The Bluestocking's Dilemma Read online

  “Well, no one pays the least mind to another grubby lad, though I did get asked to lend a hand to pull out a cart that was stuck,” she defended herself. “Besides, how else can one of the Quality learn what it is like to be poor unless one relinquishes the trappings of wealth? So I . . .”

  “Stop! Don’t tell me. I do not wish to know. For I should either worry myself to death thinking you will do it again, or be forced to tell someone in order to stop you.” Nicholas shook his head. “You are incorrigible, Waif, you know. Will you stop at nothing?”

  She tilted her head, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I think not.” Then suddenly serious, she paused as if to examine her conscience. “At least, not if it is in a good cause,” she concluded seriously.

  Hearing the anxious note in her voice, he raised a reassuring hand. “Make no mistake about it. I find this extremely admirable, if a trifle unusual.”

  Caro sighed and hung her head. “Yes, I know. I never try to get into scrapes, but somehow I find myself forever at odds with the rest of the world.”

  Nicholas reached out one finely shaped hand to tilt up her chin. “Never change, Waif,” he admonished her gently. “The world has need of people such as you.”

  They sat thus, bright blue eyes gazing intently into soft gray ones until the carriage, free at last from the press of traffic blocking the road, lurched forward and Nicholas leaned out to see what was happening.

  Chapter 21

  They arrived at their respective dwellings in reflective moods. Caro wondered at herself for thinking more of the way Nicholas’s eyes had become a darker blue when he spoke of the issues that truly absorbed his interest and attention than for attending to the issues themselves. There was an energy about him, an intensity of purpose that permeated his entire being and set him apart from the other fashionable men of the ton. While the other town beaux moved languidly here and there, evincing only a tepid interest in their surroundings, Nicholas plunged headlong into the activity of the moment, whatever it was, investing it with his own peculiar brand of vitality. Caro had witnessed time after time how the boys, his sister, Tony, not to mention Lavinia, seemed to come alive when he appeared. Each in his own way looked to Nicholas for that zest for life that heightened their own, each one feeling special and appreciated because of the attention he paid to them. After all, wasn’t she, Caro Waverly, thinking even at this moment that no one had ever understood her half so well or participated in her interests half as much as Nicholas Daventry? For shame, Caro, she scolded herself. You have seen firsthand how he can charm even the most sophisticated and ennuyée of society’s matrons. Why, even Sally Jersey and Therese Esterhazy were not immune to the lazy appreciative smile that hovered around his mouth and wrinkled the comers of his eyes. And, conjuring up the most salient points of today’s debate in order to relate them to Helena, Caro resolutely put the marquess out of her mind.

  As for the marquess, he was having no more success at ignoring Caro’s effect on him than she was. Having left her off at Welham House and finding himself prey to a thousand confusing thoughts, he had Watkins drop him off at Gentleman Jackson’s in hopes that a good bout with the master would be just the thing to set things right again in a world that suddenly seemed topsy-turvy. All at once, Nicholas Daventry, the formerly ineligible younger son more appreciated and more accepted by his men than by members of the fashionable set, more accustomed to seeking out adventure and danger than avoiding them, was now the responsible head of a noble family and preaching propriety and discretion to a mere slip of a girl who was no more impressed by him than she was by Cedric and Clarence. It was a role he had previously scorned and certainly managed to avoid. Now, somehow, without his wishing it in the least, it had been thrust upon him, and the only compensation for it was that women who had previously avoided him were now casting themselves at his feet while ones he ordinarily wouldn’t have given a second thought—bluestockings with an interest in problems political and social, for example-were cutting up his peace of mind.

  He sighed as he mounted the steps to Gentleman Jackson’s select establishment, but brightened perceptibly as a tall fair-haired young man in a scarlet coat caught sight of him and stopped to exclaim joyously, “Nicky Daventry! Where have you been old fellow? Been looking for you this age! Heard you’d sold out to turn respectable. Dashed shame, eh what?”

