A Touch of Silver Read online

  Gerald heaved a huge sigh that echoed around the elegant space. Even the breakfast room depressed him this morning, despite its cheerful blue-and-white decoration and view over the sunny garden. “Probably. Who’d have thought a title would make such a difference?”

  Damaris snorted, hardly a ladylike sound. “Please, Gerald, be realistic. We’ve gone from comfortably circumstanced to vastly wealthy and titled. Why do you think people want to know us, when they didn’t before?”

  Delphi glanced up from her book. “I don’t want to know them.” Propping her gold-rimmed spectacles on her nose, she returned to her study.

  “I fear we must make an effort.” That was Dorcas, the peacemaker. “I intend to use our new status to fulfill a long-desired wish. I always wanted a yellow rose and now I may find one.”

  Damaris reached for the teapot. “Isn’t the yellow rose a myth?”

  “No more than the black tulip that obsessed the Dutch a hundred years ago.” Dorcas shuffled through the letters and cards. “You haven’t opened this one.” She plucked out a note and handed it to her brother.

  Another invitation. When they had lived at the other end of London, they’d never received so many. Clearly, the privileges went with the title, not the person holding it. He tossed it on the pile teetering at the side of his plate.

  Gerald pushed his plate away as the doorbell clanged. It probably heralded another delivery of invitations and polite introductions.

  Until recently, he’d lived with his triplet sisters in Bunhill Row near Smithfield, well within the City, or the Square Mile, as some people called it. Earls didn’t live in that part of London, which was one reason they’d chosen to live there. Accordingly, when Gerald unexpectedly inherited the title, he was forced to up sticks and take his sisters to the house in Mayfair that they now occupied. Much though he did not want to because, above all things, Gerald hated uncertainty and change. And being pleasant to people who would not have given them the time of day before his inheritance.

  As cousins of the Earl of Carbrooke, the Dersinghams had happily remained on the fringes of society. Until the unthinkable happened, and Gerald had found himself in possession of a great estate and title that, frankly, he did not want or need.

  And that, in a nutshell, was his problem. When someone said, “Oh, it’s the Earl of Carbrooke,” Gerald looked around, expecting to see his uncle standing behind him, and by his uncle’s side, his sons, the stuffy Frederick and William.

  The College of Heralds was still confused whether he was the fifth, sixth or seventh earl. He’d settled for seventh. Out of courtesy, the College would say that each of the sons had a few seconds’ glory as the earl, since the unfortunate carriage accident that dispensed with all three had no independent witnesses to the order in which they had died. Gerald would have returned it to any one of them in a heartbeat. Resentful of his new life, sad for the sorry end of his predecessors, he recalled the cozy house in Bunhill Row wistfully. What did wealth and prestige matter when his contented existence had been whipped away?

  But he owed this opportunity to his sisters. The triplets deserved their chance. They would marry well, and be happy, instead of wasting their lives keeping him company in Bunhill Row. Their interests would be well served by their new exalted station.

  Their butler, Watson, sailed through the door and presented a salver with a collection of cards. Gerald waved to the pile on the table. “Could you take those and put them all in my study, please?” He gathered up the pile already on the table and dumped it on the salver. A couple fell over the edge. He picked them up and replaced them.

  He would do this society idiocy right if the effort killed him. Which it probably would. That meant chivvying his sisters to attend all those balls and getting them to the mantua makers’ for new gowns. Everything had to be right from now on. Society regarded them with suspicion after their first introduction. The girls were bluestockings, Gerald was an oddity for not welcoming his advancement, and they did not know them. Despite the title and wealth, they were outsiders. They did not belong.

  Watson discreetly cleared his throat. “There’s a lady waiting to see you, my lord.”

  Gerald dragged his watch out of his pocket and flicked open the lid. “At this time? Isn’t the fashionable visiting hour a bit later?”

  “This lady is alone, sir. Completely alone.”

