The Singular Mr. Sinclair Page 7

  Caroline hoped Oliver’s ears were up to the strain.

  Chapter 6

  Using just my voice, I can settle a spooked horse. Obviously it takes more to settle a spooked lady.

  —Lawrence Sinclair, who wishes he’d paid more attention when Lord Rowley regaled him with boasts of his amorous conquests.

  Lawrence watched Lady Caroline go. Her strides were so long, they tested the seams of her column dress. If his aim had been to upset her, he was bang up to the mark, but for the life of him, he had no idea how he’d offended.

  Unfortunately, he had no time to puzzle it out. A hand clapped onto Lawrence’s shoulder. Then a familiar voice said, “Looks like the lady is in a great hurry to quit your company, my friend.”

  “Kind of you to notice, Rowley.” Lawrence didn’t turn to look at him. He didn’t want to lose sight of Lady Caroline until she disappeared into the press of people. Even then, he caught occasional glimpses of the feather bobbing above her blue bonnet until she slipped out the door to the exhibit hall.

  “Unless I’m much mistaken,” Rowley drawled, “the woman bolting madly from your presence was Lady Caroline Lovell.”

  Lawrence nodded.

  Rowley chuckled. “Careful, man. You’re reaching for the moon.”

  “There was no reaching,” Lawrence said, though in truth he would have loved to reach out and take her hand. “We were just talking.”

  “Quite,” Rowley said dryly. “In my experience, just talking always makes women run away.”

  Lawrence turned and started back down the long row of paintings. To his consternation, Rowley followed him.

  “I thought you were spending some time in the country,” Lawrence said.

  “I thought I was, too, but how many mornings can a man be roused from his bed by a cock crow without going stark raving mad?”

  “There are worse ways to wake.” The brisk tattoo of a trumpet sounding reveille came to mind. A rooster was nothing by comparison. In fact, the early waking sounds of Ware—the creak of the well pump in the yard below, the stir of the servants overhead in their tiny chambers, and yes, birdcalls as well as the cock crow—were pleasant childhood memories. But he had no wish to return to the country now. Not so long as Lady Caroline was in London. “You didn’t enjoy being home?”

  “Rowley End suffers by comparison to Paris. But you’re right. I had planned to rusticate for a few months. However, I find the country air doesn’t agree with me.” He drew in a deep breath as they passed a gaggle of young ladies. “Give me the scent of a woman’s perfume any day, even if it has to compete with the fustiness of London.”

  When Rowley turned back to Lawrence, he didn’t so much smile as bare his teeth. “And so, my plans have changed.”

  Though Rowley was entitled to a seat in the House of Lords, he had little interest in politics. To Lawrence’s knowledge, Rowley had no business interests. His entire fortune was tied up in the family estate. In contrast, Lawrence’s uncle had a long reach. In addition to the income from the estate surrounding Ware Hall, the earl held controlling ownership of a shipping company, a bank, and at least one cotton mill. Lord Ware kept a close watch on all his holdings. Even after gadding about the Continent for so long, Rowley seemed content to leave the day-to-day running of his ancestral seat in the hands of his steward.

  “What do you intend to do in Town?” Lawrence asked.

  “As little as possible.”

  Another pair of debutantes, willowy and fresh-faced, wandered by them. Rowley nodded pleasantly to them but didn’t speak. He’d obviously not been formally introduced to the young ladies and propriety kept him from striking up a conversation with them.

  Lawrence hoped his former traveling companion would continue to be guided by convention now that they were back in England. Rowley had run more than a little wild during their travels, and Lawrence was tired of cleaning up the scandals that had dogged them on account of Rowley. Even Bredon, who’d been his friend since boyhood, was out of patience with him.

  “It seemed a shame to miss the Season when there are so many lovely young buds just starting to bloom,” Rowley said, his gaze following the debutantes’ swaying gait.

  “Just remember, you’re not in an Italian brothel anymore,” Lawrence warned. “Those are ladies of good family.”

