He allowed himself to review his interview with Miss Carruthers as the carriage made its way through the congested streets of London. She was entirely different from the two types of women Arthur tended to meet. On the one hand, there were the females to be found in gambling dens, theatres and establishments of lesser repute, who were invariably wise in the ways of the world and its foibles, painted, and generally willing to oblige a gentleman’s desires. The company of these women might provide amusement and entertainment, but they were not worthy of serious attachment.
Any of them would have been familiar with that scandalous volume and its contents, and likely known the location in its pages of a reference to themselves, or even recited it from memory. Such worldly women, in Arthur’s experience, were impossible to shock.
In contrast, there were the debutantes and daughters of the aristocracy, each and every one seeking a husband. They were universally young, meek, and dull. Some were desperate to be chosen; others believed the entire merit of their lives would be measured by their husband’s rank; yet others saw the marriage mart as a competition and one in which they were determined to triumph. There was one lady in particular whom Arthur found scheming and unattractive, but he avoided Miss Felicia Grosvenor like the proverbial plague. With any luck, she had forgotten about him while he was in Venice. He dared to hope she might even be married by the time their paths crossed again.
But Miss Patience Carruthers did not fit into either category. (Neither was she a relation, which he supposed was a third category of female but one only slightly more interesting than eligible young ladies.) She was unwed, yet she declared herself to have no interest in matrimony. She was not to be found in those establishments where he sought entertainment in the evening, nor was she painted or dressed to display her virtues. Her gown had been a simple and serviceable one of navy blue with white trim. Her fair hair had been drawn back in a style that was almost austere, given its lack of dangling curls and fetching little ribbons, but her prettiness could not be disguised.
She had magnificent eyes of silvery grey, thickly lashed pools that could be serene in one moment and flashing like a storm at sea in the next.
Best of all, she possessed no guile. Her thoughts had been easily read, her reactions immediate—a sign of cleverness, to be sure—and her company a delight. She amused and provoked him, a most welcome combination. He could not anticipate her, which was even more enticing. Was she kind? Arthur suspected she might be. Her family was respectable, to be sure, her father and uncle running the largest publisher and bookseller in London. Arthur liked that Miss Carruthers was both polite and well-read, that she was opinionated and expressed herself well. He had not been joking about her blushes. She flushed more perfectly than any lady he had ever seen, the rosy hue lighting in the midst of her fair cheeks and spreading slowly to suffuse her face. It was as if this concession to mortal flesh surprised even her.
He already enjoyed both teasing her and challenging her, simply for the pleasure of watching her reactions. Better yet, he had no doubt she would take satisfaction in chastising him for a view she found inadequate.
He smiled at the prospect, resolving that he would have need of many more books in the near future. Anything to enjoy the company of Miss Carruthers at regular intervals.
He also fancied she might be one of the few people of his acquaintance who would tell him the truth. Not only did she appear to have no ability to deceive, but she also seemed enamored of honesty itself. Arthur found himself drawn to such candor, and for more than its refreshing novelty.
All in all, he was content to be back in London again, particularly as Miss Carruthers was unlikely to leave town soon.
His excellent mood did not last long. His sister Amelia, an imp all of ten summers of age, hissed at him when he was removing his hat in the foyer. She was hidden in the side corridor, one of her favorite places to eavesdrop. Arthur looked left and right as if to ascertain he was not watched. This amused Amelia mightily, so he habitually performed the rite. He was well aware that the door to the drawing room was closed and their butler, Stevens, had already vanished. He then crept into the side corridor, as if meeting a fellow spy, and flattened his back against the wall.
“The lark sings at dawn,” Amelia whispered, her typical confirmation of his identity—though she could see him clearly.
Arthur suppressed his smile for spying was solemn business. “The crow calls at sunset,” he replied in an undertone, looking around the corner again.
“The sparrow chirps at noon,” Amelia confided.
“And the bats fly at night,” he whispered and Amelia flung herself at him. He caught her in an unexpected hug.
“Bats are not part of the code,” she chided as he set her on her feet.
“But they should be.”
“It should be the owl,” she insisted.
“The owl flies at night?” Arthur shook his head. “The owl hoots at midnight,” he proposed and his sister’s delight in that suggestion was clear. They had a new code, then.
Then she looked around the corner, before reaching up to whisper in his ear. “Heis here.” Her eyes shone, undoubtedly because she was in possession of valuable information.
“Who?” Arthur mouthed.
She mimicked their uncle’s manner, sticking her nose in the air and drawing down the corners of her mouth as if she were a bad-tempered fish. Arthur barely kept from chuckling at her antics. It was true that they shared a dislike for their mother’s much younger brother, but they strove to hide as much in company, particularly his. Alone together, they mocked him mercilessly.
“Why?” he mouthed and she drilled a fingertip into his chest.
“You. He wantsyou.”
This made no sense at all and Arthur shook his head in confusion.
Amelia, though, nodded wisely. She drew a fingertip across her throat then feigned choking from a garrotte, her dramatic expectation making Arthur smile. She could not make him fear the earl.
“He just wants money. Again,” he said, for that was undoubtedly true. Lady Beckham’s brother was the biggest wastrel in London. Arthur pointed up the stairs. “Your French verbs are waiting.”
“I have to listen!”
“You will be caught.”
“Then you must promise to tell me.”
