A Most Unconventional Match
- -
- 100%
- +
‘It just so happens that my dear Tryphena is visiting this afternoon. I’ll have Holmes escort her in so you two can become acquainted at once!’
Just wonderful, Hal thought glumly. He could try to tell his mother that he didn’t wish to meet her latest protégée, or that he needed to leave immediately on a matter of pressing business. But he knew he couldn’t utter enough words to argue with her, that she would easily overwhelm his limited powers of expression in a torrent of rebuttal and in the end, simply refuse to accept any answer but the agreement she wanted him to utter.
After seven years at this game, he’d long since learned it wasn’t worth his breath to try to dissuade her.
So he simply sat, sipping his wine and wondering how long he’d be condemned to remain before Mama would allow him to escape, while Mrs Waterman chattered on about the exquisite taste, superior accomplishments and well-connected family of Lady Tryphena Upcott.
All too soon, Holmes announced the arrival of the young lady herself. With resignation Hal rose to greet her.
The girl entering the room appeared a bit older than Hal had anticipated. Then the name clicked in his consciousness.
Daughter of an earl, Lady Tryphena had been several Seasons on the town without becoming engaged. The gossip at Hal’s club said she was too high in the instep to accept a gentleman of less than the most exalted rank, from whom, apparently, no such offer had yet been forthcoming. Perhaps, Hal thought, after ending three Seasons unwed, she’d decided great wealth would be an acceptable substitute for elevated title.
With her excellent family connections and exacting standards, it was small wonder Mama favoured the girl. Perhaps since Hal had rejected her attempts to saddle him with a chit fired straight out of the schoolroom, she thought to have better luck with an older candidate.
Though not up to his mama’s usual guage of flawless beauty, Lady Tryphena was attractive enough. Her dark eyes were large, if not brilliant, her face pleasant, her light brown tresses charmingly arranged and her afternoon dress doubtless in the latest kick of fashion.
Hal bowed over her hand. ‘Charmed.’
‘Charmed to meet you, too, Mr Waterman,’ Lady Tryphena replied.
‘I’ve just been telling my son that we’re counting on him to escort us to all the most select functions this Season,’ his mama said, indicating with an elegant turn of her wrist that they might be seated.
Hal took care to select a chair as far from Lady Tryphena as possible.
‘That would be delightful,’ the girl said as she perched beside his mother on the sofa. ‘I’m sure you will know just which entertainments will be the most glittering. Mama has always said you possess the most discerning intellect of any lady of the ton.’
Mrs Waterman smiled and patted Lady Tryphena’s hand. ‘How very kind of you both. Indeed, I’ve just received an invitation to Lady Cowper’s ball for Friday next. It will be the most important event of the beginning Season. Hal, you will be free to escort us, I trust.’
Heart sinking, Hal scrambled to think of an excuse. While he rapidly examined and discarded reasons that would prevent his appearance at this choice social event, Lady Tryphena said, ‘There’s sure to be dancing, of course.’
‘Naturally,’ his mother replied.
Lady Tryphena looked Hal up and down, her gaze as assessing—and faintly disapproving—as his mama’s. ‘He does own the proper attire.’
‘Of course he does. But I shall send his valet a note just to make sure. Though looking at my son you might not always be able to credit it, Jeffers is quite competent.’
Astounded, Hal realised the ladies were discussing him…as if he weren’t even present.
Lady Tryphena didn’t look convinced. ‘Dancing pumps, too? He doesn’t have the look of a man who possesses dancing pumps. Not that he actually has to dance—’ her glance said she suspected he might cavort about the floor like a tame bear if set loose upon it ‘—but he should still be properly outfitted. In any event, I should be delighted to remain at your side, conversing with the gentleman waiting to speak or dance with you, for I’m sure you shall be immensely sought after, as always!’
His mother smiled graciously at that speech. ‘Sweet child, how thoughtful you are! But you must dance as well. My son will be suitably attired, never fear. Besides, we can always purchase the appropriate footwear if necessary.’
This was the worst yet. His mama’s previous candidates had all been too awed in her imperial presence to attempt much conversation, nor had they dared dart more than a few timid glances in his direction.
Perhaps he preferred ingénues after all.
A rising anger submerging his shock—and a hurt he should be long past feeling—Hal rose to his feet.