  “Ladies of good family who are ready to become women, I’ll warrant.” Rowley looked across the hall and raised his hand in a gesture of farewell to someone. Lawrence followed his gaze to find one of Lady Caroline’s friends, the kinder one, waggling her fingers at Rowley.

  “Who am I to discourage them in their quest for womanhood?” Rowley turned back to Lawrence. “I say, Sinclair, would you happen to have a pound or two on you?”

  “Why?”

  “I find myself a bit light in the pockets, and—”

  “And there’s someone here to whom you owe a goodly sum,” Lawrence finished for him. It was an all-too-familiar story.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. We ought to hire you out as a fortune-teller. We’d be swimming in lard within a fortnight,” Rowley said. “Do you see the very tall gentleman over by the John Constable landscape? No, don’t look so boldly. Have a bit of discretion, will you?”

  Lawrence glanced in the direction Rowley indicated without moving his head. The fellow in question cut an impressive figure. A fashionably dressed lady hung on his arm, and he used a walking stick with a gleaming silver handle. Obviously, a gentleman.

  And one didn’t fail to make good on a debt to a gentleman.

  “So a pound or two will settle your debt?”

  “No, I actually owe him about fifty quid, but I’ve got eight and with your two, I’ll be able to give him ten today,” Rowley said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “I haven’t said I’ll lend to you.”

  “But you will. I know you, Sinclair. You can’t resist the chance to help me out. It makes you feel smug and virtuous while you’re doing it.”

  Lawrence crossed his arms over his chest. “Not this time.”

  Rowley’s smile disappeared. “But you must.”

  “The only thing I must do is continue to breathe. And what I shall do is leave. Good day.” Lawrence turned and began to walk away, but Rowley hurried after him, matching him stride for stride.

  “No, wait.” Rowley caught him by the arm.

  Lawrence eyed the hand on his elbow and then glared at Rowley. There was enough warning in his gaze to make the viscount release him immediately.

  Lawrence possessed a violent temper.

  People who’d never seen it in action claimed Lawrence was very self-contained. But he only disciplined himself so because he knew what he was capable of. He was a powder keg. When sorely provoked, he’d explode. The trait had stood him in good stead in the military. Like a Viking berserker of old, he was a terror in a melee, but keeping the warrior within chained and hidden meant exercising a great deal of restraint in civilian life.

  “Look, Sinclair, one hand washes the other. There must be something you want.” Rowley’s tone turned wheedling. “Something I can do for you.”

  Rowley must be in serious fear of that gentleman and his walking stick.

  “Now that you mention it, there is something,” Lawrence said. “That young lady you smiled at across the hall.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific.” Rowley shrugged. “I smile at a lot of women.”

  “The one I mean is Lady Caroline’s particular friend.”

  Rowley nodded in recognition. “Ah, yes. That would be Miss Frederica Tilbury. Lovely girl. Monstrous dowry. Giggles too much, but one can’t have everything.”

  “That’s the one.” Lawrence stepped closer and made Rowley meet his steady gaze. He’d been told once that the softer he spoke, the more menacing he sounded. So Lawrence dropped his voice to a husky near whis
per. “I want you to leave her alone.”

  Rowley stepped back and snorted, but he averted his gaze. “Got your eye on that one as well as Bredon’s sister?”

  “No. I simply don’t wish to see Miss Tilbury hurt.” There was no point in denying his interest in Lady Caroline. His heart was firmly on his sleeve.

  “I assure you, Sinclair,” Rowley said, suddenly serious, “if I should approach Miss Tilbury at all, it will be with the most honorable of intentions.”

  “That means she’s safe from your attentions, then. You wouldn’t know an honorable intention if it bit you on the arse.” Lawrence dug into his waistcoat pocket and fished out a couple of sovereigns. “Take them and be done. I’m tired of looking at you.”

  “It was a pleasure seeing you again, too, my friend.” The glib charmer was back in full force. Rowley secreted the coins in his pocket and gave it a little pat. “This will buy the time I need to make good on my debt. And I will repay you.”

