The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora Read online

  Their next encounter came at a ball. Again, this was an event he generally avoided, but on this occasion he made the effort to attend. Already this woman disrupted his routine, he mused wryly, as he made his way through the mob in search of her distinctive auburn hair. He hoped she wouldn't make a habit of distracting his attention from more important business once they were married, but surely by then he would have overcome this odd fascination and be back to normal. Bedding a woman generally removed the gauzy veil of enchantment and left him wondering what all the fuss was about.

  That evening he watched her dancing, enjoying herself in the company of various young men, and he remembered Tarleton's gossip about the stable lad from "up north." Having seen the free and easy way in which she threw herself into joyful pursuits and fondled strangers, Maxim did not doubt the rumor. The young woman was unguarded. Not her fault. She had little good example to follow.

  Unfortunately, her brother, Earl Chelmsworth, was only a boy and could have no influence, but several relatives now dangled Flora all over London in hope of finding her a lucrative match and restoring the family's status, which had fallen in recent years. She did not have a large dowry, but the pedigree was just as ancient as that of the Fairfax-Savoys. She clearly enjoyed good health and spirits. Indeed, Lady Flora shimmered with vitality in abundance. More so than past rumors of her peevish ill-temper had led him to expect.

  What she lacked, however, was an equally hearty dose of practical sense. She also appeared to have nobody at her side who was without vested mercenary interest. Somebody to guide her, with an honest, no nonsense hand, around life's pitfalls.

  "Dreadful girl, that Flora Chelmsworth." One of George Tarleton's female friends murmured from behind her fan, coyly glancing up at him.

  Where the devil had she sprung from? She moved about silent as a graveyard specter. In barely concealed irritation, he glanced around to see whether there was anybody nearby who might be appealed upon to remove her from his side.

  "Such a common little thing," she went on. "A flirt and completely shameless. I do not know what George finds so charming about her."

  "What?" he snapped.

  She began to repeat herself and he simply walked away, heading for Lady Flora with a confident stride and single-minded purpose.

  Maxim had decided to use the opportunity of a dance to instill within that much talked-about young lady an ounce or two of his wisdom. A stern reprimand and some careful guidance for the future, would surely not go amiss, he thought. Somebody had to set her straight and clearly her family were at their wit's end. As far as they had any wits. The Chelmsworths were not great thinkers, as evidenced by their failure to manage the family finances. They were spendthrifts, drunkards and impulsive gamblers, fools distracted by bright, shiny things. Not one of them had the skills to control and maintain an estate. They seemed to think that sitting on their arses and looking pretty would get the task done. And that was just the men.

  "You're asking me to dance?" she asked, eyes wide and shimmering with mischief.

  "We are at a ball. It would seem the thing to do."

  "Well then, as long as it is the thing to do, I suppose we must oblige. If for no other reason."

  What a strange way she had of talking. Casual, indifferent. Although, surely she knew the honor he bestowed upon her with his notice.

  But despite the great condescension the Duke of Malgrave showed by taking an interest in the wayward Lady Flora's predicament, she appreciated neither his rebuke about her behavior, nor his attempt at counsel. In fact, she responded to his advice with a mixture of mild annoyance and amusement. Almost as if the scandal of her past actions had naught to do with her.

  "Please do not concern yourself with my reputation, your grace," she said as their dance came to an end. "Surely you have many more important matters to worry about."

  "We do." Since he inherited the Malgrave estate very suddenly at the age of sixteen and a half, his life had been full to the brim with important matters, piled up around him, cutting out the sunlight.

  "Then you probably need advice and assistance more than I," she said with a smile. "I have no troubles of the grand sort you must manage. Mine are all inconsequential matters, as I am an inconsequential person. It must be a trial at times, to be you."

  "We have been well prepared for our post in life and we know our duty."

  "That's alright then, is it not? We are both content." Another smile.

  What did she find so amusing all the time? Of course she took nothing seriously. A typical family trait.

  "Oh look," she exclaimed, "macaroons!"

  He turned his head. "Shall I get you some?"

  But in the short span of time it took for him to turn back to her again, she had fled to get her own treats. Maxim did not even know whether she'd heard him ask. She was the only woman at the ball brazen enough to approach the display of dainties by herself, for all the other women present waited for gentlemen to assist them, none wanting to be seen either as the first lady to succumb to temptation, or a woman who must fend for herself in the fray. Which she did admirably, by the way, and much to his bemusement.

  Feeling rather a loose thread, dangling and abandoned in the midst of the floor, he quickly strode away, as if he had somewhere else to be. Somewhere of greater consequence.

  In his mind this conversation had gone very well. She smiled and laughed a lot and he supposed that to be a good thing, even if he did not always understand the cause of her merriment. It made a pleasant change from the women who became stiff and mute in his presence.

  Maxim pressed onward with his quiet marital plans, expecting everything to go the way he intended, not seeing any possible obstacle. She would, he thought, be delighted to accept. Overwhelmed, perhaps, but full of gratitude, as she should be. The woman could have all the macaroons she wanted, once they were married.