‘Sorry, pressing engagement,’ he said, interrupting the ladies’ ongoing discussion of the best shops in which men’s dancing slippers might be procured. ‘Pleasure, Lady Tryphena. Mama.’ After according them a bow he had no desire to give, he turned to stride from the room.
Apparently realising she had pushed him as far as she could, his mother made no attempt to stop him. ‘Friday next, Hal. We’ll dine here before leaving for the ball.’
Hot with rage, Hal didn’t so much as nod. As he walked away, Lady Tryphena said, ‘Is his speech always so oddly stilted?’
‘It’s a sad trial to me,’ his mother said with a sigh.
‘Well, if it pleases you, I shall certainly work on that! Perhaps with your help I can bring him up to snuff.’
The closing door cut off whatever reply his mother had offered. Too agitated to wait for the butler to return his hat and cane, Hal brushed past the startled footman stationed in the entry hall and quit his mother’s house.
He’d arrived in a hackney, but at the moment he was too impatient to linger while one was summoned. Besides, a brisk walk might help settle his anger and dispel the lump of pained outrage still choking his throat. Thankful that he had a goal to achieve this afternoon—the investigation of Everitt Lowery’s finances—he set off towards the City.
How should he proceed with his mother? He could simply fail to appear, but in the past that had generally resulted in an immediate summons accompanied by a jobation on his unreliability and lack of consideration for her feelings and sensibilities. It was usually easier to outwardly acquiesce to his mother’s demands.
She knew she could win any verbal battle, so he no longer attempted any, but rather went through the motions of escorting her while according her candidate of the moment so little attention and encouragement that finally either the girl or his mother gave up. After which he would suffer through a painful scene where his mother would rant at him for his unfeeling, ungentlemanly behaviour and ingratitude at her efforts, then wail that she was destined to die abandoned and unloved, denied the comfort of a daughter-in-law and grandchildren, before finally weeping and declaring she meant to wash her hands of him for good.
Unfortunately, she’d never done so. But this attempt was her most embarrassing and humiliating effort yet.
Would she never give a thought to his needs and sensibilities? He laughed bitterly. When had she ever?
Less than a month after his father’s death, at six years of age he’d been dragged off to Eton, still begging Mama not to send him away. At Eton, thank the Lord, he’d met Nicky, and in the harsh and often cruel world of schoolboys, eventually found a place.
He’d never cried for his mama again. The grieving lad’s open wound of need for parental love had closed and scarred over. He’d come home as seldom as possible, often spending his holidays with his friends Nicky and Ned, then moved into a town house of his own as soon as the trustees of his estate gave its management over to him.
Yet in her self-absorbed, quixotic way, he knew his mother loved him, as much as she was capable of loving anyone. She always claimed to have missed him when he returned, first from Eton and then Oxford, and demanded to hear all his news. After a few minutes of his halting recitation, however, she’d interrupt to begin a monologue about fashion and gossip that lasted the rest of his visit. And he’d know that, once again, he’d disappointed her.
Even now, she chastised him if he called too infrequently, though his visits never seemed to give her much pleasure. Still, he supposed her continual efforts to ‘improve’ him and find him a suitable wife were her way of demonstrating affection, a misguided but genuine attempt to make his life better—according to her lights.
As Hal the boy had given up hoping for his mother’s love and companionship, Hal the man knew ’twas impossible he’d ever gain her understanding or earn her approval. He just wished she would leave off trying to remake him into the sort of son she wanted.
Still unsure how he was going to avoid Lady Cowper’s ball—but adamant that avoid it he would—Hal stopped at the first hackney stand he happened upon and instructed the driver to take him to Bow Street.
Chapter Five
Late that afternoon, Hal ducked to enter the low doorway of a ramshackle tavern deep in the district of Seven Dials. The unpalatable combination of hurt, humiliation, frustrated anger and lust that had simmered in him all afternoon settled to a slow, satisfying burn as he spied his quarry in the dim, smoky interior.
He crossed the dirty rush-strewn floor to seat himself at a rickety table against the back wall and signalled the innkeeper for a drink. Keeping his gaze carefully straight ahead, out of the corner of his eye he watched the swarthy man seated at the adjacent table.
