* * *
The previous dayand evening had passed slowly for Patience, with no tidings, no hints from her father and no glimpses of Mr. Beckham. The arrangement might not have been, given the relentless routine of her day—or perhaps it would not be, depending upon the duke’s reply.
Nothing was said at dinner, which Patience found most discouraging, though her father did grant her a wink when he retired to his library.
It was agonizing to wait so long.
It was impossible to sleep.
She rose and dressed early, leaving Prudence sleeping soundly, and made her way downstairs quietly. She entered the breakfast room, certain she would be alone, only to find her father in his place.
“It appears you have made a conquest,” he said by way of greeting, his jovial conviction startling her.
He was reading his mail, glasses perched on the end of his nose, eggs getting cold as per usual. The man could forget the world completely when there was anything to read—which meant Patience had come by that trait honestly.
“Have I?” she asked, taking a seat and nodding at Wentworth. He dispatched a maid to get her usual breakfast of a poached egg and toast. “Anyone I know?”
Her father laughed, his good mood more than evident on this morning. “Why, Mr. Arthur Beckham, of course. You did not tell me that there were tender feelings involved. That would have made all the difference in my response. Surely you knew as much.”
Patience looked down at her egg. What did tender feelings have to do with her agreement with Mr. Beckham? Rather than reveal that she was puzzled, she smiled. “I gather you have heard from the Duke of Haynesdale?”
“Indeed, indeed.” Her father shook the missive in question at her, then set it aside to consider his breakfast. His nature was so amiable that he was never concerned to eat cool eggs. When he tucked into the meal with vigor, she wondered again if he even noticed. “He writes this very morning that he had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Beckham at the theatre last evening, where the man in question was fulsome in expressing his ardor.” Her father’s brows rose. “Not that I am surprised, of course. You are well deserving of a man’s devotion, my dear.” He chewed his toast, sparing her a glance of some concern. “Do not misunderstand me, Patience. If I am startled, it is that a man of his rumored inclinations was able to discern your merit. All in all, I am delighted. A perceptive man for my clever daughter. How can such a marriage go awry?”
It could go awry if it was formed upon a deception—and truly, this made two falsehoods in succession. Patience wondered whether Mr. Beckham possessed any affection for the truth that could rival his rumored adoration of herself.
“I must write to the duke immediately and express my gratitude to him. Truly, one could have no better ally and friend, than a man who puts all aside to ease one’s concerns. He is of the very ilk of his father.” Her father finished his meal and excused himself, gathering up his correspondence to hasten to his library. “I will go to the shop within the half hour, if you are inclined to join me there today, Patience.”
“Yes, Papa. That was my plan.” Though she had little interest in gossip and rumor, it might be time for Patience to change that inclination. She had to learn more of Mr. Beckham than she had thus far—marriage was forever, and she did not wish to err in her choice of spouse. Had Mr. Beckham simply told her what she wished to hear, with no plan to fulfil his pledge? Patience felt a momentary chill. She could end up wed to a wastrel for no good cause.
No, she had to learn more about him, and with all haste.
She would ask Prudence to assist her in the quest.
* * *
Miss Felicia Grosvenor was displeased,and when Felicia was displeased, everyone in her vicinity shared in that discontent. Two days before, there had been a definite prospect of her pending marriage to Mr. Arthur Beckham. Yesterday, all the gossip about Mr. Beckham included tales of an alliance, not with her but with Miss Patience Carruthers. Felicia had not even been certain who that was at breakfast, much less why Mr. Beckham should offer for her hand.
Learning that her supposed rival was the middle daughter of a publisher and bookseller—albeit the best publisher and bookseller in Felicia’s view—had done precisely nothing to mitigate her disappointment.
This Miss Carruthers was not even rumored to be a beauty.
She was not possessed of a wealthy income, a rich dowry or due for a fat inheritance.
Felicia’s dressmaker had never heard of her, neither had her milliner or her bootmaker. It was clear this Miss Carruthers did not frequent the best shops and had no taste at all. She was not even present at her father’s bookshop when Felicia visited, intending to view her. Felicia had retired, hoping that the rumor was a lie.
Perhaps Mr. Beckham chose to tease her. He was known to be frivolous and often said to mock others. It was an encouraging possibility in this case, but if so, such a tendency in the man would have to be ended with all haste.
But, on this morning, she heard from her own mother that Mr. Beckham’s alliance with Miss Carruthers was official and would be announced shortly in the papers. How dare this chit steal the man meant to be Felicia’s own?
One thing was for certain—their wedding had to be stopped and soon. Her mother insisted that Mr. Beckham was seeking a special license. There would not be much time.
Felicia snarled at her lady’s maid. She kicked her mother’s yapping little lapdog on her way down the hall. She told the footman that he had not opened the door quickly enough, complained to her father that he had failed her again, and stood before the house with a sour expression as she awaited the coach and four.
“The brass is not polished,” she informed her father. “And the horses’ manes are not braided the same way.”
“You were in such a rush, my dear,” that man protested, but earned a glacial stare from his daughter that silenced him utterly.
“You should never have allowed the earl to rescind his wager, Papa.”