  “Is it Lady Elizabeth?” Alarm bells rang in Gerald’s head. Lady Elizabeth Askew, the betrothed of the man who had been the fifth earl for a matter of seconds, had kindly offered to help him and his sisters settle into society. As a duke’s daughter, Elizabeth knew everything they did not, the subtleties of the society they were entering as strangers, who to encourage, who to ignore, who to nod politely to. And help him select potential husbands for his sisters.

  He was fully aware that Lady Elizabeth was not helping them purely from the goodness of her heart. She had her eye firmly on the main prize of becoming his countess. He had not objected, indeed, that she would prove a more than acceptable countess, but a wife?

  Gerald was a free man. Nominally. But the jaws of the parson’s mousetrap were set around him, and he was feeling well and truly ensnared. He needed Lady Elizabeth to help his sisters, but marriage was a high price to pay for it.

  If she’d come to him alone, she had something in mind—getting him to the point, compromising him into marrying her quickly, since he had decidedly cold feet. It didn’t matter if they spent their time in that room three feet apart, her ladyship would ensure everyone knew they had spent significant time together, and they could draw their own conclusions.

  Gerald shivered as a chill wind blew over his soul. Lady Elizabeth was gracious, well-connected and wealthy. Everything an earl could wish for in a wife. Just not this earl. He wondered if she’d call him Carbrooke in bed, and came to the conclusion that she would. Her presence acted like a draft of cold water every time he met her.

  “Your visitor is not Lady Elizabeth, sir,” Watson said, oozing assurance. “She is a Mrs. Annie Cathcart. A respectable woman, but not one of your rank.” At least Gerald had persuaded the domestics to stop “my lording” him to death when there was only him or his sisters to hear.

  Watson’s attitude almost drove him into seeing the woman. But he should not. “Tell her to go away.” He could do without another female in his life. “If she’s trade, find out what she wants and deal with her.” Perhaps she was the florist who came and deposited delightful arrangements in the main rooms every week. Maybe she needed instructions, or a bill had been overlooked.

  Watson exited silently. He moved so softly, Gerald was sure the man drifted half an inch above the floor.

  Dorcas, sitting at the foot of the table, frowned. “You promised to leave your women in the background, Gerald.”

  “She’s not one of my women,” he said, then closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You’re not supposed to know about those. You’re ladies. In any case, there weren’t that many.” He’d kept a mistress or two since he’d gained his majority. That wasn’t bad going, by most people’s standards, and he kept his affairs low-key and discreet. He hadn’t employed one since he’d inherited the title. Far too much to do.

  His sisters laughed. At least he was good for something, he thought morosely as he got to his feet. Keeping his sisters amused was evidently his calling in life. “Of course we knew, Gerald,” Dorcas said. “We’re not completely foolish. And why pretend they didn’t exist when they self-evidently did? You were not remiss, we were merely observant.”

  Too clever by half, his sisters. Later, Gerald would go to his club to meet his new friend Lord de Vaux. The only females there were the maids.

  Voices raised in anger came from the hall. The Cathcart woman was obviously not leaving quietly. Gerald waited for Watson to clear the hall before he made his escape.

  After a noisy three minutes, the door to the breakfast parlor burst open and a young woman strode in, Watson scurrying at her heels. She wore a straw hat and clothes Gerald would designate as modest. Her gown was a dark green wool, barely visible under a brown cloak, her hoop small. Her dark hair was free of powder and covered decently with a white linen cap. She reminded him of his sisters before he’d inherited the title, with her practical stance and her lack of deference. No man’s mistress dressed like that, despite the fact that the woman was undeniably beautiful. Her dark hair was drawn plainly back, but it gleamed with health, her blue eyes, currently narrowed in anger, were startlingly vivid and her mouth, despite being taut, was invitingly full. Gerald noticed all these features, not with the eye of a roué or the dispassionate gaze of a connoisseur of beauty, but with the mild surprise of a man who generally took people as he found them.

  Mrs. Cathcart. The name meant nothing to him.

  Intrigued, Gerald settled to observe Mrs. Cathcart. The air positively crackled with energy.