  Lawrence scoffed. “The day that happens will be a day of note indeed.”

  “You laugh, but I will. When have I not been a man of my word?”

  “I cannot count that high.”

  Rowley laughed and slapped him on the back again, as if they were bosom friends. It was getting to be an annoying habit. Lawrence tolerated Rowley for Bredon’s sake. If they hadn’t been in a public place, Lawrence would probably have laid him out good and proper. His fists had gotten Lord Rowley out of a number of tight spots in the past. Perhaps they could be put to better use teaching him some manners now.

  Lawrence laid a hand on Rowley’s shoulder and squeezed. To anyone passing by, the gesture looked like a fond farewell between friends. Unless they noticed how the viscount’s lips drew into a pale line.

  “I trust I may rely upon you to remember your promise,” Lawrence said, so softly only Rowley would hear him.

  “To repay you?” Rowley winced as Lawrence tightened his grip. “Surely. Without fail.”

  “Keep the money.” Lawrence released him. “I mean your promise concerning Miss Tilbury.”

  Rowley’s eyes narrowed. “I won’t forget, Sinclair. On that you may rely.”

  * * * *

  After Lawrence parted company with Rowley, he found Bredon loitering near the way out of the exhibition hall.

  “What are you doing skulking about here?” Lawrence asked. “Is Somerset House so short of doormen they have to press visiting lords into service?”

  “No. I just decided that if the main point of attending the opening of this exhibit is to be seen doing so, this is the best place to be,” Bredon said. “Everyone goes through these doors sooner or later, and I don’t have to engage in conversations about brush strokes or color palettes.”

  “And you couldn’t be bothered to suggest this strategy to me?”

  “Sorry, old son. In the case of art exhibitions, it’s every man for himself,” Bredon said. “If I never see another fussy portrait of some dead lord or another hazy landscape, it’ll be too soon.”

  Lawrence understood. Museums and galleries were fine in their way, but they couldn’t compare to real life. The bustle of so many souls intersecting, unruly and seething, couldn’t be reduced to a flat canvas.

  He and Bredon walked to the nearby stable where their mounts waited.

  “I learned something new about you today, Sinclair.”

  “How is that possible? We traveled in each other’s company for months. You already know me better than anyone ever has.”

  “And yet there’s more to learn. For one thing, you have an uncanny ability to vex my sister.”

  “You spoke with Lady Caroline?”

  “Briefly, in my role as doorkeeper,” Bredon said with a grin. “As she swept by me, I asked if she’d seen you in the gallery.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That she’d seen far too much of you. I swear there were little wisps of smoke coming from her ears. All in all, it’s a good thing she was leaving.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t want the whole exhibit going up in flames, do we?” Bredon chuckled. “What did you say to provoke her so?”

  “I didn’t provoke her.” Lawrence ran their conversation through his mind. No; he could think of nothing in word or deed that ought to have caused offense. “I asked her to show me her favorite painting.”

  “Ah! That must have been it. Women just hate it when a man expresses an interest in their opinions.” Bredon tipped the groom who’d minded their horses and the men mounted. “But don’t fret, Sinclair. Remember your Virgil: ‘A woman is an ever fickle and changeable thing.’”

  Lawrence had read very little Virgil and had never felt the lack. Until now. He wished he had more of mankind’s wisdom to draw upon, though it did seem as if the poet weren’t making an earth-shattering observation. What wisdom was there in merely stating the obvious?

  “Changeable.” Lawrence tested the word on his tongue and found it apt. “She did describe herself as a weathercock.”

  “That’s our Caro. She’s like a spring storm. Her ire blows hard and fast. Then, in a little while, she’ll be coming up flowers, bursting with charity for all. You must simply have struck a sore subject without realizing it,” Bredon said as they made their way around waiting hansoms to the main thoroughfare. “No harm done. She’ll have forgotten all about it by suppertime.”

  Lawrence wasn’t so confident of that, but he’d upset one Lovell already this day. There was no need to offend another by arguing the point.