Hal waited, every muscle tensed, but, after sliding him one quick glance, Smith returned his attention to his brew. Hal exiled a silent breath of relief. Apparently the man didn’t remember brushing past him in Elizabeth’s hallway during his little visit to Green Street. He’d be able to retain the advantage of surprise.
Of course, the other dozen occupants of the taproom were covertly watching Hal as well. Strangers seldom wandered into the heart of one of London’s worst rookeries. And although Hal eschewed ton fashion and was dressed simply in a plain coat and breeches, the quality of his garments and his well-polished leather boots marked him none the less as a man of means.
Which meant, in this neighbourhood, as a mark who at the least should exit lighter of his purse, if he exited the premises at all.
The avaricious gleam in the eyes of the tavern wench who sashayed over to bring him his glass of blue ruin announced that she intended to get her share before the others pounced him. ‘Tuppence for yer drink, guv’ner,’ she said, leaning low to give him the best view of her assets. ‘Fer another, I’ll satisfy all yer wants.’
Hal slipped a coin in her hand. ‘For drink.’ Adding two more, he said, ‘For not satisfying rest.’
After quickly thrusting the coins into her bodice, the barmaid shrugged. ‘Just tryin’ to be friendly.’ Leaning closer, she murmured, ‘Beings you be so generous, lemme advise ya to scarper outta here afor ol’ Smith there calls out his bully boys. Otherwise, be lucky to leave the Dials with yer skin, much less yer fancy duds.’
Hal slipped another coin into the girl’s hand. ‘Thanks. Kind of you.’
The girl smiled, revealing cracked, stained teeth. ‘Sure about them needs? Be a pleasure to handle a big…hearted gent like you.’
Hal patted her hand. ‘You leave. Might get rough.’
The girl raised an eyebrow before sauntering back to the far side of the bar with a flagrant display of swaying hips that for a few moments captured the attention of every male in the room. After tossing the innkeeper a coin, she looked back at him.
Hal sent her a brief smile for the respite she’d offered him in which to make his escape. But he had no intention of leaving until he’d accomplished the purpose that, acting on the information he’d obtained from his friend Mason at Bow Street, had led him here.
Grimacing as the raw bite of the liquor scalded his throat, he swallowed a sip of the blue ruin and waited.
Soon enough, his patience was rewarded. Obviously unable to resist what he considered easy prey, from the table beside him, Mr Smith leaned closer.
‘See you’re a stranger, mate,’ he said, spreading his gums in a semblance of a smile. ‘Looking for someone? Be happy to help—for a small fee, a’course.’
Swiftly Hal reached down to snare the hand that had snaked over to snatch his purse. ‘Robbery not very friendly,’ he replied, pulling Smith’s arm up on to the table and holding it trapped at a painful angle.
Smith’s snarl of anger was followed by a yelp of pain, then the sound of bone cracking bone as Hal countered the right hook the man threw at him with an uppercut to the chin. Smith’s eyes rolled back in his head before Hal dragged him up and pinned him into his chair.
‘Shouldn’t bother widows either. Understand?’
The mere idea of what this oily ruffian had no doubt threatened to do to Elizabeth Lowery made Hal’s fury blaze hotter. Though he’d given the man a way to capitulate, a ferocious desire to punish Smith for invading her home, frightening her and besmirching her with his lecherous gaze made Hal hope the tough wouldn’t avail himself of it.
Fortunately for Hal’s turbulent emotions, a man didn’t survive in Seven Dials by meekly conceding at the first setback. As Hal had expected, Smith snarled and jerked his head.
Four of the slouching inhabitants of the bar sprang up and approached them. Hal saw the flash of at least two blades before, with a roar of satisfied rage, he leapt to his feet, slammed Smith against the wall, then channelled all his strength and outrage into a swift right jab to Smith’s kidney followed by a left uppercut to his jaw.
He released Smith, who slid unconscious to the floor, and turned towards the next attacker, sliding a blade of his own from beneath his sleeve. His blood pumping, ferocious satisfaction stretching his lips into a mirthless smile, he poised on the balls of his feet, daring the man to attack.
Meanwhile, the reinforcements Mason had recruited for him jumped from their positions all around the room to head off Smith’s other three accomplices.
Men didn’t survive Seven Dials by being stupid either. With his leader inert on the floor and the blade-wielding Hal grinning at him like a demon, the tough facing Hal backed away, then broke and ran for the door. The other three, cut off from escape, slinked back to their chairs.
