Money problems on WIP Wednesday

Here’s a scene from my next story in Jackie’s Climb, the next novel in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale. Guess the folk tale that inspired this one!

Bessie did not attract much interest at the market. She was nearly ten years old and would not be in milk again until she had been successfully bred and had given birth to the resulting calf, which meant no milk for at least nine months.

The first person to make an offer said he would pay two pounds, for he could get that much value out of her hide and her bones. “Not much value in the meat,” he opined. “It might be fit for the dogs.”

Jackie was horrified. “She has many useful years yet,” she insisted. She could not sell her old friend to be made into handbags, dog food and glue.

She received three more offers in the next two hours, and all of them were insultingly low. “A good cow might fetch as much as twenty pounds,” she told one man, indignantly, after he’d suggested that he could take Bessie away if she’d accept ten shillings.

“Aye, lad,” the man agreed. “A good cow. But that’s not what you have to sell now, is it?”

By the middle of the afternoon, she was tired, hungry, thirsty, and discouraged. She hated the thought that she might have to take Bessie home and admit that she had failed. Finally, a fifth buyer approached. Humbly, and without much hope. Poorly dressed and bent with age, she did not look like a buyer, but as she examined Bessie with gentle touches and soft murmurings, Jackie found herself warming to the woman.

“You’ve allowed her to dry off,” the woman commented.

“She calved two years ago, and gave good quantities of milk for twenty months,” Jackie explained. “We thought we would breed her again after we sold the calf, a lovely little heifer.” She shrugged. “It was not possible.” Though Civerton was not on Hunnard land, many people from the estate and the village came here for market. It would not be wise to explain that she and her mother were being victimised.

The woman asked how long Bessie had given milk, and in what quantities. “She seems sweet natured,” she commented.

“She is,” Jackie assured her. “She has a very sweet nature. Do you want her for yourself, Mistress?”

“I do. To join my little herd. I cannot pay much, mind. I’ll have to feed her for nearly a year before I get anything back. Ten shillings, lad. What do you say?”

“I’ve been offered two pounds,” Jackie said, honestly.

The old woman examined Bessie with narrowed eyes. “I could not go to two pounds,” she said. “You should take it, lad.”

“It was a knacker,” Jackie explained. “I couldn’t sell dear Bessie to a knacker.”

“No,” the old woman agreed. “It would be a great shame. I will tell you what, young man. I will give you one pound and a packet of my never-fail heavy crop beans. Come up like magic, they do, and taste delicious. I don’t give them to just anyone, mind. But I do like a boy who wants a good home for his cow.”

A pound. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was a better offer than any but the one from the knacker. “I’ll take it,” Jackie said.

It was on the walk home that Jackie had her idea. A pound wasn’t enough to pay the rent, but it was the entrance fee to the Crown and Pumpkin’s gambling night, which was on tonight. Yes, and Jack Le Gume had two pounds of stake money hidden in a hollow oak just outside the village. Jackie had planned to give it to Maman with the price paid for Bessie, but even three pounds, with the money they had already saved, would fall short of what was needed.

But what if she could double her stake? Or better? Hunnard was one of the habituees at the Crown and Pumpkin. How fitting it would be if his losses paid the extortionate rent that he was demanding. Yes. Jack Le Gume would certainly be visiting the Crown and Pumpkin tonight.

First, she needed to face her mother and admit that all she’d received for the cow was a package of bean seeds. Maman was as upset as Jackie expected.

“Bean seeds? Jacqueline, how could you! You foolish, foolish girl. Even a few shillings would have been better than that!”

Almost, Jackie confessed to having the pound, but she clung to the picture she’d imagined—Maman’s face tomorrow morning, when Jackie showered her with money and admitted that she had withheld the pound the woman had paid in the interests of multiplying it.

It would all be worth it.

Maman snatched the little pot of bean seeds from Jackie’s hand, strode across the room, slammed the window open, and threw the seeds—pot and all—out the window. “That for you bean seeds. Do you think we will be here to see them grow? Or will have any ground to grow them in after that scoundrel Hunnard throws us out? Do you not understand what he has planned for you, you foolish child? Out. Get out now, and find some work to do. Clean a few more horse stalls. Wash dishes at the inn. We need money, Jacqueline.”

Poor Maman. She always got angry when she was upset. Perhaps Jackie should tell her about the pound, and how she planned to make more money. “It is not quite as bad as it seems, Maman.”

But Maman interrupted her. “You are just like your father. It was the same with him. Always, something would come along to save us. He was certain of it. Always. And always the same. He would gamble away our last coins and things would be worse. Get out of my sight, Jacqueline. I do not wish to see you.”

Jackie left.

