one such day and you must look your best.” She nodded with authority. “We will go tomorrow to the dressmaker. I will convince Papa.”
“Wait a day, until Mr. Beckham asks his approval.”
“You will need shoes and gloves, as well, and we will order a posy of flowers, too.” This list compiled, Prudence smiled at Patience. “Do you truly know so little of him and his family?”
“I know some details,” Patience said, which certainly sounded as if she knew more than she did. “Perhaps you might tell me what you know.”
Prudence grinned to gain the invitation she clearly desired, then moved quickly to sit beside Patience, lowering her voice. “He is wicked to his marrow, by all accounts.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“Then youaresmitten. They do say that opposites attract, and there could not be a man alive more different from you.”
“How so?” Patience had the sense she should be insulted. Mr. Beckham was intelligent, to be sure. While he possessed an easy charm that she did not, and was handsome beyond all, he had called her pretty. His wealth was apparently boundless while hers was more moderate, but that was not opposite.
“You are cautious while he is not.”
“I am not certain of that…”
“It is said he will do anything to win a wager. He races horses on Rotten Row, and has accepted no fewer than five challenges to duel.” Prudence nodded with authority. “And he won four of them. They say he has a scar on his shoulder from the fifth, though he never speaks of it.” She took a breath, visibly trying to contain her excitement and failing. “Of course, he is always dressed to perfection and more handsome than any seven lords put together, and he is richer than rich. He is rumored to be fortunate beyond all at the gaming tables and that only a fool will take a wager against him. He is wild, by all accounts, carousing out all night and sleeping until late afternoon, venturing into thieves’ dens and gaming hells with equal fearlessness. They say he seized all the birds at a cockfight and set them free, earning the ire of all in attendance. I heard the bills for his wine and brandy would be sufficient to see three great houses supplied.” Prudence took a fortifying breath. “And yet, he remains rich. I think he might be perfect, but you, I suspect, may find many deficiencies in his list of attributes.”
“How rich?”
Prudence laughed. “Trust you to have need of a number. He has some twenty thousand pounds per year in income and stands to inherit over a hundred thousand pounds after his mother’s demise.”
Patience was shocked. “So much?”
Prudence was enjoying herself so much that Patience was glad to have more questions. “Yes, but he has no title!” Patience did not care, but she was interested. “His mother, a most formidable lady as I understand, was the only daughter of the Earl of Fairhaven and much favored by her father. He even allowed her to wed a widower considerably her senior. It was said to be a great love match and was the talk of thetonwhen it occurred. They had two children, Arthur in the first year of their marriage, and some years later a daughter.”
“Amelia,” Patience supplied.
Prudence nodded. “The siblings are said to be close, despite the disparity in their ages.” She took a breath. “It was Viscount Meadstone who bought the house in Berkley Square where they reside, though he ensured that Lady Beckham owned it outright herself.”
“Then she is a widow?”
Prudence nodded sagely. “He died eleven years ago, passing in his sleep. They say she locked herself away for a year to mourn the loss of her beloved.”
“What of his title?”
“He was wed before, as I said, and his son by that match has inherited it all. His wife died in the delivery of their daughter.”
“But the son could pass…”
“No, no, no, Patience. The current viscount has two sons, and his sister has another. There must be a veritable plague for Mr. Beckham to become Viscount Meadstone.” Prudence caught her breath. “And his uncle, the Earl of Fairhaven, is almost the same age as Mr. Beckham. Doubtless he will wed and have a bevy of sons of his own. If you desire a title, sister dear, Mr. Beckham should not be your choice—unless you are more of a gambler than I know.”
So, Mr. Beckham had an aristocratic lineage, but no title of his own. Patience had to admit that she could find no fault with his situation. A nobleman might have been too concerned with his reputation to support her venture, but Mr. Beckham had been untroubled. It seemed he would have sufficient affluence to establish the publishing firm as well.
If he did not waste it on fripperies.
“Since coming of age, your Mr. Beckham has run wild, and some say he means to rid himself of his inheritance, one way or the other. Others say his mother indulges him overmuch, while yet others suggest that he has need of a wife to keep him in hand. He is thirty, after all. Perhaps that is why his mother approves of the match.”
“Does she?”
“It does not seem that she opposes it. Perhaps because you are known for both frugality and practicality.”
That did sound dull in comparison to Mr. Beckham. Patience knew he would not have offered for her hand if he had not been confronted by the prospect of a match to Miss Grosvenor and a tiny part of her wished it might have been otherwise.