  Subsequent encounters over the following weeks passed in much the same way. He shared his idea with nobody, not even the trusty solicitor Plumm. It was all his idea, his desire.

  Therefore, when it all fell apart, it was entirely his own fault and his own pain.

  He should have known better. He should have realized that her smiles had turned him into just as big a fool as George Tarleton, whom he had, only weeks before, been so ready to mock. It was humbling, to say the least.

  Damn. With hindsight he also realized he should have mentioned to her the possibility of unlimited macaroons. That would have been something in his favor.

  * * * *

  She had asked him to keep the proposal a secret, and he did, obviously not wanting any greater humiliation for himself. Yet somehow news of her rejection managed to get out, as those things often did.

  "Flora Chelmsworth?" his mother sneered into her coffee. "You keep strange company these days. I must say I was surprised to hear that you had stooped so low as to look upon that hussy with a favorable eye."

  "You do not know her, do you, mother?"

  "I know the family." Her lips twitched with a spasm of disgust. "I know the great aunt— a toothless, hairless, jealous whore, riddled with the pox."

  "Not a bosom friend of yours, then?"

  "I also hear that the girl she parades about town like a barrel of overripe apples is seventeen and monstrously ill-behaved. She is not virtuous, of course. But there you are. There was a time when nobody could doubt the purity and innocence of such a young girl, but these flirtatious chits today are less guarded, less strictly raised than I was in my day. And young men, it seems," she shot her son a sour look, "are less fastidious."

  He supposed that seventeen was dreadfully young. But women that age and younger were married every day and became mothers soon after. His own mother had married at fifteen, having met his father only twice beforehand. She had miscarried several times before Maxim was born and when he was not long out of the cradle she lost twin babies soon after their birth. That had apparently put paid to her efforts and his father's interest in siring more legit
imate children. Like most aristocratic couples they lived separate lives once that decision was made.

  "I was put out to grass at one and twenty," his mother liked to remark, "thankfully."

  She had certainly kicked up her hooves when freed of her marital yoke and released into the paddock.

  But Maxim had grown up hearing that he had better be strong enough to manage, for there was no "spare" in case of his failure. It was a formidable responsibility put upon his shoulders from such an early age. Now, for the future of the Malgrave estate and the stability of everybody who relied upon it for their livelihood or social and financial standing, it was his solemn duty to find a bride from "Good breeding stock." How many times had he heard that phrase whispered into his ear?

  The more years a woman had ahead of her for healthy child-bearing the better, of course. Babes were so fragile, in the womb and out of it. One never knew how many would survive childhood, which made large families popular. It was practical to have a young wife, and marriage contracts were little more than business arrangements. Matters of stud.

  Lady Flora Chelmsworth, apparently, meant to avoid being corralled and covered, until she found "love". And he was simply in the way.

  He might have hoped for some comfort or guidance from his mother, if theirs was a different sort of relationship. But from the moment he was dragged out of her body she kept her son at arm's length. They were little more than acquaintances who shared the same name.

  After Lady Flora's rejection, he told himself that he was content to put it behind him. It had been a foolish idea to choose her in the first place and he did not know what had come over him. Unfortunately there remained the matter of that watercolor on ivory miniature, which he had— getting ahead of himself— anonymously commissioned. It was delivered to the house only days after that failed proposal and it had to be paid for; he could hardly leave the artist uncompensated and then he could not bring himself to dispose of it. So he tucked the little oval away inside a specially made silver case that, if one opened it in the usual way, revealed a clock face. If one knew the location of a secret catch, however, it opened to show the little portrait.

  He would keep it in his pocket, he decided, as a reminder of his one folly. A caution for the future.

  When Plumm offered his apologies for not bringing this matter to a favorable conclusion, Maxim allowed hesitantly, "Perhaps...we were too confident. Do you think?"

  The solicitor almost dropped the ledger he carried and papers slithered to the floor. "Surely not, your grace."

  "Is it true, Plumm, that people tell me only what I want to hear? That I am surrounded by sycophants who fear to cross me?"

  "I cannot comprehend— no." The fellow drew back, pale and astonished. "How could that be the case? Who would suggest such a thing to your grace? What a— no, no! No indeed. What an idea!"

  Maxim watched as his solicitor hurriedly gathered the spilled papers. "Indeed." He sighed heavily. "Just as I thought."

  Sometimes, when he remembered her running away from him and toward the sunny, glass-paneled doors, he imagined running after her. But to bring her back, or to join her in escape? He couldn't be sure. To bring her back ought to be the safest option; Maxim was not one for the unknown or unexpected. But then, even if he brought her back inside, would she always look longingly toward those doors and make him feel as if he imprisoned her?

  Although she was not the first woman who ever puzzled him, she was the first he actually wanted to decipher. He did not know what to make of her. Or of his strange reaction to her.

  She had knocked the wind out of his sails and it took a long time to get his breath back.

  Chapter Seven

  "Your Grace,

  I must thank you for the delightful lemon cakes, which arrived yesterday and were devoured in due haste. My brother and I had never tasted such a heavenly recipe and now we are spoiled for any other.

