Lord Portman's Troublesome Wife. Mary Nichols
for her.’
‘So did I. Poor thing, she is like to drown in deep water unless someone throws her a lifeline.’ Ash was an ex-naval man and his conversation was littered with nautical phrases. ‘And you must admit she is not the antidote we had been led to expect. Not a beauty, I grant you, but strong and healthy enough to bear children. She could be the mother of your heir with no trouble.’
‘I wish to God I had never told you about Beth. I don’t know why I did. I never told anyone before.’
‘That was because you have been dwelling on the problem and hoping to find a solution. I have given you one. You could at least think about it.’
‘I would rather not.’
‘Why not?’ Ash persisted. ‘She is not ugly, or stupid, or idiotish. Marry her, install her at Bishop’s Court, make her with child and then get on with your work for the Club and forget her.’
‘How callous you are. I am not at all surprised no woman has ever wanted to marry you.’
‘Oh, I could have married a dozen times over, an’ I so chose. And do not change the subject.’
‘I wish to change it.’
‘Very well. Do you go to Ranelagh on Saturday? I hear the fireworks are to be especially fine in honour of the royal wedding and coronation. We could patrol the crowds and keep an eye out for pickpockets. And what better place to winkle out people passing counterfeit coins?’
This was true and reminded Harry of the counterfeit guinea he had taken home the day before. He ought to be doing something about that, not bothering himself about women and marriage. ‘Very well, I will go.’
Satisfied with the success of his ruse, Ash spotted a couple of chairmen plying for hire and called them over. The two men took their leave of each other and were conveyed on their separate ways.
Once home, in an effort to put Miss Chalmers and her problems out of his mind, Harry went to the safe box he had had installed under the floor of his library and took out two counterfeit guineas, one the wine merchant had given him and the other he had brought home from the card game the day before. He weighed them carefully in his hand, deciding they weighed about the same, which was a fraction less than a genuine guinea. Then he studied them through a strong lens he took from a drawer in his desk, examining the milled edges carefully. He would swear that they had been done by the same hand with the same instrument. He was sure he had two coins by the same coiner, but they had come to him in very different circumstances and there were undoubtedly many more circulating about the capital.
Anyone who wanted to buy wine could have passed the one to the vintner, but which of the card players had put the guinea in the pot? Benedict was certainly too drunk and too foolish to bother his head about the size of the coins he had in his purse. Max Chalmers was a wily bird, but it was unlikely he would knowingly pass bad coins in White’s for fear of being excluded very publicly from its portals. Even Ash could have picked it up somewhere else and unknowingly put it down as part of his stake. It could have been done by any of the three, more interested in the game than in the weight of their coins. They would not be looking for bad money, which was something the counterfeiters relied on, more often than not successfully. The question was: if all three were innocent, who had passed them in the first place?
He locked them carefully away again and sat contemplating his next move. The trouble was that a pair of grey eyes kept coming between him and his deliberations. They were a redeeming feature in an otherwise unremarkable face. He imagined her as a companion to some demanding old lady and knew, without doubt, she would hate it. He wished he could help her. It was a pity he did not need a housekeeper; Mrs Rivers had kept house at Bishop’s Court for more years than he cared to remember and was entirely satisfactory. And in town, all he needed was his cook and the usual complement of other servants. Besides, Miss Chalmers with her straight back, firm chin and independent mind, not to mention her lineage, was certainly not servant material. If he could not love again, could he bring himself to marry without it? At her age and in her circumstances the lady would not expect it, would she?
He shrugged his thoughts impatiently from him. He must be going mad even to contemplate such a thing. What he needed was a little diversion, something to take his mind off that walk in the park. He sent a footman out for a chair and instructed the chairmen to take him to the Baltic Coffee House in Threadneedle Street. It was the favourite haunt of traders and he might pick up some useful information, perhaps find another bad guinea. He would do the rounds of the coffee and chocolate houses and when they closed for the night, he would move on to the gentlemen’s clubs. That should keep him occupied until the early hours and he could go home to his lonely bed.
Mrs Bullivant arrived at Holles Street at noon the following day, which showed how determined she was; she hardly ever rose from her bed before that hour. Rosamund, who had given up hoping for anything else to save her, put a short jacket over her mourning gown, sat a black bonnet right at the back of her coiffure and tied it on with wide black ribbons. Picking up her reticule, she announced herself ready to go.
Her aunt had brought her carriage and they were conveyed in some comfort to Brook Street, though they could easily have walked or taken chairs. ‘I do not want her to think we are beggars,’ her aunt said. ‘You must comport yourself with some pride, after all.’ Her aunt was nothing if not conscious of her rank in society.
‘She is unlikely to employ me if I am too toplofty,’ Rosamund said, half-wishing the lady would turn her down.
‘There is a middle road. Be polite, a little subservient perhaps, but not too much. Keep your head up and do not mumble.’
‘I am not in the habit of mumbling, Aunt.’
The lady ignored that. ‘It’s that or go to Max. Can you rely on him to treat you with compassion? If ever there was a chip off the old block, it is he, and besides that, he is truly under the cat’s paw.’
‘I know that, Aunt.’
They drew up at the door of Lady Bonhaven’s substantial house and were admitted by a footman. He bade them wait while he ascertained that her ladyship was at home and then led them upstairs to a boudoir that looked out over the busy street. Her ladyship was sitting by the window, so she must have seen the carriage arrive. She was extremely fat and with her padded black skirt and petticoat she left little room for anyone else on the sofa. She wore a black cap tied beneath her chin with a narrow ribbon and her tiny feet rested on a footstool. Beside her, on a small table, stood a half-empty glass of negus, a box of sugar plums, a hartshorn and a little silver bell, all readily to hand.
‘Come in, Jessie,’ she said, lifting her quizzing glass to examine Rosamund from to top to toe. ‘You have brought the girl, I see.’
‘Indeed I have, Clarissa. This is my niece, Rosamund Chalmers.’
Rosamund dipped a curtsy. ‘My lady.’
‘She is taller than I thought. And older. You did not tell me how old she was.’
‘I am six and twenty, my lady,’ Rosamund answered before her aunt could do so.
‘Past the age of being giddy for marriage,’ Jessica put in.
‘That is a point in her favour.’ She waved them into chairs, then addressed Rosamund. ‘What accomplishments do you have, miss?’
‘I have been educated…’
‘Pah! I did not mean that. Your education is of no interest to me so long as you do not flaunt it when I am in conversation with my friends. If I take you on, you will be my shadow, not my mouthpiece. I shall expect you to accompany me when I go out, to make sure I have everything for my comfort, to fetch and carry and keep your tongue between your teeth. Is that understood?’
‘Perfectly, my lady.’ Rosamund understood only too well. The idea of being at the beck and call of this autocratic lady filled her with misgivings.
‘I am a little chilly,’ the lady went on. ‘Fetch my shawl. You will find it in the cupboard in my bedchamber.’