Tea with Nathaniel and Louise

Eleanor, The Duchess of Haverford, renowned for her progressive views and enlightened mindset, epitomizes a refreshing departure from society’s expectations. Unlike many of her peers who cling to rigid social positions, she possesses the ability to discern a person’s true worth beyond their title or wealth. Growing up, she was undoubtedly a spirited child, characterized by her openness to embrace people from all walks of life.

Recently, Her Grace was delighted to receive a wedding invitation to Nathaniel, Marquess of St. John, son of the Duke and Duchess of Stirling, to Miss Louise Hartfield, daughter of Captain and Mrs. Hartfield of Bloomsbury. She had not been able to avoid feeling for the poor boy, devastated when Elinor, his fiancé, called off the wedding a day before the ceremony. The following day Elinor hastily married Percival, Duke of Mountjoy, a man decades older than herself, on her father’s orders, the duchess was told. But that didn’t ease Nathaniel’s pain. Overnight, his almost bride and father-in-law removed themselves from London to rusticate in Ludlow. They left the poor boy alone to face the insult, the innuendo, the scandal.

Now, five years later, Her Grace is thrilled and excited to welcome Nathaniel and his wife, Louise, to tea. They have just returned from their bridal tour on the continent.

“Would you care for more tea?” Eleanor asked Louise, who extended her cup. Eleanor then turned to Nathaniel. “And you, sir?”

“You can warm mine.” Nathaniel smiled brightly and lifted his cup.

“I understand you both weren’t expected to return for another four months. I suppose you’ve returned for the wedding.” Her Grace poured hot water into Nathaniel’s teacup.

“Yes,” Louise said. “We could not miss the marriage of Richard, Nathaniel’s cousin. But that is another story.” She took a sip of tea.

“We’ll have to discuss that another time.” Eleanor warmed her cup and turned to Nathaniel. “I still find it difficult to believe that you have married.” She turned to Louise. “No slight intended.”

“None taken, Your Grace. I would have said very much the same thing.” Louise gazed at her husband over the rim of her teacup.

For a moment, Eleanor thought she was intruding on a very private moment. She purposefully coughed, hoping to bring the newlyweds back into her tearoom.

Louise, a smart woman, put down her cup and glanced at the duchess. “It appears both Nathaniel and I had similar feelings about marriage. He was a die-hard bachelor, and I was very determined to die a spinster. Our marriage is all Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s fault.”

“That’s interesting. Which one of you hired her to find you a match?” Her Grace dropped a cube of sugar into her tea and stirred her cup without the spoon hitting the side of the cup.

“I hired her.” Nathaniel drank the last drop of tea.

Eleanor raised her aristocratic eyebrow. “Really? And here I thought you were the devoted bachelor.”

“I was. I didn’t hire her to find me a wife. Besides, you were well aware of how I felt about marriage. I cannot count how many times you invited me here for tea.” Nathaniel put down the empty teacup and held the duchess’s gaze. “You let me talk it all out. And for that, I am in your debt.” Nathaniel took Louise’s hand.

Her Grace leaned forward. “Nathaniel, all I did was listen, in confidence. Nothing more. If you found that beneficial, then I am happy.” She straightened up. “As a matter of fact, I am happy for both of you. But what I want to know is, why did you hire Mrs. Dove-Lyon if it wasn’t to find you a wife?”

“I got caught up in a friendly debate and found myself in a crazy wager to prove my point about love and society’s expectations and demands,” Nathaniel said.

“I did hear rumors about a wager and several challenges. I would like to hear more about them.” Her Grace folded her hands and waited for Nathaniel to proceed.

Dear Friend, read all the details of Nathaniel’s wager in the following excerpt.

An Excerpt from The Lyon’s Gambit

In a world bound by rules, love becomes the ultimate gambit.

“This story was a unique one- different classes, a wager, and more than one villain. A Marquess, a seamstress, and the challenge to move beyond the rules that hem them in. I enjoyed Louise Hartfield, Nathaniel, Marquess of St. John, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon and their adventures. I highly recommend!”

~  Geraldine Kelly,  Goodreads, 5 Stars

In the glittering world of London, where society dictates everything, Nathaniel, Marquess of St. John, learned the hard way that playing by those rules doesn’t always guarantee a happy ending. Jilted by a woman chosen for him by his father, Nathaniel swore off marriage and embraced the life of a steadfast bachelor.

Louise Hartfield is a talented seamstress who disdains the ton’s rigid expectations. Trapped by her mother’s antiquated insistence that, as the elder daughter, she must wed before her younger sister, Louise scoffs at the idea of conforming to such a preposterous rule.

When Nathaniel and his friends bet on whether love can transcend class, they turn to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, whose Lyon’s Den hosts their daring experiment. As Nathaniel and Louise navigate society’s expectations, they find themselves drawn together in a quest for true love. Will they defy tradition or succumb to its demands? In this high-stakes gamble for love, who will emerge victorious?