Hal strode to the bar and dropped several coins on it. ‘When Smith wakes up, tend him,’ he told the innkeeper. ‘Goes to Green Street again, finish him. Tell him that.’
Rapidly bobbing his head, the man gathered up the money. ‘Certainly, yer honour. I’ll surely tell him.’
‘Right pretty work,’ the barmaid murmured, brushing her full breasts against his sleeve. ‘If’n you ever git back here, remember me.’
Though his hand hurt and his knuckles were bleeding, Hal made her an elaborate bow. ‘Pleasure, ma’am.’
Feeling much more cheerful than when he’d entered, Hal strode out of the tavern, his confederates filing out after him. ‘Appreciate help,’ he told Mason’s assistants, who nodded before melting away down the alley.
Hal crossed the dim street to the corner where Mason awaited him, passing him a purse of coins under the guise of shaking his hand. ‘All my thanks.’
Surreptitiously pocketing it, Mason said, ‘I trust Mr Smith learned his lesson?’
‘Studying it now,’ Hal replied.
‘No need to call a constable, I suppose?’
‘Come here if needed one?’ Hal asked.
Mason chuckled. ‘Probably not. Nor should we linger with night starting to fall.’
Nodding at that truth, Hal followed the Bow Street man through the warren of alleyways until they reached an area where the buildings looked like they might survive the next windstorm and the pedestrians no longer passed by with a huddled, furtive air.
‘Hopefully you’ve discouraged the enforcer, but I’m afraid nothing can be done to inhibit the moneylender. Blackmen is still entitled to the return of his principal and could bring a motion against Mrs Lowery.’
‘Won’t come to that,’ Hal assured him. ‘Worked out repayment. Thanks for help.’
‘Always a pleasure to contribute to the education of a gentlemen like Mr Smith,’ Mason said before heading off.
His hand throbbed and Jeffers would likely go into apoplexy when he saw the bloodstained coat, but otherwise Hal felt clear-headed and confident. Normally he avoided violence; as a small boy set upon by bullies when he first came to school, he had a sharp dislike for larger, stronger individuals who attacked the smaller and weaker.
’Twas Nicky who’d come to his defence all those years ago, Hal recalled, thereby earning Hal’s immediate gratitude and respect. ’Twas Nicky as well who’d taught Hal the rudiments of self-defence and looked after him until Hal found his feet, earning him his eternal devotion and friendship.
Conscious of his potential to injure opponents who lacked his size and strength, when he grew older Hal abandoned pugilism for the intricacies of the foil, where the need for quickness and dexterity neutralised his advantages of height and reach. Only once before had he deliberately set out to pound a man unconscious—when Nicky’s Sarah had been pursued by a baronet of vicious reputation who’d tried to hurt her.
In that case, as in this, the punishment he’d allotted had been well deserved, though today he’d needed Mason’s kind assistance. Without reinforcements at his back, the confrontation at the tavern might have ended differently.
It helped to have friends in low places, he thought with a grin. If Mama considered his colleagues on the Stock Exchange vulgar, she would have fainted dead away had she seen his confederates this afternoon.
Hal had almost reached the respectable part of Covent Garden when the sound of jeering caught his ear. Down an alleyway, he spied several boys laughing as they pelted rocks toward something hidden behind a stack of rubbish.
Immediately transported back twenty years, Hal turned and charged down the alleyway at them, roaring. Within seconds the startled boys scattered.
Hal halted by the pile of rubbish, but instead of the skinny child he expected to find, a thin, mangy dog cowered under the shreds of some old playbills. Just a puppy, he quickly ascertained, mayhap the runt of some litter.
An intelligent animal, it appeared, for though Hal was almost three times the size of its erstwhile attackers, sensing a rescuer, the little dog immediately limped over to him. Whining and wagging its skimpy brush of a tail, the dog tried to wind itself around his ankles.
‘Down!’ Hal commanded before the animal could jump up and plant its filthy paws on his knee. Recognising the voice of authority, the mutt flattened himself on to the alleyway beside Hal, his tail still wagging.
With a sigh of exasperation, Hal looked down at the muddy prints already marring the shine of his boots. Probably Jeffers would find claw marks gouged in the leather as well. As he gazed down at his footgear, dark canine eyes gazed back up at him hopefully.
