Nell narrowed her eyes. “From whom?” There were few possibilities for this sort of oddness.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon, ma’am.” The letter did not waver an inch.
But Nell’s stomach plummeted. She snatched the letter, tore it open, and devoured its contents. Her debt, as it were, was coming due. The boon that Nell promised to give in exchange for her freedom was being called in.
You are to receive a suitor, Mrs. Dove-Lyon wrote.You needn’t engage in anything you find untoward, but you must not turn him away. Please include your calling card in your response, along with a list of times he may find you at home. He is of good birth, good fortune, and good reputation. According to the rules of our bargain, you will be welcoming.
She hadn’t included a threat if Nell didn’t comply. She hadn’t needed to—the point of these bargains, and she knew Mrs. Dove-Lyon had many, was held together by honor and desperation. No one knew the cascades of cause-and-effect her myriad deals had, and if one did not comply, a woman didn’t know who could be hurt. There was no choice.
After ten years of blissful widowhood, Nell would have a gentleman caller. This was most unpleasant news.
“This is insane,”Beckett said to Timothy, who drove him to the woman’s house. “I can’t very well call upon a woman I’ve never met. We haven’t been introduced properly.”
Timothy grinned that nearly famous toothsome smile. “That’s the beauty of this arrangement. Mrs. Dove-Lyon is famous for these sorts of things.”
Beckett narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Famous? I’ve never heard of her. In which circles is she famous?”
Timothy’s cheeks colored. “Perhaps that is hyperbole on my part. I only meant that we can trust her.”
“Trust her to what? Good Lord, Timothy, what have you gotten us into?” Beckett smothered his face with his hands, inhaling the smell of the supple leather of his gloves. To him, it was a soothing scent. Steady. Unchanging. Predictable. “I’m a misanthrope. Why on God’s green earth should I inflict myself on some poor unsuspecting widow? Poor thing is probably in there, wide-eyed and expectant for a man more like you than I. I’ll just disappoint her with you standing there.”
Timothy winced at Beckett’s words. Timothy was far more self-conscious of his height. His height was short enough that it was, yes, in some circles, considered a birth defect. But that was ridiculous. The man was fiercely intelligent, stupidly handsome, emotionally adroit, and would inherit a title. Who cared if he couldn’t ride a horse or run? He had a carriage for both of those things.
“I’ll stay in the carriage, all the same,” Timothy said. “I wouldn’t want to confuse the poor dear.”
“Then why did you come at all?” Beckett groused. He looked down at his clothing—all chosen by Timothy’s valet, and purchased, tailored, and delivered at great speed and expense.Beckett hadn’t seen the point, but all Timothy had to do was give him this hangdog look that said,I shall lose everything if you do not comply, and Beckett grumbled and paid the Bond Street tailor his due.
“I came to make sure you went through with it,” Timothy said, pointing to the carriage door, which Beckett was supposed to exit.
Beckett sighed, knowing he probably looked like a reluctant schoolboy. “Quite.” He looked down at his new gloves. The coachman opened the door for him and put down the step. “Let’s get this over with.” He put on his hat as he stepped down, the fine mist of the day clinging to his clothing. He rapped on the door to the small townhome and presented his card to the man answering the door.
“She is expecting you,” the man said, ushering him inside.
Beckett handed off his hat and gloves, feeling a pang when that familiar leather smell left his person. It was a small thing to have a comfort like that. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. He was an earl. He had better bloody act like one.
“Lord Beckett, ma’am.”
Mrs. Cornelia Reid stood and before curtsying, she gave him a scrutinizing look. She was, surprisingly, a handsome woman. Her walnut-colored hair was pulled back severely, but the style couldn’t hide the natural shine and luster. Her face was clear and unmarked, and her wide gray eyes were fringed with thick dark lashes. “My lord. Do have a seat. Jacobs, please bring us refreshments.”
“Thank you, but I am not in need—” Beckett attempted, but was interrupted.
“Thank you, Jacobs,” she said with a tone full of iron and command.
He was dumbfounded. She had the temerity to interrupt him? He was the ranking person in this room. It was not done.
Instead of apologizing or dancing around politeness, as any right-minded person would do, she gestured to the settee opposite hers. Hers was well-worn, but the one he was to settle into was stiff with age and non-use. So she didn’t have many visitors? What did Timothy get him into?
“So.” Her assessing look came back, and she scrutinized him as if he were a naughty schoolboy brought in for punishment. Good God, was this how the Catholics felt?
“Quite,” he said in return, looking her over as boldly as she did. Her face was square, which was not considered as beautiful as the softer, heart-shaped visages, but it was striking. Her jaw was pronounced but not heavy. It was more like every line of her face was drawn as if God had used a ruler’s edge. She did not seem to have a soft side anywhere.
“I am to receive your suit, then?” she asked.
He choked. Perhaps he did need refreshment. “My suit?”
“That’s what I was given to believe.” She stared at him, still unwavering, still remarkably unimpressed with him. Now he was wishing Timothy had come inside with him. At least he could have tried to soften her up. Beckett had no talent for such a thing.
The manservant entered with a tray. She must not have a large staff. That spoke well of frugality. It was then that Beckett noticed she was wearing some darker shade of purple, signaling half mourning. How long had she been a widow?