Buy Link: Kindle Unlimited

Chapter One

The Lyon’s Den, London
London 1819

The Lyon’s Den was a haven of opulence and excitement, a place where fortunes shifted like the tides of the Thames and where the city’s elite gathered to flirt with chance and sometimes, in its shadowed corners, engage in secret rendezvous. Inside, the chandeliers bathed the main room in a warm, golden glow, and the delicate clinking of crystal drinking glasses mixed with the low hum of conversation. It was a world of daring wagers, whispered secrets, and dreams born on the turn of a card.

Amidst the velvet-draped tables and the rich aroma of aged brandy, Nathaniel, Marquess St. John, stood amid the decadence, a reluctant figure caught in the whirlwind of society’s expectations. Skilled in matters of strategy, business, and diplomacy, he clutched his glass, his thoughts drifting far from the table game before him.

With the stakes high, Nathaniel was here to gamble, but not at these games. He had always been a master of control, his every move calculated, his determination unwavering. But tonight. He took a deep draught of the fine brandy, the signature burn making its way down his throat. Tonight, he hoped he was up to his mission.

“Lord St. John, it’s a pleasure to see you here this evening.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon greeted him, her voice warm with surprise. “I have to admit, I wasn’t certain it was you. I even doubted my steward when he notified me you were here. I had to see for myself.”

“Ah, Mr. Boyet. How is he?” Nathaniel remembered the man clearly. Boyet made certain he didn’t get into any trouble, but that was years ago, before he left to serve his country.

“He is very well.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked him over. “You haven’t changed. You look just as I remember you.”

Absently stroking his chin, he smiled as he greeted the proprietor of the Lyon’s Den. As always, she made a striking entrance. Of moderate height and with a slender figure, she radiated a silent strength that commanded attention. Her eyes gleamed with knowledge and confidence and spoke volumes about the experiences she had faced over the years. She effortlessly transitioned between the roles of a shrewd businesswoman and a woman with heartfelt compassion.

Nathaniel knew her better than most. Colonel Lyon, her deceased husband, was a distant relation of his, a third cousin twice removed.

His smile set the woman to laughing. “To what do I owe this delightful surprise?” He sipped her excellent brandy. “You don’t usually venture out of your private salon.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that you’re not enthusiastic about gambling, though, I do not ever remember a time when you did enjoy the gambling floor. I suspect you’re here for another reason. Come, bring along your brandy, and join me where we won’t be interrupted.”

Before he could respond, she headed for the door, and he followed her toward what he expected was her private salon.

He stepped into a room filled with plush, vibrant-colored fabrics—deep burgundies, regal purples, and shades of gold. The furniture, upholstered with the finest silk, had not changed since his last visit.

Other furnishings were strategically placed—a Louis XVI writing desk, a Queen Anne side table, and a beautifully carved Chippendale armchair. Each piece told a story of refined taste.

A collection of well-worn leather-bound books on the writing desk suggested that Mrs. Dove-Lyon enjoyed literature as much as the scandal sheets that were neatly stacked next to the tomes. A framed painting of her beloved husband, Colonel Sandstrom T. Lyons, hung above the marble fireplace.

Tasteful artwork graced the walls, along with a collection of pastels, as well as pen and ink drawings, all by local artists. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s signature floral arrangement of fresh flowers—white roses, red tulips, and variegated green ivy— of which she handpicked and arranged daily, graced a small table and gave the room a faint, soothing fragrance.

It was a room anyone in elite society would find comfortable. He appreciated the decor, but he preferred a more casual atmosphere.

A pang hit Nathaniel unexpectedly. He used to call on her at least twice a month, but after his return from Waterloo and steadily assuming more and more of his aging father’s responsibilities, his visits had become less frequent. How time had gotten away from him.

She sat in a high-back armchair and gestured for him to take the seat beside her. “What is all this, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? You’ve always called me Bessie. I thought we were on better terms than that.”

He lowered his head and tried to hide his smile as he took the offered seat. If anything, Mrs. Dov—Bessie always spoke her mind. Society rules be damned. “I must confess, Bessie, gambling is not my preferred pastime. I work too hard for my money to let it slip through my fingers.”

“That is not a secret, at least not to me. Although, I’ve watched your cousin Richard take your mare, Amber Blaze, through her paces on several racecourses and wager quite handsomely. He handles the temperamental mare well. For a moment, I thought you might be here to make a wager on the success of her race in the Regent’s Derby. But no. You are not a gambling man. But you do make me wonder. You do not need to come here to drink. Your cellar is almost as fine as mine.” That made her chuckle. “And you did not ask for me.”

He took a fortifying sip of brandy.

She took a quick breath and placed her hand over her heart, then leaned toward him. “Tell me, Nathaniel, are you here for help finding a wife?”