  “Tubby! What are you doing? Up to no good, I’ll be bound.” Nicky clapped him on the back, cocking an inquiring eyebrow at the young guardsman whose immense height and well-knit frame belied his name.

  “Nothing in particular. We’re back in our old quarters in Portman Square for the time being and, except for a lark or two here and there, it’s dashed dull without Boney on the loose, I can tell you. There’s nothing left for a fellow who wants a spot of adventure. Oh, there’s always India, I suppose, but it ain’t the same thing. What’s a person to do?” He paused ruminatively. “Ran across Totteridge the other day. Remember the lad who scouted across the lines for us at Vitoria? Poor chap. He was holding horses for the odd bit or two, has nowhere to go. I tell you, Nicky, it’s a damned shame to see such splendid fellows cast aside the way they are. But come along. I want to see if the most punishing left in the 18th has been dulled by the soft life of a well-breeched swell.”

  Nicholas, his mind still absorbing the idea of the intrepid Totteridge reduced to cadging a stray coin here and there from unconscious members of the ton, was immeasurably saddened by the picture and resolved to concentrate more than ever on effecting a means for such men to earn their livings and retain their dignity. Caro was only partly right. It was necessary to provide more food cheaply in order to feed the poor and it was important to educate them in order to accomplish lasting change, but nothing gave a man his self-respect as quickly and effectively as work. Having seen the way Britain had been able to arm itself against Napoleon, the marquess was convinced that it could turn that same effort into manufacture and trade, employing the same men who had been defending it on the battlefields of Europe. “Eh, what’s that?” Nicholas came to as he realized he was being addressed.

  “Wondered if you’d seen the bay that Weybridge is selling. I’m thinking of putting old Champion out to pasture. He’s a magnificent creature, but slowing down a bit. Never be able to replace him. We’ve been through so much together, but I’m in the market for a mount and I saw this at Tatt’s the other day. You always did have an eye for a pretty piece of horseflesh. Wonder if you’d care to cast a glance?”

  “Happy to,” Nicky replied, nodding as Gentleman Jackson himself came over to greet them.

  “Glad to see you back, sir. It’s been too long since we’ve had any true skill around here. These young lads,” he said, nodding at Tubby, “they’re all very well, great strapping fellows, all bounce and go, but no science. It takes patience to develop that and they’re all in such a hurry.” And commenting on this young peer’s footwork and that one’s high cut, he led them over to a special corner reserved for favored patrons.

  As he followed the champion, Nicholas was struck again by how much he missed the simple life in the regiment. Tubby and Gentleman Jackson had, each in his own way, recalled the old times when he was sought out and consulted for the knowledge and skills he had developed on his own, not for the privileged position in society that he happened to have inherited.

  He missed that sort of camaraderie. His mind slid back to Caro again, perhaps because he knew that she too appreciated him for himself and though she might not always agree with his ideas, she accorded him respect for having come up with them and thought them out. It was very reassuring to have a friendship built on that rather than on something that fashion or circumstance might deprive-him of at any moment. In the army, Nicholas had known he could count on his men because he had earned their esteem and their trust. As a result, they were concerned for his welfare. All sense of that mutual trust and respect had disappeared when he had returned to take up the title and its attendant
responsibilities. Now, seeing Tubby brought it all back and made Nicholas realize that Caro, in her own quiet way, gave him that same sense that he could count on her. From time to time, he had caught her looking at him, summing him up with those big gray eyes that saw so much and saw it all so clearly. That someone who scorned the petty trappings of the ton appeared to consider him a friend made him feel both flattered and assured of his own worth.

  Caro. His mind dwelt on her appreciatively, tenderly, in all her facets. She was so many things: proud mistress of a successful estate; enchanted observer who was childlike in her appreciation of the theatrical delights London had to offer; impish mischief-maker setting Welham House about its ears the moment she arrived; active intelligence taking in and evaluating everything; and passionate reformer who extended as much interest and concern to the nameless masses whose lot she wanted so desperately to improve as she did to those immediately around her. He couldn’t think when he had enjoyed himself more, and all he had done was spend a morning sharing something important to him with someone who felt the same way. Or, at least he hoped she did.

