“I am, as it happens.” He stated it plainly, without boasting or lifting his chin.
She ought to have known. He was probably the equivalent of a rich American heiress, except for being a rather attractive, devilish man.
“Hence the inappropriate tossing around of your gold half-sovereigns?”
“Precisely,” he agreed.
“Then you are probably destined to succeed. I’m sure there are any number of titled young ladies whose parents do not have as much as they could wish, not enough for massive dowries, and thus, their prospects are hampered. It is quite expensive to keep a London townhouse as well as run a country home.”
“I intend to do both,” Mr. Carson said assuredly.
Beatrice considered the earnest man before her. “So you stepped off the boat a few days ago with one goal in mind, to marry an English lady?”
“Or Scottish,” he added.
“May I ask why?” She was almost surprised at herself that she even asked, but she couldn’t deny experiencing a mild interest. “I assume it’s for the novelty of taking one home to New York, like going to Africa and returning with a tiger.”
He smiled, and it made him even more handsome.
“Not exactly like that, and I don’t intend to take her anywhere. I intend to live here in Britain.”
“You still haven’t told me why,” Beatrice persisted.
“I had a peculiar great-grandfather, who owned a country estate near Canonbie, Scotland. As it turns out, I’m the direct descendant, although there is a cousin who could have laid claim. Stupidly, he made the mistake of marrying for love.”
That got her attention. She blinked. “How was that a mistake?”
“His wife isn’t titled, and the estate can only go to a nobleman or a noblewoman.”
“That’s absurd,” she exclaimed. “What happens if neither of you marry a titled woman?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, nor does it matter since I will do so. Naturally, my great-grandfather on my father’s side never dreamed the last of his sons would die with no living male issue. There was supposed to be a Baron Carson always. However, if I have a Lady Such-and-Such as my wife, apparently that will satisfy.”
“Absurd,” Beatrice couldn’t help muttering again.
He heard her. “That may be true, and I may have to reach too high for my nut.” Then he smiled. “Will you help me?”
“I cannot.”How could she?
“Orwillnot? I have no friends here, Miss Rare-Foure. But perhaps we can make it a business arrangement. Perhaps I can help you in return.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You are not married,” he said, knowing her to be a miss.
The cheekiness of the man, pointing out such a thing!“No.”
“Engaged?” he asked.
She felt her cheeks grow warm. “It would have been unseemly to do sobeforemy older sister. And she has very recently married.”
“You are a lovely young woman, who is stuck in this shop hour after hour, day after day. We have large dances in the city where young people from New York’s high society can show themselves to one another. It’s called a debutante ball. You should have one of those in London so the young ladies can meet the eligible men.”
Beatrice burst out laughing. “Yes, we have that. In fact, I believe we invented it, as it has been going on since the seventeenth century when your newborn country was a wilderness. Have you ever read Balzac?”
“I confess I haven’t,” he said, not looking the least bothered by his own ignorance.
“There’s a passage in it perfectly describing what goes on here. The character Madame de la Baudraye says, ‘London is the capital of trade and speculation and the center of government. The aristocracy hold amotethere for sixty days only; it gives and takes the passwords of the day, looks in on the legislative cookery, reviews the girls to marry, the carriages to be sold, exchanges greetings, and is away again; and is so far from amusing, that it cannot bear itself for more than the few days known as ‘the Season.’”