“Absolutely not.” He nearly spit out the brandy. “I would come here and gamble before I approached you for a match, not that you wouldn’t make an excellent match. Marriage is not something I’m eager to pursue. Although it would greatly please my father.”

He had come close enough to marriage once before. He slammed his mind shut at the thought of that debacle. He gulped down the rest of his brandy and placed the empty glass on the small table next to him. “I’m here because, while I do not gamble, I find myself involved in a wager and need your assistance.”

Bessie studied him and said nothing for three, perhaps four heartbeats.

“After declaring you’re not a betting man. You have my undivided attention.” She poured three fingers of brandy into his glass and warmed her tea with a splash of hot water.

“May I discuss a hypothetical situation?” He had planned and rehashed how to propose what he wanted to do and still he was unnerved.

“Of course.” She rewarded him with a dimpled smile. “Hypothetical discussions often lead to the most interesting insights.”

“Excellent.” Nathaniel eagerly moved forward in his chair, ignoring her purr. “How might two people bridge the gap and promote a greater understanding of each other if they came from different social backgrounds?”

“A fascinating topic, indeed. You surprise me, Nathaniel. This is far from why I thought you came here.” Bessie leaned back. “To bridge such a gap, one would require a setting that encourages interaction between the people on an equal footing, where status and titles are set aside. Does that sound the least bit familiar?” She gestured around her room.

“Precisely.” He nodded, pleased she was agreeable. “Here at the Lyon’s Den, you created the perfect surroundings, but your establishment is limited to your elite invited guests and those whose marital fate has been placed in your hands. Outside these walls, nothing like it exists.” He scooted to the edge of his seat. “Now, imagine a scenario where people from different social backgrounds can easily interact with each other without the constraints of title, holdings, or position.

“I believe it is quite possible, so much so that in discussing the idea with others, I’ve been challenged to prove that my idea is achievable. I’ve been charged to bring a variety of people together under the premise of a social experiment.”

“An experiment, you say?” Bessie raised an elegant eyebrow. “What sort of experiment?”

“Ah, that’s the intriguing part.” Nathaniel’s eyes twinkled, and one corner of his mouth curled slightly upward, giving him a mischievous expression. “Participants would interact without the burden of their social identities. Their true characters would come to the forefront, unhindered by titles, expectations, or rules. The experiment would be declared a success if the interactions resulted in the participants connecting.”

“It sounds both daring and enlightening.” She raised her teacup and studied Nathaniel over the rim. “But would society truly embrace such an experiment? The lines between the classes run deep.”

“Society’s expectations often restrict the potential for genuine connections.” He looked off at nothing in particular and gave his response a great deal of thought. “Yet, imagine if such an experiment were orchestrated with the utmost discretion, ensuring that participants engage willingly and authentically.”

“A delicate balance indeed.” She nodded.

If he read Bessie correctly, she was open to the idea. “To ensure success, participants must be carefully selected, and the environment must be conducive to shedding the trappings of their usual roles. The participants must be themselves. You, of all people, are aware of the essence of this hypothetical experiment. Imagine if participants had different social backgrounds, each person with their unique strengths and weaknesses.”

“And what would be the ultimate goal of this experiment? You could never divest the ton of their rules and prejudices.” Bessie leaned in toward him, eager for his answer.

“To demonstrate that shared experiences, values, and aspirations can be common across all strata of society. An opportunity for true understanding and, perhaps, even for connections to flourish into lasting friendships.”

“Are you looking for lasting friendships?” Bessie sat back and stirred her tea.

“I have more than enough lasting friendships and do not need any others.”

She put her spoon down, took a sip of tea, and replaced the cup on its saucer.

“You paint a compelling picture, Nathaniel.” A knowing expression lit her face. “But executing such a venture would require immense finesse and discretion.”

“Finesse, discretion, and perhaps a skilled orchestrator behind the scenes.”

“A maestro of sorts,” Bessie titled her head and studied him carefully, “guiding the experiment toward its outcome?”

“Indeed, a maestro with a vested interest in the harmony of the results.”

“You mentioned you needed my help with a wager.” Bessie brought the subject back to her expertise.

“I’ve mentioned that I discussed this social experiment with my friends.”

Three days earlier, in a dimly lit private drawing room, Nathaniel lounged comfortably in his favorite armchair at St. John Abbey, his home in Manchester Square, surrounded by three of his closest friends. The room bore the unmistakable mark of a man whose interests ran deeper than what appeared to be on the surface. Bookshelves lined with well-loved volumes hinted at a mind constantly in pursuit of knowledge, a trait that set him apart from his peers and would do him well as the next Duke of Stirling.

The evening progressed with his friends Archibald Hargrave, Charles Waverly, and his cousin Richard St. John.