  All of a sudden, the possibility occurred to Nicholas that she might not think of him as he thought of her and the thought was so upsetting that he threw himself with renewed energy into the bout, earning a reproof from the master. “Hold on there, sir. You’ve lost your concentration and you’re all abroad.” Nicholas put his head down and focused on his opponent, eventually losing himself in the effort to get beneath his opponent’s guard while maintaining his own.

  In the meantime, the object of his reflections was trying equally hard to immerse herself in her own distracting activities as she pored over accounts that had just arrived from Waverly Court. The numbers swam before her eyes, and every time she tried to fix on a suggestion from William or a report from one of the tenants, she thought of the marquess and how much she had relished their morning’s outing.

  Accustomed to being alone in her interests and aspirations, Caro had never taken into account the pleasure that could be derived from sharing these with another person. To be sure, she had Helena, who was able to converse intelligently on a wide variety of topics that were of interest to Caro; but though Helena was possessed of a fine mind, she lacked Caro’s passionate intensity and her sense of purpose. While Helena was quite content to inform herself on the issues of the day and reflect seriously on them, she lacked her companion’s compulsion to right the wrongs so manifest all around them.

  The marquess, it seemed, was driven by the same forces that Caro herself was subject to. Like her, he took an active view of the world. And like her, he set himself apart from the rest of the ton in his concern for the issues of the day with which most of his peers were not even conversant, much less involved. Confronted by a situation, whether it was Bonaparte laying waste to Europe, two boys who longed for ponies, someone stuck at the top of a ladder, or the poverty of many of England’s citizens, he did not stop to consider the consequences of involving himself, but immediately applied his considerable skill and energies to the solution of the problem.

  Caro smiled to herself as she thought of this energy. Never before had she felt so alive and so immersed in the scene around her as when he was there, enjoying the same things, picking up the same nuances, interpreting them in a fashion that was similar enough to hers to make her feel encouraged in her own opinions but different enough to challenge her and enlarge her perspective. Heretofore, Caro had never quite understood why people did things together. To be sure, she had Helena, but that friendship had sprung up more because society dictated that a young woman could not live alone respectably than because of her need for companionship. Now, having experienced the pleasure of sharing and communicating so closely and intensely, Caro realized just how solitary, and in some ways, barren, her previous life had been.

  She sighed. Passionately proud and protective of her independence and self-sufficiency, she did not like to think that she could come to rely on anyone for anything, even if that were something as simple as companionship. Especially disconcerting, though she could not even acknowledge or admit this to herself, was that the company she so enjoyed was that of an attractive and highly sought-after man. No! This was the merest foolishness. This train of thought was getting her nowhere. It was time she cleared her head of these silly fancies. Nothing could accomplish this quite as effectively as a vigorous ride in the park, or at least as vigorous a ride as was permissible in the restricted atmosphere of the ton. Resolved on this, she looked forward to donning her new riding habit—the first of Violette Winwood’s creations to arrive at Grosvenor Square.

  At the first sigh, Helena, who had also been reading, glanced up quietly and smiled to herself. She could not ever recall having seen her young friend look quite that way before. There was a softness in the eyes that stared off into space. Ordinarily, Caro would pore over her work, twisting one dark curl around her finger as she devoured it, never moving a muscle or changing position until she had read it from beginning to end. But now, when Caro was no more than a third of the way through the papers sent for her perusal, she abandoned it altogether and sent word to the stables that she wished to ride. That was another odd thing. Ordinarily, Caro avoided the fashionable hour in the park like the plague, condemning it as an exercise in equestrian frustrations. Perhaps, at the moment, she was too abstracted to pay attention to the hour?

  Helena nodded wisely. She had been unable to accept the marquess’s very kind invitation to join them in their visit to the nation’s lawmakers, having made prior arrangements to visit an old friend, but she had seen the light in Caro’s eyes and the vivacious expression on her face when she returned and had no need to look very far for the cause.

