Chapter 1
Bath, Somerset
December 1822
Agentleman didn’t lie. It was the most basic of their tenets. Of course, there were many qualities and strictures attributed to that lofty title, and members of their rank embraced them to varying degrees. Plenty eschewed the implied expectations and treated women like playthings and servants like dredges, spending their days in idleness, drink, and debauchery.
Hardly befitting the epitome of a gentleman.
However, even those blackguards viewed honor as paramount. When the rest of their behavior couldn’t claim to be so, they wrapped themselves in the cloak of sainthood simply because they did not tell lies. Dishonesty wasn’t tolerated, and as far as Hamilton Baxter could tell, it was the only commonality shared amongst the gentlemen he’d known in his long life—and in those four and fifty years, he’d met quite a few.
A gentleman’s word was his bond, and he never stooped to fibbing. And though Baxter considered himself a gentleman in every way, he couldn’t deny that he was lying to his son. Or not telling the whole truth, which was a lie in essence, if not in fact.
“That is all well and good, my boy, but it is unseemly for me to attend the opera at this juncture,” said Baxter, lifting his arm to display the mourning band encircling his bicep. “It is hardly befitting for me to spend my evenings amid society at this time. It has been only three months since we lost your mother, and though I think it good that you and your siblings have emerged from full mourning, I feel I cannot do so yet.”
Tucking his hands behind him, Stanley paced before the fireplace, his gaze fixed on the floorboards at his feet. He paused at the far end, staring at the shelves as though perusing the books before spinning around to face his father once more.
“I know I am asking a lot of you, but surely it is for a good cause. Matthias and Camilla are otherwise occupied, and you know Charity is feeling poorly today.”
Stanley stood with slumped shoulders, his gaze pleading with his father, looking far more like the little boy he’d once been than a grown man of nine and twenty. “I know better than most how difficult it is to face the world after having suffered such a great loss, and I would never think to press the issue in other circumstances, but I am desperate.”
Giving his father his back, Stanley gazed into the crackling flames inside the fireplace. “I never understood just how much Mother aided me when I courted Gwen. It was easy to assume that she focused solely on the girls, but venturing back into courtship has been beastly, and it’s becoming clearer and clearer how much my dear mother did to further my suit.”
Baxter nodded, his voice low when he said, “She did much for all you children.”
That was true enough that he didn’t feel as though it was a blatant lie, but Baxter’s stomach soured as he wondered if Stanley would be singing Dolores’s praises quite so much if his choice of bride hadn’t aligned with his mother’s. Hell hath no fury like a mother’s plans being thwarted by a child’s free will. A lesson their eldest daughter had learned all too well.
Turning on his heel once more, Stanley paced the length of the library, his hand raking through his hair. “It’s beastly of me to ask you—I know it. My dear Gwen has been gone these three years, and it still feels heartless to turn my thoughts toward courtship. Mother has been gone for such a short time, and I hate to ask you to breach your mourning to traipse about town, but I do not have the fortitude to face the evening alone.”
Stanley paused at the fireplace and faced his father, his gaze pleading anew. “How am I to ever sort out if this Miss Alice Stillwell is a good match if her chaperone is forever at her elbow? Every time our paths cross at parties and balls, the blasted aunt is watching us, and I need someone to distract the old spinster—”
Baxter didn’t allow his brows to climb at that statement, though Miss Alice’s spinster aunt must be about his age, and neither of them deserved to be called “old.”
“—It is difficult enough to return to the courting arena in the first place. It is impossible to do so in such a setting. I need someone to distract the lady if I am ever to discern whether or not Miss Alice will suit. Mother always did so much to help in that regard, and I’m finding it impossible to further my cause on my own.”
Mourning was such a convenient excuse. No one expected a widower to venture into all the balls and parties Bath had to offer when his heart was breaking, which left Baxter’s evenings blissfully quiet. No one would allow him such peace if they knew why he sequestered himself in the library night after night; his children, excepting Charity, were too like their mother to comprehend that anyone preferred solitude to society.
But now Stanley stood before him, pleading for him to sally forth. Had Baxter been entirely truthful in his objections, it would’ve been easy enough to bat away his son’s pleadings. Perhaps.
“I have secured us a box, so we needn’t wade into the crowds if we do not wish to,” said Stanley in a rush. “I simply need you to engage with Miss Alice’s aunt and keep the crone occupied.”
For all that his son thought the words to be comforting, Baxter’s muscles clenched at the thought. Boxed seats allowed for separation but not privacy, and sitting amongst the audience was far preferable. At least in a crowd, one was afforded a touch of anonymity.
But all those objections racing through his mind were for naught. Stanley required assistance, and there was no other answer to give.
“Enough, I will go,” said Baxter, and in a flash, Stanley exclaimed his thanks and rushed from the library to ready himself.
Leaning his head against the back of his chair, Baxter drew in a deep breath and steeled himself for what was to come.
***
“In my day, a courting gentleman escorted his lady to and from the theater,” murmured Baxter as he crossed his arms and stretched his legs out, though his feet hit the ledge. Standing, he shifted the chair deeper into the box to allow him space.
“Her aunt wouldn’t allow it,” replied Stanley, his eyes turned toward the door. With so many people milling about, it was impossible to hear the ladies coming up the stairs, and Stanley’s gaze never drifted from it. “Something about the impracticability of it. They live within an easy walking distance and do not require an escort or some such nonsense.”
Baxter tried not to stare at the people milling below, but it was difficult when so many were gazing into the coveted seats to spy who occupied the boxes—though it was a touch amusing to see the disappointment when they caught sight of a man who had neither the wealth nor consequence to be of interest.
Of course, Stanley was positioned out of sight from the general onlookers. No doubt, they would be the focus of much attention once he was identified. Goswick & Co. was not the largest bank in Bath nor the most prestigious, but its holdings were vast enough to give its owner a healthy dose of social cachet. And now that Mr. Stanley Goswick was reentering the courting arena, every unmarried lady’s attention would be turned toward their box tonight.