Archibald Earl of Wainwright, a close confidant of Nathaniel, was a charming man who tended to blend into the background in social situations. A man of medium build and with a genial way about him, he had neatly groomed sandy brown hair and hazel eyes that reflected a quiet intelligence. Though appearing ordinary, his strength was in his unwavering loyalty and keen sense of humor, which often served as a relief during challenging times and made him an indispensable companion.

Charles Viscount Breton, another steadfast friend in Nathaniel’s circle, embodied a reserved yet reliable presence. He, too, was of average height with a solid, unremarkable build. His dark, neatly combed hair framed a face with a strong jawline and kind brown eyes. A keen supporter of Archibald, Charles was like a younger brother who followed his elder brother’s lead, in this case Archibald. He possessed a calm and collected demeanor that complemented the more spirited personalities of Nathaniel and Richard.

A twist of fate had made Nathaniel and Richard fast friends. Nathaniel was the Marquess of St. John, while his cousin Richard St. John, was the son of Baron Ashbourne. The similarity in their title and surname, however, was not the only source of confusion; their physical resemblance was equally striking. Their strong athletic physiques hinted at men who played hard, and their dark hair, styled in a similar fashion, only accentuated the uncanny likeness that marked their faces. Yet, amidst the likenesses, even up to their intellects a keen observer might see a subtle difference in the coloring of their eyes. Nathaniel’s eyes were a striking blue, while Richard’s tended toward a captivating shade of green. Despite this slight difference, both men were an amalgam of aristocratic refinement and charismatic charm. And their similarities didn’t change as they grew older. It appeared the older they became, the more they looked alike.

Here, Nathaniel and his friends, all men of the ton, gathered around a well-polished table, glasses of brandy in hand, in an atmosphere charged with anticipation.

“Richard,” Nathaniel’s eyes sparkled, and an unrestrained grin spread across his face. He didn’t try to hide his enthusiasm. “This social experiment is not merely a whim. It’s a vision, a vision of a society where genuine connections are nurtured, unburdened by society’s expectations.” He turned from Richard and sought out the others. “Archibald. Charles. You both understand.”

“Nathaniel, we’ve heard your arguments before,” Archibald said as he rolled his eyes. “You’re proposing something quite radical. You’re asking society to cast aside centuries of tradition.”

“Indeed,” Charles nodded his agreement. “It’s a lofty idea. But do you honestly believe it can work? Connections transcending class and station?”

Nathaniel’s attention shifted to Charles, recognizing how he supported Archibald. Rarely did he make a statement, much less a decision, without mimicking his friend.

“I do, with every fiber of my being.” He searched Charles’ face, then Richard’s. “There are places right here in London”—his brows nearly collided with his ever-deepening furrow—“where it exists and is accepted.” How could his friends be so blind?

“Accepted by a few, but not by the majority. You may be able to lose your social status for an evening, possibly even a weekend, but not much longer.” Archibald swirled the brandy in his glass as he stared at it. “I would be careful, my friend. Your ‘society’ responsibilities will catch up with you sooner or later.” He took a deliberate gulp of brandy, his unwavering gaze locked onto Nathaniel. He knew at once that his friend didn’t agree with him.

“Do you not see?” Nathaniel persisted, unwilling to give up. “We’re on the cusp of a new era, gentlemen. New industries are being developed. Cities are bursting with people from the farmland looking for work. They are accumulating wealth, some exceeding those with old money and even moving into positions of power. The rigid constraints of the old world will not stand much longer. It’s time to challenge the status quo to prove that the rules are antiquated and obsolete.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone, unwilling to give it up. What will it take?” Archibald chuckled, his expression softening as he grew more serious. “I assume there is no deterring you.”

“No. There is not.” Nathaniel was certain his idea would work. It had to.

A sudden brightness gleamed in Archibald’s eyes. Delighted with himself, he slapped his hands on his thighs. “Very well. How about this—we’ll place a wager on your experiment’s success. We’ll each put in one thousand pounds, a significant sum, mind you.”

“Yes, a wager indeed. I’m always up for a wager,” Charles said as he turned toward Archibald. “But how will we know if the experiment has succeeded or failed?”

The room was quiet for several moments.

“There will have to be a judge. Who would know anything about such an experiment?” Richard took a sip of his brandy.

“I know,” Charles nearly came out of his chair. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon shall be the ultimate judge of your experiment’s success. Her Lyon’s Den is the only establishment I know of that comes close to what Nathaniel proposes. If she deems the experiment a success, the winnings are yours, Nathaniel. If not, you’ll part with quite a hefty sum of blunt.”

The others stared at Charles, stunned at his very perceptive and workable suggestion.

Nathaniel’s heart raced as the weight of the wager sank in. Bessie Dove-Lyon’s discerning judgment carried immense importance, as did the considerable sum each of them was willing to stake.

