She had always imagined that an older brother might tease a sister thus, but there was something in Mr. Beckham’s manner that had not been brotherly.
No, there had been an admiration and an awareness, aninterestthat had been the reason she could not simply turn away from him. She was surprised to realize how much she had enjoyed his attention. She had not been certain what he would say, and that had intrigued her.
Had he been flirting with her?
If so, he had been teasing her, of course. Such a man, a handsome rakehell with every asset at his fingertips, would court the favors of a lady who was his social equal. An heiress, perhaps, the cherished daughter of an aristocrat, a beauty so indulged that she never had to mend her petticoats or lengthen the hems of her older sister’s discarded dresses. The Carruthers were comfortable, but their father was frugal.
The fact was that Patience had never concerned herself with marriage or her prospects. Books were her companions, and they were far more reliable than most people. When she was younger, the family conviction had been that Catherine would wed first, but her older sister had not succumbed to a nuptial vow early. It had only been three years since the Duke of Haynesdale had arranged Catherine’s match to Rhys Bettencourt.
Why had he done as much? Patience had never considered the choice, though now she wondered. Catherine had been old for marriage even then—to be wed the first time at twenty-three years of age was somewhat astonishing, to wed so well might be a miracle. At any rate, the duke was unlikely to arrange a match for Patience—there had been no suggestion of that eventuality.
Contrary to Mr. Beckham’s convictions, there was no clerk paying his attentions, proper or otherwise. If there had not been one thus far, Patience doubted one would appear when she was so long in the tooth as to be one-and-twenty.
How curious that the situation had not troubled her before Arthur Beckham teased her.
It was the nature of having sisters, she decided, to dislike any sense that she was missing something. Was she missing something by not entering the matrimonial state? This book suggested she might be—but Mr. Beckham’s provocation made a more compelling case.
Patience wanted to know.
As the carriage made its way through the streets, she considered her own eventual fate. Remaining unwed did not trouble her, unless she considered the likelihood of her father departing this world before her. What then?
Childbirth did increase the possibilities of a woman’s death at a comparatively young age, but without a husband, Patience was unlikely to bear a child. Given her robust good health, she would likely survive her father.
It was easy to anticipate the rest. The bookselling and publishing firm would pass to her uncle, her father’s younger brother and the other Carruthers of the firm’s name, and thence to his sons, now thirteen and eleven years of age. Even if Uncle Richard was survived by his brother and Patience’s father, her cousins, Michael and Thomas, would still ultimately inherit the business.
And that would mean that an unwed Patience would be beholden to either or both of those hoydens for the rest of her days. She closed her eyes briefly at the prospect. Catherine would ensure her comfort, she was certain, if her sister did not succumb to the risk of childbirth herself. If she did, heaven forfend, and her husband remarried, there might not be a welcome for Patience at Trevelaine House.
Patience gripped her bag, thinking somewhat more favorably about the prospects of marriage than she had to date, and purely on the basis of its financial repercussions. She looked out the window at the numerous people going about their business.
Where did one find an eligible partner, preferably one with sufficient finances to support her desire for books? How she wished one could place an advertisement, as Wentworth did when they had need of a new housemaid.
Perhaps Catherine could help.
* * *
The earl’stale was surrendered in fits and starts, as was characteristic of his reluctant confessions. Lady Beckham had to order a second pot of tea to sustain them while he wound his way to the heart of the issue, and Arthur thought the sun might set upon another day before they heard the damning details.
Of course, his uncle was lacking in funds. That was the defining situation of the man’s existence.
Of course, he had exhausted all potential sources of loans. (Arthur knew this meant his uncle did not like the offered terms.)
And yet,and yet, the earl could not resist the tables—this was followed by an eloquent soliloquy about the siren’s call of the dice, etc. which need not be recounted again—and so he had gambled. He had lost so many times that he knew his luck was due to turn—by his telling, the change in his fortunes was a virtual certainty.
Arthur rolled his eyes and turned to face the window, wondering whether the earl would ever learn that there were no certainties in gambling—save perhaps, for the older man’s inevitable losses. It was all mathematics, but the earl had never troubled to learn as much. Worse, he failed to have the ability to walk away from a game, even when he was losing disastrously.
The only time to remain at the tables was when one was winning, to Arthur’s thinking.
Of course, the earl had taken a most uncommon wager, one he was convinced he would win handily. He presented this detail with conviction, as if they could only agree with him.
Lady Beckham and Arthur again exchanged a look.
The earl paused for breath and mopped his brow with his handkerchief, his manner revealing the truth of the situation.
“But you lost,” Arthur guessed, needing no foresight to know the result of the tale.
The earl hung his head in apparent shame, a regret that must have nearly reached its limit. Arthur had to assume the game had ended some twelve hours ago or more. “I did.”
“I will not lend you any more money,” Lady Beckham said. “And I will not give you any outright, either. Drink your tea, Reynaud, and if you are that broke, put a biscuit in your pocket for your dinner. That is all you will have of me.”