  Watson seized her arm. “I will get rid of the female, my lord.”

  Mrs. Cathcart boldly met Gerald’s eyes, her head flung back. A strand of dark hair broke loose from her severe hairstyle, grazing her cheek, adding a touch of disorder to her neat appearance.

  Their gazes met, clashed and sparked.

  Something important had just happened, but he couldn’t have said what it was if his life depended upon it. She reached into a part of him he didn’t know existed, and asked a silent question he couldn’t define. Gerald locked the stirring of desire firmly away. That was not happening today.

  “I will not be dismissed like an inopportune maid.” The single feather in her straw hat quivered as she spoke in the clear tones of a gentlewoman. “If we meet only this once, I will have my say. My lord,” she added, as if belatedly recalling his title. She hadn’t even dropped a curtsey. She tossed a sheet of folded paper at him which he made no attempt to catch. “I am not to be spoken to in this way, brushed aside as if my request is of no notice. You will deal with this now, even if your answer is no. And you will do it to my face. I am owed an apology, my lord, and if the writer of this—thing—is the caliber of person you employ, I cannot regard you as a gentleman.”

  Fascinating. Without taking his attention from her, he picked up the paper from where it had landed perilously close to his plate. He was far more interested in her than he was in whatever was written there, but he scanned the note.

  Anger to match hers rose in him. He knew nothing about this. And Smith had offered her what for the lease of the house? How dare the man? He’d inherited Smith from his predecessor, and since the lawyer already knew his way around the estate and other businesses, he’d chosen to leave the minor matters to him until he could deal with them. Well that would end right now.

  “You employ blackguards like that?” she demanded. “Is it usual to exchange intimate favors for business arrangements?”

  He did not consider the house in Bunhill Row a minor matter because, until recently, it had been his home.

  His sister, Damaris, snatched the letter from his hand before he could prevent her doing it. She scanned it. “Good grief.” Before Gerald could reclaim it, she passed the letter to Dorcas.

  Mrs. Cathcart glared at him, her luscious lips primmed tight. “I would hate to disturb your breakfast, my lord, with such a trivial matter,” she said sweetly, her voice indicating the exact opposite of her words.

  “Not at all.”

  Damaris bestowed a sweet smile on the intruder. “Would you like some tea?” She lifted the teapot. “So you live near Bunhill Row. We lived there for years, you know.”

  “I would love some tea.” Shooting him a poisonous glare, the lady moved further into the room.

  Damaris poured tea into one of the delicate china dishes and pushed it over to the lady.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Cathcart, eyes narrowed, surveyed the room, with its elegant mahogany furniture, elaborately draped apple green curtains and the unlit chandelier overhead. Eventually she glanced at Watson who was still standing in the doorway, a sturdy footman behind him, ready to throw their impertinent visitor out. She lifted her hands to her chin, unfastening her hat. Then she removed the serviceable cloak, revealing an equally serviceable gown of good dark green cloth.

  When she took off her gloves, she drew Gerald’s attention as if he couldn’t look away. Tugging each finger, she slowly drew the leather down her fingers and off, revealing long fingers, short but well cared-for nails, and soft bare skin. Capable hands.

  She dropped the gloves in her hat and handed it to the butler, after he had draped her cloak over his arm. They exchanged a glance, and Watson turned and left the room, as if she were the mistress here and she’d just ordered him to go.

  Gerald bided his time. He could not behave like a cad, and throw her out on her ear, but he’d let his sisters soften her up a little, give her a chance to calm down. After that letter, he understood her indignation perfectly.

  Mrs. Cathcart pasted a polite smile on her face, but Gerald felt her simmering anger as if it were his own. She was humoring his sisters. “I would appreciate a dish of tea, my lady, thank you.” She drew back the chair Damaris indicated and sat, flicking her skirts into place.

  Damaris swiftly introduced the sisters, and while she didn’t engage the rigmarole society insisted on when introductions were made, she nodded civilly to each of the women and met their eyes as she nodded. Gerald liked her lack of deference. She gave every impression of an equal, which she might be in all but social standing, considering the staggering wealth some City merchants controlled.