  To be sure. Lady Caroline Waverly had a strong interest in the affairs of the nation, but it was not the opportunity to witness these firsthand that had given her the glow in her face. Well, it was all very well. The marquess was as fine a person as Helena could wish for her former pupil. He was a true gentleman: kind, courageous, intelligent, and, if Helena had read aright, not entirely impervious to her young friend. What the Countess of Welham would have to say to such a state of affairs, Helena shuddered to think.

  Helena was not the only one aware of a change. Upstairs, Susan, helping her mistress into the riding habit, was quick to notice a certain uncharacteristic trend to reverie, a dreamy look in the gray eyes which ordinarily took in even the slightest detail.

  More fiercely attached to her mistress than Helena was, and possessed of a more romantic soul, the little maid could hardly keep from hugging herself with delight. She’s in love, she crowed to herself and it’s with his lordship. Oh, I knew how it would be. He’s far too nice for the likes of madam, though she’s not one to give up such a catch without a fuss. Here’s some fun, I’ll be bound. And she longed once more to be back at Waverly sitting around the table sharing her secret with Mrs. Crawford and William, for it was too wonderful to keep to herself. However, she was not about to betray, by so much as the flutter of an eyelash, her suspicions to the countess’s high-and-mighty retainers. Let them boast of their mistress to their hearts’ content. They would soon see who was the real lady at Welham House. Tucking a wayward curl under the jaunty hat, Susan, smiling triumphantly, remarked, “There! You are as pretty as any of those ladies in La Belle Assemblée and look far better on a horse, I’ll be bound. You’ll take the shine out of everyone in the park.”

  “Oh, Susan, I could not, even if I would, but you are a dear for saying so.” Caro snapped out of her abstraction long enough to bestow a brilliant smile and a quick hug on her henchwoman, and then she was off, tearing downstairs with unladylike haste in her urge to be gone, and out in the fresh air clearing her mind of its disturbing thoughts.

  Chapter 22

  But though Caro had laughed it off, Susan’s comment stayed with her as she clattered towards the park with Tim following discreetly behind her. The habit was something slightly out of the ordinary and was unusually beco
ming. Its material, a particular shade of purple popular this Season, was molded tightly to her figure revealing the elegant lines that were usually obscured by the comfortable loose-fitting garments she ordinarily selected. The richness of the color emphasized the whiteness of her skin and the glossy darkness of her hair where it escaped from underneath the dashing cap, and gave a violet tinge to the big gray eyes. The severity of the cut only served to call attention to the delicacy of the straight nose and the generous lips that needed no artifice to give them color. It was a costume as simple as the drapery seen on statues of Greek goddesses and, in truth, mounted on the splendid Xerxes, Caro made all the chattering women trimmed with ruffles and lace, crowded together in their carriages, appear like so many silly butterflies flitting aimlessly through the park, stopping a moment to flirt with this gentleman or smile coquettishly at that fashionable beau.

  Glancing neither right nor left, concentrating only on her mount, Caro looked like a severe young Diana as she cut her way through the mass of horses and carriages in search of space to give Xerxes his head and allow him a little exercise. “There, free at last, no more stupid cart-horses or showy mindless equines pulling carriages,” she remarked as they pulled away from a gaudy yellow barouche that was impeding rather than proceeding in the crush. “Now you can at least move,” she sighed, wondering just precisely what would happen if she were to urge her mount into anything more than a respectable trot.

  “Don’t even think it. Miss Caroline. It’s as much as my place is worth to let you give that there horse his head. William told me how it would be with both you and Xerxes chafing at the bit. ‘Mind you don’t give either one of them their head when they go in the park or it will be the ruin of both them, Tim,’ he says to me. I know as how you don’t give a jot for this society sort of thing, but William knows what he’s about and he told me to watch out for you, so I am.” The groom surveyed her anxiously.