“If, by some unlikely chance, you don’t emerge victorious,” Richard leaned in toward his cousin, a devilish glint in his eye, “I’ll kindly accept your Amber Blaze in place of your coin. You know the mare’s always had a soft spot for me, far more than you. I swear there are times I believe she thinks I am you.” He paused, a sly smile curling on his lips.

“That is not unusual. Even the Prince Regent has problems telling us apart.” Nathaniel shook his head.

“And speaking of amusing mix-ups earlier today at Tatterstalls, once again, Lord Templeton thought I was you. He was engrossed in betting on some trivial affair and referred to me as Nathaniel. Close call, I’d say. He was wagering on something as absurd as the number of oysters one could devour in fifteen minutes. I was tempted, I confess, but even with my penchant for daring wagers, I couldn’t take that particular challenge. At least not in your name.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “I thank you for your kind consideration.” He gave his attention to the others. “Very well. I will ask Mrs. Dove-Lyon for her assistance. It seems you three doubt we can exist without these restrictive rules, but I have every faith in the experiment’s success. And when Mrs. Dove-Lyon declares the outcome, mark my words. genuine connections will indeed be made. They will defy the odds.” Or so he desperately hoped.

Richard raised his glass in salute. “To Nathaniel and his grand experiment—may it reveal the truth, whatever that may be.”

“To Nathaniel.” Archibald and Charles joined in Richard’s toast.

Now, he sat in a comfortable wingback chair in Bessie’s salon, a half-filled glass of brandy in his hand.

“I suppose I should be pleased that my reputation has brought you to me.” Bessie’s smile was like a flicker of candlelight, mysterious and subtle.

Nathaniel realized that he had no idea what was going on in her head. He let out a breath. He would find out soon enough.

“I do find your experiment intriguing,” she said, a spark of interest in her voice.

“You alone will decide whether the experiment has been successful or not. And, of course, you will get a part of the wager for your efforts.” He noticed her eyebrows arch ever so slightly, a subtle sign of her growing interest.

“Experiment sounds so…scientific. I’d rather call it a social challenge. You don’t want to scare people away.”

“You have a good point.” Was Bessie really going to help him? “Very well, social challenge it is.”

“I will decide on each of the challenges and how they will be judged. The goal of each one will be to create interaction and connections among different people.” Bessie held his gaze as if she were a cat ready to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

Well-played, Bessie. He nodded. “Of course. I’m sure your challenges will be quite fitting for what we want to prove.” Of all the people he knew, Bessie was the only one who was up to snuff for this project.

“And you will be the primary subject.” The woman didn’t try to hide her smile.

A painful expression flashed across his face. He should get up and walk out, call off the entire project.

“I have no intention of making any connection.”

“All the more reason why you are the perfect candidate. It’s no challenge if the subject is willing. You just said it yourself. You have no intention of making any connections. No, Nathaniel. You are the perfect person who can play this part. Keep in mind that you don’t have to marry the person; just make a good, solid connection. The more I think about it, the more I see that you are the only person for this. With a bonus for me if you ‘connect’ with a woman. Your father’s gratitude.”

He gulped down the rest of his brandy. When the challenge was completed, he would explain to the woman, should he connect with one, that this was an experiment, a game, nothing more. Surely, she would understand.

“Very well,” he said. “I will be the subject.” He took a deep breath, satisfied with himself that he had the answer to that problem.

“Good. Once the contract is signed between you and me, it is final.” As final as the tone in her voice, he suspected. Nathaniel had heard her hard-earned, no-nonsense business voice many times and had nothing but respect for it.

“The contract is binding on both our parts. Neither of us can change the terms or back out without forfeiting the full amount of the wager, so think hard before you agree. Three thousand pounds is a hefty sum for you to lose.”

“I don’t plan to lose. For me, it is not about the money.”

“If you insist.” She went to her desk, wrote her instructions on a note, and tugged on the bell pull for assistance.

The steward stepped into the room. “Yes, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

“Mr. Boyet, have a footman bring this to Mr. Hughes at Chancery Lane. Have him wait for a response.”

Boyet nodded and left as quietly as he entered.

Bessie went to the cellarette and poured her guest another brandy.

“We can wait here while the document is drawn. It shouldn’t take long. I have the modiste coming at teatime. We will need to be finished by then.” She handed Nathaniel the brandy. “Now, let us discuss my fee.”

Tea with Cordelia

The Duchess of Haverford had formed the habit of holding an afternoon tea early in the Season for the current year’s debutantes. It gave the girls an opportunity to meet one another away from the endless manoeuvring of the marriage mart and out from under the thumbs of their mothers and chaperones, who were having tea in another room down the hall.

It also allowed Eleanor, the duchess, to discover likely protégés and possible problems. Every year-group of debutantes had them. The girls who had the potential to join the ranks of the ladies whose work for diverse charities contributed so much to the wellbeing of the country their husbands governed. The girls whose sole focus was themselves, and who would tear others down in order to promote their own interests.