  Reluctantly, Gerald returned to his place at the table. He kept his attention solely on this fascinating woman. He’d encountered many such in Smithfield, bold women who took their own paths in life. Unlike the demimonde, they did not cajole men, they made demands and often had them met. Merchants in the City valued their wives for their abilities to engage in their businesses, serving customers in the shops, working on the company accounts. In a way, the woman he would eventually make his countess would do much the same thing, but with one difference. Entails meant that a noblewoman would never own a title or property in their own right. A woman of the City could expect to do so, and often did.

  Mrs. Cathcart appeared typical of her breed, forthright but polite, seemingly deferential but meeting his gaze boldly and making her demands directly.

  Mrs. Cathcart lifted her tea dish by the rim, little finger extended in the correct manner. Her manners were en pointe, as good as any duchess. She sat upright, her spine not touching the back of her chair, and she wore that irritating half-smile that meant nothing.

  She was the most intriguing woman he’d seen in an age. Not that society ladies did not have their charms, but they were different, not what he was used to. And he could not approach them or become their friend as he could women from the City. The single ones expected him to court them, the older ones expected him to marry their daughters. It was all he was good for.

  Leaning back, he studied her as she made polite, but tight, conversation with his sisters.

  “In many ways, I wish we still lived in Bunhill Row.” Delphi sighed, the elaborate lace of her bodice rising with her breath. “Life was much simpler. I could study my books all day if I wished.” Her hand grazed the cover of the book she’d brought down to breakfast, no doubt another text in Latin or Greek, for Delphi was a far better classics scholar than he would ever be. Her particular influence was the theater but, naturally, she could not indulge that fancy. Ladies did not appear anywhere near the stage.

  “And I could stay in my observatory until dawn.” Damaris’ words were wistful, no doubting that. “I have my observatory set up in Bunhill Row,” Damaris said. “I have made plans to move it, but we have been so busy, I’ve had no time.” She shot a poisonous glance at her brother. “Apparently, we have to learn to become ladies.”

  “You have more room here,” Mrs. Cathcart observed.

  “We do,” Dorcas put in, “But I can no longer spend all day in my garden, and when I pick up a trowel, the gardeners here glare at me as if I’ve committed one of the seven deadly sins. Do you enjoy gardening, Mrs. Cathcart?”

  She gave a short laugh. “My garden, such as it is, is occupied by ovens and forges. I’m a silversmith, my lady, and although I do not attend the forges myself, I understand exactly how they work and what my workers need to do to produce the wire.”

  “Wire?”

  “My business is in silver wire.”

  Damaris nodded as if she understood. Gerald wasn’t sure what silver wire was used for, or why there should be a business for it, but if he asked questions, he would be drawn further in. He wanted to watch and listen first.

  The ladies finished their tea. Mrs. Cathcart did not linger over hers.

  Finally, Gerald opened the letter and read it again. He loved his house in Bunhill Row. He and his sisters had made good memories there and, for that reason, he’d held off getting rid of the lease.

  But this woman wanted it. Could he trust her with it?

  The crackling as he folded the letter brought her attention back to him. Her expression hardened, her eyes turning to slivers of ice. “I would appreciate your answer, my lord.”

  He suspected he might want privacy for this next part. He could see his sisters taking her side. “Would you come into my office so we may discuss this further, ma’am?” Unlike fashionable ladies, she wouldn’t expect to be treated as if a closed door would send her into fits.

  She nodded her consent.

  “Please, follow me.”

  “Is your lawyer there?”

  What would Smith be doing there? No, he would not set foot in his house again, if he could prevent it. “No. If you feel you need a chaperone, one of my sisters will serve.”

  She slanted a brow. “I am used to speaking to men without anyone to protect my virtue. I can deal with a closed door. Your lordship has nothing to fear from me.” She sent him a sweet smile. “Nothing at all.”