Jane’s teacup clanked heavily into its saucer. “Four-teen?” She separated the syllables as if Nell might have misspoken.
“Correct. Fourteen.” Nell downed the cup of tea. This had been her favorite, and Beckett’s second choice. Though, when the tea cooled longer, Beckett’s first choice became hers as well. For some reason, this tea was best served piping hot on a cold morning, when her ears still ached from the cold wind.
Her friend stared at the cup, then took another tentative sip, this time clearing tasting it without expectation. “Oh, Nellie,” Jane said, her eyes containing some kind of odd sparkle. “This one isn’t within your budget. And that man is courting you, no matter what you say about the matter. A man doesn’t bring fourteen teas to a lady’s house for no reason at all.”
“There was a reason,” Nell insisted. “My tea was terrible. I thought we all agreed upon this fact.”
Jane laughed. “Whatever you say. But back to me. We will be hosting an engagement dinner soon, and I want you to attend—”
Nell opened her mouth to protest, but Jane shook her head and held up her hand to stop whatever excuse she was about to use.
“—No, Nellie, hear everything I am about to say. I want you to attend as a favor to me, as one of my dearest friends. You may not understand but it’s important to me. And, whenI invite you, I want to invite Lord Beckett as well. He’s an influential man, yes, and that would benefit us.” Jane scooted forward on the settee and put down her cup. “But, Nellie, the real reason is because I need to see, with my own eyes, what is going on between you. I will tell you everything I glean from the encounter, I promise. And I won’t lie to you, I hope you know that.”
Nell could feel a yearning in her chest to understand exactly what was happening between her and Beckett. It was so tiresome to wonder. Either he should be gone—no, because they had one more encounter to fulfill the terms of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s request—or he should state his feelings clearly. She didn’t know how many mornings she could suffer through the new odd awareness of him.
So Nell nodded. “When you send the invitation, I’ll make sure he gets his. Or I’ll ask him. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.”
Jane smiled at her in a new way. Perhaps sympathetic? “I’ll send it directly to him, but with your name on it as well, so he understands and opens it. I’m quite proud to send an invitation to such an illustrious person. Oh, Nell, I knew you had it in you.”
Nell felt even more confused. She didn’t know what she had inside of herself or how it pertained to invitations to an engagement dinner, but whatever Jane meant by it, she seemed pleased overall. If it would help Nell figure out whether Beckett felt as interested about her as she felt about him, then that would bring her peace.
It was difficult for her to believe that Beckett could feel that sort of interest towards her, as he was of the aristocracy, and demonstrably thoughtful, after one got past his standoffish exterior. He’d spoken of his desire to not have children, and to let the line pass to his sister’s boy children, who were already being raised to expect such things. This was certainlyunderstandable to her. There was an immense pressure for a child to be raised as a Peer. Or at least, it seemed so to her. Public speaking, public musings, scandal sheets lurking, dancing with strangers, all of which were required and all of which seemed like nightmares.
But then, why would he be interested in a woman like her? A woman who had absconded to London, her survival relying solely on Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s sympathy all those years ago. Her past was a bit of a tangle, as her mother would have said. Even if Beckett had thought of her in amorous ways, he wouldn’t if he knew what she had done. There was no possible way he could find her pleasing in any sense of the word. No doubt he would even cease silent morning walks with her. She would lose her friend, and that thought made her remarkably sad.
Well, then he should ought not find out. And regardless of what Jane saw, she would rather keep Beckett’s friendship as it stood than have him want more and find out her past. It was too dangerous.
“Beckett,” Timothy said,a tone of warning in his voice. “I’m even more conspicuous than you are. I cannot go traipsing about Colchester asking questions.”
“It isn’t traipsing if one is asking for a specific public house.” Beckett nursed the dregs of his Madeira and slunk down into the chair as if he were a sulking child. He’d kept Mrs. Reid’s canvases in the carriage, specifically to show Timothy when they met up at the club. He wanted his friend’s prodigious brain to chew on the reasons for her unusual variety of artistic subjects.
In reaction to her tortured, demon self-portrait, Timothy merely sighed and said, “If you had the talent to paint like this, wouldn’t you have painted something similar? The man you areon the inside being misshapen and bedeviled, as opposed to the composed, imposing earl that you present to the public.”
Beckett’s stutteredyes, butresponse had gone over as well as one might guess. However, Timothy was pleased somehow that Beckett had felt compelled to steal a woman’s artwork.
“It means you want to know her better,” Timothy had said with a smile.
But now, they were a full meal in, sated from roasted beef and honeyed carrots and a fine Spanish Madeira, and everything felt sluggish and content—with the exception of Beckett’s new fixation on Mrs. Reid’s upbringing.
“Could you not send one of your people?” Beckett asked.
“My people? Good heavens, Beckett, do you think I run an army?” Timothy was soberer of late, and Beckett hadn’t asked why.
But Beckett never pried into anyone’s personal affairs. He didn’t like others prying into his, as evidenced by Timothy’s absurd venture into gambling at his expense. “I know you have at least one man you could send down there and ask discreet questions to find out about Mrs. Reid’s background.”
And then Beckett realized exactly how to convince his friend to help him investigate. He would feign love for Mrs. Reid, and that would oblige Timothy to do whatever it took.
“You’ve said yourself that she is as tight-lipped about herself as you are.”
“I’ve said no such thing,” Beckett protested.
Timothy gave him an amused glance. “I believe it was yesterday, when you told me that her artwork was completely at odds with the woman you experience on your daily rounds of Hyde Park. That the emotion she displays in paint is not at all present in conversation.”
“Which is to say, I’ve never compared our traits,” Beckett said, prim as a maiden aunt.
Timothy chuckled. “I think you like her, Beckett. Admit it. This trial has done you good.”
Beckett squirmed. Here was his opening to admit he held a tendre for Mrs. Reid, and therefore, required his friend’s assistance to find out if she would be a suitable match for him, even though he had absolutely no intention of marrying the widow. “Her company is tolerable.”