  Hearty thanks should also be extended to your messenger, who succeeded in conducting speedy delivery without any damage befalling his precious cargo. I am sure that if such a task were ever left in my hands those delicacies would have been scattered to the four winds before they reached their destination. But you must know that. And on that subject I am enclosing the sum of five shillings which, although princely to me, shall not, I fear, make much headway in clearing my debt for damages incurred during my brief stay at Castle Malgrave. Do let me know the total reparations required.

  At least this will show an intention to pay and you will not think so ill of me...I hope.

  Flora."

  P.S.

  Should you write back, please address the note to Kate, the Under Housemaid, and she will see that it gets to me.

  "The first Chelmsworth in several generations I've known to pay a debt," muttered Plumm. "Or even make an effort. How very curious."

  "Yes." Maxim gazed at his window. "She is rather... unique."

  She had suggested they might be friends, but he considered that idea quite impossible. What need did he have for a female friend? A young, reckless, unguarded female friend? No, it could only be a recipe for disaster. Detrimental to his health. He would be forever getting her out of scrapes with no reward for his trouble. What was the point?

  "Send the five shillings back at once. They are not required."

  "Very good, your grace. Perhaps...you would care to write a note yourself? To soften the gesture and make her understand that you bear no grudge."

  "Do we not bear a grudge?" he grumbled. He certainly felt something unpleasant lurking.

  "No, sir. It is polite in these circumstances to forgive. It is gentlemanly, your grace."

  "Gentlemanly? Pah! She would not know a gentleman from a rogue."

  "Then it is surely a good service for you to teach her the difference."

  "Oh, for pity's sake. Pass me the tiresome, bloody pen."

  And so he wrote a note with which to return the five shillings.

  Madam,

  Do not give the matter another thought. I shan't. Keep your shillings, for I would not want to be accused of taking your last coins.

  Malgrave.

  Plumm, standing behind him as he wrote, cleared his throat sharply. "Is that what you want to send, sir?"

  "Yes. What of it?"

  "Seems a trifle...brusque. Sulky...even."

  "Sulky?" He scowled. "A Malgrave never sulks."

  "No, indeed. And we would not want anybody to think your grace capable of such childlike action. Would we?"

  Annoyed, he paused to read it over again and then added a final hasty thought.

  I am glad you approved of the cake. That's something I did rightly, in any case.

  It was the best he could currently manage, and really he did not know why he made the effort. Sometimes Plumm got above himself. A grievous occurrence that ought to be nipped in the bud.

  Expecting no further correspondence, within a week he was surprised to receive a reply.

  Your Grace,

  You are too kind to this silly and inconsequential girl. But if you do not let me repay you, I shall be forever in your debt, and that won't do at all. I am enclosing an envelope of sunflower, hollyhock and lavender seeds from the garden at Wyndham. They might be planted to help cover the hole I left in your box hedge. Well, strictly speaking, poor Georgie Tarleton's head left the hole, but I suppose it would not have done so without my mischief and the urge to propel him through it.

  I hope these seeds can be accepted and put to use, for in my humble opinion your gardens are lacking in a sufficient bounty of color. These are some of my favorite flowers, and I should like to think I have left one mark at Castle Malgrave that is not an unsightly souvenir and grievously regretted.

  Flora.

  After a day or two, during which he decided he would not write back, he wrote back.

  Madam;

  You are not the first person to be taken with the urge to send Tarleton's face through a hedge. You are simply the first to succeed. And with
considerable aplomb. He seems none the worse for it, and I daresay my hedge suffered the most harm.

  The seeds will be put to use somewhere in the garden to relieve the gloom it suffers now that you are no longer gallivanting colorfully through it. Rest assured your mark has been made, but we recover. At least our house was not razed to the ground. Entirely.

  Malgrave.

  To which she replied,

  Dear Sir;

  I am thrilled the seeds are acceptable. You will notice that I do not write your name, for I fear my great aunt might come in to see what I am up to. Her hopes are too easily raised, and she has taken to looking over my shoulder. I am obliged to smuggle my letters out of the house like a spy confined in the Tower of London.

  My brother thanks you for the book 'Robinson Crusoe', which he is most eagerly reading as I sit here. I shall encourage him to write his own note of appreciation as soon as he puts it down and pays heed to me.

  Although you have no desire for friendship between us, it cheers my spirits to know that we are not enemies. I do not like to imagine you despising Lady Flora Chelmsworth. She does not mean ill, and I think it will please you to know that she attempts now to curb her wicked ways, to have better sense and cause considerably less havoc. It is an uphill task, but I bear it.

  We might nod when next we meet?

  Yours cordially,

  Flora

  And he soon answered,

  Madam,

  Indeed, a nod would be acceptable. I am informed a remark about the weather is also within respectable range, but nothing further should be attempted. A man such as myself and a woman, such as yourself, simply cannot form a bond of friendship in any way that would be free of perusal and speculation. Especially in our circumstances.