Eleanor circled the room, attempted to speak to each girl in turn. “Let me see,” she said to the latest, a very pretty young little lady with light brown curls. “You are Miss Cordelia Milton, are you not.”

The lady lifted her chin proudly and somewhat defensively. “I am, Your Grace. I am the daughter of Josiah Milton.”

Eleanor nodded. No shrinking violet this one. “I am acquainted with Mr Milton. We serve on some of the same committees.” Mr Milton was a self-made man, rising from humble beginning to become one of the richest men in the United Kingdom. Miss Milton was his only child.

Miss Milton’s face lit up with a lovely smile. “My father has mentioned you, Your Grace. He has nothing but praise for your influence as a trustee of the orphanages he also supports. Also the asylum for women.”

A safe haven for wayward women, facing the consequences of the lifestyle many had not adopted out of choice. The world they lived in was not kind to women who had children out of wedlock, no matter how they arrived at that unhappy state.

“Do you also have an interest in such causes, Miss Milton?” Eleanor asked.

The girl nodded with another of her delightful smiles. “My father says that we have been blessed with more than our share of riches, and that we ought to share what we can in a way that will do the most good.”

An excellent attitude, and one that was rare among the aristocracy. Mr Milton clearly intended his daughter educated to marry into the upper sort. She certainly had had the education, and was ladylike in appearance and manners. No one would sniff, either, at her dowry or her beauty.

But whether the young men currently on the market could get over the young lady’s working class connections was another matter. Perhaps someone from the gentry would be less likely to look down on Miss Miller for her antecedents.

Eleanor resolved to do what she could to smooth the girl’s path.

***

Cordelia is falls in love with the son and heir of a marquess, and their road to happiness is marred by the snobbishness that Eleanor derides.

 

Family disapproval in WIP Wednesday

They talked for a few minutes more, and when Spen mentioned that he was showing Cordelia around the house, John asked if he could come.

“I am tired of seeing the same rooms over and over,” he said. “I won’t be able to come down once the guests arrive, even if the marquess is not expected home until later in the week.”

That was a curious thing to say. Did John mean he was not allowed from his rooms? Perhaps the marquess was an overprotective father, but nothing in the little Spen had said about him fitted that conclusion. Indeed, Cordelia had the impression that Lord Deerhaven was harsh and demanding.

Eventually, no doubt, her curiosity about the man would be satisfied. She shivered again at the thought. “He will not be happy about us,” Spen had said. “But what can he do? I shall reach my majority in five months, and if we have to wait, then that’s what we’ll do.”

As they retreated back down the stairs and out into the public rooms of the house, Cordelia put the marquess out of her mind and asked John about his schooling, and what activities he liked best. They arrived back on the floor where she and Spen had started, and turned away from the guest wing to go in through a door and across what looked like a drawing room. “One of the parlours,” Spen said, dismissively. The other side of the room had a long row of doors. Spen opened one near the middle. “These fold back to join the two rooms together,” he explained, as he led the way into yet another drawing room.

John was explaining the relative roles of heavy and light cavalry—it was his ambition to be a dragoon officer. He stopped on the threshhold. “Are you going to show Miss Milton the picture gallery, Spen?” he asked.

“I thought we’d start there,” Spenhurst said. “I wanted to show her the portrait of Mama.”

The enthusiasm had drained from John’s eyes.

“Wait for us here,” Spen suggested, but John braced his shoulders and followed them through the door.

This room had two doors on the opposite wall, and Spen opened the one on the left. It led to a long gallery, with statues between narrow windows on one side, and portraits all the way along the wall on the other.

It was very like the room in Cordelia’s dream and to her eyes, the unsmiling people in the paintings looked as unhappy with her presence as she anticipated. Do not be foolish, she scolded herself. You are an invited guest. Lady Deerhaven was welcoming and John is a delight.

John was eyeing the portraits with less enthusiasm than Cordelia felt—even with apprehension. If Spen noticed, he showed no sign of it. He led them two thirds of the way along the room, and stopped before a little portrait that was squeezed between two large ones. “Mama,” he said.

The countess had a kind face, Cordelia decided. She was portrayed seated on a stone bench, with a garden behind her, and a boy leaning against her knee. Cordelia didn’t need to ask whether he was Spen or John. Cordelia knew the shape and colour of the lady’s eyes, because she looked into their likeness whenever she was with Spen and dreamt of them when she and Spen were apart.

The little boy was dressed as a gentleman of the previous century, in breeches almost the colour of his eyes, and a matching coat over a pale brown waistcoat. His shirt had a wide lace trimmed collar, with a narrow dark blue ribbon around the v-shaped neckline under the collar and tied in a bow at the bottom.