What did the silly dog expect him to do? Hal wondered. Though he’d scared off the animal’s attackers, there would be nothing to prevent them from tormenting the animal again later. In the fading light he could see several cuts on the dog’s ears and face where the rocks had nicked him.
If the animal escaped these assailants, he’d likely only encounter others. Or starve.
Hell, Hal thought, sighing again. His coat was probably ruined already and as for his breeches, he could always fall back on the Wellington pantaloons Mama had sent him. Kneeling down, Hal picked up the little dog and cradled him against his coat. Yipping excitedly, the animal tried to crawl up and lick his chin.
‘Still!’ Hal commanded, holding the dog motionless. With a canine sigh, the dog settled against his chest, that pathetic tail still wagging against Hal’s arm.
What would he do with this little dog? Hal wondered. Even washed up and with a bit more meat on his bones, the animal would never win any prizes for beauty. He supposed he could have the dog sent down to his country estate.
But as he reached the hackney stand, another thought occurred and he smiled. Homely or not, once the animal had been fed and groomed, Hal wagered he knew someone who would be thrilled to welcome the little dog as his new best friend.
Chapter Six
Late the next morning in her studio, with a welcome feeling of accomplishment, Elizabeth put down her brushes and took off her apron. Glancing in the little mirror over her workbench as she tidied her hair, she smiled at her reflection, more cheerful than she’d felt since the awful evening of Everitt’s demise.
Perhaps it was knowing she need not fear a return call by Mr Smith or the reassurance of having turned her financial matters over to hands much more competent than her own, but, whatever the reason, Mr Waterman’s visit had energised her. She’d spent a delightful evening with David, reading to him, playing with his soldiers, even teasing him into laughter. As she tucked him in that night, they’d hugged each other tightly and, despite shedding a few tears, for the first time since Everitt’s death she’d felt with deep certainty that somehow they were going to be all right.
Then, when she’d checked on Miss Lowery this morning, she’d found the older woman sitting in a chair. After a month during which her husband’s cousin had scarcely left her bed, her continuing weakness and lethargy such a contrast to her normal cheerful energy that Elizabeth had begun to fear she might lose dear Amelia, too, she’d been thankful almost to tears at that lady’s improvement. They’d shared a cup of chocolate, after which she’d had to command Miss Lowery most insistently to remain in her room and make no attempt to resume her household duties until the doctor certified she was fully recovered.
And now she’d just finished the most productive painting session she’d had in months. Inspired by the loveliness of the sunlight playing on and through the mist—or more often, London’s frequent fog and smoke—over the London rooftops, she’d begun a study of a city scene of the adjacent houses. For the first time, she felt she’d captured the grey mist’s airy, swirling character.
Perhaps, after nuncheon, she might even take David for a walk to the park.
She was about to exit when a knock sounded and Sands bowed himself in. ‘Sir Gregory Holburn to see you, ma’am. Shall I bring some refreshment to the south parlour?’
‘Sir Gregory?’ she echoed, surprised. ‘Y-yes, I suppose. Tell him I shall join him in a few minutes.’
Although Everitt and the baronet had been close friends, she hadn’t expected him to call again so soon, she thought, frowning. Recalling Mr Smith’s disturbing visit and what she’d learned yesterday about Mr Scarbridge’s incompetence, apprehension tightened in her gut. Had Sir Gregory come to warn her of some new disaster?
Anxiety quickening her steps, she decided to dispense with changing her old, worn painting gown for a more suitable dress and went instead directly to the south parlour.
Sir Gregory rose as she entered and came over to kiss her hand. ‘Dear Lizbet, how lovely you look.’
Despite her anxiety, Elizabeth had to stifle a smile, for the pained expression on the meticulous Sir Gregory’s face as he cast a glance at her frayed and rather shapeless gown was anything but admiring. She probably should have changed her dress.
Meanwhile the baronet escorted her to the sofa and seated himself beside her. ‘I didn’t mean to inconvenience you, but my schedule today being so full, I took the one chance I had to call. I heard some news at my club last night that, I must admit, rather distressed me.’
Elizabeth’s amusement evaporated in an instant. ‘What news?’ she asked, her anxiety reviving.