It was as if he had known she watched him.
Of course, such a notorious rake would expect her to be fascinated by him.
Patience saw no reason why Mr. Beckham should learn that his expectation was correct. She began to turn away, but halted when she spied a street urchin tug on the hem of Mr. Beckham’s jacket. She paused to watch, certain he would ignore or dismiss the child, but instead, his smile broadened. He reached into his pocket as he spoke to the boy and she imagined from his expression that his tone was kindly. She saw the glint of a coin as he gave it to the boy, then the boy’s delighted smile, then she turned away from the view.
So, Mr. Beckham had kindness in his heart. The knowledge should not influence her view of him—even though it did. Patience reminded herself that now that he had his moment of amusement, she was unlikely to ever see or speak to him again.
It was less than a satisfactory prospect, which meant only that the man stirred irrationality within her. Patience was better with his absence than his presence, to be sure.
She returned to the office, closed the door, then sat on a stool considering the book she had retrieved from him.Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies. She had heard of the scandalous volume, of course, but no one ever specified in her presence what might be found within its covers. She opened it at a random page and felt her eyes widen.
It was a list, including the names of courtesans and women whose favors could be hired, with addresses, descriptions—and prices. Oh! Patience snapped the volume shut, certain she was blushing all the way to her toes.
If he had been able to pursue her to her father’s office, Mr. Beckham would have gained his wish to see her cheeks burn crimson, of that there could be little doubt. Patience would not be disappointed that he was gone—though she could not help but strive to guess his reaction.
It was easy to imagine how he would laugh and how his eyes would glimmer and how utterly handsome he would appear—with his gaze locked upon her, as if she were fascinating herself. A young lady might become treacherously accustomed to such attentions. Patience had spoken to him for a matter of moments and the man had beguiled her as easily as any adoring young maiden. She could only hope he had not guessed his effect upon her ridiculously agitated heart.
Doubtless he had forgotten her already. She had been only a moment’s diversion for him.
She sighed despite herself. Hers was not the life that thronged with male admirers and she did not regret that as a rule. There were books, after all.
Like this one.
What a veritable education it might offer.
Patience eyed the book, knowing her father would be outraged if he learned that she had glimpsed within it, certain that Catherine would forbid her the merest glance, and knew this was her sole chance to learn its secrets. Lest she think the better of her impulse, she quickly opened the book and began to read about Mrs. G—frey.
“This lady may be about thirty, rather plump, she has however every requisite to make an agreeable bed-fellow, every nerve during the preludes to enjoyment, seem trembling alive to all the refined sensations, and every part about the frame is blessed with that corresponding aptness that cannot fail of producing the most desirable effects, neither has the too frequent use of the most bewitching spot rendered it the least callous to the joys of love…”
Patience yearned for a pencil to introduce some punctuation to this torrent of praise, then frowned and read it again
What did these comments and descriptions mean, exactly? Where was the lady’s most bewitching spot? Did all women have one or just Mrs. G—frey? It sounded like a body part, but Patience had studied the anatomy books available for lending and knew that none of them catalogued a ‘bewitching spot’. It also sounded like it could be worn out with frequent use, which was even more confusing. Body parts, in her experience, did not fray to nothing like velvet ribbons and silk slippers.
There was, of course, no one she could safely ask for explanations—save the gentleman who had just returned the book. Mr. Beckham alone knew that Patience had it in her possession. And likely, he would be amused by her questions.
She did not doubt that he had read it from cover to cover, more than once.
She was certain he knew the answers to her questions.
She wondered if he had acted upon its contents, following a reference to a specific address.
Perhaps he was already acquainted with some of the ladies documented within, and could compare his own assessment with that of the guide. At the very possibility of such wicked indulgence on the part of someone with whom she had actually spoken, Patience was certain she was blushing to her very toes.
She also wagered that Mr. Beckham would know a great deal more than she did about Mrs. G—frey’s bewitching spot, whether he was acquainted with the lady in question or not. She peeked at the book again to learn more.
“…she still feels all that torrent of rapture, the mutual dissolution of two souls in liquid bliss can possibly afford, meets the coming moment with uncommon ecstasy, and asks the speedy return.”
It might as well have been written in Greek—save that Patience could read Greek with some skill. This volume’s prose was incomprehensible at intervals, but oh so very intriguing. She sensed that there were forbidden secrets hidden behind the words, and the only thing Patience liked better than a book was a secret. There had to be a code to decipher its meaning.
It suddenly became quite busy at the lending counter and she heard Prudence call her. She sighed and reluctantly hid the book away, knowing that her older sister would not be forthcoming but that it had to be returned. It probably was fortunate that she was unlikely to cross paths with Mr. Beckham anytime soon.
Perhaps she could find some other helpful reference here at the bookshop or at home in the library kept by her father. Patience most certainly would look.
* * *
Arthur was neverlate for any appointment, particularly one with Lady Beckham. Not only was her generosity responsible for his many comforts and amusements, but he liked his mother. Their relationship had always been amiable: she was fair in all matters and he strove to be the son she expected him to be. Fortunately, Lord Beckham, the lady’s own father, and all of her brothers had been wastrels of the worst order, so no amount of indulgence within Arthur’s capabilities could result in the loss of her affection.
He saw no reason for concern in being summoned for an interview at a precise time. Lady Beckham was nothing if not organized—indeed, it was her custom to schedule as much of her day as possible, often weeks in advance.