“How old were you when this was painted?” she asked him.

“Six,” he said. “Perhaps six and a half.”

Cordelia moved closer, putting a hand on the frame as she examined the painting. “She died when you were ten,” she commented, remembering what he had said. She looked away from the painting in time to see a frown exchanged between John and Spen.

“We lost her when I was ten and John was three,” Spen confirmed.

A panel in the wall a few yards away swung open, and a woman in a maid’s gown, cap and apron poked her head out. “Master John!” she said in a loud whisper. “His lordship is coming. Quickly!”

Spen tensed and cast a glance down the gallery towards the door in the far end. “The marquess is home?” he questioned. The maid nodded.

John was already at the panel door. He stopped to look back at Spen. “Do you want me to stay?”

“No,” Spen said. “Get back to your room before he sees you. I’ll come once we’ve seen him and let you know what happened.”

John climbed through the panel and it closed. “Do not be afraid, Cordelia,” Spen said. “He will probably shout, but I will not let him hurt you.”

Cordelia’s alarm was climbing. “Spen?” Her questions were tumbling over themselves, jamming up in her brain. Why did the maid come to fetch John? Would he be in trouble for being out of his chambers? Certainly, he had looked frightened, and then as determined as a knight errant when he offered to stay.

Why did John think she might be afraid. Why would the marquess shout? Would he try to hurt Cordelia, a guest in his house? Did he know she was his guest? How could Spen stop his own father if the man was intent on violence?

She lifted her chin. Did Spen think she was a frail damsel who fainted at a harsh word? She wasn’t.

At that moment, the door at the far end of the gallery was flung open so violently that it crashed against the wall and a bulky shape loomed in the doorway.

Tea with Lalamani and Philip

Haverford House was built to impress, every room at more than human scale, every surface glittering with evidence of wealth and power. As Lalamani and Philip followed the butler up staircases and down halls, the ducal ancestors frowned down from painted and sculpted portraits, and even the occasional landscape appeared to disapprove of the intruder who had infiltrated these august surroundings.

Lalamani clung tighter to Philip’s arm, and resisted the urge to inform a particularly contemptuous portrait of some duke’s favourite horse that she had been invited.

At long last, the butler opened a door to a comfortable sitting room, still built on the grand scale but somehow transformed by the placement and choice of furnishings into a welcoming place that was a fit setting for the lady who awaited them.

“Lord and Lady Calne, Your Grace,” the butler announced.

Lalamani had been presented to the Duchess of Haverford once, at one of her balls — the same ball at which Lalamani had met the Earl of Calne. Three minutes in a receiving line, with a long queue of people waiting behind, but in those few moments, Her Grace had given Lalamani her complete attention and made the rank outsider, the merchant’s daughter, feel welcome.

And now the duchess’s smile of welcome was repairing the wounds to Lalamani’s self-respect inflicted by the house. “My dears, do come and take a seat. How did you find the walk through this dreadful house? Such a long way, and so much clutter. Tea, Lady Calne?”

She spooned leaves from a small tea chest into a waiting tea pot and handed it to the hovering maid to be filled from an urn.

“Thank you.” Lalamani settled herself on a small sofa, sweeping her skirts to one side so that Philip could sit comfortingly close. Though he had grown in this world no more than she, still he was born to it and had spent more time there, besides.

The duchess beamed. “I was delighted when my friend, Lord Henry Redepenning, mentioned that you and your husband first met at one of my balls, Lady Calne. Lord Henry will tell you that I like nothing better than a love match, and if I did not have a hand in this one, I am at least pleased to have provided the venue for its inception.”

“It is a love match,” Philip assured her, gravely, and she smiled.

“Yes, and it annoys you, I think, that Society is calling you a fortune hunter and your lady a social climber. It would annoy me, too, even were it true. And I can see for myself, now that I see you together, that the two of you are deeply in love, as Lord Henry assured me.”

The great lady’s frankness steadied Lalamani. It seemed the duchess had a mind to support them. What could she do, though? Lalamani repeated the wisdom of her Aunt Hannah. “Nothing can be done about gossip and scandal, except to live it down.”

Her Grace laughed. “I would not say ‘nothing’, my dear. Milk and sugar?” She added a little of both to the cup the maid handed her, then gestured for it to be brought to Lalamani.

“I am not without resources to replace one set of stories with another, Lady Calne. I invited you here to discuss what gossip about your courtship you would find most pleasing. The discovery of the hidden Calne treasure? The rescue of a beleaguered widow? A true romance that seemed fated to be unfulfilled, because of the poverty of the hero and the class of the heroine? You shall decide, and I shall make sure that Society takes you into their hearts.”

Lord Calne’s Christmas Ruby is a Christmas novella, released last month. Follow the link for blurb and buy links.