“I am not going to woo Lady Emily.” He put a hand to her chin and held it. “For one thing, she wouldn’t want me now that I have no money. And for another, I don’t know if she likes cats.”
He was mocking her. Beatrice tried to pull her head away, but he held her still.
“Please, Beatrice, I didn’t want this to happen. I want only you.”
She heard the anguish in his voice and relented. “Very well. I release you from the engagement, and I will tell Charlotte not to mention that it ever happened. What about the Season?”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “What about it?”
She shrugged. “It’s already paid for and there is no getting that money back, nor the cost of the gowns or your suits. After the Marlborough House ball, I was finished with all of it, but then when we ... when I thought we were to marry, I was looking forward to finishing the Season with you.” She finally gave him a smile. “Perhaps we can still enjoy dancing together.”
“I would feel like an imposter being with those people.”
This time she laughed. “We already were. However, now you won’t be pursuing any titled lady nor I any nobleman, we shall be more truthful than ever before. Let’s finish out the Season, Greer.”
He considered it. “What if some Lord Snit-Snot asks you for your hand?”
“Even if a king asked me, I would not give it to him.”
Taking her face between his palms, he looked into her eyes. “Lord Snit-Snot could give you a life like that of your sister.”
“I wouldn’t want that life,” she promised. Then smiled. “Not with Snit-Snot.”
And then Greer kissed her, slowly, thoroughly, with a bittersweet tenderness that squeezed her heart. She wanted to hold onto him forever, but when he lifted his head, there was nothing more to say.
Ramming his hat back upon his head, he walked out.
***
GREER WAS WORRIED ABOUTMiss Sylvia. She most certainly did not like their new hotel. It was a single room on the ground floor and felt like a hovel in comparison to the Langham. That was because itwasa hovel compared to just about anywhere else except a garden shed. But it also cost the same for three weeks as the previous hotel suite cost for a night.
Whenever he returned, she swished her tail angrily and tried to dart past him. Since there was no safe park across the street, he had to secure her and take her farther to find green grass. Walking on the pavement was a nightmare, as the pedestrian traffic was too dense and he risked her being kicked or trod upon.
He couldn’t imagine how he was going to find an acceptable place to live and a good job. Moreover, despite what he’d said to Beatrice about not returning to America, he now considered whether it would be for the best. Perhaps he could help his uncle get the business back to its pinnacle, although his mother’s brother had curiously not asked for his return or his assistance. In fact, Greer felt decidedly cut off.
After walking and feeding Miss Sylvia, he went to The Cock Tavern on Fleet Street, as he had been doing every week unless there was an event on that Wednesday night. And even then, sometimes he would go from a hearty steak dinner to the ballroom, since the food at a dance was usually sparse and light and not provided until midnight.
That Wednesday, he found only two of his new friends, including John Delorey, the weaver, drinking stout, and Randall Molino, the antiquarian, drinking porter.
“Your gathering is smaller tonight,” Greer said as he sat down. Calling over the server, a comely waitress as all the servers were to keep the mostly male customers happy, he ordered ale and a steak. All at once, he realized he might have to cut out even this simple pleasure soon.
“George is dealing with a strike among his factory workers,” Delorey said. “And Jeremiah lost his job, so he’s at home brooding with his wife.”
At least the man had a wife. But seeing how everyone had troubles, Greer decided to focus on theirs more than his own.
“What type of work does Jeremiah do?” Greer didn’t think he’d ever asked before.
“Coal-whipper at the Victoria Docks.”
“Truly? I thought such a job would be assured.”
“Too many can do it, and he was caught with gin for his lunch. But don’t worry about Jeremiah. He’ll find work again. He always does,” John said. “Probably at St. Katherine or Millwall docks.”
Greer nodded, relieved when a pint of ale was placed before him. He’d downed half of it before he realized the others had stopped talking and were staring at him.
“You don’t seem yourself, Mr. Carson,” the quiet, watchful Molino observed. “A little morose this evening?”
Greer considered how much to say. He’d met with these men about eight times. They were more than acquaintances, but perhaps not friends. Then he thought how little it mattered. He didn’t have a reputation to uphold. They weren’t nobility who would judge him, either.