  It did him good to ride for a bit. Time spent on horseback always helped him make sense of the world. Once they reached Lovell House, Bredon was all for a game of chess in the library. The groom would tend to their mounts.

  “I’ll tend to mine, if you don’t mind.” Lawrence always felt he owed a horse he’d ridden his personal attention.

  “Suit yourself, but don’t be long. I’ll set up the board and ring for tea.”

  So Lawrence remained in the stable, picking hooves and brushing down his horse’s strong back and flanks. As he curried the animal, it was almost as if he were brushing away the knots in his own soul. By the time he was done with the chore, he felt more optimistic about the world in general and Lady Caroline in particular.

  Lawrence had returned to a state of hope.

  It lasted until he met Mr. Price in the hallway near the base of the grand staircase.

  “Ah, there you are, Mr. Sinclair.” The butler carried a silver tray that bore a single creamy missive. It was sealed with a blob of red wax embossed with an important-looking crest. “This came while you were out, sir.”

  Lawrence thanked Mr. Price and accepted the note. He opened it and read:

  Lord and Lady Frampton request the pleasure of Mr. Lawrence Sinclair’s company at a ball held at their home on Thursday next. Dancing to begin ten o’clock p.m. Supper to follow. The favor of a reply is appreciated.

  Lawrence groaned and leaned against the nearby wall. This was a disaster of biblical proportions.

  “Do you wish to send a reply?” Price asked.

  “I wouldn’t know what to say,” Lawrence said.

  “Well, generally, sir, people send either their acceptance or their regrets.”

  “I know, Mr. Price,” Lawrence said testily. Did even the help think him an imbecile? “I just wasn’t expecting something like this to happen.”

  “I say, what’s that you’ve got there?” Bredon called down from the landing above.

  “An invitation to Lord Frampton’s ball.”

  “Splendid.” Bredon came down the steps, rubbing his hands together. “Did the messenger wait for a reply, Price?” When the butler nodded, Bredon went on, “Then send back Mr. Sinclair’s compliments and an acceptance.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed and withdrew.

  Lawrence
had met Lord Frampton at White’s and played a few hands of whist with him but didn’t think he’d made that much of an impression on the gentleman. “Did you have something to do with this?”

  Bredon shrugged. “I may have.”

  “I wish you hadn’t.”

  “How could I not drop a word in the right ear on behalf of a friend?” Bredon said with a confused frown. “The whole family is going, even Mother and Father. It wouldn’t have seemed right to leave you here alone, counting your toes.”

  “That would have been a kindness indeed.”

  “In heaven’s name, why?”

  “Because I…” Lawrence shook his head. It was no use. It made no difference that he was unfailingly polite, or that he knew which fork to use. At a ball, it wouldn’t matter that he deferred to others, as was expected of him in Polite Society. The only fact that signified was that he had never acquired all the polish, the gentlemanly skills usually associated with the wellborn.

  “Bredon,” he said with a sigh, “I cannot dance.”

  Chapter 7

  My mother says being a lady means governing my behavior so that those around me will feel comfortable. That’s a bit like saying I must lace my stays so tightly I cannot breathe lest I discommode the seams of my gown.

  —from the diary of Lady Caroline Lovell

  “Come,” Caroline called out when a soft rap sounded on her chamber door. She slipped the book that held her secret thoughts into the top drawer of her escritoire and locked it quickly. Then she looked up from her diary’s hiding place in time to see her maid pop her head around the opened door. “We’ve an hour or so until the dressing gong sounds. What is it, Alice?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lady.” The maid gave a quick curtsy. Caroline had tried to break her of the habit, saying there was no need to stand on ceremony. With all the other work Alice did for her, why add superfluous bobbing that would eventually ruin her knees? However, before coming to the Lovell household, Alice had served a dowager marchioness, who was a stickler for the rules. Even though she was now under a less-demanding mistress, Alice refused to let go of the deferential habit. “His Lordship requests your presence on the fourth floor.”